Archive of Our Own

Charles is not a crazy person.

He doesn’t think so, not really. 

And he’s a good boyfriend. A great boyfriend, even. He’s attentive, and he listens, and he doesn’t push too much on fights that don’t matter. He’ll often shut up first for the sake of peace. And he’s not overprotective or possessive, even though he’s pretty sure he has a right to be.

And he’s cool. He’s learned to be cool over the years: he’s cool with it when Max makes them late for a flight, he’s cool with it when he gets home hours later than he said he would, he’s cool with it when things don’t go to plan, and he’s cool with it when Max doesn’t worry about the future as much as he does.

Actually cool with it. Not like those people who lie and try to convince themselves that they’re completely fine. It’s not facetious; it’s genuine. He doesn’t worry about these things anymore.

It’s really easy to be cool with things when you trust someone more than you trust yourself.

He’s also really patient. 

He knows it’s hard for Max to be open and say what he means — to make his actions correlate to his feelings, to make his lips listen to his heart. There’s a wild sea behind those blue eyes that Charles hasn’t tamed —hasn’t even tried to— and though he doesn’t understand it, he knows it. He swims in it. Lives in it. Loves it. So he’s patient. He’s been patient. 

He waited for Max to make the first move in order not to spook him. He waited for him to go for the gap. He waited weeks for Max to kiss him first, so he’d have time to understand and process what he was really choosing. He said ‘I love you’ first, he couldn’t stop himself, but he followed it with ‘and you don’t need to say it back’. So Max could make that choice.

And it’s okay. Max has lived such a fast life. Always running, always reaching — the next race, the next championship, the next fastest, biggest thing. He could never take a breath. 

Charles decided, long before even realizing it, that he wanted to be that breath.

Yeah.

He’s great. He’s great, and he’s cool, and he’s patient, and he’s not that overbearing, jealous, nagging stereotype of a partner.

So he doesn’t think he’s being crazy now, as he pads around their bedroom, wondering when the fuck Max is going to propose. 

They’ve talked about it more and more, lately. Being married. Tying the knot. They’ve talked about what kind of wedding they would like, who would be invited and who definitely wouldn’t be, how hard it would be to keep it from the press, how much money they would have to part with to steer clear of the press, and how Charles’ mom would want to be in on the planning but she would definitely get overwhelmed, and how Victoria would be so excited she’d end up disregarding whatever they asked for, and how maybe they could just elope, and. Yeah.

They’ve talked about it.

So Charles doesn’t understand what is stopping Max. Of course, he could propose, too, but he’s being patient. Be that breath, he tells himself.

But it’s weird. Things are weird. Max is acting weird. Cagey.

He doesn’t know why. And every time he tries to talk to him about it, he acts like he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. 

It makes him think maybe he’s going to propose. But it just doesn’t happen. Like, just the weekend before: Max cooked, and cleaned, and prepared a romantic dinner for two in the penthouse. Romantic music. Candles. The whole thing. He had this look in his eye.

It’s not the kind of thing Max randomly does, either. Don’t get him wrong, the man is sweet and devoted —he’d move mountains for Charles, and has made sure that Charles knows it— but this kind of gesture isn’t really in his roster of standard good boyfriend activities.

Charles thought that might be it. He excused himself to the bathroom, panicked for a little bit, then swooned for another bit — brushed his teeth, washed his hands, scrubbed under his fingernails, and slapped on some hand moisturizer.

When he got back, Max was playing on his phone. Then he offered to watch cartoons on the couch. Then he offered to have sex. 

It was a wonderful night, but — come on.

The man keeps talking about a wedding in some indefinite time frame, about choosing each other forever, even if they already did that lifetimes ago, and doing sweet, elaborate things out of nowhere for no reason and, well.

Is Charles crazy? He’s not crazy.

When is Max going to propose? What is he waiting for?

Charles is patient, yes, but he’s no saint. And he’s about two of Max’s weird, longing looks away from flipping this house upside down in search of a blue box.

Truth be told, Charles has been waiting for this for a little longer than he’d like to admit. They’re nearing the four-year mark now, and while that’s not exactly too long to have been dating for, Charles would’ve married that man day one. Shit, even before that. He’s loved Max for longer than he can remember.

But it was different before: before, he’d just wonder, daydream about it like any other disgustingly in love individual, about the proposal, the ring, the wedding, and the promise of forever. The way little kids do when they learn what weddings are.

Now. Now it’s driving him up the wall. 

Trying to figure out if something is actually happening or if you’re just imagining it is maddening enough on its own. Add that to the patience, the expectation, the we’re not getting any younger. Add that to the, if he’s not going to propose, what the fuck is up with him? 

Yeah, no, he feels like he’s losing his mind. 

It’s Tuesday night, and he’s waiting for Max to get home from a meeting. 

He plops down on their bed, tired of thinking. Deep down, he knows he shouldn’t feel this way. At least, he doesn’t want to. He would love to marry Max, but it’s not like his life is missing anything right now. And marriage is hard, and keeping this relationship under wraps is hard, and getting married would be so hard for them, from a technical standpoint.

He wouldn’t be feeling this way, he’s sure, were it not for Max’s weird fucking attitude. He’s not this person — he’s not the kind of boyfriend who would be upset over not getting a ring. He doesn’t need any more commitment than he has now. 

It’s just.

Just.

He doesn’t know.

He likes to be in control of things, maybe. So if something is going to happen, he’d like to know when, at the very least.

Fuck.

It’s whatever. It’s fine.

He rubs his hands over his face. He’s not this person. He’s not.

His back lies flat on the bed, and he stares at the ceiling like it owes him answers. Bottom line is he loves Max, and nothing else matters. Perhaps he’ll just have to do what he’s always done and wait. He can do that. He can totally do that.  

The comforter is freshly washed, soft from the dryer, but it already smells like Charles’ shampoo and Max’s cologne. It’s quite nice. The whole place smells like them, and it’s quite nice. 

He stretches his arms out over his head, letting his lower back dip into the mattress. He’s wound up so tight these days. A yawn makes it past his lips. It’s not even eight pm yet; he’s just tired. He’s about to reach for his phone to ask Max how he’s doing when he hears the sound of keys rattling by the entrance. 

It brings a smile to his face. It always does, never fails to. Once, they’d gotten into an awful argument, the not talking for days kind, relationship in jeopardy kind, and it all came to an end because Max came home and Charles couldn’t help but smile at him.

Usually, Max bellows out a ‘honey, I’m home’, or something of the sort. It started as a joke when they first moved in together. If he got home after Charles did, he’d do the sitcom dad voice and announce his arrival. Charles would laugh at him. Then it started morphing: pet names in Dutch, French occasionally, less of a mockery in his voice. Now it’s just routine. 

Charles waits for it.

“Schatje? I’m home.”

It sounds like he’s already made it past the living room. It also sounds like he’s completely deflated. And, yeah, he’s dragging his feet on the carpet. Charles doesn’t move to greet him — just waits for him, sprawled out on the bed with a smile on his face. He stretches out again, his shirt riding up his stomach.

Max’s heavy footsteps make it into the bedroom, and he doesn’t stop at the doorframe to greet and stare at his boyfriend like he usually does. Instead, he mindlessly tumbles towards the bed, climbs on it, and settles his weight in between Charles’ legs, his nose brushing up against the exposed skin of his abdomen. He mumbles something, probably some version of ‘hello’.

“Hey,” Charles chuckles, pushing himself up on his elbows so he can look down. Runs his fingers through Max’s hair. “Bad meeting?”

Max presses a kiss just above Charles’ navel before tilting his head up, chin pressed over toned muscle. “So. Boring. Why would anyone ever want to talk that much?” He runs his hands up Charles’ sides —it still makes him shiver, after all these years— and then presses his thumbs against the swell of his pecs. “Thought I’d never get out of there.” 

Charles smirks as he looks at Max’s hands, a soft scoff tucked behind his teeth. Max squeezes and touches all he wants, and it’s okay, it’s actually perfect. All of this body belongs to him and only him. He can do whatever he wants with it. But it is a little funny, he supposes. “And you missed me, I assume.”

“Yeah,” he crawls up his body. Buries his nose in the center of his chest. “You’re not boring.”

“Oh, that’s good to know.” He runs his hands down Max’s neck, scruffing at the base like he would do a cat. Max hums, presses his face tighter against the thin fabric of his shirt. It tickles. “What are you doing?”

“Charging batteries.”

“Of course.” 

He lets Max do just that for a while, petting his hair and tracing his upper back. Sometimes he feels like Max is one of those huge dogs that don’t get the memo that they’re no longer puppies and still jump into your lap, crushing you. But Max’s weight is not crushing. He’s far too used to it. Instead of crushing him, it feeds into some sick sense of victory and ego — I have this huge man melted on top of me like a puppy.

It’s a feeling he has often. He’s learned to enjoy it. Not that he would ever tell Max.

“How was your day?” Max mumbles, his lips brushing against fabric.

“Uneventful,” he muses, playing with the longer strands of Max’s hair. “I had that shoot in the morning. Had lunch with some Peroni people. Trained. Showered.” 

“You tired?”

“A little.”

“Not too much?”

He tilts his head. “Why?” 

Max finally lifts his head, and there might be some science to his methods because he looks ten times more energized than he did when he walked in. “Wanna do something?” He shuffles up, so his face inches closer and closer to Charles’.

“Like what?” He chuckles out the side of his mouth.

A big hand pushes him down into the bed, so he drops his elbows and properly flattens. Max picks his weight up and gets on his hands and knees, looming over Charles with a heady grin. It’s not long before he dips down to kiss him, slightly chapped lips always tasting the same. Charles loves it. If you placed him in a dark room with a hundred people and forced him to kiss every single one, he’d recognize Max from the very first taste. 

He feels Max slide a hand under his waist, pulling him closer to him. He arches into him gladly. He pushes his tongue against Max’s teeth and further in when he gets an opening. God, he could kiss Max for eternity and a day. He wouldn’t get tired. 

Max lowers himself onto him, so their chests press together. Kisses him slowly. Warmly. It’s not unlike him, but it’s also not like him. Charles completely melts into him, wondering if there’s a way to arrange his life that would allow him to do nothing but this all day, every day. 

Max pulls back to kiss the corners of Charles’ mouth.

“Like this?” Charles mumbles, a little drunk, when he gets a breath. He hooks his arms around Max’s neck, pushing his hips up.

He chuckles, shaking his head. “No. Pervert.”

Charles huffs an offended sound. “You started kissing me.”

“Must kissing always lead to sex?” He pecks him on the lips, with a shit-eating grin. “Where’s the tenderness? If I didn’t know better, Charles, I might think you only want me for my body.”

It’s pretty funny, but Charles does his best to look unamused, because it’s also hypocritical. He raises his brows, feigning bewilderment. “This is coming from the man who couldn’t watch me fold clothes for half an hour yesterday without starting shit.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“You’re you, Charles. There’s nothing I can do to help it.”

Charles knows he’s trying to be a shit, but the statement hits him like a load of bricks. Who ever taught Max Verstappen to take his breath away, and how do we make him stop? 

Helpless, he tugs him down to kiss him again. Just for a little bit.

“So, what did you have in mind then?”

“Wanna go for a drive?”

Charles blinks. 

A drive? 

A drive? 

This is exactly the kind of thing Max has been pulling lately. Charles manages to catch himself before spiraling. Objectively, it’s not an insane suggestion. It’s just a little unlike Max — enough for Charles to doubt his intentions. But he’s not going to show him that. “Where?”

“Just, you know. Around.”

See?

Charles is not insane. The man is acting weird, and when men start acting weird, they’re either going to propose or they’re trying to make up for something. He thinks. It’s not like he’s dated any other guys, but it’s an observable fact, no? And he trusts that man too much to think he could’ve done something worth this much making up, so.

He needs to get out from under Max before his heightened heart rate gives him away.

“Okay, yeah. Sounds nice.” He smiles softly, brushing his thumb over Max’s cheekbone. He catches a glance of his fingernails, a little chipped around the sides. Hm. “Your car or mine?” He starts to shuffle out of the entanglement.

“Mine,” Max licks over his lips, “I’m driving.” He squints. There are hearts in his eyes. There are always hearts in his eyes, but he’s suddenly looking at him with overwhelming fondness, the way he does on anniversaries, and birthdays, and other people’s weddings. Okay.

Okay.

Okay, is this it? Okay. Okay. Okay.

He sits up, already moving to get off the bed. “Do I need to change?” He looks down at himself, white cotton shirt and black joggers. Because if Max is going to propose, he’d rather not be in a shirt and joggers. Though maybe it wouldn’t matter. When he looks back up at Max, he finds a pensive look. Like he’s considering something.

Oh my god.

He needs to go into the bathroom and find a nail file immediately.

“No, you’re good,” he shrugs, starting to roll off the bed.

Max is wearing a black polo shirt and dress pants. As formal as he’d ever show up to a meeting. It does, however, make Charles feel underdressed. But Max told him he’s good, and there’s no way for him to change now without saying, ‘I’m changing anyway, in case you propose’. So that’s that.

“Alright,” he idles awkwardly. “I’m gonna use the bathroom, then we can go.”

“Okay,” he says, stretching out the word the tiniest bit. 

They stare at each other. 

It’s fucking weird.

Oh my god.

Okay, okay. He’s not crazy. He’s not crazy to be expecting something. And it’s not like he thinks Max owes it to him; he doesn’t owe him anything. But it just feels like something is about to drop, something is about to change, and he doesn’t know whether he should keep telling himself he’s just imagining things. 

“Okay,” he says, a little louder than he’d intended, then turns on his heel and makes a beeline for the bathroom. Makes a pointed attempt not to slam the door.

The big bathroom mirror stares back at him, and for a moment, it feels like it’s judging him. He never knows if he’s overreacting or underreacting. It’s annoying. He studies himself — dilated pupils and flushed cheeks. 

He’s not this person.

He’s not this person. He’s not the boyfriend who thinks he’s getting proposed to any time he experiences the slightest bit of romance. He’s not someone who gets his hopes up for no reason, not anymore. He’s not someone who needs some proof of commitment from his partner. He’s got everything he needs.

He doesn’t need Max to propose.

But.

If he doesn’t need Max to propose, he thinks to himself, then his brain wouldn’t be pointing at signs that aren’t there. It’s like — everything looks delicious when you’re hungry, but he’s not hungry, so he’s got no reason to think his brain is tricking him. Maybe it is delicious.

And maybe.

Maybe he just wants this.

Okay, Charles. Settle. Think. It might happen. It might not. Just. Calm down. Stop freaking out.

He washes his hands. Splashes some water in his face.

And sure, he files his nails. Just in case.

⋆.˚

Well.

It doesn’t happen.

When Charles comes out of the bathroom, Max is waiting for him in the living room with an odd look on his face. He looks like he’s trying to read something off of Charles. What, exactly — he doesn’t know. And he doesn’t ask.

Max drives them through the streets of Monaco at a soft pace. It’s peaceful at night this time of the year. They listen to music. Max drives with one hand so he can hold Charles’ with the other. It’s nice.

Charles tries his very best not to be on edge and just enjoy the evening, but Max keeps squeezing his hand, running the pads of his fingers over his empty knuckles, turning to look at him every time he gets the chance — he could’ve sworn he was misty-eyed one of those times.

Additionally, Max does seem to be driving somewhere, as opposed to driving around the block to decompress, as they’ve done once or twice.

He doesn’t dare to ask about it.

At some point, Max starts complaining about his meeting, and Charles listens, nods, gives advice, but his eyes keep lingering over the man’s clothes in search of the outline of a box. Sue him.

It gets better. Or worse.

Max had been driving them to the beach. 

He doesn’t say anything when they get there — this quiet, secluded spot, away from the ports, not too flooded by the city lights. He just pulls over and parks.

Okay, then.

Charles is sure they’ve been around this spot before. He looks over to Max, who still hasn’t said anything. He opens his mouth, then closes it. How insane would it be for him to reach over and check Max’s pockets?

He’s considering this when Max finally speaks up.

“Wanna go for a walk?”

You might as well have told Charles that there’s a bomb in the car. He blinks slowly, then looks around. “Uh. I mean, sure. But isn’t it…?” He gestures towards the window. Aren’t people going to see us? is what he’s asking. Isn’t it risky?

Max shrugs, as if it’s not a problem. “There’s no one around.”

And, yeah. Weeknight, secluded spot (as secluded as it can be in Monte Carlo). There’s no one around. If Max isn’t worried about that, then he’s not worried either, but after close examination, he definitely looks worried about something.

Charles’ heart jumps to his throat and tangles with his vocal cords when he tries to answer. 

“Sure.”

They get out of the car. Charles unconsciously runs a more thorough scan of the perimeter, making sure that there’s no one close enough to recognize them. The coast is clear, so they walk. 

Max is unusually quiet.

This makes Charles’ stomach flip. With Max, quiet can mean many things: he’s reflecting, he’s upset, he’s trying to process big emotions, he’s keeping a secret, he’s in pain, he’s run out of social battery, or he’s planning something. He doesn’t look upset or in pain, so at least he can rule those out.

He presses his thumb under his ring finger, chewing on his lower lip. He’s trying not to make this into something it isn’t, but good lord.

“What are you thinking about?” Max’s raspy accent is crisp against the night air.

It catches him off guard. “I could ask you the same thing,” he chuckles. Max tilts his head like a puppy, looking puzzled. Charles tries not to roll his eyes at him. “You’re awfully quiet.”

“I’m just enjoying the night.”

“Right.”

Max has the audacity to roll his eyes at him. “Okay. You really want to know what I’m thinking about?”

Charles almost trips over his own feet, but he tries to play it cool. “Please.”

“You.”

Fuck right off. 

He chuckles, too in love to be annoyed by the man’s antics. Max fits him so well — such a perfect complement to all that Charles is. He says stupid things and acts in ways no one understands, but Charles does. He understands. God, he loves this stupid man so much. 

He pushes at Max’s shoulder. “You’re so stupid.”

“No, really,” he pretends to be offended. Charles can tell when he’s pretending. “I’m thinking about how this city is so pretty, and the beach is so pretty, and the sea is so pretty, and how it all adds up to nothing next to you.”

He can’t believe that, after all these years, Max can still make him blush.

“Shut up,” he grins, looking at him with what he’s sure are sparkles in his eyes.

Max looks at him with a similar glow, then reaches out for his hand. 

Charles straightens his spine, looking around. This is risky. But given he’d fight wars to hold Max’s hand, once he reconfirms that there’s no one around, he deems it unimportant. Squeezes Max’s fingers.

“You know,” Max clears his throat. “When I first moved here, I thought I’d never get used to it.”

“No?” Charles tilts his head, enjoying the little swing of their joined hands. 

“No. Such a small place, everything being so close. The beach. The heat.” He scrunches his nose. “I was very young, and I missed the cold. I didn’t feel at home here. As a matter of fact, I never really felt at home here.” He shuffles closer to Charles’ side. “Not until we moved in together.”

What is it with Max these days? Punching all the air out of Charles’ windpipes, making his eyes glaze and his lip wobble. 

He tilts his head enough for it to knock against Max’s shoulder. “Really?”

“Yeah. It put a lot of things in perspective,” he hums. “It wasn’t too bad before, though. I knew you’d always be around. That was comforting.”

Charles could fall in love with this man a million times. 

“I’m glad,” he mutters, the knot in his throat a little too tight with anxiety, and expectation, and love, for him to add anything of value. Well, no. He can add something. “I love you.”

He feels Max’s step falter, and it makes his heartbeat falter with it.

They keep walking, the soft sound of the waves washing up on shore filling in the silence. Max feels so warm at his side, so perfect. At some point, his hand starts to shake a little in his hold, and he tries not to think too much of it; he really does. He tries not to think that he might be nervous because he’s about to do something; he tries to blame it on the ocean breeze; he tries to pretend that Max is the kind of man who says romantic things for no reason, so he doesn’t have to think about why Max had told him that. He tries.

But then Max breaks it all down with five ordinary words. “Can I ask you something?”

Oh. 

God. 

Oh my god, this is it. 

This is it. This has to be it, right? What else would it be? Oh, god. Yes, yes, a million times yes. Ask. Ask the question. Charles’ knees threaten to give out. 

“You can ask me anything.”

Max stops walking. 

Holy shit, it’s actually happening.

He turns to Charles, forcing him to straighten up. They stare at each other. Max lets go of his hand — slowly reaches up to brush his thumb against his cheekbone. 

Charles shivers. Max looks so handsome in this low light, standing in this beach, in this city that he loves. Charles loves Max like he loves this place. 

Like home.

“Charles,” he whispers, very close to his lips. 

Yes. Yes, I will. Yes, yes, yes.

“Yeah?”

A dopey smile grows over Max’s cheeks. It’s very contagious, as it rapidly spreads and sticks to Charles.

A beat. 

“How come you’re so pretty?”

Oh. 

Okay.

Seriously?

Okay.

So, no. It doesn’t happen. Not then, and not for the rest of the night — not for the rest of their walk, not on the drive back, not on the elevator ride, and not when they go to bed.

Charles has to try his best not to look pissed, because he’s got no real reason to be. Quite the opposite, actually. His boyfriend took him out for a walk on the beach and said a lot of beautiful, lovely things. So he can’t be pissed.

Maybe he is insane.

What the fuck was that?

⋆.˚

On Friday, Max asks if Charles wants to go to dinner at a nice restaurant.

One that he really likes.

It was six in the morning, and Charles still had drool running down his chin from REM sleep, but it jolted him right up. Sounded off all of the alarms. Had he not been wrapped up tightly in Max’s arms, he would’ve sat up as if he’d been electrocuted.

Because, what?

Dinner for two in public has always been out of the question for them. It’s not like they can’t be seen hanging out, but god knows what the media and the internet would do with it if word got out that they’d been at a candlelight dinner, alone, together.

So the suggestion on its own is preposterous. 

He voices this, his tone still drowsy with sleep. Something along the lines of what are you talking about? He also reaches his arm back to bury it in Max’s hair. The warmth of his chest buzzes against his back.

“I just thought it’d be nice,” Max noses over the top of his curls.

“It would be nice,” he hums, trying to sound like he’s not in active fight or flight. “But, you know.”

It’s really hard. It often gets lost behind all this love and domesticity, how easy it all feels when they’re together, but it does suck that they can’t do couple’s stuff like normal people. They’ve talked about coming out, and it’s not out of the picture, but it’s a lot: too many people to tell before it can get out, too many brand deals to think about, the way the sports scene would look at them — it’s terrifying. They’re waiting for the right time.

“Well, I might’ve called…” Max doesn’t see this, but Charles’ eyelids fly right open. “And reserved the top floor.

Shut the fuck up.

Charles blinks numerous times just to make sure he really is awake. 

“Why would you do that?” He can’t help it this time. It’s not recriminating — just a what the fuck are you up to? 

Max squirms behind him, pulling his arm from under Charles’ neck. He shifts until he’s looming over him, each hand next to Charles’ head, bracing him up. “Should I not have done that?”

Charles also shifts to look him in the eye. “I mean– It’s not like– I’m just confused.” It’s too early for this shit.

“Is it really that confusing that I want to do something nice for my boyfriend?”

Charles blinks. 

“Why would you even ask me if I want to go if you already booked it?” He deflects.

Max looks like he’s caught, and it does nothing to ease Charles’ thought spiral. Why, oh, why would Max reserve an entire floor at one of his favorite restaurants, surely spending a lot of money and risking exposure? ‘No reason’ isn’t a good reason.

“Do you not want to go?”

They’ve answered each other’s questions with questions twice in a row now.

Of course, Charles wants to go. And he’s aware that all of this freaking out is getting in the way of what otherwise would be a lovely, romantic gesture. Considering how many years Max spent struggling with his ways of showing affection, he should be thrilled. He should be thrilled that he’s just doing this, not that he might propose. 

He sighs, melting into the mattress.

“Of course, I want to,” he breathes out, trying to ease the tension out of his lungs. He realizes, if anything, he should be excited. “You’re lovely. Thank you.”

Max sighs as well, and it looks like relief. “You’re welcome,” he smiles, hazy. He dips down to kiss him. Charles takes him in gladly. “You taste good.”

Charles snorts right into the kiss. “That can’t be true right now.” 

Max laughs, yet he pays no mind to it. 

He just kisses him some more. And more. And more, and more, until Charles is panting into his mouth. More, and more, until Charles flips them over and lazily rides him. Max tells him how pretty he looks in the morning light, and how there’s nothing as beautiful as him, how his body is perfect, and how he feels perfect. How he was made for him. Mumbles something about how he doesn’t know what he ever did to deserve him. About how much he loves him, and how he couldn’t want anyone else, ever, even if he tried.

He squeezes Charles’ hands as he comes and asks to stay like that for a bit. Charles happily complies. 

Charles thinks, as Max runs his hands up his sides and sinks his fingers into his waist, that man really should propose tonight.

⋆.˚

Two days later, Charles caves in and flips the penthouse upside down looking for a blue box. 

It’s a low point for him, he knows, but this is just ridiculous. 

No, Max did not propose at dinner on Friday. He said all these sweet words about belonging, held Charles’ hand in front of waiters he assumes he’d paid off, ordered the most expensive champagne, and toasted to them and their relationship. Kind of. In his own Max way. Had the kitchen whip up some one-of-a-kind tiramisú. 

Charles drank the champagne slowly, in case he’d choke on something shiny and expensive, very carefully took apart the dessert, looking for something that blinged inside of it, and flinched every time waiters approached them, wondering if maybe they’d break into song. He caught Max looking at him all puzzled, but at that point, he was at his limit. 

Max, the absolute prick, ended the dinner saying: “I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you.”

