Archive of Our Own

⟡ Friday, July 12th 2024 ⟡



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Oscar still has trouble deciding what is worse: going to clubs to celebrate and being stuck between sweaty bodies while loud music blasts his ears off or private parties.


Technically the second sounds more relaxed, right? It should be.


The guest list is controlled and usually much smaller, it’s somewhat quieter, the drinks are free, and he knows the people that attend. But, somehow, that last point is what really gets to Oscar.


He can’t just withdraw into a corner and watch what’s happening around him to pass time without someone coming up to him trying to strike up a conversation with him. And it’s not like that doesn’t happen at a club, too, but at least there Oscar can make up a polite excuse or straight up reject whatever unlucky bastard thought he looks interesting enough to get to know better.


He can’t do that here. Not really. It would come across as rude or anti-social and that’s a thing Oscar can’t allow himself to be perceived as yet. He’s still too new on the grid, his reputation as a driver not stable enough for him to already start burning bridges.


It’s mostly why he let Lando drag him along to the party in the first place. Well, he probably would have declined if he’d known exactly who was hosting it, but Lando had simply failed to mention that little, seemingly unimportant detail to him, leaving Oscar’s heart to dip into his stomach when he realised whose apartment building they were driving towards.


Oscar had to try his absolute hardest to keep it together, because he shouldn’t have recognised it in the first place, because, officially, he’s never been here before.


Officially he isn’t familiar with the exact amount of seconds the elevator takes to drive from the garage all the way up to the top floor.


He’s also never stepped foot into the apartment that they are welcomed into and he certainly doesn’t know the layout of it or where the bedroom is and what the sheets smell like.


Thank god he is blessed with a good poker face. Lando doesn’t notice anything about the internal panic that rages through Oscar, and neither does anyone else.


Only when they’ve made the rounds and finally come face to face with their hosts does Oscar allow himself a small slip up.


Actually, the slight quirk of his brow is more of a reaction to the way Charles’ eyes widen when their gazes meet. It lasts barely more than a second, but it says all that needs to be said.


Oh shit, you’re here. I did not expect you to come.


Oscar almost wants to laugh, because, yeah, he feels the same. But well, Lando couldn’t have known that he’s currently occasionally sleeping with two fellow drivers of theirs (that are also married), so it’s not really his fault either.


The best Oscar can do is learn from his mistakes and make sure he double-checks whose party it is he’s being invited to in the future.


When Oscar’s gaze wanders to Max, he’s not exactly surprised to find him looking entirely unphased. All he does is give Oscar a casual nod, before taking a sip from his beer.


He looks good, dressed in a casual dark blue sweater and a pair of baggy jeans. It’s not as fancy as what Charles is wearing, but seeing Max in anything but RedBull livery is amazing.


Briefly, Oscar thinks of what he’d look like without clothing altogether, which prompts him to mumble an excuse and make a beeline for the bar.


It’s not that he thinks alcohol will fix whatever emotional issue being in Max and Charles’ place while having to watch them from a distance because there’s other people around has causes, but it also can’t make things worse, right?


The very professional looking bartender that has been hired for the party looks almost disappointed when Oscar orders a beer, so he quickly corrects himself.


“Uhm, actually… Could you make me something? Anything. I don’t really know what options there are, but I’m not picky.”


“Of course, I’d love to!” The bartender beams at him and gets to work, grabbing like three different bottles and shaking and stirring shit, adding odd ingredients, until Oscar’s dizzy.


Absent-mindedly, he looks around the room, taking stock of what he’s dealing with. Most of the people currently present are drivers and partners, some ex-drivers like Vettel and Rosberg can be found as well, and then there’s a general sprinkle of friends and team members that are considered cool enough to be seen outside of work as well.


It’s a typical mid-season, we’ve-got-a-week-off kind of gathering.


Luckily, it seems rather calm. Yes, there is music playing, but it’s clearly meant as background noise while most people talk and drink and play some games on the huge flat screen TV in the back of the living room.


