Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Charles felt the familiar sting of frustration as Max’s hovering presence lingered in the background. It wasn’t the pain from the surgery that bothered him now—it was the constant attention. Max, of course, meant well. But the way he kept checking on him, the endless offers of help, the way he was always there... it was too much.

The first night, when the pain was unbearable, Max had come to his room fourteen times in two hours. Each time, Charles had to reassure him, calm him down, insist that he didn’t need anything, that he was fine, even though he wasn’t. But the pain wasn’t the worst part—it was Max’s concern, the way he was hovering like a shadow, his face always in the doorway, always asking if Charles was okay.

Charles wasn’t sure when things had started to change, but it was clear now: he wasn’t a kid anymore. He wasn’t seventeen or eighteen, constantly coddled by Max or anyone else. He was twenty-five, an adult, and the weight of that responsibility settled on him harder than the bandages on his leg. There were bills to pay, things to manage. He couldn’t afford to indulge Max’s hovering.

After the surgery, the pain was tolerable—certainly better than it had been before. The pain was centralized, not the spreading, constant throb that had kept him up for months. He could deal with this. But it was everything else—the way Max watched him like he was some fragile thing that might break at any moment.

Max was looking at him with a gaze full of concern, and Charles hated it. He hated feeling like a patient instead of a person. He hated needing help, hated feeling like Max had to take care of him. The last thing he wanted was to be pitied, and Max’s constant presence was pushing him to his limits.

So, when Max had left him on the couch with the duvet and Sassy—his usual, affectionate distraction—Charles had taken the opportunity to retreat upstairs. Max could answer his calls, play his sim racing games, whatever it was that kept him occupied. Charles needed space, and Max’s presence only made him feel smaller.

The silence of the downstairs room felt like a relief. He could breathe, think, and not be weighed down by the constant worry in Max’s eyes. The tension that had started between them, the anger from their last argument, still simmered beneath the surface. But at least in the quiet of the upstairs room, he didn’t have to look at Max’s concerned face, the face that made him feel like he was failing somehow.

But despite the frustration of feeling constantly coddled, Charles began to crave Max’s attention. It wasn’t the kind of attention that made him feel like a patient, fragile and in need of constant care—it was the kind of attention that reminded him they could still be themselves, still be a team. Max wasn’t a nurse, but he treated Charles with kindness, patience, and a sense of humor that made everything a little bit easier.

When Charles wasn’t confined to being a patient, things were simpler. They laughed together, they ate together. They didn’t always talk about the surgery or the pain. In fact, it felt like they were going back to the old routine, the one where they were just two people enjoying each other’s company. Max didn’t have to work until Saturday, so they still had time to be together, even if it was just in silence, or while working side by side.

Since Charles couldn’t stand long enough to cook, Max had gone out of his way to make sure they still had home-cooked meals. He bought a cookbook, one that was full of simple, hearty meals, and started experimenting with recipes. He would ask Charles about what he liked to eat, and together they would make a shopping list. The meals didn’t always turn out perfect, but the fact that Max was trying, that he was doing it for Charles, made it all the more special.

Even when they weren’t talking, they’d sit together on the couch, under a big, padded blanket, both of them working. Charles still had his licenses for both of his jobs, but he didn’t want to stop studying. He was determined to keep pushing forward, despite the setback. And Max, true to form, supported him every step of the way. They had struck a deal: Charles would go to college, explain the situation to his teachers, and most of them had agreed to send him his homework. So, they’d work until it got late, both of them yawning and stretching, but still trying to finish whatever task was at hand.

It became a routine. When it was time for bed, Max would help Charles get comfortable, adjusting the pillows around his leg to ease the pressure. The pain had faded, but the discomfort remained. Max would say goodnight, his voice always soft, and Charles would respond with a tired but genuine smile.

Sometimes, they’d joke about Charles’s bad leg, and Charles would laugh so hard that it hurt, but it was the good kind of hurt—the kind that reminded him they were still laughing, still okay.

Max was attentive, maybe to a fault, but Charles couldn’t deny how much he appreciated it. He set alarms to remind Charles when it was time for his pills. Painkillers mostly, but Max insisted on giving him an orange every time, squeezing it fresh and handing it to Charles with a smile. He said the vitamin C would help, that it would protect his stomach from all the medication. It felt silly, but Max’s little gestures—his care—made all the difference.

And despite everything, despite the anger and the frustrations that had flared up, Charles realized just how lucky he was to have Max. Even if it wasn’t always easy, even if sometimes Charles wanted to push him away, he knew that Max’s love and attention was something he couldn’t take for granted.

The fights between Charles and Max had softened over time. They weren't as intense as before, but this time was different. Charles was frustrated, and this time, it wasn’t just about the pain or his leg—it was about needing space. The constant discomfort, the relentless ache, and the exhaustion from being dependent on others were starting to wear him thin. Yes, the pain was manageable now, but his body still felt foreign to him, as though he wasn’t in control anymore. The simple act of taking a shower felt like an impossible task. He had done it, yes, but it had taken so much effort, and his hair was a tangled mess because it was just too difficult to deal with it properly. He couldn’t help but feel sticky, uncomfortable, and angry at his own body. And on top of all that, Max just seemed stressed, too. He was trying so hard to be there for Charles, but it felt like everything was piling up.

Charles had come to realize something during the time they had spent living together: Max's work was more consuming than he had ever imagined. The company seemed to hinge on Max's every move, and the demands were relentless. The phone calls at strange hours, the constant stream of emails, and the pressure to make decisions for the business weighed heavily on him. Charles noticed it in the way Max’s mood shifted after a long day—how he’d become more distant, his mind still spinning with work even when he tried to relax. Max had always been passionate about his job, but lately, Charles could see the toll it was taking on him. He was starting to lose himself in it, losing sleep and, at times, even his patience.

That realization didn’t make Charles feel less frustrated with Max, but it did add a layer of understanding. The fights weren’t always just about the two of them. They were also about everything else—the stress, the pressure, the things they couldn’t control. When they argued, it wasn’t always because they were angry with each other. Sometimes it was about everything surrounding them—the expectations, the work, the things that neither of them knew how to deal with.

Charles hated that it had come to this. He hated that their issues, once simple, now felt like a tangled mess of external forces. But Max seemed to be carrying so much on his own shoulders, and while Charles didn’t want to be the one to add to it, he couldn’t help but feel his own frustrations bubbling to the surface. The fight between them wasn’t just about their relationship; it was about the pressure that came from the world around them. And Charles knew that, deep down, Max was just as trapped by it as he was.

Sitting with Sassy on his lap, Charles absentmindedly scratched her head, considering calling Max. He was just upstairs, after all, just a few meters away. Maybe they could make peace with something simple, like watching a movie together. It sounded like a nice way to ease the tension, but just as he was about to reach for his phone, the doorbell rang.

He muted the show he was watching—some home renovation series with a set of twins who were building houses—and glanced at the door. The doorbell rang again.

“Max?” Charles called out, his voice tinged with frustration, thinking that Max was just standing at the door, oblivious.

But when he peeked out, he saw Max coming down the stairs. The elevator was only for Charles and the cats, and Max had always preferred taking the stairs when he wasn’t in a rush.

“Are you waiting for someone?” Max asked casually, his voice warm. And for a moment, Charles was taken aback.

Max looked good—really good. He was wearing a white shirt that clung to his broad shoulders and chest in a way that made Charles’s breath catch for a second. Charles found his eyes wandering, tracing the muscles of his arms, the way his biceps flexed when he moved. Max’s physique was always impressive, but today it felt different—more striking. And then, of course, there was the ring. The silver band on Max’s finger caught the light and made everything else feel more complicated.

Max wore his headphones slung over his shoulders, his hair in its usual mess from where they had been tangled in the headphones earlier. He looked effortlessly perfect. Every little thing about him—his easy smile, the casual confidence he exuded—made Charles feel an unexpected pull, one that distracted him from his frustration for just a moment.

But then the anger came flooding back. Max was treating him like a fragile, sick child—constantly hovering, always asking if he needed something, always trying to anticipate his every move. Charles didn’t want that. He was grown, and he was used to being independent. He needed to regain control over his life, over his body, and he hated feeling like Max didn’t trust him to take care of himself.

“No. You?” Charles asked, turning slightly to glance at Max as he made his way to the door. “Wait, are you going to answer it?”

“Yes?” Max replied, his expression a mix of confusion and amusement. “They’re going to destroy the doorbell. I spent one hundred dollars on that.”

“It’s nicer than the last one,” Charles said, trying to lighten the mood, though the words felt hollow as they left his mouth.

Max chuckled, the sound light and genuine, and for a moment, Charles felt a pang of something—maybe nostalgia, maybe longing. Max had always been able to make him laugh, even when things felt heavy. But just as quickly, he pushed the thought away, trying to focus on the TV show he had resumed. It was easier not to think about Max, not to think about how much his laugh still affected him.

