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THE FERRARI IS FUCKED, Charles thought as he looks at the chunk of carbon fibre he will be driving this season. Under the blaring lights of the garage, the red of its body overwhelms Charles, and his eyes seem to hurt at every prolonged contact. The brand logos appear to be mocking him. Charles works for them, for those industrial giants who will milk Charles dry for whatever he’s worth, as long as he has something to offer. Once the alpha has overdriven his limit, once his focus deters due to blurry vision, his reflexes falter, his muscles buckle under the strain, his hormone imbalance tips into disaster like a fatal fall off a cliff, Charles will be discarded. Replaced. Dropped like a sick bird, thrown away to make room for younger, more pliant hands on the wheels. So many years in F1, it becomes more apparent that it is not a matter of if, but rather when.
Kindness and gentleness can only get you so far. People that achieve the biggest form of greatness are not gentle, their words are not curated to comfort the people around them, they don’t make room in their chest for others, their skin won’t expand to fit a version of them that can be stepped on. Hernan Cortes burned the boats of his troops when they landed in Mexico, the message was clear - victory or death. Julius Caesar torched the bridge across the Rubicon, forcing his army to march forward - victory or death. Max Verstappen, 10 years old, clung to the searing heat of his cart’s exhausts when his hands went numb in the rain - victory or-
The Red Bull paddock is frustratingly bright compared to Ferrari’s oppressive red, it always seems merrier in the rain. The lamps are softer, their laughter are freer too; Or perhaps the rainpour itself has created a veil between the two garages, and across that veil, everything on Charles’ side appears gloomy in correspondence. Officers stand outside beneath umbrellas, their team jerseys stark against the downpour. Navy and red, separated by an empty stretch of wet tarmac, neither side daring to step into the no-man’s-land. Whispers scatter through the storm, none directed at Charles. None escaping from him, either.
He is leaning against one of the tools cabinets, one of the furniture actually used to divide the space between the car and the dense tangle of heavy duty computers behind him. The race car is blurry at the edge of his vision, as he zeroes in across the rainfall, at the omega sitting in his own garage. The light is soft on Max’s features, strong nose that is probably trademark in his Dutch heritage, the freckles spilling across the canvas of pearly skin - tinged pink now due to the chill, that downturned smile pulls every flesh down together so his eyes will have no choice but to form crescent underneath curved, concerned eyebrows. It has been months since Charles was last close enough to the omega to recall how his stubbles grow. From his current position, Max seems to have been sporting a clean shaven look, it makes him look younger, more open, friendlier, more omega.
A girl darts into the garage, pushing a cart filled with gift boxes tied with colourful ribbons. The ones stacked on top are drenched, the colors turn darker from the water that soaked into them. She’s small, nearly dwarfed by the intimidating pile, so when she greets Max, she has to remove herself from the handle and shuffle to the side. Max’s laughs with teeth on full display, wide and unguarded, and gestures to the back of the room with his thumb. Charles’ eyes don’t leave the cart until they vanish behind Red Bull’s equipment. Those gifts used to be from Charles.
And Max would open them right away if they still are.
Charles scoffs at the dawning, the arms previously crossed over his chest are let down, his gaze flicking away. Unpalatable bile rises to the alpha’s throat, he has to bite the inside of his mouth to keep himself from cursing. Great men don’t let emotions rule them. But—
“Fuck,” Charles mutters anyway.
“Bad day?” A voice drifts to him from the side. A mechanic - Charles remembers - middle eastern and bears all the attributes of the region’s natives - sunken eyes with the lightest shade of brown, thick black eyebrows trimmed to sleekness and sharp jaw highlighted by geometrically precise shaven beard.
“You would look very sexy with more facial hair,” he hears Max says . Charles wants to slap himself.
His hand twitches toward his own beard before the motion registers as awkwardly self-conscious—maybe even racist. So he, like every socially inept person, disguises it by massaging his chin between his thumb and index finger. He musters up a smile, and prays to whatever God is available that his voice doesn’t crack or that at least the rain can cover it if it does when he answers, “nah, the weather is just unfortunate.”
The mechanic nods approvingly, “yes, it can be better.”
