Work Text:
It's late by the time Charles gets back to the hotel.
His meetings have run over, the weekend already threatens to become one of those weekends, and by the time he lets himself into their room, every muscle in his body feels tired.
He slips off his shoes by the door, stretches until his back cracks, and goes looking for Max.
It's well past dinner.
Charles hopes he's eaten.
Speaking of—
Where is Max?
Usually, Max will slink over to greet him at the door like an overgrown house cat.
Or, more accurately, he will pretend not to greet him. He will arrange himself somewhere directly in Charles’s line of sight, sprawled across the sofa and making absolutely no effort to get up, acting as though Charles’s arrival is of no particular interest to him.
Then Charles will walk past.
And Max will follow him five minutes later.
Very casually.
Charles has learned not to point this out.
Tonight, though, the sofa is empty.
Hmm.
Must be sulking.
Charles walks towards the bedroom.
And there he is.
Max is lying on the bed in a hoodie and boxers, arms folded across his chest. His lips are pressed together, the bottom one jutting out in that perpetual pout of his. Charles’s eyes catch, as they always do, on the tiny freckle above his upper lip.
He loves that freckle.
“Max?”
Nothing.
Charles crosses the room and leans down to press a quick kiss to Max's lips.
Only then do Max's blue eyes crack open.
They narrow immediately.
"What do you want?"
Charles blinks.
"I can't kiss my boyfriend?"
"Since when was I your boyfriend?"
Charles freezes.
Max simply looks back at him.
"I don't remember you asking me, Leclerc."
For a second Charles just stares.
Then—
Ah.
Well.
That had not occurred to him.
"Are you kidding, Max?"
The corner of Max's mouth betrays him.
Charles catches it just before it disappears beneath another exaggerated frown. Max folds his arms more tightly across his chest and punctuates the performance with an indignant little huff.
"As I remember it," he says, "you mauled me in Vegas, I left my dignity in your hotel room, and I never got around to retrieving it."
Charles looks genuinely affronted.
"What about romance?"
"We go on dates all the time."
"Hm."
Max actually appears to consider it.
"I guess."
Charles stares.
"You guess?"
"But Kimi just asked me out for pasta."
Max bats his eyelashes with remarkable commitment.
"So maybe I'll trade up for the newer model."
Charles looks at him for a long moment.
"Kimi is, like, twelve."
Max's expression shifts from smug to deeply offended.
"He's nineteen," he corrects. "And very mature for his age."
Charles opens his mouth.
Closes it again.
Then opens it once more.
"Besides," Max continues, warming to his argument, "when you were twelve you were pushing me into puddles in Val d'Argenton. Not nearly as endearing. So I wouldn't be judging Kimi."
Charles drags a hand slowly down his face.
Somewhere, very deep inside him, there is an overwhelming urge to bite Max.
"You pushed me first," he mutters.
"What?"
Charles waves a hand dismissively.
"Nothing."
The corner of Max's mouth twitches again.
Charles sees that too.
"You'd better not."
Another twitch.
That settles it.
Charles lunges.
Max barely has time to yelp before Charles has him by the ankles, dragging him unceremoniously down the bed until he's close enough to climb over him. Max's carefully maintained sulk dissolves almost instantly into laughter as Charles settles between his legs, nudging them apart until they wrap loosely around his waist.
"Charles—"
"You are not trading me in for Kimi."
"I don't know." Max looks as though he's giving it serious consideration. "He asked properly."
"For pasta."
"It's a start."
Charles leans down to kiss him.
It is meant to be punishment.
Or perhaps a warning.
Somewhere between the two, Charles loses track.
Max's arms uncross almost immediately. One hand slides into Charles's hair, fingers curling lightly at the back of his neck as though they'd been waiting for an excuse. Charles feels the last of the day's exhaustion soften around the edges.
There.
That was what he'd been looking for when he opened the hotel room door.
Max, warm beneath him. Fingers disappearing into his hair. Smiling into the kiss despite making only the weakest attempt to hide it.
Charles draws back just enough to look at him.
"You are impossible."
Max's eyes are brighter now, all traces of the sulk replaced by unmistakable amusement.
"You still haven't asked."
Charles blinks.
Max merely looks back, infuriatingly pleased with himself.
Charles narrows his eyes.
"You know," Max says thoughtfully, "apparently pasta can mean a lot of things."
Charles lifts his head from where he'd just started kissing Max's neck.
"What kind of things?"
"Anything, really."
Max hums to himself, as though that explanation is perfectly sufficient.
Charles studies him for a moment.