And then just. Asked for the check. Got up. Stretched out a hand towards Charles in a gentlemanly manner to get him up. Drove them home. Sucked his dick. Went to sleep. Snored.

Charles couldn’t believe any of this, and he was starting to think maybe Max was doing this on purpose, so he’d get used to this, and then never propose. It was an ugly thought, but it was all his head could conjure with his heart aching and the man snoring loudly next to him.

So, yeah. He looks everywhere for that square shape. He doesn’t think anybody would judge him.

After maybe thirty minutes flat of making a mess out of the closet, the bathroom cabinet, both their nightstands, and the kitchen pantry, he gives up. He refuses to keep indulging in the patheticness of it all.

He feels like he’s inside a video game, actively losing points from the sanity bar. 

Has Max turned into a romantic overnight? For no apparent reason?

The more he obsesses over this, the more he finds himself counting reasons why they should really get engaged soon. As if he hadn’t been telling himself it was a non-issue a few days ago. Maybe it was a non-issue then, but it certainly doesn’t feel like that anymore, because if Max is going to up his game and act all committal, but not do anything serious about it, then they have a problem.

Or maybe not, and he’s just hit his head. 

He’s already trained today. Strenuously. He has nothing else to keep his mind off of this. Fuck. Where is that busy schedule when he needs it?

Okay.

Fuck.

He grabs his phone against his better judgment and stares at the screen for a full minute before committing to the idea. He’ll probably regret this later. It’s whatever. He scrolls through his contacts until he finds Pierre. 

Here goes nothing.

The phone doesn’t dial for long.

“Hello?” Pierre picks up. His voice sounds a little gravelly through the line.

“Je crois que Max va me demander en mariage,” he blurts it out like it was about to burst. He realizes it’s the first time he’s said it out loud.

It sounds like Pierre chokes on his side of the phone.

“Sympa, salut à toi aussi,” he recovers. 

Silence. 

Charles clutches the phone, his knuckles white against it. He hears some crackling, but no further response. He follows up in French — one of the reasons he wanted to talk to Pierre is that he wouldn’t have to translate everything in his head. “Well?”

“Well?” Pierre repeats back to him, like he’s deeply offended by the monosyllable. “What do you want me to say?”

“You could congratulate me.”

“You don’t sound like you want me to congratulate you.”

“I don’t.” He rubs his eyes with the back of his hand — he’s aware he’s relying a bit too much on how well Pierre knows him for the success of this conversation. 

But then Pierre sighs and clears his throat.

“You want me to ask you what’s wrong.” And it sounds a little mean in French, especially since it’s not really a question, but yeah, he’s right on the money.

“Yeah.” 

“What’s wrong?”

Charles figures he’s about to find out whether he’s gone completely insane and requires a psych evaluation, or if he’s totally justified in feeling this way.

“He just won’t. He’s driving me crazy. He’s acting all weird, taking me out on these elaborate dates, saying all this overly romantic stuff, shit he normally wouldn’t say. He keeps talking about the future and weddings, and he looks at me funny, and when he’s not doing all these things, he’s being quiet and cagey. I’m going to lose my mind. The other night, we went for a walk on the beach, and he talked about how I make him feel at home or whatever, and he asked if he could ask me a question, and I swear to fucking god I thought it was going to happen — but then he just asked some corny fucking question about how come I was so pretty, and he keeps acting like that and. Fuck.”

He says all of it on one breath. No kidding.

“Wow. Okay.” Pierre already sounds exhausted. Not in an irritated way — it sounds like he held his breath for as long as Charles was talking. “Do you want him to propose?”

Charles finds the question annoying. Isn’t it obvious? “Of course. Yes.”

“Then the problem is… he’s not proposing?” He’s trying to keep up with what he can gather.

“Kind of. I guess. It’s also that I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with him. If he’s not proposing, which I would be fine with, what’s his fucking deal?”

Pierre stays silent for a bit. He audibly clicks his tongue. “Do you think he’s… making up for somethi–?”

“He’s not cheating,” he cuts him off.

“That’s not what I was going to imply.”

“You sure?” He says it with some salt on his tongue.

“Come on, man. I’m just saying, maybe he did something. Like, he bet a lot of money and lost it. Or signed a bad contract. Or– Well, I don’t know what you would be mad at him for, but something like that.”

These are things Charles hadn’t considered. It’s not exactly comforting.

“He booked an entire floor from that French-Italian mix place I like, and before getting the bill, he said he couldn’t wait to spend the rest of his life with me.”

“Oh. So he fucked up big time. Or he’s proposing.”

“I know, right?”

Pierre sighs again, sounding a little less exasperated. “What’s making you crazy? The waiting? You’ve always waited for him.”

He really has, hasn’t he?

“It’s– I don’t know. Yes, the waiting, in part. But also not knowing. And… god.” He breathes out, daring his own heart to be honest — no bypass through the brain. “Maybe I just really want to marry him. But I’ve started thinking that, maybe, if he’s doing all these things now for no reason, no extra commitment, maybe he just doesn’t want to marry me.”

“You called saying you thought he might propose.”

Laid out like that, Charles can tell he’s not making all the sense in the world. But Pierre hasn’t told him he’s being irrational, and he would if he thought so, so that’s a start. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I guess I’m just— scared. That he’s doing all this and not proposing.”

Pierre breathes out like he’s deep in thought. “That’s… a possibility. What you said before.”

“About… him not wanting to marry me?” He asks, and he hates how small he sounds when he says it. 

Pierre seems to hate it too, judging by how long it takes him to answer. “Yeah,” he mumbles, stretching out the word like it’d do any less damage. “But, don’t get me wrong. That man adores you. Everyone knows it. Even the people who don’t know — they know. I don’t think he’s lying when he says he wants to spend his life with you. He’s just… I mean, you know him better than I do. But he’s not the type of person to try and fit into the natural course of things. Dating, marriage. Maybe he doesn’t see it that way.”

Charles hates that he’s right.

He chuckles dryly.

“I just turned this place upside down looking for a ring.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

Pierre sounds like he wants to laugh, but he can tell Charles is not in the mood for it. “Jesus, man.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“You could talk to him.”

“Whenever I ask what’s up with him, he brushes me off. Like nothing’s different.”

“Hm,” he hums, and Charles can picture him scratching his chin. “Maybe try to get him with his guard down. Like, I don’t know. After sex.”

Charles snorts. “That doesn’t work.”

“Thank you for the very clear image.”

“You brought it up.”

“I was trying to be helpful. I didn’t think you would’ve already tried it. I didn’t think you’d be in the state of mind to have sex in the middle of all of this.”

“Oh, it’s constant,” he smirks.

“I will hang up.”

Charles starts laughing, and it must be contagious, because Pierre does too. Despite everything, he has a point. 

“I could get him drunk.”

“There you go.”

He clears his throat. “Maybe he’ll say something like, I love you, schatje, and this is perfect. Why would we change anything? We have our whole lives ahead of us.”

Another beat of silence. Long and stretchy. 

“It sounds like you think that, too.”

Charles’ throat tightens. “Well, what if we don’t have our whole lives ahead of us?”

Ah.

Okay.

There it is.

Pierre knows him well enough to know exactly where this comes from. Charles didn’t even know it was here, too, breathing underneath it all.

“Charles. You do.”

“We don’t know that.”

He doesn’t fight him. “Okay. Then find out.”

Charles swallows. “It’s not just that, okay? I really– If he’s not proposing, that’s fine. I’d just like to know, so I’m not on edge all the fucking time. I like that he’s being sweet and all this. He’s so good to me. I’d just like to know.”

“Charles, you don’t have to explain anything. It’s okay. This all makes sense.”

“I’m not being crazy?”

“You’re not.”

Charles takes what feels like his first deep breath in a few days. He’s not being crazy. He’s not.

“Okay. Thank you,” he mumbles, very disgusted with the small knot in his throat and how it flattened all three words.

“Oh, come on, Charles. Don’t get down about this. You might be getting engaged,” the enthusiasm in his voice doesn’t sound feigned. “I’m happy for you.”

“Now you’re congratulating me?”

“I don’t do everything you want me to do.”

It rips a chuckle from Charles’ chest, and a real smile settles over his lips. “Okay. Thank you,” he repeats, sounding earnest and far less miserable. It’s true. He could be getting engaged. 

“Bonne chance, Charlot.”

He chuckles again. “Merci, Pierrot.”

Pierre chortles. “Bye, mate,” he says, in English.

“Bye.”

That was. Grounding. To say the least. 

His thumb hovers over the screen once the call disconnects, like there’s something else he’s supposed to do. There isn’t, really. He finds this feeling more and more familiar —  unfinished, he would describe. He’s been feeling this way for weeks now. 

He drops the phone, exhales slowly, and presses the heels of his palms against his eyes.

At least he’s not crazy. 

That’s something.

“Okay,” he mutters to himself. “Okay, okay, okay.”

Then find out.

If he’s not imagining this or acting insane, then he’s fully justified in trying to move the situation along, no? Max isn’t telling him what’s going on, and he has nowhere else to turn before he actually loses it.

“Drunk,” he huffs, an acid, self-pitying laugh escaping his lips. He’s testing the idea out loud. It doesn’t feel like a bad plan. It does sound stupid. Incredibly. But a stupid plan isn’t necessarily a bad plan. And it’s a plan, which beats no plan. 

It might work.

He straightens his spine.

Well, fine. If Max wants to be weird about this, he can make it weirder. Max should know by now: Charles doesn’t back down from a challenge, and this is no different.

Alright.

He drags his hands over his face and allows himself to wallow for a couple more minutes before he decides it’s best to start picking up the mess he made looking for the ring. You know, before Max gets home and asks if they’d been mugged.

As he picks up the pieces of their shared living space, he thinks about how it’s so exhausting to live in fear. He doesn’t know if it’s like this for everyone — that you love someone so much your heart rate picks up whenever they leave the house, because anything could happen, and nobody knows when it's the last time you get to kiss them goodbye.

Maybe it’s just him.

He also wonders just how much that is weighing on this whole situation.

Maybe marriage is the closest thing to that impossible promise he could ever get. That promise he could never ask for, because he knows it’s not in anybody’s hands. 

I’m never going to leave.

Whatever. It doesn’t matter. He’s finding out one way or another, as soon as possible, what the fuck Max is up to.

That man is testing him.

⋆.˚

It’s Wednesday night, and they both have the night off. Which is perfect.

Their place is constantly stacked with fine liquor —that they don’t abuse because they’re pro-athletes—, but still, Charles went and acquired some finer liquor to ensure Max would bite the bait. 

That morning, Charles caved in again and tore through the place looking for a ring. In his defense, he just wanted to be sure before he went through with the plan. If he’d found something shiny in his hunt, this would’ve been rendered useless. This time, he searched stupider places, like under the mattress and behind the AC. Still, he came up empty-handed. 

So the plan was still on.

Max came home around lunch time, kissed him a lot, and then spent the afternoon napping on the couch. 

Charles loves to watch him sleep. He looks so peaceful, so careless. It reminds him of different times, many moons and suns ago — young cheeks and wet grass. He’d do anything to keep him like that all the time. Always unworried and unwound. He lets him sleep, obviously.

He starts dinner early, wanting to have it ready when Max wakes up, but he beats him to it. 

Charles is so attuned to Max’s energy, so accustomed to his presence, that he usually wouldn’t register him padding into the kitchen, but he’s so on edge these days, he feels the atmosphere change as soon as the man gets up from the couch. He doesn’t address him, though — not until he feels those big hands wrapping around his waist from behind as he chops up cherry tomatoes.

“Are you making dinner?” 

Warm breath bounces against his neck. It tickles.

“No, I’m inventing cold fusion,” he chuckles, melting into the hold.

Max groggily laughs into his collarbone. “My bad.”

For a moment, he considers abandoning it all. The plan, and the wondering, and the anxiety over whether or not Max will propose. He really, really doesn’t need anything else than this. His heart sings a needlessly happy song whenever Max is around, and he doesn’t need a ring to keep it ringing in his ears.

But then again, maybe he does. 

His ring finger suddenly feels very naked.

“My mom sent us a bottle of some fancy Italian grappa.” A lie. A bald-faced lie. “Really wants to know what we think of it.” He tilts his head to the side, offering Max more space for him to nose at. 

Max has such a respect for Charles’ mom — he figured it’d be easier to get him to drink if she was the reason, as opposed to ‘hey, down this bottle for me, won’t you?’ 

“Oh, that’s so nice of her,” Max hums and slumps forward slightly, letting more of his weight rest against Charles. “We should have dinner with her soon. It’s been a while.”

Charles melts because the idea of his boyfriend wanting to have dinner with his mom still makes him weak in the knees, but he also stiffens, because they’re going to need to sort this out before seeing his mom.

“We should,” he shrugs. “Bottle’s over there,” he points to the expensive-looking container with his chin. It sits on top of the kitchen island. “We should pop it open after dinner.”

Max straightens the tiniest bit.

“Tonight?”

Hm.

Charles drops the vegetables he just diced into a bowl with pasta.

“Yeah, that’s what I said,” he huffs, trying to act unbothered. “You know, we both have the night off. No early morning meetings or shoots. I feel like we could both unwind a little.”

Max lets go of his waist and moves to stand next to him. Not that this bothers Charles.

“We could unwind?” Max cocks an eyebrow at him.

Yes, Max. We could unwind. Because whatever you’re doing —whatever the fuck it is you have going on— is driving me up the wall. So I’m going to need you to get drunk and tell me what’s on your mind. And, if god allows it, tell me if you’re thinking about proposing. That’s the only explanation that I’ve been able to conjure for all this, and also the only explanation that absolves you from all crimes. Complementarily, due to all aforementioned, I also need a drink.

“You don’t feel like we could use that?” Charles briefly glances at him and bites his tongue, hoping not to start this conversation too soon.

“I mean… Sure.” Max shrugs. “But I– uh,” he stumbles. 

It makes Charles nauseous. 

He lets go of the spoon he was using to mix up the pasta salad. “What? You have plans I don’t know about?” 

Max doesn’t answer right away, and it makes Charles’ already fuzzy brain rattle around with alarm.

“I just thought we’d have a chill night,” he finally muses.

“Jesus, Max,” he chuckles, turning back to the food. “I’m not saying we’re having twenty people over and doing cocaine over the coffee table. It’s just a drink or two after dinner.” He thinks he does a pretty good job at masking his despair.

And he gets lucky, too.

Before he knows it, Max is kissing his left dimple. 

“Alright. Sure. Sounds good.”

Sounds good.

Good.

They eat dinner. Max compliments it and asks if Charles did anything differently. Charles says he followed a new recipe he saw on TV. It’s nice, and domestic, and lovely — warm enough that it almost derails Charles’ curated night, but he gets himself together. Eyes on the prize.

Once they put the plates away, Charles puts Max on ice duty, grabs the bottle, and sets it down on the living room table, along with two glasses. He can hear Max talking on the phone over the sound of ice clinking down on a bucket, but he pays no mind to it. He turns the lights down low and puts on some music.

It’s supposed to be comfortable. Max is supposed to get mellow and airy, and spill his guts. Metaphorically. He doesn’t need him so drunk that he throws up, obviously. 

Max comes back looking a little awkward, glass bucket full of ice between his hands, and Charles tries not to stress about it because this ends tonight. 

They drink.

It starts exactly how Charles wanted it to.

Easy. Loose. Familiar.

Max sinks into the couch, one arm slung over the backrest, glass dangling lazily between his fingers. He makes a face after the first sip, nose scrunching slightly.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “That’s strong.”

Charles huffs. “It’s good,” he insists, taking another sip. Though it burns all the way down and leaves him buzzing, he tries not to make a face because he figures his very competitive boyfriend would be more eager to keep drinking if he saw he was unfazed.

Max watches him for a second, then laughs under his breath and follows suit.

That’s one.

They talk about nothing at first. The weather, campaigns, how annoying it is to deal with sponsors this time of the year, how they’re equally nervous as they are excited for the season to start — that kind of thing. Max is sitting a bit too far away for Charles’ liking, so he shuffles closer. Pours him another drink.

That’s two.

Grappa can be quite tricky: it’s floral, fruity, and a fast climber. Which makes it the perfect drink for tonight. Max is halfway through that glass when Charles leans his head against his shoulder, already computing ways to steer the conversation the way he wants it. They’re talking about training when he finds his opening.

“Rupert has me on this new routine, and I feel old. It’s taking it out of me,” he chuckles, sipping on his glass.

Charles blinks. Pulls back enough that they can make eye contact. “Is that why you’ve been acting weird?” It slips his tongue with a little less finesse than he’d hoped for, and for all his anxiety, he realizes he didn’t count on himself getting drunk. He should pace himself some more.

Max frowns. His cheeks are softly dusted with pink, but he clearly got that loud and clear. “What do you mean?” He rasps.

Charles bends forward to grab his drink and have another sip — finishes his second glass. So much for pacing. “I don’t know,” he shrugs, toying with his empty glass. “You’ve been a little… off.”

The man copies Charles and finishes his second drink in one gulp. “I haven’t been off.”

Clearly, he needs to drink more.

Charles fixes them both a third drink and is immensely thankful when Max doesn’t question him and wordlessly accepts the glass into his hand. He’s also immensely thankful when he starts drinking it not long after.

“Max, come on.”

“I have not.”

Well, this is frustrating. He takes a few sips from his own drink. “You know you can tell me anything.” He shuffles his knees so he’s completely facing Max. “Right?”

Max looks a little less indignant than he looks nervous. “Yes, I know.” He drinks. “And I’m telling you I haven’t been off.”

Charles sighs.

He opens his mouth and closes it, wondering how to follow up from here. Max is not following the script. His cheeks are flushing darker, and his lips are getting lazy, but he’s not budging. Fuck, maybe he actually doesn’t have anything to tell him, and Charles is, for the umpteenth time this month, making a fool out of himself.

He’s still searching for the right words —words that will get him what he wants without giving him away— when Max catches him off guard.

“Is there something you want me to tell you?” He asks, dryly. He studies his glass like he’s seeing right through Charles’ scheme, but then he throws back another sip.

Charles scrambles.

“I– I just want you to be honest with me.”

It’s not a lie.

The response comes faster than he could’ve anticipated, hazy and drunk-ish. Max’s gaze flickers down, and it feels like he’s giving in a little. “I love you.” He sounds a lot warmer than he did just a few seconds ago. “That’s honest.”

Charles exhales through his nose. He feels awful that hearing those words leaves him unsatisfied, but he can’t help himself. He takes a big swig from his glass. “Well, I know that.” It doesn’t taste good leaving his tongue.

Max’s brows pull together.

Charles should stop drinking.

Yet, he tosses back almost half of what he had left. “That’s not what I meant.” He leaves his glass on the table and angles himself towards Max again.

Max studies him for what feels like a long beat. Gulps his drink. Scrunches his nose. Leaves the glass.

“You asked me to be honest,” he says, slowly.

“I did. About what’s been going on.”

Max lets out a quiet, disbelieving breath. He glances at the bottle. “Right.”

The word lands flat.

Charles feels it, irritation flickering. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like I’m being insane. Stop deflecting.”

Max blinks at him and laughs. Actually laughs. Does he want to die?

He turns his body so he’s also fully facing Charles and leans in. “I’m deflecting.” He says it sarcastically. It’s almost accusatory.

Charles won’t stand for it. He leans in too, and there’s a challenge to the motion. “Yes.”

Max has the nerve to scoff. “I just told you I love you.” His eyes are starting to look glassy. Definitely the grappa making her fast climb.

“And I said I know,” he snaps. She’s clearly climbing on him, too. “That’s not new information, Max.”

Silence.

It stretches just long enough to feel like a mistake.

Max’s jaw shifts slightly. His eyes drop to his glass, sitting on the table, like he wants to finish it now. “Right,” he repeats, quieter this time.

Okay. Fine. That—

That didn’t come out how Charles wanted it to. He realizes, with mild horror, that he’s losing control of this conversation. And that he’s drunk.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he softens, horrified that he might be becoming the exact thing he was trying to avoid. “I’m just. You’ve been acting weird, Max. You can’t tell me you haven’t been. And I’m worried.”

They’re pretty close now. If either of them leaned in an inch, their noses would bump.

“You’re overthinking things.”

“Max.”

Blue eyes flash with something Charles is quite familiar with, and it makes his stomach flip. It’s something white-hot — curious and tempting altogether.

“What is it that you assume is going on? That pretty head of yours must’ve come up with something.” It sounds like Max. It sounds like his usual teasing, the way he likes to banter and test limits, because he knows Charles will go there with him. But there’s a tremble beneath it. Charles attributes it to the booze. 

“Nothing, Max. I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking,” he lies, then licks his lips. “But you’re suddenly quiet, and then you’re taking me on big fancy dinners, and I don’t understand.”

Max blinks slowly. “You don’t understand?”

The air around them is suddenly too thick and too hot, and it occurs to Charles that this is another thing he didn’t factor in. He tries to respond, but Max’s thumb takes a soft hold of his jaw.

“I just love you, Charles.” He sounds dazed and loopy, but painfully honest. Charles doesn’t know what to do with it. “And I keep–,” he stops himself. “I just want you to know how much I love you.” He lets his thumb wander down to the column of his throat. “How much I want you. How pretty you are. How you’re everything to me.”

The plan starts to dissolve, ripping at the seams, because nothing in the world can get Charles drunker than Max Verstappen like this. It derails him completely.

“Is that right?” He leans into the touch. It’s a type of surrender, though he still tries to hold his own.

“You know it is,” he lowers his voice, and he lets his hand rest over the base of Charles’s neck. “You know I think you’re the prettiest thing in the world.”

Charles gulps. 

“You’re– doing it again. Deflecting.”

“Just because you won’t say what you really mean.”

It punches all the air out of his ribs. Max’s voice is low and raspy, confident, but wobbly. It’s making his brain fight his limbs: his brain wants to argue about this, about how unfair it is, but his limbs are begging for contact and heat. He hates how easily he forgets about everything he’d planned to say.

“That’s pretty rich,” he presses in closer, “coming from you.”

Max lets out a quiet, rough laugh. “Not fair.”

Charles’ gaze flickers down to his boyfriend’s lips. Lingers a second too long. 

It doesn’t take rocket science to understand this is a losing battle. He loves him too much. Wants him too much. Needs him, like he needs air. For what feels like the millionth time, he convinces himself that none of this matters, and he doesn’t need anything. 

Let’s see how long it lasts this time.

He lets his weight fall forward, so Max’s palm is firmly pressing on his airway. “You’re not fair.”

There it is.

The shift.

Charles feels it: warm, curling low in his stomach. Easier. Simpler. This, he knows. This is something he’ll always understand about Max. Fuck it, fuck the plan.

Max squeezes softly. “Am I not?”

“Mm,” Charles hums, like he doesn’t care. Like he’s already moved on from the conversation entirely. He leans in further. It’s harder to breathe, but it’s unimportant — he just wants to kiss his boyfriend.

Max doesn’t pull away.

Of course, he doesn’t.

Their lips crash together, spit mixing with that fruity, earthy taste. It’s enough for Charles to forget. It’s enough that he can trust in forever for a bit. It’s delicious. It’s perfect and warm and gorgeous, and Charles can forget. He really can forget anything, because it seems he’s forgetting to breathe.

Okay. He’s drunk.

Max takes his hand away from his neck and runs it up into his hair. Buries his fingers there. Tugs.  

Charles can’t fight the moan that climbs up his throat. He shifts, one knee pressing into the couch beside Max’s thigh, then the other, moving without breaking eye contact. It’s smooth, practiced — familiar territory. Max’s hands come up automatically, settling at his waist. They let him melt into his lap.

There’s no safer place on the planet.

He licks into Max’s mouth, grinding down with a fuzzy need. 

Max groans against him. Chuckles. “I’m drunk,” he huffs into the kiss. 

Charles shrugs. “Me too.”

“Did you want to get me drunk?” His teeth clack against Charles’.

“Shut up.” 

Charles deepens the kiss, trying to run away from it all, but Max pulls him off. Keeps him still by the shoulders. Green eyes flicker, bracing for an accusation or a fight, but all they find in that impossible sea is fondness. Max is smiling at him, this dopey look slapped over his face — flushed cheeks, eyes wide open. His hands squeeze tighter around his middle. 

“God,” he sighs. “You’re lovely. Even when you’re a pain in my ass, you’re so fucking lovely.” He looks so devoted it makes Charles’ head spin, enough that he doesn’t even register the pain in my ass thing. “I want you forever, did you know that? No one else does me like this, no one else in the world can keep up. And you’re always one step ahead of me. It’s annoying. But I love you.”

Charles can’t even start to process that. He’s dizzy. He feels like there are hearts floating around his head. He also feels lost, like he missed a crucial part of the conversation. Maybe he’s that drunk. He doesn’t really know what Max is trying to say, but he’s already given up on having a productive interaction.

“I love you, too,” he throws back, dipping back down to kiss him like he’s a man starved.

Max tugs him in close until they’re flush against each other, and it’s fucking perfect. Charles wants more, and more, and more, like he always does. The booze makes him impatient, so he wastes no time snaking his hands underneath Max’s shirt. That toned, smooth skin, he’s so addicted to ripples under his touch. 

Oh, god. He wants to get fucked.

He runs his hands down and starts pulling at Max’s waistband, like he’s done a million times. His limbs hurt, suddenly too hot and needy. He’s not even annoyed that his plan went out the window. He just wants this. This, and nothing else. Max is breathing heavily underneath him, and yeah, nothing matters, fuck a wedding, fuck a ring, this is–

“Charles– Wait.”

Max’s worked-up voice cuts through the air, sounding mildly panicked.

Charles stills.

Wait? Wait?

“Wait,” he repeats.

Charles blinks, completely thrown. “What?”