Max, on the other hand, was already pulling open the door, his hand lingering on the knob for a moment. Charles didn’t look up, but he heard the faint rustling of Max's footsteps as he greeted whoever was at the door. Despite himself, Charles found his attention drifting again, the sound of Max's voice almost too much to ignore.

Trying to distract himself, he turned his gaze back to the TV, but the laughter, that light, carefree sound, lingered in his mind. It wasn’t the first time, and Charles couldn’t help but wonder when it had started feeling like this—when the sound of Max's laugh would make him feel both warmth and unease in equal measure.

“Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc.”

The moment those words left his mother’s mouth, Charles froze. A chill ran through him, and he could feel the color draining from his face. His body reacted before his mind could catch up, and slowly, almost painfully, he turned toward the door.

Max, standing next to him, mirrored his stillness. He, too, seemed to lose all color, his face just as pale as Charles's, as though the weight of the situation was suffocating both of them in that very moment.

There, standing in the doorway, was Pascale Leclerc. She didn’t say anything at first. Instead, she stepped into the room, her movements deliberate, carrying with her a small suitcase—nothing too extravagant, but enough to suggest that this wasn’t just a casual visit. The look in her eyes was unreadable, her expression calm yet somehow... sharp. It was clear that she wasn’t here just to check in or make small talk.

Charles felt his heart race in his chest as he watched her make her way to the couch. The silence stretched between them, suffocating, as both he and Max remained rooted in place, the air thick with unspoken tension. Charles could feel the weight of his mother’s gaze, even without it landing directly on him, as if she already knew everything that had been left unsaid.

"Why are you here?" Charles finally managed, his voice rough, almost a whisper. The question came out before he could stop it, his mind scrambling for something to say that wouldn’t give away how much he already feared the answer.

“Why am I here?” Pascale repeated, her voice carrying a hint of amusement, though it was quickly overshadowed by something else. Max remained rooted in place, still looking more like a deer caught in headlights than a man about to be embraced. Pascale, without hesitation, reached for him, pulling him into a hug. Max didn’t seem to know what to do with himself—his body stiffened for a moment before he awkwardly returned the gesture, his gaze darting between Pascale and Charles, who could only watch, frozen in place.

Charles could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. He looked at Max, silently begging for some sort of explanation. But Max looked just as lost, his confusion mirroring Charles’s own. Neither of them had prepared for this. Neither of them had imagined that Pascale would show up at their door, suitcase in tow, after everything that had happened in the past few weeks.

“You got engaged!” Pascale said, her voice filled with excitement and surprise, as though the whole thing was a joyous revelation. Charles's stomach dropped.

Fuck.

He wanted to disappear. He wanted the earth to swallow him whole. He’d forgotten—no, he’d avoided—the conversation with his mother about the fake engagement. The one that had started as a simple charade, a way to keep his mother from prying into his personal life, and somehow, somewhere along the line, had evolved into something far more complicated. Something that now had him standing in his own living room, mortified and caught in a lie.

“And to Max!” Pascale added, her eyes lighting up as she pulled away from him, looking between them both. Her smile was wide, so genuine, so full of joy, that for a moment, Charles thought he might actually suffocate under the weight of it.

Max, on the other hand, seemed to shrink under the intensity of her affection. He stood there, awkward and unsure of how to react, his eyes flicking to Charles for reassurance.

Charles was sure that if he could melt into the floor right now, he would. Instead, he stood there, trying to collect his thoughts.

Pascale finally let go of Max and stepped back, but not before giving him a final squeeze on the shoulder. “I knew you two had something special,” she said, her eyes softening with a hint of tears. “I’m so happy for you both.”

Tears?

Charles's breath caught in his throat. There was no way his mother was about to cry over something that wasn’t real. His mind raced to come up with a way to stop this madness before it spiraled even further.

But Pascale was already looking at him, her expression expectant, waiting for some kind of confirmation, like she truly believed in the story that had been built around this engagement. The story Charles had never planned to tell her. The story Max had unknowingly become a part of.

“I always knew you two were going to get married!” Pascale said, her voice trembling with emotion. The tears started to fall freely down her cheeks as she wiped them away with the back of her hand. Charles felt the weight of the moment press down on him. He wanted to move, to say something, but his body refused to cooperate. He shifted slightly in his chair, but then, without warning, a sharp jolt of pain shot through his knee, making him wince.

“Careful there,” Max said, his tone gentle but firm as he moved quickly to Charles’s side. His hand was steady on Charles’s arm, guiding him, as though Charles were the most important thing in the room—no, in the world—in that moment. Max’s presence was like an anchor, something solid to hold onto while everything else spun out of control.

“Do you want to stand?” Max asked, his voice low, the concern obvious in his eyes.

Charles nodded, though he wasn’t sure if it was out of need or just a desire to escape the suffocating pressure of the situation. His mother’s tears were overwhelming, and he felt a sting of guilt for having lied to her, for making this more complicated than it needed to be.

He tried to shift in his seat, but the pain in his knee intensified, forcing him to stop. Max didn’t hesitate, quickly moving around to help him to his feet. Charles felt the comforting weight of Max’s arm around him, steadying him as he stood.

“Easy there,” Max murmured, his voice a soft reassurance as they both adjusted to the new position.

Charles leaned slightly on Max, still unsure of his own balance. He glanced over at Pascale, who was still crying on the couch, her face buried in her hands. Charles hated seeing her like this, as though her joy had become a heavy burden on his shoulders. And then, like a harsh reminder of his predicament, he realized that they weren’t even in his apartment anymore—it was Max’s apartment now, their home, with so many unspoken things hanging between them.

The details felt so small in comparison to the whirlwind of emotions he was trying to manage. But for some reason, that small thought—Max’s living room, not his—felt like a weight on his chest, more pressing than any of the lies or secrets he was keeping.

“Yes,” Charles said, his voice shaky but firm, earning a confused look from Max. He wasn’t sure if he was doing this for himself or just to ease the tension. His hand moved cautiously to Max’s waist, the touch uncertain, and he forced a smile that felt strange on his lips as he turned toward his mother.

Max mirrored the gesture, though his version looked even more awkward, as if he wasn’t entirely sure how to make this moment seem natural. “But I got the surgery, and we wanted to make a better presentation,” Charles added, the words coming out of his mouth almost like a half-formed excuse.

“Right,” Max agreed quickly, nodding and offering a small, somewhat forced smile of his own. “I wanted Charles to get better,” he continued, the lie slipping out with ease despite the discomfort he felt. It wasn’t entirely untrue—Max did want Charles to heal, but the rest of it, the façade they were putting up, felt like a burden neither of them had truly been prepared for.

Charles glanced at his mother, who had stopped crying for a moment but still looked unsure of what was happening. She was trying to piece it all together, but there was something about her expression that made Charles feel like a fraud. She didn’t know the truth, and part of him was afraid she might never fully understand it, or maybe she would, and that was the part that terrified him.

“Well, it’s all very...unexpected,” Pascale said after a long silence, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “But if it’s what you both need...” She trailed off, not quite sure what else to say, but her voice held a soft, hesitant approval.

Charles smiled weakly, trying to push away the weight of guilt and confusion. “Thanks, Mum,” he muttered, feeling more disconnected from her than ever before.

Max gave him a quiet look, sensing the tension in the air but saying nothing. He could see how much this was costing Charles, how hard it was to keep up the façade. They were both lying, but in different ways. One for his mother’s sake, and the other for Charles’s. The silence between them spoke volumes, but neither of them was ready to break it. Not yet.

“So did you get the surgery?” Pascale asked, her voice still a little shaky as she wiped her eyes, trying to pull herself together. Max had managed to sit Charles back down on the couch, but before he could retreat—Charles knew him too well—Charles grabbed his hand and pulled him down beside him. Max tensed for a moment, the weight of the moment clearly bearing down on him, but he sat, his muscles tight, his body stiff with unspoken words.

“Yes, about four days now,” Charles said, trying to sound as normal as possible, even though the question felt loaded with too much history.

“And you are... okay?” Pascale’s voice softened, her eyes scanning Charles like she was searching for any signs that things weren’t as they seemed. She wasn’t just asking about his physical recovery, Charles knew. She was asking about the emotional toll—the one that had shattered them before, the one that lingered even now.

Charles felt the old, familiar ache in his chest. The last surgery had torn them apart. He remembered the way he had felt after that, broken and vulnerable, and Max had been worn down, exhausted from the weight of it all. That had been the moment Max had left. A memory he wished he could forget, but one that haunted him whenever he felt like he was being too much, when he felt like he was becoming a burden.

Charles started to withdraw into himself, the temptation to push Max away creeping up again, but this time he stopped. The fight earlier, that coldness that had settled between them, made him ache in ways he hadn’t expected. He wasn’t sure if it would repeat. If Max would get tired of him again. He didn’t want to be too much, but sometimes it felt like he already was.

