Archive of Our Own

It took a long moment for Charles to notice the pattern. Yet once he’d seen it, had noticed the details of it, it felt so obvious he couldn’t help but feel stupid for not spotting it any sooner. It was so obvious, right there under his nose.

George Russell walked the halls of his building, well-dressed and always on time, at 5 sharp, every week, on Tuesdays.

Somehow, between race schedules, media duties, and specific travel plans, it felt as if life had provided many different ways to keep him from seeing it. This. George Russell, walking through the halls of the building Charles lived in- had lived in, for the past few years.

George Russell, stepping toward Max Verstappen’s door. George Russell, disappearing within his newly moved-in neighbor’s walls.

The first time it had happened- the first time Charles had seen it, at least, had been a few weeks after Max’s move. He’d been running late for an appointment in Cannes and had been trying to hurry, running through the hallways, in a rush to get down to the ground floor to catch the taxi that had been sent for him.

Yet in the lobby, just by the concierge’s desk, he’d seen him, chatting amicably, sunglasses perched on his nose, hair swept back, hands spread out, gesturing as he spoke in clumsy, yet seemingly charming French, if his concierge’s face was anything to go by.

Charles had paused, taking a few seconds to assess, surprise making him falter in his steps, and George had caught on to it easily, stopping his discussion to greet him, hand shifting into a wave.

“Charles! Hello.”

“What are you doing here?” Charles had asked, and politeness might have disappeared briefly, erased both by shock and a sliver of curiosity at seeing someone he knew, George of all people, here so unexpectedly.

“Oh, you know, visiting,” George had said. He hadn’t seemed to mind Charles’s words, nor his tone, smiling easily.

Compared to his own, there had been very little surprise on George’s face.

Charles hadn’t had time to ask more, not when he could see the taxi through the tinted glass of the entrance hall, not when he could feel his phone buzzing in his pocket. George had noticed, waving him off with a ‘see you around’, and they’d parted ways without much more.

Somehow, he hadn’t associated that first encounter with Max, not at the time, not for a while. He’d almost forgotten about it, had merely thought someone George knew must be living in the building, or staying in one of the rental units he knew were on the lower floors.

They hadn’t even talked about it afterwards, when they’d seen each other once the next race had rolled by. George hadn’t come to him, hadn’t brought it up. As often these days, they’d barely interacted at all beyond polite smiles. So Charles hadn’t asked. It wasn’t unusual for all of them, drivers, to see one another in Monaco, so there had been nothing worth mentioning, not really, not when they were busy preparing to fight on track. Not when Charles was preparing himself for yet another disappointment.

And he would have probably forgotten about it anyway, with time. If it hadn’t happened again.

He hadn’t even had to run into George to notice the visit.

He’d seen the blue car sitting in the underground garage, a few spots away from his own red ones. He’d spotted it instantly, the very specific shade of blue that screamed George’s name, the one he bore on his helmet during races, so very recognizable, well-branded, unmistakably his.

He’d frowned, had wondered who George was visiting- again. Until he’d gotten back to his home and, just as he’d closed the door behind him, had heard voices down the hallway. He’d looked through the peephole out of curiosity, not meaning to pry, not really, simply curious of who was visiting Max, only to freeze when he’d noticed him.

George, walking away from Max’s door, waving him goodbye casually.

Charles had frozen at the door, pressed up against it as he had been, breath short with shock.

It had been surprising to witness this, though it had been even more startling to realize this wasn’t just a one time occurrence.

George Russell hadn’t just come here once. Not even twice.

He came by every week.

Charles knew so, because after that, he’d started watching from the peephole, as George’s silhouette slipped out of the elevator, as he stepped down the hallway, and walked straight to Max’s door without looking back, like clockwork every week despite their busy schedules.

And each time, Max opened the door within seconds to let him in.

It made very little sense. Since when were Max and George close? Charles had thought they weren’t, at all. He was probably closer to them both than they were to each other. He and George had been tight at some point, sharing laughter as they raced along with Alex and Lando on streams. He wasn’t sure exactly when they’d drifted, though he could remember the way he’d started to see George differently at some point. When he’d grown in confidence, when he’d proved himself on track, in a silver car. When he’d started to become a threat against what had once been promised to Charles, which frustratingly wouldn’t come. Which still hadn’t come.

And he was, of course, very close to Max now. Perhaps the closest they’d ever been, despite the years they’d spent fighting, on track, and off it in some ways. They’d spent so long glaring at each other before figuring out they didn’t have to. Somehow, it had gotten better after Max had won, the first time. As if something had snapped, as if they’d stopped chasing the same objective, running after it endlessly, because one of them had reached it. Max, of course. Charles had stopped wishing it had been the other way around at some point, though that he couldn’t pinpoint.

It hadn’t been easy, and at times, Charles still wondered what friendship meant between them. But it had to count for something that Max would buy an apartment across the hall from his own. That he’d allow that kind of proximity, when he wasn’t one known to keep close relationships with people he didn’t care about.

Charles had thought that this, Max moving here, across the hallway into the penthouse that matched his own, as his only next-door neighbor, would be the best thing for them. And it had been, kind of. They’d grown closer, tighter in a way only proximity could have brought.

Charles had been the one to tell Max about the apartment next to his own being empty when Max had first mentioned wanting to move, the words tumbling out spontaneously. He’d been there the day Max had visited the place, the day he’d signed the act- they’d even shared the champagne bottle the real estate agent had gifted. He’d been there when Max had moved in, and had been the first person Max had shown the place to once it was fully furnished.

He’d been the first person to be invited over for dinner, just a few days later, after yet another Grand Prix Max had won. They’d shared a quiet meal on the balcony as Charles had shown him the few restaurants he enjoyed in the district that always accommodated his meal plan- not that Max didn’t know them all, with how small Monaco was. But Max had listened, had noted a few names in his phone.

But once he’d started seeing George coming by once, then twice, three times… Charles had started to wonder if he’d really been the first to do all of this. Through all of their recent discussions that covered so many aspects of their lives these days, not only just racing but their families, their side projects, their ambitions- even some much more fragile talks of resentment towards teams, teammates, ones Charles couldn’t see himself having with anyone else, ones made of words that had felt like ripping stitches when they’d first come out, why had Max never mentioned having George over?

Charles couldn’t pinpoint it, the reason why this would bother him. To this degree, at least. It wasn’t like Max couldn’t have other friends. He could. He had friends, wouldn’t it be hypocritical to expect Max to stay on his own? Of course Max would have friends on the grid.

No matter how surprising who those friends were. And it was alright that Max didn’t tell him everything. Why would he? Charles had worked hard to let go of the need for control he’d felt through his early years in the sport, to loosen the death grip he’d craved to feel on situations, on people at times. Yet here, with Max, it felt like the sensation was hard to shake off, crawling back through his gut, clawing at him.

But perhaps, and this was something he’d rather have stayed in denial about, what bothered him was the thought that this, what was going on between George and Max, went beyond friendship. Perhaps it was the thought that Max could invite George for more than just what they shared, their quiet dinners, their apéros when they had a free evening, with no pretense.

But Max wasn’t his. There was no reason to think he was.

When frustration grew, despite how hard Charles tried not to let himself do so, he could imagine it. The way George’s fingers could roam over Max’s body, the way his tall frame could cover Max’s, the way he would touch and take. When it wasn’t his right to do so. The way Charles never allowed himself to.

The thoughts and what they implied were too scary. Charles ignored them, turned a blissful blind eye to them, whenever they rose.

He was doing exactly that, pressed to his door as he was, skin warm against the cool metal of it, eye pressed to the peephole.

4:57. It wouldn’t take long. George would be right there in just a minute, two, tops.

At his feet, Leo shuffled, expecting Charles to take him for a walk, though Charles didn’t let himself get distracted. He stared intently at the hallway, at the brown carpet that bore marks of wear, of age, despite being cleaned daily, despite the care and money that went into it.

