Max needed cat food.
That was the sole reason he had come to the store on an unplanned trip. No one went to Dollar General unless they had to, and Max hadn't really wanted to drive 45 minutes to the Ingles in another county.
He hadnot come to Dollar General to give directions to a man with a very nice accent (French?) and shoes that were much too nice for Dollar General, not that that was a very high bar.
Seriously, what about him gives off 'friendly and willing to help random pretty tourists find the Appalachian Trail'. He needs to fix that, if that is the vibe he gives off. Max is usually going for something slightly more hostile, so no one tries to ask him how his dad is doing these days.
Tourists and hikers came through town to get on the trail often enough that it kept the Bed & Breakfast in fairly good business. Max didn't really cater to them, (because who in their right mind wanted to read the newspaper of a town with a population below 500 if they were not one of those 500) but they were one of the only sources of outside income. Usually, though, they weren't from further than 100 miles away, let alone another country.
So here he was, telling Pretty Tourist to "Just keep going down the highway, 'till the Tennessee border, then turn, and you'll see it, it's pretty hard to miss-" and getting an odd look from Stacy Buchannan instead of finding cat food.
He deserved a frozen pizza after this.
"Again, thank you so much!" And with that, Pretty Tourist was gone. His too-nice shoes squeaked loudly on some liquid of questionable origin as he walked out the door, and Max winced a little at the sound.
What a day.
Max bought his cat food and his well-deserved frozen pizza and ignored the look the cashier-one of the Johnson brothers, either Kevin or Joe or maybe Jessie-was giving him, a mix of something like pity and confusion. He sighed internally, but, as long as no one was trying to make conversation, Max was happy.
At home, he fed Jimmy and Sassy and reviewed Daniel's latest article submission, something about the old playground by the creek needing higher standards of upkeep, and tried very hard not to think about Pretty Tourist.
Max was but a man. There were very few options in town for someone with Max's preferences, after all. A little obsession on a nameless stranger he'd met for less than 5 minutes was perfectly justified, and no one ever had to know.
If he made up a thousand reasons for Pretty Tourist to be in town, a thousand places he'd come from (places he could take Max back to, maybe), all beautiful and European and romantic in a way this place could never quite manage even on its most beautiful sunsets, there was no one to tell him off about it. He might be able to see his father's house from the window above the sink in the guest bathroom, but Jos had no control over what he thought, or at least Max liked to think so.
So yeah. Day dreaming about a man he'd never see again (who, if Max thought about it for a little bit longer, wasway out of his league). Pretty pitiful, in Max's book.
Oh well. He'd had hopeless crushes before, and he'd have them again. Life went on. Max went to work, and Daniel definitely noticed his extra day dreaming, but he didn't mention it.
There wasn't much to Max's life. He wrote the occasional article about town council's new initiative or the mayor's son's dreams of a slightly larger farmer's market or an academic competition the local school lost once again or a flash flood too far away to matter. He reviewed Daniel's article's for spelling and grammar, and formatted the newspaper, printed it, and handed it off to the teenager who delivered it around town.
On Sundays Max went to the grocery store instead of church, even though he could always hear the bells ringing. His father went to church, though, the only time he leaves the house anymore, and Max has spent more than a decade avoiding him, and he's not about to let up now. Verstappen men hold grudges, and Max is nothing if not his father's son, no matter what he tries. (Max still bought him groceries. His father wouldn't do it on his own, Max knew, and this way he knew his father wouldn't have access to alcohol.)
On Wednesdays Daniel came over to play video games and eat frozen pizza. Max had known Daniel since the first day of daycare, like he'd known everyone of their generation, but Daniel was the one who still came even after anyone with sensible parents stopped.
On Saturdays, at precisely 1 pm, Max called his mother and then, at 2, Victoria.
It goes like that, as it has for as long as Max cares to remember, for an amount of time he doesn't care to count. Pretty Tourist is a common visitor to the insides of his eyelids on his sleepless nights, which are all of them.
