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Charles is normal about a lot of things.
Well—he’s good at being normal.
It kind of comes with being a human.
But for some reason, when Max is in the picture, all this normalcy is thrown out the window, lands on a street, and is then crushed by four Ferraris and a car that looks suspiciously similar to the RB20.
And Charles knows this—it’s obligatory, that drivers know their weaknesses.
So, he distances himself. Keeps the topic professional, no matter how much he wants to stray so far from the topic, and possibly into his bed, dragging a certain Dutch driver along with him.
He doesn’t know how he ends up in Jimmy’z, doing shots with said Dutchman, palms almost as sweaty as the condensation from his drink.
The music is enough to drive someone mad, the dj overusing the bass so much the whole club is vibrating, but Pierre does not seem to notice, if the constant noise of his voice in Charles’ ear is any indication.
And Charles is actually grateful for the distraction, because it gives him a reason to keep his eyes as far away from the man sitting opposite him as possible.
(Except for, of course, when Max leans his head back to swallow a shot, Charles’ trained eye watches as his throat bobs, not even bothering to look away as his hands slam the tiny glass back down. He watches his tongue dart out to lick the liquor from his lips, then as he smiles and lifts a brow when he realizes Charles is yet to do the same.)
Soon, he drifts away from the table the three are standing at to get another drink, but not before he all but lifts the glass to Charles’ lips, all innocent with those pearly whites and beautiful blue eyes.
Said eyes crinkled with laughter when Charles squeezes his own shut, liquor burning his throat on its way down, but it doesn’t seem so bad when Max pats him on the shoulder.
Charles is sure he must be imagining the “good job, Charlie” he hears after.
Max grabs Pierre’s glass, who responds with some drink order that they all know Max is sure to forget.
The two watch as he goes out of hearing range—which isn’t very far with this terrible fucking music blasting
“It’s Max’s friend, be nice.” Pierre says, patting Charles on the shoulder just as Max had earlier.
Charles doesn’t get the same feeling in his gut as he had at the earlier contact.
“Speaking of,” Pierre starts, and Charles isn’t sure if he groans or not, but he suspects the answer is yes, if Pierre’s eye-roll is any indication. “Has something happened between the two of you you have not told me?”
“Me and Martijn?” Charles points a thumb towards the DJ behind him, raising an eyebrow at his friend.
Pierre rolls his eyes again— are they gonna get stuck back there? —and Charles laughs.
“No, you and Max.”
Charles shakes his head, an eyebrow quizzically raised. “Why?”
“Really? Nothing at all?”
Charles is suddenly very sick of this guessing game. “What, Pierre, just spit it out.”
“Charlie, he’s looking at you like—“
Pierre looks around before leaning in to Charles’ ear.
“Comme s'il voulait te baiser.”
Like he wants to fuck you.
Charles squawks out a laugh, using a palm to shove Pierre away, the Frenchman almost falling back at the sudden contact.
“Very funny, Pierre.” Charles giggles. Jesus, how much has he had to drink?
Pierre grins, watching as Max returns with two shot glasses and a drink that look suspiciously nothing like whatever Pierre told him to order.
“Just watch.” Pierre mumbles out between gritted teeth, before grabbing his drink from Max, smiling as if he did not suggest the most insane thing in the world to his bestest friend in said world.
It’s insane, and Charles is having none of it, so he turns to grab his shot glass. “Thank yo—“
It’s insane, because Max is looking down at him, eyes half-lidded and unapologetically staring at his lips, a knowing smirk gracing his lips that is then replaced by a friendly,professional grin as he seemingly remembers there are words leaving Charles’ mouth.
It’s insane, so Charles takes three more shots over the course of forty-five minutes, mumbling into Pierre’s elbow about how he had cursed him for eternity while being carried out by the Frenchman.
——————————————————
The next time Charles is trying his best to avoid (while simultaneously actively seeking out) Max, the two end up side-by-side on the couch at the press conference.
