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vikaspn · 18 days ago

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Twelve Grapes

-chapter 9, part 2 - Successful, a winner

"Say it," Charles murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. A dare. A challenge. A mistake.

Max leans in just slightly, just enough to make Charles feel it, to test how much he can take, as close as he possibly can without touching Charles' face.

"Don't tell me you don't already know."

"We shouldn't."

"Then don't."

word count: 7k too many warning: minors DNI, smut all the way (probably the first time I'm actually proud of a scene like that lol AND first smut from Max's POV), tiny tiny hint of toxic vibes you know how it is

Max stands still, waiting for some reaction and when nothing comes from Charles, he simply exhales and turns back to unpacking, as if this is just any other night. Charles watches, dumbfounded. His fingers twitch at his sides, the heat in his chest growing with every second Max refuses to take this seriously. He had a whole speech drafted in his mind and now he feels like an actor who forgot his lines.

"Do you want a beer?" Max asks as he approaches his fridge.

"Wha-I don't-" Charles is stuck, still not able to process just how casually Max is acting. His pulse is hammering, his hands already curled into fists, but Max is just… What? Making himself comfortable?

"Maybe we could put on a match, since you're here, I think tonight they play in-"

"Could you shut up for one fucking second!"

Max pauses, then–smiles.

"And stop smiling!"

"Okay," Max says easily and pops the lid of his beer. He takes one small sit and the speaks again. "What do you want me to do?"

Charles shakes his head and his hands fly up and down. "I don't know, be mad that I basically broke into you apartment?!"

Max tilts his head, considering. "It really is not as surprising as you might think, if it was anyone else-"

"Stop this," Charles exhales maybe too loudly. His chest is too tight, his breathing shallow, and Max's absolute calmness is making it worse. "Why are you doing this. Pulling out of the race, like it's no problem."

Charles has an answer he'd love to hear slip from Max's lips. One that would make this all make sense, one that would prove something he doesn't even want to admit he's searching for. But he can't even allow himself to think about it. He knows better than to fall into that trap. Doesn’t he?

Too late. Probably.

"Thought it was unfair for you to get dragged through the shit all by yourself," Max says lightly, as if the topic of their conversation were the current weather conditions and takes another sip before he continues. "I asked Lewis if he would join the boycott, you'd think with his constant activism he would be the first one doing, funny enough-" he speaks and it looks like he is more than excited to tell a very amusing story that will drag on for minutes, so Charles stops him while he still can. He raises his finger and puts on a stern face.

"This isn't how it works, Max. You don't get to miss races just because I had to."

"Why not?" Max shrugs. "Felt unfair. I fixed it."

Charles lets out a humorless laugh. "You fixed it? So now what, we boycott races together? Are we a movement now?"

"Charles," Max sighs. "It's one race. I'll win the next one." The smugness dripping from his voice is unbearable, but when it's paired with that lazy, relaxed smile, Charles has to physically clench his fists to keep himself from throwing something.

"Never took you for an LGBT activist," he spits his words like a venom, the memory of Max, standing in the same kitchen as they are now not even full two years ago, Max who almost begged him to hide their relationship, still plaguing Charles' mind.

"Never was and never will be," Max replies, unphased.

"So, why are you doing this?"

Shoulder shrug. "Don't like Jeddah anyway."

The answer is so maddeningly Max - absurd and out of this planet. Charles says the words before he's able to think about it. "You're impossible."

There it is. Like a theme song of an old favorite TV show. Charles freezes, refusing to meet Max's eye.

"Always was," Max replies, drifting of the usual script.

Charles looks up and stares, saying about thousand things without opening his mouth. He doubts Max can pick up on any of them. He wants to break the silence before it crushes him whole. But the words dissolve before they even reach his tongue.

Because Max is still standing there, like it's all so easy. Like something inevitable is about to happen.

And Charles - God help him - wants to let it.

It's Max and Charles. Two magnets staring at each other, and one of them finally turning.

Charles doesn't know which of them budged first - whether it was him, stepping into the pull, or Max, shifting just enough to change everything. But the force is there, undeniable, pressing against his ribs, tightening the air between them like an invisible string pulled too taut.

For so long, they've been forced into opposition, locked in a push-and-pull that never quite aligned. Too similar, too stubborn, too much of everything all at once. The same poles repelling, no matter how much force tried to hold them together.

But this - this is different.

This feels like standing at the edge of something irreversible. Like gravity has shifted, and all Charles can do is fall.

"Fine, let's watch some football," he says, because what else is there to do in this situation. Nobody ever gave him a manual for life. They won't race in Jeddah no matter what happens.

Max doesn't move when Charles speaks, just watches him for a beat longer than necessary. He knows Charles. Knows when he's looking for a fight, knows when he’s struggling not to say something that might wreck him. Senses when he's already made up his mind about something, even if he won't admit it yet.

"Fine, let's watch some football."

It's a retreat. A messy, temporary surrender. Max smirks but doesn't push, just reaches for the remote and flips the TV on. The glow of the screen cuts through the soft lighting, casting flickering shadows against the walls.