Max pulls away a couple of inches. His hands aren’t pulling him closer anymore. They’re just holding him there. Like he doesn’t know what to do with them. And this, honestly, concerns Charles more than anything else that’s happened over the past few weeks. When has Max ever not known what to do with him?

He must be sporting a bewildered, demanding look, because Max is clearly clambering around for words — any words.

“I– Um– Just. Hang on.”

Charles doesn’t mean to sound as exasperated as he does. He pulls his hands away from the man. “Hang on for what?”

“I just– need a second.”

“For what?”

Since when does Max need a fucking second for this?

He’s too hazy to even try and dissect the situation, so all he can do is stare at his boyfriend in disbelief and expectation. It all comes back in fast motion — the fear, the anxiety, these needs for commitment and promises he didn’t know he harbored within himself.

Max isn’t saying anything.

“Max.”

He finally opens his mouth, but just then– 

Phone. 

 It makes Charles jump. 

Max’s phone rings, the sound sharp and sudden and urgent. He freezes.

For a split second, he just stares at Charles blankly, like that would fix anything. Charles uses every fraction of time he gets to study his eyes for an answer to everything. Tension stretches like gum, and it feels like no one should move, but the phone doesn’t stop ringing.  So eventually, Max shifts.

The loss of contact is nothing short of devastating.

“Sorry,” he mutters, already moving, hands slipping off Charles’ waist as he gently nudges him back.

Charles lets it happen simply because he doesn’t know what to do other than to punch Max in the face, and he’s not too keen on doing that. He sits there, baffled, watching as Max fixes his pants and reaches for his phone. 

He looks insanely apologetic and guilty. 

The expensive alcohol is going to end up all over the carpet if Charles’ stomach twists one more time.

“Hello?” He finally answers, turning away slightly, one hand dragging through his hair. “Yeah. No, I–” He stops. Glances back at Charles for half a second. “I know,” he says, lower now. “Just– Give me a minute.”

He hangs up before Charles can process any of that.

And then, without really explaining—

“I need to–” Max gestures vaguely toward the hallway. “Bathroom. I’ll be right back. I’m– sorry.”

He doesn’t even give Charles a chance to answer, because he bolts before that battered brain can catch up. And just like that, he’s gone.

Charles deflates, still half-draped over the couch. What the fuck. What the actual, fucking, fuck? He feels a little bit like crying. A little lot, maybe. He’s nauseous. Heavily. He looks down at his empty hands. No promises, bare fingers. 

He blinks, glances at the hallway, then at the bottle, then back at his hands. 

If he had to draw a conclusion from tonight, he’s not getting married any time soon. And he has something else to worry about. He doesn’t know what, exactly, but this was one of his biggest fears. If he’s not proposing, then what the actual fuck is his deal?

“Okay,” he mutters shakily into the air, trying to put all of it into perspective. It doesn’t work.

He rubs at his eyes.

What the fuck was that? 

⋆.˚

Friday morning, Max leaves early for training.

With an empty house and no one to judge him, Charles finally folds and cries about all this.

He’s so tired of telling himself he’s not this person. Maybe he is, maybe he’s just like every other person on the planet. He can’t tell if Max is closer or further away than he’s ever been, and it’s giving him stomachaches at all hours of the day.

On Wednesday, Max came back to the living room ten minutes later, looking like a wet, beaten dog with a sock in his mouth. Charles wasn’t in the mood for shit anymore. It had been such an odd exchange.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” he mumbled from the other side of the room. “I had to get that. It was important.”

Charles blinked at him, unamused. “Who was it?”

“Just, uh– Madeleine. Wanted to schedule a meeting with Mekies.”

There was no reason for Charles not to believe that, but it just sounded dishonest. However, by then, he was already spiraling, and he knew that fixating on anything would be dangerous. He was drunk, upset, and panicking, so he didn’t push it — he couldn’t trust his judgment.

“Okay.”

Max clearly sensed that the vibe was dead.

“I’m– I’m going to go to bed,” he mouthed. “Are you coming?”

Charles took a deep breath and exhaled, trying his best not to shake throughout it. “I…  think I’m gonna stay here for a bit.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

Max pouted, a guilty look painted over his glassy eyes and rosy cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Charles lied. He feels like he’s been lying a lot. “We’re good. I just– I’m gonna be here.”

They stared at each other for a stupid amount of time.

“I love you,” Max mouthed.

And no matter how upset he was, Charles could never leave that up in the air. “I love you, too,” he sighed.

“Good night.”

“Night.”

As it usually happens, the morning after washed it all away. Charles passed out on the couch watching some old TV show, and Max woke him up with kisses, French toast, and more apologies. He kissed his neck and his lips, and said he was sorry a million times. He touched him so carefully — didn’t even leave bruises this time. Sucked him off until he was squirming against the couch and couldn’t come anymore. So it was fine.

They were fine.

Except they weren’t. 

They’re not.

In the span of the last twenty-four hours, Charles has looked through the penthouse for a box three more times. Which really, all things considered, is just pathetic. He’s pathetic.

All he wants is an answer to a question he can’t ask. Is that so crazy? 

Max was right the other night: he hasn’t been saying exactly what he means. He’s been asking what’s up, what’s wrong, is there something you need to tell me. He hasn’t asked the real question. Are you going to propose?

He– He can’t ask that, can he?

He doesn’t want to feel this way. It’s just too much — the reasons pile up until he can no longer understand them and is left feeling like an idiot. He hates that he’s crying about it. Absolutely despises that he can’t stop sobbing as he puts the cleaning supplies back in their place after knocking them all over in his earlier exploration.

Max would laugh at him. Probably.

Mid-spiral, he figures maybe he’s making himself sick for no reason. Maybe he really is overthinking everything, and Max is just being romantic and dealing with the nerves of the upcoming season. Maybe the only way to get through this is not to find out, but to just let go of it. It’s been weeks, and there’s been no progress, no change. Maybe he did make it all up in his head. 

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

He feels like crawling into a hole and not coming out until he’s come to peace with all of this, but that’s not really an option. He thinks about the options he does have, and one of them is calling Pierre again — he’s been texting and asking for updates, but he can’t bring himself to text back. It doesn’t feel like a great idea to call him, either.

Fuck. 

It’s so fucked. He’s fucked. In the head.

He leaves to train right after lunch. Andrea, for what might be the first time ever, tells him that he feels he’s pushing himself too hard. Charles isn’t too appreciative of the comment, and he’s also not appreciative of it when he asks for an extra hour of workouts, and Andrea cuts him off. All he wants is to keep busy, sweat all of it out.

He’s walking to his car when his phone buzzes. He assumes it’s Andrea calling to tell him that he forgot something inside, but when he takes a look at the screen, he’s met with Max’s name. He picks up. Obviously.

“How’s your schedule tomorrow?” His voice cuts through the line, bright and a little impatient.

It catches him off-guard. “Hi,” he greets, chuckling to himself as he tries to recall. “I have that meeting in the morning, then I have to meet Andrea. I think I’m free after three.” He bounces on the balls of his feet. “Why?”

“Let’s take the yacht out,” he offers. He sounds so cheery, it almost throws him off. It’s contagious.

But it makes Charles’ heart skip a beat. He stays silent for a second. Pauses. “Why?” He repeats, tucking his lower lip behind his teeth.

“Why not?” He chirps, and Charles can practically hear the big smile on his face. “I have a crew cleaning it right now, and I want to take you out on a date. Is that good enough of a reason?”

Charles blinks. 

He can’t get his hopes up. He can’t, he won’t. How many times has he lived through this in the past few weeks? Every single time it seems like it’s the occasion, it just doesn’t happen. And he’s tired of finding and thinking of reasons why Max should propose, and justifying it to himself, and walking this thin line between his worst fears and his hungriest needs, and just wanting it — being that person, who just wants to be married because the idea of marrying Max is lovely.

But.

God.

“It is,” he melts. “Thank you, Max.”

“Thank you. I’ll see you at home.”

Okay. 

If anything, it does sound like a delightful idea. He and Max, alone out in his beautiful sea. The sun. The breeze. He dares himself to enjoy it for what it is, and not what it can or should be. He decides he’ll try his hardest.

He loves Max. So much.

And it’s enough.

⋆.˚

Max is wearing something nice.

It’s Saturday afternoon, Charles just got home, and Max is wearing something nice. 

It’s nothing crazy, really: just a cream linen shirt and a nice pair of swimming trunks in a matching color. It’s actually pretty similar to what Charles had thought of wearing, but it’s not something Max would normally wear. The absence of a Red Bull polo is astounding on its own. 

Charles does not get in his head about it. He kisses him hello and wraps his hands around Max’s waist. “Don’t you look nice?” He mouths against his cheek.

“My boyfriend is always telling me I need to dress nicer,” he whispers. 

“Oh, is he now?” He snakes his hand underneath his shirt, just so he can brush his fingers along his V-line. “He sounds pretty reasonable.”

“He is pretty stylish,” Max shrugs. 

Charles kisses him again.

It’s a fast drive to the pier, where the yacht is already waiting for them. Charles notices two big coolers in the backseat on their way there, probably filled up with beers and snacks. He’s usually the one thinking of this stuff — he likes that Max has it all covered.

It’s not busy on their side of the pier when they get there. They park, make a quick scan of the scene, and quickly step onto the yacht. Discreetly, one after the other, the soft creak of the deck shifting under their weight. It’s quiet. Too quiet, almost. No crew bustling around, no voices, no footsteps except their own.

Charles notices and actively tries not to think much of it. 

“Where’s everyone?” He asks, glancing around the luxury cruiser.

Max doesn’t look at him right away. He sets down the coolers and looks around, making sure everything is in place. “Told them to take the day off,” he says, like it’s nothing. He walks over to the controls, his fingers quick and familiar with them. “I’ve got it. So it’s just us.”

A smirk creeps up on Charles’ face. “I forget you’re Mr. Do-It-All.” He crosses his arms over his chest.

A warm, bubbly chuckle rumbles from Max’s chest. He looks over his shoulder. “As if you can’t do this?” His eyes glimmer, soft sun painting them like watercolor. 

It’s true, Charles could do it, too. But it only makes it better that Max is taking charge. He likes it. It makes him feel warm inside. He steps closer to his boyfriend, his fingertips tingling. “I’m also very good at many things,” he breathes out.

He watches Max shuffle in place. “Don’t I know it.” 

Charles can taste the shamelessness in his voice. It’s sweet and silky. He looks around before he inches even closer and presses the tip of his nose against Max’s warm neck. It’s looking very biteable.

“Charles. I’m working,” he warns, but it’s void of actual concern. It’s all brown sugar.

“You can’t deal with a little distraction?”

“How about you sit and let me pull away from the pier? Then you can distract me as much as you want.”

There’s something about it — about the way he says it, the way he stands there like he owns the ocean. Something about Max. That man is his favorite drug. It takes him so little to knock him off this realm. He kisses a mole in the base of Max’s neck and pulls away.

“Aye, aye, captain,” he teases. Knocks two fingers against his temple, then flicks them away. A loose salute. He enjoys the way Max looks at him as he walks away.

They steer into open water with no difficulties. Max adjusts the controls, gaze fixed ahead, jaw set just enough to look focused. The linen shirt moves with him in the breeze, light against his skin, sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms.

Right.

Charles enjoys the view a little too much. Not the city shrinking behind them or the sea expanding in front of them. Just this man, gorgeous and skillful, sailing them into the blue of the ocean. He forgets, again, what has him so stressed.

At least for a couple of hours. 

Once they’re far out enough into the water, Max cuts the engine and lets the yacht drift. Charles makes good on the deal of distracting him. They drown into each other in the open sea. 

They also drink beer, listen to music, dance a little bit. Even though they suck. Max touches him all he wants, and Charles does the same thing. There are no other boats around: it’s just them and the salt in the air.

The sun starts to die not long after, painting the sky in soft oranges and pinks and purples. They slump together onto the cushioned bench along the deck to watch it all unfold, properly buzzed and bubbly. Charles wraps his arms around Max’s bicep and nuzzles into his side.

This man.

He makes him so ridiculously happy.

When he thinks back to it, he can’t really remember a time when his heart hasn’t beat for him. Max has always been there, pushing him and pushing him, to be better, faster, braver, stronger. And though they’re in the open sea on a luxury yacht, it’s the little things like this —being able to smell the fabric softener he uses on his own clothes permeating Max’s shirt, being able to hear his racing pulse— that really have him smitten and happy.

Happy, happy, happy.

He presses the pad of his thumb over the underside of his ring finger.

He can let it go. He can, he really can, he–

“Do you like it here?”

Max’s voice is raspy and quiet against the waves and the breeze.

Charles’ heart flips awkwardly.

“Here? As in… here? The sea?” He rolls his cheek over Max’s arm to look up and try and meet his gaze, but Max is fixed on the horizon. “Or… Monte Carlo? Mónaco?”

Max drums his fingers over the seat. “That was weird phrasing,” he sighs, chuckling. “I meant… Do you see yourself living like this forever? Yes, here. Monte Carlo. Our place. With me.”

Charles can’t even process that. What should be a thought process inside his brain is more similar to the reaction one has to a fire alarm being pulled. He’s trying, he’s trying his best. He really is. But he can’t see things clearly. When he thinks back to all that’s been happening, it feels just as likely that he’s been seeing things the way he wants to and imagining circumstances as it feels that Max is actually close to proposing.

He tries to tune it all out, so he can respond like a normal person to whatever the fuck kind of question that was.

Heat rises to his cheeks. He looks back at the horizon. “Yeah. I mean, we could move,” he chuckles, “but I… don’t see another life for me.” He doesn’t really think it through —he can’t right now—, so it’s honest. Max doesn’t say anything straightaway. Charles swallows. The wind blows right through his chest. “Do you?”

Max shifts by his side. Charles didn’t even know he was going to ask that.

“I… see some things changing,” he says, slowly. “But they would all change with you. Next to you. I don’t know if I’m making sense.”

Holy fuck.

Oh, fuck. 

Fuck.

Charles squeezes Max tighter. “Like what?”

“Like…” He tilts his head to the side, almost knocking it against Charles’. “For example, like you said, we could move.” His voice starts to soften, turning sweeter and warmer, like he’s getting lost in his own words. “A house, maybe. With a big backyard and a pool. We’re gonna need the space, eventually.”

Oh, god.

Charles’ heart climbs up to his throat and refuses to come down. Yes, yes. They’re going to need the space, eventually. For a family. For kids. And for extended relatives to come down during the summer and see how stupidly happy they are. 

He’s pretty sure his pupils have dilated the way they would’ve if he were on E.

“Yeah?” He asks, throat dry.

“Yeah,” he hums. “That’s the kind of place married people live in, right? I don’t know if our current place would cut it.”

…

Charles completely blanks.

“We’d have to take care of the media thing first, though,” Max continues, apparently oblivious to the wreckage he’s made of his boyfriend with one word. “We’d have to come out, because it’s one thing if they think we live in the same complex — it’s different if press catches together in the backyard of a house.”

He can’t breathe. Charles can’t breathe. 

Max keeps talking —something about market prices now— but Charles feels loopy and light-headed. He’d been working so hard to push that mess of thoughts and expectations, and Max brought it all bouncing back. 

That’s the kind of place married people live in.

The sun starts to sink into the line where the ocean meets the sky, and it throws out flames of orange as it dies. They hit the boat directly — bounce against steel and glass and hit them in the eyes. 

Charles looks up and away, an automatic reflex against the sun’s glare, but when he does, he finds Max’s gaze. He’s quiet now, and he’s looking right at him. 

He looks so handsome in this light, like he does in every light. His beautiful blue eyes stop matching the ocean — they look a little green and iridescent as they mix with the orange. And he’s looking at him with such adoration. Such devoted love. 

Charles knows Max loves him like that; he does. But this is— 

His pupils sparkle with something akin to mischief, something akin to the way he used to look at him before they were anything. Something akin to want, to ambition. Something akin to the future. He looks at him longingly, the way he’s been doing these past few weeks.

Charles has never seen that man look at anything or anyone else like that. The closest thing has been Rocky. His first championship trophy, maybe. But this look belongs to him and only him, and it’s knocking him around and — holy shit, they’re in a yacht, in the sunset, and Max is dressed all nice, and there’s soft music in the background, and the waves softly crash far away, and he’s tangled up with the love of his life, who’s looking at him like he single-handedly crafted the planet.

Oh, god.

He’s going to propose, right?

Fuck.

Please.

He glances down at his hands. They’re sticky with beer, and there’s a hangnail on his thumb.

Come on.

He blinks up at Max, at those pretty eyes on him, and straightens his spine. Reaches up to kiss him. Long and soft and plush. Max, caught unready, drinks him in happily, pushes back against him, brushes his tongue against his bottom lip. Charles doesn’t stop kissing him as he stands up, moving to stand between his legs. It’s eternal.

Until it’s not. Charles bites his lip before he pulls away. 

“I have to go to the bathroom,” he whispers, still breathing the same air. “I’ll be right back.”

Max blinks slowly, still dazed. “Are you okay?” He brushes his thumb against the side of his waist.

“Yes,” he breathes out, hoping his heartbeat isn’t loud enough to reach Max’s ears, because it’s banging like a marching band. His skin is crawling with anticipation, and his ears are softly ringing. This is it. It feels like this is it. He just needs a second. “Just a minute.”

He doesn’t turn to look at Max as he ducks below deck and makes a beeline for the head.

The door almost slams behind him, but he manages to cushion the bang with his foot. The bathroom mirror greets him with judgment, once again, but this just has to be it. He takes a good look at himself: he looks sun-kissed, his hair puffed up from the sea breeze. His pupils are dilated, and his hands are shaking. All of the buttons on his shirt are undone, and pink blotches decorate his clavicles.

It occurs to him that, if Max doesn’t propose tonight, then he’s never going to do it. 

There couldn’t possibly be a better time. 

He shoves his hands into the sink, trying to wash away the stickiness and the saltiness. The sweat too. He also tries to find something like a nail clipper or a file, but it’s ridiculous. Why would Max keep any of that in his yacht? 

He stares at the small, torn piece of skin next to his thumbnail like it’s taunting him. He’s been keeping his hands in pristine condition for this exact reason, and just now, when he’s been weaning himself off the idea— this.

Max wouldn’t care. He knows Max wouldn’t care, so he doesn’t know why he cares, but he does. 

He stares at it for another second before he caves in and shoves his thumb in between his teeth, trying his best to get rid of the hangnail. Not one of his finest moments, but it works out. He tugs with his teeth and pulls it off.

Alright.

He splashes some water on his hair to tame it a little bit. Pumps his fist in the air when he finds a small tube of hand cream with the toiletries. Takes in a deep breath as he rubs his palms together. 

He’s been so worried and sick with all of this — it’s been a while since he allowed himself to be excited with the idea. But all the stars are aligning. The timing is right. Everything is perfect. He could be engaged to the love of his life by the end of the night.

He catches himself smiling like an idiot in the mirror.

Oof. Okay. 

Okay, okay, okay.  Breathe.

Back out there.

He can’t help it when he walks out with a huge, shiny smile on his face.

Finally.

The sun is almost gone when he gets back. It moves the fastest once it melts into the ocean. Max stares at him as he gets back to the bench, his jaw parted open and his eyes full of honey. It makes Charles shiver.

He can’t take it. As soon as he’s at an arm’s length, he climbs on top of his boyfriend, caging his thighs with his own. Licks into his mouth again, chasing his favorite flavor. He feels those big hands crushing his waist like it’s nothing, warm underneath the fabric of his open shirt, and it feels like he’s actively doing drugs.

He’s pretty sure it’s never going to stop. That thing his brain does whenever he’s close to Max, releasing chemicals that make him feel like he’s on top of the world. He felt it when they kissed for the first time, sparkling and dizzying, and he thought it would go away after a few more kisses. It didn’t. Then they had sex for the first time, and it flooded his senses — an unstoppable force of nature. He thought it would go away after a few more fucks. It didn’t.

Now he’s here, almost four years later, and it hasn’t stopped.

Charles cups the sides of Max’s face, and Max runs his hands up his chest to meet his hold. He squeezes Charles’ hands, rubs circles over the backs, clutches his wrists. 

They kiss, and they kiss, and they kiss.

Max hums against his lips, whispers sweet nothings, and Charles wants to eat him alive.

They kiss for so long that they’re left completely in the dark before they notice, and only then does Max get up to go turn on the deck lights. Of course, he comes right back and jumps over Charles.

It’s already getting cold when the kiss turns sloppy, swollen lips and tired lungs. They don’t break apart at all — they just stop trying to swallow each other and start leaving space to breathe. It’s in one of those spaces that Max hugs him close and whispers against his lips.

“I can’t believe you’re real. Did you know that?” He breathes into Charles’ mouth. “You’re… Everything. I wake up next to you, and I simply don’t buy it.” He squeezes his hands. “I keep waiting for the day you feel real, but you’re–... Every time you look at me, it’s just– It’s something else. Will you keep looking at me? For the rest of my life?”

Charles’ heart revs faster than any engine on the grid. Overdrive.

The thing is, he can’t believe Max is real either. 

Maybe that’s also a reason why he wants him to propose so badly. Maybe if he’s wearing his ring on his finger, waving it around and carrying it with him, it’ll be real. It’ll be a guarantee that he’s not going to wake up some day, four years earlier, cold and alone and wanting him.

Will you keep looking at me?

“I love to look at you,” he mouths.

Max kisses him again.

This is it, right? He’s about to ask him to promise. To promise to always be by his side, to always be looking at him, every morning and every night. And in exchange, he’d always love and cherish him, in sickness and in health. And Charles would say yes, yes, yes.

He’s still tasting him when Max speaks again. 

“It’s getting cold.” He tangles his fingers with Charles’. Lingers. Like he’s about to say something else. His lip trembles. “We should…” 

Get married? Yes.

Charles’ heart skips a beat.

“Get back.”

Crack.

Charles blinks, then physically backs away. “What?” It comes out sharper than he’d intended it to, scraping his tongue. He’s thrown. “Now?”

Max blinks too. Tilts his head slightly, like he somehow doesn’t get the hesitation. “Yeah,” he says, gentle. “It’s gonna be harder to anchor if we stay out here longer. No crew.”

Charles’ mouth opens, then closes.

It’s not that late. They could stay. A little longer. The night’s barely started, the sky still holding onto that last stretch of color, the water calm. And.

And Max hasn’t proposed yet.

“Oh.” He nods quickly, like that makes perfect sense. It does, but not for him. They’re not done here. “Right. Yeah, okay.”

Max smiles, easy, relieved, like this was always the plan. He presses a quick kiss to Charles’ mouth before standing, already moving toward the controls again. Charles stays seated for a second longer. Then he follows.

His hands are trembling. This has to be the night, right? If not now, then when? When would the timing ever be better? Something unsettles inside his chest, unleashing all that he’d been holding back these past days. It bleeds all over his body, thick and uneasy, and he comes to the realization he can no longer deny it.

He is this person.

He is one of those people.

He could sit there and rationalize for hours. Rattle off reasons —very good reasons— why they should get married, why Max should propose. He could list all the reasons why he’s feeling anxious, why this is complex, and why it’s killing him. Explain how the anticipation without closure is what bothers him the most. He could fit it all into boxes that make sense, check every single one for logic and objectivity.

He could do that. He wouldn’t even be exaggerating or lying or trying to make the situation into something it isn’t to save his dignity.

Yet, simultaneously, he has to admit it to himself — he just wants to marry him.

He wants the house, and the kids, and to show him off to the world. He wants to hyphenate his last name and wear Max’s like a tattoo and a medal. 

It hits him all at once and almost knocks him off his ass.

He’ll later assume that, in that split second, for that very reason, his brain started a twisted method of self-defense. And it’ll make sense. Right now, he could not possibly be okay with that being all. 

And Max— He’s not stupid. His boyfriend is anything but stupid. He has to know how he sounded, how he’s been sounding. He wouldn’t do this to him. He talked about the future, and moving together to a big house where the public can spot them. Max wants a life with him.

So.

So it’s fine.

It doesn’t have to happen here.

The night is young. It’s not over. Maybe later.

Maybe back at the apartment.

Maybe when they’re alone, properly alone. No wind, no distractions. Just them.

Charles exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair as he watches Max start them back toward shore.

Yeah. Later.

The sail back is quieter.

Not uncomfortable. Just softer.

Max keeps one hand on the steering wheel, the other gravitating absentmindedly around Charles’ hips when he drifts close enough. He hums along to the music still playing faintly in the background, completely at ease.

Charles leans into him, lets it happen. Lets himself settle. Tries.

Watches the lights of the city grow closer.

Any minute now. Yeah.

He pointedly avoids the fact that he’s been telling himself that for days.

The car ride back to their home is also quiet. 

Max drives peacefully, one hand firmly lodged on Charles’ thigh, eyes on the road. But he seems shifty. His palm sweats over Charles’ skin, and it gives him hope. It’s still unnerving, though. How calm it all feels. As if they didn’t spend the last few hours tangled in open water. As if Max hadn’t said what he said.

Charles shifts in his seat.

He keeps glancing at him. Not enough to be obvious, just quick looks — checking, waiting. Every time Max inhales a little deeper, every time his fingers twitch against the steering wheel, every time the silence stretches a second too long.

Nothing.

The city swallows them slowly, warm and golden against the dark. They pass familiar streets, familiar turns. Charles tracks all of it without really meaning to, like he’s mapping out how much time is left.

Any second now.

Maybe at a red light.

Maybe when they park?

Max runs his hand down to Charles’ knee, gives it a small squeeze. “You’re quiet,” he says, glancing at him briefly. His voice is soft and gooey. And careful.

It’s almost offensive.