“Yes, Pascale. We are fine,” Max said before Charles could answer, his voice calm and steady, a stark contrast to the chaos that had been swirling inside Charles. He looked at Charles then, as if waiting for him to back him up, his eyes searching for any hint that things weren’t as perfect as he was making them out to be.

“Right, schatje ?” Max added softly, a little smile tugging at the corners of his lips, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Charles nodded, forcing a smile that felt brittle. “Yeah, we’re fine,” he said, though his heart wasn’t entirely convinced by the words. He didn’t want to say anything that might break the fragile peace they were pretending to maintain.

Max squeezed his hand, and for a moment, Charles felt the tension in his shoulders ease. The warmth of Max’s touch grounded him, reminded him that he wasn’t alone in this, even if things felt uncertain. They were trying. And that, for now, was enough.

“Oh, but you could’ve just told me! I would’ve gone to the clinic myself! I need to know about your engagement because of Arthur!” Pascale exclaimed, settling more comfortably into the couch, her face bright with excitement. Her words hung in the air, as if everything about the situation was just... so natural, so easy. As though this wasn’t all built on layers of silence, unspoken words, and a facade Charles and Max had carefully constructed.

Max shifted uncomfortably in his seat, glancing at Charles. “Well, I told Arthur as soon as Charles said yes.” He spoke casually, almost too casually, but there was a hint of uncertainty behind his words. Charles couldn’t help but notice. Arthur. Of course, Arthur. The name hit him like a cold rush of air. Arthur had always been Max’s closest friend when they were younger, before everything had turned awkward, before Max had pulled away from him, leaving nothing but a trail of ghostly memories. Arthur still mattered to Max. Charles could see that. Had seen that. But why was he telling his mother now, after everything?

The frown deepened on Charles’s face, and he couldn’t stop himself from feeling exposed. “I didn’t know you still talked to him,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else, but the words slipped out before he could stop them.

Max caught his eye for a fraction of a second, and in that moment, it felt like they were both floating in some uncharted space. Max’s gaze softened, but there was no warmth there, just a coolness, like he was already shutting Charles out again.

“I’m sorry, Pascale,” Max added quickly, glancing at Charles, trying to smooth over the tension. But the moment had already passed. The words sounded hollow now.

Pascale waved her hand dismissively, oblivious to the undercurrent of discomfort in the room. “No, you don’t have to apologize, Maxie,” she said warmly, her voice full of a kind of maternal fondness that was almost too much for Charles to bear in that moment. “I’m just so glad it’s you. You two... I always knew it would be you.” She smiled through the tears that were threatening to spill from her eyes.

For a moment, everything seemed to freeze.

Charles felt a sudden weight on his chest, like a pressure he hadn’t realized was there, a heavy reminder of all that had been lost between him and Max. His mother, so sure of everything, so certain that this—whatever this was—was a fairy tale come true. She had always loved Max, more than she loved him. Max had been the son she wished she’d had, the one who never failed her. And Charles? Well, Charles had always been the one with a dozen mistakes written into every action, every choice. Every Christmas for the past seven years, she’d begged him to bring Max back, to fix whatever it was that had torn them apart. And for all those years, Charles had wanted to. He had wanted to make things right. But the damage had been done. Max wasn’t the same Max anymore.

“I’m glad it’s me too,” Max said softly, smiling as though the words came easily. But Charles could see through it, could feel the tension in the way Max held himself, the faint tightness in his jaw. It wasn’t as easy for Max as he was pretending it was. It wasn’t as simple as it looked on the outside.

Charles shifted slightly on the couch, his mind racing, unsure of what to feel. Max’s smile was enough to send a chill through him. Max was too perfect, too composed, too everything, and it made Charles feel like he was the one who was falling apart at the seams.

Trying to act casual, Charles let his head fall onto Max’s shoulder, the weight of it feeling familiar, but strange. The contact of the headphones on his skin was uncomfortable, the cool plastic poking into his neck, but he didn’t care. All he could think about was how Max smelled. Max smelled like something he missed—a clean, comforting scent, like fresh laundry, like spring rain on a summer afternoon. It felt like an anchor, pulling him back to memories he couldn’t quite reach. And it was terrifying.

Max’s hand shifted slowly, almost hesitantly, to Charles’s cheek. It was a small gesture, but it was enough to send a jolt through Charles’s body. He felt that warmth spread through him—familiar, but so foreign at the same time. The soft pressure of Max’s touch against his skin was a reminder of the love they used to have, the connection that had once been so easy. But it was more than that. It was an invitation. An invitation to feel. And Charles wasn’t sure he was ready for that.

For a moment, he was frozen, his thoughts whirling as he considered what to do, what to feel. He could feel Max’s fingers trembling ever so slightly as they grazed the side of his face. It was like Max was giving him a choice— Do you want this? Do you want me again?

And Charles didn’t know the answer.

He let his head fall further into Max’s shoulder, his breath shaky, his body stiff, as if bracing himself for something he wasn’t sure he could face. The air around them was thick with unspoken words, with the weight of everything they’d been through, and everything they hadn’t said. Max’s hand lingered on his cheek for a moment longer, then slowly, gently, he pulled it away.

It was almost like he knew. Knew that this, whatever this was, wasn’t something they could just fix with a touch or a smile. It was too much, too complicated, too broken.

Max sighed, the sound almost imperceptible. He didn’t speak. He just sat there, the tension between them palpable, yet not a single word passed between them. It was as though they were both waiting for something—waiting for the other to make the first move, to break the silence, to bridge the gap that had formed between them.

“Well, I’ll stay with you two for a couple of days, if that’s okay.”

Charles’s body tensed immediately. He could feel the anxiety bubbling up, knowing full well that Max was probably even more tense than he was. They weren’t prepared for this. Not at all.

“Sure,” Charles said, trying to sound casual, though his throat felt dry. The words were almost automatic. He couldn’t bring himself to disappoint his mother, not again. Not after everything. “We have a separate room. Right, Max?”

Max shot him a quick glance, his face betraying nothing but a hint of panic behind his calm facade. The room that was supposed to be a guest room was actually Max’s—a space that had barely enough room for the two of them, let alone a third person. But it was the best they could do.

“Yeah. Sure. Let me show you,” Max said, his voice a little too tight, the usual confidence nowhere to be found.

Pascale beamed, completely oblivious to the growing tension between the two men. As Max led her upstairs to the elevator, she found Jimmy, the cat, and started showering the animal with affection, cooing over it like it was the most important thing in the room.

“I can’t believe you have an elevator!” Charles heard his mother exclaim with genuine wonder, her voice floating back down as the elevator doors closed.

Charles allowed himself to collapse back onto the couch, his head sinking into the soft cushions. His thoughts were a tangled mess of guilt, anxiety, and confusion. Sleeping in the same room as Max again? Faking it for days? Pretending that everything was okay, pretending that they were still a couple for the sake of his mother? It felt like a nightmare he couldn’t wake up from.

The worst part? He didn’t have the courage to tell her the truth. To tell her that they weren’t engaged. That this was all a lie—a convenient little lie that they had built to avoid breaking her heart again. She looked so happy, so hopeful, and Charles couldn’t bring himself to take that away from her. He had already given her enough reasons to worry, enough moments of fear and heartbreak. The thought of causing her more pain made his chest tighten.

But even so, he knew deep down that this wasn’t sustainable. This wasn’t the reality he wanted to live in, and it certainly wasn’t the one Max deserved. They weren’t a couple, not anymore. Not in the way Pascale believed. But the lie seemed so much easier, so much safer, than telling her the truth.

Charles closed his eyes, letting out a shaky breath. He could almost hear his mother’s voice in his head, telling him that she just wanted him to be happy. But how could he be happy when everything about this situation was falling apart? How could Max be happy, pretending to be engaged to someone he wasn’t in love with, knowing that every touch, every glance, was a reminder of everything that had gone wrong?

The guilt gnawed at him, a constant, gnawing presence in his chest. He had to fix this. He had to find a way to tell her the truth, but right now, he just didn’t have it in him.

As the sound of the elevator faded into silence, Charles felt his heart heavy with the weight of the decisions that lay ahead. 

Five minutes later, Max came down the stairs, this time without the headphones, his expression sharp, accusatory, and full of frustration. Charles could feel the weight of it as Max's gaze fell on him, and his stomach twisted.

“I’m sorry,” Charles whispered, his voice barely audible, because his mother was still there, happily chatting away with the cat, oblivious to the tension in the air.

Max didn’t say anything at first. He just walked to the couch and slumped down, his hand running through his hair in a gesture of disbelief.

“I’m so sorry,” Charles repeated, his voice cracking slightly.

Max’s eyes were dark, troubled, and when he spoke, his tone was filled with a kind of exasperation that Charles wasn’t used to hearing from him.

“Fuck, Charles. That woman did everything for me.” Max's voice was tight, his frustration boiling over. “She gave me a chance when nobody else would. And now—this?” His eyes flickered briefly to his mother, still smiling on the other side of the room, before returning to Charles with a fierce intensity.

