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Christmas is not Charles’ favorite time of the year.
It’s not like he hates it. He doesn’t mind the festivities; he enjoys the food and the music and the mistletoe as much as the next person. It’s just. It feels hollow. This time of the year is when the carved out spaces in his heart —left by the people he misses— hurt the most. When the empty spaces around the table feel the most empty. Every sparkle of the tree is a bit of an insult, a bit of a reminder of all the light he no longer has. 'Tis the damn season.
Max knows this.
He doesn’t really get the feeling — he’s never been one to have what you’d call normal holidays. But Charles once explained it to him, tripping over his tongue as he tried: “Christmas doesn’t make me sad. But I don’t get as excited about it anymore, and the fact that I’m not excited is what makes me sad.” And Max can understand that. Very well.
So when the season comes around, he doesn’t go overboard with it. He buys gifts he knows Charles will like, and he doesn’t make arrangements for big parties or events. He keeps the decorations around his place —which at this point, is also Charles’ place— to a minimum. Couple of ribbons here and there, some strings of light, mistletoe.
Max had expected Charles to stay with his family during the actual holiday, as they usually get a cabin in the Alps for a couple of weeks, make good use of the break, so he’d initially planned on going to see his sister and her kids. However, one warm night, Charles had cuddled up to him and told him that his family trip wasn’t going to happen —some whatnots, schedules, life— and that he’d be meeting up with them later in January.
“But you should still go see Victoria. I’m sure the kids miss you.”
Max mused it over. “Why don’t you come with me?”
Charles flashed him soft dimples, but just for a second. “I wouldn’t want to impose. It’s your family.”
“They love you,” he insisted, pressing one thumb over where the dimple had been. “You know that.”
The man sighed, relaxing into Max’s touch, the light in his eyes a little dulled. “I don’t know. I’m… It’s your family.” I would feel out of place, was what he was trying to say. And I already feel out of place during this time of the year, he would’ve added, if he’d had the words.
He didn’t have to. Max knew. Max knew because he knows him like the back of his palm, the back of his soul, the bottom of his heart.
He wrapped one tight arm around Charles’ waist. “Well, then we can stay here.”
“Max…”
“I’m not leaving you alone on Christmas.” It was really that simple. “I can go see them on Boxing Day.”
Charles pouted, but it was obvious he was trying to fight a smile — one of those smiles that make Max fall in love all over again. “Fine. Whatever you want.” And it was pointless how much sarcasm and reprimand he tried to infuse into the words; all that came out was honey and sugar and lavender.
That’s how they end up nestled on the couch on Christmas Eve, with no plans to see anyone else. Which, really, all in all, is absolutely lovely.
It’s cold, so they have the fireplace on. Charles made hot chocolate, and Max doesn’t get tired of praising it, because what the fuck did that man put in there? It’s wonderful. Probably the best he’s ever tried. And he’s not saying that just because Charles made it, he makes sure to let him know.
Charles is wearing one of Max’s sweaters — it’s not too big for him, but it’s loose around his shoulders, and it bunches around his waist. Max loves that. A constant reminder of belonging. It’s navy blue, and it shouldn’t bring out the iridescent green of Charles’ eyes, but it does.
Some Christmas movie plays on the TV, but Max finds that Charles is a much more interesting view. His pretty boy. Gorgeous thing. Mathematical error of creation. He wishes he could make him completely happy, completely full. Brush that dash of blue off his face. But he knows some things are just the way they are, and there’s no changing that.
“You’re staring,” Charles huffs over the rim of his mug, shooting Max a side glance and the corner of a smirk.
“I’m allowed.”
It makes him laugh. It’s the prettiest sound in the world — better than sleighbells, twinkles, and carols. “You’re a flirt.”
“I’m also allowed.”
Charles pushes at his chest, sets his mug aside. “Don’t you care about Macaulay Culkin spending all of his dad’s money at the Plaza?” He narrows his eyes.
Oh, so that’s what they were watching. Max could’ve forgotten. “I have better things to look at.”
Charles rolls his eyes, but a soft smile betrays him. “Okay.”
“You’re just pretty.”
