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It’s a surprisingly busy Thursday afternoon at the bookstore. Which definitely beats organizing the books by author again, so Charles just gets on with it, spends his time at the counter to help the steady influx of customers.
He’d like a bit more variety in the books he’s selling, though. There’s an entire store at everyone’s fingertips, he actually put some effort into scrolling through TikTok to recommend the latest novels that everyone’s gushing about, but no. Apparently saving the planet is all the rage suddenly, and if he’d known that sooner he would’ve spent some time in the non-fiction area this morning, but as it stands he’s slightly scared of the carnage he’s sure he’ll find there after close.
It’s fine. He’ll complain about this to Pierre, tonight, when Charles inevitably calls his coworker to let off some steam about having the balls to take a day off and leave him alone. Maybe over some leftover pumpkin spice coffee and brownies to fully commit to the bit of long-suffering retail worker. If there’s even going to be any left of those goodies, too, Charles doesn’t think he’s seen Valtteri look up from the steamer at any point this afternoon, nor has he waved back at all today.
Very, very curious.
Charles scans the book from the next customer – and seriously, he never thought he’d say it but he was getting tired of seeing Sebastian Vettel’s face – and watches the next group of customers walk in.
*
As expected, it’s like a tornado hit the non-fiction section. It seems to have hit the small coffee bar, too, and Valtteri shakes his head sadly when Charles walks up to that counter, hopeful question on the tip of his tongue.
“Very much out of everything, sorry,” Valtteri says. “What was that, today?”
“I actually do not know,” Charles replies, looking wistfully at the crumbs in the display that are the only remains of the day’s brownies. “Nothing in the back, either?”
“Charles. You know I don’t have a back. I can make you a latte but that’s about it.”
“I will trade you one chocolate bar,” Charles immediately offers. “No one wanted the ones near me.”
“Understandable.” Valtteri chuckles when Charles dramatically sighs. “But I accept. The darkest chocolate one, if you have.”
Charles can hear the sweet tones of the coffee beans being ground as he floats back to the counter, starts to pick out the requested candy when the bell rings, signaling another customer. He should’ve locked the door, clearly, because even bookstore customers can’t fucking read.
“I am sorry, but we closed ten…”
“Please let me stay here for a moment,” the guy pants, pushing the door closed as if he’s being followed. “They won’t stop following me.”
He knows that face.
How could he not, after seeing that exact face stare up at him all fucking day.
At this very moment, however, Charles is seriously starting to question Vettel’s sanity – if it was indeed the guy, but Charles’s didn’t know who else it could be – because while he’s still leaning his full body weight against the door like he’s trying to save himself from the end of the world, the streets outside are empty.
“Who is following you?” Charles asks, taking a few steps back so he’s near enough to the counter to duck behind it, if necessary.
“The fucking vultures,” Vettel spits out, looking over his shoulder. “Ah, they found me. Too late. I’m sorry.”
The door actually moves when the first few people push up against it, lenses squeaking against the glass, unintelligible shouting making its way inside.
Further protests die in Charles’s throat and he quickly grabs the keys from next to the till, rushes over to the door to lock it and keep the paparazzi out. There’s someone yelling, some banging on the windows, and Charles quickly pulls Vettel over to the coffee bar so he can catch his breath.
“Another?” is all Valtteri asks, like this happens every day. Charles thanks whichever deity will listen that Valtteri is unflappable as ever. Charles grabs the cup that was already waiting for him on the counter, offers it to Vettel, waits for Valtteri to finish the second one.
“I will repay you,” Charles promises.
“I’ll hold you on that,” Valtteri simply replies.
“I’m so sorry for coming in like that,” Vettel starts when Charles sits down at the table. “I did not think there would be so many people, or that the paparazzi would show up, or follow me. Thank you for letting me inside. Oh, ah, I’m Sebastian, actually. Call me Seb if you want.”
“Trust me, I know,” Charles says. “Did you have a, a… an event here? Doing the activism?”
“Please tell me you did not let me in to harass me more,” Vettel- no, Sebastian sighs, sinking down further in his chair. Charles’s back hurt just looking at his posture.
“No, what? I have been selling your books all day. I was confused. This is all.”
“Ah. Yes, I had a panel. Britta said it was sold out. Actually I should call her, she will be worried…”
“You can use our phone if you lost yours,” Charles offers. Sebastian nods gratefully and disappears in the direction Charles points in.
“I have to leave now,” Valtteri says. “You will lock up?”
“Yes, no worry. Let me know if the people are gone outside?”
“Will do. See you tomorrow.”
Valtteri disappears and Charles lets his head fall down onto his arms, the table still sticky underneath his skin. This was supposed to be a quiet shift. Why is this happening.
“She should be on her way,” Sebastian says as he comes back, sits back at the table and takes another sip of coffee. “Is your coworker… Are you actually supposed to go? I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“Charles. And this is fine. I really can’t let you go out alone like this, I can wait.”
“If you say so. Thanks, at least.”
“Not a problem.”