Within a minute, his breath stopped. His heart beat loud, fast against the metal of the door, echoing within the whole apartment, through the walls.

When the doors to the lift opened, George came into sight, as he often did: sharply dressed, a jacket thrown over a soft linen shirt the collar of which lay open over his chest, showing off his collarbone. Charles could see the definition from where he stood, the jut of bone, though he found himself shuffling impossibly closer, pressing his face further to the door, the metal cooling his heated skin.

He watched as George turned towards Max’s side of the hallway, how he didn’t even glance back Charles’s way. He reached up to knock, long fingers folded, knuckles rapping against the dark metal. Charles thought he could almost hear it, the sound it made.

George was tall enough he hid Max’s frame when the door opened. He slipped inside rapidly, and before Charles could even get a peek at his friend, the door was closed, and the two of them hidden from sight again.

The mystery kept as it was, and had been for the past few months.

Charles sighed, stepping back. At his feet, Leo started wagging his tail, though he stopped as soon as he noticed Charles wasn’t reaching for his harness. Guilt ate at him, but Charles kept his focus.

Though they always started on the dot, the visits varied in length.

Sometimes, Charles would miss the end of them. He knew, because from wherever he was in the apartment -most likely hovering by the kitchen or living room which he couldn’t bring himself to leave through the duration of these visits now-, he’d hear the elevator ping. When he’d fly to the door, to try and catch sight of George, he’d have already disappeared, the doors to the lift closing, and Max’s own with it on the other side of the hallway.

This time, somehow, the visit was short. Very much so. Charles hovered in the kitchen, checked his fridge a few times, enough that the touchscreen of it alerted him of a change in temperatures. He rummaged through the cupboards instead, empty as they were. The chef never left anything inside when he came: there was no need to stock them, knowing Charles didn’t cook here, wouldn’t even consider trying.

He sat at the island, scrolled on his phone, volume low. He knelt by Leo, who stared at him with soulful eyes and flopped onto his back with the confidence of a dog who knew he’d get belly scratches by doing so. Charles obliged, smiling. As often during these times, he’d grown tense, but Leo always helped him relax. He sighed, petting his dog’s flank, through soft, well cared for fur, though his fingers froze when a sound filtered through from beyond the door.

Voices, he realized distantly. He was back on his feet in a blink, leaving Leo huffing as he crossed right back to the door. When he looked, George was standing at Max’s door, facing Max, whom he was most likely talking to.

His hand was waving in the air, high enough that Charles could make out the way it sliced through in a few rapid gestures.

He frowned, shuffling closer to the door. Leo’s fur brushed his ankle again as the dog sat, his tail giving a few slow spins.

Silence came back just as George’s hand fell. For a moment, he didn’t move. Charles held his breath. It wasn’t hard to imagine how George could simply lean in for a kiss in parting. It would make sense. Somehow, Charles realized this was exactly what he’d been waiting for for a while now.

But George didn’t lean in. He gave a shrug, and turned around, stepping away from the door.

When Max came into sight, Charles gasped quietly, lips parting, breath landing hot on the door, below where his fingers were splayed. His eyes were red, his cheeks tear-stained. Even from a distance, it was easy to make out the blotchiness, how dark his lips had gotten, even more than they usually were.

George didn’t stop until he was by the elevator, at which point he turned to Max once more. His hand flew through the air again, his voice coming up. Charles couldn’t make out words, despite how hard he tried. He’d think later about the doorbell camera and microphone he’d been looking into, the tab left open on his laptop, but for now, he tried to focus on the incoherent sounds. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to press his ear to the door, for it would mean looking away.

Max, from where he was at the door, shrugged at whatever George was saying. He shook his head no, something small, discreet.

The doors to the lift opened. George said something else, unmoving from his spot, his hands falling to his hips. Whatever he’d said prompted the two of them to shift in sync, as they looked back to Charles’s door.

It nearly made him stumble back, how sharp eyes seemed to stare almost directly at him for a few seconds. Briefly, he thought this was it, thought he’d been caught. There would be some explaining to do, about spying on his neighbor, about staring at them this way. About knowing, or at least guessing what was going on.

But George seemed to sigh, a heavy breath that made his shoulders drop, and without looking back at Max, he finally stepped into the elevator. For a moment, Max didn’t move, even as the doors closed, even as the familiar chime resounded through the hallway as it pinged its descent. He stayed at his door, fingers around the handle, eyes still trained across the hallway, towards Charles’s own.

Charles could almost make out the clicking sound it made, when Max’s door finally fell shut after he’d stepped back.

The flush on Max’s cheeks, the redness of his lips, the hair sticking up messily from the top of his scalp- Charles couldn’t stop thinking about it all. He thought and thought and thought, crossing through his apartment, finding himself, as he often did through and after these visits, grazing his fingers along the only wall he and Max shared in the living room, just beside his TV. Any more of it, and he’d start digging a path through concrete.

Leo walked with him, nails tapping on the tile, until he grew bored of the incessant back-and-forth and jumped up onto the couch with a heavy sigh, annoyed by this, whatever Charles was doing. It made him pause at least, cocking his head at his dog.

“Qu’est-ce que je devrais faire, hein ?” he asked quietly, but only got another huff in answer as Leo’s ear flipped. [what should I do?]

After a few seconds of silence, Charles found himself sighing, too, shoulders dropping. “T’as raison. Je vais aller le voir.” [You're right, I'll go see him]

He didn’t wait for Leo’s answer before he walked back to the door, and this time, opened it to step past. Despite the fact he’d done so numerous times already in the past few weeks- months now, it felt foreign to cross through the hallway this time, his gaze catching onto the patterns of the marble on the walls, the large frame hung right in front of the elevator, the abstract painting on it and its lack of sense almost mocking when he looked at it.

He paused at Max’s door, holding his breath.

When he knocked, it took a full minute for the man to open. Charles couldn’t help but wonder where he’d been in the apartment, if he’d gotten to his bedroom, or if he’d been on the other side of it, where he knew the sim setup was installed.

Max’s eyes were still red, he noticed instantly. The tears had disappeared from them, though his skin was still blotchy, as if he’d scrubbed at it with a sleeve, rough in his gestures the way Charles had no doubt Max could be with himself.

“Oh. Charles, hello,” he greeted, quietly, surprisingly evenly. The rasp in his voice came stronger than Charles knew it to be.

“Yes, hello,” he shuffled on his feet, watching as Max reached up to pat at his hair, probably conscious of the mess it was. Charles found he couldn’t have cared less, even when he typically did. He liked it, when Max’s hair stuck up every which way. “I was just… I thought I would drop by. I thought we could have dinner.”

The words weren’t what he’d had in mind. George’s name felt burning where it was on the tip of his tongue. And it was too early for dinner, barely six. Max seemed to be thinking the same way, glancing down at his watch with a frown, though he quickly dropped his hand again. Slowly, he opened the door farther. Charles couldn’t help but smile, relieved at the acceptance it seemed to be.

“Dinner,” Max echoed in a breath. His gaze was distant, trained on a point far behind Charles, though when he blinked a few times, he seemed to find his focus again. “Yes. Come in. We can have dinner.”

Charles was at ease, walking into Max’s apartment. Mostly because it mirrored his own, a perfect reflection in its layout, but also because he’d been there enough to know his way around by now, to know where the couch lay, which door led to Max’s bedroom, the view he’d get from the balcony, the sea laid out below.

It made it easy to look for anything out of the ordinary, though Charles found nothing, despite how eager he’d been to do so. There was nothing that could indicate something had gone wrong, no traces of a fight, no belongings left behind. There was no sign of George anywhere in Max’s space, which remained his very own.

Though he hesitated, though the words were threatening to spill out, Charles didn’t bring George up here either. He didn’t bring the tears up. Much like he had lately around Max, he kept his thoughts to himself, and the questions with them. He could forget all about George, if it meant getting the comfort these moments brought.