"Anything … except pasta?"
The corner of Max's mouth curls.
"I think pasta is the least of it."
Charles groans.
"With you?"
Max laughs.
Charles decides, quite sincerely, that he hates Kimi.
It feels like a sensible conclusion.
Max is still laughing when Charles drops his forehead against the side of his neck.
"Stop."
"I'm only telling you what he said."
"I don't want to know what he said."
"You asked."
"I regret asking."
"You usually do."
Charles lets out a long, theatrical sigh before pressing another kiss to Max's neck. Mostly because Max is right there, warm beneath him in an oversized hoodie and boxers, looking impossibly comfortable against the hotel pillows.
He smells faintly of Charles's shampoo.
Of course he does.
Charles pauses.
Really looks at him.
The dark blond hair sticking up in every direction against the pillow. Blue eyes still sparkling with laughter. That familiar pout Charles has become embarrassingly good at reading in all its various forms.
And, inevitably—
The freckle.
Charles leans down and kisses it.
Max's eyes flutter closed.
"Baby."
"Hm?"
"That doesn't actually bother you, does it?"
Max blinks up at him.
"What?"
"That I never asked you properly."
Max yawns.
It catches Charles so completely off guard that he almost laughs.
Instead, Max settles his head against Charles's shoulder with a contented sigh.
"No."
Charles waits.
Silence stretches comfortably between them.
Then Max says, very quietly,
"I just knew it would bother you."
Charles goes perfectly still.
Max's mouth curves where it's tucked against his shoulder.
"You..."
Max snuggles closer.
"I was bored."
Charles stares at the ceiling for a moment.
Then back down at the man currently using him as a pillow.
"You have spent the last twenty minutes torturing me because you knew I'd be upset that I never officially asked you to be my boyfriend?"
"Hm."
"Max."
"I was very bored."
Charles looks at him in complete disbelief.
Max, meanwhile, looks soft, sleepy, and entirely too pleased with himself.
Charles is struck, not for the first time, by the deeply inconvenient fact that he loves him.
"You are horrible."
"I know."
"And you're not going for pasta with Kimi."
Max smiles against his shoulder.
"We'll see."
Charles tightens his arms around him.
"No."
Max laughs again, the sound muffled against Charles's T-shirt.
Just to be safe, Charles decides he still hates Kimi
For a while, neither of them says anything.
Max stays tucked against Charles's shoulder, one hand resting lazily over his chest. His thumb drifts absent-mindedly through the fabric of Charles's T-shirt, tracing idle circles that Charles doubts he's even aware of.
Charles looks down at him.
“You know you are, right?”
Max opens one eye.
“What?”
“My boyfriend.”
“Hmm.”
“Max.”
“I don’t know. Apparently these things require paperwork.”
Charles pinches his side.
Max laughs and twists away.
“Okay, okay.”
Charles catches him before he can get far.
“But I should have asked.”
Max looks at him.
Charles is suddenly aware that he is still half on top of him, exhausted from a day of meetings, his shoes abandoned somewhere near the door.
Not exactly the height of romance.
Max, apparently, reads his mind.
“Oh, no.”
“What?”
“You’re thinking.”
“I think all the time.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Max.”
“You’re going to make this weird now.”
Charles looks at him.
Then he takes Max’s hand.
Max’s eyes narrow immediately.
“What are you doing?”
“You wanted romance.”
“I never said—”
Charles lifts Max’s hand to his mouth and kisses his knuckles.
Max stops talking.
Charles does it again.
Slowly this time.
Max’s breath hitches.
Charles’s eyes flick up.
Oh.
He kisses the inside of Max’s wrist.
Max’s fingers twitch in his.
“Charles.”
Then Charles slips off the bed.
“Charles.”
He lowers himself onto one knee.
Max stares at him.
“No.”
“What?”
“Absolutely not.”
“You wanted me to ask properly.”
“I wanted to annoy you.”
“Too late.”
Charles kisses one knee.
Then the other.
Max’s mouth twitches.
“This is ridiculous.”
“Shh.”
“Did you just shush me?”
Charles kisses his knee again.
Max laughs, but the sound catches somewhere in his throat when Charles starts making his way back up.
A kiss to his hand.
His wrist.
The inside of his palm.
Charles turns Max’s hand over and kisses each knuckle again, absurdly gentlemanly about it.
Max whines.
Quietly.
Charles stops.
Max’s cheeks begin to heat.
Charles watches it happen in real time—the colour spreading across his cheekbones, his eyes suddenly refusing to meet Charles's.