It’s not like he had any real plans for the evening, anyway. Pierre will understand if he calls a little late.
*
The next day starts deceptively quiet.
Which is fine by Charles, he’s still thinking about the previous day, how nice Sebastian had ended up being, how long they’d talked about everything and nothing, until his PA – Britta? He thinks that’s her name, at least – started blowing up Sebastian’s phone because she was there, car with tinted windows in tow.
It had been fun, but now it’s time to move on and face the relative normalcy of his job.
Except maybe there is no such thing as normalcy, Charles sighs, when the third group of young people comes over to his counter. They have copies from the hastily delivered new batch of Sebastian’s books clutched tightly to their chest, instead of books from the carefully curated Bestsellers table that Charles spent so much time on this morning.
“Can you tell Seb we love him?” the one most in front says.
“And we hope he will feel free to be more than an ally!” someone in the back pipes up, too.
“Uh. Why?” Look, this is the third group, these are at least talking instead of giggling, maybe he can figure out what’s going on.
“It’s okay, the secret is out,” the blonde to the side says with a wink. “You can admit you’re in love.”
“In love… with who?”
The one in front sighs, pulls out their phone and taps a few times.
“We saw the pictures. It’s really okay. We think you’re a lovely couple, honestly! I’m only a little jealous of you!”
Charles’s mouth falls open, barely restraining himself from snatching the phone so he can take a closer look.
Because on the screen, there is a picture of him and Sebastian, sitting in this very store, talking over coffee, the text VETTEL MORE THAN AN ALLY? accompanying it.
He has to admit, he could see how people thought they are a couple, based on that picture.
On the other hand, what the fuck.
He doesn’t remember what he tells the group, just remembers storming over to Valtteri and downing a shot of pure espresso straight after they leave.
Valtteri looks worried, but doesn’t pry. This is why he likes Valtteri.
Charles takes a deep breath, nods solemnly at Valtteri and walks back to the counter. Things can’t get much weirder, right?
*
Of course things get weirder. Much, much weirder.
At least it’s a Friday and they’re properly staffed, so when the first journalists come in, Pierre lets Charles hide in the back of the bookstore until they’re gone. Charles laments not letting Valtteri use this as storage for the cafe part. Now he can’t even sneak a few cookies while he waits.
“What do they want with you and Vettel?” Pierre asks, when he’s pretending to look in the back for a book they all know is sold out.
“He hid from the paparazzi here yesterday. Apparently that means we date now,” Charles groans. “I have been following the Twitter about this, they have shared the name of this bookstore now.”
“That does explain why everyone comes in to ask about him.” Pierre scrolls on his phone, raises an eyebrow. “You might want to lock your Instagram, too.”
“Oh fuck.” Charles scrambles to go to the app and private his account, but it’s too late. His follower count has already tripled in size, the app almost crashing with the amount of notifications that won’t stop pouring in. “What do I do? I can’t work like this.”
“I do not think you can go home like this, too.”
Charles makes a strange noise, in between a chuckle and a whine, and Pierre pulls him into a hug, rubbing his back soothingly.
“We will figure this out. I will call Silvia and ask if she can get someone to cover for you, maybe she can come in herself. Valtteri offered to drive you home, he needs a break anyway.”
“I owe you guys my life,” Charles says.
“Who would want your life,” Pierre jokes. “Now, just stay here, Valtteri or Silvia will come pick you up, okay?”
“Thank you.” He really can’t say it enough, but Pierre waves him off and disappears again. Charles sinks back down on a convenient table and keeps scrolling social media, checking Sebastian’s accounts to see if he has posted something, anything, to correct this.
He hasn’t. Of course.
And since he doesn’t follow Charles, because why would he, there’s no way for Charles to reach him, either.
Fuck.
*
When he’s finally made it home, Valtteri somehow managing to smuggle him out of the store even though it’s positively surrounded by now, Charles does think of a way to reach Sebastian. Possibly. It’s a reach, but he’s actually desperate. He can’t use his phone anymore since his fucking phone number leaked, and he just needs some peace and quiet.
Still, he needs to use his stupid phone to even have a hope of reaching Sebastian. Vettel, he corrects himself sternly. Maybe if he refers to him by last name he can distance himself from all this.
He’s never used his phone this fast, swiping away one incoming call and scrolling to the number of his work quickly, cursing himself for never putting it on speed dial. It takes one more refused call before he can hit the green button himself and he prays it’s not too late.
“Off The Grid Bookstore, this is Pierre speaking, how can I help you?”
“I never know how long our intro is before I hear it,” Charles says.
“This is because you only say half of it,” Pierre shoots back, completely unnecessarily if Charles might add.
“Okay, fine. I need your help.”
“You made it home safe?”
“Yes, Valtteri got me inside. Is he back yet, actually?” Charles is really starting to feel bad for everything that’s happening. He can hear the customers on the other side of the line trying to get Pierre’s attention. He’s still blaming Vettel for not only barging in, but then not even setting this right with the media.