Oscar stupidly lets his attention linger on the couch, giving his brain just enough time to drift back to that time they were on that couch, Max spread out under Oscar, moaning into his ear so prettily while he fucked him dumb while Charles whispering the filthiest things into his ear.


His cheeks burn at the memory, palms going a little sweaty, but as hard as Oscar tries to think of something else—something boring, like a team meeting where Zak talks the most (or opens his mouth at all)—he just can‘t get the image out of his mind.


“Here you go! I hope you like it!” The bartender startles Oscar out of his very inappropriate thoughts and hands him a brightly coloured drink. Oscar doesn’t mean to frown at it the way he does, nose slightly wrinkled, but thankful the bartender doesn’t take offence and chuckled instead. “You‘re going to like it, trust me.”


“Of course,” Oscar muses, allowing a hint of sarcasm to slip into his voice. “It‘s exactly what I wanted without knowing that I wanted it.”


At that the bartender laughs a little too loudly. Oscar isn’t that funny.


“Well, I‘m happy to help. If there‘s anything else I can do for you-”


“Oscar!” Lando‘s there all of a sudden, hooking arm through Oscar‘s, paying exactly zero to the ongoing conversation. “Got something to drink? Good. Let‘s go outside a bit! You‘re too pale anyway.”


Helplessly, Oscar throws a glance over his shoulder as Lando drags him off, giving the confused looking bartender his best impression of a smile. There‘s barely time to recover as Lando drags him from social situation to social situation for the next hour.


All Oscar can do, really, is sip on his drink—which does taste decent—and hope he nods and smiles at the right times.


At least there‘s no sponsors or other higher ups present, so the pressure to be perfect isn’t as high. Oscar mentally thanks Max, who certainly had a strict hand on the guest selection.


And that cocktail the bartender made for him does its job too.


Half-way through the thing, Oscar’s already on the good side of tipsy and it only gets better from there on out. It’s a miracle, considering he can barely taste the many different liquors that have been put in it through the notes of strawberry and kiwi.


“Want another drink?” Lando asks at some point, nodding towards Oscar‘s empty glass.


“Err, yeah, I‘ll go-”


“Nah, let me get it,” Lando grins suspiciously widely and takes the glass from him.


“What do you want?”


“Uhm, same thing.”


“And what was that, Osc?”


“I don’t know… He just gave me something.”


“He just gave you something?“ Lando asks, that usual playfulness in his tone sharpening.


Oscar‘s unsure what that‘s about, so he simply shrugs. There are certain things Lando does—ways in which he acts—that he blames on his alpha nature and does not question. That philosophy has saved him a couple headaches.


“Just get me something.“


Oscar regrets his words instantly when he watches a mischievous grin brightens Lando’s stupid face, but long before he can even think of correcting himself, the Brit jogs off, back inside and out of Oscar’s reach.


From there on out, things get worse.


Without the protection of Lando and his conversational skills, Oscar soon finds himself swarmed by a bunch of people he kind of knows, but has never really had a conversation with. They don’t expect him to be the sole contributor to the conversation, obviously, but he still finds the interaction dreadfully draining.


His only hope is for Lando to come back soon—hopefully with something strong in hand—but the more time goes by the stronger Oscar’s nervousness grows.


Every now and then, he glances around the huge balcony, hoping to spot his teammate talking to someone else, so he could excuse himself and join him again, but Lando’s disappeared for good.


Just as the hope in Oscar’s chest turns sour, he spots Charles and Max. They are standing a couple metres away, talking to Pierre and Yuki.


The conversation is lively, filled with vivid gestures and laughter, and before Oscar knows it, he’s shamelessly staring at them.


He observes the way Charles’ eyes squint whenever he laughs and how he throws his head back, while Max will always turns towards him, unconsciously watching his pretty husband enjoying himself, his beautiful blue eyes filled with so much adoration it hurts.