God, he wants to get out of this place. Main street'll never get re-paved, and Max doesn't want to watch the cracks grow any larger. He doesn't want to see the school playground grow decrepit, watch the chains on the swings grow rusted and snap. He doesn't want to have to publish any more obituaries, have to report on the animal shelter shutting down, have to watch this place decay, because it will, and Max doesn't want to watch it happen, he doesn't want to stay here.
But life went on. Max had wanted to leave since the day he realized that there were other places in the world, and he'd come close on many occasions. But there was nowhere to go, and his father might die if he left. And, if he looked hard enough, maybe the beauty of the mountains was enough to soothe that ache to explore that lingered in his bones.
++++
It must be another season (a year? 2? 4 months? 3 weeks?) before Pretty Tourist makes another appearance.
Max is making his weekly visit to the Ingles two towns over, the only decent grocery store within an hour of town. He's getting dried fruit, because the fresh stuff is pretty 50/50 this far from anything.
So maybe he's not looking where he's going when he walks out of the aisle, because there is a very cute dog and Max is but a man. That's a maybe, but what definitely happens is that he runs directly into who else but Pretty Tourist.
"Oh!" Is what Pretty Tourist elects to say once Max has helped him off the floor. His voice is weirdly (endearingly) overjoyed in a way that only young children's is, and he's smiling, which shows off his sweet dimples. He's wearing a different pair of too-nice shoes, and his face is more beautiful than Max remembers it to be. "You're the one who helped me, last time. How are you?"
"I-yeah, I am. I'm doing well," And if it were anyone else, anyone else, Max would have stopped the conversation right there. But he continues, for whatever reason. Maybe it's the twinkle in Pretty Tourist's eyes that Max could not ever bear to dim. "Did you find the trail alright?"
Somehow, Pretty Tourist's smile grows even more at that. "Oh, yes! It was beautiful, the views. Just what I needed. You are so lucky to live here, it is so magical. Thank you again, I would have been so lost without you!" And it is the emphasis on you that keeps Max talking this time. A little lit, almost sing-song. His every word is emphatic, like Max is a celebrity he's waited his whole life to meet.
"It wasn't any trouble. Glad you liked it, really. Never really understood what people get out of this place-" Max cuts himself off when Pretty Tourist frowns, however minutely, at his words.
"Well of course you don't, you've lived here forever, haven't you?" It is not really a question, but Max goes to answer anyway. (Is he that obvious? Something in him asks. Yes, you are, every reasonable part of him says, You have your father's accent) Pretty Tourist barges on before he can. "People love where I grew up, but to me it is just where I'm from. Nothing special about it, that must be how you feel, yes?"
Max nods, a little jerkily. "Uh, yeah. Where did you grow up then, if people love it?" It is much more that he usually gives, is almost a flirt in the minds of the people here.
"Oh, I'm from Monaco!" At Max's uncomprehending look, Pretty Tourist frowns, looks a little confused himself. Max feels deeply, deeply, ignorant. "It's a micronation? Very small. Just below France, on the Mediterranean?"
"I, um-I'm sorry, I've never-never heard of it. I'm sure it's beautiful...?" Max winces a bit internally at how unsure he knows he sounds. Pretty Tourist has already recovered to his smile, andgod,those dimples.
"It is. Not beautiful the way it is here, maybe, but beautiful. Maybe I could take you to see it someday?" And oh.Oh. That's flirting anywhere, and definitely here. Pretty Tourist looks almost smug as Max blushes and sputters for something to say.
He lands on "I-I'd love that."
"I'm sure you would," Pretty Tourist says with a god-awful (but still very cute) wink, before pulling a notebook from nowhere and ripping out a page, scribbling something on it. "Here. My name is Charles, also."
"Max." He manages to squeeze out before Pret-before Charles is gone in a rush.
Huh.
Max looks down at the piece of paper clutched in his hand. A phone number.
The first thing he does when he gets home is not to text Charles (pretty name, pretty face) but typemonaco into google and skim the Wikipedia page, just so he's not completely ignorant. It does look pretty. Thetax haven and gambling den for the wealthy bit is a little off-putting but explains the too-nice shoes very well.