“He is back in his happy place, yes. Can we make this quick, maybe? It is still pretty busy.”
“I would have been done already if you had let me speak,” Charles points out. “No, but I need you to check something. Yesterday, Vettel…”
“Sebastian?”
“That one, the one who made this happen.” Charles flaps his hand, just in case Pierre can feel how callous he’s being about this. “He called his PA yesterday, from that phone. Could you see if her number is still there? I need to talk to him.”
“Oh, are you thinking of asking him on a date?” Pierre’s voice sounds tinny, the way it gets when the phone is on speaker, and Charles can stand some teasing if Pierre manages to get him the information he needs. “Yesterday around 7, no?”
“Yeah, I think so. It was just after close.”
“It is still there, you are so lucky. Almost too many calls ago, though. I will text you the number so no one else gets it, but I really have to go back now.”
“You are the best,” Charles says. “Love you. Will buy you some pumpkin spice tomorrow.”
“You mean you will bully Valtteri into giving you a free one?” Pierre knows his tricks by now. “You should have the number now. I will see you tomorrow. If the mob is still around, call Silvia, okay?”
Charles wants to kiss Pierre on the cheeks, but settles for promising him ever more improbable gifts until Pierre hangs up without saying goodbye. He sends him a winking emoji, a face blowing a kiss, and waits until he’s got Pierre’s response (a dog emoji, followed by a blue heart) before dialling the number that will hopefully set him free.
*
The PA doesn’t pick up. At least Charles does get her voicemail, which seems to confirm he’s got the proper number, but still. Not picking up kind of feels like a bitch move. Maybe he’s just feeling petty over the whole situation.
He silences his phone again and opens his laptop so he can figure out where Vettel is going to be tonight. Maybe he can follow him, demand he clears all of this up.
Just his luck that Vettel doesn’t seem to have any events planned for that night. Or the next week, really, the next item on the upcoming list appears to be some sort of gala in his honour the next Saturday. Charles might be able to sneak into the gala, wouldn’t be the first time he does that honestly, but getting caught is the last thing he needs. He files that plan under the “maybe” header.
He’s idly considering training some pigeons to deliver a message to Vettel when he notices a missed call with an actual name attached to it. Which hasn’t happened in the last few hours, so that’s interesting all on its own. But the name attached to it is Vettel PA (Britta?) and he really should have taken that call.
Well, whatever. He calls back, as soon as he manages to.
“How did you get this number?”
The woman on the other side of the line sounds annoyed. Good. Charles can do that too.
“Because Vettel called you from my store yesterday, just before he ruined my life,” Charles bitches back. He immediately feels a little bad. “Sorry. I do not mean to sound accusing. I have had a very long day.”
“Oh no. Are you the guy from the picture?”
“Sadly.”
“We should talk, then. I’m Britta, but you probably already knew that.”
“I’m Charles. Nice to meet you.”
“Would probably be nicer under different circumstances.” Britta sighs. “I should get Seb on the line too, for this. Can you wait while I add him to the call?”
“I have all the time,” Charles says, then pulls the phone from his ear when a loud beep goes through the line.
It’s silent for so long Charles checks if the call has possibly dropped. Luckily, fate isn’t that cruel, Sebastian just doesn’t seem to be in a rush to pick up.
“Seb, I swear to…” Britta starts to swear when the man in question finally picks up.
“Britta, I told you I wanted a week off,” Sebastian whines.
“You should have thought of that before you made the headlines again,” Britta tells him.
“What did I do this time?”
“Apparently we are dating,” Charles says.
“Who is this?” Sebastian sounds suspicious. Charles can’t really blame him.
“Charles. From the bookstore.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh no indeed,” Britta echoes. “It is all over social media.”
“Why have you not seen this?” Charles bristles. How could Sebastian seem this oblivious about it? “You could have tweeted that this is wrong? Put it on Instagram? You could have done a TikTok if you have to be cool about it.”
“I could not have done that.”
“What the fuck, mate.” Charles is actually offended.
“He doesn’t do social media,” Britta explains. “If you saw accounts, they are from fans, not Seb. Maybe this will make him set up an account, though.”
“I still refuse, you already have enough on your plate,” Sebastian says. “But, yes. I really am sorry, Charles. I did not want this to happen and I would have stopped the headlines if I had known. I will write a statement so Britta can spread it where it’s needed.”
“Cleaning up your mess is my specialty, after all.” Charles can almost hear the shrug in Britta’s voice. She seems nice. Maybe Charles would want a PA like her.
“Is there anything else I could do?” Sebastian asks. “This is my problem. I want to fix it.”
“I think this is the best you can do,” Charles says. He doesn’t want to ask anything more. It’s been enough.
“No, there must… Ah! If this keeps being a problem, you should come to my place. The paparazzi don’t do anything here, you would be safe. I will be here the rest of the week.”
“How is that going to help?” He probably means well, but Charles has a job. Responsibilities. He can’t just drop all of them and basically have a sleepover with the guy who he’s suddenly dating, according to the tabloids.