Charles attempts a small talk, but his eyes can’t seem to stay at one spot or meet the mechanic’s. It helps that the man is also too deep in his papers to maintain eye contact with the alpha, but Charles will die if he has to stand around cluelessly while people are deep in work around him. The man is explaining something about the car to Charles when Charles’ attention keeps slipping, eyes flitting past the mechanic, past the garage, drawn toward the other side of the pit lane like a magnet.
Max is standing on the edge of the roofed area, just shy of the downpour, the end of his shoes wet, weight shifting from one foot to another, lips pressed together as he tilts his head back, watching the rain. Charles knows Max’s expression like he knows racing - intimately, instinctively. Curiosity creases his forehead; hesitation sits heavy in his posture. He inspects his sleeve, tests the dampness of his cuffs. He’s deciding. Wonders if they get wet, can he survive the cold? Is where he needs to go more important than staying in the warmth of the garage? Is it worth getting his socks wet?
Charles takes an odd sort of comfort in being able to read the omega. Then, as quickly as it comes, it vanishes. Hesitation turns into determination. Max takes one step into the rain - and three alphas crowd him backwards again. They form a loose shield, their backs to Charles and obscuring the omega entirely.
There is madness to one’s soul not even a mother can contain. It is said that when an alpha goes into rut, a fraction of this madness seeps through, peeking at their consciousness like an alligator hunting for prey. It is also said that this madness takes different shapes in each individual, some come in the forms of envy, some in wrath, some in lust. But for Charles, they come in a blinding haze that shuts his body down. His sight will blur, his fingers will feel like they are falling off his palms, his muscles are ice cream melting on a summer beach - an inevitable cause.
In moments like this, Charles’ madness comes in full blast. His knees wobble, his last bit of bodily function struggles to find balance. His calves tighten. Whatever the mechanic is saying is far at the back of his mind, drowning out by the sheer force it takes the alpha to remain conscious alone.
And then, Max reappears.
The alphas around him relax, stepping aside just enough for Charles to see the flush on Max’s face, red creeping up from his collar, blooming high on his cheekbones. He laughs, nudging one of the alphas by the arm before pulling him along. The man holds the umbrella between them, tilting it ever so slightly towards Max, sacrificing the dry slope of his own shoulder.
“WHO IS THAT?” Charles finds himself blurting out with more spite than he wanted. Across the lane, a tall woman is walking Max down the hallway. Her black hair is long and silky, glowing to her hip, swaying as she throws her back laughing at whatever Max is saying heartily.
Max is not anywhere near funny enough to warrant that reaction. Charles clicks his tongue.
She's a head taller than the omega, boosted by the louboutin wedges she's adorning that clacks on the marble with every step.
Lewis follows his eyeline and scoffs.
“Some Chinese multi-billionaire heiress. New Red Bull sponsor. Saw her around Max a lot this week.”
“Heard her laugh from across the circuit,” the Monegasque rolls his eyes, turning his back to them as they vanish behind a corner.
“Well, you were like that too.”
Offended, Charles' voice cracks when he denies it. He wishes the ground will swallow him whole, leaving Lewis to ensure the team he's no more and they should replace him with another alpha with no history of bigger fuck-ups.
“Yeah, sure, man. You laughed at anything Max said. The whole paddock was so sick of it,” Lewis shakes his head, snickering.
Charles pretends to find interest in the leaderboard displayed on the television, hanging on the wall for every passerby to see how Max is at the top once again while Charles scrambles in P7.
Lewis speaks suddenly, in a blank tone, to Charles' demise, “whatever happened between you two anyway?”
Lewis could tell Charles to stab himself in the chest and Charles would be more thankful.
THE CHINESE HEIRESS—WHO INSISTED EVERYONE CALL HER AMBER, AND MAX TO CALL HER JIAN YI—lingers for days before she’s ushered onto her flight to Canada for business. Charles wants to believe it’s because of the quiet prayers he breathes every time he sees her slender arm curled around Max’s waist.
He doesn’t know what she told the media, but none of the headlines ever speak of them the way they once gossiped about him and Max, back when they were still something worth whispering about. Charles saw the flashes go off as she and Max walked through the paddock, arms linked and untouchable. But none of those photos ever surfaced.