It’s clear they try to keep a certain distance towards one another—because despite being an openly recognised couple amongst the grid, they don’t flaunt it—but they keep drifting towards one another on instinct. And they don’t notice until Charles’ hand brushes against Max’s and Max’s shoulder bumps into Chalres’.


Then they hastily return to their previous distance, like the situation won’t repeat itself in a few minutes.


Foolishly, Oscar wonders if it would be the same if he was there. If their bodies would struggle to stay away from his, too.


Oscar wants to hit his head against the nearest wall as soon as he realises what he’s thinking. Jesus Christ, that cocktail must’ve been stronger than he thought.


After that, he pointedly keeps his eyes on his own feet, careful to avoid any further mental accidents — he’s had enough of those lately.


Maybe that’s why he doesn’t notice the rapid change of colour above him as large, grey clouds shove themselves in front of the sun. Only when the first drop lands on the back of his neck and people start complaining that he lifts his gaze to the stormy sky.


Without realising it, he starts smiling, another rain drop hitting the tip of his nose. The amount and density of them quickly grows, the way summer rain often does.


It comes quick and harsh and loud. It’s one of Oscar’s favourite things.


It’s why he doesn’t move an inch, even as everyone else streams back inside, shouting and complaining all the way. Once they are all gone, it’s quiet outside, apart from the steady rattle of the rain against the metal roof of the building and distant thunder.


For a moment, Oscar forgets where he is.


He forgets about Lando and his drink, along with the strain of the party, and that tight knot that sits at the centre ever since he stepped foot into Max and Charles’ apartment.


The rain washes all of it away, leaving Oscar to feel clean and at peace.


When he takes a breath, it enters deep into his lungs, allowing him to relax his muscles as his head tips back on its own, welcoming the steady drip of water on his face.


The thought that someone might see him doesn’t occur to him even once.



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“This is horrible!”


“It’s a slight inconvenience and it’ll be over before you know it.”


Max tries to sound serious—like he takes his husband’s temper tantrum over a bit of rain seriously—but the smirk he so desperately tries to hide gives him away.


He sees Charles’ hand but doesn’t bother to dodge it. The hit to his shoulder is soft anyway and the sour edge in Charles’ scent mellows out again as amusement laces it.


“Fine, you are right,” The Monegasque admits. He lets his gaze wander around the room, brows pinching ever so slightly. “But it is a little crowded in here now…”


Max knows that Charles is not actually mad over a stuffed room, but rather the fact that he hasn’t been able to spot a certain beta ever since the rain started. He might’ve made fun of him for it, if he wasn’t at least as unhappy about it.

Or if the risk of someone overhearing them talk about Oscar—in any way shape or form—wasn’t so high.


He does look around too, though, just in case that one centimetre of height difference between him and Charles gives him an advantage. But Oscar‘s nowhere to be seen.


Ignoring the inexplicable tug of disappointment, Max turns to Lando, who approaches them with a goofy grin and a little sway in his steps.


“I see you‘ve enjoyed the open bar,” Max grins, patting his friend on the shoulder.


“Very!” Lando laughs, words lightly slurred. Then his smile drops, expression turning sullen all of a sudden, and he adds, “But I don’ like the bartender guy.”


A sour undertone sneaks its way into the young alpha’s overly sweet scent. Max knows it—something inside him reacts to it, forcing him to take a step back, closer towards Charles—but he can’t quite point his finger on the word that matches it. He supposes it’s not the most important thing in the world and drops the subject.


“Why not?” Charles asks immediately.


“He’s too friendly.”


“Oh,” Relieved, Charles huffs, “If it’s just that. I was afraid it was something like... I don't know, something bad. I spent hours selecting applicants for this job.”


“Which was totally unnecessary, by the way,” Max adds quietly.


Just as Charles is about to hit him again—fist already raised and eyes narrow—Lando starts looking around in a way that catches their attention.