“He is not lying, the paparazzi know better now,” Britta says. “But it is your decision. Sebastian, don’t push.”
“I was not being pushy!” Sebastian protests. Charles can’t help his smile, even though he’s trying to remain angry. Maybe he hasn’t been angry for a while. It did seem to be a genuine accident, after all, how could he really be mad.
“You have my number now,” Britta takes over again. “Let me know if you want to take him up on the offer while I talk some sense into him. For now, we will handle this. Sorry again.”
By the time the call ends, Charles can finally see some hope on the horizon. Maybe his normal life will be ready for him by the morning.
*
He really needs to stop having hope.
The next day, Silvia calls, offers him a few days off of work until this has all blown over. Or, rather, tells him to take the time off until things have calmed down. Judging by the amount of noise in the background, Charles is pretty sure the store is still being mobbed. Fuck.
He takes the offer, of course, doesn’t want to jeopardize his workplace or his own sanity any more than necessary. Silvia promises him he can get at least half pay, she will have to check if he can get more. Charles appreciates it. Yet another unprecedented event. They’ve gotten good at dealing with those lately.
There’s nothing in the apartment to eat, but a glance outside the window tells Charles he can’t quite slip out to the supermarket either, still a few stragglers camping out on the sidewalk. He doesn’t want to know what would happen if he showed his face on the street.
One look at his bank account says it’s probably fine to order breakfast for once. While he munches on the delivered sandwiches, he checks his phone, deleting all calls, messages and voicemails from unknown numbers.
Until he hits one that doesn’t show multiple exclamation points in the preview. In fact, it simply says I really am sorry. Let me know if you need the escape.
One check confirms that it’s indeed Sebastian’s number.
Charles doesn’t let himself think about it too much, blames it on the lack of sleep and the adrenaline that has not stopped coursing through his veins since that fateful evening.
Okay. I would like to stay there.
He presses send.
*
“What made you change your mind?” Sebastian asks, carrying Charles’s bag inside. Charles is perfectly capable of carrying it himself, thank you very much, but he’s also not going to stop Sebastian from being polite.
“My manager called me to say I should take some time off,” Charles says. He feels like being honest. Sebastian deserves the truth, and it’s a good way for Charles to figure out how much he can trust the guy. He’s painfully aware of the fact that he doesn’t actually know him. “And then I did not have breakfast but could not leave the house. I don’t know. How do you live like this?”
“Having this place really helps,” Sebastian admits. “And you kind of get used to it. I mean. Not all the way. But if this is always happening, it feels normal at one point.”
“I hope it does not go there for me.” Charles follows Sebastian through the house, tries not to gape at the pieces of art on the wall, the amount of space. It must easily be two, three times his apartment. He made the wrong career choice, clearly.
Sebastian gives him the brief tour, leaves Charles’s bag on the guest bed, lets Charles freshen up while he goes downstairs again. Charles takes his time, breathes through some of the sudden nerves. When he makes his own way downstairs, Sebastian is on his phone, frowning down at the screen.
“Did the Earth die a little more while you were busy with me?” Charles jokes.
“No… well, it did, but that always happens. Britta released the statement.”
This might be a shorter visit than expected.
“And?” Charles prompts.
“And the people might not be taking it too well.” There’s a hint of frustration in Sebastian’s voice. “They think I want to keep it a secret because of the age difference. Or because I’m not ready to commit. Or… no, I will stop reading now. This is making me mad.”
Charles sinks down in a chair, accepts the tea Sebastian offers him. He’ll ask for something stronger later.
Maybe he didn’t pack enough clothes.
“So now we wait it out?” Charles asks. He’s at a loss himself, here. He really thought Sebastian officially denying it would just make it go away.
“They get distracted sooner or later,” Sebastian shrugs, like it’s normal. “You are welcome to stay as long as you want, of course. I promise next week they will have something else, and you will be left alone too if people realize they cannot find you.”
“I hope so,” Charles sighs. Watch him lose his job over this as well. Silvia is a good manager, but even she would have her limits.
“We will figure this out,” Sebastian says. Charles almost believes it.
*
He has to admit, it’s a nice change of pace, to be at Sebastian’s place. He doesn’t have to work, grocery shop, do any adult things, really. And there really are no paparazzi or fans, chomping at the bit to get to them. He’s trying to enjoy it, even if the reason why he’s here sometimes sneaks up on him late at night, squeezing around his chest until he can’t breathe with how much he misses home.
At least living with Sebastian is nice. It’s almost comfortable. They don’t interact too much the first few days, merely eat dinner together. Sebastian’s off doing whatever, Charles just idly scrolling the internet and playing some games to kill the time, calling Pierre whenever he knows Pierre’s off work.
One night, as he’s bringing the dirty dishes to the sink and feeling desperately lonely, Charles suggests playing a game together. He’s thinking of maybe playing some Fifa against Sebastian, some Call of Duty possibly.
