Chapter Text
“Are you eating with me?”
Max’s head is poking from around the doorway of Charles’ home office, hanging five feet off the ground like he’s lost his body.
“What are you making?”
“What do I always make?”
Charles smiles, lifting his hands off the keyboard so that he can rest his chin on them.
“Alright, what kind of pasta is it today?”
“Roasted walnuts, spinach, green peas, blue cheese, cream,” Max recites, and his neck must have started hurting because the rest of his body floats into view to lean against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. His cheeks are flushed, probably from the heat of the stove.
Charles is pretty sure that if his boyfriend came closer, he’d smell like toasting garlic.
“Interesting combination you’ve got there.”
“Want some?”
“Yes, please. Can you come here a moment?”
Max gives him a suspicious look. “If you keep me longer than two minutes, the stuff will burn. And you remember how long it took to air out my place the last time.”
“I’ll be good, I promise.”
Standing up while Max walks over, Charles wraps his arms around Max’s waist and brings him in close, leaning in to kiss him. He can feel Max grin against him and although he does not taste like garlic, he does indeed smell like it. Like kitchen and good food and home.
It’s strange, really, how in the span of ten months, Max has become home.
Charles runs his nose along Max’s throat and Max hums, deeply enough that it rushes through Charles like a tidal wave. He presses in closer.
“Oh, no, no, no,” Max laughs and Charles whines petulantly when he slips out of his arms. “No. Dinner.”
Charles pouts.
“Come out to eat in fifteen minutes,” Max says, smiling wide, and pecks Charles right on the nose before he turns to leave.
“You’re mean!” Charles calls after him as he sits back down to finish his email.
“You love me!”
Charles does.
—:—
When they start living together, a year and a half in, it’s a curse and a blessing to Max. A curse, because he has to be more careful about where he leaves stuff, especially his comfy clothes since Charles tends to snatch those first, finders-keepers style. A blessing, because Charles brings him snacks pretty much every time he returns home, and Max can’t begrudge him for stealing another one of Max’s hoodies when Charles pulls a chocolate bar out of its pocket.
And Charles looks good in Max’s hoodies. They don’t exactly hang on him, they’re too similar in height for that, but Max is a little wider in the shoulders so the sleeves fall lower than they’re supposed to. Charles looks cute. Comfortable. At home.
Hot, when Max spreads him out on their bed, naked save for the hoodie and flushed around the edges, gorgeous.
“Leave it on,” Max whispers when Charles reaches for the bottom of it. “I like it.”
Charles groans, the complaining kind. “I’m going to melt into a puddle.”
“My puddle,” Max says as he hoists Charles’ hips into his lap, palms running up under the fabric, over Charles’ sides and ribs. It’s warm there, just starting to sweat.
“You’re so lucky I love you,” Charles pants when Max runs a fingernail gently over his nipple, then pushes the edge of it into the bud. Charles squirms against him, chest dropping as he exhales on a moan.
The hoodie bunches up, falling down Charles’ torso, so when Max leans forward, he can bite gently on Charles’ tummy.
Charles’ hard cock jumps against his chin, leaving a wet smear, and Max wraps a hand around it to hold it out of the way. He runs his mouth along the sensitive skin of Charles’ stomach, kisses, licks, and sucks until tension drains out of Charles’ body, his arms resting limp on the bedsheets.
Charles whines softly when Max pulls away.
“I always forget how much you like that,” Max says, drawing both his hands from Charles’ ribs to his abdomen, and Charles shivers underneath him.
“It’s weird, I know,” Charles grumbles and wriggles until his ass slides off Max’s lap. He wraps his legs around Max’s waist, and Max lets himself be dragged down on top of him, one hand reaching out to rest on Charles’ cheek.
“It’s not weird, it’s just you,” Max says.
“I’m weird, then.”
“Weirder than me and my finger thing?”
Charles snorts quietly.
“Gimme. Fair is fair.”
Max blushes but rolls off Charles to lie on his side next to him instead, letting his hand slide off Charles’ cheek and onto his covered chest.
Charles drags a pillow under his head so that he can see better. His fingers are gentle when they turn Max’s hand over, palm up, and trail a fingernail from the tip of Max’s middle finger to his wrist. Max’s hand almost closes against the line of heat, skin tingling and burning; Charles giggles.