Charles exhales, slow and bitter. The Chinese conglomerates and their stranglehold on information —some things money really can buy.
Even when Amber is no longer in sight, Max can never catch a breath.
“Now who the fuck is that?” The can in Charles crumples in his hold. Beside him, Carlos makes a disgusted face at the poor aluminum.
Leaning against the railing that separates the circuit from the Red Bull garage stands Max, deep in conversation with a tall, broad-shouldered white man. It might have looked unremarkable—if not for the man’s arms braced on either side of Max, boxing him in. Yet the omega seems perfectly at ease, tilting his head up to speak, words flowing easily as if the closeness doesn't bother him at all.
The man’s arms flex and shift beneath Max’s touch when the omega places his palms on those solid biceps, drawing a low laugh from Max—light, delighted, and utterly unbothered by the intimacy.
Charles imagines the white tent falling on them and crashing both.
“Rico. He's been here before, no? You know him, no?” Carlos says.
“Verhoeven? He looks different.”
“A fresh cut, maybe?”
Charles knew it. That man had been circling Max since the days Charles was still courting him—always lingering just a little too long, always watching. He used to tease, asking if Charles' gifts were enough to satisfy an omega like Max, and would laughingly offer up his own clothes for Max’s nest. Back then, Max would shut him down with a flat no , to Charles’ amusement.
He must’ve been thrilled when the news broke—probably smiling to himself, jumping in joy, thinking his time had finally come.
“Man, my scent still lives in his house, these alphas.”
“Open field, no? Alpha up, Charles, you wasted your chance,” Carlos states concernedly, and struts away to escape Charles' impending wrath.
CARNAL DESIRE IS A CRUEL KIND OF COMPANION. Once invited, it consumes you gently at first, and you begin wanting a little more, then, just a tiny bit more, then wholly—slipping beneath your skin like a warm breath in winter, until they see it in your face.
The pallor of a dead man , they murmur, as you sway between the ache of conscience and the comfort of self-vindication.
For it is in the name of desire,dressed in longing and made tender with need, that even atrocities can be whispered into reason.
He remembered his teacher’s voice, low and certain: "The most common desire among alphas is the longing to possess an omega."
But time, like love, does not always obey, it changes, contorts and mixes with other impurities.. The laws shifted—slowly, like a heart relearning how to beat.
"We are our own," an omega once cried on the screen, Charles saw when he was a child, "Not echoes of those who claim us."
Even in the sacred bond of alpha and omega, love cannot be forged through ownership.
Desire may burn, but true love demands to be embraced.
So when Charles feels that violent urge rise in his chest—to drive his car straight through the restaurant’s glass façade at the sight of Max having a quiet lunch with a middle-aged alpha, one who’s far too comfortable stroking his hand, fingers tangled together over shared plates—he has to remind himself:
What right does he have?
Arthur is in the grocery store, and Charles curses his luck when the spot he picked to park his car is in a direct viewing line of the couple sitting by the chick looking cafe. The rumble of his car seems to match the thunder in his heart.
Max doesn't like eating out. But lately, Charles catches him outside in Monaco streets with different alphas more often than not.
When they were.. together , Charles' offers for dinner and lunch were rejected flatly, Max more comfortably prefers cooking at home, something Charles was grateful for then but not so much now. His dignity as an alpha is being questioned by the media. Just the other day, a reporter asked if he had ever offered Max the same outing when they were ‘in closer terms’ to each other.
They were courting , Charles wanted to say. Charles was courting Max, and Max lets him into his nest, cooks for him and discusses pups with him. In ‘closer terms’ his ass.
IT'S THE MIDDLE OF JUNE WHEN CHARLES FOUND MAX CRYING IN HIS DRIVER ROOM. He will not admit it and people night not need him to, but after months having, or not having any label between them anymore, Charles frequently finds his feet bringing him closer to Max. Not as close as before but just enough to let Max know he's around, letting his presence linger like a shadow in a dim room.
He smells it first before seeing it and he doesn't need to see it to know he doesn't like it. It's rotten and spoiled, a familiar scent, perhaps the last scent he got from Max when their… broke off.