He’s not expecting Sebastian to agree and pull out Jenga. Charles didn’t think anyone actually owned that game, let alone pull it out to play with guests they barely know, all things considered.
Still, he helps Sebastian set it up, tries to remember how he’s always seen it played. Sebastian removes the first block smoothly, places it on top, nods at Charles to indicate it’s his turn.
“If you don’t think you can win, we can always try something else,” Sebastian teases after a few minutes, when Charles has poked ineffectively at a few blocks, none of them seeming like surefire options. Charles won’t even consider it, competitive streak suddenly in full swing, and he manages to get one of the looser blocks out and put it on top, too.
“Beginner’s luck?” Charles suggests sweetly, but Sebastian doesn’t even seem to buy it. They go back and forth for a while, until Sebastian needs to take a few more seconds to find his next move.
“How did you become an activist?” Charles asks. Sebastian doesn’t startle, but he does freeze for a moment before finishing up.
“I just felt like I had to do something, you know,” Sebastian says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know why it became this big, but now that I can make a difference, I feel like I should keep going. I started out doing protests and organizing events and it just grew. I think that is all.”
It’s not all and Charles possibly has even more questions now. How does Sebastian not notice the easy charm he has? What’s the most important to him? Why does he have Jenga?
He asks all these questions and more while they play. Sebastian wins the first round. Surprisingly, Charles wins the second round. After eight rounds, trading wins all the while, they agree to a draw, mostly because neither can keep their eyes open any longer.
Charles’s fingers are aching and his brain is swirling with all the new things he’s learned. Not only does he know exactly why the world is fucked and what there still is to be done about it, he also feels like he knows what makes Sebastian tick now, a lot more than before.
And he hopes he managed to give Sebastian the same feeling, discovering shared interests, like their love for Formula 1 and especially Ferrari. Sebastian mentions how it makes him feel like a hypocrite. Charles distracts him by talking about the latest lost title fight, which ends up in them delving into the strategic and technical blunders that had happened until Charles yawns so hard it actually makes a sound.
“Time to go to bed, I think.” Sebastian grabs the box, puts it away in a nearby drawer. “This has been fun, Charles. Thank you for staying here.”
“Thank you for inviting me.” There’s so much else Charles suddenly wants to say, things he feels sparkling at the edges of his thoughts, undefined impressions almost coming together to form whole pictures.
“No problem.” Sebastian pats him on the shoulder, once. “Sleep well.”
“Yeah, good night.”
*
They start spending more time together, then. Charles avoids his own games more, joins Sebastian in rummaging around in the garden (and of course he has a garden, Charles should have known) and does some research into what Sebastian exactly does. It’s kind of interesting. Maybe Charles should do more with this himself, start at the bookstore and work his way from there. Pierre tells him he’s on his own when Charles talks to him about his plans over the phone.
Sebastian is hiding more old-fashioned games in that drawer of his and they usually end up playing one or another, getting more competitive as time goes on. All of them seem to come easy to Sebastian. Charles tries hard to pretend they’re easy for him, too.
It’s as comfortable as Charles could reasonably expect, maybe even more so. It almost feels like a legit holiday, especially when Charles manages to talk himself out of checking social media. He can’t deny that the comments still singing around are getting under his skin, the outlandish theories that started popping up after all the more logical ones had been exhausted pissing him off.
Anyway, nothing to do about that now. Charles swipes away Twitter and makes his way downstairs, hoping Sebastian has made the good coffee today. The machine is still too intimidating for Charles to do much with himself.
Instead, he finds Sebastian with his head in his hands, looking very sorry for himself. No coffee yet.
“Why are you sitting like that?” Charles asks. “Did the world die a little more again?”
“If only, then I could actually do something,” Sebastian groans. “Ignore me. I will make the coffee in a bit.”
“You could teach me how to,” Charles offers, if only as a way to distract Sebastian. He doesn’t like seeing Sebastian like that. Sadly, it doesn’t work, Sebastian groaning further and grabbing his phone.
“I need to call Britta. I will be back before you know it.”
“Of course.” Charles still moves to the coffee machine to see if he can figure it out. Maybe he can make a mug for Sebastian, too. It never looks this hard when Valtteri does it.
It’s actually surprisingly hard. Charles just gives up around the time the machine makes a menacing hissing sound. He can make some tea instead, water boilers are way easier than this.
He’s settled down with his tea when he notices Sebastian’s voice is… kind of loud. Maybe it carries, or whatever. Charles is not trying to overhear but he can’t help it, nothing else around to drown it out.
It’s in German, making it sound agitated, punctuated by sighs and pointed silences. Charles wishes he’d actually taken that German class in school back when he was younger, but even so, he thinks this is about the gala he noticed coming up. The few words he does grasp seem to indicate that, anyway.
Another few minutes and Sebastian stalks back into the room, walks straight to the coffee machine and somehow manages to magic a cup out of it. Charles is in awe.
“Do you want to talk about what is happening?” Charles asks casually, like he’s not desperately curious.
Sebastian sighs, again.