“Rude,” Max says even as his hips jump forward, into Charles, when a nail drags down the side of his pointer.
Max doesn’t know what the deal is, here, it just feels good when Charles does it. He scratches and teases along Max’s fingertips, the wrinkly outer parts of his knuckles and soft squishy parts on the inside, licks where Max’s fingers join with his palm.
When Charles stops touching him, Max feels like he’s on fire.
He’s been rutting into Charles for a while, but Charles finally turns to face him, eyes glazed and flush high on his cheeks.
“You okay?” he asks, and Max can only nod as he breathes for a moment.
“Jesus,” he finally manages. “That was a lot.”
“Yeah, it looks like it,” Charles says, more to himself than Max when he reaches between them to wrap his hand around Max’s cock. “Look how hard you are.”
Air hisses through Max’s teeth as he inhales and thrusts into Charles’ grip, groaning, arm shooting out to Charles’ waist to keep him close. Charles is still in the hoodie, its fabric turning darker along the neckline, and Max twists his fingers into the bottom edge of it.
“You really do like me in that, don’t you,” Charles asks softly, the pad of his thumb circling the tip of Max’s cock, ever so gently.
“Yes,” Max punches out, vibrating in his skin.
“I should steal some more, then.” Charles smiles, his fingers closing around Max just as tightly as he knows he should, jerking him off properly. Max lets out little gasps that Charles catches in his mouth, kissing wet and uncoordinated, especially when Max gets his hand on Charles too. Charles moans sweetly into the kiss.
Max comes.
“God.” Charles thrusts into Max’s hand because Max is too out of it to move properly and comes a minute later, warm and sticky over Max’s stomach. “Max.”
“Yeah,” Max manages. His eyes are growing heavy. Charles is warm against him, familiar, and then he disappears and Max whines and then Charles is back, his chest bare against Max’s as he wipes them off with the hoodie he just took off.
“Hey,” Max complains half-heartedly. “I like that one.”
“Me too, darling, but I’m not getting up for a towel. And I think,” Charles pokes him and Max whines at him again, “that neither are you.”
“Fine,” Max grumbles, even though he does feel better now that he’s cleaner. He burrows under Charles’ chin with a deep inhale that stretches the little muscles between his ribs, then relaxes.
“Nap?” Charles asks, gentle fingers running through Max’s hair.
“Nap,” Max mumbles in agreement, smiles into Charles’ skin and winks out.
—:—
It’s Monday, the first Monday of the month, which means it’s date night. That means Max will spend ten minutes combined in the closet and the bathroom, because that’s enough for him, and Charles will spend twenty minutes in each, because he won’t be rushed through his process.
But, to keep peace in the house, he will start his preparations half an hour before Max.
Running his hand over the neatly spaced out shirts and t-shirts hanging in their closet, Charles remembers the dates they have been on. The white linen shirt he wore when they went to the beach and it rained; the pine green sweater from the tennis match; Max’s dark blue jacket that Charles borrows when they don’t want to be caged in rooms with people and just go on a walk.
He chooses eventually and then chooses again, but even when he’s ready and his watch tells him it’s quarter to six and time to leave, he waits a couple more minutes so that he’s not at the door first.
That way, when he does walk up, Max is already standing there, and seeing Max dressed nice, waiting for him, and looking up with a soft smile is one of Charles’ favourite moments of the month.
“You look lovely,” Max says as he leans in for a kiss, as if they didn’t spend the whole day in the same space, and Charles grins wide, affection blossoming in his chest. It’s been two years but hearing this makes him as happy now as it did the first time.
“So do you.” Charles runs a palm along Max’s shoulder, smooth fabric over smooth skin, warmth seeping into him like sunshine.
Max hums, eyes crinkling, and Charles takes his hand before they leave their flat.
The walk is as short as it is familiar. Charles tries not to play favourites when it comes to restaurants because it keeps him from discovering new places when he does, but they have been coming to this one every few weeks, date night or take out, as long as they have been together.
The waiter comes by with two menus even though all the staff know that neither Charles nor Max actually need one anymore, and instead of taking them, they just order. The menu never changes and the sameness is just as comfortable as new places are thrilling.
Charles settles into his chair; Max is staring at something behind Charles’ back.
“What is it?” he asks.
Max startles, eyes snapping back to Charles.