“Where’s Oscar?” The Brit pronounces the end of the name weirdly, like ‘ah’ rather than ‘ar’, which could’ve been attributed to both his love to mimic his teammates Australian accent or the amount of alcohol he’s consumed.


“I haven’t seen him in a while…” Max shrugs, then sends Charles a glance that the Monegasque understands without issue.


“We could help you look for him,” He says, smiling as innocently as ever. No one would’ve been able to guess that the offer comes from a selfish place, Lando nods, before he suddenly freezes.


Two seconds pass in which Max and Charles stare at him questioningly, and then he whips around and snakes his way through guests that surround them. Max gives Charles a look, shrugs, and follows the Brit, Charles following closely behind.


“Lando, where are you going?” He asks, when they nearly collide with Pierre and Yuki, who are locked in a discussion so serious they don’t even notice they almost got run over.


“I know where he is.”


“Oscar?”


“Yes Oscar!”


“Well, where would that be?”


Max’s question goes unanswered as Lando halts so abruptly that Max walks right into him. It’s not a great impact and Max’s reaction time is pretty good (considering he’s a racing driver), but his stomach still does a treacherous swoop when Charles grabs him by the elbow to stabilise him.


“There,” Lando says, unbothered by Max flicking his ear, and points at something through the window wall on the balcony. “I’m not entirely sure why he does it, but every time it rains, Oscar’s outside.”


“What? Why would he-” Max loses his voice half way through his questions.


It breaks away just like that. Because his eyes find Oscar and… He looks beautiful.


Beautiful and about a million other things, so many words that would’ve fit Oscar.


Charles surely would know them, because he‘s great with words in every way. He can compliment you until your head is spinning and describe you in ways that will make you blush for hours — he definitely would be able to describe just how incredible Oscar looks in that moment.


But Max isn’t Charles, so all he can do it look, greedily taking in the deity that stands on his balcony, drenched by rain, looking all but angelic.


He stands straight, absent is the usual hunch of his shoulders, head laid back in his neck so his face is tilted upwards, welcoming the rain that pours down on him. It drips off him in streams, over the curve of his cheeks and the valley of his chin.


His side profile is something that should be immortalized in stone, preferably in the style of old greek statues, but Max isn’t going to be picky as long as he keeps it to himself, so he can put it somewhere safe. Somewhere where only he can see it. He and Charles alone.


The expression on Oscar‘s face is as enticing as the rest of him. It‘s carefree and open and joyful. Max isn’t sure he‘s ever seen him look like that.


And it isn’t like he‘s never seen him be happy before.


He‘s seen Oscar stand on podiums, glowing golden.


They’ve crossed paths at parties and celebrations, where Oscar would be drunk and laughing somewhere off to the side.


And, of course, he‘s seen him in more intimate settings.


Nervously giggling on their couch while Charles kisses his neck.


Chuckling tiredly and content after an orgasm, still shaking while Max tucks himself against his side.


Quietly laughing at Max and Charles banter when they get dressed while he‘s still curled up under the blanket, watching them through lidded eyes.


It hasn’t occurred to Max right until this moment that Oscar had still been so restrained during all of these moments, holding back so much of himself.


That boy that stands on his balcony almost looks like an entirely different person. Someone Max never wants to look away from again.


He only notices he‘s been holding his breath when his lungs begin to ache. Around the same time he feels the fast, punishing best of his heart and how it thrashes against his rib cage. Like it wants to escape and-



Oh.



Oh.



Max isn’t stupid.


He isn’t a very emotionally intelligent person though, but he‘s learned one or two things over the years. Through Charles.


And the first thing Charles taught him was what being in love feels like. It‘s a sensation Max will recognise anywhere and at any time.


It doesn’t really make things easier, though. If anything, it overwhelms him, hitting him like a race car at full speed, leaving him reeling.


It takes all of his self-control to stay calm and in place, coping by crossing his arms over his chest and balling his hands into tight fists, so no one will see the shake in them.