Charles hums, forcing something easy into the silence. “Just tired.”

Max nods, like that explains everything. His thumb brushes over his skin once. Trembles. Then pulls away. Charles watches that, too. Watches everything. The way Max shifts gears. The way he drums his fingers once against the steering wheel. The way he fully turns his face towards him when the car stops.

He’s also trying his best to school his expression into one that says I just had a lovely day with my beautiful boyfriend out in the beautiful sea, and not I’m about to lose my fucking mind.

It’s fine.

It’s fucking fine.

By the time they pull into the building, Charles’ pulse is back in his throat. He unbuckles his seatbelt a second too fast. Max gives him a quizzical look, but he’s too on edge to pay it any mind. He needs out of this car.

The elevator ride feels as slow as it’s ever felt. Charles can’t stop studying Max’s every move, every shift, every breath. He weighs the chances of him dropping to one knee before they reach their floor. They drop to zero when Max reaches out for him and digs his fingers and thumbs into his traps.

Oh, that feels good. He hums and leans into it, letting his eyes flutter shut.

“You’re wound up so tight.” Max sounds a little disconcerted. “Even after all this? Is everything okay?” He leans forward, bumping their noses together.

Well, is it?

Charles clears his throat. “I guess I’ve been stressed,” is all he can offer. He hopes and prays that his struggle to keep it together doesn’t show, because this is getting pathetic again.

Max massages the muscle tenderly. He gets that glint in his eye. “Oh, what a shame. I wonder how we can relax you.”  

He can’t help but snort. “I wonder.”

“No, really,” he mumbles, leaning forward to kiss his neck. “I hate it when you’re stressed.” He licks over Charles’ pulse point. “All you ever do is give sunshine to other people. Peace.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” he chuckles.

“You give me peace.” It knocks Charles’ body a little off-balance, but Max holds him steady as he drags his teeth over the hollow of his throat. “You’re my peace. I wish I could give you that.” It feels like he’s willing the words into his skin. Charles feels way drunker than he did a couple of hours ago, when he was buzzing with beer. 

“Yeah?” The word comes out choked and breathless.

Max laughs softly against his neck, running his hands down Charles’ sides. “Yeah. Plus, you look so hot when you’re all soft and lax. This perfect body of yours,” he digs his thumbs into his sides, “it should never be tight.”

It’s embarrassing how quickly the heat spreads through his body, tinting his cheeks before rushing south. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You wound me.” He pouts, but a grin evidently tugs at the corners of his mouth.

“I know that’s not true,” he smiles, raspy and cocky.

Max scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Your body is what’s ridiculous.”

Charles blinks with feigned scandalization.

“Really now?”

There’s suddenly so much heat behind Max’s eyes. “Really. Have you seen yourself?” He buries his nose into Charles’ clavicle. “You’re so hot. I love you so much. You and your stupid body.” He takes in a deep breath. Like he’s inhaling Charles. 

Charles will play. He doesn’t exactly have a choice, seeing how his nerve endings —every single one— never fail to melt underneath his boyfriend. “What do you like about it?”

He can feel Max smile against his skin.

“As if you don’t know.” 

Hot breath bounces off Charles’ neck, positively melting his brain in the process. The air around them feels scarce. He hears a ding — they’re close to their floor. “Tell me anyway.”

Max chuckles, his fingers finding tight purchase on Charles’ hips. “God, you. How many times am I going to have to say this?” He purrs warmly, muttering against the shell of his boyfriend’s ear. His voice drips with want. “This waist, for starters.” He slides his hands up. “Fuck. Just stupid. Fits perfectly in my hands. How can that be?”

Charles is just a man. A man in love. It often seems the other way around —to their families, their friends, even to Max— but it’s always been Max who’s had him wrapped around his finger. His knees buckle, weakening at the praise. 

“What else?” His voice is barely there.

A hum. “This curve right here,” he snakes his fingers underneath Charles’ shirt, touching warm, pinkened skin. He runs the pads of his fingers across the small of his back. “This dip here. The mole right next to it.” 

Charles can’t help but sigh when he presses down exactly where that speck would be with overwhelming precision, considering the man is blind to it right now. Max bites his own lip, then noses at his jaw. 

“You’ve studied up,” he tries, even though he’s dangerously close to dropping to the floor. Max wouldn’t let him, though. He would catch him. 

“It’s my favorite subject.” Charles feels him sink his teeth into the line of his jaw — lick over the skin when he can’t hold back a whimper. “Very fun to learn. I’m an expert.” He lets his hands dip lower. “I also love your thighs. So soft. Strong. Fuckable.” 

Most of Charles’ worries have crashed out the window. He can’t think of anything else like this. Not when he feels so owned. Cared for. Known. Max has always known how to wash away his worries, and it seems there are no exceptions, not even when he’s the very reason. 

He does wonder, for a second, what married sex would feel like.

He’s about to try and say something when Max brushes his lower stomach with his fingertips and speaks again. 

“Here. How it feels against my fingers. How it flutters when you come.”

They barely make it through their doorstep once the elevator dings open. It’s a stumble, and a fight, and a race, and Charles is off his feet the second they’re inside their home, pressed against the wall. 

He’s Max’s. All his. Every inch of his skin and bones, which he knows so well, belongs to that man. Maybe that’s another reason why he’d like to be married to him: that belonging could be official. It wouldn’t be words into the air — I’m yours, and that’s it. He’d have the papers to prove just how much he belongs to him. 

He thinks of that for all of five seconds, which is exactly how long it takes for Max to get rid of both their shirts.

Max strips him and spreads him open on the floor, singing praises to his body every chance he gets. How he feels perfect, how he’s the only one for him, how he’s soft and hard, and how he wants him so bad — how he’d burn down cities and slash through countries just to touch him here, and here, and there.

It all warms him up at a stupid speed, and he’s suddenly slammed with the need to get Max inside of him. There’s something pumping in his chest at all hours of every day — it’s always trying to get him closer to Max. Like a pull. It gets stronger every day, and now, flushed, breathless, bare-knuckled, and sprawled on the floor, it almost hurts.

“Fuck me,” he pleads into Max’s mouth. Pulls him down when he tries to get up and take them to the bedroom. “Here.”

No time for that.

Max doesn’t protest.

He fucks him on the floor, slow and deep — pushes hot, salty tears out of Charles’ eyes. Charles scratches his nails down the wide spread of Max’s back, holds him close, tells him he loves him to death. If he draws blood, Max doesn’t mind.

Max spills first, sobbing into the space between Charles’ neck and shoulder, buried deep inside him. 

Charles feels like he’s going crazy because all he can think is mine, mine, mine, mine, but he feels safe and vindicated when he senses Max muttering the same word into his skin. 

It’s not long before Max comes back up for air, sweeps him up, and takes him to bed, where he can finish him properly.

This feels different.

Max always takes his sweet time with him; that’s nothing new. But now, he’s softly running the pads of his fingers over every inch of Charles’ skin, like he’s trying to read a poem in braille off of him. He’s delicate with him. His lips are tender against his sides, and he doesn’t bite him. 

He kisses the insides of his thighs and the bruises around his knees. Gingerly presses on his stomach. He tells him he loves him over, and over, and over again, and Charles feels a little bit like crying because at one point in life, he never thought he’d have this kind of love. 

When his eyes do start watering up, due to heat, and arousal, and overwhelming endearment, Max kisses his tears away.

He doesn’t fuck him again. He gets him to come with his mouth and his fingers, always so nimble and familiar with his body. Sucks him off while pressing on his prostate until he’s squirming into his mouth. He pulls his mouth away and kisses his hipbone until he’s done rolling through it.

Charles feels loved.

That’s also nothing new. He feels loved every day he gets to spend next to that man, every time he remembers how he likes his coffee or how to crack his back to alleviate the pain. He feels loved all the time. But he suddenly feels complete and hollow all at the same time — loved to an extent he’s sure no one has been loved before. And that can’t be true, because he loves Max even more than that, but he’s just.

It’s a lot. 

Max loves him, and he loves Max.

That’s an undeniable truth.

And with the world being cold and unpredictable, with no promises made — that’s a bit terrifying.

Max comes up to kiss him once it’s all over. He kisses his cheeks, and his nose, and his lips, and his forehead. It makes Charles giggle as he digs his fingers into Max’s biceps, pulls him close, tries to attach himself to him.

He wants to marry him. Is that really so crazy?

Once they’ve both cleaned up, they plop down next to each other on the bed. Breathless. Satiated, but not really. Charles is still waiting. He can’t help it. This night couldn’t have been more perfect. There’s no better time to do this. If Max was waiting for the right time, here it is. This is it. 

It rings again in his head: if he doesn’t propose now, he might not ever do it.

“Do you think we’re ever going to be bad at that?” Max turns on his side and paints a dotted line over Charles’ waist with his index finger.

Charles snorts. “No, not really,” he sighs. “I don’t get what people say about sex becoming boring.”

“I think you have to be boring people for sex to ever be boring.” He shifts until he’s pressed against Charles’ side, his chin hooked over his shoulder. “I’m not boring. You’re not boring.”

“What am I, then?” He chuckles, tapping his fingers over Max’s shoulder blades. He expects a quip. A bite, a tease, a joke. Something dirty, maybe. 

He’s not expecting Max to stay quiet for what feels like forever. He’s not expecting him to sigh, hold him closer, and then turn his neck so he can breathe next to his ear.

“You’re perfect.” 

Charles turns to look at him. He doesn’t get to say anything before Max speaks again.

“You’re perfect, you’re beautiful. You’re funny, and thoughtful, and kind. And you’re strong. Determined. You beat my ass all the time. I don’t know how to keep up with you.” He caresses the side of his face. “You’re smart, and you’re talented. Good at so many things. And you put up with me. You’ve put up with me for years. With all my bullshit. I know what I’ve put you through, and I’m sorry, and I’m so grateful that you never gave up on me. On us.” 

Max’s eyes sparkle, looking watery. 

Charles’ heart climbs down to his stomach, then up to his throat. He doesn’t know what to say or what to do. He’s thought about this moment so much, and he’s frozen now. He wants to sob. His fingers go to clutch Max’s bicep like he could run away at any moment. Digs his fingernails in.

Oh mon Dieu. Je t'aime tellement. Je veux t'aimer pour toujours.

“You’re the best person I’ve ever met. I don’t know who I’d be without you. You amaze me. Every day since I first met you, you’ve amazed me. You’ve pushed me. You’re a symbol of everything I wanted to become.” He tips his head so he can knock their foreheads together. “I’m so fucking proud of you. Everything you’ve been through and everything you’ve accomplished– It doesn’t make sense. You don’t make sense. You’re… everything. You’re everything to me, Charles. Did you know that? You’re the love of my life.”

It shatters Charles. Folds him in half and squeezes him in the middle. His eyes sting, and his nose feels tight and heavy. It’s not easy for Max to just say what he means, and this is — he’s not even drunk now. The buzz from the champagne is far away. He’s saying all this to his face. 

Charles throws himself at him, pulling him into a crushing hug. He feels too much. It’s all too much. He just needs to say it. Max just has to ask the question. Four words.

“I love you so much,” Charles mumbles into that smooth, pale skin. His voice trembles. “You’re the love of my life, too.”

Max takes a deep breath, his nose pressed to Charles’ skin. He wraps his arms around Charles’ waist. His fingers are jittering, his shoulders feel tight. This has to be it. 

He waits for it. 

And waits.

Silence stretches out, warm and thick under their skin, but Max doesn’t say anything else. He almost starts relaxing against the mattress, but it doesn’t comfort Charles in the slightest bit. What is he waiting for?

It’s the same question he’s been asking himself for weeks. It’s never felt heavier.

The room is quiet, the air is still. They’re warm against each other, and everything is perfect. Max just said all of those things, so genuine and beautiful—an all-conquering truth. So.

Charles would shovel it down, really. He’d swallow it and let it burn his throat, sour his stomach. He’s been doing just that. But he’s too raw, too open. He feels bare in more ways than one. He feels like he’s standing in front of Max all those years ago, hoping he’d love him like he loved him — wishing he’d want the same thing he wanted. 

This silence is not one he basks in.

It burns. 

He can’t help it. 

“Are you going to ask me something?”

A beat. A shuffle.

Max pulls him in tighter.

“Not really. You’re the answer to everything.”

It should’ve been incredibly sweet, but it only squishes Charles’ heart. 

Not really.

Max falls asleep not long after. Charles can’t.

Maybe it’s selfish. This should be enough. This is enough. He’s always been too ambitious. He always wants more, more, more. But he wonders, ugly and bitter, if Max is ever going to choose this permanently. He wants a promise, he concludes. What he wants is a promise.

He wants Max to promise that all of this is true.

He can’t take it anymore — the anticipation, the hope, the waiting. The fear. 

And he’s not going to.

\ō͡≡o˞̶

Max is not a crazy person.

But he might become one soon if Charles doesn’t stop figuring him out every time he tries to propose. It’s driving him up the wall, and he doesn’t know what to do about it anymore.

They’re nearing the four-year mark now, they’ve been living together for quite some time, their families know, and they know each other, and he’s loved that man for longer than it feels rational to admit. 

None of those are reasons why he wants to propose.

One easy morning —the kind he’s gotten used to having— he was leaving for an early run.

The sun bled through the curtains and tinted the room a warm yellow. Charles was curled up on his side of the bed, sheets rumpled all around him. Sometimes it’s still a bit baffling to wake up and see this work of art peacefully sleeping by his side. He looked like an angel, perfectly made and delivered to him by some higher power that he managed to scam during one of his half-assed prayers.

Just so beautiful. Irrationally so. It made his heart swell.

He leaned over him to kiss him goodbye, short and tender; he didn’t mean to wake him. When he turned to walk away, he heard muted rustling and felt soft hands catching his thighs. 

“Don’t go,” Charles mumbled, more asleep than awake. His hands kept reaching out for him.

Max turned back to say something like, I’ll be back soon, go back to sleep, but he couldn’t do that. He was witnessing heaven. Half-lidded eyes in that impossible shade of green, carmine lips curving in a dry pout, tussled chocolate locks. All inching closer to him, trying to get him to stay.

That’s when Max knew.

He wanted to stay. Forever. He wanted to be by Charles’ side every hour of every day; he wanted his heart to live next to his; he wanted to breathe him in, have him mark and ruin every inch of his life; he wanted him forever.

It’s not that he didn’t know he loved him this much before. He’s had more than enough time to come to terms with the fact that he loves Charles more than he loves life itself.

But at that moment, it all made sense. It clicked. He can’t explain it. 

He decided then, as he kicked off his sneakers and climbed back into bed to squeeze all the air out of Charles’ lungs —to stay, because he can’t say no to him—, that he was going to marry that man. 

He wanted to marry him.

He started looking at rings the same day. Three days later, he was making calls and requesting custom-cut stones. Something classy, yet flashy, because he knows Charles well enough to know he’d want to wave it around and watch it bling in the sun. And, okay, you can call him old-fashioned, but there was something about spending ridiculous amounts of money on a big rock for his boyfriend that made him feel good. A proper romantic, which he’s never really been.

A week after that, he was flying to Paris to get it.

It was stunning. Sparkly and breathtaking, just like Charles. So it was perfect.

He didn’t start planning a proposal right away. He hid the box behind the safe in their closet and started testing the waters: brought up weddings and marriage a couple of times, talked about the future, studied Charles’ features for an unspoken answer. 

Charles seemed so happy to talk about it. About what kind of wedding they would like. About how his mom would go crazy over flower arrangements. About who would be on the guest list, and who wouldn’t be. He talked about it with conviction — not an if but a when.

It becomes obvious they both want forever. So it’s game on.

He plans the proposal.

Max knew from the very start that he wanted to do something special. He didn’t want to drop to one knee on a random afternoon. It had to be curated. Perfect. For Charles. 

He knows that Charles is a romantic at heart, and that he doesn’t say anything about Max’s shortcomings in that area because he loves him enough to ignore it. Because he’s the best man alive. 

It’s just hard for him to do these big gestures, but he’s very well aware that Charles deserves trucks filled with rose petals, marching bands, champagne, and sunsets. So he’s gotta try.

He also knew from the very start that he wanted to surprise him. Charles takes his breath away every day: when he wakes up, when he talks, when he breathes, when he exists. Max wanted to do that for him. Take his breath away. Woo him. Make him feel the smallest fraction of what he feels whenever those green eyes bless him with a glance.

Which is why it snowballs into a psychological shitshow.

The first time he tried, he consumed hours of cooking tutorials and planned a candlelight dinner. He cleaned up the place because he knows, though he hugely contributes to the mess, Charles likes it to look neat. 

He waited for Charles to get home with the candles lit and romantic music playing in the back. Christ, he was sweating buckets. His fingers wouldn’t stop trembling. He was going to do it — he was going to propose. They wined and dined, and Max was just about to blurt it all out when Charles excused himself to the bathroom.

Perfect, he thought. He’d have some time to breathe and get his shit together. Okay, yes, he pulled out his phone to play games while he waited. Sue him, he was nervous. He needed to relax if he was ever going to get those four words out of his mouth.

But then Charles came from the bathroom.

He looked— tidy. His teeth looked whiter than they did a few minutes before, his hair nicely collected. Max found it odd, but he paid it no mind until he looked down at his hands. Freshly washed. And moisturized. He kept fidgeting with his ring finger.

Fuck. He knows.

Abort, abort!

How did he even figure it out?

He wasn’t going to propose if Charles had already figured it out. It had to knock him off his feet. Make him feel like the most special man in the world. He saw the look in his eyes —bright, knowing— and threw in the towel. 

Not tonight, then.

It was okay. Completely fine. He could think bigger and better. Give that man the proposal he deserved.

It was harder than he’d anticipated it to be, because he found himself fighting the urge to throw himself on his knees at the most random times. Quiet mornings, loud nights — after training, during breakfast. He’d look at Charles for a second too long and get flooded with the need to beg him to stay by his side until forever falls apart.

So he knew he needed to strike fast.

It’s not too long before he moves again. 

Charles loves the beach, and he loves the city lights, so Max thought a walk down the coast would be as nice as it gets. He suggested a drive as casually as he could muster, but he knew he was toast when Charles carefully blinked at him and then asked if he needed to change.

Come on.

He still tried it — drove him out and held his hand and walked him down the soft sand. He spoke from his heart, told him how pretty he is, how he’s prettier than anything else out here, and how it was him and only him that made him feel at home. 

For a second, it seemed like Charles had let his guard down. An opening. He could close in and take it. 

Fuck, he was nervous.

It’s not like he thought Charles would say no, but it’s a big ask. 

Will you marry me? 

It feels so heavy behind his tongue. Will you be by my side in sickness and in health? Will you love and cherish me until death do us part? 

His hands tremble. He’s got the ring in his pocket.

“Can I ask you something?” His heart drums against his ribs.

He’s going to do it.

He’ll do it.

“You can ask me anything.”

Max stops walking.  

You can ask me anything? Seriously? 

He glances at Charles’ hands, once again perfectly manicured. He looks back up at him. At the stars in his eyes and the flush on his cheeks.

Fuck me. He knows.

They stare at each other. Max reaches up to brush his thumb against his cheekbone. He’s just so pretty. And annoying. He wants to eat him alive. That would certainly surprise him. 

Oh, but how he loves, loves, loves him.

That’s why he dips out at the last minute. It doesn’t feel right.

“Charles,” he whispers, very close to his lips. 

“Yeah?”

He scrambles for something else to say. It’s not very hard to come up with — this question is always on the back of his mind.

“How come you’re so pretty?”

Bust. 2-0. 

At least he managed to spend some time with him in one of his favorite places. Which was nice, but— he just wants to surprise Charles with a proposal. Is that really so crazy? To want to catch him off guard and see his face when he sees, in solid, the size of his affection?

He doesn’t think he’s crazy.

⋆.˚

Third time’s gotta be the charm.

He plans it out more meticulously than he’s planned anything else in his life. 

He calls this restaurant Charles loves and asks if he can book out an entire floor. They sound hesitant, but then they ask for his name, and it all flows smoothly from there. He asks about confidentiality, and he offers a fairly large tip to any staff willing to help them out and be discreet about anything they saw. Once that’s handled, he talks food. He makes sure they’d have everything Charles would like and asks if there’s anything special they could work out for dessert. They mention a special tiramisú the head chef likes to make for special guests, and it seals the deal.

He briefly considers doing one of those eccentric proposals people do in romcoms. Ring in the champagne glass or hidden in dessert —that kind of thing— but he ultimately decides against it for two reasons: he didn’t just acquire a custom ring with sourced stones to dip it in chocolate, and he wanted to be able to choose the right moment on his own.

It’s all settled. He just needs to ask Charles to go. And he needs to do it without much anticipation so that his pretty head doesn’t have much time to overthink it.

On Friday, Max asks if Charles wants to go to dinner at a nice restaurant. 

It’s six in the morning. He whispers in his ear once he hears him humming awake.

Charles tussles and reaches back for him, mumbles something that sounds like, what are you talking about? 

He needs to play it cool. Overly cool. Charles doesn’t need to think this is a big deal, and he certainly doesn’t need to know Max is nervous. Just one crack and he’d be selling himself down the river. 

He huffs, trying to sound unworried. Presses himself tighter against Charles. “I just thought it’d be nice.” He noses over the top of his curls.

God, his hair is so soft. Smells so nice.

“It would be nice,” he hums. “But, you know.”

Yeah, he knows. 

It’s hard. It’s hard to be out in public. It’s hard to feel like a normal couple when every step they take outside their home has to be calculated. He forgets about it more often than not — why would he ever want to be anywhere but curled up in bed with that man? It’s easy not to mind it most of the time. But it doesn’t mean it’s not tough.

He doesn’t really care about what people think, but much more than that is at stake. And it feels like, even though he tries to tell himself he doesn’t, Charles does care about that kind of thing. And he fully understands. 

They’ve talked about it. Some day, not far in the future, the time will be right.

None of that matters now, though. He took care of it.

“Well, I might’ve called…” He tests, slowly. “And reserved the top floor.”

The air seems to freeze for a second.

Charles suddenly sounds mildly scandalized. “Why would you do that?”

Please, please, please don’t figure it out.

He squirms behind him, pulling his arm from under Charles’ neck, and shifts until he’s looming over him. Offers him his best smug, nonchalant smile. The kind of smile he likes to shoot him when he wants to get his attention. “Should I not have done that?”

Charles looks him in the eye. “I mean– It’s not like– I’m just confused.” 

Fuck. Max knows this is not the kind of thing he does, but is it really so crazy? He needs to do better. So much better.

“Is it really that confusing that I want to do something nice for my boyfriend?”

Charles blinks. 

“Why would you even ask me if I want to go if you already booked it?” 

He’s caught. Shit. He hopes it’s not spelled out in his face. 

No. He’s not giving up now. He throws in his last chip.

“Do you not want to go?”

They’ve answered each other’s questions with questions twice in a row now.

Come on, come on, come on.

“Of course, I want to,” he breathes out. His cheeks are pink and puffy. “You’re lovely. Thank you.”

Fuck yeah. Victory.

He tries not to get in his head for what’s left of the day. He keeps calling the restaurant to make sure everything is in order. He fusses over what to wear: a full-out suit would be too formal, too telling, but Charles would probably say no if he proposed in a Red Bull polo. He settles somewhere in the middle. 

He doesn’t have to think too hard about what to say. That’s the easy part. If you left him by himself in a room and forced him to talk nonstop, it wouldn’t take over fifteen minutes for him to declare his undying love for Charles, and it wouldn’t be long after that before he made a very compelling argument on why they should get married.

He just has to get to it.

They go to dinner. It’s all going to plan. Everything is absolutely perfect. 

Charles looks so pretty in this light. Like he does in every light. He remembers the first time he ever saw him — this little prick in a kart that was almost too big for him, who was too fast and too pretty for his own good. He remembers the feeling in the pit of his stomach that he first categorized as hatred because he had no means to identify what it really was: a crush the size of Europe. 

That man blinks at him and the world falls apart. Those big, beautiful eyes. Max is so in love it hurts, but it’s pain he never wishes to ease. It’s a sharp reminder of just how lucky he is.

He can’t help himself. Throughout the whole dinner, he keeps telling Charles how amazing he is. How he’s the sun and the moon and the stars. How they belong together. 

Until Charles, Max never felt like he belonged anywhere other than the inside of a car. He didn’t understand what people meant when they talked about home. But then he kissed those patient lips on him, and he understood it all. He belongs with Charles. He belongs to Charles. 

It spills out in chunks between sips of champagne and bites of food. 

Charles looks happy. That’s what he loves to see. 

He holds his hand over the table. All the staff tending to them have been paid off, so there’s nothing to worry about. It’s so nice, and it’s so nice to think that some day they’ll be able to do this without bribing anyone, when it won’t matter if people take pictures of them.

Max finds himself choking up a little bit, so he clears his throat, awkwardly raises his glass, and tries to toast. Kind of. It almost feels like the perfect time. They’re about to bring dessert. The box feels dense in his pocket.

“Here’s to… Nice dinners and nights like these,” he stumbles. Oh, his hands are shaking. “To you. And to… a very long time during which we annoy each other.” He gets Charles to chuckle. “I love you.”

Charles gives him this devastating smile. It almost stops his heart on its tracks. God, that’s the love of his life right there. He’s going to ask him. He’s going to ask him right now.

But then.

He watches as Charles studies the glass like he’s looking for something. Drinks the champagne slowly, keeping his teeth pressed together. As if he thought he could choke on something.

Seriously? Seriously?

Are we fucking serious?

Max confirms that the man has gotten suspicious when he watches him fork at desert and push around the cream. He knows.

Again, he knows.

