Chapter Text
Charles noticed it halfway through Professor Bianchi’s second tangent of the morning — something about Romanesque archways and the tragedy of poor renovations. At first, it didn’t register as anything unusual. Just Max shifting in his seat, hand coming up to rub at his chest.
Charles stared at the back of his head. He hated that he knew Max well enough to know he was off.
The shifting didn’t stop.
Max hunched forward a little more than usual, elbows pressing into the table. He rubbed his sternum again, this time in a more agitated motion, as if trying to soothe something sharp. Charles narrowed his eyes.
Still, he didn’t say anything.
Max was always dramatic. Always tense. Always some silent protest written across his body.
Charles turned to Pierre beside him. “Do you think Verstappen looks weird?” he asked.
Pierre didn’t glance up from his laptop. “He always looks weird,” he replied while typing some notes.
“No, I mean —” Charles stopped himself, glancing forward again.
His shoulders were rising too high with every breath. His neck, Charles noticed with a subtle kind of dread, was tensing with each inhale. Like his body was trying too hard for something that should come easy.
The professor kept rambling about architectural sins, unaware of what was going on. Students scribbled notes, typed. Max sat in the same spot he always had — just another body in a sea of them — and no one seemed to notice that he was breathing like a fish out of water, not even Daniel, sitting by his side. Of course not, Daniel was too busy drooling over Professor Bianchi.
Charles forced his eyes away from Max. Whatever was going on with him, wasn’t Charles’ matter. He had a lesson to focus on.
Max would deal with it on his own, anyway. He always had.
But then he glanced again.
Max’s lips were parted now, drawing short, shallow gasps. His face had gone slightly pale. His right hand twitched on the desk, hovering near his backpack but not doing anything.
Charles leaned closer to Pierre again, whispering, “I think something’s wrong.”
“What?” Pierre finally looked. “Is he crying?”
“No. I think he’s —” Charles cut himself off. His heart was racing now.
Max coughed. A sharp, dry, hollow sound. Then again.
The kind of cough that rattled the lungs, but didn’t move any air.
Charles felt his chest squeeze tight. “He is having an asthma attack.”
Max reached for his bag, hand shaking. He just couldn’t unzip it. His other hand braced hard on the edge of the desk. His head hung low between his shoulders; his eyes were squeezed shut.
It hit Charles all at once, like a punch to the stomach. He had to do something.
He stood.
Not fast, not loud. Just quiet and decisive, walking straight down the steps toward Max’s desk.
Max was halfway to panic now, chest fluttering, lips parting again and again like he was trying to pull more air in but failing.
“Max,” Charles whispered, kneeling beside him. No response. His hand hovered near Max’s arm. “Where is it?”
Max gave the smallest shake of his head, lips too pale. He couldn’t speak.
It didn’t matter because Charles knew exactly where to reach. Side pocket of the backpack. Same as when they were thirteen and Max had an attack in the locker room. Same as it had always been.
He pulled out the inhaler, already shaking.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, clicking the cap off. “Here.”
Max’s fingers closed weakly around it. But he didn’t raise it.
Charles looked around — at the professor still droning on, at the students texting and typing and pretending not to see.
“Fuck this,” Charles muttered, sliding his arm under Max’s shoulder. “Come on. We’re going outside.”
Max stumbled a little as Charles helped him up, still gasping. Every breath now was audible, whistling like wind through a cracked window.
They made it out of the classroom. Just barely. Charles guided him down the hall, toward a bench near the stairwell, and gently lowered him to sit.
Max’s hands were shaking too badly to use the inhaler.
“It’s okay,” Charles said again, crouching in front of him. “Let me.”
He took the inhaler back, shook it, pressed it to Max’s lips. “Breathe in on three. One… two… breathe.”
A click. A hiss. Max tried. Coughed instead.
“Again. It’s okay.” Another try. This one landed better.
Charles waited, counted thirty seconds, tried again. And again.
Max’s hands clutched his shirt now, eyes wide and frightened. His chest still rose and fell far too fast, pulling each breath in like he was drowning.
Charles stayed there, grounded, focused. “Just stay with me. You’re doing good. Just breathe. You’re okay.”