He settled on Max’s couch the way he had over the past few weeks, smiling as one of the cats came to sit at his side, squinting at him, probably upset at how Leo’s scent clung to his clothes, invading their home once again.

Max sat at his side, heavy. For a few seconds, Charles saw the exhaustion on his face, one Max rarely let show through. It disappeared quickly enough, chased by a smile as Max looked up.

To Charles’s relief, they fell into easy conversation, the very same that had tightened their bond lately. Max spoke of cars, of his plans, of his pets. Charles kept up with it, showing pictures of Leo from the previous weekend, running around the paddock. Max smiled, leaning close to look, their shoulders brushing.

They ordered dinner the way they’d done so before, ate with Max’s TV on in the background, though neither of them was paying attention, focusing on each other instead, on their conversation. It came so easily, talking to Max. Charles wondered about it often, how the words came without stopping, how he stopped fighting to make them sound more neutral, how he didn’t have to think of the meaning behind them, because Max wouldn’t, either. There was no need for his English to be perfect, no need for the effort it took at times with cameras around, or when the radio was on.

Just like there was no need to make an effort when talking about the race, no need to dim his frustration with the car, no need to hide his ever growing resentment over his lack of results and what little had come out of it. Charles wouldn’t scream it out loud, but he enjoyed it, the way Max made him less careful. The way he comforted the thoughts in quiet ways, the way he didn’t just offer excuses, but harsh words in return that were more reassuring than politeness would be.

By the time night had long drawn over Monaco, they’d moved back to Max’s couch. Their voices had naturally dimmed as the evening progressed, the discussions growing slower, the silences comforting as their gazes did move to the TV, to the tennis game Max must have no interest in, but Charles enjoyed when he caught it. Their knees were close, Max’s bare from his shorts riding up his thigh. Charles wished he weren’t wearing jeans, wished he’d worn shorts, too, even if he didn’t like the look of them, even if he only had few of them in his wardrobe.

He’d just asked about Max’s travel plan for the next race when he glanced up to see his eyes had slipped closed, his head tipped to the side. He froze, lips parting as he took in the sight. Max’s hands were folded over his front, fingers twitching. His lips were slack, though Charles could still make out the ghost of a smile, as if it had only just faded.

Slowly, he moved, shifting closer before he could stop himself. He drank in the sight, eyes flicking down greedily over what was offered- this, the softness, the gentleness that he’d been catching glimpses of.

But guilt didn’t take long to come.

It crept through him, just as did the need to reach forward, to touch. It wasn’t offered, was it? This. The softness on display. No matter how much Charles wanted it to be. Max was simply exhausted. It was only out of that, that he’d fallen asleep that way. This was no offer, it was only by chance that Charles was getting to see this. This didn’t belong to him, for what had he done to deserve it? Besides, there was most likely someone else who did get this. Most likely more consciously. Every Tuesday.

Did George get to see this on each of his visits, Charles couldn’t help but wonder?

He battled with himself for a moment, guilt overwhelming when he chose to be selfish. His hand moved, hovering above Max’s leg for a few seconds before it settled. He brushed over a soft thigh, gently, fingers dragging through the light hair there, only to freeze as he caught up with what he was doing.

Cursing mentally, he willed himself to still his palm in place, sighing.

“I should go back home,” he said out loud. His fingers lingered at Max’s knee, thumb firm over the ridge of his joint, pressing in what he hoped could be comforting.

Max stirred, though he didn’t jolt, his lashes fluttering as he glanced around. His gaze settled as soon as it fell on Charles.

“You don’t have to, I’m awake,” he tried. Charles laughed at the sight of him blinking, trying to keep his eyes open, lips twisted into a pout.

“I don’t think you are. You should get some rest, anyway. We both should, Max.”

Max reached to rub at his face, fingers wiping at his eyes, brushing down the sides of his nose, though somehow, his other hand shifted as well, finding Charles’s at his knee. Their fingers met briefly. Charles stared down at them, indulged in the warmth at Max’s fingertips.

He’d longed for this. These touches, which he’d imagined countless times, especially in recent months. Those were why he’d thought them being neighbors would perhaps change things, would perhaps make them evolve into something else, before he’d noticed the way George came weekly.

He’d expected them to disappear, with the Brit’s regular presence within the walls of Max’s apartment, but here they were. Here Max was, touching. When Charles had fought himself not to. Should he have?

Max sighed heavily, enough to draw Charles’s focus back up to him. His eyes were closed again, the hand at his face pressed to them.

Charles hesitated. He did. Which he hated.

He hated the uncertainty of this, the hesitation in his own hands, when all he wanted was to let go of it and take without thinking.

And Max on his side… Max wasn’t known to be hesitant. If he’d wanted this, more than he’d wanted whatever George brought, he’d have taken it.

Slowly, he rose to his feet, giving a whispered apology to Donut, who’d meowed at the disturbance on the couch. When he took back his hand from Max’s knee, it was with regrets and longing, but necessity, fingers slipping free.

“I will see you in Spain,” he offered, and watched as Max nodded.

“Yes,” he agreed quietly, just as he rose from the couch as well.

They walked to the door side by side, though Charles felt Max’s fingers brush at his shoulder when they reached it in a brief squeeze. He chose to ignore it, though he did give Max a few glances back as he crossed the hallway. The door to Max’s apartment didn’t close until his own had.

Max won Spain. It came as no surprise.

But it made for a good excuse to visit, on Tuesday, after they’d both come home.

Charles stood at the door with a box of pastries from a bakery he knew they both enjoyed, one he knew wouldn’t interfere with their meal plans.

And if he’d chosen a Tuesday, just an hour away from what came weekly despite how little he liked to think of it, it was only by chance. Not because he wanted to see what would happen, not because he wanted to see what Max’s reaction would be, what the choice would be. Guilt was there about his own actions, about trying this, tinting his every thought.

Max, somehow, didn’t look surprised to see him, grinning as he opened the door to wave him through. He looked… happy, Charles noted.

“Congrats!” he offered, even when he’d said it a few times already, to Max’s flushed, post-race face, to the media. “That was a good race. Really solid, Max. Good job.”

“Thank you,” Max said, tipping his head. The corners of his eyes crinkled in a way that warmed Charles’s heart too quickly for his liking, though there was nothing he could do about it.

There was an understanding that these words weren’t meant lightly between drivers despite the many times they’d hear it from people around them, Max especially, from fans, teams, journalists. It made it all the more satisfying to see colors blooming high on Max’s cheeks as they walked through the apartment.

They sat on the main balcony, the sun gentle on their skin, not yet harsh, the breeze making it easier to bear.

Charles tried to keep their conversation going, though felt so very aware of what would bring it to an end. And though he’d hoped not to, he picked up every sign that led to it, too. The way Max started to look into the distance halfway through, the way he started giving his watch regular glances, the way he seemed to turn his body towards the door as five drew nearer.

“Charles,” he started, ten minutes before Charles knew George would come knocking.

Charles didn’t let him finish. His heart had grown heavy, his hands uncertain again around the coffee cup Max had offered. The last thing he needed was to hear it. The rejection, the excuses. Because it didn’t look like Max would be spilling about this. He’d have done so, if he wanted to. The choice was made.

“I should be leaving. I have- I need to go walk Leo. And I am meeting with my trainer later,” he said.

Max studied him briefly, head cocked, blinking a few times. “Ah, right.”

“Bravo again for Barcelona.” Charles rose to his feet, though he lingered at the table, fingers dragging at the edge of it.

Their gazes met. Below them, Monaco buzzed lazily, from the sounds of roaring cars, to the clinks of rigging against masts, to the seagulls chirping nearby.

Max was the first to look away. “Thank you.”

Charles hesitated. Again. He chewed on the words, thought on them hard, gritting his teeth as they tried to escape. But ended up restraining himself, as he’d previously done. As he should be doing. “I will see you in Spielberg?” he ended up asking quietly, already turning away to cross the hallway.