He curses himself. If he were more of a romantic, he could do this without raising any alarms, then catch him off-guard and watch his face light up in amazement and wonder. But no.

Why does he have to be so perceptive? Always one step ahead of him. Always. He always seems to know what he’s thinking about, what’s worrying him, where he wants to go, and what he wants to do. On and off track.

It’s completely maddening.

But it’s also one of the reasons why he’s so helplessly in love with him.

He considers doing it anyway. Popping the question even though it’d come as no surprise. For one second, he has to wonder if it would really matter that much. He loves him so much. He wants to be married to him, call him his husband, have kids with him, the big house, and the dog. The works.

And he’s delaying all of it because he wants to surprise him.

He does forget all about it. Briefly.

They’ve finished eating, and they’re about to leave, and Charles keeps fidgeting with his ring finger, and if it’s going to be tonight, it’s gotta be now.

“I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you.” He drops it on the table, bracing himself for the big question.

Charles Leclerc, will you marry me?

He looks into those green eyes he’d murder for. That shiny smile that has gotten him out of the gloom in his darkest days. That man — he completes him.

Charles deserves better. He deserves to be blown away.

Max backs down. Again.

Doesn’t add anything else.

Asks for the check, gets up, stretches a hand in Charles’ direction. He catches a puzzled look in his eyes, and he wonders for the first time if Charles is feeling weird about all this. 

He’s already asked Max if everything is okay a few times, and he’s been saying yes —everything’s okay, he doesn’t know what Charles is talking about— but maybe he’s not buying it. And he’s figured him out every time he’s tried. Hopefully, he just thinks he’s been getting it wrong. That he was never going to propose, and he just thought he did. 

Could that be driving him crazy?

When Charles takes his hand to get up, slightly shaken, it hits him. Not for himself or his plans, but for Charles: he has to move fast. 

Sure, tonight isn’t it. That’s okay.

But he’s gotta try again soon. Very soon.

At least they got a nice dinner out of it. 

3-0.

They go home.

He puts the ring back in its hiding spot. 

He makes Charles come as much as he can as a keen apology. Worships his thighs and hips and mouth. Then goes to sleep, trying to figure out what his final attempt should look like.

It occurs to him that maybe nothing is worthy of Charles like that.

⋆.˚

On Sunday night, Max goes to check on the ring — behind the safe. 

His heart jumps to his fucking throat when he finds a can of deodorant knocked over by the space between the steel and the wall. He almost spits it out when he realizes the bottle of cologne he’d been using to cover up the opening was in a completely different spot.

Did Charles find the fucking ring?

He desperately and blindly swats around for the box and almost passes out in relief when he finds it right where he left it. 

Holy fuck. It needs a new hiding spot. 

He’d initially put it there because they rarely touch the safe, let alone look behind it. Evidently, it wasn’t effective anymore if Charles had been that close to it. Max wouldn’t be able to deal with it if Charles found that box accidentally, before he created the perfect surprise proposal. 

Jesus Christ.

He sits with the box and takes a deep breath in.

Was it really that important for this to be a curated surprise? He could just pop the question any time; Charles would be surprised. Or he could propose, despite Charles’ suspicion. It’s not like people don’t do that. Don’t some girls suspect it so much that they get their nails and hair done? It wouldn’t be any less of a proposal.

Fuck.

He just wants to do it this way. He wants to make it big, and he wants it to be a surprise. Charles deserves so much better than a half-assed proposal on a random morning, and he deserves to be dazed by it. Stupefied. In the best way possible. 

Max loves him so much. So much. Even though they’ve been together for so long now, and they’ve tried to work on it, Max can’t ever shake this feeling of disbelief — unworthiness. Of Charles. He doesn’t know what he ever did to deserve him. And though that beautiful man has told him over and over again that he loves him, and that he needs him, and that he’s home to him too, he still feels like he has to make up for something.

All he wants to do is make Charles feel the way he makes him feel. 

Bewitched, bothered. Shocked and awestruck and impossibly happy.

So yes, it is that important.

That’s why he already has a new plan.

They both have the night off on Wednesday night. It’s perfect. He figured maybe the issue with all his past attempts was how drawn out they’d been. These long dinners, long walks on the beach: he’s been giving Charles enough time to figure it out.

For this one, he’s cutting to the chase.

He’s hired violinists. Seriously. He’s making up for all the romanticism he’s missed the past four years. He’s hired violinists who will walk into their living room after dinnertime and play Etta James’ “At Last”. Charles won’t even see it coming.

And when that happens, Max will get down on one knee and say what’s in his heart.

Quick. Meaningful. Bam. You just got proposed to.

It’s intimate, and it’s the kind of thing Charles discreetly swoons over. And there’s very little room for error. The plan is on. This has to be the one, both because he really wants to be engaged to Charles Leclerc and because he’s running out of ideas.

Game on.

⋆.˚

What the fuck.

Max wants to cry. A little bit. 

A lot.

First of all, when he got home and went to get the ring from its new hiding spot —behind the bed’s headboard— he found the mattress crooked and the fitted sheets slipping off of it. His stomach flipped. He was relieved to find the box still safely tucked where he left it, and disappointed to learn that he had to switch places. Again.

Fuck. Is Charles looking for it? 

It was a mildly horrifying thought. He pretended it was not a real concern. It would all be over when he got down on one knee and asked for his hand in marriage.

But fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, for fuck’s sake.

4-fucking-0.

He doesn’t even know how it happened. 

He took an afternoon nap after calling the violinists one last time and then woke up, ready to set it all in motion. Charles was making dinner in the kitchen, which was perfect. They were right on schedule. Max came up behind him, kissed his neck, wobbled side to side with his hands around his waist. Laughed into his collarbone.

He could taste the ‘yes.’

And then.

“My mom sent us a bottle of some fancy Italian grappa. Really wants to know what we think of it.” 

He smiles into his skin. Charles’ mom is so lovely. So warm. She took him in like another kid when Charles told her about them, and she’s always asking how he is, checking in with him after races, even if Charles did perfectly fine. She makes him feel like he belongs — like he belongs with Charles and to his world.

“Oh, that’s so nice of her,” he hums and slumps forward slightly, letting more of his weight rest against Charles. “We should have dinner with her soon. It’s been a while.”

Charles melts against him. “We should,” he shrugs. “Bottle’s over there,” he points to it with his chin. It sits on top of the kitchen island. “We should pop it open after dinner.”

Max freezes. His fingers tremble where they rest on Charles’ hips. 

Tonight?

Tonight?

“Tonight?” He babbles.

Charles drops the vegetables he just diced into a bowl with pasta.

“Yeah, that’s what I said,” he huffs. “You know, we both have the night off. No early morning meetings or shoots. I feel like we could both unwind a little.”

Max lets go of his waist and moves to stand next to him. 

No, no. No, no, no, no. This could jeopardize everything. He’s proposing tonight, he’s doing it. This is an external factor. He realizes it’s nothing too crazy, but it still stirs his stomach all the wrong ways. The plan is supposed to be foolproof.

“We could unwind?” He cocks an eyebrow at him, grasping at straws.

“You don’t feel like we could use that?” Charles briefly glances at him.

Well. Yes. He could totally use that. But Charles doesn’t need to know that. Simultaneously, and to his misery, he has no logical reason to decline the suggestion.  

“I mean… Sure.” He shrugs. “But I– uh,” he stumbles. He doesn’t know what to say. No, baby, we can’t get drunk because I will be proposing, and I want to be sober during that, isn’t really an option. 

“What? You have plans I don’t know about?” 

He’s doing the math in his head — maybe he can get the violinists to come in early and do it before they finish dinner, but that would feel rushed. He realizes, watching Charles’ stiff expression, that he’s been quiet for a bit too long.

“I just thought we’d have a chill night,” he finally muses.

“Jesus, Max,” he chuckles. “I’m not saying we’re having twenty people over and doing cocaine over the coffee table. It’s just a drink or two after dinner.” 

It does sound casual. And it is per Mama Leclerc’s request. 

He can work it out. None of this means he won’t be able to find the right time to do it. It’s not over yet. It’ll just take a little more elbow grease. That’s all. 

God, Charles looks so pretty. All scruffy and domestic, fixing them dinner. What the fuck is his life? If all he has to do for this to be his forever is think a little harder, then so be it. It doesn’t matter.

He kisses his left dimple. It’s his favorite, after the right one. 

“Alright. Sure. Sounds good.”

Well.

It could not have gone worse.

After dinner —when Charles put him on ice duty, and it became obvious that it wouldn’t be the right time— he called the violinists. Their new instructions were to stay on standby, and he would generously pay them for their time, of course. He made arrangements with the concierge for them to be let up, so basically, they’d be waiting right outside the door for Max’s signal.

What Max, stupidly, did not anticipate was that he’d actually get drunk.

What he, less stupidly, also did not anticipate was that he’d be ambushed. And that he’d ridiculously underestimated just how much this was all tolling on Charles.

“Is that why you’ve been acting weird?” 

It wasn’t the first time he’d implied something was wrong, but it’d never sounded that exasperated. It flew out of left field and hit him on the head. He tried to recover to the best of his abilities, but he just kept getting raided with questions. Requests. 

All he wanted to do was scream that he’s been trying to propose. That’s why he’s acting weird.

The look in Charles’ eyes flashes with distress and despair, and it’s making him feel nauseous. Or maybe that’s the grappa. Should he just pull out the ring and get it over with? 

He’s trying his best to keep up with all of this without ruining it for the both of them, so he drinks. 

He’s thinking about the violinists standing outside when he takes another big hit. “You know you can tell me anything.” Charles shuffles his knees — he’s completely facing Max. “Right?”

Fuck. “Yes, I know.” 

Charles sighs.

Max feels drunk. Heavily. It’s hard to speak, and the corners of his vision are blurring. His face feels warm. Charles stares and stares at him, and he’s getting a little annoyed. Why won’t he let him propose in peace? Why does he have to know him better than he knows himself? How much has he assumed already? How many stories and possibilities has that pretty head come up with? He’d like to kiss it all off. Or fuck it all off.

Who knows. He loves his boyfriend. So much.

He doesn’t mean to speak again — it just comes out.

“Is there something you want me to tell you?” 

Do you want me to propose? Do you want me to get on my knees and beg for it? Have you figured me out completely? What’s on your mind?

“I– I just want you to be honest with me.”

Honesty.

That’s all he’s been trying to do. Be honest. But he can’t just yet.

The right moment feels further and further away.

“I love you,” he blurts, because it’s easy. “That’s honest.”

Charles exhales through his nose. Drinks. “Well, I know that.” 

Wow. Okay.

That stings.

Max doesn’t know what to do with that. He doesn’t take it to heart — Charles couldn’t have meant it like that. But it’s still ugly. The box in his pocket feels like it weighs a million pounds. 

Charles keeps going at it, clearly trying to get something out of him, and he’s getting overly nervous. Between a rock and a hard place is where he’s at. Ruin the surprise and one of the most beautiful moments in their lives, or keep watching him bitterly try to figure it out.

It starts to feel like an argument. Charles accuses him of deflecting. He deflects further. By laughing. It’s not his brightest moment.

“I’m deflecting,” he huffs. He’s also getting bitter.

“Yes.”

“I just told you I love you.” 

“And I said I know. That’s not new information, Max.”

Ouch.

Charles apologizes almost immediately, softening. Opens up. Says he’s worried. The last thing that Max wants is for him to be worried. They’re closing in on each other. He smells nice. Charles always smells nice. If either of them leaned in another inch, their noses would bump.

“You’re overthinking things.”

God, he’s so pretty. That’s gotta be illegal or something. He can’t hurt his feelings and then just look at him like that. He’s never going to win an argument with that man, is he? He’s just going to give in, every single time, devoured by the beast inside those doll eyes. They’re going to be sixty, arguing about shit that doesn’t matter, and he’s still gonna fall to his knees and bow his head for him, and he’ll do it with a smile on his face.

Oh, to grow old with him.

It’s a pretty thought.

To fuck him until they’re both gray. Also a pretty thought.

It’s also annoying that he holds the power to flip his stomach this quickly, but it’s not annoying enough to overpower that very flip.

“What is it that you assume is going on? That pretty head of yours must’ve come up with something.” He’s teasing, but he also wants to know. Maybe he’s thinking of something worse. Some people think their partners are cheating when they suddenly get romantic. Is that it?

“Nothing, Max. I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.” He licks his lips. “But you’re suddenly quiet, and then you’re taking me on big fancy dinners, and I don’t understand.”

“You don’t understand?”

He wants him, he wants him, he wants him. He wants him to feel good and to know just how much he means to Max. He’s everything. His life is nothing if those eyes aren’t by his side. He takes a soft hold of his jaw. He doesn’t know if he’s drunker on grappa or on Charles.

“I just love you, Charles.” He feels a little loopy. “And I keep–,” trying to propose. “I just want you to know how much I love you.” He lets his thumb wander down to the column of his throat. “How much I want you. How pretty you are. How you’re everything to me.” None of it is a lie.

Charles leans into the touch, and it feels like surrender. He plays with Max. Teases. Fuck. He can’t help but tell him how he’s the prettiest thing in the world. 

He then accuses Max of deflecting again.

It’s almost funny. 

“Just because you won’t say what you really mean,” he licks back. 

They’re almost on each other now. Heat exudes from Charles’ body like he’s made for nothing else — it’s getting Max down and stupid very quickly.

“That’s pretty rich,” Charles presses in closer, “coming from you.”

He lets out a quiet, rough laugh. “Not fair.”

Charles’ gaze flickers down to his lips. “You’re not fair.”

Max’s brain turns into warm mush. Useless. Overridden and overtaken by this pull. This need for touch, and skin, and bones. Hunger. It ties a knot on his lower stomach and controls his every move. Suddenly, the proposal means nothing because he needs to be inside that man. Yesterday. And fuck the violinists if they heard everything through the door. 

It feels so easy.

Max squeezes his neck softly. “Am I not?”

“Mm,” Charles hums, a sweet, silky sound. 

And then he’s kissing him, and Max is complete.

And then they’re pressing together so tightly that Max is basically choking him, and Charles doesn’t care. Max can feel his breathing get shallow against his lips, along with his tongue and teeth, but Charles doesn’t move away. Presses in tighter. And tighter. Charles would let him choke him to death, and the thought breaks something in his brain — as if Charles hasn’t ruined him enough.

But he’d like him alive, so he takes his hand away from his neck and runs it up into his hair. Buries his fingers there. Tugs.  

Charles moans, and it hits like lightning through his spine. Before he knows it, he’s got him on his lap and everything in the world is right. He sinks his hands into his sides because they belong nowhere else. Charles is by no means a small man, so it always leaves him stupid how easily and perfectly he fits atop his thighs.

Heat rises and rises — like it always does. 

Max is drunk, Charles is drunk, and they’re breathing each other in like it would fix everything. It could. It should. Max can only think of how his heart rate has learned to match Charles’ whenever they’re together. How perfectly they fit together.

Everyone knows it. Really, it’s a shame they’ll never race for the same team. 

The perfect fit. 

Max thinks that’s only true because Charles is perfect. Perfect in so many ways. The perfect driver, the perfect boyfriend, the perfect Charles. Even now, when he’s spoiling his proposal, he’s perfect. Even when he gives him that look that says he’s figured out Max’s intentions, he’s perfect. Even when he’s making it impossible to ask for his hand in marriage — perfect. 

Max pulls away from the kiss, smiling like an idiot, because he wanted to take a good look at Charles’ face. Drowns in those eyes.

“God,” he sighs. “You’re lovely. Even when you’re a pain in my ass, you’re so fucking lovely.” I want you to marry me, Charles. I wish you’d let me ask you. But if it were any different, you wouldn’t be the man I fell in love with. “I want you forever, did you know that? No one else does me like this, no one else in the world can keep up. And you’re always one step ahead of me. It’s annoying. But I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Max’s chest feels like an open wound, bleeding for Charles. He tugs him in close until they’re flush against each other. God, this isn’t nearly enough. He can feel Charles’ skin buzzing underneath his fingers, his warmth against his chest, his shaky thighs around his waist. 

He wants to fuck him.

No proposal tonight, it seems. And the violinists can go fuck themselves. Maybe he can ask him to marry him while he thrusts deep inside him. The best thing about sex with Charles is that, finally, there’s not one inch of space between them. He gets to live inside of Charles, the way his heart is always begging him to.

Charles grinds against him. Max groans. 

Fuck.

He’d be more than willing to get lost in all of this. Honest to god. He was far too intoxicated to actually care about his ripped-up plans, even though it would sting in the morning. He’d be perfectly happy to sink into him. 

But then Charles’ hands are at his waistband, and he remembers.

The ring. The ring in his pocket.

Crap.

He panics. 

Crap. Crap, crap, crap.

If he gets his pants off, that box is going to go flying out.

Abort.

He doesn’t know what to say to fix this —there’s nothing he could ever say to decline this man’s touch— but he has to do something. Quick. “Charles– Wait.”

Charles stills. Stiffens under his touch. He looks at him like he’s gone mad, and it’s completely understandable. The atmosphere cracks in half, and nothing is fun anymore.

“Wait,” he repeats.

“What?”

Max pulls away a couple of inches. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. With any of this. He’s losing his mind. He can’t come up with an excuse. He wants to touch him, and he wants to fuck him, but he’s stuck. There are diamonds in his pocket, and he’s stuck. 

Charles looks like he’s just been slapped across the face.

He clearly needs to give him something.

“I– Um– Just. Hang on.”

Charles takes his hands off him. “Hang on for what?” He barks.

“I just– need a second.”

“For what?”

He can’t say. He can’t say anything, really. Maybe if he were a little less drunk, he’d be able to come up with something, a proper excuse, but he’s blanking. He’s nervous, and he’s scared. And Charles keeps waiting for something.

“Max.” It sounds like a plea. It rots low in Max’s gut.

Just when he’s about to bullshit his way through it–

Phone. 

He doesn’t know if it’s saving him or putting him deeper in the ground. What he does know is that he has to get up. He just stares at Charles blankly, like that would fix anything. It clearly doesn’t.

He moves.

“Sorry.”

To his further disarray, it was the violinists. They’re probably wondering if the plan is still on, considering how long it’s been. God, he feels so bad. Guilty. Not for them — for Charles. He looks so shaken. This is the last thing he could’ve wanted.

“Hello?” He feels nauseous. He’s regretting that last drink.

“We’re so sorry to call, Max. We just wanted to know if everything’s alright.” The man’s accent rasped through the line. “We texted, but–”

“Yeah. No, I–” He looks at his boyfriend and realizes he can’t really have this conversation here and now. “I know,” he says, lower now. “Just– Give me a minute.”

He hangs up. He figures he should tell them to leave — thank them for their time and pay them regardless. He’s spiraling because everything is twisting out of his control, and he hates it, and he’s drunk, and he’s trying to hold onto whatever he can.

He needs a minute.

“I need to–” He stumbles. “Bathroom. I’ll be right back. I’m– sorry.”

And so he bolts.

Once he’s off the phone with the musicians, has wired the money, and has hidden the ring behind the vanity beneath the sink, he stares at himself in the mirror. 

This is pathetic.

Charles must be so fucking confused. It’s all a mess now, and he knows the night is ruined. He knows he fucked up. He knows he just put on a shitshow, and he needs to fix it. He just wants to propose. It never occurred to him that it could be so hard, considering how easy it is to love that man. It just feels like he can’t do anything right.

He’s not expecting anything nice when he walks back to the living room to apologize. Dead air hits him on the face when he shuffles back to the scene of the crime. He apologizes, lies, apologizes again, and retreats. He tells Charles he loves him and sighs a breath of relief when he says it back, despite it all.

He feels like a dog licking his wounds when his head hits the pillow. 

That’s it.

His next attempt has to be the last one, or he’s going to lose his mind. And he gets the feeling Charles will, too. The bottom line is he wants to marry that man with every fiber of his being, and they both need to stop getting in the way of it.

What is special enough, yet casual enough, for him to stage the most wonderful proposal without Charles noticing?

The question makes his head hurt until he falls asleep.

The answer came along after the morning had washed it all away — after he’d woken up Charles with kisses, breakfast, and apologies. After he’d sucked him off until he was coming dry into his mouth. After he’d seen that lax, blissed-out expression on his face. 

The yacht.

Of course.

Why didn’t he think of that before?

⋆.˚

Max is going to ask him.

The sun is setting, the ocean breeze is delicious against their skin, the waves swirl around them, and they’re alone, together, amidst it all. He’s there with the love of his life, and his heart is just begging to be soldered to Charles’.

It’s all gone to plan, and this is it.

Despite his tongue being a little nervous, he’s just said all of these things to Charles — these things he thinks about late at night when he maps out the future and sees nothing but glossy green eyes.

Do you see yourself living like this forever? Yes, here. Monte Carlo. Our place. With me.

The question is a product of something small and scared inside his brain; one last check to see if Charles does want this life. If he won’t get bored with this, if he won’t feel the need to run.

Pretty pink cheeks answer him. “Yeah. I mean, we could move,” he chuckles, “but I… don’t see another life for me.” 

Warmth spills inside Max’s chest. He has no words. His eyes water. How did he ever manage to roam this earth without that man by his side? He’d rip his lungs out and throw them on a silver platter if Charles ever asked for them. 

Charles doesn’t see another life for himself that’s not beside Max. 

That’s everything.

“Do you?”

He tells him. He tells him he sees change in the future, but all of it would need to happen next to him. He tells him he wants the house. The kids. The life. He tells him he expects them to be married at some point, hoping he can’t tell how soon he means it, because he can’t stop it as it leaves his lips.

He goes on about media, about market prices, about how tangible it all is.

The sun starts to die, washing them both with blinding orange.

It’s perfect. It’s the proposal Charles deserves.

He looks at Charles. This gorgeous thing. This angel sent from heavens above to give his life meaning. His symbol of victory, his reminder to breathe. This man, who makes everything brighter and better. His mark to beat. His drive to win. The sun, the moon, the stars. The air he breathes.

For fuck’s sake, he’s never loved anyone or anything this much. 

It used to scare him.

It used to kill him.

But not anymore. It’s just natural for him to love Charles. To love with everything he is, because he owes who he is to him. He knows he didn’t exactly let it show like that the first few years they were together, but since his heart understood that its only mission in this world was to beat for him, he’s known that everything he does —and everything he’ll ever do— is for Charles.

He looks divine like this. Cuddling against him, salt air brushing his hair back, his eyes reflecting the light. He’s never wanted to be married so badly. 

He’s devoted. At his mercy. He figures he must be sporting a truly stupid look, and his pupils must be bulging out of his eyes. But he doesn’t care. He’s looking at Charles, and Charles is looking back.

He’s going to do it. 

Now. 

The question tickles his tongue, and he’s just making sure he’ll get it right. Four easy words. So many implications. Will you be my family forever? Will you stay by my side? Will you promise to love me the way I love you?

No, that’s stupid. No one could ever love anything the way Max loves Charles. And that includes Charles.

The words are millimeters behind his lips.

But then Charles reaches up to kiss him. 

It’s too perfect for him to actually mind it. He drinks him in and tastes him, wondering if he’ll taste different once he’s wearing his last name. This. Forever. Is all he wants. The question keeps buzzing on his lips, and he’s waiting for a breathing break to blurt it out. 

And.

Charles bites his lip before he pulls away. 

“I have to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

“Are you okay?”

Why? Why on god’s name?

That was the moment. The fucking moment. Can Charles stop spoiling his own fucking proposals? Please?

“Yes,” he breathes out. “Just a minute.”

He doesn’t turn to look at Max as he ducks below deck.

Max is almost pissed off. There couldn’t possibly have been a better time. He pats his pocket for the box — sturdy and expensive. Shit.

Well. There’s still time. He can still do it. He can still surprise him.

Charles comes back with a smile plastered on his face, climbs into his lap, and licks into his mouth. God, it’s like drugs. He’s about to do it again, the words perfectly rehearsed. It’s still perfect, despite the sun being mostly gone. 

He touches Charles’ hands. 

Which.

Have been washed. And moisturized. He rubs over Charles’ thumb — soft and smooth.

If he hadn’t been under the hypnotizing effects of Charles’ lips, he would’ve cursed out loud. For the fifth fucking time now — he knows. He figured it out and went to the bathroom to give himself an express manicure. As if he would care about that kind of thing. 

He briefly considers throwing the ring into the ocean and then following suit.

Fuck.

He doesn’t stop kissing him, because he’d have to be insane to do that. They kiss, and they kiss, and they kiss. It’s lovely. Max wants to get under his skin. Why does he have to be so good and perfect at everything? So fucking perceptive. It only makes him want to swallow him whole.

They kiss for so long that they’re left completely in the dark. Only then does Max get up to go turn on the deck lights. He comes right back and jumps over Charles.

It gets sloppy. Max briefly imagines that Charles doesn’t know anything, and he can still ask him. And surprise him. He looks into his eyes. And drowns.

“I can’t believe you’re real. Did you know that?” He sputters into Charles’ mouth, his lips working faster than his brain. “You’re… Everything. I wake up next to you, and I simply don’t buy it.” He squeezes his hands. Maybe he can do it. Now. Right now. God, his heart hurts. “I keep waiting for the day you feel real, but you’re–... Every time you look at me, it’s just– It’s something else. Will you keep looking at me? For the rest of my life?”

“I love to look at you.” 

Max kisses him again. And he can taste it. He knows.

That’s why he bails and suggests they get home. He can see that it’s throwing Charles off, and maybe it’s perfect. Maybe he can propose when they’re back home. He certainly wouldn’t expect that after all this, would he? So he steers them home and pretends he doesn’t notice Charles seems disappointed.

If he got lucky, this could be the perfect diversion. Perfect fake-out.