“I have had the request to take a date to an upcoming event. Britta says I should do it, but I refuse. It is not me. I will not fake a date just because people think it would bring the message across better.”
“You could take me.” It slips out before Charles really realizes what he’s suggesting, but he’s not going to take it back now. He’s curious. He wants to help Sebastian out.
“Did Britta get to you?” Sebastian sounds tired, suspicious as best.
“No, I mean it. Why not?”
“I can name a few reasons,” Sebastian points out. “First of all, what about the photograph that started all of this? Second of all, this is queer activism. I cannot suddenly show up with you if it is not real.”
“But they clearly want it to be real. Why not give it to them? If anything, this will make it all easier to deal with after. They think we are a couple, we break up in a few weeks.” Charles is very proud of his own quickly hatched plan, if he may say so himself. “And you showing up with me is a good thing too, because you show that men can just be friends and it is okay.”
Sebastian’s mouth is only barely not falling open. Charles resists the urge to preen.
“You know what? Fine. Your choice,” Sebastian says. “But if you change your mind, say it. I will not force you.”
Sebastian might not, but Charles is going to force himself at this point. It’s a good plan. He will get his normal life back one way or another, go home at the end of this, go work at the bookstore he kind of misses now with the coworkers he owes his life to at this point (and a few weekend shifts, too, definitely) and, hell, he even misses his favourite pair of jeans, the ones that had been in the wash when he’d packed in a hurry and now he’s not sure if he even can wear them once he gets back home.
He needs food and caffeine desperately, clearly, because that tangent made his heart hurt and he’s not dealing with that today.
Luckily, Sebastian is already making new coffee, pulling out the cereal from wherever the fuck he’s stashed it.
It’s familiar, by now. Homely, almost. Charles can go on one date to repay him for the kindness, right? Even if it wasn’t a date, and even if he shouldn’t feel like repaying this.
Still. He wants to help Sebastian. It’s only natural.
He gratefully accepts his cup of coffee from Sebastian, reaches for the sugar that Sebastian is starting to put closer and closer to the corner of the table, just out of reach by now. They eat in silence, the unspoken words thick between them.
*
Maybe Charles was absolutely born to do fancy events like this.
He’s wrapping everyone around his finger – or so it seems, anyway, people are almost ignoring Sebastian in their attempts to talk to Charles – and it would be flattering, if this whole event hadn’t been about Sebastian.
Because, yes, he might have totally forgotten this, but the event was because of Sebastian, the guest of honour, the main feature in their latest edition, and Charles is woefully unprepared but no one can tell the difference. Maybe he should have looked up what the magazine was actually about, except Charles has seen it cross his counter many times and he thought he knew.
Either way, he manages. Sebastian seems happy to find some quiet corners occasionally, too, filling Charles in on who is who and letting him catch a break, sipping some champagne to fuel his self-confidence again. He can see the cameras swivel towards them when they sneak off, probably hoping to catch an intimate moment or two, but Sebastian doesn’t even pretend to make a move, keeping a careful distance that Charles usually doesn’t get the luxury to appreciate.
“Fair warning,” Sebastian says during one of those breaks, “I need to hold a speech in about five minutes. You can sneak out during if you want, Britta will take you home and I can make an excuse, they cannot expect you to stay forever and I already appreciate you keeping me company so long.”
“No, I want to hear the speech.” Charles is curious now, hoping to see Sebastian do what he does best.
“It is your decision.” Sebastian looks around, shoulders tensing up. “I have to go now. Thank you. Again.”
Charles squeezes his upper arm once, in what he hopes is a comforting gesture. At least it earns him a smile, lips tight against each other but the corners turned up nonetheless, before Sebastian walks away.
He has no intention of leaving. He’s just curious.
The room quiets down as Sebastian gets introduced, and as the presenter details Sebastian’s achievements Charles can’t help but notice the fidgeting, Sebastian rubbing the top of his ears, eyes darting around, feet shuffling. It’s endearing. And when Sebastian finally gets the microphone, the nerves seem to melt away and the Sebastian Charles is familiar with from the media is there. Still endearing, but inspiring, too, and Charles definitely understands now how he’s gotten so many people to care for his causes.
He listens, can’t help but pay attention, enraptured by what’s happening on stage. Until Sebastian gets to his own acknowledgments, and he hears his own name.
“And lastly, I would like to thank who people perceive to be my partner, Charles. He’s a good sport, joining me to this event so I do not have to hear Britta tell me to be polite or that I’m missing another appointment. Maybe I should take you with me more often.”
A few chuckles here and there. Charles tries to avoid everyone’s gaze, but he can feel them prickling in his back, almost painful in their intensity.
He knows it’s just for show – and he can tell Sebastian phrased it deliberately in a way that doesn’t actually call him his partner – but he still can’t help but mull it over, a little. Blame it on the alcohol. What could it be like, to actually be Sebastian’s partner?
He watches on as Sebastian accepts the first print of the new issue, some more ceremonial things happening before Sebastian is finally released, the rest of the party at last allowed to bubble over but Sebastian heads straight towards Charles.