“Nothing,” he says, the corners of his lips lifting gently. “Just got lost for a moment.”
Charles reaches out over the table, palm up. Max slots his fingers between Charles’ and holds tight.
—:—
There are many things in their apartment that Max brought with him when they moved in together last year. His books, his sim rig, a pillow he’s had for years, a set of plates his mother had insisted they’d need and which they never actually use. Max is one of those people who pull out a plate and then keep using it until it’s simply too dirty to put food on. Given that Max eats everything except toast out of a bowl, the plate can last days.
“I still think it’s unhygienic,” Charles says, a sentence as old as their relationship. He’s resting hip to hip against the kitchen counter with Max and munching a slice of bread over Max’s third-day plate, and Max loves him. He does.
He does.
—:—
It’s easy for Charles to forget sometimes that other people don’t know him as well as Max.
It happens all the time. He’ll make a joke and his brothers will stare blankly at him. He’d use a reference to one thing or another and his mother would say “What’s that, honey?” in a tone that means she has no idea, and Charles would think, Maybe it’s me, maybe I’m being too obscure. But then he slips it into a conversation with Max a few days later, and Max laughs or snorts or calls him babe in his most blonde-bronzer-British accent, and Charles knows he understands.
It’s also easy for Charles to forget that Max’s tolerance for Charles’ mayhem is higher than the average person’s.
This doesn’t happen as often, but every few weeks, Charles will get this rush of energy that Max fondly calls zoomies even though Charles is not a puppy. When it comes, Charles is simply different from his usual self. He jokes freely, he teases wildly, he gestures big, and he does not sit down for a second.
“You alright?” asks a mutual friend and probably with good intentions, too. Charles knows his eyes are sparkly and wide and a little crazed when he gets like this.
“Splendid!” Charles grins and their friend looks doubtful, but then Max’s hand grips Charles’ wrist and Charles lets himself be pulled down into the seat next to Max.
“It’s just zoomies,” Max explains, thumb drawing soothing circles over Charles’ skin.
Charles curls into Max’s side because it’s a nice place to be and also because the rush is subsiding, leaving him a little tired and a little embarrassed. Laying his head on Max’s shoulder, he closes his eyes and breathes in the smell of their laundry detergent and the cologne that Max has been wearing for as long as Charles can remember.
It’s warm and it’s safe, and Charles is content.
—:—
Max doesn’t know when things started changing for him, but he knows when he realises.
It’s the first Monday of the month. They got home late last night, their flight delayed, so all they really have energy for is a walk through the warm evening. The traffic is low, pedestrians few and far between, and the sound of waves lapping at shore is the loudest thing around.
Charles is holding his hand and he grips more tightly before they cross the street, like he’s done a thousand times.
It makes Max feel like he’s trapped in his body the same way music is trapped in decibels and suddenly, the loudest thing around is no longer the waves but the humming of anxiety in Max’s chest.
Charles doesn’t notice that anything is wrong but in his defence, Max doesn’t think he let anything show.
The feeling passes as Charles’ hold gentles but Max is already aware that it was there.
He keeps noticing as they walk on. Charles’ hand in his doesn’t feel as right as it did- when? A few weeks ago? A few months ago? Max tries to think back and remember, but all he recalls is that things were good, were the same.
They sit down on a bench, Max’s arm around Charles’ shoulders. Charles leans into him and his shoulder pokes painfully into Max’s ribs. Max doesn’t recall ever being uncomfortable like this, only knows that having Charles curled up into him has always felt like home. He doesn’t know when it stopped.
He doesn’t know.
It scares him.
He doesn’t let it show.
He can’t, because dedication is the second most important thing in his life. Knowing what he now knows and feeling what he feels, he dedicates himself to trying to keep things as they were in hopes that whatever this is will just blow over.
Honesty is the most important thing in Max’s life. He’d take a painful truth over a merciful white lie any day. But he still loves Charles, or at least he thinks he does.
He lets dedication win over honesty.
—:—
“How was it?” Charles asks when Max walks into their living room. Netflix is on, the sky behind the windows turning purple as the day turns into night.
“Long and boring,” Max whines, collapsing next to Charles on the couch and then letting himself fall into Charles’ lap, face turned to his stomach.
