Work Text:
Max doesn’t hate his job.
He supposes it’s better than cleaning toilets (that’s Pierre’s job) or selling pictures of his feet to perverts on the internet, but it isn’t like he enjoys assembling burgers at a fast-food restaurant.
Max does hate interacting with customers.
He tries not to, both for his sanity and for the sake of the Yelp reviews Helmut cares so much about. Max isn’t a people person. He does not have the patience to deal with stupidity and entitlement for eight hours.
If Max didn’t desperately need the money, he would’ve looked for another job a long time ago. Red Bull Burgers, as ridiculous as the name and mascot of the restaurant are, actually gives him a decent salary. It’s one of the reasons why Max hasn’t quit (and looked into how much money he could make by doing amateur porn).
“Charles!” And there is the other reason why Max hasn’t quit. His lovely, perfect boyfriend Charles works here too.
“I’m really sorry, sir,” Charles says, looking down at the shards of glass between his feet. Max winces at the sight. It’s the third glass Charles has broken this week, and the third deduction to his salary. “I didn’t mean to break it.”
“I don’t know what I am supposed to do with you, Leclerc,” Helmut says, frustration written all over his old wrinkled face. “Did you really think you could come into my restaurant and not do your job because the customers like you?”
Charles visibly shrinks, hunching his shoulders in on himself. “No, sir.”
“Then do your job,” Helmut spits venomously. “I don’t care how pretty you think you are. One more fuck-up and you’re fired, do you hear me?”
“Yes, sir,” Charles says in a small voice. “I promise I won’t mess up again.”
Helmut narrows his eyes, the real one and the glass one, at Charles. “You better not,” the man huffs, before storming away to terrorize another employee— most likely the frycook Yuki for apparently adding too much salt to the fries.
In Max’s opinion, the fries are perfectly fine. It isn’t Yuki’s fault Helmut has high blood pressure or whatever illness affects unhealthy old people.
Charles had been the one who found these jobs for the two of them, stumbling upon an urgent LinkedIn hiring for Red Bull Burgers— a fast-food restaurant that claims to have the finest and hottest burgers in Monaco.
Max was wary of working in any kind of customer service job. He's heard countless horror stories about how awful customers can be, but rent in Monaco is ridiculously expensive, even with the two of them paying for their shared tiny apartment.
Which is how they find themselves working for the reincarnation of Satan himself. Helmut Marko brings misery everywhere he goes, and his favorite target just so happens to be Charles: sweet, charming, and well-meaning Charles.
Honestly, Max doesn't even know why Helmut has it out for Charles. Okay, that's a lie. Max knows the exact reason.
There’s no denying that Charles is great at interacting with customers, charming them with his dimples and genuine compliments on the tacky shirts they’re wearing. Whereas Max couldn’t give less of a shit about their customers, Charles knows their regulars by their names. He asks them if they want their usuals, and hands over their food with a pleasant smile on his face.
Unfortunately, Charles’ excellent people skills don’t carry over to his cooking skills.
Max loves his boyfriend, he really does, but even he can admit that Charles is a nightmare in the kitchen. He can’t be trusted to handle food— he chars the patties until they’ve turned to ash and puts too many tomatoes and not enough cheese on the burgers.
If that wasn’t bad enough, Charles is also very clumsy.
As hard as he tries, he can’t balance trays full of food in his hands, so Max often has to play Spider-Man and save both him and the food before they both end up on the floor. The cherry on top of this disaster of a cake is that Charles also has the awful habit of dropping plates and glasses while clearing tables, leaving a bigger mess than what he started with.
Okay, Charles is a shitty employee, but he manages to get away with it most of the time because he’s so handsome and cute. Most of the customers they get are more interested in Charles than the food anyway.
Max can’t blame them. Nobody is immune to Charles’ charisma… except Helmut Marko, but they’ve all come to an understanding that Helmut doesn’t even have a soul.
“Welcome to Red Bull Burgers, home of the finest and hottest burgers in Monaco. May I take your order?”
The guy on the other side of the counter looks like he would rather eat Charles instead of a greasy cheeseburger. He isn’t even looking at the menu, he's just checking out Max’s boyfriend— eyes appreciatively going over the way the Red Bull Burgers’ navy blue uniform hugs Charles’ lithe frame.
“Let’s see,” the guy starts, dramatically tapping his chin with his finger like he’s contemplating something serious and important. Max hates him. “Do you guys do takeout?”
“Of course we do, sir,” Charles says, like it isn’t the dumbest question Max has ever heard.
“Then I’ll have one order of you for takeout,” the man says, grinning to himself like it’s the best pickup line ever invented. “With a side of dessert.”
Charles lets out an awkward laugh, smiling even though Max knows he isn’t comfortable. “You’re too kind, sir,” he says. “But I have a boyfriend.”
“You do?” the guy asks, raising his bushy eyebrows at Charles. “I don’t see him anywhere.”
Max wants to climb over the counter and strangle the man. If he wants to see who Charles’ boyfriend is, then Max is going to show the man what his fist looks like.