Charles is probably very,very, rich. Pretty name, pretty face, absolutely loaded, dear god. Max has, quite literally, stumbled into what is possibly his best way out of here. If he was reading that interaction right.
What do you text the random stranger who you've been having wet dreams about for an amount of time and who flirted with you (maybe)? How do you start a conversation.
Max settles on sending: Hey, it's Max, the guy from Ingles.
is that the name of the town or the store? is the reply he gets, and, yeah, maybe he's a bit too invested in this.
++++
The first thing Max really notices about texting with Charles is that the man has the weirdest work schedule he's ever seen.
He's almost never available on Sundays, which, okay, maybe that's church or something, but sometimes it's at odd hours, which could be a time difference, but it's not always the same odd hours, which is even weirder. Saturdays he's usually not available either, and Fridays are spotty too. Thursdays less so, but still. But then some weekends Charles is available, and most of the rest of the week he's relatively free. Max thinks it's work, at least. It could really be anything.
To make things more confusing, Charles is always traveling. On planes, even, which Max hadn't really figured people did all that often, given that he doesn't know that many people who've flown and he hasn't himself, but nobody crossed the ocean on a ship anymore and Charles seemed to be crossing oceans pretty often.
Charles also goes to places Max has thought of as concepts, has seen pictures of, but never really grasped as real. Some places he goes are not like that, of course, there's England, and Canada and Mexico, which he's had enough time to get acquainted with the existence of, has known a couple people who've been to the latter two, but also places Max hadn't really ever thought about. Sure, he'd heard of most of them (Monaco was an exception, and so is Azerbaijan, which makes him feel even more ignorant), but he'd never really given them thought beyond hearing a name or seeing one picture, like Singapore and Hungary.
No matter where in the world he is, though, or if he's been busy, Charles sends him a good night text, even though it's usually only night for Charles. Max could die happy gettinggood night :) at 1 in the afternoon from Charles.
They talk about mundane things. Max talks about his cats, and Charles talks about wherever he is this week. They don't-sometimes they flirt, or, rather, Max thinks that Charles flirts with him, but he can never really say the right thing over text, no matter how hard he tries. Sometimes Charles tells a story about his childhood (he has two brothers, and is a middle child. It makes sense, Max thinks), and Max gives something as similar as he can manage. He makes sure to leave off the inevitable end to all of the fun stories from his youth, and then my father found out.
In late July, when it's getting real hot and the kids are almost going back to school, Charles texts him something out of the ordinary: i have a break from work for most of august. i'm going out there to hike next week. meet up?
Before he can think, Max has sent him Sure! You can stay with me if don't want to spend money. I have a guest room. That was probably not the best idea-too forward and why would he use money as a reason, when Charles is clearly not hurting for it.
But Charles replies withjust text me the address. i will be there on the 2nd.
Can't wait! Max sends, andoh.
++++
Charles gets in from god-knows-where late after some delays, and Max finds himself driving 3 hours down to Charlotte at 4 am to pick him up from the airport.
Funny, Charles didn't even ask him to. He said he couldn't find a rental car until the morning, and Max offered, instantly, to drive down to pick him up.
He looks a bit lost, a little nervous, glancing around, when Max finds him outside the parking lot it took too much time to find. But when Charles sees him waving from his car, his face lights up, and Max gets hit with yet another wave of attraction.
The sun rises early this time of year, and so they're driving with the sunrise behind them, and it casts Charles in a golden light that makes him look like some kind of saint, and Max hasn't been religious since the day his father made him pray for forgiveness while he beat him, but for Charles he might find it in himself to worship again.
"How have you been?" Max asks, to say something, before some other part of him can say kiss me.
And his eyes are shining, and the world shrinks to them, and the road, and the way Charles' dimples make little shadows. "I have been needing a break, really. I have been needing this." And Max doesn't know if he means him, or the mountains, or the trail, or the highway, but he doesn't care.