With the stubbornness of pre-revolution French royalty, and the spite of their subjects, he knocks on the white door. The sob stops and silence replaces it, “who?”
“Charles. Max, are you okay.”
Charles can see Max rolling his eyes, “go away.”
“Is it something I can help with?”
“No. Go away, Charles.”
Charles tries the knob, then punches it when it won't budge.
“Please go away.”
“Max, I'm your-” what are they, exactly?
“Friend,” Charles never hated how a word rolls off his tongue more when he has first learnt English and has to pronounce his name the way the Americans do. Charles , like chalk .
“I’m your friend. I want to help.”
The door creaks open slightly, revealing Max's red tinted face with tears running down his chin. Black ink drips along it like an overly distorted shadow of his eyelashes.
“What have you done with your eyes?!” Charles exclaims, his hands fly up to wipe the tears away. Max flinches away, reminding Charles of his place.
“None of your business,” Max spews, “and we're not friends.”
“Max, are you wearing mascara?”
The omega gasps, brushes his eyes harshly with the sleeves of his fireproofs, sees the way it is stained black and grunts pitifully before slamming the door in Charles' face.
“SINCE WHEN DO YOU DRINK G AND T ?” Pierre looks at him like he has suddenly grown two heads. In fact, Charles thinks he would rather have another head to keep him company so he doesn't have to go out to a bar because staying in his room alone and brooding like a mad man is not healthy - Pierre's words. Charles would like to apologize to fellow bed rotters out there.
“Ugh, since forever?” The ice clanks in the glass, reflecting the golden hue from the lights overhead.
Pierre snorts, then orders a drink of his own. The bartender glances at Charles sympathetically before scurrying off to prepare Pierre's overly complicated concoction.
“O oh, don't turn around.”
Charles turns around.
It's a second before he catches what Pierre means.
Perched on top of the marble of a second bar counter, clad in skinny jeans and a tucked-in tank top like some navy mechanic, is Max Verstappen, half drunk out of his mind. Around him, four or five alphas seem to think keeping their hands to themselves a heinous crime.
The frown on Max's face brings Charles on his toes immediately. The omega seems to pull his naked arms away from the lingering touch of an alpha, and folds his legs to his chest as a barrier between him and another one.
Behind him, a barista is yelling for Max to get off the counter. The four alphas corner him, obviating him from doing so.
Fucking hell.
It makes no sense how he crosses the hall filled with dancing bodies so fast. What makes perfect sense is the satisfaction he feels when his punch lands on one of the alphas’ faces. People nearby scamper away, murmuring to themselves.
The alpha is on the floor instantly, clutching his jaw. Fury in his eyes turning into confusion once he sees Charles, all dauntless and daring. Get up if you dare , his gaze says.
“Charles?”
When he turns around, Max is looking at him with unfocused eyes, then he smiles.
Smiles.
Charles drags him home, and saunters off immediately after shoving the omega into his nest. The red heart shaped cushion still has the fading scent of Charles.
He keeps it under all those blankets to preserve your scent.
There are boxes beside the main door that Charles contemplates on inspecting but decides against it before bolting out.
It is on the cold street of Monaco, on the way to his apartment, with his fingers tapping over an invisible keypad that Charles realizes Max hasn't changed his lock pin.
161097.
The news blasts through the paddock like the RB19. It goes from one engineer to another, through whispered hushes and he says she says, until Lewis pulls Charles off the side with a wary glance.
“Don't freak out,” the man says, looking straight into Charles' eyes, “and don't overreact.”
“What the fuck’s wrong with you?” Charles rubs around his aching wrist once Lewis lets it go.
“No one wants to be the news bearer, Christian thinks you should know, but not before the race, so I becomes the scapegoat,” still in his suit, Lewis looks like he might say they are disqualified, which, truly no shock at this point, but he glances to the leaderboard on the wall.
Pole - Kimi Antonelli
“Kimi is planning to court Max.”
Charles' tense-filled focus wavers for a second.
His lips tremble, words scorching hot on his lips, as he forces out “but he's a pup.”
