Chapter Text
"…while reading in my father's library one evening, I came upon the story of a handsome young knight who is madly in love with a princess. She too is in love with him, though she seems not to be entirely aware of it, and despite the friendship that blossoms between them, or perhaps because of that very friendship, he finds himself so humbled and speechless owing to her forbidding candor that he is totally unable to bring up the subject of his love. One day he asks her point-blank: "Is it better to speak or die?"
I'd never even have the courage to ask such a question…"
Charles' voice rings through their apartment, as she keeps reading, the book grasped tightly in her hand. She's leaning on the kitchen counter, her elbow sat down next to Max's cutting board, eyes flickering between the words on the page and the blonde woman currently swirling sizzling bacon in their pan, ready to create a bastardized version of carbonara that Charles is going to only mildly cringe at.
Maybe, if she had wanted authentic Italian food, she should have learned to make it before she moved out of her maman's place and into Max's apartment overlooking the Marina. But like this, she'll always be bound to a Dutchwoman's culinary skills, as Charles possesses none of her own.
"That's a stupid question," Max pipes up, not even raising her blue eyes from the pan to seek out Charles. The older woman simply turns down the heat, to turn away and crack open an egg for the sauce. "Obviously, I would speak up. If you love somebody, you tell them, or you lose them. There's no in-between."
The words hit right behind Charles' sternum, daggers spearing into her softly beating heart, one cut after the other, deeper and deeper sinking into the sinew and muscle, blood pouring out between her ribs and into the cavities between her organs. It's something she should be used to by now - the Dutchwoman's bluntness when it comes to emotions. To her best friend, there is only black and white. You either love, or you don't. You hate, or you don't. There's no gray areas, no way to change your mind once you've settled on something. Charles' knows her best friend well, and she had to learn the hard way multiple times.
Once, when Daniel had been younger, fresh-faced, without the ugly beard, his curls not as prettily styled just yet, but still bold enough to ask Max out. Back then, the blonde had said yes, gone on one date and deemed it unnecessary to continue as she wasn't in love with him.
Charles had sat at home that night, wondering when her roommate would come home, if the blonde would be flustered, kiss Daniel goodnight in their doorframe. But none of it happened. Max had come home, settled on the couch beside her and asked what she was watching. The TV had been off, her phone buzzing with anxious texts from Pierre, as Charles had been crying to him, nothing to indicate she'd been watching anything at all.
"You would, wouldn't you?" Charles grins now, even though her heart breaks into a million pieces inside of her. "Of course you would."
"And we both know you wouldn't," Max tries to joke. It falls flat on Charles' end, but Max doesn't seem to notice. "That's why we work so well. You're emotionally holding me hostage."
It's only kind of true. The fact is this: Charles is in love, has been in love ever since she's been 12 years old, when her godfather Jules had taken her to a dreary-looking karting circuit, told her to have fun. When she'd been pushed from the track by a blonde girl with a god-complex and an angry father. When she chose violence and drove the girl off the track just before the end of the race. She fell hard and she fell fast, and somehow, through time and space separating them, Charles' heart was bound to one girl and one girl only.
If she had known back then that Max doesn't love her back, she's unsure whether she would have done anything differently. In the words of the book she's still holding in her hands, she chooses to die every single day of her life. Rather than admit her feelings, she sits quietly on their couch, a respectable few centimeters between their shoulder, no cuddling, even when Charles aches to close the distance.
"Shut up," she finally urges from her lips, though the knives seem to have traveled up from her ribcage, following the words and scratching up her throat, poison leaking into her bloodstream. "Anyway, do you want me to keep reading? The chapter is almost done, I think."
Max doesn't answer, only inclines her head in a 45 degree angle, ready to keep listening.
—
It's not that Charles isn't aware that Max doesn't love her like that.
It's very common knowledge that Charles likes girls, and that Max doesn't. The blonde's never said that she's explicitly straight, but Charles has seen her multiple times in clubs, dancing with men almost twice their age, before she's had enough and comes crawling back to Charles, her blonde hair sweaty and clinging to her neck, her shirts drenched, and when she wears those white t-shirts she's so fond of - sometimes, they're completely see-through, revealing the red bra underneath.