Silence, except for the low indistinguishable sounds of some song on the radio, falls over them. But it's not a bad silence, like what lingers on main street, or what would always come before his father had an outburst, or the time after a gunshot but before the sound of the animal's body hitting the earth. No, this is a good silence, amicable, like what Max had with Daniel sometimes, or his cats. Better than that, really.
The silence persists until they're getting on main street, when Charles elects to speak. The sun is high now, and he is no less beautiful. "Tell me about this place." Vague, but Max can do that. He knows ever nook and cranny of this town, every little secret and all the things nobody talks about anymore.
Where to begin, though, is the question. "Well, that there is the old courthouse, they don't hold court there anymore, it's a church now. You still go there to vote, though, when that time comes around." At Charles' seeming fascination, Max continues. "And over there is the post office, the window is shattered because this old guy keeps driving straight into it, he's done it maybe 3 times now, and they won't suspend his license even though everybody knows he's just about blind..."
Max goes on like that, hoping he's not boring Charles and the other is just too polite to mention it, until they've almost made it home. Max has just finished regaling Charles with the epic tale of the Smith's lost dairy cow and how she ended up over on the Johnson's land, and the feud that ensued, when he points to the house a little ways down the shared driveway from Max's. "Who lives there?" He asks, and it's only because Charles couldn't possibly know what that question would stir up that Max answers.
"My father," Max allows himself to say, and he knows his voice has gone emotionless and monotone, but Charles just nods, and does not ask. Max does not know how he would have answered if he had.
And, f*ck, his father. His father will see Max has someone over, someone he doesn't know, a man, worst of all in his eyes, and Max doesn't really know what he'll do. The two of them have spent the past decade carefully avoiding each other. When Max needed the signature of the land owner to build his house, he forged it (he'd had lots of practice with permission slips back when he was in school) and left his father a note with his groceries not to make a fuss about it. They have not spoken in years, and the last time Max actually saw his father was... He doesn't-he obviously remembers, he just doesn't know how long ago it was. His father was mowing the lawn, and he stared Max down as he came home from work.
He knows, and very well, what his father would have done ten years ago, because he'd done it. But Max didn't live in his house anymore, couldn't be kicked out, and even the folks who had seen Jos' parenting as necessary and good might object to what he had done then being enacted now, given that Max was now an adult and his 'evil ways' were set, in their words. A beating was no longer worth it, and no longer 'discipline', simply an attack.
The town might be on his side if his father came knocking now, in a way they had not been when Max was freshly 16 and living in a tent behind his father's house, nursing belt marks. Max is respected now, no longer only Jos' boy (thought that is still how he introduces himself, sometimes, because a lot of people know him that way), but also Daniel's friend, or the man who writes the paper. He has a bit of sway, and his father's self-isolation has not helped his image.
Max's turmoil is interrupted by Charles' gentle nudge, and he wonders just how long he was staring absently in the direction of his father's house. "Right, I'll show you 'round my place. The cats are excited to meet you, they told me."
++++
It's easy, with Charles. Easy in a way Max had not thought it could be, with anyone. Silence is easy, talking is easy, all of it is soeasy.
They cook together, and Charles goes hiking while Max works, and it hurts how domestic it all is. The house is calm, and no longer lonely, as Max now realizes it has been for so long.
On Saturday, Charles asks him to go hiking with him. "It will be fun! The views are amazing, too. You should come. Please?"
"I-" Max would love to. Really, he would. But he has a schedule to keep, and his mother and Victoria will expect his call, and he doesn't feel like explaining that to Charles. But that's in the afternoon, maybe if they went in the morning... "I, uh, I'd love to. But it needs to be in the morning, is that okay? I need to be back here by 1."
Charles tilts his head and doesn't ask.
++++
It's really nice, the hike. They wake up at sunrise, which is unforgivably early given the season. They drive a bit to get on the Blue Ridge Parkway, then a bit more to find a nice trail.