“So mate,” Max begins, Charles slowly swiveling his head around as if he can stop the Dutchman from speaking—or, more importantly—looking at him, because he isn’t sure if his mind (or body) will be able to handle it before he is asked a million questions about Ferrari's newest upgrades.
Those stupidly blue eyes are already looking at him with a fondness that just makes Charles want to grab him by the collar and slam his lips against his—but because he’s a normal human, he just tilts his head, waiting for whatever question is about to leave those stupidly perfect lips.
“Didn’t take you for the party-ing type,” Max says, eyes drifting momentarily to where a journalist drops her camera, “or, maybe just not the host.”
Charles sighs, and Max only smiles, eyes returning to Charles’ own.
Thing is, Charles knew this whole co-party he and Lando co-planned was going to be a big deal in the paddock—Charles has never thrown a party.
Sure, he attended the other drivers’, hell, he even went to a few of the other teams’, but he never necessarily threw one himself, because he never really had an actual reason.
But when Lando came to him after seeing his apartment in Charles’ vlog, going on and on about how his apartment was so much bigger, and “how could you hide this from me?”, Charles eventually folded, Lando immediately sending out a text that this next party would be a special occasion, because it would be the first held at Charles’ house.
The other drivers, of course, RSVP’d immediately, (mostly because Landos parties were not ones you could just decline an invite to, and not in the sense that they were life-changing, more in the sense that he would track you down, find you, and drag you to his party whether you were busy or not.)
“To be honest, I’m not,” Charles mumbles, trying his best to stop anyone from writing about his “partying habits” in their shitty news articles.
“But, you know how Lando is.”
He shrugs, delighting in the way Max has to poke his tongue into his cheek to stop from laughing, but it doesn’t really matter, because his eyes get those little crinkles near the corners.
“Trust me, I know all too well how convincing Lando can be.” Max leans his head onto the back of the couch, looking up at the ceiling.
Charles definitely does not look at the expanse of his throat, and he does not jump when Max’s eyes drift back over to Charles, still crinkled at the corners.
“I have to admit, I’m kind of looking forward to it. Even if you are not.” Max is grinning, and Charles, a bit taken aback at this sudden information, raises an eyebrow, prompting him to continue.
“I mean, I’ve always wondered what the real you was like, off the track. Maybe you could show me a side of you I haven’t seen yet.”
And suddenly the room gets five degrees hotter, and Max’s eyes are still fixed on Charles’ own, but slightly vibrating, as if they are searching for something.
Charles swallows, fixing his posture under Max’s scrutiny—but he doesn’t miss how Max’s eyes briefly move down, glancing at Charles’ throat before sliding back up to his eyes.
Like he wants to fuck you.
His grin widens a bit, Charles noticing how the corners of his mouth turn up slightly, before he purses them, eyes moving back up to the ceiling.
“You know, when you’re not busy being Ferraris golden boy. ‘il predestinado’ , is it?”
Charles lightly hits Max on the arm, who acts as if Charles has just given him the beating of a lifetime, even going so far as to completely fall into his side, now lying horizontally on the coach, groaning about “needing an ice pack”
Charles laughs, ignoring the feeling in his gut.
Just watch.
————————————————————-
Charles is able to lose whatever feeling he had felt earlier later that night, allowing the other drivers to shove whatever is being poured into a red solo cup into his hands, thinking about everything but the way Max had looked at him.
Because Charles is not delusional.
He knows when someone is interested in him, and when he is simply projecting his own feelings onto others in hopes that they will feel the same way.
Well, it sounds rather depressing put like that, but Charles can’t seem to find it in himself to care, swallowing down a cup of— is this a vodka tonic? Or was that gin?
Most of the drivers are sitting on the couch, Lando draped across the back of one, groaning about how Max should just retire already, Max only laughing and shoving him onto the actual cushions, Lando now yelling from where he is stuck behind Alex and Daniel, who either don’t hear him or don’t seem to care.