“You keep saying.”
“I just like looking at you.” It’s not hard for Max to say these things anymore. It’s just honest. Just the truth.
“Okay,” he whispers, turning to fully look at Max. He blinks once, twice, then looks down.
That.
Charles is pretty, has been pretty, and always will be pretty from every angle, under every light, anywhere, any time. The lines on his face always sharp and soft, angelic eyes crafted in the brightest corner of heaven, always glowing. But that. Max doesn’t like to see that. That blue. It comes and goes, and he’s always pretty throughout it, but he sees it every once in a while. He knows it, and he knows that it’s always brief, and he knows that Charles thinks he doesn’t see it. He knows that it comes more often in June, mid-July, and late August. And the Holidays.
Before he can say something, crack some joke to make him laugh, Charles shifts the weight on his hips so he can climb on top of Max. He melts there, like that’s what he’s supposed to do. He straddles Max and noses along the line of his neck, but it’s soft, and it’s chaste. He’s by no means small, but sometimes it feels like he is under Max’s hands.
It’s a divine gift — how he fits perfectly on his boyfriend’s lap.
Normally, Max would let his hands wander up, touch, brush, and squeeze, deep beneath fabric. Deep beneath the rest of the world. He would snap the elastic of Charles’ boxers against his sides, dig his thumbs into his hips until they bruised. He does it so often that now Charles walks the world with purple blotches on his hips, and it drives him crazy when he catches a sliver of them.
He doesn’t now, though, because it doesn’t feel like the right time for that. He just holds his waist, big hands and long fingers over navy blue cotton.
Charles doesn’t move, and he doesn’t say anything. Minutes go by, during which Max has no choice but to actually watch the movie. He listens to Charles’ breathing: steady, slow.
Kevin is tricking the hotel employees with his Talkboy on the screen when Max feels Charles hook an arm around his neck — a soft sigh tickles his skin. He moves his hands up, presses his palms flat against Charles’ back, tucking him tighter against him. His fingers are familiar with the warmth underneath them.
“I love you.” Charles’ accent makes everything sound so bewitching. But it’s soft, and it’s small.
Max presses his nose against Charles’ shoulder. “I know. I love you, too. Are you okay?”
“M’ fine.” He pins his chin over the crook of Max’s neck. “I just wanted to tell you.”
And Max. He doesn’t want to press, because usually when he says he’s fine, he means it. Actually, he’s pretty sure Charles is fine. In a general manner. But he knows there’s something else in there, and he doesn’t want to ask, because he doesn’t want to upset him, or make him talk about the things he doesn’t want to talk about. He’s so talkative, Charles — always willing to talk out their issues, to confess his fears, say what’s on his mind for Max’s sake. He deserves to keep some things in a box.
All he can do is say what he thinks Charles needs to hear.
“I know you love me. I’m always gonna know you love me. The way I hope you’re always gonna know I love you.”
The air in the room gets scarcer, like the fireplace is sucking the oxygen out of it. Max didn’t mean to do that. But he feels Charles hug him tighter, pressing himself impossibly closer to his chest. He digs his fingers into the back of the hoodie Max is wearing.
“It’s just. Sometimes I feel like I don’t say it enough,” he mutters, slightly muffled by Max’s shoulder.
“You do.” Max rubs his palms over the planes of his back, taut muscle still bulging through the layers. “You say it enough. But I don’t need that, Charles. I know.”
Charles pulls back just enough so he can look at Max. His eyes are glassy, twinkling at the corners. “Okay,” he mouths, his lip a little wobbly. “That’s good.”
“I love you,” he says, because he’ll never find better words to say to Charles. He kisses the corner of his boyfriend’s mouth. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Pink lips press together. Charles reaches for the remote so he can pause the movie. Max lets his hands fall back down to the man’s waist, both to keep him in his lap as he stretches and to give him the space to do so.
Charles only takes his eyes off Max’s for a second to properly locate the pause button. “I’m sorry. I get weird this time of the year.” Glimmering green eyes sparkle at Max.
“Please don’t apologize,” Max chuckles, because this really is the best man alive sitting on his lap. He rubs his thumbs over his sides.