“He's an alpha, Charles. He presented two years ago, he's eligible enough for Max if wants to try.”
“He's a fucking pup,” comes out more confidently, more venomous.
“Charles,” Lewis wet his lips, his pat on Charles' shoulder offers no comfort whatsoever.
He bolts to the Mercedes garage, where he finds the young alpha, drenched in championship champagne, looking over an assortment of gifts and flowers on what was supposed to be technicians’ counter . The Italian is smiling ear to ear as he speaks with his engineer, blush creeping up his unblemished cheeks still adorned with baby fat.
“Charles,” Lewis calls, grabbing at Charles' arm, panting from chasing the Monegasque alpha to his old home. He throws a group of familiar mechanics a hesitated smile all the while attempting to drag his fuming teammate away.
“What are you doing here?” Toto says, the trophy in his hands glimmers silvery under the light.
Charles ignores him and strides towards Kimi, shoving Lewis’ prying hands and George's lanky shoulders away when he tries to block him.
“Charles?”
“A word, Kimi?”
Kimi gestures his engineer away, then makes no move to offer themselves privacy. With at least ten pairs of eyes on them, Kimi smiles, “sure.”
There’s a phantom piece of beef stuck between Charles’ teeth, the irritation wrapping around him like a hungry alligator mid-twist - tight, brutal, relentless. Kimi’s warm brown eyes stare back at him, steady and patronizing, without so much as a blink.
For a moment, Charles almost recoils, questioning the sense in squaring up to someone who’s practically a pup—to both him and Max.
He's an alpha.
He's eligible enough for Max if he wants to try.
“I heard you want to court Max?”
Kimi's smile widens, Charles doesn't know what to feel about that.
“Yes, any tips?”
Charles' mouth falls open.
“I mean, since you courted him before, perhaps you can tell me what he likes and does not like.”
“You're a pup.” Kimi's smile drops immediately.
“I'm twenty one.”
“Max is mine .”
Kimi shrugs his shoulders, “I don't see any mark on him.”
“He doesn't see you like that, you're a brother to him. Why would you break his heart like that?”
“Like what, Charles? Like you did? Even I know you messed up and should move the fuck on.”
Charles' hand flies right to Kimi's jaw, which the alpha successfully invaded by stepping back. A few mechanics, quick on their feet, grab Charles in a crucifix limb lock.
“Come on, Charles,” Lewis begs from behind, trying to peel the Mercedes-clad staffs from his teammate.
“Yes, come on, Charles . You let him go months ago,” Kimi says, a bit aggressively. Toto tries to hold him back but gets shoved away instead, elbows to chest. He steps away, eyes widened in bafflement at his pup of a driver.
Kimi whips his arms around to make a show of it, “can't you see the line you're holding up? The only reason the other drivers haven't shot their shot is because they respect you! They're your friends. Me? I'm not,” Kimi glares towards a panicked George, “we're not even coworkers! So if I want Max, and he's available, what's holding me back? Think with your head for once,” Kimi spits the last few words. Charles feels like it lands on his chest instead of the floor.
AMBER SEEMS TO TAKE THE NEWS VERY BADLY. There's a rumor she's gifting some Chinese over engineered mechanical engine that can turn the sports upside down to Red Bull next year, and to cut ties with any leftover connection she has with Mercedes.
All hell breaks loose in the industry.
Then on the last race of the season, Max struts through the paddock wearing Amber’s - or Jian Yi's, in his case - brand from head to toe. The golden peacock embroidery on his chest quickly throned a fan’s favorite compared to the usual Red Bull logo.
GRIEF SEEMS TO CATCH UP TO CHARLES on the most random of moments. Three years he spent learning Max by heart - his go-to takeaway, the curve of his smile when handed the right brand of chocolate, which florist have the tulips that bloomed the color Max liked best, how he took his eggs in the morning and his shoe size - a single, contextless 9.5 in Charles' note app undeleted.
Now those memories drift like smoke through the cracks of his mind, flickering and inviting, each one bringing with it the ache of forgetting and the sharper sting of remembering. It is on a peaceful Sunday morning that Charles suddenly recalls he actually prefers scrambled to omelette.