Charles drops onto the couch with a loud tuff, stiff like he's still bracing for impact. Max lets him be. Take the sight in, before he cracks open another beer, puts it in front of the Monegasque and sinks into the other end of the couch. Charles grabs the beer and stretches his legs out on the coffee table. This has Max having to swallow a laugh. He knows exactly what kind of passive aggressive intent is behind this and he won't give Charles the satisfaction by reacting to one of his biggest pet-peeves.

A few minutes pass. The game starts. The commentators fill the space between them with chatter and crowd noise.

And then, inevitably -

"So when did you decide?"

Max glances over, raising an eyebrow. "Decide what?"

Charles gives him a flat look. Like he knows damn well Max is playing dumb but is too stubborn to acknowledge it outright.

"To pull out of the race. Was it after the FIA refused to back down? Did you just wake up and think, ‘Oh, I'll skip this one, it's fine’?"

Max expected Charles to act out and to be fair, it's probably the main reason behind his current actions. A part of him still can't believe Charles is standing here again, in his apartment. Funny how the longer hair Charles has these days suits him. Max takes a sip of his beer, dragging it out before answering. He won't tell Charles boycotting the race was the first thought he had when he read the statement damning Charles. He'll keep to himself just how easy it was to make this decision. Honestly, it's so painfully obvious one, that Max does not really understand why is Charles acting so surprised. "Tuesday morning." The news came on Monday afternoon, so that lie seems realistic, right?

"Tuesday - Jesus, Max." Charles exhales sharply, shaking his head. "You didn't even -

"Didn't even what?" Max cuts in smoothly. His tone is light, but there’s something sharper underneath. "Didn't even think about it? Didn't even consult my team? Didn't even consider the consequences?"

Charles blinks, momentarily thrown off by Max anticipating every accusation before he can even launch it.

"Yeah," he mutters finally.

Max shrugs, eyes flicking back to the screen. "Well, I did. And then I did it anyway." If he knew just how many people Max managed to have working overnight, he’s probably flip out.

Charles makes a frustrated noise, shifting in his seat like he physically can’t sit still. "That's not how this works, Max."

Max doesn't take his eyes off the match. "Seems to be working just fine."

"You're impossible."

"We covered that already." Every time Charles says this, it puts another dagger into Max's heart. Serves like a bright reminder that this is just a momentary relapse of the past–and probably not even that. He decided the second his concierge warned him about Charles' presence that he was going savor every damn minute of it. Play pretend with the past he let slip through his hands. Fake it, as if they'd made it.

The commentator yells something about a near-goal. Max barely registers it. He's too aware of Charles, of the restless energy radiating off him, of the way his knee is bouncing slightly, the way he keeps looking at Max like he's waiting for him to say something else.

"Did you really ask Lewis?"

Max tilts his head, considering. "Technically, I asked him. In a hypothetical way."

Charles scoffs. "A hypothetical way?"

"I might've said something like, 'If someone were to boycott Jeddah, do you think other drivers would follow?' And he said probably not, because people have short memories and even shorter attention spans. But he pointed out it would be the right thing to do. And out of all people, he’s benefiting from it the most."

Charles rolls his eyes. "And then you went and did it anyway."

"Yep."

"You're such a dick."

Max winks at him, falling for his own illusions. "You always say that right before you start liking me."

Charles glares, but his mouth twitches, just barely. Max sees it. Max sees everything.

They fall into silence again, but it's different now. Not as sharp, not as dangerous. The game is still on, but Max is not really watching.

He takes another sip of his beer, glancing at Charles out of the corner of his eye.

They both know this conversation isn't over.

But for now, it can wait.

He thinks back to his Jeddah escape, honestly it's going to become a funny memory very soon. His moves were sneaky about this one and there is a hint of pride in his chest, because for once, he managed to play the Red Bull corporate machine for his good, instead of the usual "getting crushed by the amount of people getting added on cc’". He approached the PR people first. Played it out as him feeling regretful for his reluctance to express support for Charles in the beginning. The PR people were probably a little too happy about that for their own good. So, they made it almost sound like their own initiative. For better or worse, Red Bull Racing is first and foremost a bloody PR project of an energy drink. And wildly enough, it took only few hours of sneaky Zoom calls with the right people being contacted at the right time, to get Christian cornered and presented to this as a done and approved deal. Even Christian does not have the balls to say no to the global CEO (well, to his assistant…)

Max of 2021 and all the years before would have never done anything like that. But, the memory of the lonely championship podium haunts him regularly. He knows this does not mean anything and that it won't fix mistakes made in the past. He owes it to himself probably more than to Charles or anyone else. Maybe once this calms down, he’ll be finally able to forgive himself.

"So, I have one question, since you seem to be out of yours," Max asks out of nowhere, grateful for the bottle occupying his hands.

"Go ahead."

"Why did you come out? Also–why did you do it few days before the last championship fight race?" Max is never not going to be mad about that one. It's almost shameful how often he thinks about that in the middle of the night. He hopes he's managing to keep his tone casual and that Charles does not pick up on his eagerness.

He dares not to look directly at him.

"I swore to myself I'd come out when I meet someone who's worth stopping hiding."

Max's worst nightmare comes alive. There is someone who gets to hold Charles every night, who gets to hear his darkest secrets–someone who's worth throwing his life in jeopardy. Sour, bitter feeling crawls up Max's spine. The thought of him wrapped up in someone else's bed is sickening.