He wants to glance at Charles—because looking for his husband for help is always his first instinct—but is too afraid of what he might find in those familiar green eyes if he does. Or, worse, that Charles will read everything that‘s going on inside him right off his face. He has a gift for that.


Through his panic, Oscar comes back into focus and something in Max relaxes. It‘s like something slotting into place, even as his heart picks up another beat, making it almost impossible for him to hear his own thoughts.


And suddenly all he knows is that he wants him. Max wants him desperately and in so many more ways than he‘s had him until now.


Fuck, he‘s in love with Oscar.



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Charles takes one look at Max and knows he’s finally reached the point he’s been at for months. And he can’t begin to describe the relief he feels.


Because if Charles hadn’t been entirely sure that Max would some day feel the same about Oscar as he does, he never would’ve suggested they invite him into their bed, but he also hadn’t expected it to happen so quickly. Not that he’s complaining.


Max looks unbearably pretty when he’s in love and seeing him look at Oscar with that specific expression that usually is reserved for him… Charles believes his heart might give out right then and there.


“He’s going to get sick,” Lando’s sigh pierces Charles’ focus like a rusky knife, but the Brit seems entirely oblivious to the offended look Charles can’t hold back. “I’ll go get him.”


“No!”


If Charles didn’t know that Max’s shout it instinct from the raspy undertone in it, he would’ve realised at the latest when he sees the way his eyes widen in shock, making it obvious that he’s entirely unprepared to make up an excuse when Lando turns to him, brows raised in question.


Lando’s scent, which never entirely recovered since they briefly talked about the "too friendly" bartender, spikes again. In the most distant sense it is possessive. Charles can pick the muted pheromones apart even if he can tell Lando’s trying to cover them up.


They send a faint prickle down his spine, but he doesn’t pay it much mind.


Out of the two of them, Charles is the stronger alpha. It’s not something he’d ever rub under Lando’s nose, but it’s just a fact, and he’s sure Lando knows it too.


It’s why one glance at Lando is enough for the younger alpha to reign his scent in again and let Max come up with something to say.


“If you go out there, you’ll get wet and you don’t have any clothes to change into. Let me get him, I have plenty of things to change into.”


Charles nearly purrs at how pleased he is with his omega. What a good, logical lie. And it’s so unusual too as Max isn’t normally very big on lying.


“Fine,” Lando agrees, unable to come up with a counter argument, even if he tries really hard.


Charles can see it all over the Brits face, that desperate attempt at finding a reason to get close to Oscar. To put a hand on his shoulder and say something that would make him blush the way Oscar does — adorably and over nothing at all.


It’s not a secret that Lando’s in love with his teammate. Not to any alpha with a working nose and base instincts, and it’s not like Lando’s being subtle about it, even besides the very obviously, constant flirting.


No, he always has to flare his scent whenever anyone gets close to Oscar, posture shifting to a defensive stance only another alpha would recognise.


Sometimes he also scents Oscar—probably without the others knowledge, because his scent only ever on the beta’s clothes and parts of his body that could be brushed against accidentally—with an intensity that can’t be mistaken for anything but a possessive claim.


While Charles used to find it adorable during Oscar’s first season, assuming it was a sweet thing Lando was doing to make sure his rookie teammate wasn’t going to be eaten alive by the rest of the grid, it annoys him like the pest now and it isn’t even Lando’s fault, really.


There’s no way Lando can know that Charles is irreparably in love with Oscar, or that while he probably dreams of having him in his bed and doing all sorts of things with him, Oscar’s actually spending his nights with Charles and Max. But, well, that’s another complicated mess for another, more complicated day.


Right now all Charles wants to do is watch Max step out into the pouring rain, his movements slow and steady like he’s afraid Oscar will bolt like a spooked animal if he’s not careful. Well, Charles has to admit that comparison might not be entirely inaccurate.