Max nodded. “Yes. See you then.”

Before it was even fully closed behind him, Charles’s face was pressed to his door, his eye to the peephole. Leo settled at his ankle, his weight familiar, as Charles watched on.

It took three minutes for the elevator doors to open, and for George to stroll right out of it.

Charles gritted his teeth. If he’d stayed, if he’d lingered just a few moments more, maybe he’d have had answers. Maybe he’d have known what happened between them in Max’s apartment, once the door closed.

But here he was, on his own, on his side of the building, watching from afar.

The door opened before George even reached to knock. Max waved him forward. He looked exactly the same as just a moment ago- and there was no reason he’d have changed, but still, it was torturous to watch. His cheeks were pink, Charles could tell as he came into sight when George walked past him. And for a few seconds, across the length of the corridor, through the warped glass of the peephole, it felt as though their gazes met. Max looked his way, hand on the handle, head tipped, his lips parted. He hovered, for a few seconds, until his attention was drawn to, Charles imagined, George’s voice calling out to him from within his apartment.

Slowly, the door closed.

Charles stayed against his own for a moment more, watching for something- anything, a sign. But nothing came.

He moved without thinking eventually, walking around to his living room, to the wall that separated them, imagining what the two of them could look like. Would George see the remnants of Charles’s presence on the open balcony, in full sight from the living room? Would he see the sweater he’d left there, conveniently forgotten? Would he, too, imagine what could have happened during Charles’s visit to Max, even if nothing had? Even if they’d only been talking?

He tried to listen to the telltale signs of this coming to an end, though this time, nothing came. Eventually, a whine at the door made him look down at Leo, staring up at him, his nose pressed to the metal, his eyes widened.

Charles sighed, shaking his head.

“Oui, désolé mon amour. T’as raison, on devrait sortir. Prendre un peu l’air,” he breathed as he walked back to the door, kneeling to brush his fingers over Leo’s fur. [Yes, sorry my love. You're right, we should go out. Get some air]

But it was hard to reach for the leash, hard to make himself move, to cross the hallway to the lift. Leo bounced through, wriggling as he stopped by the closed doors of it. It took a few seconds before Charles reached to press the button, his gaze drifting back to Max’s door.

But nothing came through it, no sound, no voice, nothing.

He sighed as he slipped through the elevator doors.

He wasn’t as patient, the next week over.

This time, he waited until Max’s door opened, until the voices carried through the corridor again in parting. He wasn’t sure exactly when his plan had come to be so thought out, but Charles knew he had to act fast.

The visit had been on the longer side, the sun long gone, the street lights on in the city, when Charles heard what he’d wanted to hear, what he’d waited for, had expected.

He’d noticed Max didn’t always wait for George to have disappeared before he closed his door, and thus he waited, hand on his own handle as he watched George stepping out, like a well-rehearsed ritual. Luck seemed to be on his side this time. As soon as Max’s door was closed, Charles bolted, opening his own, eyes wide, heart beating fast.

“Wait!” he called.

George’s silhouette had already disappeared within the lift, but his long fingers appeared again, stopping the doors from closing.

Charles glanced down at Leo, who was staring up at him. So what if they’d already had a walk earlier that day? They could walk many times a day, could they not? And what if it was night now, and they didn’t regularly go out at that time, what then? He tried to will Leo through a pointed look, though the pup merely blinked at him. He only followed when Charles reached for his harness and leash and pushed past, closing the door behind them.

At least Leo’s resolve seemed to melt once he was out of the apartment and into the familiar hallway, trotting down towards the elevator.

By the time Charles caught up to him, slipping in the crowded cabin, George had knelt, his attention on Leo, who’d paused at his feet.

“Hello, Leo. What an adorable little creature,” he said quietly as he scratched at Leo’s chin, chuckling as the dog’s paw started tapping the floor rhythmically at how good the touch must feel. “And I do love those.”

He looked up from where he’d bent, catching Charles’s eyes, a glint noticeable in his own.

It made Charles grit his teeth instantly. There was no denying the sharp edge to George’s words, the underlying, pointed meaning beneath them. Yet what could he do about it?

“Hey,” he greeted in what he hoped was an even voice.

“Hello yourself.”

George rose back to his feet, drawing to full height again. “Going out? I’m going to the garage myself.”

“Yes. Yes, ground floor. We are going on a walk,” Charles waved at Leo, who was watching George, squinting now that his hands had been taken away and weren’t actively petting his fur.

They rode silently. Charles glanced aside a few times, though each time he did, found himself fighting the urge to flinch. George was staring openly, the smirk on his face unsettling. He looked as if he expected something- words? a discussion? It made Charles all the more set on keeping his mouth shut, despite how much his plans had originally involved talking. He wouldn’t ask. He wouldn’t let himself do that. He gritted his teeth some more.

The door opened with a soft, familiar chime. Leo ran out into the lobby immediately, leaving the two of them to face each other, uncaring of the tension, heavy as it was.

“I guess I will see you next week,” Charles muttered through clenched teeth. Thhough he’d thrown the words in what he’d thought would land sharply, they made him sound petulant enough that George laughed, head tipping back.

“Sure. You will, mate. Same time next week.”

He walked out of the lift, though couldn’t help himself, pausing to turn back and look at George as the doors closed for it to keep descending towards the garage. Before they did, he caught the wave that was thrown his way.

Anger didn’t leave him after that. It was sharp, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth, an ache in his jaw from how much he gritted his teeth to keep it from spreading. He huffed and puffed all through the walk, and not even the sight of Leo chasing seagulls twice his size could draw a smile from him.

It took until 10, until he’d gotten back to his apartment, until he’d showered, hovering by his couch, still bothered, for it to settle. It didn’t on its own- it wouldn’t have. He’d have seethed all night. No, it was the knocks at his door that helped, that brought surprise up and let the anger melt.

Leo ran to it instantly, bouncing, tail swinging. Charles could only stare from across the living room, frowning.

Ultimately, when he checked the peephole, the sight of Max standing there, at the door, was what drained all the tension from him. He opened quickly, fingers almost slipping on the handle.

“Max!” He greeted.

Max stood, in old joggers and a soft-looking shirt. “Hello,” he said quietly.

They stood still for a few seconds, staring, until Leo caught Max’s attention, sitting by his foot. Max bent, leaning to pick him up. There weren’t many people Leo would let himself be lifted up by without fighting, but somehow he settled easily against Max’s chest. His tail swayed fast, brushing against Max’s side, leaving fur Charles knew would upset the cats, yet Max only smiled and scratched the top of his head.

Charles felt his heart swelling. He ignored it, opening his door farther to let Max inside.

“I thought we could… I don’t know. Watch a movie. Stay up later, to celebrate… We can celebrate the break.”

“That’s…” Charles started, though for a few seconds, no English words seemed good enough. The few weeks they’d have to rest through the summer month felt like a flimsy excuse. “Ouais- oui. That is a good idea, actually.”

Despite everything left unsaid, despite the anger he’d suppressed, despite the images of George smirking at him still there, haunting at the back of his mind, the evening felt easy.

It was everything Charles had expected this to be, he and Max becoming neighbors. Max was in a good mood, sprawled on his couch the way he would be in his own home, feet tucked under a pillow, his hand splayed over Leo’s fur. He still seemed to be reeling from yet another win, and Charles, somehow, didn’t feel as strongly about his own failure to get more than a handful of meaningless points, once again. The distraction George had brought had been enough to replace resentment with anger, but Max’s presence was drowning it all out, as it often did, bringing a blanket of comfort to him.

They’d settled on watching a movie Charles had already watched, though he hadn’t mentioned that when Max had suggested it, knowing how selective in his tastes Max could be. It was good enough he’d be here, Charles wouldn’t be making it harder by having them look for something for ages.