Charles placed his hand on the couch, gripping it tightly. The guilt weighed on him like a stone lodged in his chest. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words seemed to stick.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“I know you’re sorry, but that doesn’t make it feel any better,” Max snapped, the frustration clear in his voice. He looked over at Charles, his face filled with an unreadable mixture of anger and disappointment. “I can lie to my coworkers. I can pretend for everyone else. But not to her. Not to your mother. She’s the one who—” He stopped himself, shaking his head in disbelief, looking away for a moment before turning back to Charles. “She’s the one who gave me a chance when nobody else did. And now I’m stuck pretending to be something I’m not. And you—you’re just sitting there, letting me do it.”

Charles felt the sting of Max’s words, and it hit him harder than he expected. The truth was, he hadn’t thought about how this situation would affect Max, only his own guilt over his mother’s happiness. Max had been dragged into this mess, and it wasn’t fair to him. It wasn’t fair to either of them.

“I didn’t want to drag you into this,” Charles said, his voice thick with regret. He glanced over at his mother, still lost in her own world, her eyes glued to the TV, blissfully unaware of the tension hanging in the air between him and Max. “But she looks so happy, Max. And, fuck, I didn’t have the heart to tell her.”

Max’s jaw clenched as he ran a hand through his hair, looking away. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head in disbelief. He stared at the ground for a few moments, his mind clearly racing. His fingers twitched, like he didn’t know what to do with himself. “This... this isn’t what I signed up for, Charles.”

“I know,” Charles whispered, guilt weighing heavily in his chest. “I know I’m asking a lot, but... she’s so fucking happy, Max. She’s been through so much, and I can’t be the one to break her heart again.”

Max stayed silent for a long moment, the conflict in his eyes so apparent that Charles could practically feel the tension radiating off him. It was a mix of frustration, anger, and something else—something softer, more resigned.

“Can we?” Charles whispered again, his hand moving to gently touch Max’s face, guiding him to look at him. “Please? Just for a few days. Just to make her happy. I don’t want to be the one who shatters that.”

Max’s eyes softened as he stared into Charles’s, and for a second, Charles thought he saw something like acceptance in them. Max exhaled slowly, his shoulders slumping as if he were conceding to something he knew he couldn’t avoid.

Charles continued, his voice barely above a whisper, almost pleading. “You know how much she loves you. How much she wants this. I... I can’t bear to tell her no. Not after everything.” His words came out thick, laden with the weight of everything unsaid. The accident had stolen so much from him, and from his mother too. The one person who had always been there for him, always believed in him, was his mother. And she had never fully recovered from the mess he’d become after the accident. He wasn’t sure she’d ever recover from that loss, the one she blamed herself for.

Max’s lips parted as if to say something, but instead, he just sighed deeply, running a hand over his face. There was nothing more to say, was there? Max knew, just as Charles knew, that they were both trapped. In this house. In this lie. In the decisions they had made—or hadn’t made.

He nodded slowly, his voice low but steady. “Okay. We’ll do it. But...” His eyes darkened slightly, and Charles could tell he wasn’t done with this yet. “There’s a catch.”

Charles’s heart skipped a beat, anxiety creeping up his spine. “A catch?”

Max looked at him, his gaze firm, unyielding. “We have to sleep together.” The words were blunt, no sugarcoating. “And you have to pretend that you actually love me. Like... really love me.”

Charles’s breath caught in his throat. He didn’t expect the request to come so bluntly, but he should have known. It made sense, in a way. If they were going to pull this off, they needed to sell it. To make it believable.

The thought of pretending—of faking it—made Charles’s stomach churn, and yet... he couldn’t bring himself to pull away. The pressure to make his mother happy was too great. And the weight of her expectations? It felt suffocating.

Charles looked at Max, his stomach a storm of emotions—anger, frustration, guilt, and something else that he couldn’t quite name. But beneath it all, he saw that same flicker in Max’s eyes—the acceptance. Max had already resigned himself to this.

“Fine,” Charles said, his voice small, almost too quiet for Max to hear. “I’ll do it. I’ll pretend. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Max’s eyes softened for a moment before he shook his head, an exhausted smile pulling at his lips. “You don’t have to pretend for me, Charles,” he said quietly. “I’m not doing this for me. I’m doing it for you. For your mom. So you don’t have to carry that guilt anymore.”

Charles swallowed hard, the lump in his throat growing. “But it’s going to feel fake. All of it. Everything.”

“I know,” Max said, a wry smile tugging at his lips. 

Charles nodded, his throat tight. There was nothing else to say. It was already decided.

Max’s phone alarm went off suddenly, breaking the moment. He fumbled for it for a moment before turning it off, the distraction pulling him out of the tension-filled air.

“Okay,” Max said, his voice shifting, like he was trying to make light of it all. “But I need a condition too.”

Charles raised an eyebrow, his attention snapping back to Max. “What’s your condition?”

Max took a deep breath, clearly steeling himself for what he was about to say. “Leave your jobs,” he said simply, looking Charles dead in the eye.

Charles’s heart stopped. His mind raced, but his body froze. “What?”

Max’s gaze softened, his expression serious. “I can pay for everything, Charles. I have a fucking company. I don’t want you to worry about money anymore. I want you to focus on graduating. I want you to focus on school. On getting better, not on working yourself into the ground.”

Charles’s stomach dropped. He felt a surge of emotions—anger at the idea of depending on Max, relief at the thought of not having to worry about finances, and a deep sense of panic at the idea of surrendering to Max’s offer.

“You don’t have to...” Charles started, but his words died in his throat.

“No,” Max interrupted, his voice firm. “I want this. I want you to be okay, Charles. I want you to have your life back. Don’t you want that too?”

Charles closed his eyes for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts. The decision weighed on him. It felt like a choice between giving up his independence and allowing Max to take control. It wasn’t a choice he wanted to make, but somehow, it was the only choice left.

“Fine,” Charles said, his voice thick. “Yeah. Deal. I’ll leave the jobs.”

Max’s face relaxed, a small, relieved smile curling at the corners of his lips. “Great. I’ll go get you some orange juice then. You need it.” He stood up, already moving toward the kitchen.

Charles leaned back on the couch, his head spinning with everything that had just happened. He didn’t know what he’d just agreed to—didn’t know what the consequences would be. But for now, it didn’t matter. For now, he had to focus on keeping his mother happy. Keeping the lie going. Making sure no one else got hurt.

As Max disappeared into the kitchen, Charles closed his eyes, feeling the weight of everything settle into his bones. They were going to make it work. Somehow. Even if it meant pretending, even if it meant sacrificing a part of himself.

They spent the rest of the afternoon on the couch, the atmosphere oddly comforting despite the tension that still lingered in the air. Max stayed close to Charles the entire time, his presence reassuring, yet somehow unsettling. Charles found himself reaching for him more than he probably should have, but it felt natural. A touch on the arm, a hand brushing against his, just to feel grounded, just to remind himself that things weren’t completely falling apart.

Whenever Charles needed ice for his knee, Max was quick to get it, moving with an ease that seemed to say he had done it a thousand times before. Pascale, on the other hand, was all smiles. Every time she looked at them, her face lit up like she’d won some unspoken victory. It warmed Charles’s heart to see her so happy, even though he knew it was based on a lie.

The conversation in the kitchen, where Max and Pascale worked together to prepare dinner, was light and easy. Charles could hear their voices from the living room, but his mind was preoccupied with the sum he was struggling to work through. The numbers blurred in front of his eyes, his thoughts scattered. He was exhausted, but the stress wouldn’t let him rest.

Dinner was a quiet affair, with Pascale still buzzing with questions, trying to get more information, trying to piece together the story of their engagement. She was thrilled, of course, but Charles could feel the weight of her expectations pushing down on him. The meal ended with Pascale kissing him on the cheek, saying goodnight with a promise to be up early for breakfast. She seemed oblivious to the cracks beneath the surface, to the way Charles’s shoulders sagged with the burden of the lie.

Max didn’t complain when Pascale kept asking him questions, his answers calm and collected. He didn’t complain when they had to say goodbye to Pascale for the night, his voice soft and reassuring as he promised to make her tea before bed. He just did it—always doing what needed to be done. Charles couldn’t help but admire him for that. Max had always been that way, taking on burdens without ever showing how much they weighed him down.

After Pascale left for her room, Charles made his way to his own bed. He was already tired, but the pain in his knee kept him from fully relaxing. His head was itching, probably from the lack of a proper shower, but that was the least of his worries. The thought of sleeping in the same bed as Max again gnawed at him. There was so much uncertainty in it. What did it mean to sleep next to someone you hadn’t fully let in? What did it mean when you were pretending, when everything felt like a facade?