Oscar doesn’t notice Max until he puts a hand on his shoulder. He startles heavily, reeling back so quickly he nearly hits the wall behind him. He probably would have if Max didn’t grab him reflexively and pulled him back in.


Charles holds his breath for the short second they stand pressed against one another, the look of shock on Max and Oscar’s faces so palpable he feels it like it’s his own. Then they quickly step away from one another.


Max says something, Oscar blushes—the sight of it nearly driving Charles insane—and they walk back inside together.


Oscar keeps his head low, looking unsurprisingly embarrassed under Lando and Charles’ attention. Charles wants to tease him for it so badly he has to bite his tongue to keep it in.


“We’ll get changed,” Max says, voice diplomatically even.


Charles is sure he’s the only one to detect the subtle edge to it.


Lando lets them pass in silence, only subtly shifting, like he has to fight the urge to pull Oscar back against him. Now, Charles knows Lando has decent self-control, but he braces to intercept anyway, keeping a close eye on the other alpha until Max and Oscar have disappeared into the depths of their apartment.


He waits an appropriate amount of time before making up an excuse to get away from Lando.


“I’ll go check up on the bartender.”


Lando’s eyes darken as they snap to Charles and the answer he grumbles is barely intelligible. It’s good enough for Charles, so he walks off, taking a polite tour around the room before dipping into the hallway leading to their bedroom.


He tells himself it’s not suspicious at all. Even if someone saw Max and Oscar disappear together and then Charles as well, it wouldn’t be weird. He would simply say he wanted to check up on them, because he’s a good host and all that.


Charles smells Max’s sticky sweet vanilla scent before he even opens the door. It practically seeps through the cracks, causing Charles to tighten his jaw against the dizzying effect it has on him.


It’s part of the reason why he’s not surprised to find both Max and Oscar on the bed, half-undressed and kissing.


The other part is that he knows Max.


He knows how his omega acts when he’s in love, so full with it that he doesn’t know what to do with it.


Charles is the same, only that he’s fine expressing his love in words. But Max, who’s not great at talking, uses actions as his way to vent all the pent up emotion inside him. And, oh, does he need to do a lot of venting.


At least that is what it seems like to Charles, who watches Max practically eat Oscar alive. He has the younger spread out beneath him, bracketing him between his thighs and arms as he attacks him with kiss after kiss, barely giving Oscar enough time to breathe.


Charles can’t even blame him. Oscar looks fucking delicious, flushed all the way down to his chest in that pretty pink he wears like an accessory, brows pinched pathetically, and hands frantically pawing at Max. It isn’t entirely clear if he’s trying to push him away or pull him closer. Oscar probably doesn’t know either.


After a while, Charles clears his throat.


As much as he would love to keep this going for all eternity, reason tells him he can’t. If they were gone too long, there would be questions that wouldn’t be answered so easily. And while Charles prides himself in his self-control, even he can’t guarantee he’ll be able to simply stand by and watch for much longer.


“Max, I thought you wanted to get him dressed,” He scolds softly as Max and Oscar part.


Not much remorse can be found in Max’s pretty blue eyes as he turns his head. He doesn’t even bother to move off Oscar as he stares at his husband, clearly trying to figure out if there was any ground for arguing.


Oscar, on the other hand, practically whines when his lips are finally released. They are red and swollen, which means Max must’ve been pretty rough to get them to look like that in such a short time span.


“Christ, amour,” Charles shakes his head and chuckles as he walks over to them. He stops next to the bed, extending a hand to Oscar’s face, and when he doesn’t inch away, his brown eyes looking up at Charles obediently, he cups his face in one hand. “I leave you alone for five minutes and you ruin him? How is he supposed to go back out there like this?”


Max shrugs and finally sits up. He still keeps Oscar trapped beneath him as he sits back onto his thighs, keeping his hips fixed between his knees.


“What do I know? He bites his lips all of the time, we can just blame it on that.”