It's a random one, one that promises an overlook after a 2 mile hike. Charles grumbles that it's short, even though it'll be 4 miles by the time they get back. Max doesn't say anything to that, given that, while he bikes half a mile into town on the rare occasions he actually goes into the building where he works, he doesn't do much aside from that.
Charles isreally, reallyfit. Max noticed it the first time he saw the man, but it has become much more apparent now that he's living in Max's house. He exercises every day, has a plan and everything. Runs, push-ups and a bunch of other stuff Max has no idea the name of. Lots of what look like... Neck exercises? Max hadn't asked questions. Charles' neck was very pretty.
He also is very careful about his meals. Not in a way that exactly concerns Max, Charles is always eating enough and eating very healthy at that, but in a way that he certainly takes note of. Max doesn't ask about it, but he hasn't asked about anything else so he's not about to start now. Maybe Max should have started asking questions about the traveling and the schedule, but Charles hasn't asked about his father's house or the lack of his mother and sister in the general vicinity, so he thinks the two of them are about even on the not-asking front.
As they walk, Charles points at plants and asks their names and Max usually can't answer, but he does know what poison ivy looks like and has to stop Charles from walking into it multiply times when he strays from the trail.
There's no one else out, maybe given that the 2 picnic tables and 1 porta-john at the 3-space parking lot didn't look all that appealing, given the former was almost entirely rotted away and the latter was suspiciously lichen and moss covered.
It's really, really nice.
When they emerge from the forest and out onto the rocks that make up the promised overlook (there's the remains of what was probably a fence and a platform to keep people from falling, but the wood has rotted away), it's really nothing particularly special. But still. Charles is there, and he is, perhaps unsurprisingly given it's him, absolutely in love with the view.
And maybe Max starts to see it Charles' way.
The valley is laid out before them, and Max can see the little tops of the cars on 19-E moving so slowly (from this distance) through the trees. The town looks it's size from up here, small little buildings dotting the landscape like cows in a field, the trees rising higher than all of them, and only main street is truly visible, empty as always. He can't see the cracks of this place from up here.
Charles points at a mountain in the distance, draws Max's attention from the valley and up to the sky. "Do you know that one?"
He does, actually. Mount Mitchell, where Max's mother took him and Victoria sometimes to hike. She took them there to tell them when Granna died, and she took them there when she told them about the divorce. They got ice cream sandwiches after, both times, from a shop at the foot of the mountain. He hasn't been back since. "That's Mount Mitchell. Highest peak east of the Mississippi. We could go, sometime."
Max doesn't know why he offers, but he does, and that is that.
"Yes! Have you been before, is it nice? I always want to go somewhere new each time I hike, it gets so boring once you've been there before. You feel like you are going nowhere, right?" His eyes are expectant, happy, like the baby deer Max's father used to make him shoot. You feel like you're going nowhere, right? Yes. Always. Since the moment Max opened his eyes. But that's not what Charles meant, is it? Is it?
"Always." Max offers him, after he has looked back to the valley below. He does not want to see Charles' face. He doesn't know why. Maybe it is because Max knows,knows, that his voice has given more than he thought he could offer, than he thought was within him. Maybe it is the single tear he can feel has seeped from his right eye, lonely on his cheek.
Charles lets out a breath, and the world stills for him. "Oh."
Max wants to laugh, but the beauty of this place is to perfect for him to interrupt, so he doesn't. "Yeah. Oh."
They stare at the valley. Charles puts his arm around Max, and for a second Max thinks it will end there, the moment will pass to history, and only the rocks will have to remember.
But it doesn't. Charles guides his head with his hand, gentle, the way a shepherd would guide his flock, until they are face to face.
"May I kiss you?" Charles asks, so gentle it hurts, and Max can only lean in.
Their noses touch. Then, their lips.
A ways away and through the forest, Max can hear a woodpecker. He doesn't pull back, and neither does Charles.
++++
They don't talk about it. Somehow, it manages not to be awkward. No, it's honestly more natural. Like the... The kiss had released anything pent-up that lay between them, and now they can really start.