And it’s not that Charles is paying any special attention to Max. He’s watching everyone. As a good host, he has to make sure that everyone is having a good time. It’s not his fault that Max is acting so damn odd, drifting from room to room like he isn’t sure where he is.
It’s only natural that Charles follows him, laughter and voices drifting farther and farther away before he finally finds Max in the quiet of his kitchen, leaning against the counter with a drink in hand.
Max looks up, eyes meeting Charles' with a mixture of surprise and something else—something that makes Charles wonder if it was a mistake, following him in here, but simultaneously makes him want nothing more than to stay here forever, in the quiet of this kitchen, Max’s eyes fixated on him like there is no party at all.
"You found me." Max teases, but there's a softness in his voice that belies the joke.
Charles smirks, stepping closer so he’s leaning against the counter opposite Max. "Just making sure my guests are comfortable," he replies, voice too low, making him clear his throat.
Max's gaze flickers down to Charles' lips for a brief moment before returning to his eyes. "Well, you've got me all to yourself now. Any special plans?"
Charles swallows, the air between them thick enough to slice through like butter. "I suppose that depends on what you're up for," he says quietly, his eyes not leaving Max's.
Max's smile widens, and he takes a small step closer, the space between them almost nonexistent. "I'm up for anything, Charles. Anything at all."
The two must stand there for hours, at least that’s what it feels like, just staring into each others eyes, not even bothering to search each others faces for some sort of first move or reaction.
Very funny, Pierre.
Charles is the first to break, smiling a smile much too wide for his face, it makes his cheeks hurt, the corners of his mouth wobbling. He turns before Max can say anything, moving to grab two shot glasses.
“How about shots?”
Max’s eyes are wide, his cheeks tinged a light pink, and if Charles wasn’t drunk he would say that the man looked downright flushed.
“Sure. Sure, yeah, sounds good.”
Max smiles, and it looks all too similar to the one Charles plastered on earlier.
Charles isn’t sure when the other drivers start to join them, but before he knows it he’s doing shots with half the grid, and even sooner he’s passed out on the same couch Lando was stuck in earlier
The last thing he remembers is a blanket being laid on him and a hand carding through his hair, before leaving just as soon as it came.
——————————————————————-
It’s hot.
Too hot.
Charles’ fireproofs are already uncomfortably tight, but with his own sweat pooling both on his forehead and beneath his arms, everything just seems much stickier than it should be.
At least that’s what he’s complaining to Pierre about, laid on a spare couch in Alpines hospitality, arms and legs as far away from his torso as possible, half of him practically falling off the couch besides his head which is being supported by the arm wrest.
“I told you, the AC does not work in this room. Why couldn’t we just go to Ferraris? Or your motorhome?” Pierre says eyes not moving from where he’s staring at his phone, and for some reason his voice when he’s right, mixed with the heat, is just unbearably annoying.
“I don’t know. Why do you ask so many questions? How can you even think in this heat?” Charles groans, yanking the extra long straw out of his bottle to just take a long awaited gulp of lukewarm water.
Which does absolutely nothing.
He groans once again, only to be interrupted by a pillow impolitely slamming onto his chest.
He looks over at Pierre, ready to fight him back, yielding the pillow as both a weapon and shield, but is stopped by the amused look on Pierre’s face.
“What? What is it?” Charles questions, quick to lean over Pierre’s shoulder.
“Oh, look who’s asking all the questions now.”
Pierre mumbles, before eventually relenting and turning his phone to Charles so they can both look at the screen.
It’s the Formula One official account, and like always, they posted a pre-qualifying video, a compilation of what all the drivers are doing to prepare, with the caption “A sneak peek into what the drivers do to prepare for qualifying…”
It shows Alonso scootering to the Aston Martin garage, with Lance in tow like they are doing some sort of team-bonding exercise, before cutting to Lewis, who is stretching and looking at some video on his TV the camera is not angled towards.