“I’m just.” It looks like he’s getting choked up, but it might just be Max’s idea. “Max. I love you so much. I don’t know if I can actually say it enough on time.”
Max tilts his head. “On time?”
Charles scrunches his nose. It looks redder than before. “Before something happens.”
Oh.
Oh, this poor thing.
Max squeezes tightly around his waist, like it would make anything better — like enough pressure could make promises come true. Like if by holding him close enough, he could blow away all of his fears, like dandelion seeds.
“Nothing’s going to happen to me.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’m not going to leave you.”
Charles closes his fist over the front of Max’s hoodie. “You don’t know that.”
The silence is suffocating. Dreadful. And terrifying. Because he’s right. He doesn’t. He does not know that. Max knows what this is about. And they’ve talked about it before — how high-risk their lives are, how one wrong steer could take it all away. How Charles knows it very well.
And it’s Christmas, and it’s a reminder of the people missing at the table.
It’s a reminder to Charles. Of how easy it is to lose.
“Schat.” He lacks the words. Lacks a comfort he can’t give him. “It’s okay.” He lifts one hand to caress Charles’ cheek — still dry, thank god. He pulses over the pink, over the shadows his eyelashes cast.
Charles bites his lip. His grip on the fabric loosens. He looks like he’s fighting it, genuinely embarrassed by this showcase of feelings he wishes —oh, so dearly— he could swallow. He wobbles and sighs. “I really don’t like Christmas.”
Grief is weird. It changes you forever. It makes you say things you didn’t know you were thinking. It makes you feel love differently.
Max cradles the side of Charles’ pretty face. “I know.”
“I love you,” he says once again, almost too quickly. “And I’m so scared.”
He places a kiss on Charles’ cheekbone, using his palm to angle him gently. “Of what?”
Charles takes a deep breath — Max feels it against his own chest. Charles looks at him with such an adoration, one Max still can’t understand or rationalize, so he resolves on considering himself awfully lucky. Green eyes threaten to spill as he tries to swallow a sniffle.
He’s rapidly starting to resemble Rudolph, the red-nosed reindeer.
“That some day you’re going to be one more person I miss during the holidays.”
Max’s heart aches and folds and crumples. He’d take all of his pain away if he could. He’d take it, swallow it, let it rot and fester at his gut, if it meant Charles wouldn’t feel like this ever again. But there are things he can’t do, things he can’t promise.
This delightful miracle of a man is looking at him with tears in his eyes, and a worried lip, and a frown that tells him he wishes he hadn’t said anything. And it really is unfair.
And what’s worse. Max can’t ease it. Not at its core, not at its middle, not on the whole. All he can do is scratch the surface with what little he has to give.
He hugs him. Crushes him in between his arms, like he’s trying to get all the air out of him, along with the dreary and the nasty and the hurt. Charles gives in to it, like he needs it. He wraps his arms around Max’s shoulders and squeezes just as hard. Burrows his head into the crook of Max’s neck. Crushes harder, sniffles.
It breaks Max’s heart.
“I’m sorry that I can’t promise,” his own throat trembles.
“It’s okay,” he muddles. He pulls back enough to plant a kiss over Max’s pulse point, stays there a bit too long, like he’s studying the beat with his lips. “I wouldn’t ask you that.”
“I’m still sorry. I’m sorry for…” And he wonders if mentioning it, mentioning them, would make it worse. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry.” Charles sounds embarrassed. He really shouldn’t be. “This was. Out of the blue. I didn’t mean to spring this on you.”
The thing is, Max knows. This isn’t new. All the time, he knows. He knows Charles is scared. That’s why he also knows, all the time, that he’s loved. All he can do is pet his hands down Charles’ back and try and give him some semblance of safety.
The most wonderful time of the year, they say.
“I bet you wish you’d gone to see your family. What a Christmas,” Charles chuckles — it’s playful, but it tastes a little sour.
Max pushes him back so he can look him in the eye, because this is something he can say, and mean, and promise, and it’s truthful. Something he can guarantee. His eyes water because it hurts that Charles would think otherwise. “I never wish I’m anywhere else when I’m with you.”