Minutes passed like hours. The hallway was empty, cold. Max was flushed with effort now, sweat shining on his forehead. His fingers gripped Charles’ arm — hard. Desperate.
Charles didn’t flinch. He stayed, knees going numb on the tile floor, whispering the same things over and over again.
“You’re doing fine, just breathe.”
Finally — after maybe ten minutes, maybe a hundred — Max slumped forward, breathing deeper, slower. Each inhale still shaky, but the worst had passed. His fingers loosened. His lashes fluttered.
Charles sat back slowly, watching as Max leaned against the wall, chest heaving, eyes closed.
He hadn’t seen him like this in a while. Quiet. Shaken. Real.
For a long moment, neither of them said anything.
The air in the hallway had gone still, even though Charles’ own chest still fluttered like it didn’t know how to settle.
Max hadn’t moved much.
He was sitting slouched against the cool wall now, head tilted back, skin pale with a faint sheen of sweat, mouth parted as he slowly—so carefully—drew in each breath. His lashes twitched like he might fall asleep, or cry, or both.
“Thank you,” Max rasped, voice barely there.
Charles frowned. “It was scary.”
“I am okay now.”
Charles rolled his eyes, stopping Max’s attempt at getting up by pushing his shoulder down. “You’re not.”
Max didn’t argue, but he didn’t look at him either. That was always the worst part with Max. The way he could shrink himself down so small without anyone noticing.
Charles ran a hand through his hair. His knees still ached from crouching so long.
“I’ll get your stuff,” he said softly, rising to his feet. “Don’t move. Just… sit here.”
Max didn’t even nod.
Charles jogged back to the classroom. Pierre spotted him first.
“Is he okay?” he asked.
Charles grabbed Max’s backpack, slinging it over his shoulder. “He had a full attack. Like a bad one.”
“Fuck,” Pierre muttered, standing to follow.
Charles sighed. “It’s just… he doesn’t even ask for help. He just sits there, suffering silently like he’s proud of it.”
“That sounds like Max.”
Charles turned away, already back in motion. “Yeah. And it’s fucking exhausting.”
Pierre gave him a smile, one that caused Charles to roll his eyes. He’d have done the same for everyone, Pierre needed to stop his insinuations about Charles having a crush on Max. He didn’t. He just couldn’t stand Max’s presence in a room; he was so annoying.
He chose to ignore his friend and rushed out of the room.
He found Max in the same position, though his breathing had evened out slightly. Not back to normal—still wheezy, still shallow—but better. The kind of better that meant the worst had passed, and now came the shame.
“I got your bag,” Charles said, setting it down gently beside him. “I also told Pierre you’re still an asshole, don’t worry.”
Max huffed softly. “Thanks.”
Charles crouched again, more slowly this time. “Do you feel dizzy?”
Max nodded faintly.
“Okay. You probably hyperventilated a bit.”
Another nod.
Charles hesitated, then added, “You don’t have to talk.”
He hated how soft his voice sounded. How much of his guard he had dropped just because Max was staring at him with those ocean blue, wide, exhausted eyes.
Max coughed again, breath catching halfway through. It took him a second to recover from it. He pressed a fist into his ribs, chest shaking.
Charles instinctively reached forward to steady him.
Max flinched.
“Sorry,” Charles said quickly, pulling back.
Max whispered something, but Charles didn’t catch it.
“What?”
“I said,” Max rasped, swallowing thickly, “I didn’t even feel it start. It was just—suddenly everything was wrong.”
Charles nodded. “That’s how it works, right?”
Max looked away. “Sometimes I feel it coming. This one just… hit.”
He sounded humiliated. That soft, bitter kind of embarrassment that wrapped around his words like thorns.
Charles sat down fully this time, back against the wall beside him. Not close, but not far either.
“Do you want water?”
Max shook his head. “Makes it worse after.”
Charles didn’t press.
They sat in silence, only Max’s shallow breaths breaking the rhythm of the quiet. His chest still rose quickly, like his lungs hadn’t caught up to the fact that they were safe now.
Charles studied the wall across from them, unsure why he was still sitting here.
He glanced sideways. “I knew it was coming, you know.”
Max blinked tiredly at him.
“You were doing that thing where you rub your chest. Like you don’t even know you’re doing it.”