"We broke up a month after that," Charles adds casually, after letting Max boil in his thoughts. He can't help but look–and of course, there is a little evil smile glazing his lips. Dramatic. He's doing this on purpose.

"Shame," Max lies and hides his emotions behind the bottle of his beer.

Max leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, rolling the beer bottle between his hands.

"You still haven't answered my question," he says, keeping his tone even.

Charles raises an eyebrow, feigning ignorance. "Which one?"

Max exhales through his nose. He's not playing this game.

"Why did you come out then? Of all possible moments, why a few days before the most important race of my life?"

He watches Charles closely, waiting for the usual deflection, the casual half-truth. But there’s a flicker of something else, something Max recognizes from years of knowing him—hesitation.

"What do you think?" Charles asks eventually, eyes fixed on the screen.

"I want to hear you say it."

Charles shifts, stretches out like he's trying to get comfortable, but Max knows him too well. Knows his typical stalling.

"Because if I did it after, people would talk about it all winter," Charles finally admits. His voice is steady, but his fingers tighten around the bottle. "I wanted it to get buried under the championship. Under you and Lewis and Abu Dhabi. The moment the race started, it stopped being the biggest story."

Max lets out a short laugh, bitter at the edges. "That's bullshit, Charles."

"Yeah, well." Charles shrugs, still not looking at him. "It worked," he mocks Max's accent to prove a point.

Max doesn't say anything at first. He doesn't have to. Charles is watching the match, pretending this conversation isn't happening, like he didn't just drop a piece of information that makes Max's stomach twist.

"You could have told me," Max mutters.

"Why? So you could stop me?"

"So I could—" Max stops himself. He doesn't know how to finish that sentence without saying something he shouldn't.

Charles glances at him then, just briefly. Like he knows. Like he always knows.

The tension settles between them, low and humming. The match is still going, but Max couldn't say the score if his life depended on it.

"You still think about it?" The tension builds, thick like syrup, slow like the inevitable. Max isn't sure when the football match turned into background noise or when Charles' presence became the only thing he could feel. It's always like this—Charles walks into his space, and suddenly, it belongs to him.

Max’s eyes flick to Charles. "Think about what?"

"That night."

Max grips the bottle tighter.

"You'll have to be more specific, Charles. We had a lot of nights." Adrenaline starts pumping thought Max's veins as he says it.

Charles rolls his perfect eyes, but there's something sharp in them. Something Max has no business chasing anymore.

"You know which one."

Max does. Of course he does.

"No, actually. Enlighten me." Max pushes, because he can't help himself. This new, older Charles is perhaps even more hard to pull away from that his shy past self.

Charles exhales, shaking his head. He's staring at the screen, but Max can see the tension in his jaw, the way his breathing has changed, just slightly.

"You really want me to say it?"

Max shrugs, feigning indifference. He should look at the match. He should leave it alone.

"I remember everything," Max says instead.

Charles' breath catches. Not much. Not noticeable. But Max sees it.

The air shifts. The silence turns into something else.

Charles' eyes flick to Max's mouth, just for a second. It's fast. Almost imperceptible.

Almost.

Max smirks, leans back slightly, but the tension doesn't break. It lingers, pressing against his skin.

"Good," Charles mutters.

And–fuck.

Max is a complete goner.

Something in Max shifts. He can't just sit here, left at complete mercy of the menace of Charles Leclerc. The man haunting his dreams and occupying his inappropriate daydreams. His competitiveness kicks in and takes over. He won't have Charles pushing him. In fact, he needs to be the one who will win this encounter. Have Charles either crumble beneath him or watch him run away, like he always does. It's obvious that Charles is moving on, unlike Max is. Time to claim him back.

Max leans back against the couch, feigning ease, even though every cell in his body is aware of Charles. The way he shifts and bends his legs. The way his fingers tap the bottle in his lap like he needs something to do with his hands. The way he still hasn't looked away.

Max lets the silence stretch, lets Charles sit in it, lets him wonder if Max is going to say something, if he's going to let him get away with this—the tension, the game, the deliberate little pushes.

Then, Max moves.

Nothing dramatic. Just a shift, just enough for their knees to knock together.

Charles doesn't move away. Of course he doesn't.

"You're staring," Max says finally, keeping his voice even.

Charles snorts, shaking his head. "Please."

"I'm serious," Max continues, turning his head slightly. "If you have something to say, say it. Now's the best time to.“

Charles exhales sharply, looking away like he's already regretting walking into this. "You do this every time," he mutters.

"Do what?"

"This." Charles gestures vaguely between them, frustrated in a way that has nothing to do with the match still playing on the screen. Max makes a face, like he's got absolutely no idea what Charles hints at. It earns him a loud sigh from the Monegasque. "Act like it's nothing, like you're not—" He stops himself, lips pressing together.

There it is. A crack in Charles' complex walls he's surrounded himself with. "Like I'm not what?" Max wants in - to say he wants to own Charles is a bit of overstatement, but in order to gain some self-respect back, he needs to see that Charles still reacts to his advances. That somewhere deep inside he still cares.

Charles clenches his jaw. Max can almost see the war happening inside him, the part of him that wants to let it go and the part of him that never could.