“I’m right here, you know?” Oscar tries to sound clever and dry, but his breathlessness doesn’t really make it come across that way. “But I agree with Charles, this really wasn’t a smart idea.”


“Like you protested,” Max huffs, then swings off Oscar and the bed entirely to go to the closet.


“I did!” Oscar sits up and looks at Charles like he’s afraid he won’t be believed. “I said ‘Max, wait-’ and then you shoved me on the bed and-”


“Okay, fine, you protested, but you can’t tell me you didn’t want it.”


“You do know how bad that sounds- Of course I did, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t super stupid of you! What if someone other than Charles had walked in?”


“Did someone other than Charles walk in?” Max asks, entirely unbothered by Oscar’s growing anger.


He already has a bunch of clothes in his hands, but he waits until Oscar opens his mouth to answer him before throwing them right into his face. A dull thump and a very Australian sounding “cunt” follow.


Charles watches in silent amusement as Oscar starts putting on the dry clothing—Charles’ clothes, all a little too long, yet tight in just the right places, looking absolutely gorgeous on him—while trying to recover enough to give a stable answer.


“It could have happened! What if-”


“Oh my god, Oscar, you’re starting to sound like the press!” Max groans while getting changed himself. “Now, if you are actually pissed and didn’t want it then I am sorry, okay? I fucked up. But if you’re just mad because you’re afraid of what could’ve happened then I’m not.”


For a few seconds, Oscar’s quiet. The answers written all across his face—it was already there when Charles walked in, which is why he still hasn’t said anything—but it takes him a while to get over his pride and admit it out loud.


“No, I’m not actually mad and… Just-” He groans and drags a hand across his face, then combs it through his wet hair, which does absolutely nothing to make it less messy. Then, after a deep breath, a slow, lazy smirk breaks across his face, showing off his bunny-teeth. “Fine, it was hot. Doesn’t make it any less stupid, though.”


“I can live with that,” Max shrugs.


He’s finished getting dressed, so he steps to the door, but waits a moment before opening it. With a knowing look he turns to Charles, sporting a smirk of his own when he discovers a very familiar expression on his husband's face.


“I’ll go out there. For appearances sake. That should buy you a couple minutes.”


“A couple minutes? For what? We’re coming-”


Oscar’s cut off by Charles grabbing him by the wrist and pulling him into him with one swift, decisive tug. Confusion flashes through his eyes before he closes them without thinking at the brush of Charles’ lips against his.


The soft, barely-there hum of relief that Oscar’ breathes into his mouth has Charles’ heart clench painfully in his chest.


The sound of the door closing as Max leaves barely registers to him.


All of Charles' focus is on Oscar.


The sensation of his plush, cashmere lips against his own, following Charles’ lead the way he does in every other aspect as well.


How his hands find Charles’ chest on their own, short, slim fingers digging into his shirt.


And, Charles' favourite part, the feeling of Oscar’s body under his own hands.


Even after a few times of doing this—mapping Oscar out and committing every curve and edge and arch—Charles still doesn’t get bored of it. He doubts he ever will. After all, he still thinks Max is the most thrilling person he’s ever encountered and they’ve been together for years.


It’s just further confirmation that, yes, Charles is so fucking in love with Oscar.


He lets himself go for a little, but that mental timer goes off way too soon anyway, prompting him to pull back.


Oscar whines involuntarily, the renewed blush that spreads across his face nearly enough for Charles to throw caution to the wind and kiss him again. But, sensible as he is, he only places a simple kiss to Oscar’s cheek, before he lets go of him entirely and takes a step back.


One step that wrenches at his heart like it’s his last time seeing Oscar. He’s so in love it’s insane.


“Lovely,” He mutters, nodding at his clothes on Oscar when really he means Oscar himself. It’s as close to flirting as he allows himself to get in that moment.


“Shut up,” Oscar snorts, rolls his perfect, and walks past Charles and out the bedroom.


Charles follows, wearing a horribly silly grin.