The good thing was, Charles’s bed was huge, practically a small kingdom unto itself, so at least there would be space. He tried to convince himself that it would be fine. After all, they had slept together before, even if it had been under entirely different circumstances. But this time, it was different. This time, it was all a lie. It wasn’t just physical distance between them; it was emotional. It was fake, and no matter how hard Charles tried to ignore it, that feeling settled deep inside him.

Max eventually came in, and the air shifted instantly. He stood by the door for a moment, looking at Charles as if he were waiting for some kind of signal. Charles wasn’t sure what he was waiting for, but he didn’t have the energy to figure it out. He didn’t have the energy for anything. All he wanted was for everything to stop, for the weight of it all to disappear, if only for a few hours.

“You good?” Max asked, his voice soft, his eyes filled with something Charles couldn’t quite place.

Charles nodded, a tight smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Yeah. Just... tired, you know?”

Max didn’t respond immediately. He just walked over to the bed and sat down next to Charles. The bed creaked under his weight, and for a second, neither of them moved. Max’s presence was heavy, pressing in on Charles, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was just... complicated.

Max reached for the edge of the blanket, pulling it up a little so Charles could settle in more comfortably. He didn’t say anything, just acted. Charles appreciated that, even though it only made him feel more conflicted.

After a moment of silence, Max spoke again. “I’ll be on the other side. Don’t worry.”

Charles didn’t look at him, but he could hear the subtle reassurance in his voice. He didn’t know what to say to that. They both knew the truth—this was all temporary, all pretend. But for now, for tonight, they were stuck in this web together.

Max moved to the far side of the bed, the space between them feeling vast despite the size of the bed. Charles tried to ignore the strange, hollow ache in his chest, the one that had been growing ever since they started this charade. He closed his eyes, willing himself to fall asleep, to forget for a few hours.

But sleep didn’t come easily. Every time Charles shifted, he could feel Max’s presence next to him, and it reminded him that things weren’t simple anymore. They never were. Not since the accident. Not since everything changed. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was only going through the motions, pretending to be something he wasn’t, with someone who had his own doubts, his own secrets.

“Charles, could you please stop moving?” Max's voice was quieter than usual, but there was a sharp edge to it, something close to frustration. He was lying on the far side of the bed, his body turned away from Charles, but still, the space between them felt too small, too close.

Charles let out a sigh, his body still restless, as if every part of him was fighting against the stillness of the night. Max’s voice made him tense, but he didn’t want to admit the truth. He didn’t want to tell Max that it wasn’t just his knee aching, or his hair itching—it was everything. The uncertainty, the weight of the lie they were living, the discomfort of being this close to him, yet feeling so far away.

“Its my hair. It’s itching,” Charles said quickly, trying to make it sound like a reasonable excuse. It wasn’t the full truth, but at least it was believable. He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to cover up the real reason, maybe because admitting the truth would make everything feel more real, and he wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.

Max didn’t say anything right away. Charles could feel him tense, then exhale deeply, the sound of his breath quiet in the dark room. “Are you sure that’s it?” he asked, the words sounding more concerned than Charles had expected.

Charles shifted again, this time trying to settle into a more comfortable position. “Yeah, just... annoying,” he muttered, trying to brush off the tension in his own voice. He didn’t want Max to know how much it bothered him, how much he wanted to run away from this, from the lie, from everything. But there was no escaping it now. He was stuck in this web they had woven together, and no matter how much he shifted, it wasn’t going to unravel.

Max let out a soft hum, but he didn’t press further. Charles could feel Max’s eyes on him in the dark, though he didn’t dare look over. He wasn’t ready for that level of vulnerability. Not yet.

For a moment, silence filled the room, thick and uncomfortable. The only sound was the faint hum of the city outside, the soft rhythm of their breathing. Charles lay there, trying to keep his thoughts from spiraling. It would be easier if he could just fall asleep, forget about everything—about the lie, about the way Max made his heart race, about the way the room felt too small when Max was near.

But sleep wouldn’t come. Every time Charles closed his eyes, he felt Max's presence like a weight, a constant reminder that nothing between them was simple anymore. It wasn’t just about pretending to be in love—it was about all the things they hadn’t said, all the things they couldn’t say. The things Charles was too scared to face.

Max shifted slightly, the sound of the sheets rustling bringing Charles back to the present. “I could, eh, help you?”

Charles felt his heart skip a beat, and for a moment, everything felt too heavy, too much. He didn't turn to face Max, his knee still aching from the earlier shift, so instead, he turned his head just enough to see Max’s silhouette in the dim light of the room.

“What?” Charles asked, his voice tinged with confusion, unsure if he had heard Max correctly.

Max took a deep breath, as though gathering his thoughts, and for a second, Charles could hear the hesitation in his words. “With your hair,” Max said, his voice softer now, almost tentative. “I could... you know, wash it for you.”

The words hung in the air between them, unexpected and strange, and Charles felt a shiver run down his spine. Max offering to wash his hair? It was both intimate and absurd, and for a moment, Charles was at a loss for what to say.

He wasn’t sure why it caught him off guard. Maybe it was the fact that they were pretending to be something they weren’t, and yet, in that moment, Max was acting as if the lie they were living had blurred the lines in a way that made this kind of closeness seem... normal. Maybe it was because the gesture felt like something more—something deeper than just washing hair. Maybe it was because Charles could already feel the heat of his own discomfort stirring in his chest.

Charles swallowed hard, trying to keep his voice steady. “You don’t have to do that,” he said, not knowing if he was protesting the offer or avoiding the closeness that would come with it.

But Max didn’t back down. He shifted a little closer on the bed, the sound of his movements so close to Charles, yet it felt like miles between them. “I know I don’t have to,” Max replied softly, “but you’ve been avoiding it. And... I don’t know. Maybe it’ll make you feel better. We don’t have to talk about it. Just... let me help.”

There was something genuine in his voice, an undertone of care that Charles hadn’t expected. It was almost as if Max was offering more than just a simple act of kindness—it felt like an unspoken attempt to bridge the distance between them, to give Charles a moment of relief from all the chaos in his head.

Charles bit his lip, his mind racing. The offer was both strange and oddly comforting. He didn’t want to feel vulnerable, didn’t want to give Max this kind of power over him, but he was tired. Tired of pretending, tired of the strain in his knee and the way his hair made him feel even worse, and maybe, just maybe, he was tired of being alone in his discomfort.

“Fine,” he said quietly, barely above a whisper. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, the tension thick in the air. “But just... just don’t make it weird, alright?”

Max’s quiet laugh was the only response at first, a low, soft sound that made Charles’ chest tighten, but then Max said, “I won’t, I promise.”

The bathroom was large and immaculate, everything white and gleaming, and for a moment, Charles let himself get lost in the quiet luxury of it. Max had helped him get here—slowly, carefully, like he was handling something fragile. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to how gentle Max was when he wanted to be, especially after everything that had happened.

Max moved around the bathroom, looking at the products scattered on the counter. Charles could feel his gaze even though he couldn’t see him. Max never said much about the things Charles cared about, but he always noticed. The expensive shampoos, the masks and conditioners—everything was carefully chosen, everything was a small piece of control in a life that had so often felt out of his hands. It felt strange to have someone like Max notice those things, but it also made him feel... seen, in a way that was unfamiliar.

Max stepped out for a moment, returning with a chair, placing it gently beside the sink. “Okay, sit down,” he said, his voice low but firm. Charles did, and he felt the tension in his shoulders ease a little at the thought of having Max take care of him, even in such a simple way. The towel settled over his shoulders, warm against his skin, a small comfort in the midst of everything.

Max moved with purpose, picking up the shampoo and reading the labels as if he were absorbing every word. He wasn’t asking questions, just following the instructions Charles had given him. It was easier that way—letting Max do his thing without overthinking. But Charles could feel the unfamiliar tightness in his chest, the way his body responded to having Max so close again, in this quiet, intimate moment. He hadn’t realized how much he missed this—how much he missed Max, even in all the wrong ways.

“Just the shampoo and conditioner,” Charles said, his voice barely above a whisper as he leaned back slightly. “Before the conditioner, there’s the mask. The one that smells like jasmine, please.”

Max nodded, his movements deliberate as he poured the shampoo into his hands. The way Max’s hands worked through his hair was surprisingly tender, like he knew exactly what he was doing, even though this wasn’t something they’d ever done together before. It felt… personal. Charles wanted to laugh at himself, but it was a soft, quiet kind of laugh—more like a sigh that left his chest.

Max seemed lost in the task, and Charles let him be. He watched as Max’s fingers worked the shampoo into his hair, and it made something in his chest tighten. He didn’t know why, but it did. He wasn’t sure if it was the intimacy of the moment, the quiet familiarity, or the fact that Max was doing this for him. Max didn’t do things for him. Not like this. And maybe that’s why it felt so different.

“Is this okay?” Max asked, his voice soft, almost uncertain. His hands were gentle as he massaged the product through Charles’s hair, his touch warm and steady.