"Forget it," Charles mutters.

Max exhales, amused. Never. "Well, tell me—what exactly were you expecting when you stormed in here again?" Max asks, voice smooth, just edged enough to be a challenge.

Charles huffs, shaking his head. "I don't know." He exhales sharply, looking away. "Why would I have to expect anything. I felt sorry that you also can't race. Figured we might watch the race together.“

Max clicks his tongue, leaning in slightly, just enough to make Charles feel the shift, to make him aware of the space between them growing smaller. They both must know that is total bullshit, as they'd be required to watch it online with their teams. Also, the race is in two days.

"Yeah? You just happen to break into my apartment, just to say thank you?" He's pushing, he knows that. It feels like diving into a corner and hoping the other car backs down. Max feels alive again.

Charles glares at him, but it's weak, unfocused. "I never said thank you," his note letting a clear massage in that something like that will never happen. "And–I didn't break in."

"Right, because you sweet-talked my concierge into letting you in. What'd you do? Promise him race tickets?"

Charles scoffs. "Please, I’m much more persuasive than that."

"Oh, I know," Max says, and watches, satisfied, as something flickers in Charles' eyes.

The energy between them shifts, heavier, charged. Max can practically feel it rolling off Charles, like he's fighting something—his instincts, their history, maybe even himself.

Max almost has him. He just has to push a little more.

"You came here for something," Max says, voice lower now, deliberate. "So what was it?"

Charles doesn't move, doesn't pull away. His knee is still against Max’s. His grip is tighter around the beer bottle. A tell.

"You pulled out of a race," Charles mutters, voice tight. "You don't do things like that."

"I just did."

"Yeah, and I want to know why."

Max shrugs, like the answer is obvious, like he considers that whole question plain stupid. "Already told you. Didn't feel fair."

Charles lets out a short laugh, sharp and humorless. He tilts his head slightly, studying Max the way he studies telemetry - looking for weaknesses, for gaps.

"You don't give a shit about fair."

Max smirks. "I give a shit about you."

It lands. He can see the impact in the way Charles' fingers twitch, in the way his throat moves when he swallows. And then - something clicks in Charles' face. Max can almost hear it. Challenge accepted.

"Max Emilian," he says and it sounds like someone pulling a trigger. All the times he's called him like that flash in front of Max's eyes. And in most of those memories, they're lying naked, in some form of shape entangled in each other. Suddenly, it all feels very deliberate from Charles. "You promised once you'll never use games to get into my head."

Oh, Charles is good. Too good. "What do you want me to say?" Max counteracts, pushing forward, pressing Charles exactly where he knows it'll hurt, because it still feels like Charles is winning. "That I did it for you? That I wanted you to come here? That I knew the second I made that decision, you'd show up at my door just like you always do?"

The air between them tightens, the weight of the moment settling over them like a slow, inevitable collapse.

Charles exhales sharply, but he's still looking at him, still holding his ground.

Good. Max wants the fight. Needs it.

"Would that make you feel better?" Max asks, voice quieter now, like a hook thrown into the water, waiting for Charles to bite.

Charles' breath catches. His jaw tightens, his breathing shifts, but he doesn't move.

And then–his eyes flicker down. Just for a second. Just enough.

He’s looking at Max's mouth again. Checkmate.

A wildfire sparks low in Max's stomach, something hungry, something impatient. It would be so fucking easy.

He tilts his head slightly, letting the corner of his mouth twitch up, the ghost of a smirk. Licks his lips.

"Say it," Charles murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. A dare. A challenge. A mistake.

Max leans in just slightly, just enough to make Charles feel it, to test how much he can take, as close as he possibly can without touching Charles' face.

"Don't tell me you don't already know."

"We shouldn't."

"Then don't." But he does. Max manages to hold of temptation long enough for him to crack. The inevitable becomes real. One, two, three breaths later–finally–Charles caves in. He kills all the remaining space between them and presses his lips on Max's. Stays like that for a bare second before he start kissing Max's upper lip and there is not a moment of hesitation from Max. His Charles is back. Kissing him in a way so smooth and perfect the devil himself must have taught him. Max does not wait with his response. Their lips dance together and soon enough Charles slips his tongue into Max's mouth. Licks the top of his mouth and it still makes him crumble, just like it did two years ago. How can a thing you see coming from miles away still be a surprise once it stares in your face?

Images of all the times they'd kissed rush over in Max's mind, and then, just like that, it's all blank. Like coming home after a long a dreary trip. The forbidden fruit has always tasted the sweetest. Charles' lips will forever be the softest thing Max has ever tasted. His hands are finally again roaming Max's body and a temporary illusion, that they never really stoped clouds him mind. Max wouldn't mind savoring the moment and progressing slowly, but by the looks of it, he'd held Charles on the edge too long for that. The visitor once again shamelessly takes up all the space and before he can count two breaths, Charles' legs are locking Max's in. Hands on Max's shoulders, while he's busy pressing his own arms on Charles' back. As if to prevent him from running away again. Charles draws his hand around Max's jaw and then holds it firmly. This new feeling, a move Max has never seen from Charles before, takes him by surprise. As he twirls his tongue in his mouth and mercilessly sucks Charles', new images flood Max's brain. Charles being touched by random, faceless people. Foreign tongues exploring places once reserved for Max only. Charles learning moves from others and using them now on Max's own body. The language they'd developed throughout their shared nights being taught to strangers passing through his bed. Charles, stuck where he does not belong - in hands that are not Max's. Charles pulls away and it only stirs up Max's anger, that is building up in his chest, taking up space together with the breath he's holding. The hand on his jaw has moved to his neck and now rests on his collarbone, just above his heart. Max looks him in the eyes and demands the same from the guy strangling his hips. His eyes speak the secrets he's not brave enough to tell. I’m going to fuck out all memories of anyone else from the cute, devilish brain of yours.