“Yes, I love him very much,” Charles says, which is always comforting to hear. Charles could have anybody in the world, and he still chose to be with Max.
“Sweetheart, I can do whatever your boyfriend can do and more.”
Max tightens his grip on the cash register, holding it so tightly the metal might bend under his hands. This is far from the first time something like this has happened— he can’t count the number of times guys in obnoxious designer clothes and gaggles of teenage girls have held up the line trying to flirt with Charles.
Thankfully, the attempts at seduction never work— which is bloody fantastic because Max doesn’t know what he would do with himself if Charles decides to leave him for one of the Monaco millionaire boys.
The guy currently talking to Charles looks about their age, which isn’t the case most of the time. There is a concerning number of old rich men who want to be Charles’ sugar daddy. Fortunately, Charles isn’t interested in spoiled nepotism babies, and so he manages to get the pest of a customer to go away and take a seat while waiting for his food.
“Are you alright?” Max asks Charles from behind his cash register. There isn’t a line in front of him because a.) Max’s perpetually cross face scares customers away and b.) people would much rather speak to Charles. “Do you need to take a break?”
“Verstappen!” barks Helmut from the kitchen. “Stop ogling Leclerc and get back to work!”
Max spins around to glare at his boss. “I wasn’t ogling him!” he defends, because he really wasn’t. He’s just talking to Charles like any concerned boyfriend would in this situation.
“Get back to work or you’re both fired!” Helmut threatens. Max rolls his eyes. Charles lets out a little giggle.
“Are you sure your burger patties aren’t made from bull meat? Is bull meat even edible?”
“Our burger patties are 100% made from grass-fed cows imported from sustainable and cruelty-free farms in New Zealand,” Max recites boredly. He doesn’t know if that’s actually true. All he knows is that he hates Helmut for naming the place Red Bull Burgers, and not something that makes sense like Brown Cow Burgers.
“Oh, so are your burgers vegan?” Never mind what Max said earlier. This is the dumbest question he has ever heard.
Max shuts his eyes, praying for patience. Not for the first time, he wonders how people with so much money can be so dumb. One of these days, Max is actually going to headbutt someone. If not someone, then maybe the concrete wall.
He doesn’t get to headbutt the customer nor the concrete wall, because of the sound of a big crash in the middle of the restaurant.
“Shit, Charles,” Max says to himself, eyes wide when he sees the damage.
Everyone in the restaurant has gone silent, watching the scene with wide eyes. There, sprawled on the floor in a large puddle of orange soda, shattered plates, and barbecue sauce all over his clothes and hair is Charles, trembling and looking like he is about to cry.
What had happened was that Charles was trying to do too many things all at once. He was balancing two full trays in his hands when a customer had called him over. In his haste to get there, Charles hadn’t seen the bright yellow wet floor sign, and slipped on the wet tiles, sending both himself and a stack of plates flying in the air before crashing to the floor.
Max makes a move to get to Charles and help him up, but not even he could match the speed of an enraged Helmut Marko.
“Leclerc!” Helmut growls, stomping over to Charles like a madman. “You are the most stupid, most incompetent excuse of an employee I have ever seen. I should have fired you a long time ago! Is there anything you do correctly? I don’t even know why I hired you! You’re fired! Get out of my restaurant!”
Charles winces at the volume of the man’s voice. He bows his head in humiliation, his body shaking like a leaf as he takes the verbal lashing.
Meanwhile, Max is fucking livid. Nobody talks to Charles like that, especially not pieces of shit like Helmut. Boiling with rage, Max shoves his way in between Charles and Helmut, more than ready to harm a senior citizen if he decides to lay a wrinkled finger on Charles.
“Don't talk to him like that,” Max sneers, using all of his height and build to intimidate the old man.
“And you!” Helmut starts, turning to Max, his glass eye twitching in its socket. “What do you think you’re doing? Get back to work now!”
Max lets out a derisive snort. “Fuck that.” He tugs off his apron, balling it up before shoving it into the man’s chest. “I quit.”
“What?” Helmut questions. “Who do you think you are? You can’t quit!”
“I’ll do whatever I want.” He marches over to where Charles is, ignoring the murmurs and mobile phones pointed in their direction. “Let’s go, Charles,” he says, taking Charles’ hand and helping him to his feet.
“What?” Charles questions, eyes wide behind his sauce-soaked bangs.
“We’re going and we’re never coming back,” Max says, squeezing Charles’ hand. He proceeds to drag Charles out of the damned restaurant, ignoring Helmut’s voice screaming at Max to get back to work immediately.
“Are you really not going back?” Charles questions, trailing after Max. “He only fired me, not you.”
“I’ve always hated that place,” Max grunts. “I’m not working there if you aren’t there.”
“What about Helmut?”
“Fuck Helmut.”
Charles makes a stunned noise. “How are we supposed to pay for rent now?”
“We can sell pictures of our feet to perverts on the internet.”
Charles laughs at that, loud and hearty and the happiest Max has heard him since they started working at the restaurant.
They don’t know what’s next for them— they don’t even know if they can pay rent in time— but at least they know they never have to see Helmut Marko ever again.