Charles nodded, eyes closing as he leaned into Max’s hands. “Perfect,” he said, and the word felt right. It felt true.

Max’s hands worked efficiently, rinsing the shampoo out and replacing it with the jasmine-scented mask Charles had requested. It was a small thing, but it felt monumental in its own way. Max’s movements were careful, thoughtful, and Charles was grateful for it—grateful in a way he wasn’t sure how to express.

“Work is fine?” Charles asked, his voice cutting through the silence. Even though Charles had asked him not to be weird, the atmosphere between them felt stranger than usual, and Charles needed to break the tension somehow. “Or is the financial stuff going crazy?”

Max ran warm water through Charles's hair, and for a brief moment, Charles forgot everything. The pressure of his knee, the lie they were living, the anxiety he was carrying. Max’s hands were gentle and steady, massaging the cream into his scalp, and it felt… nice. More than nice. It was a comfort, like a small oasis in the middle of a storm.

“Fuck financial, really,” Max muttered under his breath, his voice low and almost frustrated. Charles could feel the tension in his fingers as they worked through his hair. “I literally sent them an email yesterday, explaining everything in detail. It’s not that hard.”

Charles let out a small breath, relaxing even more into Max’s touch. The tension in his shoulders slowly faded as Max continued. The warm water, the steady pressure of Max’s fingers—it was almost like a dream. A strange, surreal dream where everything was okay, even for just a moment.

They stayed in silence for a while, Max’s hands moving deftly through his hair, washing out the mask. Charles closed his eyes, letting himself get lost in the sensation. He hadn’t realized how much he needed this—how much he needed Max to just be close, to help him like this, without questions or complications.

Max’s voice broke the silence again, softer this time, almost hesitant. “Actually, I wanted to ask you something.”

Charles hummed in response, not trusting his voice to say anything else. He didn’t want to break the moment, not when Max’s hands felt like a lifeline.

Max paused for a moment, and Charles could feel him looking down at him, as if waiting for some kind of signal. After a beat, Max continued, “I have an event coming up. We signed something important with Ferrari, a collab.”

Charles’s eyes snapped open at the mention of Ferrari. His heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, he forgot everything else. “Fucking Ferrari? The F1 team?” he asked, his voice filled with disbelief. He didn’t mean to sound so surprised, but it was hard to hide his excitement. The Ferrari team—Max, always so close to everything that was Formula 1—he’d never imagined this would be the direction Max’s career would take.

“Yeah, the Scuderia,” Max said, the faintest smile tugging at his lips, as if he knew how much it meant to Charles. “Something about sim racing. We have an event on the second. I was wondering if you wanted to come? We’re inviting Vettel too. You were always a huge fan of his, and—”

Charles’s heart raced. The invitation itself, the idea of being there, with the Ferrari team and Sebastian Vettel—it was almost too much. Too much to take in at once. He felt a rush of excitement flood his chest, but there was something else there too. An unexpected sense of… relief. As if Max was offering him a bridge to something they used to share, a piece of their past that hadn’t been completely lost.

“Are you serious?” Charles finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper. He sat up slightly, turning his head to face Max, meeting his gaze. His breath caught in his throat as he tried to process the invitation. “You want me to come with you? To a Ferrari event?”

Max looked at him, his expression unreadable for a moment, before his lips quirked into a small, knowing smile. “Yeah. I know it’s been a while, but I thought you might want to be there. You were always one of Vettel’s biggest fans. It just seemed right.”

Charles swallowed, overwhelmed by the offer. The mix of nostalgia, the excitement of seeing one of his idols, and the fact that Max had thought of him in this way—it was a lot to process. It wasn’t just the event itself that was tempting. It was the idea of them being together, of reconnecting on something like this. Something that didn’t have to be about lies or expectations.

“I don’t know what to say,” Charles admitted, his voice quiet but sincere. His fingers tightened slightly around the towel draped over his shoulders. “This is... insane. I never thought I’d be invited to something like this, especially after everything.”

Max gave a soft laugh, his eyes softening as he watched Charles. “I know things have been complicated, but you’re still the same Charles. You deserve it. And besides, it wouldn’t be the same without you there.”

Charles couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at his lips. It felt a little like the old times—before everything had gotten so messy, before all the distance and confusion had taken over.

“I’ll be there,” Charles said, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Max nodded, the smallest glint of satisfaction in his eyes. He didn’t say anything more, just resumed his task, finishing the last steps of rinsing the conditioner from Charles’s hair. But this time, there was something different in the air. Something that felt like a quiet promise, one neither of them could break, even if they weren’t sure what would come next.

They finished in silence, the only sound being the soft hum of the hairdryer as Max worked quickly to dry Charles's hair. Charles had protested, saying it wasn’t necessary, but Max had insisted, telling him that it would be better to avoid catching a cold.

Max’s hands were gentle as he moved the dryer through Charles’s damp hair, his movements careful, almost tender, as if he was trying to avoid hurting him. Charles didn’t say anything, though the strange intimacy of the moment weighed heavily on him. Max had always been like this, attentive, even when Charles hadn’t deserved it. It was just another reminder of how much things had changed between them—how much they hadn’t.

As the warm air dried his hair, Charles allowed himself to relax a little, letting the warmth seep into his scalp and the back of his neck. There was something soothing about the rhythm of Max’s actions, the quiet care with which he treated him. It almost felt like they were back in the past, when things had been simpler, when they had been just friends, before everything had gotten complicated.

Max’s voice broke the silence, a low murmur that felt almost too personal. “I’m not doing this because I have to, you know.” He paused, his hand stilling for a moment as if choosing his words carefully. “I just… I don’t want you to get sick.”

Charles glanced at him, his heart skipping a beat. Max’s words were simple, but they held something deeper—something unspoken, something that had been buried for a long time. Charles didn’t know how to respond, so he simply nodded, grateful for the gesture, but unsure of where it would lead.

Max continued drying his hair, his touch light but purposeful. Charles closed his eyes, the sensation oddly comforting despite the tension that still lingered between them. It felt like they were both caught in a delicate balance, walking a fine line between the past and the present, between friendship and something more complicated.

Finally, when Max finished drying Charles’ hair, he stepped back, tilting his head slightly as he studied his work. His expression was unreadable, a mix of focus and something softer that made Charles feel a strange warmth in his chest.

Max reached for the small bottle of hair oil without being asked, pouring a few drops into his palm. Charles couldn’t help the small, contented sound that escaped him when Max worked the oil through his hair, the faint scent of jasmine filling the air. The gesture was simple, yet it carried a quiet intimacy that felt heavier than it should.

Max’s fingers moved gently but confidently, smoothing down stray strands and fixing the chaos the air dryer had left behind. “All done,” he murmured, his voice soft. Yet there was an edge to it—something Charles couldn’t quite place, like a note of hesitation or a thought left unspoken.

Charles looked up, meeting Max’s gaze in the reflection of the nearby mirror. For a moment, the air between them felt charged, as if there were words hovering just out of reach. But Max broke the moment first, running a hand awkwardly through his own hair before stepping back with a small smile.

“Perfect, as always,” Max added, his tone light now, as though trying to dismiss the weight of whatever had lingered in the silence.

Charles nodded, his lips curving into a faint smile. “Thanks, Max.”

“Anytime,” Max replied, but his eyes lingered on Charles for just a beat longer than necessary before he turned away, busily tidying the bottles on the counter. Charles watched him, wondering if maybe he wasn’t the only one feeling the pull of something unspoken between them.

They went to bed after, the weight of the day still lingering between them but unspoken. Max lay on his side of the bed, his body stiff but not distant. Charles, on the other hand, tried to settle into the sheets, his thoughts racing, his mind a whirlwind of emotions he didn’t quite know how to process.

Neither of them made a move to get closer, an unspoken agreement to keep the space between them. It wasn’t uncomfortable, just… different. The bed felt too big and too small all at once, the distance between them more significant than it should have been.

Charles rolled onto his side, facing the wall, but he couldn’t stop his mind from drifting. The silence of the room was broken only by the soft rhythm of Max’s breathing. The steady rise and fall, the sound of it almost grounding him. It wasn’t the first time they’d shared a bed—he remembered the nights when they were younger, when they had fallen asleep in each other's company without hesitation, without thinking. But now, everything felt heavier. More complex.

As he lay there, counting the seconds between each breath Max took, Charles found himself oddly comforted by the sound. It was a reminder of how much had changed, how much had stayed the same. He didn’t know when exactly it had happened, but somewhere along the way, Max had become more than just a friend, more than just the person who was always there.

Charles closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of the room and the weight of the thoughts pressing down on him. He didn’t know where they were headed, didn’t know what the future held for them. But for now, he was here, in this moment, sharing space with Max once again, and for some reason, that was enough.