He pulls him in harshly, and while Charles could protest and move away, he only matches and the tops his urgency.

Max feels Charles everywhere. Pinned to him, pressed against him, wrapped around him like he's never learned how to let go.

Max knows better than to let himself believe that.

Charles kisses like he's trying to win something, like he's trying to punish Max. His fingers dig into Max's shoulder, a grip that should hurt, but Max just smirks against his mouth, nipping at his bottom lip like he’s daring him to do more.

Charles always played like he had nothing to lose.

He pulls him in closer, one hand pressing into the small of Charles' back, sneaking below his t-shirt to touch him skin on skin, the other curling around his ribs, trapping him against him like he could keep him here, like he could make this last. Charles' breath stutters against his mouth, and Max feels a surge of satisfaction curl in his stomach.

"That all you got?" he mutters, voice rough, pulling back just enough breathe into Charles' neck.

Charles doesn't answer, just tugs harder at his shirt, pulling him deeper.

It's messy, all of it. Not romantic, not careful, just a tangle of heat and hands and unsaid things. Charles kisses like he's trying to erase something. Max doesn't know if it's himself or the ghosts of everyone else who came after, but his ego wins and opts for the latter.

But then Charles pulls away, and it's not hesitation, not retreat—it's calculation. His hand slides from Max's shoulder back to his throat, resting just at his collarbone, fingertips barely pressing down. A warning, a threat, a claim.

Max's vision tunnels.

He looks up, meets Charles' gaze, and there's something in his eyes that hits Max in the chest like a punch.

Like he's daring Max to say it.

The anger, the frustration, the unbearable, relentless craving - Max isn't built to hold it in.

"You think you're the only one who hates this?" Charles whispers, voice wrecked.

Max clenches his jaw. He does not know what exactly Charles is referring to, however he knows damn well what type of regrets prevent himself from a good night sleep. And loving Charles has never been one of them. It was always the moments he knew he didn't love him enough that haunt him. He bucks his hips up into Charles'. To prove he's at his mercy, again and probably as always. But saying it out loud would make it real.

So instead, Max growls, fingers tightening where they grip Charles' hips, pulling him in so sharply it knocks the breath out of him.

"Play pretend with someone who does not know you the way I do." And he means it. Charles can't fool him. Vice versa and for once, Max accepts that. "Now's the time to back out. I dare you to." Max waits, hovers his mouth just right next to Charles'.

Charles' lips part like he might answer.

Instead, he kisses Max again, harder, like he's trying to shut him up before he says something they can't take back. Max let's all if his inhibitions out. His dirtiest dreams are coming alive and he has Charles' on the tip of his tongue again. As Charles keeps their lips locked, Max leans him down to lie on the couch. He does not have to press too much, Charles goes down willingly. Max takes his chance before he second-guesses himself and moves his hands that are squeezing Charles' hips up, in order to get rid of the hoodie that covering the chest he plans on kissing. Once again, there is no protest on Charles' behalf and it only adds fuel in Max's eagerness. Soon enough, Charles is lying down, half naked and all for Max to take. He had his suspicions that with time, Charles has only managed to get hotter, but seeing the real-life proof is making his assumptions comically underwhelming. Max stares at his toned, grown up chest, hold his now broad shoulders and slowly starts kissing him up and down, from his ever-so-sensitive neck all down to his v-line. He's hovered over him and savors each and every quiet moan Charles grants him. The salty skin shivers under every peck and it does something really dangerous to Max's ego. When he feels Charles' hands that go from being tangled up in Max's hair reaching over to his own t-shirt, he dares to looks up at him. He's met with fiery look settled deeply in the dirty green eyes. His mouth parted, breath seemingly stuck in and pupils dialed up to Max. It's clear as a day. He's his, again. Max is searching for any hint of doubt in Charles' face as he obey his hints and removes his own t-shirt. But Charles is looking him up and down shamelessly, without any remorse, and it makes Max feel proud that he is the one who managed to capture attention of someone so divinely hot and attractive like Charles. He leans back down to nibble the thin skin just above the collarbone and wonders if this spot is still the one that makes Charles melt when touched. It must be, because his arms are now wrapped around Max's shoulders, pushing him down even more. Max reaches over to Charles' legs and guides him to wrap them around his hips. As he keeps kissing him on random spots on his chest and neck, he pushes his crotch onto Charles' and rolls his hips. Even through the thick fabric of his jeans, he can feel both of their hard-ons pressing on each other and it shoots pure lust into his veins.