It shows Logan leaving his motorhome and running to Williams garage, smiling politely at some random reporters who try to chase him.
Finally, it cuts to Max and Daniel, probably talking about everything but racing, both walking side-by-side into the paddock extremely late.
Max clearly has not shaven in a while, Charles thinks. It’s not necessarily a bad look, but as a professional Max liker, he would definitely prefer he shaved it.
The clean look is good for him. It goes well with his eyes.
Almost on cue, Max looks at the camera.
Charles startles—he doesn’t even mean to, and doesn’t realize he does until he sees Pierre look at him from the corner of his eye, before they both return to watching.
Max is smiling now, all white teeth and plump lips and round cheeks—he’s wearing a hat, because of course he is, and Charles feels a bit disappointed, the lighting is absolutely perfect, that if he did take off his hat, he would finally get confirmation on just how blonde his hair is.
For research purposes, of course.
Charles doesn’t even have time to register his own disappointment, because he makes the mistake of looking at Max’s stupid fucking eyes,
The ones that have a tendency to look at his own like they’re the only ones that matter.
Comme s'il voulait te baiser
His smile eventually dims down ever so slightly, returning his full attention to Daniel. He’s still smiling and talking, and Charles isn’t bothered by that.
He shouldn’t be bothered by anything.
He definitely shouldn’t be bothered that Max is looking at someone else with those eyes—the same eyes that have led Charles to believe that he, too, has imagined having the others' eyes trained on him as if they are the only two in the room.
He’s not.
So, to prove how unbothered he is, he shoves a pillow into Pierre’s face, promptly ignoring the way the Frenchman raised an eyebrow, and how he can still hear a muffled “don’t punish me because you’re hot and bothered!” Even while he’s being smothered to death.
—————————————————————
This has gone way too far.
Charles knows because he’s currently sitting in a janitor's closet somewhere in the paddock, trying to avoid a certain Dutchman with eyes that—when looking at Charles a certain way—make his knees buckle, or, in this case, run and lock himself in a closet after accidentally seeing him in a hallway before the race.
And Charles is trying to justify it, because he likes to believe it isn’t entirely his own fault—Max is the one who smiled at him, straw between his teeth, tongue even poking out a bit.
He got those little crinkles he gets in the corners of his eyes, too, that show just how undeniably happy and excited he is to race. (A part of Charles also secretly likes to believe it’s because he saw him)
He takes a deep breath, shaking the little amount of water left in his bottle around as he thinks.
This really needs to stop. If Charles can’t handle even looking at Max, how is he supposed to handle interviews? Or press conferences?
Or worse—if they both end up in pole position, and they spray each other with champagne, classically forgetting about the third persons existence, both smiling wide and happy and Max will have no choice but to look at Charles, and hold his waist closer as they pose for a picture.
Charles could fake that. Fake good sportsmanship, act like he isn’t actively imagining what those hands would feel like beneath all those layers.
What he couldn’t fake, is if Max found out.
If Pierre has secretly been keeping a journal about Charles’ ongoing crush on Max—which wouldn’t be surprising or out of character of the Frenchman—or if Max even looked at Charles for too long or too closely, if he happened to notice the effect his stare had on Charles.
Charles wouldn’t be able to fake his cheeks reddening. Wouldn’t be able to deal with Max’s reaction. He wouldn’t even be able to look at Max, and he’s sure the Dutchman would feel the same.
So, Charles decides, here in this janitors closet, that he simply won’t look at Max.
The janitors closet thing worked—his breathing is much more regulated now, and while his cheeks still feel a bit flushed, it’s only because he’s been thinking about Max.
Not actually seeing him.
He feels himself grin, pleased with himself at solving his own problem.
So, all he needs to do is avoid Max completely from now on. How hard could it be?
—————————————————————
Avoiding Max Verstappen has been one of the hardest things Charles Leclerc has ever done.
