Chapter Text
Max didn't want to be here.
And if you ask him, he'd probably agree, just not directly - "mate, I don't want to be here, but I'll probably die tomorrow, so what difference does it make?", is what you'll get in reply.
He looked like that, like he was wishing for death to smite him, bouncing off the walls while staying at the same spot. The weird disco lights glared off his glasses, and he stared at the people slowly moving to the music. You wouldn't call him shy or a hermit, but he certainly was someone who preferred to keep a curated company. He bit his lip and chewed the offhangs of skin there like it was the only thing keeping him from screaming, his eyes looking for a way out of the milling crowd around him. His head felt like a forest of wool and steel, the noise finally getting to him, and it is at that moment, a sticky, syrupy thick instant that he meets the gaze of a person he never thought he'd see again. Charles. Charles Leclerc. Max's brain decides to spur to action and unhelpfully supplies every encounter he's had with the man - limited but embarassing. Max knocking Charles off his bike because he was chasing a cat, upturning Charles' tray of food when reaching around to find his bag's strap, spilling potassium permanganate all over the poor poor man because Max took a blind turn exiting the chemistry lab... And it's the same purple potassium haze that clouds Max's senses until he realises that he's been staring, gawking, and Charles' unwavering attention is now on him. Max moves, his two-left feet pushing into those milling about the makeshift dance floor, until the crowd invariably deposits him on the other side.
He's one foot out the door, like he always is in any situation, when he hears a soft, "Max".
'No, not now, not at this moment, it's too much', his brain goes on a tirade, and he leaves, his foot plodding, pace quickening with every passing metre.
And there he goes! Again. The slip between the lip and the cup.
Now Charles doesn't know what it is about Max that makes him want to gently pull him by the hem of his sweater, make him take a seat, heave a breath, and just be. Charles knows he's not here to be anyone's unpaid therapist, but he just simply wants to, for Max; an irrational need like the irrational numbers he stares at trying to figure out how they work. To him, Max is much like what he studies - imperceptible, intangible, yet so so intriguing, impossibly inviting. Now, Charles isn't one to give up a chase, and he watches the hunched frame of Max trundle away for exactly 30 seconds, before his brain kicks in and he runs, a sprint he never knew his lungs had in them, and grinds to a halt in front of Max, rather, in front of a well-placed parked car that blocks Max's path.
"No, no, no, why!?!?', his brain supplies, and Max can't help but want to shove Charles out of his way and make a run for it (even if his limbs and windpipes would probably explode), but he does none of that and instead stares down at his shoes, then Charles, and back at his, until he hears a soft, "Max", again. He hates this, his name being uttered like a guarded secret, as soft as a nesting bird's coo, and against his better judgement, he looks up.
"Oh, oh, oh my", a slew slips out of Charles' mouth before his brain could even register it, and looking into those blue, blue eyes, he shuffles closer.
"Hi, Max. Max, hi! I just... Do you know about the chaos theory?? How a butterfly wing sets off a chain reaction, something something... Uhh, that uhh that's what I study!! Charles, chaos theory. No wait, sorry, I'm Charles, Leclerc, engineering, I study chaos theory. And you're Max, Max Verstappen, biology major, and you study... biology...", and it's after all this rambling that Charles realises what he's been going on about and shuts his mouth audibly shut, teeth clacking together, and looks at Max, taking in his the furrowed brows, the mildly concerned expression that has marred his otherwise poker face, and Charles moves to apologise, his "s-" interrupted by a spate of giggles, giggles that sounded not like tinkling bells, but the wind soughing between the branches of old, old trees, clanking and clattering and breathy, and Max's perfect perfect hands (every part of Max is, according to Charles, but that's not the point here) come up to cover his mouth.
As soon as his fingers hit his lips, Max realises what he's done, and he drops his hands, drops his smile, and blinks rapidly, taking a deep breath before taking a step to evade Charles and go past, and somewhere in this planned sequence, he didn't factor in his body's mutiny, and that keeps him rooted to the spot, breathing wildly and trying to look at everything other than the man in front of him. "No, no, Max, wow, mon dieu, you are -", and not wanting to hear anything more about him, he interrupts with a, "Charles, Leclerc, engineering student, what can I do for you?"
"What can I do for you?", and Charles' mind decides that that's the cue to supply everything he has fantasised - a kiss, several kisses, sloppy wet make-out sessions, hands, those hands in his hair, more of those heavenly giggles, Max to wear more powder blue... "I need to study... uhh... Butterflies! Butterflies, because of the whole butterfly wings theory... You know? And it's a very very important project and you're biology... I mean, you're a biology... You should know butterflies the best, yes? So, Max, be my partner?"
'Damn, that was good', he consoles himself, and smiles up at Max, 'oh, that one centimetre', he thinks, and his eyes twinkle in expectation. "Come on Max, I'll get you extra credit, or brownie points, whatever you want", he adds, whatever it takes to convince him.
"Be my partner", "whatever you want", and Max (who is convinced the lights are on but no one's home inside his head) takes two steps back, looks into Charles eyes (wow, so... Green, goes the running commentary inside his mind), and shakes his head, a surprisingly guttural, "No" rasping out of his mouth, all before he bolts past Charles.
The 'No' stuns him, and his senses still, and Max breezes past his shoulders with the speed of an F1 car, knocking the wind out of Charles with his rejection. "Stupid, so stupid, Charles, a project?? Really?? Butterflies???? Okay, tomorrow. Tomorrow, I'll try again. This time, it's going to be, "Max, chaton, will you have coffee with me?", and nothing else".
Tomorrow, he thinks. And somewhere, in the dead of the evening, nay, night, a butterfly flaps its wings and takes flight.