"Max," Charles lets out in a series of muffled breaths. It's different than when he addresses his casually. Sounds more like a prayer. Max does not respond, instead he grips Charles' thighs even harder. To his amusement, Charles leans into this and rocks his hips up, practically grinding himself on Max. It makes him chuckle lightly.

"Look who's eager now," he whispers into Charles' skin.

"Fuck you, Max," Charles replies and keeps on moving his hips.

This has Max arching up on his arms, so that he can look down on Charles and hover over him. He examines him for few moments, drinks in every detail, because he might just be so unlucky to never see Charles like this again. He wants to photograph this flushed out look. "No, Charlie. Fuck you," He leans in, lips brushing against Charles' ear, voice dripping with challenge. He stands abruptly, offering Charles a hand, a smirk playing at the edges of his mouth. For a moment, Charles looks like he might be second guessing his decision, but soon enough he chuckles and accepts his hand.

"Terrible pun, Verstappen," Charles proclaims as he lets Max lead him over to the bedroom. The Dutchman turns around to flash him a smile followed by a simple answer.

"And yet..." Charles lets out a loud sigh and that's his only response.

Charles is in his bed again and nothing feels more like being home. Max is taking his time removing all of their remaining clothes and Charles lets him take the lead. He makes sure to turn on the lamp on his nightstand while he's at it.

Once they're in the bed, naked and uninhibited, something wakes up in Charles. Max has seen this side of him before, but never this heightened. No longer the somewhat passive figure he used to gradually become under Max's touch. He's not letting him do what Max wants anymore, he's cheeky, fighting back, pushing forward and then pulling right back. He's gripping his arms tightly, kissing and biting at the same time, one moment he's sitting on his lap, making Max anticipate the next move and then he drifts back and has Max having to reach out to pull him back to him. It's making Max worshipping him somewhat complicated. He wants to bend him over, fold him up like a napkin and make him scream out his name until his lungs run out of air. It should be thrilling, the push and pull of it. But something ugly coils in Max's stomach. Jealousy. Not of anyone else, but of Charles himself. Of the fact that he's this unbothered, this daring, this bold. Of the possibility that he's like this with others, too—and then, it comes back. The fear that Max is not the only one who gets to see him like this. He used to giggle under his touch, head his head back and let it all just happen. Now, instead of soft laughs, his smirks are silent, his moves more determined, calculated. It's like the youthful innocence is completely gone. Max presses harder in his kiss, as if hoping to get push some of that old Charles that lives in his memory back into the body that's holding him a bit too harshly.

And then Charles does something new. Something that feels taunting. He's sitting on Max's lap again, leans in, not for another kiss, but to drag his lips down Max's jaw, slow as hell, like he's tasting him. He doesn't press a kiss—just hovers, breath warm, teasing, infuriating. Then, just as Max starts to move, Charles' teeth graze the skin just beneath his ear and bite down, sharp.

Max's whole body tenses.

Charles fucking smirks against his skin.

Oh, so this is what we're doing?

His hands wander lower, nails grazing around his lower abdomen and finally reaching Max's dick. Max had imagined this moment thousands of times when he was alone in the middle of the night. But, Charles' touch is different. It's not his soft fingers playing with Max's skin, it's his nails brushing up and down and he ends his journey by squeezing his balls, up to a point where it's almost painful. All while having this undeniably whorish look on his face. But this time, Max does not find it alluring. There is something repulsive about it, vile and incredibly dishonest. He can't stop his thoughts creeping in, knowing that to anybody else, Charles' current look would seem like the ultimate invitation–come and get me. It should work on him too, maybe Max is the one who's broken beyond fixing. But everything inside screams too loudly to ignore. This is not the real Charles.

And then, as if to fully push Max over the edge, Charles' hand grips his throat—not tight, not enough to take control, just enough to test.

Max sees red. Before he even processes the thought, his body reacts. His hand shoots out, wrapping around Charles' wrist fast and tight, ripping it away from his throat like a challenge he refuses to acknowledge. The moment Charles' smirk widens, Max snaps.

He shoves Charles backward, forcing him down onto the mattress with a force that makes the whole bed shift. Charles lets out a breathless laugh, but it's cut off when Max grabs his jaw, tilting his head back sharply. Charles speaks before Max can gather his own thoughts into a sentence.

"Don't tell me you stayed so super vanilla this whole time," he speaks with tone spiked with un-like Charles cruelty. He pairs his statement with a seductive shuffle of his hips against Max's. He's trying to mock him, but Max somehow finds it in himself not get lured into this fake trap. Charles continues, when he does not get a reply. "Pain is a great way to have sex," he says and Max's stomach turns. Because yes, he completely agrees with that statement. He however has one big condition to it.

"It is, when it's not the only thing that makes you feel things."

Unlike Charles' words, Max's seem to land in the dead centre. Not that it makes it any better for him. His smile breaks just a tiny bit and Max feels his body tense down. It's a flicker, quick snapshot into the past.

"Stop being a smartass, Verstappen."

And just like that, Charles is gone again.

"Whatever you say, Charlie," Max concludes and decides to ignore the warning signs ringing off in his head.