He somehow pulls through the drivers parade playing musical chairs, and ends up talking to Hulkenberg for nearly half of it, trying to avoid a certain blue-eyed stare he feels staring daggers at the back of his head.
He all but runs to his garage, hiding with Andrea and exercising until he almost manages to forget about Max.
The race is—disappointing, Charles only managing to pull his Ferrari to P5, but it’s not terrible. Sainz finishes in P7, so he’s happy to know that the verdict this week will be that it’s the car that’s shit rather than who’s driving it.
He watches the cool down room, how Max is laughing with Lando about a collision between Daniel and Alex that gave both of them a five second penalty, and Charles doesn’t feel anything.
That odd swoop in his stomach that he feels everytime he looks at the Dutchman too long does not signify anything, not if he doesn’t let it.
He somehow makes it through the post-race interviews, trying to ignore the fact that all the journalists’ eyes are drifting towards a certain Dutchman, who Charles was unlucky enough to be placed next to, who is doing a near perfect job of looking at Charles from the corner of his eye, thinking the monegasque won’t see him.
Charles doesn’t even let him say “good job” or explain tyre degradation, simply storming out of the media pen as soon as he hears the first and only “thank you, Charles.”
He ignores the text from Pierre thirty minutes later, a link to a tweet captioned “Max watching Charles storm out of the media pen…” with a hand-over-mouth and bright red question mark emoji.
Pierre follows the text up with “Remember that time you ignored a girl in the club because you thought acting like you ‘didn’t want her to talk to you’ would make her ‘naturally gravitate’ towards you...”, a raised eyebrow emoji, and then finally another text that reads “Are you picking up what I’m putting down?”
He ignores Pierre’s texts so much that he actually decides to block him, getting rid of the beginning of this little problem altogether.
——————————————————————
Charles isn’t sure how he’s ended up in the same club he was in about four days ago, getting a shiver everytime he glances over towards a certain table.
The same table him, Max, and Pierre (who he caved and unblocked about five minutes after blocking him) were at when his life was completely changed—or, more correctly, utterly ruined.
Max is once again here tonight, walking in with Lando about forty-five minutes after Charles and Pierre arrived.
Charles knows because—well for one Lando is currently with the dj, one hand draped around his arm and the other pressing random buttons that the dj doesn’t seem very happy about him pressing.
And because his eyes can not stop drifting over to Max, all the way across the dance floor, his hand that isn’t holding his signature gin and tonic being pumped into the air, before yelling at one of his friends that he’s going to get another drink.
From the bar Charles is standing at currently.
He suddenly feels the need to tell the bartender that he’s under twenty one and should have the police called on him immediately, just for an escape from a situation that he would rather be thrown in the back of a cop car than deal with at this moment.
He feels a warm hand clap his shoulder, trail across his back, and land on his other shoulder, giving it a firm shake before letting go.
“Charlie! I had no idea you were here tonight! Small world, no?” Max yells, and Charles wonders if he should tell him that he can definitely hear him
(although he could probably whisper and it would be all that Charles would hear, and—is the music getting quieter in here?)
but instead he smiles, rolling his shoulder back to ease the sudden tension he feels on them.
He doesn’t even realize he hasn’t responded until Max elbows him, Charles’ eyes trained on the bartender who is currently taking his sweet time making his drink.
“Yeah, really small.” Charles says, still refusing to make eye contact with the Dutchman.
He feels a little silly, doing this petty act, but he knows he would look even more insane if he were to make eye contact, and even worse—Max would be able to read Charles’ expression as soon as he faced the Dutchman, so looking silly it is.
Max, because he is just too kind for his own good, continues to try and talk to Charles, leaning over the counter just as the monegasque is, still trying his absolute hardest to make eye contact with the man he’s speaking to. “You did great today—especially after all the partying you did the other night! I was surprised you were able to even make it to the paddock!”