When they get home, he calls his mother and Victoria as usual. Max doesn't tell them about Charles, and he doesn't know why. Both of them know he's gay, but, given as he hadn't told them about him months ago, it didn't feel right to bring it up now.
On Sunday, Max tells Charles about the church he used to go to and that there are others, just incase he wants to go, and tells him that Max will be shopping but he is willing to drop him off and give a few introductions.
"Oh. No, I don't- I'm Catholic anyway, if I'm anything." Charles tells him once he's done telling him that there's Lutheran, predestination Baptist, free-will Baptist, Presbyterian, Episcopalian, Pentecostal, Seventh-Day Adventist, and non-denomination churches. Oh. Yeah. Max probably should have thought of that. But there isn't a Catholic church in this county, Max is pretty sure, and- "I'll go to the store with you, yes?'
That makes Max's life a lot easier, because he's pretty sure the nearest Catholic church is like 60 miles away. "Uh-Yeah, sure."
"I don't go to church, Max." A smile, full and a bit playful, crept on to his lips. "If I did, I probably wouldn't have kissed you."
Max doesn't really have anything to say to that.
At the store, it's really... Domestic is the word, Max thinks. Like they're a couple, or something. Which... Maybe they are? They probably should talk, Max should ask, or Charles should, but he has a feeling that they won't, and he hopes it'll all work out anyway.
He wants this. Badly. But Charles will be gone in a week, off to see places Max can only dream of, and Max has... No. He doesn't have anything. There's the house down the road, and there's Daniel, but... There is nothing here that he wants more than Charles. Max wants to get on his knees right now, in the chip aisle of Ingles, to beg for Charles to take him away from this place, to give him a reason.
But Max doesn't. He can't. What the two of them have now is enough, will have to be enough, for as long as Charles will have him.
"I thought you didn't like Fritos?" Charles asks, and Max has to look down to see what Charles is talking about. Oh. Yeah, he doesn't. They're for his father, and he-
Well, Charles might as well be forewarned about his pathetic-ness. Max sees the scars his father left every time he looks in the mirror, and Max still buys him groceries and pays for it with his own money. But, he reminds himself, Charles doesn't know about the scars, about the belt marks and the broken pinky finger that never healed quite right. "They- They are for my father. I, I take him his groceries."
Charles looks at him, with those big eyes that could never lie. Jos would have killed a boy like him. Max wishes he were more like Charles. "Why?"
"He- He wouldn't do it on his own. He only leaves the house for church now." Max has to pause, to catch his breath. He hasn't told anyone but Daniel all of this. Not his mother, not Victoria, no one. But this is Charles, and Max wants him to have the whole truth. "And he- If I do it, then I know he doesn't... He doesn't have alcohol."
It is not a conversation for the Ingles chip aisle, but that is where they are.
And all Charles gives him is "Oh," and a hug. His arms are around Max, and they are the only people in the world, and Max isn't crying but he could be. He could be.
++++
Charles is gone on August 15th.
It hurts. There's complexities to the hurt, but Max doesn't really feel like digging in to it.
So he goes back to his life.
He texts Charles every day, the same way they did before, maybe a little more. They talk about everything now, Max doesn't leave out the details anymore. (Charles still does, he knows. But Max isn't in any position to be asking questions, and this is enough). He sends pictures of Jimmy and Sassy. Charles gets a dog, and he asks Max what to name him.
Leo he says, without elaboration.
okay <3
That's a new thing this time around. The<3.
It is no longergood night :) at 1 in the afternoon. It isgood night <3. Not just those messages either, but alsoevery other one. Max half wonders if Charles has it set as his text signature.
Months pass. Charles is in the Netherlands, Italy, Brazil, Spain, Austria, Japan. Max is at home.
It has to be enough.
It isn't. It never will be.