He prompts Charles' legs up with more force than he'd normally use. Makes his way over to his hips and without anything else apart from his tongue, touches his cock up and down. Licks over the tip few times and the magic works quickly. Immediately, he is lost in the perfect shape again, his hunger for Charles stronger than ever. Max finds himself closing his eyes for a moment and allows his mind to drift back to when this was a normal occurrence in his life. When Charlie's legs were less toned and his pubes untrimmed. He puts one of his legs over his shoulder and uses his free hand to start roaming around Charles' hole. To his surprise, it is tightly shut, leaving it all for Max to get worked up. Nothing could make him more happier. He opens his eyes again and meets Charles'. It's somewhat less sour this time. His finger is drawing small circles around the opening and already it's doing something to Charles. Max observes, like he's afraid to miss any piece of information written over on his face.

"Tongue," Charles whispers so carefully it's almost cute. "Please." Max smiles and obeys him this time.

Immediate, he's tasting Charles with his tongue and plays it up together with his finger, that gently finds the way in. Max takes his time, cherishing every moment he gets to do this.

"More," Charles demands and Max finally leans over to grab his lube, shakes the bottle up, hoping it hasn't got that much stale, and lubes up his fingers before he adds a second one.

Charles is responsive, sure. His chest rises and falls too quickly, his lips parting on breathless sighs—but it's strangely controlled. Measured. Like he's rehearsed this reaction, like he's making sure it's just good enough to be convincing, distracting enough to fool anyone that desires him.

Max doesn't want good enough. He wants real.

He pulls back slightly, lips slick, breath warm, and tilts his head up to meet Charles' gaze. For a second, he's hopeful.

Charles' pupils are blown wide, his cheeks flushed, but there's something still lingering beneath the surface. Something wary.

"Charlie."

Max watches the way his throat bobs. The way his fingers flex on the sheets, curling, uncertain.

"You with me?" he checks, unsure he will believe the answer anyway.

Charles blinks. Just once. And it’s so goddamn fast, so practiced, Max almost wouldn't have noticed.

"Yeah," he says casually and leans up. "Don't stop now." His tone is encouraging, smile bright as the day. He moves up more and gestures Max to remove his fingers from him. Max does such without any objections, just watching whatever is happening below him. Charles turns around and arches his back down, sitting on his knees, hands crossed under his head. It's impossible to deny how hot this view is, Charles almost presenting himself like a little snack for Max to devour. Max does not spend too much time on thinking, instead he lubes himself up, strokes for few times and after what feels like a lifetime ago, slowly pushes his cock in. And it is just like it's always been. Overwhelming, divine and irreplaceable. He holds Charles by his hips and allows himself to drown in the feeling. The warm grip. The way he can feel every inch of Charles. He starts slowly moving in and out, making sure to hit up his prostate.

Charles start to whimper almost immediately. Moaning loudly, maybe too loudly Max thinks, but he does not let that affect his rhythm. He's picking up the speed and it does feel like being let back to paradise.

"Oh my God, you're so big, so good to me," Charles whines and grips the sheets hard. Max keeps pounding and watches as Charles keeps saying more words and with each new phrase Max feels less and less aroused.

That should be good. Hot and irresistible.

And yet—it's not.

Because something still feels off.

Because it's not real. For a split second, his hips slow, hesitation creeping into his bones like a bad omen. It's the tone with which Charles says it all. The way the words roll off his tongue too easily, too rehearsed, almost no matter what is actually happening.

"Keep going, oh, mon dieu."

The first time, it makes Max's stomach twist in pleasure. The second time, it makes it twist in doubt. By the third, it feels wrong.

Charles arches even further, pushes his ass up, angles himself into something almost obscene. Performing. Max watches him grip the sheets, moan like a fucking pornstar, whimper at every thrust.

Max knows what Charles sounds like when he's being fucked. He knows the sharp inhales, the stuttering moans, the way his voice gets caught in his throat when Max hits the right spot.

He knows how Charles used to whisper his name like a midnight wish, how he'd cling to Max's arms, leave bruises in his skin like he was trying to keep himself from floating away.

This isn't that. This is wrong.

Max grits his teeth, tries to push the thoughts away. Tries to focus on how Charles feels around him, how perfect, how warm, how familiar.

But then—"Fuck, baby, you're stretching me so good."

Max's whole body locks up. No.

No. That's not—that's not him.

"You like that, don't you?" Charles purrs, twisting his head just slightly over his shoulder, eyes lidded, expression sultry. Max freezes.

Because he's seen that exact look before. Not on Charles. Not on him at all. But on someone else. Someone Charles must have learned this from.

His hands go still where they grip Charles' hips.

"Charlie," Max breathes. His own voice doesn't sound like him.

Charles makes a high-pitched, needy little sound, grinding back against Max's cock, like he didn't even hear him.

Like he's acting through it.

Right. That's it. Enough. He pulls out almost violently and flips him over again. This obviously catches Charles off guard and Max is happy that he is now staring at a confused man, instead of this wannabe whorish persona that seems to have settled in.

"Stop whatever this is," he says sternly, his voice so strict it almost surprises him, but does not stop him. Charles watches him, dumbstruck. "You want pain? Is that the only thing that works on you anymore?"

No answer. Charles seems genuinely surprised.

I can tell you're faking something, Charlie. Max keeps this thought to himself. Instead he burns his stare into Charles' eyes, looking for answers that don't seem to be there.