Charles laughs, but it doesn’t sound quite right, the sound coming from the air in his head that has replaced his brain rather than wherever it’s supposed to come from.
He watches as Max’s hands come a little bit closer, and doesn’t even register that the Dutchman might actually be moving towards Charles until he feels Max’s warm breath on his ear.
“Charlie? Are you alright?”
Then something snaps, and Charles finally just has to look at Max, whipping his head towards him.
And Max.
Fuck.
Charles is fucked.
Because Max’ eyebrows are scrunched in concern, and he’s leaned towards Charles, but slowly starting to inch further away the longer Charles takes to respond.
His eyes are searching Charles’ face, looking for something before finally landing on Charles’ own.
They dip down towards Charles’ lips for a second, and the monegasque wouldn’t believe it if Max had not slipped his tongue out to wet his own, his eyes finally returning to Charles’ eyes again after what might be hours.
And it’s not even the way his breath is heaving, and his shirt is just tight enough where it’s not douchey but also not sloppy, perfectly showing off his biceps that Charles wants nothing more than to sink his teeth into.
It’s not the way his eyes are widened and oh so beautiful, fixated on Charles like they are the only two in the world.
It’s the way he’s looking at Charles with such concern that Charles has never seen him look at anyone else with. He’s looking at him like if anything were to happen to Charles, if he said he needed and ambulance or a place to throw up, he would immediately call the hospital or offer his own fucking hands
And it’s lovely, and he’s so perfect, and it’s everything Charles wants,
But it’s not what he can have.
So Charles instead just nods and makes sure to look right back towards the ground—where his eyes should have stayed—patting Max on the shoulder and mumble-shouting something about needing to take a shit.
He darts away before he can hear what Max says in return, slipping through hot bodies and stepping on old cups and puddles that he can’t tell are either vomit or beer, but all he can worry about right now is finding these stupid fucking bathrooms
He has to push a couple that are eating each other's faces out of his way in order to reach the bathroom, but as soon as he does, he rushes into a stall, grateful that he and some guy who is clearly doing a line are the only two in there.
The guy finally gets up, and Charles can hear his irregular footsteps make their way to the door, listening to the creak as it opens and closes behind him.
Charles sighs out, trying his best to focus on his heartbeat going back to normal.
“Charles?”
Max’s voice is like a knife, cutting through all of the music coming from the outside and the stall separating the two of him.
Charles swears his heart stops for a second, realizing that the man’s footsteps weren’t completely irregular, he was actually hearing Max’s too, who probably entered when the guy left.
“Charlie, I know you’re in there. I can see your shoes.” Charles curses under his breath, and Max scoffs in reply.
“Why have you been so weird with me? Ever since the party, you’ve been acting like I’m some sort of disease that you just can’t stand to be near. If you have something against me, you can say it to my face.”
Charles is sure that Max didn’t mean to come off as rude, he’s even about to say something like “Thats not what i meant—“ but never gets to finish it, because Charles is coming out of the stall before he can stop himself.
“I’m acting weird? Are you fucking kidding me?” Charles realizes he might have too much to drink, tripping on his own feet as he’s coming out of the stall and the words leaving his mouth against his will.
“Have you ever looked at yourself and thought that maybe you are the real problem, Max? If someone’s avoiding you, that usually means they don’t want to be around you. Can you just not take a fucking hint?”
The words taste like venom in Charles’ mouth.
Max’s expression is unmoving.
“What are you just not gonna fucking say anything? Gonna give me a taste of my own medicine? Real mature, Max. Real. Mature.” Charles crosses his arms. He isn’t sure what he was going for, but now he feels like he just looks like a defiant child.
The way Max still isn’t responding, just staring at Charles isn’t helping and oh.
Oh no.
Max is staring.
The alarm bells begin to ring in Charles’ head, but he can’t seem to focus.