He watches Charles’s brows knit together on the drive back; he watches him get quiet and small. He feels bad, so he squeezes his knee and asks if he’s okay. Doesn’t push any further when he says he’s tired. 

They’re home, and Charles basically jumps out of the car. It puzzles him a bit, but it gives him the exact time to get the ring out of his shorts and into the pocket of a jacket he found on the backseat, just in case. Slings it over his shoulder, trying to look casual. Charles doesn’t seem to notice. 

They make their way up. 

Very briefly, he considers proposing in the elevator.

But then he’s touching Charles —his hands always gravitating towards him—, and then he’s warming up. Their noses bump together, and his lips are spilling it all out again. Sunshine, he calls him. Peace. All this honesty has been getting him drunk. And then his hands are on Charles’ sides, and he falls slave to that body he knows so damn well. 

“Your body is what’s ridiculous.”

A fire lights in the pit of his stomach as the words leave his mouth.

They play their little game of cat and mouse — push, pull. Charles asks him to say what he likes about his body, and he’s perfectly happy to comply. This pretty thing likes to be praised, and it only makes sense: he should be praised all the time.

So he touches him, talks about his waist, his curves, his skin, his moles, every dip and every corner. His thighs, his stomach. How it flutters when he comes. It’s no surprise that they’re against the wall as soon as they walk in the door. He tosses the jacket aside. 

He’s so addicted to Charles. If scientists studied his brain, they’d find similar patterns to addiction when it comes to his boyfriend, soon-to-be fiancé. 

He loves him. He loves him like a sailor loves the ocean, like a fish loves water, like the moon loves the Earth, and the Earth loves the sun. There’s a million reasons he’d like to be married to Charles Leclerc, but if you were to bare him — strip him and leave him with nothing but his heart in his hands, he’d have to say all he wants is to be part of him. Breathe by his side forever. Know this skin and claim it.

He knows this body so well.

He wants everything with him. He wants to fuck him, knowing he belongs to him, forever. So he spreads him open on the floor, singing praises to his body every chance he gets. He tells him. Tells him how he feels perfect, how he’s the only one for him, how he’s soft and hard, and how he wants him so bad — how he’d burn down cities and slash through countries just to touch him here, and here, and there.

Charles begs him to fuck him right there on the floor, and he has absolutely no reason to protest.

He pushes in, slow and deep, and there’s a special kind of burn in his lungs. Desperate adoration. The need for more, for promises, and big houses, and married sex. He angles himself just the way Charles likes it, melts in the tightness and warmth. 

Charles scratches his nails down his back, and he wonders how deranged it would be to get the evidence tattooed. He hopes he draws blood, so he can live under Charles’ fingernails too. 

It’s too much, for once. It’s too much. The thought that this could be forever overwhelms him. Fuck. He is just too pretty. Too good. He’ll never deserve him, not entirely. But he’s there, on the floor of the place they share, buried deep inside this paradise of a body, and he wants to marry it, and he feels so good and–

He spills inside him, sobbing into the hollow of his neck.

“Mine, mine, mine, mine,” he mutters against his collarbone. Utterly lost. Gone.

Please, marry me.

As soon as he’s back in his body, he takes Charles by the haunches and carries him to their bedroom. Their bedroom, with assigned sides of the bed. 

He worships him.

He doesn’t fuck him again, because he no longer cares about himself. He studies that body again —as if he doesn’t have it memorized and burned under his fingers and retina— and does everything he can to please him. Kisses him all over. He’s tender with him. Doesn’t bruise. 

He kisses his tears away. Fingers him, sucks him off, and holds him as he comes.

All this love.

It’s insane.

It’s all love. Four letters and a lifetime of technicolor.

Max kisses him and kisses him and bites back the question over and over again — it’s dying to get out and wrap around Charles’ finger.

Once they’re both clean, they slump together, trying to catch their breath. 

Max doesn’t understand people who cheat. Maybe it’s because he has Charles Leclerc panting by his side, but every time they have sex, it’s like paradise opening all over again. It’s never routine. He’d never feel the need for more — Charles’ face crumpled in pleasure, his flushed cheeks and thighs.

God. 

Marry me, marry me, marry me.

He might actually ask him tonight, after all. 

He makes stupid conversation about people who get bored of sex. Charles follows it. They chuckle and quip about it, but Max feels like there’s a stampede of words and questions bumbling in his throat, only held back by the swell of his tongue.

And when Charles asks him. 

“What am I, then?” 

He can’t hold it back anymore. He knows the ring is sprawled somewhere on the living room floor, along with the jacket, but it doesn’t matter anymore. He just wants to be married to him. He wants to be the best husband — promise that he’ll always live by his side and will do anything to stay there.

It comes out.  

“You’re perfect,” he trembles. “You’re perfect, you’re beautiful. You’re funny, and thoughtful, and kind. And you’re strong. Determined. You beat my ass all the time. I don’t know how to keep up with you.” 

Trying to keep up with Charles is what taught him to be a man. 

“You’re smart, and you’re talented. Good at so many things,” he keeps on going. He thinks about everything that man has given him, about all of his own shortcomings, every bit of exorbitant patience he’s been on the undeserved receiving end of. How much pain he made Charles feel on those early, shaky days, and how Charles never gave up on him. His chest tightens. “And you put up with me. You’ve put up with me for years. With all my bullshit. I know what I’ve put you through, and I’m sorry, and I’m so grateful that you never gave up on me. On us.” 

Max feels tears burning the backs of his eyes, but it’s okay.

“You’re the best person I’ve ever met. I don’t know who I’d be without you. You amaze me. Every day since I first met you, you’ve amazed me. You’ve pushed me. You’re a symbol of everything I wanted to become.” Max doesn’t think he admires or respects anyone in the world the way he does Charles. “I’m so fucking proud of you. Everything you’ve been through and everything you’ve accomplished– It doesn’t make sense. You don’t make sense. You’re… everything. You’re everything to me, Charles. Did you know that? You’re the love of my life.”

He’s going to ask. 

He’s going to do it.

Charles throws himself at him, pulling him into a crushing hug. It takes Max’s breath away, and it pushes tears out of his eyes, but he’s more than happy with it. He feels whole.

“I love you so much,” Charles mumbles. His voice trembles. “You’re the love of my life, too.”

Max takes a deep breath, his nose pressed to Charles’ skin, his arms wrapped around his waist. He’s conjuring up the question. It’s a little harder than he thought it’d be. It doesn’t spill out like everything else. He’s trying to get the courage to beg him for this life that he’s built for them inside his head.

Will you marry me? 

Will you marry me?

Will you marry me?

Will you make me the happiest man alive and marry me? Will you wear my ring and let me call you my husband until we’re both old and gray?

Will you–

“Are you going to ask me something?”

Charles’ pretty voice punches him out of his head. 

For a moment, Max wonders if perhaps he’s dating a telepath. Why, oh, why can he read his mind? Is he inside his head? Does he just know him front to back, the way he knows himself? Is he ever going to let him propose?

What does he have to do to surprise him? Jump out of a cake? A plane?

He wishes he could be mad about it. But he just can’t. His heart is too full.

It’s a bit sobering. Maybe this isn’t exactly the best time. Declarations after sex don’t usually stick, do they? 

Fuck. He’ll just have to think about it a little more.

5-0, Verstappen. Not too good.

Maybe he’ll just get him tomorrow morning. Whip up breakfast. Something simple, and a marry me on the side. He takes a deep breath. All he needs is this. Him. Charles. Nothing else matters. He’ll do it. They have time. 

He pulls Charles in tighter.

With all the love he has to give.

“Not really. You’re the answer to everything.”

\ō͡≡o˞̶

Charles wakes up on Sunday with a knot in his throat and a bitter gut.

He barely managed to sleep, which is never the case with Max glued to his side. His skin crawls. It all feels wrong. There’s this space in his chest —between his lungs and his heart— that feels hollow. Empty. 

And he’s so tired of trying to rationalize this feeling.

Ok.

He wants a ring. 

And why shouldn’t he get it?

He’s a good boyfriend. A great boyfriend. He’s attentive, and he listens, and he doesn’t push too much on fights that don’t matter. He’s cool. He’s cool about everything. Maybe just not about the future, and that’s not his fucking fault.

He’s so tired of wondering, and he’s tired of waiting. Maybe four years is a long time to have been dating before getting engaged. At this point, he doesn’t know how long he’s going to be able to keep it down, but he’s also decided he doesn’t even want to. 

After all this, the options are pretty narrow. 

Max has either done something he’s trying to make up for, or he’s decided he’s never going to actually propose and has started conditioning Charles for that reality. And Charles isn’t okay with either of those.

The sheets rustle when Max snuggles closer to him, his blonde hair tickling Charles’ chin. He’s always so warm in the morning, and he’s always reaching out for Charles, like a kid reaching for a blankie. And he always looks so peaceful.

Ugh.

He sighs and tucks him in closer. 

Here’s the thing: Charles doesn’t need to be okay with those options. He loves Max too much. Max could turn to him one day and tell him he’s decided to be a serial killer, and —though he’d need a couple of hours to sit with it— he’d start looking up tutorials on how to clean up crime scenes. He’d stay by that man’s side even if it killed him.

A more realistic, and therefore scarier, hypothetical creeps up his spine as Max fusses by his side. But his resolution is just as clear. If Max were cheating on him, he’d forgive him. He knows it’s toxic, and he knows he’d hate himself for it, but he would — and he would stay. But he doesn’t like to be treated like he’s stupid, because he’s not.

So he’d like to be told. And he’d like an apology.

The same way he’d like to be told if Max was just playing around, and had no intention of getting married any time soon. 

It all dances on the tip of his tongue, itching. 

Max shifts again next to him, mumbling words he doesn’t understand, and it’s painfully endearing for the situation they’re in. Judging by his breathing, he’s about to wake up. 

Charles would love to continue being cool and patient. 

Really. It’d be so nice to shove it all back in a box and pretend the idea of marriage never even crossed his mind. But he can’t. He won’t. He loves Max too much for that. Ironically, it’s the same reason why he’ll often bite his tongue. 

“Morning, baby,” Max mumbles against his shoulder. 

His voice is rough with sleep, and it almost makes Charles forget about everything, but then he shuffles to look into those impossibly blue eyes, still bleary and tired, and then his heart gets scared with the possibility of not having a future with them. He was going to wait until Max was more awake, but.

“How’d you slee–”

“Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Max’s head twitches like a confused cat’s ears. He blinks tightly.

“What?” He sounds very lost, and it’s fair.

But the ball is rolling already, and he’s been holding it back for too long. 

He clears his throat. His mouth feels very dry. “Is there something you’re not telling me?” He repeats himself, his own voice a little gravelly.

Max blinks again and props himself up on one elbow, inching away from Charles so he can properly look at him. “Why?” 

Charles briefly fights the urge to punch him. Mostly because he looks this groggy and careless, while he’s a mess. It’s not fair. Also, after everything that’s gone down in the past week, it’s offensive that he would ask that.

He tries not to let it show, but there’s a sourness in his voice. “Max.” 

It’s a demand.

Max curls an eyebrow at him. It does nothing to ease his worries. “No,” he answers sternly, but Charles knows him too well, and he knows it’s too early for him to manage a convincing lie. “What would I not be telling you?”

Now Charles feels a little insane — it’s not like Wednesday disappeared just because they had a nice couple of days, right? His chest feels tight. He sits up a little, sheets pooling around his waist. Max does the same.

“Max. Do I seriously need to do this again?” He hates that it sounded a little bit like he wanted to cry, even if that was true. 

The air is still for a moment. Charles watches Max’s Adam’s apple bob.

“What do you mean?” 

Charles feels his left eye twitch.

Max sounds like he’s feigning lunacy. Which is going to drive him into actual lunacy.

“Max.”

His reply is hurried — too fast and too high-pitched. “I’m not hiding anything.” 

This man really is testing him. Good lord.

Fucking okay.

“Okay,” he grinds through his teeth, because he’s either too angry or too sad or too in love, and he doesn’t want to know.

Max tilts his head to the side and fully sits up, his legs sliding to the edge of the bed. “Can you say that with a little more conviction?”

Oh. Wow.

Charles’s chest bubbles with something unknown. He then actually laughs, because it’s really that stupid. He can’t help it. It’s all ridiculous. What kind of fucking question is that? He knows it’s hard for Max to catch on to certain nuances, but this is just — it’s stupid. Borderline amusing.

But Max doesn’t seem amused whatsoever. Okay, then it’s not funny for anyone. 

He drops his smile. Gives him the face he always gives him when he wants to let him know he’s upset. “I don’t think so.”

Max huffs. Looks at him like a lost little lamb. Jackass. Then swings his legs off the bed and reaches for a pair of shorts.

“I’m making coffee.”

Yeah. Sure, Max. Go make coffee. Go make coffee and keep avoiding this. Keep avoiding me when I ask you perfectly reasonable questions. Go make coffee and think about your next big idea, think about us, and think about whether it’s fair to me that you keep offering me a future and then doing nothing about it, you fucking idiot.

Charles watches him go and tries not to feel like his heart is walking out the door.

He doesn’t have the ability to soothe himself anymore — can’t tell himself that, objectively, nothing is wrong. He’s too gone for that. He’s been doing his best, but. Fuck. Fuck Max, and fuck him, and fuck his crazy heart.

He stares at the ceiling like it’ll help.

It doesn’t.

Thoughts pile up behind his lips like vomit, and he needs to get them out. He can’t keep chewing them over. His legs bounce under the sheets. The smell of fresh coffee hits his nose. Max finally learned how to properly use a Moka a couple of months ago, and it’s been really nice. 

Forever rings in his ears, and then Charles’ legs are moving faster than he’s thinking. 

Boxers. Slippers. Door. Kitchen.

He feels possessed. Even more so when he can’t control what comes out of his mouth. But it’s all too real, and too much, and he wants a ring he can wave around and be obnoxious about, and he wants to go gray with Max, and he wants him to stop being such a fucking puzzle and just talk to him, and just — promise. He wants him to be honest. He needs to know. 

He’s barely made it into the kitchen when he spits it out.

“Okay. Okay.” Charles walks in with his hands out. “Did you do something?”

Max is standing in front of the counter in nothing but his shorts, and he startles. Drops a spoon he was holding. “What?” He sounds genuinely thrown and scared, his cheeks still rosy with sleep, but Charles has no time for any of that.

“I’m trying to understand why you’re acting the way you’re acting.” It’s all going from heart to mouth — no filter through the brain. To the brain’s credit, it’s been working overtime. Very tired.

He can feel it coming up. Something he can’t take back. Something too honest and too raw, something Max could pull away for. He thinks maybe he can still turn back, but then Max answers him with annoying ignorance.

“How?” The man turns to his side and leans his hip against the counter.

Charles is scared. And frustrated. He understands those people now. He understands those girls movies mock for thinking they’re going to get proposed to at every turn. He feels that ice-cold panic he knows all too well running down his spine.

“Okay. Don’t tell me. Can I just ask you a question?” He steps forward, closer to Max, and grips the edge of the counter: he’s bracing for impact.

“Sure.”

It explodes.

“Are you ever actually going to commit to this on a higher level, or are we going to spend the next decade dancing around each other the way we’ve done for the last decade?” 

He didn’t know that’s how it was going to come out, but it did, and it was out there, and it felt like sandpaper and soap on his tongue. But he can’t even overthink it or pay it any mind, because now his throat is closing up, and his eyes are burning. His nose stings. He rubs it and looks at the floor. “Because I can do it. I will. I love you. So much.” 

He doesn’t say it, some instinct of self-preservation still kicking in, but he’d be a casual thing or just a friend before he ever dared to be nothing. That, however, doesn’t mean he wouldn’t part with all of his bones and all of his blood to be everything. 

He looks back up at Max with glassy eyes — he’s so worked up, he can’t even start to read Max’s expression. “But I want to fucking know if when you talk about the future you actually mean it, or if you’re just saying what you think I want to–”

He hears a soft knock on the table.

Max just slapped something on top of it.

It throws him off-track, like front-wing damage.

He studies Max’s face more carefully now that he’s not in the middle of vomiting words. He looks… defeated. But also extremely endeared. He’s wearing a trembling pout that threatens to turn into a smirk. 

Charles doesn’t understand. 

But then he looks down. Max takes his hand away.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh my god.

Oh.

Oh.

Putain de bordel de merde.

It’s a box.

It’s a blue box. It’s a velvety blue box. On the counter.

He feels like he could fall on his ass — the scale of it all is just ridiculous.

“—hear,” he weakly finishes, because it’s all his brain can sputter now. 

This is — well. Now he feels even more stupid. But his heart is racing so fast, his ears are ringing, and his chest feels like it’s been filled with butterflies. His stomach twists. His fingers tremble. He doesn’t know what to do. What to say. He just stares at it like it’s a bomb.

He looks back at Max. At the love of his fucking life. At this man who has taught him what it means to be happy and what it means to be safe, who has held his hand through the worst of it and kissed him through the best of it, this man who’s been driving him crazy with all these gestures, with the idea of a proposal. And now he’s standing in front of him, tall and broad and beautiful, sparkly blue eyes and a wobbly smile.

Oh my god. Max is going to propose.

It was real.

Charles opens his mouth and closes it again. Silence stretches thinly, but luckily, he doesn’t have to wait much longer. Max sighs, glances at the floor and then back up at Charles.

“I can’t surprise you,” he sighs, shrugging. “It doesn’t matter how hard I try. You know me too well. Surprise.”

His eyes look glassy, and his cheeks tint a pretty pink — he looks young and nervous, the way he did the first time they kissed, just as perfect. Charles wants to cry and say yes already. But he waits. He’s been patient, right? He can be for a few more minutes.

“I can’t surprise you,” he repeats. “It’s annoying. Do you have any idea how annoying it is?” While he does sound mildly annoyed, asphyxiating fondness bleeds out of his eyes. “You know me too well. You know me better than I know myself. You know what I’m going to do before I do it, and you still give me time to figure it out.” His voice is soft, and kind, and sweet. And honest.

Charles takes a step forward.

Max copies him. 

“That, Charles, is one of the million and one reasons why I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” He sniffles. Charles thinks he can almost hear his heartbeat, even though they’re a couple of feet apart. “You’re everything good. To me, you’re everything good,” his lips tremble. His eyes water. “And even if you weren’t, even if you were mean and terrible, I’d still love you, because you’re you, and I– I can’t contemplate a universe in which I don’t love you. So.” He reaches his hand back for the box and slides it forward, towards Charles. “I give up. Have you been looking for this? I’ve had to change hiding spots three times.”

It’s ridiculous.

Ridiculous how deeply Charles adores that man.

So ridiculous, he chuckles through the happy knot in his throat.

“Max Emilian. Are you serious?” He looks down at the box, then back up. “All those times. Were you actually trying to–?”

“Yes,” he cuts him off, watery and wobbly. But he’s smiling. “You just kept. Knowing.” He taps the box with hearts in his eyes. “Don’t you know nobody likes a know-it-all?”

Charles’ eyes water. He sighs back a sob. “You like me. You love me.”

It’s a tease, and it’s a bite, but it seems to hit Max hard on the chest. He bites his lip hard and steps even closer to Charles, like the distance on its own hurts. 

“I do.” Max offers a wide smile, then looks down like he’s trying not to cry. Clears his throat. “Like crazy, Charles. I know I tell you all the time, but you seriously don’t have any idea. The shit I would do for you,” a sob escapes his lips, and it all but melts Charles’ heart. “I don’t think– I don’t think love can even encompass what I feel for you.” Tears run down his cheeks, and his chest trembles. “Fuck.” 

He almost seems annoyed that he can’t fight the tears back at all, but Charles doesn’t mind it, because he’s about to break too. And Max looks so beautiful like this — open, and honest, and in love with him.

“I really wanted to surprise you because I wanted it to sweep you off your feet.” His cheeks and lips are turning red. His voice breaks, and he rubs at his eyes like a baby. “I wanted to see your pretty face light up when I pulled out the ring. I wanted to see if I could make you feel even a… a fraction of what you make me feel every time you blink.” He can barely finish that sentence. “Fuck, what’s wrong with me?” He croaks, tears choking him.

Max really is not a crier. Charles is. Max’s eyes will water, and he’ll get choked up, but he doesn’t cry like this. Charles wants to jump into his arms and sob with him, and —holy fuck— they’re getting engaged.

Charles sniffles. Guilt flickers in his chest. Max had been trying so hard, and he’d been so laser-focused on figuring it out, that he’d lost sight of the simplest answer. “This is surprising,” he shrugs, as if he were trying to play it cool, but it’s stupid because his eyes are red and tears are staining his cheekbones. “You’ve surprised me. Congrats.” He wipes away at his eyes.

He loves this man. He loves him more than anything else. He’s the sun he runs to and for, and the reason why. Dumb Max. He doesn’t need to surprise him to make him feel loved and worshiped — he never did, and he never will. All he has to do is look at him with those blue eyes of his. 

“God, Max. Don’t you know every time I go to sleep next to you, I’m scared I’m going to wake up four years ago, alone and wanting you? With all this love in my arms?” He sobs. His eyes are burning, but his cheeks do too. From smiling so much. “You make me feel it all. I’m a little tired of you thinking you love me more than I love you.”

Max’s answer comes quickly, like a bullet.

“I do.”

He sounds so sure. And that’s everything, isn’t it?

Charles feels a little light-headed when he speaks again, the corners of his lips salty with tears. “Then you must love me a whole fucking lot.”

The look in Max’s eyes tells him everything he needs to know. This sky blue fantasy in all its prettiest shades — a flame he’s dreamed about for longer than he can remember. 

He thinks back to all of their firsts: first kisses, first I love yous, first trips, and first fucks. Their first time dancing clumsily in the kitchen. The first time Max gave him a key to his place. The first time they told someone else they were in love. The first time they held hands. The first time they looked at apartments together. The first time Max made him breakfast. Their first date. The first time they went to bed together just to sleep. 

Through it all, Charles has always known his answer.

They stare at each other for as long as they need to, tears wetting their lashes. It’s silly, how it all came down to be. Charles chuckles and scrunches his nose. It could’ve been so easy, like everything else is. They got in their own way. Max must be thinking the same thing, because he laughs too. Or maybe he’s just mirroring Charles.

Whatever it is, it feels right.

Max leans forward and pushes the box closer to Charles’ hand. It’s like a silent ‘here’. 

That won’t do.

Charles slides it back to him.

“Ask me, then.” His voice is airy and frail, but it’s loud enough in the open space.

Max’s eyes light up. A big, toothy grin spreads across his face.

It’s happening, for real now. And it’s not a romantic escapade, it’s not a big dinner, or the beach, or a yacht. It’s just them, in this life that they built together. It’s perfect.

Max stands up straight and takes the box in his hands. Turns it to the side methodically. He looks up at him with puffy eyes and bitten red lips. He’s glowing. He’s glowing the way he does after winning a championship. In a way, he’s winning it all.

Charles feels like a winner, too. His heart is about to bust out of his chest.

“Charles Marc Hervé Perc–”

Wait.

“On your knees!”

Oh, sue him. 

Max’s eyes widen, but he just laughs and looks at him like he’s hung the moon. God, Charles loves him so fucking much. The man sinks down to one knee, and suddenly everything is that much more real.

Holy shit.

He looks up at him and sniffles once more. His right hand positions over the box so he can pry it open. “May I, now?” He asks, out the corner of his mouth. His teeth sparkle as he does.

“You may.” It doesn’t matter if it sounds like a sob.

Max takes a deep breath. 

“Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc, you have changed my life. You are my life. I don’t see myself at home anywhere else. I don’t think I would be who I am today without you. You are part of me. I hope I am part of you.” He pauses, his hands trembling, and the corners of his mouth twitching.

Charles’ heart feels so fucking full. He can’t help the sob that breaks out of him, but he wants to let Max finish, so he covers his mouth with a fist.

Max gives him a tight-lipped smile and starts to crack open the box. “I am who I am because I love you, Charles. Would you make me the happiest man alive?” He reaches up for Charles’ hand.

He waits for it. Max squeezes his hand, and he squeezes back.

The box pops open and something blings very bright in the morning light, but not brighter than Max’s eyes, so he doesn’t pay it any mind.

“Would you marry me?”

Charles has been meaning to answer that question for so long. God, yes. Max’s pupils are blown wide, but the thin blue line of his irises still sparkles. Like a starry night. 

He sobs into his fist. He doesn’t remember being this happy since he was first certain that Max loved him back. 

“Yes.” The world seems to dissolve around them. “Of course. Of course, I will marry you.”

Max melts. He gets this look in his eyes that Charles has never witnessed — lovely and warm and full. 

Charles watches him try to hold back a sob and fail, watches him drop his head down so he can try to wipe away his tears with the shoulder of his sleeve, watches him look back up with the most beautiful smile he has ever seen. 

Watches the love of his life love him right back.

Max lets go of him to get the ring with trembling hands, but he never stops looking at him. Charles feels like he’s about to have a heart attack when the coolness starts to slide down his ring finger, a perfect weight that was always meant to be there.

Those lovely shaky hands are still on him when he decides to drop to the floor. He can’t take it anymore. It’s too much, it’s been too long, and this is too perfect. And he loves Max way too much. He loves him more than anything he’s ever loved. He loves him more than the blood that runs inside his veins, and he loves him more than the Maranello sun.

And he’s going to marry him.

He knocks his knees on the floor and lunges forward to kiss him, hoping they will once and for all fuse together. Max’s hands curl around his waist and squeeze like he could disappear.

Charles is not going to disappear. They’d have to kill him to rip him from Max’s side — pull him apart bone by bone.

They smack their lips together, and it’s like a promise. That promise Charles has been wanting all along, dreaming of. An unspoken forever. 