The next day, Charles slowly opened his eyes, the muffled sound of movement filling the room. It took him a few seconds to fully wake up, his mind sluggish, before his gaze landed on Max. He was stumbling around the room, trying to button up a shirt. His dressing pants were neatly pressed, and Charles couldn’t help but notice how well they fit. Max was always a sight to see, even in his rushed state, and it seemed like the morning wasn’t giving him any mercy either.

“Good morning,” Charles mumbled, his voice hoarse from sleep. He glanced at the clock. It was 6:30, a brutal hour that felt like a personal punishment.

“Fuck, Charles, sorry. Go back to sleep,” Max said, his eyes wide with guilt as he noticed Charles waking up.

Charles chuckled, pushing himself up against the bed's headboard. “No worries. Either way, I have to take my pill in fifteen.” He stretched his arm out, looking around for his crutches. The leg wasn’t in too much pain when he first woke up, probably because it had been relatively still during the night.

“I’ll do breakfast,” Charles said as he swung his legs off the bed, preparing to stand.

Max, who had been rummaging through his clothes in a hurry, turned to him. “No, Charles. You don’t need to—”

“Shh, too early for arguments,” Charles cut him off with a half-smile, already moving toward the small kitchen. “I’ll do breakfast.”

Max sighed, but there was a soft, almost affectionate look in his eyes as he watched Charles move around. “Fine, but don’t do too much. You’re still recovering, remember?”

Charles gave him a half-hearted wave. “I’ll be fine.”

Charles went to the bathroom first, brushing his teeth and doing a quick skin care routine. The fresh, minty feeling helped wake him up a little, even though his body was still sluggish from the night. He avoided putting weight on his bad leg as he grabbed his crutches and made his way to the elevator.

A yawn escaped his lips as he descended to the kitchen. It felt a little surreal, moving through the motions of the morning when his mind was still half asleep. He wasn’t used to being this early, this awake. But he focused on the task at hand, making a quick breakfast. Toast, fruit, and coffee. The simple things.

He was surprised at how smoothly everything came together, considering he was still adjusting to moving with crutches. Months of practice had made him better at managing with his injury than he expected. He even managed to prepare an extra cup of coffee for Max, because it just seemed like the right thing to do for someone else at six in the morning.

As he finished plating the food, he heard Max's footsteps coming down the stairs. Max wasn't wearing his tie yet, and it hung a little crooked on the sides. He had a slightly apologetic smile on his face when he saw Charles, but Charles was too tired to do anything but give him a tired grin.

"I made you coffee," Charles said, leaning back in his chair as he took a bite of his toast.

"God, you are an angel," Max muttered, picking up the thermos and pouring himself a cup. "Okay, I’m going out. See you at eight?"

"Sure, nice day," Charles replied, a little more awake now but still not fully adjusted to the early morning routine.

Max gave him a quick nod before grabbing his bag and heading out the door. Charles watched him go, the quiet of the house settling back in around him. It was strange, but in a way, it felt... comfortable.

After breakfast and a bit of cleaning, Charles made his way to the studio. The desk was a welcome sight, and for the first time in a while, he felt the drive to actually focus on his career. He sat down, the familiar weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders. He pulled out some materials and started sifting through projects, brainstorming ideas for his final project. He began gathering pieces to create a model of a building, something he could really pour his effort into.

The thought crossed his mind—maybe he could take a shot at renovating that awful building Max had. It was an idea, at least, one that could give him both the challenge and the purpose he needed. He felt a small sense of excitement stir inside him as he sketched out some rough concepts, imagining how it could look if he gave it his unique touch.

At eight, he heard footsteps approaching, likely his mother waking up. The sound brought him back to the present, and he stood, stretching a little before moving out of the office to greet her.

“Mum?” he called, poking his head into the hallway.

“Good morning,” she replied, already dressed and ready for the day. Her appearance reminded him of when he was a child—always put together, always on top of everything. It was nice to see her that way again.

“Max?” she asked, looking around for him.

“He went to work,” Charles answered, a little shrug in his voice. It felt odd to say it, but it was the truth. Max had left early for his meeting, and Charles didn’t think he’d be back until later in the day.

His mother smiled faintly, though there was something in her eyes that suggested she had more on her mind. "I see. Well, I thought I could make us something for lunch later. Maybe you can join me?" she said, her voice warm and casual. It was her way of offering a little comfort, a sense of normalcy.

“Sure,” Charles replied, feeling a small sense of relief. Despite everything, there was a kind of peace in the little rituals, the things that made home feel like home again. He wasn’t sure how long this would last, but for now, it was enough.

After lunch, Charles took his pills and checked his phone. Max had sent a few messages, but he didn’t feel like replying just yet. Instead, he made his way to the balcony, where his mother was already sitting, enjoying the warm air and the view. It was a beautiful spot, one they rarely used, and Charles had to admit it felt strange to think of parts of the house he hadn't even noticed before. The sunlight filtered through the trees, and the city beyond was quiet. For a moment, everything felt still.

His mother’s voice broke the silence. “You’re better,” she said, looking over at him with a soft smile as she nibbled on her salad. “You’re not screaming anymore.”

Charles stiffened slightly at the mention of the screaming. He’d been through a lot, and he knew he hadn’t exactly been easy to live with these past few months. But he also knew that he had been getting better, in small ways. He wasn’t lashing out, wasn’t constantly on edge. He hadn’t screamed at Max in a while, at least.

“I know,” he muttered, his eyes moving over the balcony’s edge. The wind ruffled his hair as he thought about everything—Max, his mother, himself. “I know.”

“I’m glad,” Pascale said, her voice full of warmth and quiet relief. There was no judgment in her tone, just an acceptance, a desire for peace.

“Me too,” Charles said, feeling the weight in his chest ease just a little. He wasn’t sure if he could call it recovery yet, but maybe it was something close.

Pascale took a deep breath, looking out over the city with a contented smile. “I’m glad you’re okay with Max, too. He’s such a nice boy.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, and Charles’s throat tightened. His mother’s affection for Max had always been apparent. She loved him like one of her own, and he had no idea how to explain everything that had happened, how complicated everything had become.

“He’s a good person,” Charles said quietly, though the words felt heavy in his mouth. He wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but the truth was that Max was... Max was everything he didn’t deserve. And maybe, just maybe, Charles didn’t know how to process it all yet.

“I’m glad you see that,” Pascale said with a nod, still watching him closely. “He’s been good to you, Charles. He really has.”

“I know,” he replied, his voice thick with the complexity of the emotions he couldn’t put into words. He did know. And that was what made it all so hard.

“I’m glad you’re going to marry him,” Pascale said with a wide, affectionate smile, her eyes softening as she looked at Charles. There was a quiet joy in her expression, one that seemed to brighten the room. “I always wished that for both of you.”

Charles nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I know,” he replied, his voice low, almost wistful. He had dreamt of this moment many times when he was younger—when everything had seemed so simple. He remembered the easy days before the weight of time and choices had settled in, before the mess of everything had taken shape. Back then, he thought they’d always be like that, inseparable, destined to find their way to a happy ending together.

“But,” Pascale’s voice shifted, her tone softening as she looked at him with an almost knowing gaze. “I know you.” She paused, as if choosing her words carefully. “And I know this… This is just a good streak, isn’t it?” She glanced at him, her eyes filled with concern. “It feels like it’s working now, but I know you, Charles. You’ve been through this before.”

Charles stiffened, his breath catching in his chest. There was something in her tone, a subtle shift that made his stomach tighten. He felt a cold wave of uncertainty wash over him. His mother always seemed to see through him, to sense when he was trying to bury things, when he was pretending everything was fine. He didn’t want to hear it—not now, not after everything that had already happened. He wasn’t ready for it.

He looked up at her, trying to gather himself, but the words from earlier echoed in his mind. He knew she was right. There was always a “but,” wasn’t there? She was right to be concerned.

Pascale didn’t wait for him to respond. Instead, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a small card, holding it out to him. “I think you should consider this,” she said quietly. The card was simple, elegant in its design, and when Charles turned it over, the word “Psychologist” caught his eye, followed by the name of a woman. There was a phone number, an office address. “It’s highly recommended.”

Charles took the card from her hand, his brow furrowing. He felt the weight of it in his palm, a small, seemingly insignificant piece of paper that now seemed like an anchor, pulling him down into his own thoughts. He stared at it for a moment before looking up at her, his confusion mounting.

“What’s this for?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady, though his heart was pounding in his chest.

Pascale’s expression softened, but there was a quiet determination in her eyes. “When Arthur told me about you and Max,” she began, her voice growing quieter, “I thought, ‘Finally, this is it. They’re going to be okay.’ I thought everything was falling into place for both of you. But then… I remembered.” She paused, and Charles felt his pulse quicken, the air around them suddenly thick with the weight of unspoken words. “I remembered how devastated you were when you broke up. I remember hearing you crying all night, Charles. I remember the silence that filled the house after you went through that. And I know you haven’t really dealt with that. Not fully. Not really. It’s still there, isn’t it?”