Oh.
Charles smiles.
“Max.”
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
Charles climbs back onto the bed.
Max tries to turn his face away, but Charles catches it gently between his hands.
Finally.
Cornered.
He has him right here.
Max's cheeks are warm beneath Charles's palms now, his eyes bright and suspicious and just a little embarrassed. His bottom lip has found its familiar pout again, and Charles can feel the lingering warmth of the blush beneath his fingertips. He looks at him properly, taking in the dark blond hair mussed against the pillow, the oversized hoodie, the way Max keeps trying to look annoyed while failing spectacularly.
Charles wants him.
The thought comes with startling simplicity.
Not the grand gesture.
Not the kneeling.
This.
Max warm and soft in his hoodie and boxers. Max pretending to sulk because he'd been bored. Max blushing because Charles kissed his hand. Max looking at him as though he's already planning his next joke.
His Max.
Charles leans in, taking his time. A kiss brushes Max's cheek before another finds his temple, then the line of his jaw. He follows the familiar path without thinking until he reaches the little place between Max's ear and the back of his head that he's quietly memorised over months of lazy mornings and sleepy embraces.
Max's breath catches.
There.
Charles smiles against his skin before kissing the spot again, slower this time.
Max's hands drift instinctively to Charles's waist.
"For someone who didn't care," Charles murmurs, unable to hide the smile in his voice, "you are enjoying this very much."
"Shut up."
Charles only smiles wider. Unhurried now, he retraces his path with another kiss behind Max's ear, one along his jaw, another lingering at the corner of his mouth before, inevitably, he finds the tiny freckle above Max's upper lip.
His favourite.
Max's eyes flutter closed.
Charles kisses him.
Max answers with a soft sound against his mouth, and Charles deepens the kiss almost without thinking. One hand remains cradling Max's face while the other settles at his waist, holding him close as Max's fingers tighten lightly against his side. When Charles catches that soft lower lip between his teeth, Max's breath hitches again, quiet enough that Charles almost misses it.
He doesn't.
When Charles finally pulls back, it's only far enough to look at him.
Max's cheeks are still flushed, his dark blond hair a complete mess against the pillow, his lips parted and pink from kissing. He looks wonderfully, hopelessly kissed.
Then Max opens his eyes.
Blue.
Bright.
Entirely too pleased with himself.
"You pushed me first," Charles mutters against his mouth.
Max stares at him for exactly one second before dissolving into laughter.
Charles groans.
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
Charles kisses him again.
"No," he admits.
When he pulls back this time, he keeps Max's face between his hands, his thumbs resting lightly against warm cheeks.
"Max."
"Hmm?"
"Will you be my boyfriend?"
Max opens his eyes.
For the briefest moment, the teasing disappears completely. Charles watches it happen—the joke slipping away, something softer taking its place.
Then the corner of Max's mouth twitches.
"Maybe."
Charles's jaw drops.
"Maybe after pasta with Kimi."
"You are such a—"
Max catches him before he can finish, tugging him down into another kiss.
Charles lets him.
Of course he does.
When they separate, Max doesn't let him go. Their noses brush, neither of them moving very far.
"Yes," Max says quietly.
Charles stills.
"Yes?"
"Yes, Charles."
Something warm spreads through Charles's chest.
Ridiculous.
Completely ridiculous.
They've been doing this for months. Sleeping in each other's beds. Finding each other after difficult races. Arguing over dinner. Stealing each other's clothes. Reaching for each other in the dark without having to think about it.
Nothing has changed.
Except, apparently, everything has.
Charles kisses him again.
Softer this time.
"My boyfriend," he murmurs.
Max rolls his eyes.
"You're going to be annoying about this."
"Very."
"I regret everything."
"No, you don't."
Max's mouth softens.
"No," he admits.
Charles settles against him at last, finally letting the weight of the day catch up with him. Max shifts automatically to make room, one arm slipping around his shoulders as though it's the most natural thing in the world.
It is.
After a moment, Charles feels Max's fingers begin their familiar, absent-minded path through his hair.
"Did you eat?" Charles asks, his eyes already drifting closed.
Max is quiet.
Charles opens one eye.
"Max."
"I was waiting for you."
Charles groans.
"Boyfriend privileges revoked."
"You can't." Max smiles into his shoulder. "I only just got them."
Charles laughs quietly.
Max's arm tightens around him.
"What do you want?" Charles asks.
Max doesn't hesitate.
"Pasta."
Charles opens both eyes.
Max is already laughing.
Charles bites his shoulder.