A whisper at the back of his mind tried to remind him Max didn’t watch many movies on his own, he’d said so himself, so it must be special that he was spending time here instead of in the sim. An even darker voice tried to supply this was only an excuse for Max to come around, and spend time with him. Charles chose to ignore those.

He would have done that. He would have thought that. He wasn’t sure Max would have.

He spent his time watching Max more than he spent time watching the screen, watching as Max’s eyes kept drifting halfway through. He looked exhausted again.

It kept Charles wondering once more what it was that he and George could be doing during these visits. He’d thought of everything there was to think about, on a loop, from George and Max sharing turns in the sim for unknown reasons, to dates. To sex. That one seemed to be the most recurring. It just seemed to make sense, that George would come to Max for this.

Training, for whatever reason, a change in contract or a new project he didn’t know about -which felt painful to think of, even if logical- would be more discreet, done in proper, professional environments. Dates wouldn’t be so punctual, only at Max’s place. They wouldn’t be so set, would they?

It didn’t leave many options.

He watched as Max’s head tipped back a few times, as his eyes fell shut, as it became harder and harder to keep them open. And there it was again, the very softness Charles sought each time, yet wouldn’t allow himself to reach for.

Max jolted once, woken by a sharp sound from the movie Charles struggled not to pause in revenge. He looked around, his cheeks flushing before he settled back again.

“You’re okay,” Charles said carefully. “It is fine, if you want to take a nap. You should.”

Max considered him for a moment. He looked as if he wanted to protest, maybe say something about a nap not being a good idea so late, but the fight did not last, for which Charles released a breath of relief.

Instead, Max gave a short nod, and slowly sank further into the couch, leaning on one side, towards him. Charles watched with a hitch in his breath as Max lowered his head, only pausing once it was resting on his thigh.

He froze. For a long moment, it felt like he didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe. Whatever this was, it felt so very fragile, unexpected. An offering. Imagining it was one thing, having it happen was completely different. Max was just as tense as he was, Charles could tell, could see the way his shoulders were drawn tight.

It pushed him to reach forward, let his fingers carefully brush over Max’s bicep, just under the edge of his sleeve.

They were quiet, silent as they both relaxed through the motion.

Eventually, Max’s breathing evened, his shoulders slackening.

Charles watched, a small smile on his lips. Max looked different, like this. He thought this was exactly what drew him to these moments. He’d been wanting this, more even than he’d allowed himself to think. He’d wanted to see that part of Max, the one it felt like he’d only caught glimpses of. They’d spent so many years fighting for no reason, keeping each other at a distance, that this felt like a form of closure he’d craved.

They stayed like this for two hours. Charles’s fingers drifted from Max’s arm to his neck, up to his hair, brushing through the strands he’d often wondered about the softness of. They were softer than he’d thought, he realized, smiling to himself.

By midnight, Max woke. Charles blinked, taking his hand back, letting his fingers hover above soft, warm skin.

“Are you alright?” he asked quietly.

Max took a deep breath, shifting, tucking his face into Charles’s thigh before he pushed up, straightening. “Yes,” he said softly. “I should go back home. I should sleep.”

“Right,” Charles said, forcing himself to nod along. Still, words slipped past before he could stop them. “Long day?”

Max’s eyes widened as he looked up at him. They sat frozen for a long, tense second. Leo was still deeply asleep, his nose and paw twitching every now and then. Charles’s lips twitched with the need to apologize, but just as it grew too strong, as the words were ready to come, polite and neutral, Max spoke.

“Yes. I guess. Long day,” he muttered, and gave a light shrug. His cheeks had grown pink. “But we could do this again tomorrow?”

“We could?”

“If you’re free.”

“Yes. Yes, I am free. Nothing planned,” Charles gave a nod he hoped wouldn’t come across as too eager.

Max smiled, his shoulders sagging.

And somehow, easily, they did just that. Max came the next day. They sat on the couch, watching another movie Charles had very little interest in. They settled faster this time, only hovering for a few seconds as they sat on the couch. Max’s head tipped into his lap, his eyes falling shut within moments. Charles’s hand drifted with more ease, over his arm, his shoulder, along his spine. Through his hair, dragging back the soft strands, grazing along his jawline. It became an exercise in patience to watch, to touch, without taking the way he wanted to.

The last thing he wanted was to go too far, and have it all taken away. It already seemed incongruous that he’d get access to this.

But Max didn’t complain. He woke half an hour after the movie had ended, after Charles had sat in darkness, eyes adjusting enough to drink in the sight of Max’s face pressed to his thigh. Just as he’d risen, Max had invited him over a few days after that, on Monday, after the weekend. Charles, without a second of hesitation, had accepted.

He’d come earlier this time, grateful it wouldn’t be only for a movie. It felt important that Max was suggesting he come before night fell. They had dinner, sitting at his table, the cats sitting with them as they shared food. And after that, when they settled on Max’s couch, it came almost easy to do so the way they had only days ago. Max lay back, still chatting as his cheek pressed to Charles’s thigh. He’d made sure to wear shorts this time, learning from his mistakes, short enough that Max’s skin felt warm, pillowed against his thigh.

Max had stayed awake a moment more, complaining about the premise of the movie he’d picked. Charles had huffed, reminding him of that, only to fall quiet as Max had shifted, turning around, until he wasn’t facing the TV, but him. There had been a floating moment as they’d stared, as Charles’s hand had hovered, but they’d settled. He’d brushed through Max’s hair again, gentle, feeling his heart clench as Max’s eyes fluttered, as his lips slackened, as he tipped his face into the touch.

When Max had fallen asleep then, Charles had allowed himself to take- just a little. He’d trailed his fingers along Max’s cheekbone, along his jawline. He’d fought with his own will, losing eventually, and had touched Max’s lips. Barely, just from the very tip of his index finger, tracing along the jut of them, across the freckles there, his nostrils flaring with the effort it took not to do more.

But he’d behaved, even when Max had nuzzled into his thigh, even when he’d pressed his nose, his lips down to buzzing skin. Charles had watched, entranced, though he’d said nothing, only smiling.

When they’d parted this time, Charles had taken a deep breath and leaned forward, pressing his lips to Max’s cheek. It could’ve meant nothing. It could’ve just been la bise, what close friends did to say goodbye.

But his lips had pressed with intent, and Max had tilted his head into the contact. Not enough to press back into it, but enough to receive the kiss at the corner of his lips with full awareness of what it was.

They’d parted in silence then. Charles had watched Max stumble away, had watched him jam his key into his lock, had stayed at the door until Max’s own was closed. He’d gotten back to his own bed feeling light, for the first time in a while, dizzy with it. With the trust he was being shown, with what seemed to be offered, finally.

And of course, he’d thought this would change everything.

Yet, on the very next day, holding his breath as he hovered by the door, the ping of the elevator still came.

Charles took a deep breath as he pressed flush to the door, frowning, staring into the hallway through the hole in his door.

George walked out, the way he usually did, hands in the pockets of his jacket, sunglasses still on his nose. He strolled to Max’s door, which opened almost instantly, and closed just as fast, making the both of them disappear.

Charles stared for a few seconds.

He tried to keep himself in check, tried to breathe in, and out. But this time, after so long holding back, keeping it at bay, forcing himself not to react, anger took over.

He’d done everything right, had he not? Yet here Max was, still picking George over him. It felt ridiculous, how despite whatever he did, he couldn’t seem to make himself worthy enough to be chosen, even here.

He stormed across the hallway, and there was little hesitation as he knocked on the door hard enough to make his knuckles hurt. It took a moment for him to get an answer. He distantly heard a few low voices before the door opened.

He’d expected Max, though he’d not expected the reddened eyes, the shiny lips, the bare chest.

Charles frowned, lips parting as he tried to find words, the ones he’d had in mind only seconds ago. Max seemed set on staying silent.

Another voice coming from behind rose before he could get a grip on himself.

“Is that him?” George asked. Charles couldn’t see him, but he knew the man must have been sitting on the couch.