Because Max is looking at him like he’s unimpressed at his little temper tantrum, even leaning his head to the side like he’s too tired to hold it up, but he maintains eye contact with Charles.
His eyes are half-lidded, the blues of them piercing into Charles’ green.
His tongue is poking into his cheek, then takes a swipe across his bottom lip before disappearing.
Charles is so busy focusing on his now glossy lower lip that he doesn’t even notice how those same lips are slowly forming into a smirk.
“Fuck, and I didn’t believe it.”
He pushes himself off of where he’s leaning on the sink, arms crossing to mimic Charles’ own.
“What? What the fuck are you talking about?”
“What Pierre said.”
Charles can feel his heart stop.
“What?”
“You know, about how I look at you.”
Charles swallows. He drops his hands to his sides, using his palms to hold himself up against the stall door.
He doesn’t respond, prompting Max to continue.
“After you fell asleep, at the party. He told me you liked how I look at you. I didn’t believe him, thought he was just fucking with me.”
Max moves a bit closer. Barely, but Charles notices.
“But when I saw you at the bar tonight, I thought ‘no, it can’t be true.’ And then when I came up to you, you got so flustered.”
Charles, because of course he does, looks away, pushing himself off the door and towards the exit.
“I have no idea what you’re on about.”
“No? Then how about I show you, instead?”
A hand grabs Charles wrist, and suddenly he’s face-to-face with himself, Max spinning him around and propping him up in front of the sink, his hand still grasping Charles’ wrist, his other hand on the other side of the sink, effectively caging Charles between Max and the sink.
“See? Look at how red you are.”
And Max is right.
He’s disgustingly, painstakingly correct.
Charles is red.
His pupils are dilated, his hair is a mess from running around the club to get to the bathroom and running his hands through it once he got into the stall.
“Still don’t believe me? Here,” Max uses the hand still resting on Charles’ wrist to pick up his hand, placing it against his face as if he’s checking his own temperature.
It's mocking, and rude, and Charles has never been more turned on in his life.
Max puts his hand back on the sink, but not before intertwining their fingers on it, squeezing the back of Charles’ hand then returning to his wrist.
Max’s fingers trail up from his wrist to his shoulder, leaving goosebumps in its wake.
“So pretty, Charlie. Always looked so good in red.”
Charles sighs out a long exhale.
He would know Max was smirking even if the mirror wasn’t there.
“You like the way I look at you, baby?”
And it’s too much, Charles squirming around in the confined space between Max and the sink, trying to physically escape this torture.
“Max, please.”
“Please what, Charlie?”
”Fuck this”
Charles finally spins around, slamming his lips against Max’s.
Max makes a little noise deep in his throat, but he immediately returns the kiss with just as much fervor, his hands immediately darting to Charles’ waist, holding on to him like he might disappear if he lets go.
Charles’ own hands go up to Max’s scalp, arms wrapping around his neck, fingers tugging at the short strand just enough for Max to let out a little groan and Charles tucks it into a little box that he will be checking later.
The kiss gets deeper and deeper, the only noise in the bathroom being each others’ breaths and little wet noises everytime they part, occasionally broken by Max’s “Fuck, so beautiful, Charles.” or Charles’ “you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.”
Or just either of them letting out not-so-little noises from their throats, before the other covers it with their mouth.
Max’s hands move to the back of Charles’ thighs, lifting him onto the sink.
Charles does not let that little show of strength go right to his cock.
It stops by the little box in his brain labeled “Max” then goes right to his cock.
His hands move to Max’s shoulders, and Max moves one hand up to the dip in Charles waist, the other pulling him impossibly closer by the small of his back.
After what could be hours, the kiss finally breaks, the two just looking at each other as they attempt to catch their breaths.
Once they do, Charles slams his head down onto Max’s shoulder, who simply laughs and presses a kiss to his temple.
“I am going to kill Pierre.”
Max laughs, and Charles thinks he’d be okay with hearing that noise for the rest of his life.