Charles has never claimed to be a saint, so she keeps looking, drinking in her fill as long as she can. And she knows that Max knows she's staring, knows that from the twinkle in those blue eyes that Max enjoys being looked at, being the object of people's affections. Whether that be Charles' eyes on her, or any other person's doesn't seem to matter, as long as attention is on the blonde woman.
That's the thing that keep haunting Charles, when she lays awake at night, listening through her wall, whether there's any sign of life from Max's bedroom. If she can hear quiet talking, or snoring, or anything at all. Sometimes she wonders whether the Dutchwoman also lies awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about her.
"No," Charles laughs half-heartedly one evening, the moonlight streaming into her room because Charles is clinically allergic to closing the curtains, sounding like she's choking on her words, "she would tell you. Because she's Max."
Charles' affection is so clear, though, she reasons. Max would be an idiot not to know of her hopeless love for the blonde. But maybe that is just the way things are: the world keeps spinning, water is wet, Charles is in love with her best friend, and said best friend doesn't love her back. Sometimes, you have been in love for 16 years, and the other person just doesn't care.
—
So, that's how Charles goes through her life.
She swallows the words bubbling up inside of her down. She doesn't say things like "I think you look beautiful today", she learned fast that she can give Max compliments, but she'll be shrugged off, or worse, told to fuck off, if Max isn't in a playful mood that day. The last time, she told the Dutchwoman she was proud of her accomplishments, Max had thanked her with a faint blush on those pale cheeks, before she'd turned away and changed the subject. There's always been an emotional distance, a shield around her Max that not even Charles can penetrate, no matter how hard she tries.
Most days, she's fine with it. The emotional distance, the playful teasing. But some days, it hits her harder than others. When she's confronted with the fact that she offers her heart on a silver platter every day, and only receives it back, damaged and bleeding and broken a little more every time, rejected.
Maybe she needs to stop carrying her heart on her sleeve, maybe she should learn to separate her feelings and her reality.
She still remembers when Sebastian had approached her in the office. The older man has been her mentor ever since she started in the position, having trained her, called IT for her when her laptop wouldn't work properly, vetted the calls she had to take until he deemed her ready. In those first few days, when there was nothing but getting to know each other between trying to get her ready for work, she had made one crucial mistake when talking to him - she'd mentioned Max a lot. They live together, the blonde is her best friend, there's not a lot that Charles doesn't do without Max around. There's bound to be several mentions of the Dutchwoman, when talking about her everyday life.
But when Sebastian had turned to her, and with a blank face had simply, calmly, asked her: "So, is this Max your girlfriend?"
Charles had panicked. She's not proud of it now, looking back at it, but back then, she'd still clung onto hope. She'd thought that Max might- well, not feel the same, but maybe feel something of a smattering of a little bit of the adoration Charles held for her. But that's not what she said in the moment.
"Yes," had fallen from her lips, the lie concocting itself before Charles had the brain- or willpower to stop it. "Yes, she's my girlfriend. We've been together for ages, have known each other ever since we were 12, can you believe that!"
From there, it had spiraled.
Nico in accounting had asked her about Max, and her mouth had simply dropped open to rant: "Actually, she asked me out, just before we graduated college! I honestly thought she'd never say anything, you know those types of people, yes?" She had chuckled awkwardly here, waiting for the blond man to agree, before continuing: "But she's not like that at all. Said she wanted to provide for me, and to be able to do that, she'd have to have a job first. She's the best thing that's ever happened to me!"
She still remembers how Nico had talked about his own partner, a far-away look in his eyes, as he spoke of a long-lost love that he wanted to rekindle if he could. In her chest, her heart had clenched painfully, skipping a beat or two and stealing the air from her lungs.
If only she wasn't so deep in this lie.
Lewis from HR, who's in the next-door office, had popped his head in one day: "Are you and your girlfriend coming to the company barbecue?"
"Of course," Charles had answered, "I'm coming. I don't know about Max, though. Her dad is going to be visiting, so she might not be able to come."
She loves Andrea, their working student, the most. He's always around the marketing department, whispering with Ollie who has become her own sort-of-protégé. She'd overheard them once, gossiping about an older college professor named Alonso, that she vaguely remembers from Max's studies, when she'd smoothly cut into their conversation: "You know, my girlfriend actually told me that…"
Today, she doesn't remember what she told them.