“Poor baby,” Charles says, carding his fingers through Max’s hair, feeling more than hearing his hum. The week has been long and busy and stressful, and it calms something unsettled in the pit of his stomach to have Max this close, to be able to take care of him.
“I want to disappear sometimes,” Max whispers into the fabric of Charles’ top.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know.” Max’s fingers squeeze themselves under Charles’ thighs. “It just sometimes feels like I’m overflowing.”
“Like work is too much?”
“Like everything is too much.”
Charles feels a stab behind his ribs and keeps his fingers in Max’s hair.
“Can I help?” he asks.
Max keeps quiet as the Netflix show plays. Then, he shakes his head.
Charles presses a kiss into his hair and shifts his eyes back to the screen.
—:—
Max really is trying, but it feels like no matter what he does, he’s passing by Charles and Charles is passing by him.
They exist in the same space. They share bed and breakfast toast, their elbows bumping as they make tea in the morning. Charles runs his hands down Max’s sides before he pushes his fingers inside him; Max holds onto his shoulder when he drops down his cock afterwards. When they’re done, Max draws lines across Charles’ stomach to see him shiver and almost cries in relief when Charles teases along his hands and it feels like something, at least in the deep of his belly if nowhere else. They cuddle on the couch and on the first Monday of the month, they go on a date.
The cinema is dark and smells like popcorn. Max doesn’t remember what the film is called, but one of the characters says, “We were like strangers who knew each other very well.”
It hits him like a punch to the gut because that’s how it feels. How he knows so many things about Charles. Not the kinds of things that are simple, like favourite colours and seasons and animals, but he knows that if a place is painted green and has plants, Charles will be happy, and that when it drops below twenty degrees celsius, he’ll pull out his autumn coat and grumble about it, and that whenever they see a dog on the sidewalk, Charles will stretch his neck so far back to keep watching it that he’d probably walk into traffic if he wasn’t holding Max’s hand.
So Max knows. He knows so much that it feels like his chest is hollow when they lie side by side in bed and Max sometimes can’t bring himself to reach out first even though he’s almost sure touching Charles would fill the hollow feeling.
Almost sure. He’s more scared that he will touch and the feeling will stay.
—:—
It’s the first Monday of the month, quarter to six, and Charles is ready but he waits a little longer before he walks up to the door.
When he does, Max isn’t there yet.
—:—
Wind is gently breaking over Max’s face as he stands on the balcony. He feels far from the sky and far from the ground, but the wind still smells like salt so he knows the world hasn’t changed. It’s just him who’s different.
He gives up on dedication and promises to himself honesty.
Just in time, too.
—:—
Charles turns on his heel, leaves the door behind and searches. Not the bathroom and bedroom, because that’s where Charles just was, not the kitchen and living room, because he’s in it now, and that leaves the balcony.
Gripping the handle, Charles sees the back of Max’s frame and freezes, because Max is hunching over, folding on himself until he’s all curled up, arms wound around his knees, the white fabric of his shirt stretching thin.
He opens the door.
—:—
There’s a squeak behind Max and then a warm hand falls on his shoulder.
“Charles,” Max says, and even he can hear the tears in his voice.
“Max, what- jesus, darling, what’s wrong?”
Max can feel the rush of air when Charles sits down next to him, pulling him closer. Max lets him, because if he’s to be finally honest, he may as well give dedication one last try.
They slot together, but not very well.
Max curls in tighter on himself, mourning.
“I thought-” he says, manages to get past the tightness in his throat, “I thought if I tried, it would come back.”
“Darling, what? What would come back?”
Max steels himself.
“The feelings. The love.”
Charles stops next to him. Max can’t even hear him breathe.
“What do you mean?” he says quietly.
“I don’t know when- what happened. I tried to think back, but I couldn’t find anything, so I tried, I thought maybe we’d be happy again. That if I just try and stay, maybe tomorrow, we’ll be happy.”
The wind calms. The air doesn’t smell like salt anymore.
“I- I was happy,” Charles says, voice trembling. “I knew you were down sometimes lately, but I thought- god. You were not happy?”
Max breathes in deep and wishes that someone would turn off the lights of the world.
Keeping his eyes closed is the next best thing.
“I tried to be.”
It must be an explanation enough because in the next moment, air shifts again as Charles gets up and leaves.
Max thinks, please. Please turn them off now.