Her words were like a dagger, sharp and unexpected. Charles couldn’t breathe for a moment, the tightness in his chest growing as the memories flooded back. He had been so careful to lock those feelings away, to hide them from everyone—even from himself. But now, hearing her say it out loud, it felt as though the walls he’d built around those emotions were crumbling.

“I… I don’t know what you mean,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, though he knew it was a lie. He could feel the rawness inside him, the ache he’d tried to bury. He had ignored it, told himself it didn’t matter, that he had moved on. But his mother knew him too well. She knew that a good streak didn’t erase the scars, the broken pieces.

“You’re not fooling me, Charles,” Pascale said, her voice filled with love but also with a deep concern. “I just want you to be okay. I want you to face what happened, really face it. You can’t keep running from it, not forever.” She hesitated for a moment, as if unsure how much to say, before adding, “I don’t want you to keep carrying this alone, not when there are people who can help.”

Charles felt a lump form in his throat. His mother’s words were true, and they stung with an honesty that he wasn’t ready for. The thought of confronting everything, of opening himself up to the hurt he had so carefully hidden, made him feel sick. He didn’t know if he could do it. He didn’t know if he had the strength to face what was buried so deep inside him.

But Pascale was right. She always had been. And for the first time in a long while, Charles felt the weight of everything—of his past, his choices, his pain—settle on him with crushing force. It was too much to ignore any longer.

“I’ll think about it,” he said, his voice barely audible, as he looked down at the card in his hand. He didn’t know if he could take that step, but at least now, he knew that it wasn’t just about Max.

Pascale smiled softly, her eyes filled with the quiet relief of knowing that, despite his resistance, her words had landed. “I’m here for you, Charles,” she said gently. “Always.”

At night, after Max had unexpectedly arrived early—five instead of eight—and spent the entire afternoon with both Pascale and Charles, they were finally alone together in bed. Pascale was leaving tomorrow, which, as much as Charles loved his mother, would be a welcome change. It meant they could have their space, without her constantly searching every nook and cranny of the house for a cat that had decided to hide somewhere.

The room was dim, only the soft glow of streetlights filtering in through the blinds. They were still lying apart, but something about the quiet of the night made Charles feel like there was something important he needed to say. Something he had been avoiding.

"Mum said I should see a psychologist," he broke the silence, his voice barely above a whisper.

He felt Max's breathing shift, a subtle quickening, as if his body instinctively tensed at the mention of something so serious. Charles knew he was awake—he always was, even if he pretended to be asleep sometimes. It was like muscle memory, Max's presence beside him, something familiar, something he had come to rely on.

"Yeah?" Max’s voice was soft, tentative, as if he wasn't sure whether to press for more details or let Charles speak in his own time. "And what do you think about that?"

Charles shifted slightly, his hand nervously fidgeting with the edge of a sweatshirt, the fabric cool against his fingers. The night was colder than usual, but that wasn’t why he was shivering. "I want to try it. I’ve never been. I don’t know, maybe it’ll help."

Max stayed quiet for a moment, and Charles could almost feel the weight of his gaze, even without looking at him. Then, Max spoke again, his voice steady, calm in contrast to the flurry of thoughts running through Charles's mind.

"Okay, I’ll pay," Max said simply.

Charles blinked, the words taking him by surprise. It wasn’t just the offer; it was the way Max said it, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Yeah?" Charles asked, his voice uncertain. "You don’t have to, I can—"

"I already told you, Charles," Max interrupted gently, his hand reaching out to lightly rest on the blanket between them, his presence comforting despite the distance still between them. "Your health is first."

Charles felt a wave of warmth spread through him, a gratitude that he wasn’t sure how to express. He wanted to say something more, something that conveyed how much it meant to him, but the words felt inadequate.

"Thank you," he finally said, his voice thick with emotion, even though he couldn’t explain why it hit him so hard.

Max didn’t respond with more words; instead, he shifted closer, his hand now resting on Charles’s, a silent reassurance. It was as though, in that moment, the weight of everything they’d been through—the distance, the unspoken things, the pain—was finally being acknowledged. Even if neither of them had all the answers, they were here, together, and that was enough for now.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was filled with understanding, with a shared sense of trust that hadn’t been there before. Charles closed his eyes, letting the calm of Max’s presence wash over him, and for the first time in a while, he felt like maybe everything was going to be okay.

The next day, Max didn’t go to work. When Charles asked why, Max leaned against the kitchen counter with a steaming mug of coffee and sighed dramatically. “If I go, I’m going to kill the entire financial department, Charles. Seriously. Do you want to be visiting me in prison?”

Charles just rolled his eyes, but a small smile tugged at his lips. Having Max around for the day wasn’t something he would complain about.

Max was still lounging on the couch when Pascale began preparing to leave. She had work, after all, and Charles suspected she also wanted to give them their space. When it was time for goodbyes, she hugged Charles first, wrapping her arms around him tightly, the warmth of her embrace instantly familiar and comforting.

“I love you,” she said softly, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead.

“I love you too,” Charles murmured, holding her a second longer. There was something grounding about her hugs, something that made him feel like a kid again.

Then Pascale turned to Max, pulling him into a hug just as firm. Charles stood off to the side, fiddling with the edge of his sweatshirt, but he could still hear her words.

“Thank you for taking care of our boy,” she whispered to Max, her tone heartfelt and full of meaning.

Charles blinked, his breath hitching for a moment. Her words struck a chord deep within him, a strange mix of gratitude and heartache swelling in his chest. Max did take care of him, more than anyone else ever had. But he wasn’t Max’s boy , not really—not officially. That part stung more than Charles wanted to admit.

Pascale pulled back, giving them both a warm smile before picking up her bag. “I’m really happy for you two,” she added, her voice light and full of affection as she glanced between them.

Charles didn’t know what to say. He looked at Max, who was smiling faintly, and then back at Pascale. He nodded, muttering a quiet “thank you” before she waved and stepped out the door.

The apartment felt a little emptier after she left, the sound of her heels clicking in the hallway fading into silence. Max turned to Charles, still holding his coffee.

“Your mum’s great,” Max said, his voice soft.

Charles gave him a small smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “She is,” he agreed, sitting down on the couch beside Max.

Neither of them spoke for a moment, the quiet settling around them like a blanket. Charles couldn’t stop replaying her words in his mind, couldn’t shake the way it felt to hear them. He wasn’t sure what to do with that feeling, so he did what he always did—he pushed it aside and focused on the moment.

Charles shifted slightly on the couch, his eyes flickering toward Max, who was scrolling absentmindedly on his phone. The warmth of the earlier conversation with his mother still lingered, but so did the subtle ache it had left behind.

“Hey, Max,” Charles said, his voice quieter than usual. Max looked up, eyebrows raising slightly in question. “Do you mind doing my hair again?”

Max blinked, clearly caught off guard by the request, before a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “Your hair? Right now?”

Charles nodded, brushing a hand through the messy strands that had dried unevenly after his morning shower. “It’s bothering me. You’re good at it.” He hesitated, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “And... I liked it when you did it yesterday.”

Max set his phone down, his expression softening. “Of course, I don’t mind. Come here.” He patted the couch cushion in front of him, motioning for Charles to sit on the floor between his legs.

Charles moved carefully, balancing on his crutches before lowering himself to the floor. He sat with his bad leg extended, feeling Max shift behind him. There was the quiet sound of a drawer opening, then the faint scent of hair oil as Max worked a small amount between his hands.

“You really trust me with this, huh?” Max said, amusement lacing his voice as his fingers began to work through Charles’ hair, untangling knots with surprising gentleness.

“You didn’t ruin it yesterday,” Charles replied, his tone light, but there was an undercurrent of honesty in his words. “And... it felt nice.”

Max chuckled softly. “Well, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

The room settled into a comfortable silence, the only sounds the occasional rustle of hair and the faint hum of the city outside. Max’s hands moved with a steady rhythm, massaging Charles’ scalp as he combed through his hair. Charles felt the tension in his shoulders ease with every pass of Max’s fingers.

“You’ve got good hair, you know,” Max said after a while, breaking the quiet. “Thick, but soft. Jealous, honestly.”

Charles laughed, leaning into the touch slightly. “You sound like a professional. Thinking of a career change?”

Max’s laugh was warm. “I don’t think I’d survive in a salon. Too much pressure. Plus, I’d probably mess up someone’s hair and get sued.”

“You’d probably charm your way out of it,” Charles teased, tilting his head back slightly to glance at Max.

Max grinned down at him. “Maybe. But let’s not test that theory, yeah?”

When Max finished, he leaned back slightly, admiring his handiwork. “There. All neat and perfect. Better?”

Charles reached up, running a hand through his hair. It felt soft, smooth, and oddly comforting. “Yeah,” he said quietly, glancing over his shoulder at Max. “Thanks.”

Max smiled, leaning forward to ruffle Charles’ hair playfully. “Anytime, Charles.”