The omelette is thrown into a trash can almost too soon after.
There are boxes on the floor of his living room collecting dust. Things that were meant for Max, arriving too late and now attracting ghosts over, Charles managed to ignore them to the point that he's forgetting the content.
The sight of them stimulates Charles, he contemplates sending them over to Max's house, but never seems to get to it, always hesitating and calculating the odds of them being returned back and he's left with a fading scent of Max on them.
What a mess.
This can't continue.
Unpacking the boxes, he realizes two things; One, he was in this Max shit for life; Second, the contents - mostly clothes and, inexplicably, a takoyaki machine - have no business staying in his house if he wants to keep what’s left of his sanity.
HIS LEGS BRING HIM TO THE OMEGA’S PENTHOUSE AT 3 IN THE MORNING with a bag of tees with funny quotes on his shoulder and the Japanese cuisine machine in his arms.
He taps the doorbell, shifting from one leg to another.
Kimi is the one who opens the door, light brown hair ruffled messily and eyes squinting, chasing sleep.
Charles’ grip on the box falters, flinching when he nearly drops it onto the carpeted floor of the hallway. Every instinct tells him to go big or go home. Square up, or walk away. But he does neither, his shoulders too tense, his knees too weak to carry anything but the weight of the silence.
Kimi sighs, “what is it?”
“What are you doing here?”
There's something about the young pup that makes him seem so harmless, so innocent. But he's an alpha, alright. He has the air of dominance around him, the woody scent of bergamots and clean hotel sheets, so inviting and welcoming. Anyone else might be able to tell the don't-mess-with-me flavor to his disposition, but to Charles, who practically witness in front row how Kimi grew up, all snot faced while karting and how he clings to Max in his rookie years like the omega birthed him, Kimi is nothing but a confused little kid in his eyes.
He's an alpha.
Who just opened the door to Max's home like he lives there.
“None of your business.”
“Watch your words, pup.”
Kimi gasps, “ you watch your words. What do you want?”
Charles bites his bottom lip.
“Kimi?” Max appears from inside the room, brushing sleep off his eyes, “Charles?”
“He's just about to leave, don't worry.”
Charles snaps, “no I'm not.”
“Dude-”
“Didn't your parents teach you to respect your elders?”
The push on his shoulder sends him stumbling back to the wall across the hallway. He hears Max's sharp heave.
Kimi hoots, “and your parents didn't teach you not to lick back what you have spit?”
Suffocating Bergamots meets rotten Vanilla, the hallway smells like an artisanal perfumery in the 60s. The one Charles saw and imagined to smell like in the Netflix film about a serial killer with an obsession with fragrance.
“Kimi!” Max's voice thunders down down the corridor, breaking through the heavy perfume like a storm.
The alpha is still looking at Charles menacingly, waiting for his next move, and Charles would rather amputates both arms before backing off.
The omega pulls - drags - Kimi into the house, closing the door, leaving Charles and the awful stench in the hallway hazy and weak in the knees. The box in his hands heavier by the second.
A minute later, the door is thrown open and Kimi storms off without looking twice at Charles, who is still leaning on the opposite wall and Max, who stands in the doorway with tears streaked face.
“We have to talk,” the omega whispers.
THE INSIDE OF MAX'S HOUSE HAS LITTLE CHANGES TO THEM, especially the presence of mountains of boxes blocking the living room window. Max used to enjoy the view, one time Charles placed a monstera on one corner and found it on the other side of the room in the morning.
The monstera is still there blooming healthily.
“He was helping me unpacking the boxes,” Max states, shifting his weight from one foot to another beside the boxes after he gestures for Charles to take a seat.
Charles nods, staring at the Japanese texts on the box he brought. Then he turns to the omega.
“You look… good.”
“Charles.”
The house smells like Max, like lemons and limes and mints and all the citrusy heaven Charles misses to death. They ooze in thick waves from the omega standing on the other side of the room.
“I'm sorry.”
“For what?”
“For coming at this ungodly time.”
“You always have a crooked sense of timing.”
“I do not.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Max.”