Silence fell again. Max stared. His gaze was distant, even when it settled on Charles’s face.

“Max, words,” George’s voice came again. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Yes,” Max rasped out instantly, dropping his gaze, tilting his head back towards George.

“Well, be polite then. Let him in.”

Charles frowned as Max did, pulling the door open further. He took a careful step inside, unsure what awaited, what he’d find, yet too curious not to.

But there was nothing out of the ordinary, except for George where he sat on the couch, legs crossed, arms spread on each side of him over the back of the thick cushions Charles knew too well. Beside him, folded neatly, was the shirt Max had worn. A shirt Charles had gifted him casually, weeks ago, telling Max it would suit him. Charles forced himself to look away from the fabric, gritting his teeth.

“Look who finally decided to show his face, then,” George said. The smirk on his face was wide, amused the way it had been in the elevator only weeks ago.

“What do you mean?” he asked, glancing back between Max, who was still at the now closed door, gaze drawn to the floor, cheeks flushed, and George.

“Well, Max has been waiting for this for a while now. Haven’t you?”

“George,” Max breathed. Charles watched as his fingers clenched into fists on both sides of him.

“No, no. Don’t act shy now. Try again. Haven’t you, Max?”

The question hung heavily between the three of them for a few seconds.

“I have,” the admission was so low Charles barely heard it when it came, though his eyes were trained on Max’s face enough that he saw the way his lips moved.

“You have been… waiting for me to come?” he asked with a frown. But it was George who answered, sighing.

“Max sure has, yes. Blimey, months now, haven’t you? I was beginning to lose my patience. Come back here, Max. Show Charles what you’ve been wanting to show him, then.”

Max seemed to hesitate for a moment more, still resolutely staring at the ground, before he took a deep breath and walked on. When he brushed past Charles, their gazes met briefly. Charles recognized the fragility he’d caught on to a few times, the one he’d sought. He watched as Max slowly moved to George, stopping close to him, and with a flick of George’s wrist, he sank to his knees.

Charles blinked at the sight, breath stopping short.

For a few seconds, the silence that fell onto the room was deafening. Max tipped his head down, hands falling into his lap, curling in the fabric of his joggers.

“Good,” George finally said, quietly, almost a whisper.

“I don’t understand,” Charles muttered, though he took a step closer, frowning. Max’s gaze could have burned a hole by George’s foot, unmoving.

“Oh, come on. You’re rather smart, I’m sure you understand what’s going on perfectly. I’m sure you have for a while now,” George hummed. He didn’t look up from where he was staring down at Max’s face. “Look at him. Needs someone to put him in his place and tell him he’s doing well- isn’t it obvious? I thought it was. I think you do, too.”

He did. Yet he couldn’t help but feel hurt, stupidly angry over the fact someone else had figured it out, had seen this, too, even if he’d had his doubts. It felt like he’d worked so hard to graze this from the tip of his fingers, to graze the softness under Max’s facade. Yet here George was, elbow-deep, so easily.

“So you two are…” Charles’s fingers clenched at his sides. George looked up, cocking a brow.

“Oh, no. It’s nothing like that. I only happened to see it. This, whatever goes on in that head of his. Thought he was being smart, snapping at me.”

“So it is simply… Sex?”

“Sure. Let’s call it that. Would you call it that, Max?”

“Yes,” Max breathed. His cheeks were flushed a terribly bright shade, his eyes still on the ground, making it hard to read his thoughts. George hummed in approval.

“And you want Charles to see you like this, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve wanted this for a while, have you not?”

This time, the word was slower to come. Yet it did anyway, once more, heavier than the first, more thought out despite how short it was. “Yes.”

“Good. That’s good, Max.”

George offered his hand. Charles held his breath, watching as Max leaned forward, and closed his eyes before his lips parted, letting two of the extended fingers press into his mouth.

“There we go,” George said. There was something in his voice that made Charles step closer again.

It was hard to wrap his mind around it, no matter how much he’d thought of it. This. Max being so quiet, yet so open-looking. And at the same time, Charles felt the relief that flooded through him with it. The confirmation that he hadn't been imagining it, the softness. It was there. And Max wanted him to see, was offering- had been wanting to for a while.

It made something in him relent, as if it had been tight, ready to snap, a dangerous rubber band.

George looked up at him, studying him for a few seconds, his fingers still at Max’s lips, though after a heavy sigh, he pulled them back, wiping his spit across Max’s smooth cheek. “Come see for yourself, then.”

Charles took another step closer, until Max was there, at his feet. He reached down, brushing his hair, the way he’d done just the night before. Max tipped his head back, enough his face came into sight again, their gazes meeting.

Charles’s gaze flicked down when he noticed one of Max’s hands uncurling from where they’d been in his lap, to come rest at his ankle, the touch inviting, enticing.

Max’s lips parted. Charles let his fingers drift, to his cheekbone, his jawline, before finding Max’s mouth, invading it. There was a sigh as Max sagged forward, latching onto his fingers instantly.

It felt like a revelation.

“There we go,” George hummed from where he was on the couch. Charles couldn’t bring himself to look at him, couldn’t bear to look away from Max. “Finally.”

Max made a sound, soft, an agreement that could have been a whine. He shuffled on his knees, moving closer until he could press further against Charles's leg, until he could nuzzle into his thigh, breath hot against his palm, tongue still working around his fingers.

“Should I stay?” The question felt important enough that Charles did look this time, gaze flicking back to George.

He didn’t seem like he’d be taking any answer the wrong way. Charles thought on it for a moment. As painful as it had felt to think of at first, Max had chosen to trust George with it. Him. And George did look like he knew his way around this, the softness.

It took a moment before Charles gave a nod. “Yes,” he said quietly.

George hummed in acknowledgement. “Alright. I will, then. I’ll stay a while. We should move to a proper bed, though.”

He rose from his spot on the couch, stepping around it, only to pause. He was waiting for them, Charles realized. This wasn’t about him, George seemed to be letting him know. He glanced down at Max again, who was still staring up at him, tongue pressed to his fingers.

Carefully, Charles took them back. He watched as Max tried to follow them, but didn’t let him, keeping them out of reach. “Show me, Max. I want to see.”

It took a few seconds for Max to stand but he did eventually, albeit a little shakily. He stumbled forward, stepping around the couch, past George who smirked at him, and towards the bedrooms, walking toward his own. George followed, though only once Charles had stepped in first.

“Wasn’t sure we’d be sharing. You’re alright taking, yeah?” he asked, casually, the way he would have talked about something mundane- the weather, perhaps.

Charles’s brows had risen to his hairline. He almost instantly said no, the word automatic, but found himself pausing, lips parted as he thought over it more.

It wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind. He’d wanted to take. For so long, he’d wanted to take, though not like this. But for once, the thought of offering himself wasn’t dizzyingly bad, far from something that made his skin crawl the way it did in other aspects of his life, in the car. When he glanced down at Max, he could only notice that his eyes had snapped up, glistening at the mere thought. His cock was straining against his sweatpants, the front of them bearing a wet patch in proof of his anticipation.

“You can have his cock. It’s wasted on him, with me. But I’m sure he could be very good and use it well with you.”

“Oh,” Charles breathed. His whole body burned, the heat sudden, scorching. “Do you want that, Max?”

Max nodded eagerly, though he seemed too far gone for words.

“Yes? You’ll give it to him good?” George hummed, just as his hand moved up to settle on Max’s shoulder, grounding. Somehow, it was reassuring to see how clinical the touch was. George didn’t touch with love, the way Charles knew he would. It made it easier to breathe, seeing it. “Do I have to tell you again? Use your words, Max.”

“Yes,” the word seemed to spill out, as if Max had been holding it back, struggling to keep it close. “Yes, please.”

“Good,” Charles said, just as George’s lips parted. But the Brit only smirked, giving a nod of encouragement, handing over the reins. Charles accepted them gratefully. “I know you will be good for me. You always are. Strip me.”