“Did you stay for all of that?” Sebastian asks, incredulous. Charles shrugs, hands in the pockets of his suit, looking at Sebastian through his eyelashes.
“You did a good speech,” Charles says. “I would have hated to miss it.”
“Ah. Thank you.” Sebastian rubs the top of his ear again, and Charles just. He blames the alcohol for the fuzzy feeling spreading in his chest.
He also blames the alcohol for leaning in, one hand curling gently around Sebastian’s shoulder, and pressing a chaste kiss to his lips.
Sebastian’s wide-eyed when Charles pulls away, lifts one hand to touch his lips.
“Why did you do that?” he asks, taken aback.
“It felt fitting,” Charles deflects. “Maybe this will help. I don’t know.”
Sebastian looks at him, really studies him. Charles wants to curl up, away from the intense gaze, but instead stares back defiantly.
“Did you want another drink?” Sebastian eventually suggests. It’s not what Charles thought he would say, but it’s fine. This evening has been full of surprises anyway. This entire week has been, if he’s honest.
“That sounds good,” Charles says, following Sebastian back to the bar.
*
They are actually way too drunk for what was supposed to be a professional event.
Although, Charles has to admit, the final few drinks (which definitely pushed this past the limit of acceptable) only happened in the car back. And in Sebastian’s kitchen. Britta had dropped them off and then hurried away, probably already realizing what was happening. Or at least, that’s what Charles hopes she thought, because it would mean he was not imagining the sudden tension between him and Sebastian, that the attraction came from both sides, the pull mutual.
“I still cannot believe you kissed me,” Sebastian slurs, filling up their glasses again. “And it was not even a proper smooch. They claim we are dating and yet that is how you kiss me.”
“Can you not call it a smooch,” Charles groans. “Do you know how disgusting that sounds.”
“Oh, no smooch? Maybe a big wet smack then. Or, if you want it fancy, a good old-fashioned snog.”
Sebastian is absolutely grinning at him, probably trying to think of other disgusting words for something that should not be referred to as such, and Charles maybe wants to shut this idiot up. With his lips. See, that already sounds better.
He says it, too, threatening Sebastian with it and Sebastian simply opens his arms, tells him he doesn’t dare.
Charles is not one to back away from a challenge, as Sebastian well knows by now, after long evenings spent doing the stupidest games, getting competitive over something as simple as putting on a suit earlier that night, too.
He slides onto Sebastian’s lap, only stumbling a little on the way there, and kisses him. Sebastian actually kisses him back, this time, slides his arms around Charles’s waist to keep him close, angles his head so he can slip his tongue in between Charles’s lips. Charles curls his hand around Sebastian’s neck to angle it just that bit better, stop their noses from bumping together, and Sebastian tastes like alcohol but that’s not going to stop Charles when he’s pretty sure he tastes the same.
“Is this still to fool the media?” Sebastian teases when they break apart for a moment, Charles stroking the curls from Sebastian’s forehead with what feels like a dopey smile on his face, tucking them behind his ear.
“If this is what you want to believe,” Charles shrugs, ducking back down to make sure Sebastian doesn’t ruin the moment any longer. This feels nice, it feels good, Sebastian’s hips fitting perfectly in between his thighs. Why overthink this?
*
Charles wakes up hungover, still clinging to Sebastian’s back. He has to admit, Sebastian’s own bed is much more comfortable than the guest bed he’s been using this last week.
His head is absolutely pounding, although much of that is easily explained by his phone, incessantly ringing on the nightstand. One swipe, two swipes with his barely cooperating fingers and he’s finally managed to grab it, turning down the sound as he brings it to his ear.
“Hello?” he croaks.
“Finally someone who picks up,” a woman’s voice says, and Charles rubs his eyes, checks the name on the screen. It’s Britta. Huh. “Is Seb still sleeping?”
Perfectly on time, Sebastian emits a decently loud snore that’s painful enough to make Charles’s leg twitch.
“Ah. Interesting. I will take that as a yes. It is you I need most urgently anyway.”
“Can you talk a little bit slower please?” Charles groans. “I do not understand.”
“I do not know how, but you and Sebastian at the event yesterday did enough to stop the rumours. You apparently did such a bad job of looking like you were together that everyone is retracting their statements and the fans pretend to not remember you. I could not have done this better myself, honestly.”
Charles is just not going to question this. It sounds ridiculous. This entire situation has been ridiculous. If this is how it ends, he’s fine.
“This is also why I am confused about Seb snoring next to you,” Britta continues, “but that is not my business. Just be careful. Go home for now, is my suggestion. Tell Seb I’ll be over later.”
“Thank you, Britta. I will. Sorry.”
“No need to apologize. Go sleep off the hangover.”
The lines goes dead and Charles happily follows her advice, curling back up to a very warm Sebastian to sleep off the rest of the hangover.
*
“How did the statement not work but one kiss in shitty lighting did,” Sebastian sighs.