But in late November, Charles sends him a message very similar to the one he sent in July.
i have most of december & january off. tell me when works best for you and i'll come <3
Winter's not a great time for hiking, are you sure you want to come up? Max feels the need to inform him.
i want to see you. leo wants to meet the cats <3
Max has no idea what to say to that. He settles on As soon as you can, if that works. You can leave when you get bored of me.
i'll never get bored of you <3
And, a bit later, pick me up at 5 on the 7th.
Max can't wait.
++++
At 5 in the afternoon on the 7th of December, Max is driving back down to Charlotte.
He's a little late, there was an accident on the highway, but so is Charles' plane, so it all ends up okay.
Max stands beside his car while he waits, and he's looking for Charles and then he feels arms around him from behind, and a little peal of laughter, and Max knows,knows, it's Charles. Only he holds Max that way, firm and gentle and above allinsistent.You cannot slip away while I have you in my arms, he seems to say,I am here, and I am not something that leaves.Even though Charles is just that: something that leaves, the way he holds Max does not admit it.
Max turns into his arms so that they are hugging properly, and Charles pulls Max's lips to his and they are kissing. Right there. In the parking garage of the Charlotte Douglas International Airport, where anyone could see.
But Max can't bring himself to pull away, and it doesn'tmatter, because he isn't back home and no one knows him, no one is going to run to his father.
"I missed you, Max," Charles whispers, once they have broken apart. Max opens the passenger side door for him, and waits until he's in his own seat to respond.
"I missed you, too, Charles," Max tells him, speaking louder than Charles did, because he knows it is more true for Max than for the other.
Charles smiles, and places a hand on top of one of Max's where it rests on the steering wheel.
For lack of anything else to say, Max asks a question that he's kind of always wondered about. "What's flying like?"
Charles blinks at him, a cute little wave of mild confusion that is tinged with shock passes over his face. "You-you've never flown?"
Oh. Max hadn't really considered that as a thing he should have done. That it was weird that he'd never done it. But he's never left the country, or gone to the west coast, and that's what people were usually doing when they flew, right? "Uh, no. I haven't. But I'd like to, of course."
Luckily for both of them, Charles recovers quickly. "Ah, it is- I was scared, the first time. I did not know- You have to swallow, so that your ears pop, the same way you do when you are going up into the mountains, and I did not realize, and it hurt! But I think it is not too bad, the rest of it. You are so far above it all. You are not really afraid of falling, or I am not at least, because the ground is so far away it does not really look real, if you understand. Landing is worse than taking off, though, because you really jolt and I hate that part, but I think it's nice, overall."
"That's cool," Max says, feeling very dumb, as always.
"It is!" Charles says, with a bit too much enthusiasm, but Max loves it. He has so much more passion for life, so much more excitement and joy at everything. Max envies him, but more than that he loves to watch Charles' happiness, watch his joy. He is fine to live in the shining light that Charles gives off at every available moment.
This time, as they drive up, they are driving into the sunset, because this time of year the sun sets early and night comes fast, and Charles is as beautiful at the edge of dusk as he is at the break of dawn, maybe even more so.
They should talk.
Max should ask.
Once the sun has set and the only thing illuminating Charles' face is the street lights, he does.
Max takes a deep breath and focuses on the road. It is mostly empty, even though it's not that late. "Are we... Together?"
In the corner of his eye, Max sees Charles turn to look at him, and he knows,knows, that he's grinning, even if he can't see it in the low light. "We sure are, Max," Charles says, and he's trying and failing to copy Max's accent, his own slipping through a bit, curving the vowels of his name in a way he's never heard before but wants to hear every day for the rest of his life.
On instinct, Max reaches out, searching for Charles' hand. He ends up hitting Charles in the face, gently, and suddenly they're both laughing.
++++
Charles doesn't sleep in the guest room this time around.
It just sort of... Happens. He gets out of the car first, and by the time Max makes it to the door Charles has already set down his bags in Max's room, and, well, he's certainly not complaining.
The two of them don't really do much. Just bask in each other's company, Max works and Charles goes on his runs.