Max swallowed, biting his lip as he nodded. His fingers, though trembling, were gentle as they caught in the fabric of Charles’s shirt, dragging it off, letting it fall to the floor. His hands moved to undo the buttons of his jeans, and Charles felt his own breath stuttering as Max gasped quietly when the fabric slid down, and even more so when he reached to take off his underwear, too. His cock was hard when they fell down to the floor, arousal evident in the curve of it.

Max’s fingers hovered.

“Touch it,” Charles breathed. “Touch me.”

Max did. His hand wrapped around the length, careful, reverent. Charles’s nostrils flared as he breathed through the feeling, his own hand reaching for Max’s wrist, steadying it, guiding it.

When he glanced above Max’s shoulder, Charles noticed George was stripping methodically, folding his clothes on the dresser in a neat pile. His eyes were quickly drawn back to Max though, who shifted closer, his head tipping forward, his forehead bumping Charles’s collarbone. Charles could only tilt his own head, brushing his lips at the top of Max’s hair.

When George was done, when he turned back to them, Charles stepped back. Again, Max’s body moved, longing for more, but Charles didn’t stop until he’d moved onto the bed. He lay back on it, thrilled to see the way Max stared.

He was used to people looking at him, was used to people wanting him. But not the way Max did. It had never meant so much.

“Strip before you go,” George said before Max could move, and briefly, Max looked back at him with a slight frown before he glanced down at himself, having forgotten his own state. He wasn’t as careful as he’d been with Charles’s clothes when he shoved his sweatpants down, underwear with them.

And as soon as he was bare, his cock freed, hard, wet at the tip, he crawled right onto the bed, into the space between Charles’s legs, who welcomed him close.

“Max usually preps himself before I come,” George hummed from where he was at the side of the bed. Both Charles and Max’s gazes followed his movement as he stepped around the mattress, towards one of the nightstands, opening it to tug out lube and let it roll towards them. He took one condom, though kept it to himself. “He can show you how well he does that. Can’t you, Max?”

Max’s breath hitched. He nodded. “Yes,” he said, remembering to answer aloud before George could admonish him. “I will.”

“You will get me ready for you?” Charles asked quietly.

Max made a strangled sound as he crawled closer, reaching for the lube George had pushed his way. “Yes. I will.”

“Good. You are so good, Max.”

Charles watched as Max shuddered, his fingers halting, seizing with the praise, before they were moving again, scrambling to get the cap open. Charles could only smile, relaxing into the sheets, parting his legs further.

When Max’s fingers found him, they were reverent again, gentle, slow, wet as they were. Charles sighed as he felt them pressing at him. Max’s eyes were wide, watching his reactions, sweat already beading at his brow, lips wet from how he’d licked over them in nerves.

Charles sighed upon the initial intrusion, only to relax back at how gentle Max was. As his body adjusted, he reached up, his own fingers finding Max’s shoulders where he hovered above him. Max shuddered again, visibly, giving another soft sound, akin to a whine from the mere touch. Charles’s hands became firmer, touching, taking, finally. His fingers moved through Max’s hair, tightening there, which only caused more quiet gasps, just as his other hand settled at Max’s bicep, keeping him anchored.

“Good. More, give me more, Max,” he demanded.

Max did. He did well, gentle despite his evident eagerness, adoring in a way that made Charles’s heart skip a few beats when coupled with the pleasure that crept through him as the pressure of Max’s touch increased.

“Good?” George asked eventually from where he stood still, at the edge of the bed.

Charles’s eyes flicked back to him. It felt foreign, distant, the wave of affection he felt for George, for the small pocket of privacy he’d given them, even after Charles had been ready to despise him. His gaze shifted down, to where George’s hand was loosely wrapped around his hard cock, stroking himself lazily.

“Yes,” he nodded.

George hummed, and slowly crawled further onto the bed. Charles found he didn’t mind it as much as he’d thought. He squeezed at Max’s shoulder until his fingers were taken away. It didn’t take long for them to get situated, for George to settle behind Max, foil ripping in his hands, for Max to crawl closer to Charles, trembling as he dragged his fingers over Charles’s thighs, his hips. Charles let him, sighing, his own hands still at Max’s shoulder and hair.

When they moved, it came easily. George pushed in first, hands tight around Max’s hips. Charles watched raptly as Max’s eyes slipped shut, as he tensed and arched. His fingers were soothing as they found Max’s face again, brushing over his cheekbone. He gasped as they met a stray tear.

George took a moment to find his rhythm, before his hands directed Max’s hips forward. Charles glanced down when the tip of Max’s cock brushed between his legs. He shifted, parting his legs, and one of his hands let go of Max’s shoulders to move between them, guiding the tip of his cock until it pressed at his entrance. George, who’d been watching, took a deep breath before he stilled. Their gazes met briefly above Max’s shoulder.

“Take me, Max,” Charles whispered as his gaze flicked to Max’s face.

Max did. He pressed forward, trembling as it forced him to move from George’s cock to bury himself into Charles, caught between the two. His eyes fluttered, a long moan spilling from his lips.

Charles struggled not to match it, eyes rolling back as Max pressed into him. He hadn’t felt this in a while, the pressure. It felt meaningful it would come from Max, now. The thought made him groan, along with the pleasure that came once his body had relaxed.

“You are so good,” he said once more when he felt his voice was steady. It seemed to be a sign good enough for George, who’d been waiting for one, seeing how he too, pushed forward again.

A few sounds echoed through Max’s bedroom, from heavy sighs, to high-pitched, near silent whines, as they moved.

Their rhythm adjusted. George would slow at times, allowing Max to snap his hips up on his own, to fuck himself back as much as to buck forward. At other times, he would take control more, stilling Max’s hips, gripping tightly, enough that Charles saw his fingers whiten where they pressed into Max’s skin.

He came that way, burying himself in Max, holding onto him tightly, grunting as he spilled into the condom. For a few seconds, they all stilled. Max’s eyes were distant where they were fixed down on Charles, dazed, though his arms trembled, his fingers fisted in the sheets on both sides of Charles’s head.

They all huffed as George pulled back, as he stumbled out of the bed, hands moving down to his cock, catching the rubber clinging to it.

Charles could almost feel it, the way Max’s body clenched around nothing. He found he couldn’t wait for it, for the moment he’d get to take like this, too. Yet he marveled once more at how good it felt to be on the receiving end of it. He shifted, one leg moving up, hooking around Max’s hip to pull him forward again.

It was enough to make Max groan, his hip stuttering up in a few sharp thrusts.

“Tell him when to let go,” George said, and Charles gasped as Max’s hips drove up, snapping into him.

He let it go on for a moment more, looking into Max’s eyes, watching how Max waited for him, waited for his assent, hanging on his words. It breathed power into him, a quiet confidence he’d longed for. Finally, he gave a nod, focusing enough through the pleasure Max was intent on providing. “Do it. Do it, Max. Give it to me,” he breathed.

Max gave another high, keening sound before he did. His rhythm faltered as his head dropped, lips kissing where they landed across Charles’s chest, catching his nipple. He gasped around it, arched his back, and came.

Charles’s grip tightened around the strands of hair he held onto as he felt warmth filling him, felt ropes of come coating his insides. He shuddered, trembling from head to toe, barely able to hold himself up as he gasped. More tears had spilled down his cheeks, falling onto Charles’s chest, his throat, though he was too caught onto the emotions flickering on Max’s face to pay attention to those.

It took a moment for Max to relax again, for his shoulders to stop shaking as much, though his chest was still heaving as he panted.

“Good job, then,” George’s voice came from the side of the bed, where he’d stepped close again, reaching to pat Max’s flank the way he would a dog.

Charles watched as Max sighed, giving a nod, as if quietly praising himself, mentally relishing that he’d done well. Instinctively, gently, Charles’s fingers softened in his hair, brushing it back from his forehead. Max tipped his face into the touch, eyes slipping shut for a few seconds.