She just remembers that without prompting, she referred to Max as her girlfriend. It would be funny, in a sense, if she wasn't so deep in her lies. If she hadn't spun a web of stories based in half-truths about her best friend. A woman that seemingly everybody in her office has knowledge of now - what Max does for work, what her favorite foods are, what they're doing on the weekend. Yet, the blonde has no idea who any of Charles' colleagues are.
At times, it feels like she's leading a double-life, holding onto the delusion of what could be - the perfect life she's leading when she talks to her colleagues on her lunch break. By now, it doesn't feel like pins and needles in her throat anymore when the words "my girlfriend" leave her lips, even though her heart's beating still leaves her feeling numb. The anxiety around being revealed has long worn off, now that she knows Max will never find out.
Yet, it hurts every day, when she comes home from the office, ready to dish out the newest gossip, only to want to lean into Max's body, press a kiss to the blonde's cheek, wrap her arms around the Dutchwoman's body and pull her down onto the couch to cuddle. There's a disconnect inside of her that doesn't disappear when she steps through her front door. More than ever, her brain feels clouded, trying to sync up the two realities that Charles is living - one where she's courageous enough to speak and get her heart broken, and one where she speaks up and gets the life she's always talked about.
But instead, she chooses to die inside a little bit every single day.
She swallows the pet names, slowly eradicating them from her vocabulary, trying not to slip up with a "chérie" thrown in here or there. She doesn't talk about work anymore, doesn't mention her coworkers by their names, makes up excuses why she can't attend company parties, or social gatherings with her girlfriend. Charles adores Max from a distance that is man-made, with daggers flying for her heart every time she so much as glances at her best friend.
—
Daniel is watching her with narrowed eyes.
Max is the one who invited him to their weekly movie night, claiming that they never have anybody else over and it's only her and Charles, and that they need to keep in touch with their friends yada yada yada. Charles stopped listening after a while, simply enjoying the cadence of Max's words as they rushed over her ears.
Something inside her squirms at the scrutinizing gaze set upon her, twirling in her gut like a ballerina performing a pirouette, faster and faster, nausea rising up her throat and threatening to choke her. For some reason, Charles can't stop the thought that Daniel knows something she doesn't.
"I'll make some popcorn and then we can get started," Max announces happily, clapping her hands once as she surveys the spread of drinks and snacks on their tiny couch table. There's several bottles of beer, a half-drunk bottle of wine, specifically for Charles because she still has the palate of a university student and beer tastes like piss to her, and several types of chips and dips. "As always, guest gets to choose the movie, so I hope you brought something fun, Danny!"
Even though there's a cheeky grin on the older man's face, his shoulders are rigid. There's a tangible tension in the air, that Max seems to be entirely oblivious to, as she bounds from the room. Both Charles and Daniel watch her leave. The older man waits until the sound of the microwave covers his words: "So, how's the girlfriend, Charlie?"
There's an accusatory tone to his voice, something sharp and cutting like knives. All at once, the nausea rises, chokes her like a lump in her throat, like cancer being set free in her veins, eating all of her cells alive. Her hands are shaking where she's clutching them in her lap, anxiety crawling up her body.
"I don't know what you mean," she whispers, trying for a laugh that sounds so fake to her own ears that she physically cringes away from the sound.
"Don't play dumb," Daniel answers simply, his posture rigid, eyes still stuck on the doorway, as if waiting for Max to come back any moment now. The sound of popcorn popping is the only signal for them to continue. "What the fuck were you thinking, honestly? Do you really think she won't notice?"
"I-," Charles starts but she finds that there are no words coming to her, simply cut off in her brain, and on her tongue. She wishes the ground would open up, swallow her whole right now, so she can stop this conversation, dig her way out of a trap she laid for herself. Her heart rabbits in her chest, pumping blood through her veins that rings in her ears. "How?"
"I know people," the older man sighs, finally averting his eyes from the doorway to focus his intense gaze on her form. "Fucking get yourself under control, or leave her alone. She deserves better than what you're doing to her."