“Better not to question it,” Britta says. “Most important thing is that this is over now. Charles can go home, unless he likes the sleepover, and you can focus on the bee project.”
Charles sips his tea, tries not to wince when the hot drink hits a sore spot on his lip, where Sebastian was a little too enthusiastic last night. He’ll call Silvia later, once he feels human again, and maybe has gotten rid of the lingering want to curl up to Sebastian for another nap.
He lets Britta and Sebastian talk between themselves for a bit, drifting in and out of the conversation, humming when it seems like his input is necessary, until Britta actually says his name and he snaps out of the haze.
“Charles? Oh, you are paying attention again. I called your manager – Silvia, right? – and she said things have calmed down at the bookstore too and you can come back when you want. You could take a few more days, but she does say that is the most she can still give you.”
“Oh, okay. Thank you for that.” Charles tries to think. It’s hard at the best of times and nothing about this situation is helping. “I will go back today, then. Have some time at home for me, I think.”
Have some time to think at home, more like. He needs to figure out why he can’t stop remembering how soft Sebastian’s skin was against his own, why he’s trying to figure out excuses to stay after all when he hasn’t stopped missing home in a week.
“I can give you a ride if you want,” Sebastian offers. Britta looks at Charles, taps her nails on the table.
“That would be nice, yes,” Charles says, before he can stop himself. He can wean himself off after last night by spending some time in close quarters with Sebastian, which is an excellent plan and he will not be told otherwise.
“You should save my number, too. Just in case.” Britta pushes her chair back, indicating they’re done here. “I will leave you two alone then. Seb, if you do not get back before tonight, I will drag you. Charles, it was lovely meeting you, I hope next time it will all be easier. Bye!”
She’s gone before Charles can make much of a fuzz of the goodbye himself.
Instead, he ignores Sebastian’s questioning eyes and goes upstairs to pack.
*
“This is me,” Charles says, completely unnecessary. The navigation had just stated the same thing, after all. It just felt awkward, so many things on the tip of Charles’s tongue that it felt paralyzed. Maybe this was for the best. He’s never going to see Sebastian again after this, last night was fun enough to get it out of his system, he managed to spend over half an hour sitting right next to Sebastian without feeling the urge to touch him… much. It’s all fine.
“Do you need me to carry something inside?” Sebastian offers.
“It is probably better if we do not get spotted together again for now,” Charles says, only half joking. He does want Sebastian to come inside, maybe stay the night. But they’d just fixed this whole mess and Charles really needed to go back to work.
“Maybe we can…” Sebastian hesitates, picks at his nails. “Yes. You’re right. We should not.”
The silence drags on, stretches out just as slowly as Charles feels himself get pulled towards Sebastian.
“These windows are tinted,” Sebastian murmurs, soft enough that Charles can pretend not to have heard.
Fuck it. He did hear. He bites his lip and winks badly at Sebastian.
Sebastian closes the distance between them this time, sliding a hand into Charles’s hair and kissing him deeply, their teeth almost knocking together. Charles can’t fucking breathe, but that’s okay, the seatbelt’s digging into his chest and he doesn’t fucking care.
They only break apart when the windows are fogged up. Maybe tinted windows don’t actually work against hiding that. They’ll find out soon enough.
“I hope to see you around,” Charles says, deflecting whatever questions Sebastian might have next. It’s good this way. He’ll admire Sebastian from afar, and Sebastian can move on with whatever.
Sebastian seems to want to say something, but shrugs instead, looking at the steering wheel.
“Yes. See you around. Thank you for the company.”
Charles wants one final kiss, one last touch, but forces himself to get out anyway, pick up his bag and walk into his apartment.
Sebastian’s car lingers in the parking spot. Charles watches him from the window, heart only twisting a little when the engine turns on and he drives away.
*
Mercifully, Britta turns out to be right. Everyone truly seems to have forgotten all about their supposed fling, Charles once again able to walk around like nobody knows him, because nobody does.
He even manages to get back to work with minimal teasing, even though Pierre keeps trying to pry. He’s happy to tell Pierre wild stories, of whips and chains and orgies, and Pierre encourages him to keep them coming, even suggests some more just for fun.
Not today, though. It’s yet another exhausting day at the bookstore. There’s once again an event in town, this one about sustainability in motorsport, and of course people have decided now is the perfect time to read up on it.
He may be one of those people himself, two books underneath his arm still, juggling them along with the mail that had been piling up, almost spilling out of the box before Charles figured he really should take it with him.
There’s one envelope that doesn’t immediately look sinister, an unassuming white, addressed in a neat scrawl that looks familiar. Charles can’t wait, opens it right then and there, finds a hardcopy ticket in it with a note.
And that can only be one person.
Dear Charles,
I will be in a panel on Saturday’s event. If you want to come, you’re on the guest list. Here is your ticket so hopefully no one notices I invited you.
Charles huffs a laugh. It might just work.
He hopes he can convince Sebastian to come to the bookstore for some coffee with him afterwards.