When he opened them again, his first glance went to Charles, who smiled at him. Max smiled back, sated, though timid, before he looked at George where he stood, watching them. In his eyes, satisfaction seemed to lace with a quiet, discreet fondness, Charles noticed. Not what he’d first thought, far from the affection he felt for Max. It made it easier to breathe, the distance there, yet the care that showed through. His eyes dragged over the mussed curls falling loosely over George’s forehead, the sharp eyes, momentarily darkened, though still focused.

Charles noticed how George’s eyes flicked down between his legs, where his cock still curved up, wet at the tip, flushed from rubbing against his own abdomen with each of Max’s thrusts. Max followed his gaze. A soft sound spilled from him as he seemed to take notice of Charles’s length.

George gave a hum in return. “Well, are you going to leave him hanging? Look at him. Look at how hard he is. Are you going to leave your- Charles hanging? Put your mouth to use. And clean up your mess, Max.”

Max, as Charles had come to understand, strived to obey. He shuddered as he pulled out, core clenching, but didn’t seem to let his own reactions dictate him. Quickly, he shifted back on the bed, enough so that he could kneel between his legs, lowering himself, pressing his cheek to Charles’s thigh, who groaned at the sight. He reached down instantly, his fingers finding Max’s hair again.

When Max looked up, briefly, time seemed to stretch. Charles took in the deep flush on his cheeks, the way his lips were wet, the few tears running from his eyes. His fingers drifted, brushing along Max’s face again, his cheekbone, his nose, his brow.

“You’re okay,” he breathed finally. Max seemed to soak the words up, sighing in apparent relief. “Do it, Max. Put your mouth to use.”

There wasn’t much more needed. Max did, first doing what George had demanded, burying his face between Charles’s spread thighs, tongue flat as he licked what he’d spilled, that was now leaking out. He was thorough, intent on doing exactly what he’d been told to do, lips dragging over Charles’s skin.

George had stepped back, had disappeared, even, Charles noticed as his gaze roamed the room through the distraction Max was causing. The door to the ensuite bathroom was cracked open, though the Brit wasn’t in sight.

George was leaving this moment for them, he realized. Another flicker of affection welled through his chest, though he quickly pushed it aside to focus on Max again, where he’d pulled back slightly, seemingly done with his task. His fingers were clutching Charles’s thighs, his lips and cheeks shiny with spit.

He looked beautiful, Charles thought again, not for the first time, though this one felt special.

Max glanced up briefly, and Charles nodded, just as his fingers tightened again in his hair, guiding him down until soft lips parted, wrapping around the head of his cock. Max took him with ease, eagerness showing in how he hollowed his cheeks, how he didn’t pull back even as fresh tears welled and spilled again.

Charles watched, enraptured.

His fingers wandered, down to Max’s lips where they were stretched, pressing at the seam where drool had gathered. Max’s breath hitched as they didn’t slow, as they forced their way further in alongside his cock. A string of saliva spilled, dragging down to his chin.

But Max only sighed into it, eyes fluttering shut.

Charles stared dazedly, almost distracted from the pleasure Max’s warm mouth brought.

When he came, his fingers were still hooked in Max’s mouth, pressing down on his tongue, taking what Max allowed- which felt blissfully limitless.

Max coughed as he swallowed, but didn’t pull back, staying right where he was, his fingers clenching at Charles’s thighs. He didn’t move until Charles’s fingers relaxed at the top of his head, smoothing his hair down, soothing his scalp.

Charles watched him as he panted, catching his breath. Max was nuzzling the crook of his hip, working on his breathing, too. He hesitated, before the hand at Max’s hair slipped to the back of his neck and pulled, unrelenting until Max followed, until he shifted. He kept pulling Max up, close, against his side, so they were face to face.

“Are you alright?” Charles asked quietly, just as Max spoke too, at the same moment.

“Is this okay?” he asked.

They paused, staring, only to look away with matching smiles, small and intimate. Charles felt his heart warm as Max shifted, slowly moving to lie down at his side, settle in more comfortably. He hesitated for a few seconds before he leaned forward, resting his head on Charles’s chest, nose pressing at the dip of muscle at the center.

Gently, Charles wrapped an arm around Max’s shoulders, pulling him closer.

“I wasn’t sure you would come,” Max mumbled into his skin. “I wasn’t sure this would- I wasn’t sure you would be alright with this.”

“With George?”

“No- No. George is just…” Max huffed, shaking his head. Temporary, Charles hoped it could mean. “But that’s not what I meant. This is… More. With you.”

“I know. I’m more than fine with it, Max. With you- us. With more. I want it.”

The sigh that fell across his chest let Charles know the relief his words brought. His hand shifted, pausing at Max’s cheek, cupping it and tipping it up towards him so they could look at each other again.

Max’s eyes had always been the same blue, bright, shifting in the light. Charles had lost count of how many times he’d looked for that specific shade, only knew he had. In the blue of the sea, of the sky, in the oil slick on the track, in the livery of Max’s car, the glint of his helmet at times.

Max moved first, though Charles was right along with him as they both leaned towards each other, meeting in a gentle, soft kiss.

Max sighed into it again, which could only make Charles smile. When they parted, Max settled against his chest, this time his face tipped up. He recognized the telltale sign of him trying to keep his eyes open, the way he had when they’d watched movies, over the past week. Charles's fingers found his hair again, gently carding through them.

“We can talk more later,” he offered.

Within a minute, Max’s eyes had fallen shut, his fingers going lax, his breathing evening. Charles let his fingers move in gentle circles over his scalp.

He didn’t look away until George caught his attention, hovering by the door. He’d fixed his hair, Charles noticed, the strands falling artfully over his forehead again. He’d dressed, too, neatly- had even put his jacket and shoes back on.

“You’re leaving,” he said quietly, almost in a whisper.

George gave a nod. “I am. He’s in good hands.”

“I can’t- I’m not sure I can…”

“You’ll do great,” George said quietly. “Don’t overthink it. Text me, if you feel like you need to. But I don’t think you will.”

“Okay.”

“Charles,” George started, tilting his head slightly as he seemed to think the words over. It struck him how long it had been since he’d heard his name in George’s specific accent, the s pronounced in a way he wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to. “You can text anytime. You know that. Right?”

Charles looked away briefly, breath hitching. Did he? George's smile was kind when his gaze flicked back up.

“Right,” he said. It took a few seconds to gather himself enough not to let silence stretch again. “You will be back next week?”

He watched as George paused, glancing down at Max, the way he’d dozed, face pressed into Charles’s chest, fingers loosely curled in the sheets.

“I don’t think I need to, honestly,” he said, snorting lightly. “I think Alex might be happier than Max that you’ve found your way here, you know? He’s not minding this, me coming here, but it’s been driving him mad to have it last this long. Reckon he’ll be glad you’ve come to your senses.”

Charles’s brow rose, though there was nothing he could say to that. He supposed this made sense, too. The fondness, the softness on George’s face at the mere mention of Alex. Max shifted against him, a slight tilt of his head, his nose brushing across his collarbone. Charles couldn’t help but smile again. When he glanced back up, George had stepped back.

“Enjoy your break, short as it is,” he said with a last parting wave.

Charles listened to the way the door closed as George left, the click of it soft, final. The silence left by his absence was only filled with a soft sound that made him look up from Max’s face. Donut had climbed on the bed with them, squinting at him from the foot of it as he curled into a loaf. He could feel the vibration of his purr through the mattress, all the way through him.

This time, he allowed himself to take with little hesitation. His hands roamed over what was offered, over Max’s body, his face, fingers trailing across his features without waking him, his touches careful.

It felt familiar, Charles thought, smiling as he leaned back into the pillows. The way Max felt.

The familiarity they’d grown to find in each other was there, curled within, hidden in plain sight.