He’s so happy. Happy, happy, happy. 

Happy tears roll down his cheeks and mix with Max’s. It makes the kiss salty, but it doesn’t matter. In reality, nothing else could matter. Charles can breathe again.

There was nothing wrong with Max, with him, or with them. He was just trying to propose. He was trying to give him this beautiful thing he couldn’t admit to himself he wanted, let alone needed. 

At the end of the day, the issue was that they knew each other too well. They can read each other like a book, every detail of one another tattooed under their skin. Isn’t that a wonderful issue?

Their knees brush together on the floor.

It’s hard for Charles to register anything: he’s up in the clouds, high on life and Max Verstappen — his forever drug of choice. But he can feel his broad chest pumping up and down against his own with sniffles of relief, and it grounds him.

He doesn’t want to stop kissing him, but he also wants to look at Max’s face, so he pulls back: puffy eyes, blotchy red cheeks, and a winning smile. 

“God,” Charles mumbles. “Is this real?” He caresses the side of Max’s damp face with his right hand, his thumb lingering on his cheekbone.

“Very real,” he breathes out. Like a breath he’s been holding on to for weeks.

Charles pecks him on the lips again, then on the tip of his nose. He feels like exploding with joy. Or doing a happy dance. Or running to the bedroom and calling his mom, and his brothers, and Pierre.

He brings his other hand to Max’s face, and he’s almost blinded by the bling. It’s crazy how little it mattered in the end — after spending all that time obsessing over the ring, it was the last thing on his mind once Max dropped to one knee.

Now, however, it’s shining right in his face and.

Fuck. 

Christ. 

It’s the first time he’s getting a proper look at it.

His jaw drops. He sits back on his heels.

It’s absolutely gorgeous. The rock is ridiculously huge, and it’s not alone. Custom-cut stones line the sides. The band is thick and… is that rhodium on platinum? Silver finishes all around. Holy fucking shit.

“Max Emilian,” he utters, taking his hand away from his face to get a better look. “This is… Max. Holy fuck.” He can’t get his eyes off it.

“D’you like it?” Max chuckles, his voice a little hoarse from holding back tears — pretty smile still plastered on his face.

Charles can only blink.

“It’s– It’s huge.” He realizes he never actually thought about what kind of ring Max would get him. He pictured it around his finger, snug and shiny, but he never thought about the details, the cut, the size. If he ever did, he didn’t picture this. “Jesus Christ, how much did you spend on this?”

Max shuffles closer to him and offers a playful pout. “Not my question. Also, you’re not supposed to ask that.”

Charles wiggles his finger. “How many carats?” 

He’s not trying to be superficial; he’s just genuinely stupefied. 

Max’s face comes into focus when he leans forward, his cheek almost brushing against his thumb. “Charlie,” he sighs, amusedly. Bewitched. But there’s a request in those big, ocean eyes.

Charles blinks one more time. Takes a deep breath. 

This man has gone through the troubles of figuring out his ring size, getting it custom-made —he knows this isn’t something you find on a window—, hiding it, carrying it around, and hoping Charles would like it. All of that, along with clearly spending stupid money on it. And it’s perfect: classy, gorgeous.

He’d marry Max with a blue raspberry ring pop, but this is…

More than ever, he wants to rip his heart out and hand it to Max.

“I love it,” he softens, breaking out of the astonishment and drowning in this thick, syrupy sea of adoration. He puts his hand back in Max’s face, touching the ring to his cheekbone. Looks into his eyes. “It’s lovely. It’s perfect.” He leans forward so their foreheads knock together. “Thank you.”

Max closes his eyes and relaxes into his touch. “Amazing,” he whispers.

“Thank you, thank you,” he whispers back, because he doesn’t have better words to thank him for what he’s just given him. “I’m sorry I made it so difficult.” He starts to try and climb into Max’s lap.

“You wouldn’t be the man I love if it’d been any different,” he chuckles into the hollow of his neck, hoisting him up by the waist to help him up. “It was silly of me to expect otherwise.”

Charles throws his arms around Max’s neck. “A little bit. I was silly, too.” 

“No,” he noses along the line of his clavicle. “You’re perfect.”

Perfect.

Perfect. Home. Forever.

Charles wishes he could live in this moment for the rest of his life. Max’s arms tighten around his waist, and all he wants to do is disappear into him. Into his fiancé. Into his heart and his guts. Into the pink of his throat and the bottom of his spine.

He hooks his chin over Max’s shoulder and stretches out his left hand. He already knows he’s going to love looking at it. The ring catches the light from every angle, and it sparkles on the cabinets. It’s so stupidly pretty. 

“No, really. How much?” He breathes the question against the shell of Max’s ear.

Max snickers and shakes his head. “I’m not telling you that.” He hooks his thumbs under the elastic of Charles’ boxers. “Can’t you just appreciate how pretty it is?”

“It is very pretty.”

“It had to be pretty enough for you to wear it. So, you know. Extremely.”

Charles pulls back, sliding his hands down the sides of Max’s neck, then pulls him in for another kiss. “I thought you would never ask me, you know?” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Max catches his lips again and softly bites him. “That’s my fault,” he mouths against him. His hands come up to cover Charles’ over his own neck. His lips come closer to seal the space. 

Charles can feel those long fingers reaching for the ring, touching it, pressing it against his knuckles, maybe trying to convince himself that this is all actually real. The metal is cool against their warm skin, and it feels so heavy — true and solid and good.

He feels Max’s hands grow warmer, his skin thrumming with either overwhelming relief or deathly anticipation, but it tastes good all the same. They kiss, and their tongues brush together, and it feels old and new and borrowed and blue.

“We’re getting married,” Charles blurts into the mess, because it sounds insane.

Max pulls back and looks at him like he just said he’s Jesus Christ incarnate. Charles feels a little crazy because who else in the world would ever look at him like that? — like he’s the best thing to ever exist. 

The man stares a little longer, then digs his finger deeper into his skin. He sighs, sounding utterly gone. “Holy shit,” he shakes his head and dives in again.

The kiss turns terribly hungry. 

Charles squeezes the sides of Max’s neck, and Max holds his hands there, brushing the pads of his fingers over the rock every so often. They’re skin to skin, chest to chest, and their hearts beat against each other the way they’ve always been meant to.

The kitchen floor tiles are cold, but they can’t even notice: the warmth exuding from their skin is enough to survive ten winters and a day. 

One of Max’s hands gently snakes down to the small of Charles’s back, soft and delicate as it grazes the base of his neck and the line of his spine. It makes Charles shiver, and he’s wondering about married sex again. Would engaged sex be any different? Those long fingers toy with the elastic of his boxers again.

He grinds down on Max’s lap and rips a groan out of him. His hands drift lower.

“You’re all mine now,” Max whispers against the shell of his ear. “All mine.” 

Charles is suddenly very annoyed by the fact that Max is still wearing shorts. He slowly runs his hands down to the drawstrings on the front, ring dragging against ridges of toned muscle — fuck. 

“I’ve always been all yours, Max,” he heaves, pulling at the fabric. 

Max purrs against his skin, digging his fingers into the supple muscle below Charles’ waistline. “Is that right?”

Charles hums in response, curling his fingers on Max’s waistband. “As if you didn’t know. I’ve been all yours ever since you decided you wanted me to be.”

A choked-out noise bounces against Charles’ neck. “It’s better now, though. Now people are going to know you’re all mine. They’ll take one look at the bling,” he presses on Charles’ ring finger. “And know you’re well taken care of.”

It’s all climbing up Charles’ spine and into his brain at a ridiculous speed, a wave of heat —the heat of belonging— knocking him square. Fuck. He’s Max’s fiancé. He’s going to be Max’s husband. 

Max wants him to be his husband.

Fuck, he’s hard.

He tugs at Max’s shorts one last time, unsuccessfully, and whimpers. Pouts. “Please take these off.” He doesn’t have enough of a mind to work it out. He wants Max, here and now.

Luckily for him, Max wastes no time: he chuckles as he lifts his hips off the ground and struggles to get rid of the fabric without breaking apart from Charles. He manages, somehow, and chucks them away. He’s already half-hard, thick and heavy between his thighs. 

Charles squeezes Max’s sides, his thumbs digging into his V-line, and hopes the outline of the ring will leave a mark on his skin. He rocks forward again, the nylon of his boxers rubbing on Max’s bare skin. It’s electrifying. 

“I’m your fiancé,” he licks over Max’s shoulder. It still sounds unreal.

“Yeah,” Max practically moans. He tugs on the elastic of Charles’ underwear.

A shaky breath. Charles can barely manage. Can you die of love? It feels like he’s going to die of love. He needs more of Max, all of him, every inch of his skin and bones.

“Will you fuck your fiancé?”

Max makes a noise like a wounded animal. Pulls down the boxers in one go, low enough to lay him bare.

“Yes. Please.”

They were always going to end up here. Like this.

Max carefully pumps him one, two, three times — pushes his thumb down over the head. It makes him huff and squirm.

Charles gets up on his knees to fully slink out of his boxers, but Max doesn’t stop touching him. Not for one second. He touches and touches. That greedy blue-eyed monster that he wants to live inside of. He reaches for Charles’ left hand and squeezes, the rhodium warming up against their skin.

Their lips are crashing together as soon as he sits back down. His cock brushes against Max’s stomach, and it’s driving him nuts. It all is. Max bites him, hard. He’s been so gentle lately, so it feels like heaven when he sinks his teeth into his lower lip. He hopes it’ll bruise.

Max sucks on his tongue, pulls him closer, and mumbles. “Can’t wait to be married,” he pushes in between heavy breaths. “So I can wear a ring, too. So I can wear you, too.”

Charles moans into the kiss, his hips rutting forward. “Fuck.”

“Are you going to keep your name as is?” He grunts, pushing his hips up. His cock slides against the swell of Charles’ ass.

It’s so unbearably hot in this kitchen.

Charles slides his hands up Max’s bare back and into his nape. Grabs a handful of hair — digs his nails into his scalp. “Gonna hyphenate the fuck out of it. I wanna see your last name next to mine all the time. I’m gonna make them put it on all the fucking screens.”

“Shit,” Max drops his head forward, half a moan stuck in his throat. “Come here.” He hikes him up and slaps each hand on one side of his ass. “You wanna have my last name?”

“Charles Leclerc-Verstappen.” 

“That’s so fucking hot.”

“Will you hyphenate yours?”

“I’d fucking take yours.”

Charles whimpers into Max’s mouth. It’s so surreal. 

It’s all he’s wanted — it comes with such a relief, and such a hunger. He slaps his hands on each side of Max’s face, pushes his knuckles in. Draws him closer, trying to swallow him. He spreads his thighs further apart, the way he knows to do for this position, and licks up the roof of Max’s mouth.

“Fuck me,” he begs.

Max nods like an eager puppy. His fingers dance closer and closer to his entrance, but he seems to remember something, because he pauses. “Want me to go get lube?” He mouths into Charles’ jawline.

That’d be nice, but there’s no fucking time for that right now. Just like last night.

“No,” he sighs shakily. His hands squeeze Max’s cheeks — his fiancé’s cheeks. Fuck. “Don’t go. Just… Just make do. Just fuck me.”

“You sure?” He drags his teeth along tight skin.

“Yes,” he pushes forward, sliding his palm down so the ring brushes against the corner of Max’s mouth. The man shivers.

It’s not something they haven’t done before. You date for four years and — sure, you learn to carry pocket lube, but it’s not always plausible. So you make do. And they had sex last night, so it shouldn’t be too much of a hassle.

Max swears under his breath and spits into his hand without pulling away, warm and quick, like muscle memory. It makes Charles’ cock twitch. There’s also something visceral and raw deep in his gut that likes the idea of Max fucking him open with nothing in the way. Just him, just spit, just Max. 

He drops his forehead into Max’s shoulder when he feels two wet, warm fingers circling him, soft pads pushing against the muscle. Mumbles against the skin. “Fuck.” He throws his arms around Max’s back.

They’re engaged and about to fuck. Holy shit.

Max only toys around for another minute or so before he pushes his fingers in, careful yet eager. Charles tenses for half a second, then melts. It might be because Charles’s brain is flooded with oxytocin and dopamine, but the stretch is barely uncomfortable. The movement isn’t slick or smooth, but Max knows his body so devastatingly well — he knows when to push, when to stop, when to pull back, how to curl.

He sighs and sobs into Max’s shoulder as he works him open, his thighs trembling at Max’s sides. His mind is growing fuzzy: he’s high on every nice chemical his brain can offer, too happy, too relieved, too satisfied, too excited, and too in love. It’s hard to focus on anything but Max’s fingers and the heavy rock on his left hand.

“Is that okay?” Max breathes out. Charles can feel him rock hard underneath him.

“Yeah,” he cries. “Yeah, baby.”

“Fuck, you’re so pretty.” He twists his fingers a certain way, and it makes Charles yelp. “My pretty, pretty fiancé.”

Charles could’ve died. 

Instead, he grinds down on Max’s fingers as he whimpers into his skin. Holds on to him like there’s nothing else tethering him to this planet. His body submits to it — the stretch, the pressure, the warmth. 

He groans when he feels Max pull his fingers out after a bit, his insides mourning the loss, but it washes down quite quickly when he leans back to look at Max and finds him spitting on his hand again, glassy-eyed and flushed. It’s downright obscene, and he adores it.

“Sorry,” Max mumbles. “Don’t wanna hurt–”

Charles shuts him up with a heady kiss, needy and breathless. Max takes it as his cue to keep going. The slide is much easier this time. Charles mewls into his mouth when he feels him inside again, his fingers deeper and wetter.

“Merde, merde,” he moans into the kiss. “Max, please.”

“More?”

“Please.”

Max seems to hesitate, but it’s all gone half a second later, when he’s curling his index and his middle into Charles’ prostate and pushing sparks out of his eyes. 

He trembles on top of Max, digging his fingernails into the spread of his back. “Fuck, yes,” he whimpers. “Mmh– Si bon.”

Max repeats the motion over and over, until his lower abdomen is clenching and he’s painting clear lines of pre across his skin. His hips rut down to meet the rhythm. Everything blurs — hot and foggy. He doesn’t want to wait much longer. He reckons he’s been patient enough for one lifetime. 

He licks Max’s lips and pulls back to plead. It’s extremely hard, however, since Max won’t stop working that wonderful spot the way only he knows how to. He can barely find his thoughts, let alone his words. All he knows is he needs his fiancé to fuck him.

“Max,” he tries through a breathless moan. “M-Max. Max.” He squeezes his bicep. “Max. Je... je vais– Mmrf–” Max pulls back and shoves back in, right into the spot. Charles feels like he might pass out. His vision goes white at the edges. “Je suis– prête pour toi.” His brain can only spit out his thoughts the way they pop up. “Je ne peux pas– Oh– Mhmm– j'ai besoin. P-Putain. S'il te plaît, baise-moi.”

Max twists his fingers again. Leans forward to bite the side of Charles’ jaw.

“Tu veux que je te baise déjà? Tu n'as pas besoin de plus de temps?”

Charles whines.

They’ve been practicing Max’s French so he can stop embarrassing himself around Monaco. It was perfect. And so filthy. Heat pools in the pit of his stomach, thick and scorching. He grinds down again.

Maybe someday, if Max gets fluent enough, he’ll be able to tell him everything he feels for him unfiltered — without translating it first, just the way he feels it in his heart of hearts.

For now, he’d settle for getting screwed senseless until all he can remember is that they’re engaged.

“Non.” He drags his nails down Max’s arm, trying to catch his breath. “J'en veux plus. J'ai besoin que tu… J'ai besoin que mon fiancé me baise.”

It seems to take a second for it to click in Max’s head, but once it does, he’s smiling like a drunk man. He leans in to kiss him again, sucks on his lower lip, bites his tongue. He slowly draws his fingers back, making Charles squirm, and places both hands on his waist.

“Fuck,” he groans, squeezing the supple skin. “Whatever you want. Tout ce que tu veux.”

Charles chokes on his own spit when Max hoists him up to angle him correctly. He lets go,  lets Max handle him like a doll. That man is so hungry, yet so careful. It’s a stupidly powerful drug. He pushes off his knees to help.

“Like this?” Max grunts, already taking a hold of himself. “You want me like this?”

“Don’t care. Need you.”

It’s that simple.

Max reaches up to kiss him. Bites his lip so hard it bleeds. Charles loves it. Loves it, loves him. He feels one of his hands running up his side, his shoulder, his neck, until his palm is pressed underneath his chin.

“Spit.”

His cock throbs as he helplessly obeys, slathering Max’s palm in makeshift lube.

“So good for me, my fiancé,” Max coos, and it seems like he’s high on the same thing Charles is. He reaches back down for himself, coating his length with spit and precum, and hums with the heat of it all. He guides the tip of his cock so he’s pressed against the ring of muscle. “Can I? Please?”

And in the midst of it all, he’s still sweet and thoughtful and kind, and no one else in the world gets this version of Max. Only him.

“Yes. Yes, baby. Please,” he manages between hums and heaves. 

Max takes a death grip on Charles’ hipbones as he pushes up, and he angles him the right way.

Now he’s feeling it. It’s a bit too much. It’s always like that with no lube and rushed prep, and he’d usually tell Max to wait, to stop for a second, to still. But now, for some reason, he can’t care. He just wants more and more of him. He pushes down to meet him, looking into his beautiful eyes.

Max looks a little bewildered, like he’s confused but also touching stars. He kisses Charles’ left dimple. “Charles. Not too much?” He breathes out through a tight throat and trembling thighs. Like he’s dying to buck up.

There’s something maddening about being spread open on Max’s cock, his walls still tense around him, a hint of pain underneath it all, and this all-consuming heat that’s cooking him from the inside out. It’s hard to breathe, and it’s hard to think. He knocks his forehead against Max’s.

“Mmmh– I’m– fuck. M’ okay. S’okay,” he melts.

“You’re so tight,” Max moans, squeezing his eyes shut. He digs his thumbs into Charles’ sides. “Feels insane.”

Charles pants less than an inch away from Max’s mouth, hot breath mixing together. He slaps a hand over the side of Max’s neck, pressing the ring band into his pulse point, and it makes them both go stupid. 

“Move,” he whimpers, pushing his hips down. “Move. Fuck me. Fuck your fiancé.” He presses his hand firmly against Max’s throat.

Max comes undone. He sobs against Charles’ lips and holds him steady as he thrusts up, hard and deep. Pressure builds and builds at the pit of Charles’ stomach as he bucks once, twice, three times, until it settles into an addictive rhythm. It punches the air out of his lungs — he has to slump forward to take it.

Big hands settle over his waist and help him bounce up and down, meeting every rut. 

“Fuck, fuck, comme ça. Mmph- ahm–” 

“Yeah? Ah- fuck- Like that?

“Mhm-! Comme ça!”

Max squeezes his middle, rounds his palms around his ribcage, and presses one firmly on his lower stomach. Pulls him closer. Angles his hips a certain way. Aims.

“Fuck!” Charles drags his nails down Max’s neck. “Fu-uck! There! Oh my– fuck.”

“My– Oh, shit, schatje. Mmngh-” Max’s hands tremble. “You’re so perfect. You feel amazing. I can’t believe you’re going to– Ngh- Ah- You’re going to marry me.”

Charles throws out his right hand and slams it against the nearest cabinet, trying to gain enough leverage to meet him. He rolls his hips down as he presses his ring finger against Max’s collarbone, hard enough to bruise.

“You– You make me feel so good,” he cries. His knee slips to the side, but Max is right on it, gripping his thigh and keeping him in place. “I love you so much. I’ve never loved anyone or anything like I love you– my fucking god.” He slams his palm against the cabinet again when Max thrusts up higher. “Of course I’m going to marry you. I was always going to marry you.”

“Fuck, Charlie,” Max tilts his head forward so they can kiss again. It’s such a mess — pants, teeth, moans, spit, and uneven breathing. But they kiss nonetheless, however they can. They kiss until there’s spit running down their chins, they kiss until they’re blue in the lips. 

They don’t stop kissing as Charles pushes on Max’s chest, driving him off his knees and into the cabinet wall for support. Max gets the memo. He doesn’t pull out. They shuffle together until Max has his back pressed against the kitchen island, his legs forward and bent, and Charles is straddling him. 

Max whimpers when Charles fully sinks down again, now helped by precum, and he thrusts up into him with all he’s got. He squeezes his glutes, now that he doesn’t have to hold him for balance. Pinches. Slaps. 

Charles loves it. 

His cock twitches, leaking against Max’s stomach.

It’s a little while in the new position before Max starts hitting his prostate, but when he does, deep and scorching, it rips a scream right out of him. Max kisses it off his lips. 

Charles holds on to the counter like a lifeline, helping himself up and down. Max’s hands touch him all over — his back, his ass, his stomach, his arms, his neck. He feels kept. Owned. In the best way possible. 

He starts to get close, and by the look on Max’s face, he’s been close for a while: that twitch of his eyebrows, the way he’s squeezing his eyes shut. He’s holding on. Waiting for him. He slams his hips down again. Runs his left hand up Max’s chest and presses his palm against the base of his neck, choking him just a bit. The ring catches the light, slick with sweat. 

His hand, on Max’s neck, wearing his ring. 

What the fuck is his life?

“I’m yours,” he whines, squeezing Max’s neck. “And you’re mine.”

Max smiles with his eyes closed and his eyebrows curled up. He reaches down for Charles’ cock, wraps his fingers around the base, pumps. Charles’ hips buckle forward. “You’re mine,” he groans in between pants. “And I’m yours. Forever.”

Forever.

Forever.

Max seems perfectly content with his hand around his neck: his mouth hangs open with a smile, drool running down the corner of his mouth, his cheeks flushed, choked-out moans and whimpers mixing with Charles’. He keeps rutting his hips up, hitting the spot over and over.

Charles is incredibly close.

It all rises inside his body — the heat, the pressure, the relief, the overwhelming love, how much it means to him, how he’s got his promise of forever wrapped around his finger. Max pressed deep inside him, a reminder that it’s all real. His hand around his shaft.

“Forever,” he whispers after a drawn-out string of moans.

Max opens his eyes and looks right at him, past his eyes and into his soul. Or at least that’s how it feels like. And he looks so in love. He looks just as complete as he feels. Watery and glassy, he blinks at him and the world falls apart. 

Max knows him, inside and out, every inch of his mind and body, and he loves him. Those pupils sing poems of love and devotion, and Charles doesn’t know what or who he would be if he hadn’t found them. 

He’s just about to tip over when Max wraps one hand around Charles’ left wrist, the one on his neck, and stretches out his fingers to touch the ring. 

“Forever,” Max repeats — just one shaky breath.

Then, he presses his thumb against the tip of Charles’ length.

He’s done for. 

He presses himself to Max so he can kiss him and screams into his mouth as he comes, painting Max’s palm and both their stomachs. His muscles clench and convulse, shooting off electricity into his spine, and he holds on to Max through it all. 

Max keeps rutting his hips up, and Charles doesn’t stop him. He lets him push his tongue against his as the rhythm turns into a violent staccato — until his voice turns higher and his thighs start convulsing.

Charles can feel him spurt inside him, warm and thick, and he can’t think of anywhere else in the world he’d like to be in. He feels airy and safe and gone.

He melts on top of Max once they stop moving, his arms dropping to his sides. He nuzzles into the space between his neck and shoulder and breathes him in — hints of his body wash, the detergent they use for their sheets, sweat, salt, and coffee. He’d like to bottle it up and take it everywhere with him.

He can hear Max’s heartbeat against his own, his skin thrumming with heat and static, his breathing shaky and slow. One of his hands is still wrapped around his wrist, and the other one rests on the side of his hip, drawing circles with his thumb. 

It feels like he can finally breathe. Max must be feeling a similar thing.

They stay there, boneless, like jelly, no rush to come back to the real world. They’re so high, way up in the skies, beyond the clouds, the birds, the stars. The smell of breakfast still lingers in the air. It smells like home.

It hits Charles that this might be what home smells like to him. 

He’s getting married. To Max. 

Fuck. 

It’s a couple of minutes before anyone says anything. Charles is completely overwhelmed and exhausted and elated and astounded — his bones feel like they’re made of cotton candy. He’d like to disappear and melt onto Max’s skin. 

He’s attempting to do just that —pressing his face against the hollow of his neck, resting all his weight forward— when he feels Max’s chest start to rumble. He then hears little hushed breaths, soft huffs.

Oh. He’s chuckling.

He’d lean back to look at him, but he’s just so comfortable. “What’s funny?” He mumbles against his skin.

Max tries to take a deep breath, but he ends up chuckling again. “Holy shit, Charles. We’re really engaged.”

Well, yeah. Holy shit.

The need to look at his fiancé grows bigger than the comfort of his skin. He pulls back, balancing himself by putting his hands on Max’s shoulders. His heart does a flip-flop when he sees him: he’s wearing a bright smile, his eyes are watery, and he looks relieved. Happy. Peaceful, in a way, he’s only seen him look when he sleeps.

They did it. Four years, and they’re here. Together, alive, complete, and engaged.

He runs his hands up to Max’s cheeks. He doesn’t have the words to speak what’s in his heart anymore. It becomes obvious when he opens his mouth to try it, and all that comes out is a soft sigh. He smiles. Squeezes that perfect face.

“Holy shit,” he chuckles, too, and pulls him in for another kiss. This one is sweet. Chaste. Tranquil. A victory kiss, if you may. Max kisses him back gladly.

After all that, all he had to do was wait.

He runs his right thumb over Max’s cheekbone and presses his left ring finger against his jaw. Leans back to look at him. Everything feels perfect in this morning light.

“We’re getting married,” Charles whispers.

“Yeah.”

“That’s crazy.”

“I know.” He wraps his arms around Charles’ waist.