She deserves better. The words feel like poison as they are whipped at her, hitting her with a force she didn't quiet expect. They cut deep, seeping into her skin and burying in her bones. She deserves better rings in her ears, mixes into her blood, until every beat of her heart echoes the words, syllables dripping in venom that overtakes her brain, leaves her infected and wounded. Max deserves better.
Not Charles. Not the girl who's been hopelessly in love for 16 years. No, the woman who has no idea, or is simply ignoring it. Max deserves better. It feels like acid being poured down her throat, scratching and burning, leaving her bleeding and whimpering.
Daniel's eyes are cold, where they rest on her.
The microwave dings in the kitchen, rummaging audible in the silence that settles over the living room.
"I think I-" need to go dies on her lips, choked off, as tears spring into her eyes. Max does deserve better than her. Finally, she spits the words out, getting off the couch and almost bumping into the older woman, almost spilling the popcorn, as she rushes from the room. "Excuse me."
—
She sits in the kitchen, the book open in front of her, turned to the last page, yet the words are blurring before her eyes. Does she speak or does she die? Charles still hasn't found an answer, because she can't lose Max. Not after 16 years together. She'd rather have a piece of her, as a best friend, than lose the woman because she can't keep her feelings in check.
So maybe, she has already chosen. Maybe, she is happy to die every single day if it means standing in Max's light, getting to see the blonde woman, a smile on her lips, or a crease between her brows. Whatever the universe throws at them, Charles wants it, but only if she gets to keep her best friend as well. Her heart can take that, breaking along its edges, falling into pieces, because Charles can stitch it back together. She has yarn and several needles and she may not be the best at embroidery, but she knows how to tie something so it survives another day.
She sits, and she waits, and somewhere in the back of her mind, she registers that Max hasn't started on their daily routine of cooking dinner together. Maybe the blonde is still in her room, playing on her iRacing account, having forgotten the time. Charles should check on her, she decides.
Before she can, though, the bathroom door swings open, revealing a perfectly done-up Max, in tight jeans and a button-up shirt, hair straightened and falling over her shoulder, framing her face and making her look-
-kissable, Charles wants to say.
There's even some sort of lipstick or lip gloss sitting on Max's mouth, something Charles hasn't seen in years, not since Max went on that date with-
Suddenly, the realization settles in her bones, washing over her like an ice-cold shower, drenching her nervous system and making her heart freeze in her chest. The blood in her veins comes to a complete stand-still, her hands growing clammy, fingers tingling with the need to bury themselves in Max's flesh, hold her back, press her against Charles' chest and keep her there forever.
"There's not going to be a dinner together tonight, right?" she hears her voice drip from her lips, raspier than usual, fried upon her vocal chords, as her old friend the lump in her throat makes another appearance. She sounds tiny, incredible sadness swinging in her words, as she feels the crack in her heart burst open. "Are you going out?"
"Yeah, sorry," Max says, but avoids her gaze, rather looking in the mirror to brush her finger along her lower lash line, getting rid of the mascara clinging onto her skin there. There's something in Max's face that Charles can't quite read. She wants it to mean something. "I think I forgot to mention it."
"You're going on a date?" Charles asks, just to be sure, even though it feels like taking the big steak knife from their cabinet and ramming it straight into her heart, blood spilling into her lungs and drowning her.
She has to swallow past the feeling, past the tears that rise in her eyes, the betrayal settling behind her ribs. Max is not her girlfriend, has never been, but somehow, it still feels like Charles caught her cheating. Fuck her stupid brain for making her feel so possessive over the other woman, for panicking when Sebastian first asked, for never clearing up her mistake.
"Yeah," Max says, grabbing the knife's handle and twisting it with her next words, even as a dreamy smile stretches over her lips, replacing the look Charles was just scrutinizing: "Her name's Kelly. You remember, my coworker? I think I talked about her before. Man, Charlie, she could be the love of my life, actually. I've been-"
Charles doesn't hear what Max has been. The sound of her heart shattering overshadows it entirely, as her vision goes black around the edges. She wishes she could find a single thought in her brain, but the only thing that happens is a strange pain in her chest, settling behind her sternum, taking her breath away.
Does she speak, or does she die? It seems the universe made the choice for her.