Charles bites his lip and chuckles a shaky sigh. His dimples flicker at Max. He doesn’t seem to have the words. Tears properly spill down his cheeks, and Max hurries to kiss them away, which makes him giggle. He likes that sound —bubbly, careless— so he keeps peppering kisses across his face, even when there’s no tears left to kiss away.
He kisses him, and he kisses him. He kisses him like he won’t be able to kiss him tomorrow. Memorizes, for the millionth time, the feel of his skin, the dip of his jaw, the bone on his brow.
That is, until Charles grabs his face with both his hands and pulls him away.
“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he whispers.
It catches Max off guard, steals his breath. He feels like ugly-crying now.
“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Charles. You. You’re all I can ask for.”
Charles’ eyes spill over again, a toothless smile adorning his pretty face. Even now, he’s still Charles. “Really? It’s Christmas Eve. You don’t want to aim a little higher?”
It’s a joke, but it’s very serious to Max. “There’s literally nothing else I could possibly ask for. You’re my best gift. Every day is like Christmas to me, because you’re with me. That’s why I have no choice but to spend it with you.”
Charles huffs out a sob, his eyes wide open, prettier and brighter than any decoration in the city. His lip is caught behind his teeth, and his chest shakes, like he’s holding back. Max is about to say something, worrying that he might’ve said something wrong, but Charles beats him to it.
“Okay,” he muses. “Shut up.”
He leans in to kiss him on the mouth, perfect plush lips warm and salty with tears, but Max does not mind. He kisses back, pushes when Charles gives him the opening. He’d set out to be gentle, but that didn’t seem to be in Charles’ plans: he tastes hungry, along with the salt. And the blue.
So he’s not gentle. He licks, and sucks, and bites. He lets his hands wander, slide down the perfect curves of his sides, noticeable even underneath the bunches. Charles arches into his touch, tilts his head into the kiss, sighs, drowns.
Max thinks back to last Christmas — a party, no media, a bit too much to drink, lights a bit too bright. Mistletoe. Charles.
He can’t imagine his life without him, and still, he’s not scared like Charles is. He just loves him so much. What could possibly go wrong? Max has never been one to believe in destiny or the power of love and friendship. Even with his background, he’s had to work for every bit of glory he’s ever been able to hold.
But everything is different when it comes to Charles.
Because Charles is easy. All he had to do to get him was to love him, and that’s the easiest thing in the world.
So something tells him everything will always be like this. It’s not that the thought of losing Charles isn’t petrifying and grim, he just. Doesn’t think of it.
Maybe that’s why. If he had to think about it a lot, the way Charles is wired to do, it would probably kill him.
Charles is warm, and wonderful, and everything good in the world. And he tastes like home.
He’s running hotter by the second, Max can tell; the thumb that inadvertently crawled under his clothes and burrowed on his hip was also running hotter and hotter. He digs that thumb into the skin, like he’s so used to doing, and Charles hums into his mouth, breath faltering.
He pulls back to breathe.
Max pauses.
“Are you okay?” He asks for the second time today.
Charles gives him that look. Sated.
Okay.
His lips glisten with spit, his cheeks are red and blotchy, his eyes are dry. He doesn’t look hungry anymore. And the blue has faded. He’s smiling.
“Yeah.” He drops his hands from where they rested at Max’s shoulders, runs them down his biceps and forearms — reaches to intertwine their fingers. “Thank you.”
It’s genuine now.
Max leans in to kiss the tip of his nose.
“Good.”
They just stare at each other.
Max can feel Charles’ heartbeat against his chest.
Charles takes one of Max’s hands up to his mouth and kisses it. His lips stutter like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t know if he should. The resolve is visible upon his eyes. “I love you,” he says again.
Charles can say it all he wants. All he needs. Max won’t ever get tired of hearing it.
“I love you, too.”
“Merry Christmas.”
Max takes his hand away from Charles’ face so he can kiss him again. And touch him. Feel that warm, soft skin underneath his fingers until they’re burnt with it.
Christmas is not Charles’ favorite time of the year.
But it’s easier to get through it like this.