Charles shuffles on his knees, trying to get more comfortable, and it becomes apparent it’s time for Max to pull out. He squints at him; Max offers an apologetic look, still smiling. He pecks Charles on the nose and slowly drags himself out. 

Charles winces — Max rubs his hip to soothe him. It’s okay.

They slump back together.

“Do you think married sex will feel different?”

Charles blinks, baffled. “I’ve been thinking about exactly that.”

Max playfully rolls his eyes. “Still one step ahead, I see.”

“You bet,” he draws his left hand towards himself to take a better look at the ring. Fuck, it really is gorgeous. He’s got to find out how much Max spent. “But it’s okay. Married people are supposed to be like that. I think.”

“Like how?”

“Able to read each other’s minds,” he chuckles, still marvelling at the way the ring sparkles.

Max tilts his head to the side and squints, his cheeks swollen above his smile. “We’ve got that covered, then,” he shrugs.

Charles looks up at Max. His heart has got a million Cupid’s arrows stabbed across it. He falls in love with that man every day. He’ll say something sweet or something stupid and —whoosh— another one. He hopes to keep collecting them for the rest of his life.

He pecks Max on the forehead with all the love he can possibly hold.

“Okay, husband-to-be,” he narrows his eyes at Max and puts his index finger on his own temple. “If that’s so, what am I thinking about right now?”

“Oh,” he snorts, but immediately plays into it. He mimics Charles’ gesture, finger to his temple and narrowed eyes. “Let’s see what’s on your mind… Oh. Oh, Charles. That’s very obscene.”

He laughs and smacks him on the chest. “You’re so stupid.”

“Hush,” he barely reacts to the hit. Instead, he takes the hand that struck him and intertwines their fingers. “I’m reading. Hmm… Okay. You’re thinking… my fiancé fucks me so good.” Charles tries to smack him again, but Max squeezes his hand and laughs while he pretends not to notice it. “And. That coffee from earlier smelled really good — all this engaged sex has made me so hungry. We should have breakfast.”

Charles’ eyes widen. He titters in disbelief.

“Max.”

“What?”

“No, like, actually.”

Max juts his chin forward, blinking rapidly. “That’s what you were thinking?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

They break into laughter. This morning couldn’t get any better.

“Ah, see? We’re gonna smash this marriage thing,” Max says in between giggles, shaking his head and squeezing Charles’ hand tighter.

“Well, you did miss one thing.”

“What?” He breathes out — he sounds so enamored. His eyes twinkle.

Charles tilts his head forward so he can bump his nose against Max’s. He can’t believe his life. He’s out of words, out of thoughts. He’s just filled with this enormous light, all this love, all this peace and happiness. He’ll never not be afraid of losing Max, but this way, he knows Max is just as afraid to lose him — to lose them. 

And at the end of the day, fear of losing is just unadulterated love, right?

Forever. 

“I love you, and I can’t wait to marry you.”

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ 

“Two million euros?”

“Charles, you weren’t supposed to–”

“Two million.”

“Okay, first of all, they’re sustainably sourced, traceable natural stones–”

“Max.”

It’s been a few days since the proposal, and it’s all been wonderful. Unreal. 

Charles called his mom that same morning and told her he was engaged. He didn’t appreciate it much when her response was “À Max?” Because — “Oui, maman. À qui d'autre cela pourrait-il être?” But she explained quickly that it was more of a happy disbelief thing than an actual question.

Then she cried over the phone, telling him how happy she was, how much she loved Max, how much she knew Max loved him, and how there’s no other person she would’ve chosen for him to marry. Which got him crying, of course.

Then she demanded to speak to Max, because why didn’t he tell her anything about the proposal? And he would’ve loved to let Max handle that, but he was too busy getting scolded by his sister on the phone for the very same reason, so he explained that it was meant to be a complete surprise, and telling anyone would’ve put that in jeopardy. 

“I’m very good at keeping secrets.”

“Maman, he could barely keep it from me.”

They agreed on dinner soon, and she told him how happy she was for him one last time before they hung up. Max kissed away the tears brimming in his eyes before handing him his phone — with a hysterical Victoria on the other side of the line.

His next call was to Pierre.

They squawked in French about the whole ordeal.

“So he was trying to propose. See? You weren’t crazy.”

Max mouthed a ‘you told Pierre?’ to him. He covered the phone speaker and mouthed back: “You were driving me insane, what was I supposed to do?”

Pierre congratulated them profusely after, and Charles could’ve sworn he was getting choked up. Then, he also requested to speak with Max. Not on speaker. Max looked like he was about to break a sweat when he handed him the phone.

Charles will never know what Pierre said to Max, but he watched his eyes get glassy, and his cheeks turn red. In the end, he just nodded. He must’ve realized then that Pierre wouldn’t see that, so he finally answered. 

“Yeah. Yeah, man. For sure. Thank you.”

They debated telling other people, but they ultimately decided that, other than Charles’ brothers, no one else really needed to know. For now. Until it inevitably got plastered all over the tabloids. Maybe a call or two to PR would come in handy — but not yet. Later.

They should get to enjoy it.

Their next couple of days are spent at home, cuddling, just staring at each other like either of them could disappear at any moment, staring at the ring like it could also disappear. They fuck, and they shower together, and they watch romcoms, and they order in, and Charles never takes his ring off.

Charles knows how scarce times like these are: they can’t always shut out the world and stay in a bubble for so long, even though it’s all they’d like to do sometimes. They enjoy their alone time, wrapped in sheets and non-nutritionist-approved food. 

They talk about the whole thing, too. The way they kept ruining each other’s plans, and how it all seems funny in retrospect.  

They also address other subjects.

“Do you actually want to hyphenate your last name?” Max asks him on a quiet evening. They’re curled up together on the chaise lounge out on the terrace. He’s drawing shapes on Charles’ upper thigh with his index finger.

“Yeah,” he muses, smiling. “I really do. And I meant that before, eh? Once we’re out, I want it on all the graphics when we race. I don’t care if it’s too long. They better.”

Max squeezes him tight. “I’d love that.”

Charles turns to look at him. “Would you actually take mine?”

Max gives him that adorable smile — tight lips, squint. “Yeah, I would.”

“I don’t think you should,” he says slowly, so as not to startle him. “I mean, I’d love it. But you’re… you. Max Verstappen. I think that’s important.”

“I don’t care about that kind of thing.”

“Well. I do. And a bunch of little kids in ugly little blue shirts do too.”

“Not ugly.”

“Sure.”

Max exhales slowly over Charles’ hair, where he’s got his nose buried. “I guess you’re right, cher.” God, Charles loves it when he casually drops French. He’s been doing it with pet names for a couple of years, but he’s doing it more and more lately. “Hyphenating it is.”

Charles snorts. “You could sound more excited about it.”

A chuckle. Max kisses the top of his head. “I just really wanted yours.”

Charles nuzzles into his neck. “You’re still getting it, schatje.” He hopes his Dutch has the same effect that Max’s French has on him. “For what it’s worth, I’d fully take yours, too.”

Max tilts his head. “You would?”

“Of course, Max,” he pushes his head against Max’s chin, like a cat. “But I’m pretty sure they’d burn Italy down. So.”

He chuckles. “Did you know you’re perfect for me?”

“I think you’ve said that before.”

Later on, the night takes over, and it’s a bit too cold to be outside, but they’re too comfy to move, so they just huddle together, Max’s chin hooked over Charles’ shoulder, his hands in the pockets of his sweater.

“Do you think it’s going to be different to race? Married?” Max asks, his breathing steady and gentle.

Charles chews it over for a bit. Hums. “It hasn’t been different all this time. So, no, not really. At least not for us,” he shrugs. “It couldn’t be, I don’t think.”

“How come?”

“I don’t know. Did we not fall in love like that?” He whispers, like it’s not something meant to be said out loud. “I… You… You know what I’m saying. I don’t think it’s going to be different.”

Max squeezes him close. “Okay, yes. Yeah, I feel the same way. I wanted to know what you thought.” He tilts his head to plant a kiss on Charles’ neck. “People aren’t going to know that, though.”

They’ve talked about it. And — yes. Once they’re out, every single move they make is going to be studied under a microscope. When Max overtakes Charles, they’re going to say Charles let him through. When Charles overtakes Max, they’re going to say Max let him through. When literally anything happens, they’re going to pin it on their relationship, and there’ll be nothing they can say to change that.

Additionally, Max does treat Charles a little differently on track. Not that he’d ever let him gain an advantage or bend to him: he’s a driver through and through, and he’s always going to go for the space, he’s always going to go for the win. 

But while he’d rather crash with another driver than giving up a position, and his own safety is always last when he’s pulling a dangerous stunt, it’s not like that with Charles; he’ll pull back before they crash, because he’d hate ruining a race for him, and if he senses high risk, he’ll avoid the maneuver, both because he’d hate himself if Charles ever got injured thanks to him, and because he knows Charles would hate himself if it was the other way around.

He admitted all that to Charles one late night, a few months after they started dating, and Charles had to admit it worked the same for him. It’s not just because of their relationship, though — Max respects Charles more than anyone else on the grid, and the same goes vice versa. And it’s got nothing to do with the way they feel about each other.

That’s besides the point, though.

No matter what, people will look at them differently. Dating, engaged, married. It would be the same. It’s one of the reasons why they haven’t been able to go public yet.

Charles has a newfound hope and adoration for life, though. He leans against Max and looks down at his ring. “It won’t matter. I won’t care. Let them think whatever they want to think. If they know anything about us, they’ll know I’d never let you win.”

“Really? Never?”

“As if you would,” he chuckles, reaching back to scratch his chin.

“Maybe on your birthday weekend…”

“You wouldn’t.”

Max snickers. Kisses Charles’ neck again. “No, I wouldn’t.”

Before they go to bed that night, Charles tries his luck at figuring out how much Max spent on the ring again. He whispers it into Max’s ear as he pulls on his pajama bottoms, but Max just snorts and kisses him on the mouth.

He doesn’t need to know, but he’s very curious. It really is a ridiculous piece. Gorgeous, but ridiculous. It’s not eating at him or anything, like the proposal was. It’s more like an itch.

That’s why, that same night, he goes through Max’s phone.

Oh, sue him. They’ve got each other’s passwords and everything, it’s not like that. He steals the cellphone from Max’s side of the bed once he’s asleep and unlocks it. He goes through his gallery and his email, looking for pictures of rings and/or confirmation messages about a ring. He finds a few pictures of different stones, but they give him no information, and there are a few emails with someone from Tiffany & Co. —which, okay, wow— talking rocks and models, but nothing about the price range.

It briefly occurs to him to check Max’s bank accounts. 

Okay, maybe that’s a bit much.

But.

That would work.

They rarely have to worry about their own finances —when you have this much money, you need people to take care of that— but Max should have that somewhere. If he goes by the timeline Max gave him when he explained all of his failed attempts, he would’ve paid for it a couple of months ago. 

Is he actually going to do this? He taps his fingers against the side of the phone.

Oh, well. They’re getting married. It’s not his proudest moment, but he figures something in this play gives him a pass to do this.

Now, they definitely don’t share bank accounts, and it would probably be a horrible idea to do so, even when married, but they know how to access each other’s statements. For emergencies. He figures this isn’t a breach of confidence — he just wants to know how much he’s carrying on his finger, and Max can’t tell him, for obvious reasons. 

So this is just — investigative journalism. 

He clicks through a couple of Max’s banking apps and pokes around long enough to figure out how to have a statement sent to the email on file, set for the morning. He puts the phone back, kisses Max’s forehead, and slinks right back to his side of the bed. He curls his arms around his fiancé as soon as he’s under the covers — his fiancé, who’s oblivious to his little investigation.

God, he loves saying that. Fiancé, fiancé, fiancé.

He’s been sleeping so well ever since they got engaged. He keeps waking up light and airy, always curled up against Max. 

It’s their last day of bubble. Tomorrow, they have to get back to the world. Max has a sponsor meeting, and Charles has a photoshoot. Frankly, he’s heartbroken that he’ll have to take off the ring for it.

But it’s okay, because Max wakes him up with a line of kisses up his throat and a hand tight around his waist. 

“Cher. Breakfast?”

He’d like to brag about his life to anyone who ever dared to think he wasn’t meant for something great, or anyone who ever thought he wouldn’t succeed. He’s pretty sure he’s won everything, actually.

He turns around, twisting towards Max so he can face him.

“Yes,” he mumbles. “I’m hungry.”

“What’d you like?” He pulls him in closer and kisses his forehead.

Charles breathes him in, drums his fingers up Max’s bicep. “Whatever’s easy.”

“Eggs and toast okay?” 

“Sure.”

Max gets out of bed, and Charles has a wonderful time watching him walk away. He groans as he stretches over the mattress, tangling himself further with the sheets. He’d been fully disposed to catch some more shuteye, but then his phone dings. It’s the chime it plays when he gets an email. He’s about to brush it off, but then he remembers, and it’s like someone tased him.

He sits up, fights the sheets, and almost falls off the bed to reach for his phone. The notification sits cleanly on top of a hundred others, the bank’s name in bold beside the mail icon. Great. Jackpot.

He only hesitates for a second before opening it. Maybe this crosses a line, he thinks. I don’t even need to know. Am I going to check Max’s bank statements for this? But then he resolves that they’ll have to handle finances together very soon, so he'd better get used to it.

Click.

An organized spreadsheet opens when he clicks the attachment on the email. He scrolls past most of it, because it’s not any of his business. Small charges, medium charges, and big charges flash past his eyes, but he keeps on scrolling until he reaches the time frame he’d estimated.   

And.

Okay, he can’t be seeing that right.

He pauses when he sees a stupid amount of zeroes plastered on the screen. 

It’s just around when Max would’ve bought it, date-wise.

He reads it again, in case his vision has gotten worse and he needs to start wearing his glasses more often. The numbers stare back at him, clear in black and white. It has to be some sort of mistake, because there’s a two, and a zero, and a zero, and a zero, and a zero, and a zero, and another zero, and change. What the fuck.

He scrolls to the side to see the brief charge detail: TIFFANY & CO. 

No fucking shit.

No way.

What.

He stares at it. Rubs his eyes, in case he’s still asleep. It’s still there. 

It’s insane. He doesn’t know how to feel, exactly. On one hand, Max spent a ridiculous amount of money on him, despite the fact that he would’ve married that man with a rubber band, and he’d been careful and detailed, and gave him something he could carry with him forever. Beautiful and curated and very him. And that was more endearment than his heart could take.

On the other hand, Max spent a ridiculous amount of money.

He gets off the bed, mildly appalled, pulls on a pair of sweats, and walks to the kitchen. Max is cracking eggs over the pan. Coffee is brewing on the stove. 

He looks back at Charles and shoots him the warmest of smiles. “Just in time. Fried or scrambled?”

Charles hisses air in through his teeth.

“Two million euros?”

Max blanches. He looks startled. 

“Charles, you weren’t supposed to–”

“Two million.”

“Okay, first of all, they’re sustainably sourced, traceable natural stones–”

“Max.”

Max turns off the stove. “How did you even–”

“You spent two million euros on this ring,” he holds his left hand up. 

The man blinks, like a dog caught with a sock in his mouth, and fully turns his body to look at Charles. He smiles nervously, his fingers fidgeting by his sides. “Yeah. I did.” He looks guilty and proud all at once. “Are you mad at me?”

Pfft.

“I’m… not,” he muses. “I’m just– It’s two million euros. Why would you spend two million euros on me? You didn’t need to do that.” He waves his left hand to emphasize his point.

Max presses his lips together and smiles. “I just– It needed to be perfect for you. I needed it to be ridiculous. You’re… unreal. It had to be just as unreal. I didn’t even think of the price. Kind of. I mean, at the end, sure. But I just thought of what kind of ring you deserved, what kind of ring I wanted to give you.”

Charles blinks. His heart beats fast. He can feel it in his throat. “It’s a lot of money.” He’s at a loss for words. And so in love. He steps closer to Max.

“I can afford it,” he shrugs. “It’s not like… I mean— In the big scheme of things, it’s not that crazy, is it?” He looks down and chuckles, shaking his head. “Should I apologize?” He reaches for Charles’ left hand and brushes his thumb over the rock.

Charles squints at him. Pauses. Glances at the ring. “No… No, you…” He sighs. “God. Am I supposed to walk around with this?” He chuckles, still astounded. “It’s– A lot.”

Max lets out a long breath. Brings the back of Charles’ hand up to his lips to kiss it. “How much did you think I would’ve spent?”

“Anything under a million,” he rocks forward.

“I would’ve spent more,” he admits, like it’s easy. “I would’ve spent all my money on it. It’s just that this felt right. For you.” 

Charles doesn’t know what to say. Max is right — for the kind of money they handle, it’s not that insane. Except it still feels insane. It still feels overwhelming, and heavy, and fuzzy. He’s speechless.

Max kisses the back of his hand again. “And. I do have to admit there’s something I like about splurging on you. Like a proper gentleman.”

If Max hadn’t proposed yet, Charles would’ve crashed to his knees and hoped for him to get the memo. A proper gentleman. Max has never exactly been that, and Charles has never needed it, but this is one of his wildest dreams.

“You really shouldn’t have,” he presses against Max until they’re chest to chest, and he can’t help the smile creeping up his cheeks. He caresses the side of Max’s cheek.

“Are you happy that I did?” He sighs wth half-lidded eyes.

“I’m not… not-happy.”

Max cheeses like an idiot, and it’s everything.

“How’d you even find out?” He wraps his hands around Charles’ waist.

Charles scrunches his nose and kisses the corner of Max’s jaw. “We have to start thinking about shared finances, husband-to-be.” 

The man blinks, still smiling. “You know what?” He squeezes. “Don’t tell me.” 

He watches Charles with that look in his eyes — bewitched, gone. Charles likes that very much. These past few days have been overwhelmingly good, and by the looks of it, all this joy won’t have an expiration date. He knows he’s smiling, despite his awe. 

Max leans forward to kiss the corner of his lips, then pokes him on his side. “You’re so dramatic, you know that?”

“Hey, now.”

“You like this. You love it.” He pokes him again. It tickles this time. “You like being spoiled, you just won’t admit it.” Another poke.

It’s making Charles giggle, and he can’t even take himself seriously when he speaks. “I don’t appreciate your accusations.” He breathes in a mouthful of air to try and scold his fiancé —say something along the lines of I deny such thing, and that’s besides the point, and it’s still ridiculous that you would spend that kind of money on this— but Max starts properly tickling him. So it’s over. “Stop that!”

Max does not stop it. He pokes his ribs and his sides and makes Charles laugh his breath away. He starts trying to escape towards the living room, but Max picks him up by his thighs and sits him down on the counter. To keep attacking him.

“Max! Christ!” He pushes half-heartedly at his chest, tears in his eyes. His stomach hurts from laughing, and it occurs to him that this might be the only kind of hurt he’ll experience often in a life with Max. “Stop!”

“Admit it!” He laughs, a big open smile on his face.

“I very much like the ring!” He offers, instead, giggling throughout it.

“Not what I meant!”

“Stop!”

Charles changes his defense — throws his arms out and around Max’s neck and drags him in for a kiss. 

“Stop, stop.” He licks his lips open and dives in, happy to taste him, even though his chest is still rumbling with laughter. It takes a little bit of time, but Max finally melts into it, his hands sliding down his sides, his posture completely tilting forward. Whipped.

Once it stops being a defense mechanism, they kiss gently. Softly, warmly. Like people who have all the time in the world. For the first time, maybe ever, Charles feels like they’re those people.

They’re getting married.

His mom knows they’re getting married, and she’s already texting him with floral arrangements. They’re going to hyphenate their last names. Max has started thinking about where —geographically— the wedding should be. Pierre has already asked if he’s going to be the best man or if he’ll have to race Arthur and thumb-war Lorenzo for it. 

It’s real. 

It’s as real as the air he breathes and the man he’s kissing. As real as the ring on his finger. 

Everything is in place. Everything makes sense. They were always going to end up here. It was only a matter of time. Oh, to love with everything you’ve got and be loved back.

He pulls back from the kiss and stares at Max. Stares at those blue eyes, full of stars and dreams and love. Stares at those cheeks, those lips, that face that he can’t live without and —if he’s lucky— won’t have to. He sighs. 

He’s so helpless to him, and to this love that overtakes everything else.

“You know,” he whispers, tilting his head forward so they’re almost kissing, but not quite. His throat grows tight. “I would’ve proposed first.” He slides his right hand up into Max’s hair, and his left up the side of his face. 

Max blinks back at him slowly, sparkly eyes and twitchy lips. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he mouths. “I didn't do it because… you know. Our whole relationship, I've always tried to let you take the lead. I know some things are… hard for you. Overwhelming. And I don't mind it at all, alright?” He rubs Max’s cheekbone with his thumb. Revels in the way he purrs into it. “I don’t. But I just wanted you to know that I would have proposed first.” He can feel himself getting misty-eyed, but it’s fine. He wants to say this. “I would have proposed to you, and I would have gotten you a three-million-euro ring.”

Max exhales, and Charles can feel how shaky it is against his lips. He watches his smile slowly disappear, but not because he isn’t happy — he’s tugging his lower lip behind his teeth to stop it from wobbling. He’s so adorable. The world sees him as this killer machine, and he’s just this.

“And I'm sure I'll find a million different ways to say this in the next couple of days, weeks, months, but I've never been this happy,” he follows. He tries to take a breath, but it ends up being a sniffle. “You know how scared I am of… losing — and I wish I could ask you to promise me that…” He holds Max tighter. “That you're never going to leave me, but I can't ask for that because we don't know.” 

Max brings one gentle hand up to wipe the tears from his eyes before they tip over, and he tries to say something, like he always does. Something to negate that time is finite, and nothing is promised.

Charles pecks him on the lips to stop him. He doesn’t need that right now. “No, we don't know,” he shakes his head and rubs his nose against his. Sniffles again. “We don’t. But this is…” He chokes up, but he tries again. “This is the closest thing to that. And I can't tell you how much it means to me that you're giving me that.”

He breaks. He’s too happy, and he loves too much. Tears run down his cheeks, and a sob escapes his throat. But he just wants Max to know; he has to know this. Before he can keep going, Max wraps his arms around him and pulls him in, one hand behind his head. He ends up with his chin hooked over his shoulder, and maybe it’s easier like this. 

He returns the hug. Tight.

“You’ve promised me, to your human abilities, to spend the rest of your life with me,” he speaks through warm tears, “and I just love you so much. I'm just so happy because I've always wanted forever with you. Since I first knew I loved you, I knew that I wanted the ring and the house and the kids and the dog.” He wraps himself tighter around Max. “And it never mattered if you wanted it too because, in the end, all I wanted was you. But to know that you also want it… It's just– oh, god,” he brings a hand up to wipe his tears. “I can't wait to marry you. I can't wait to spend forever with you.”

Charles can feel Max crying in his arms, and it’s nice to know that they’re both there, even if he doesn’t love to think that he’s making him cry. He kisses his shoulder.

“For a while, I didn’t want to admit to myself that I just wanted to marry you,” he sniffles. “I kept rationalizing. Thinking — well, he should propose. Logically, he should. If he's doing all this work, and we’ve been together this long, he should be proposing. And I had a point, but I think that was never the issue.” He curls his fingers into his skin. “I just wanted to marry you. Now I am.” 

They really are. They’re tying the knot.

He blinks tears from his eyes and presses his forehead against his skin. 

“Fuck, Max. I just love you so much. I love you more than I’ll ever be able to say.”

Max pushes him back by the shoulders, ever so tenderly, just so they can face each other again. His eyes and nose are red, his cheeks are wet — but he’s smiling. Warm and sparkly. He leans forward to kiss Charles on the lips shortly, over and over and over. He sighs against his lips.

“Charles Leclerc,” he starts, brittle. “You are the love of my life, and I will spend every minute of every day of the rest of my life, which will be very long,” he accentuates, blinking, “trying to make you see how extraordinary you are — make you see that I would die for you, and that, yes, I also want the ring and the house and the kids and the fucking dog.” He chuckles and shakes his head, like he’s in disbelief. 

He pecks Charles again. 

So loved. Holy shit. Charles feels so absurdly, impossibly loved.

“I knew you were going to say yes,” Max chokes out. He pushes through a sob. “But I can't believe you actually did. I don't know what I ever did to get so lucky — but I am, and I love you. Thank you for loving me back.” 

Charles cradles Max’s face again, wiping stray tears. Kisses the tip of his nose.

Max chuckles through the fog. “Oh my fuck. This is something I didn't– I thought I would never do this, but I could never not love you.” It makes Charles’ jaw tick open, a teary gasp ripping out. 

Max nuzzles his hands, brushing his nose against the ring. “You're my life, you're my heart, and I can't wait.” He leaves a kiss where his palms meet his fingers. “Every time you look at this ring, I want you to know that this is a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of how much I love you.”

And that’s. That’s it.

That’s all of it.

That’s Charles’ life now.

He can’t believe he found this. All those years ago, he found his husband. 

He found the man to be by his side — good or bad, sick or healthy, thick and thin.

The man who will be his husband stands before him, teary-eyed with love and compressed with affection. Tests, and fights, and hurt: he makes up for all of it.

“Okay?” Blue eyes blink at him.

“Okay.” 

He goes for his lips because he has no words anymore. There’s no other way he can show him what’s in his mind or in his heart. All he can do is hope he’ll get it someday. They kiss until they have to part because it’s hard to breathe — it’s hard to kiss and cry.

Their foreheads knock together, Max’s hands tight around Charles’ middle, Charles’ fingers hooked behind Max’s neck.

Wow. 

“We're getting married,” Max whispers. 

They are, they are, they are.

“We are getting married.”