Max bites his lip, eyes darting anywhere but Charles, fingers playing amongst themselves. He looks so damn good in his sweatpant and silk navy pajamas which matching shorts went missing in Saudi some years ago, Charles remembers.
Either Max smells the shifting vanilla scent wafting out of Charles or he is in need of cool air, but he strides across the living room and snaps a window open - one that isn't covered by all those boxes.
Charles feels relief wash over him at not being suffocated by the familiar and definitely no-longer-his scent of the omega.
“They are gifts.”
“I can see that.”
“And you don't care, at all?”
The side wall of his mouth nearly rips from how hard Charles is biting them. Oh how he cares. If only Max knew.
“Do you want me to care?”
“One of them made me wear makeup.”
Charles' eyebrows furrow, meeting in the middle of his face, he scans Max's face, pleased to find them bare, “you don't like wearing makeup.”
“He said I should try wearing some, it makes me look prettier.”
Who the fuck-
“Don't be mad.”
Max points to the basket filled with cosmetics on the floor, “I'm throwing them away.”
Charles nods, albeit much too eagerly than he planned.
“Why are you here, Charles?” Why are you adding to my misery?
He clicks his tongue, then removes the bag from his shoulders, placing it on the coffee table beside the takoyaki machine, “these are for you.”
Max looks at the items then back to Charles, “I don't understand.”
“Just take them, you don't have to understand.”
“Don't say that! You always say that!” Red seeps up Max's face, his pointing finger raised to Charles. More tears threaten to fall off the corner of his eyes.
“You always say that I don't have to understand things! Why do you say that?” he sobs.
Mouth drying off, chest filled with void of extreme magnitude at the sight before him, Charles' brain can't help but recall the moment of that night they broke off. The moon is missing that night too.
Victory or death.
“Max.”
“Max. Max. Max. Stop saying my name like that.”
He crosses the living room, trying to pull the omega into his arm. Max shoves him away but he insists, his hold gentle but firm, until Max finally relents and settles into his arms, his nose on Charles' scent glands. Their body lodges in each other seamlessly like two correctly placed puzzle pieces. Charles' eyes nearly roll back from how comfortable it is and how his body misses the omega in his embrace.
“They made me go out for lunches and dinners, ordered the food for me, and then told me I'm boring when I'm talking about racing.
Then one of them tried to touch me the way you did, and I don't like it at all.” Max's sobs are painful to the ears.
“I don't like their gifts, Charles. I want to throw them all away. But mama said it wouldn't be polite. Then I remember how you threw the other alphas' gifts when you were-” Max gasps, reaching for his own scent glands, “courting me.”
“Please don't leave me, Charles. I don't like the nest not smelling like you.”
Max snuggles into his chest, trying to get closer, get into Charles’ skin. Charles feels the same urge, rotating in his respiratory system like an endless cycle. The sour tang of lemon cuts through the air and stabs his gum uncomfortably, Max's bare neck looks ripe for the taking.
And Charles says fuck it.
He lets go of the embrace, having to steel himself when Max whimpers and wails with a soft plea for Charles to stay. He goes to the coffee table, his fingers hover above the clothes and the box but decides for the box in the end. Go big or go home.
“Max,” he kneels in front of the omega, holding the box up, “I won't tell you to wear makeup, won't order the food for you and would be honored to listen to your story all day long even if it kills me.”
“I fucked up big the first time. I didn't know what I had in my hands until I lost it. But every second without you, I'm going nearly mad. And I know now it benefits me more than you, but will you let me court you, once again?”
Max bawls while nodding eagerly, “a takoyaki machine?”
He raises to his feet, “I remember you were very excited when Yuki mentioned the takoyaki party that one time.”
Max giggles while sniffling but places away the box to pull Charles into a kiss. His lips are salty from all the tears, Charles licks them anyway, just the way Max likes it. The omega sighs contentedly.
Then with glassy eyes, he whispers, voice laced with happiness teasingly “Jian Yi sent some nightgowns the other day.”
Charles pulls away, his brows crook interestedly, “oh, you like nightgowns?”
“They have golden peacocks on them.”
A mark of possession.
Charles clicks his tongue, “throw them away.No, no, better yet : burn them.”