“I do know,” Max murmured. “It’s just… habit.”
Charles nodded. “Yeah.”
He hated how familiar this felt. How many times he’d watched Max come back from this kind of attack when they were younger — during summer camps, soccer practice, exam days. They weren’t friends, they never were. But Charles had been around. He’d seen it.
“You should’ve said something.”
Max rolled his eyes weakly. “And give Professor Bianchi another reason to hate me?”
“You literally couldn’t breathe. He wouldn’t have hated you.”
“That’s not the point.”
Charles huffed a breath, almost laughing. “You’re still the most stubborn idiot I know.”
Max’s head lolled toward him. “Right back at you.”
Charles shook his head, lips twitching. “God, you’re so stupid.”
Max’s fingers curled in the fabric of his jeans, gripping faintly like he was grounding himself. His other hand rubbed at his side again. His breath still trembled on the exhale.
Charles watched him out of the corner of his eye, chest heavy with something unspoken.
He didn’t know why it mattered so much that Max was okay. It just did.
And now that he was watching more closely — now that he wasn’t looking through the lens of childhood rivalry — Max looked… small. Not physically, no. But worn. Hollowed out around the edges.
He looked like someone who had been pushing too hard for too long.
Charles didn’t say anything else. He just sat there beside him, silent in a way that felt almost protective.
Eventually, Max leaned his head back again, eyes drifting shut.
And Charles stayed exactly where he was.
.
They ended up in the dorm lounge later that evening.
Max didn’t say anything when Charles knocked on his door, just nodded and stepped aside to let him in. He was wearing a loose hoodie and that pale, washed-out look he always got after a bad attack. His eyes were sunken, too big for his face.
It made something in Charles tighten.
“I brought you Pierre’s note. I guess it’s better than having none.”
Max blinked at the papers, then took them from Charles. “Thanks.”
Charles sat on the edge of the small armchair by the window. He didn’t ask permission. He wasn’t sure why he was even here.
Max sat next to him, tucking his legs under his bum.
He stared at Charles carefully, weary.
“You okay?” Charles asked, unsure on how to break the ice.
Max shrugged one shoulder. “Getting there.”
Charles hesitated, then said, “I was scared.”
Max looked up.
Charles cleared his throat. “In class. I saw you. And I just— I don’t know. I kept waiting for someone else to do something, anything. But nobody did and— fuck. I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
Max didn’t answer right away.
“It always happens like that,” he said eventually. “Quiet. Subtle. And then everything’s wrong and I can’t explain it until it’s too late.”
Charles nodded. “I remember. It happened at that stupid soccer camp too. You were ten. You passed out on the field.”
Max gave a tired smile. “I remember you puked when the ambulance came.”
Charles laughed under his breath. “You looked dead.”
“Still funny.”
Silence settled again, but this time it wasn’t heavy. Just… full.
Max rubbed at his chest absently. His breathing was steadier now, but there was still a thinness to it. Like he was walking a tightrope between okay and not.
Charles tilted his head. “Why didn’t you tell anyone it was getting worse?”
Max gave him a look. “Why would I?”
“Because someone might actually give a shit?”
Max raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical.
Charles sighed. “Okay, fine. I didn’t mean someone like me. I mean— I don’t know. Daniel. The nurse. Someone.”
Max was quiet. Then: “Do you give a shit?”
Charles blinked, caught off guard.
Max wasn’t teasing. He was just… asking.
Charles swallowed. “Yeah. I do.”
A long pause.
Max glanced at him, then looked away again, like the answer had surprised him.
Charles leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I don’t know when it happened, but I don’t think I actually hate you anymore.”
Max snorted. “That’s romantic.”
Charles grinned. “I’m very emotionally intelligent.”
“I can tell.”
They didn’t talk much more after that. The window fogged a little with steam and dusk.
At one point, Max leaned his head back against the edge of Charles’ chair, closing his eyes again. Charles didn’t move. He just sat there, heart thudding a little louder than before.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t touch him. But he looked down at Max’s lashes brushing his cheek, the slow rise and fall of his chest, and thought—
Okay. Maybe I don’t just care. Maybe it’s something else.
And Max, even half asleep and aching and embarrassed, seemed to lean just slightly closer.
Just enough.