"Fine," he says and mimics Charles previous move, licks his neck down to his shoulder and bites into his flesh. Hard. So hard that Charles hisses and then cries out in pain. Max holds on for just a little when he hears him and then releases his grip. Moves up back so that their faces are almost touching. Charles is breathing heavily and is obviously taken back.

"You with me finally?" Max asks in a tone that does not allow any room for more lies.

Charles nods few times, looking almost scared. Max shakes his head. This is not how they play.

"Real words, Charlie. Words and eyes, I know you can do it."

Gulp. "Yes, Max."

"Do you want to do this? For real this time? No bullshit?"

He waits as Charles tries cling onto these walls he built up. He fails. "Yes," he breathes out and it sounds almost desperate. But, honest.

At last, Max finally feels like he's getting through to him. As a reward, he leans over to kiss him hungrily. While he lets his tongue get sucked in by Charles, he gently brushes over the bite mark on his shoulder. He pushes down any notion of guilt. Strangely, for the first time this evening, Max is actually eager to proceed and fuck Charles. So, he does. Without breaking the kiss, he pushes himself inside again–and Charles falls apart in his arms. His body relaxes instead of tensing up, he lets himself be held and sighs into Max's mouth. Warmth spreads through Max's insides and this time, he can focus on the heavenly sensation that is fucking Charlie. He's gentle and slow at first, as if he's starting all over. Hovering over him, letting his breath hit hits cheeks, planting small kisses on his mouth. Then, he goes and makes Charles his again.

He pushes in and out, increasing the speed and while pleasure sets in as he looks into Charlie's eyes that seem to have some color in again, he thinks about all the other people Charles had been with and what could have made him turn into someone who would rather fake things than go and search for something real. He holds him tight and does not let his eyes look anywhere else but into Charles'. Soon enough, there is it–the soft whimpers that haunt his daydreams. Charles lets go and relaxes completely, Max feels it everywhere their bodies connect. Max's name starts to roll of Charles' tongue and it sounds like the greatest melody ever written.

And as he keeps moving and blood starts to leave his brain completely, lack of oxygen clouding his mind and unavoidable pleasure setting in, he can't stop his mouth from speaking.

"I will fuck anyone else out of your brain. You're mine. Always were and always will be." He's thrusting and Charles is clenching over him. Max is close. He tries to prolong the end as much as he can. Still so much to say.

"You and me, Charlie. No bullshit."

Heavy panting echoes under him. "Please."

"Charlie."

"Max."

"Charlie," he cries, almost in pain, but it's pure pleasure.

"Max," he joins and it's so sincere it almost hurts.

"Charlie."

"Max," he breathes and Max can see his eyes getting more and more glass-like. He does not reply anymore, he just watches. A tear forms in Charles' eye and slowly rolls down, leaving Max stunned.

"Color?" he asks automatically, worry slipping though his tone and he stops his moves once again.

"Orange," he gulps and swallows a sob. He blinks and for the first time this evening, it's like he's finally looking into the eyes of the Charles he knows. "Please, don't stop. I want to feel again," he pleas and it almost breaks Max too. It's like the key finally fits the lock. He rests his foreheads against Charles' and mindlessly kisses away the tear rolling off his cheek. I love you, Charles. Still. He desperately wants to allow these words to roll of his tongue for once, but his body is so used to stopping them and the muscle memory is a hard thing to beat.

"Me too," he says instead and slowly starts to move again. This time, he holds him tightly and makes sure to lock eyes with him. After, it was him who taught Charles to keep his eyes open when they'd fuck together. At least this stayed. A tiny mark Max left on his sweet, sweet Charlie.

Finally, Charles stiffs up in his arms and then comes all over their chests, without having to be touched. Max stops breathing and pulls out in the last second, before he inevitably joins him and stains Charles' chest and the sheets next to him.

It's pure exctasy. Max chases air back into his lungs, because it's starting to feel like he's going to black out just by the weight of the sensation only.

He collapses next to Charles, tingles running in every fingertip. It's just so much better in real life than when he tries to replicate this alone. He can't help himself but turn over to Charles again, lying face to face, hair stuck to his face with sweat. Only now he notices just ho good Charles smells. Unlike Max, Charles keeps his eyes glued to the ceiling, no smile on his face, more of a frozen expression painting his face. Max's come down from nirvana speeds up after he sees his face. There is still one lonely near tear rolling down. Was Max too intense again? Too much? He tries to reach for his hand, but he's quickly brushed off by Charles, who seems to wake up from his paralysis by this gesture, new emotion ruling his face. Max knows this one too. Determination. He's absolutely certain of what's to come now.

"Charlie," he whispers, but before he can even finish, Charles is smudging off the residue cum of his chest, moving frantically and gets up, making Max wonder, if his head spins by the sudden move.

"I can't do this," he mumbles with extra thick French accent creeping through and is dressed before Max can even blink. He barely manages to get up, as Charles nears the door.

"Charles!" Max wants to scream, but his voice fails him and cracks, making sound like a desperate calling, rather than a demand. As always, once Charles is on his way, nothing can stop him. Just like that, Max stands alone in his apartment, naked, confused and defeated. Again.

His fingers curl up into a fist and he punches the wall.

chapter 10

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@chezmardybum @biancathecool

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