Every night, they go to sleep in the same bed, and every morning Max will inevitably find himself wrapped around Charles. He always wakes up first, which gives him the pleasure of watching Charles wake up, because he always does it so slowly, like there is nothing in the world worth opening his eyes for. Except for when Max has to leave the bed and get to work, Charles always wakes up in a second to attempt (usually successfully) to drag Max back into the bed for more cuddles.
It's perfect. It's domestic, and there's nothing forbidden about it. Max has this. He has Charles. This is his life, nor now, for this precious, precious moment. And, yes, in a month or so Charles will be gone again, but, Max finds, he might be able to live with, to love, these sporadic visits and texting when Charles is away.
Max finds he can live with anything, as long as there is Charles, whether it be through a screen or in his bed-intheir bed-every morning.
It is the 8th morning of bliss, when Max thinks it will be interrupted.
He is up before Charles, and trying to actually get out of bed.
Charles groans and stretches at his absence, rolling over and opening his eyes carefully, as if the light will harm him if he allows it in. "Max, it's early. Come back."Early andback are drawn out, and Charles' voice is thick with his accent and sleep.
Max cannot say no to Charles' eyes. It is a bit of an issue, considering he hasn't gotten any work done before 11 am since he came. But Max walks back to the bed and into the other man's arms.
Charles brings their lips together, slowly and gently, and then does something they have not done yet. He reaches his hands down to Max's waist, and then up, under his shirt on his bare skin. Oh. Now he will see the-
"What is this?" Charles whispers, fingers playing gently over the raised scars on Max's back, his eyes finding Max's and asking the same question. "Who gave you these?"
Max closed his eyes. He did not want to see the pity or pain that lay in them. "Down the road," Is all he can bring himself to say. It is enough, of course. There is only one person 'down the road'. Max doesn't- He has never really been able to say things like this aloud, fully. He can know what his father has done in his mind, can acknowledge it himself, but Max cannot really do it for other people, out loud.
Charles says nothing, only stroking his back and pulling Max closer, so that Max's chin rests on his shoulder and Charles' on his.
Nothing changes, after that morning. Max expects it to, of course he does, you do not learn these things about someone and simply... Go on being with them, treating them the same. Even Daniel had changed, if only slightly, but Charles... Charles doesn't.
It is the same. It is the best days of Max's life.
So, of course, as every happy story in his life ends, his father shows up on his doorstep at 8 am on a Friday morning.
Charles isn't up yet, of course, but Max is, so he hears the banging on his door.
And-He knows that rhythm. Sharp and insistent and constant, it used to come after every fight they had, every time Max hid in his parent's bedroom (his and Victoria's own didn't have a door that locked; Jos had removed it, but the one on his own room did lock). It would persist until Max came out. And Max alwayscame out. He had never been strong enough to refuse his father.
Max freezes. Charles makes a soft sound against his chest. f*ck. He needs to-his father will not hesitate to knock down the door, or he would have a decade ago, and Max is certainly not going to rely on the theory that he's changed in any tangible way since then.
He has to urgently, carefully, pry Charles off of him, and ignore his little pleas of protest. But he does, and Max makes his way to the door.
The knocking hasn't stopped. Max steels himself and opens the door.
"Father," Max says, before the door is even fully open. Before he sees the way that hatred practically drips from his cruel grin, the same one he has always worn.
"Should've known this'd happen someday, I always knew you were the type of man to have a new one in his bed each week-" He's shouting, because he always is.
Max doesn't let him finish. He isn't 5 or 7 or 11 or 16 anymore, he's 26 and a grown man, and he has a voice of his own now. "He is the only one. Ever. And you know it."
"So you've grown a f*cking spine, only took you ten whole years. I wonder, does he know what a coward you were when-"He is almost a slur on his father's lips, like all the other things he used to call Max. Max is honestly surprised he hasn't used a real slur yet, a decade ago they would have made up every other word.
"I was a child, not a coward. There's a difference." Max can feel himself... freezing. Slipping. He used to do this immediately, slip into obedience without thought. It had been safer that way, but he had thought... Max had thought that, knowing that he had something of the upper hand, a door he could lock, it would not happen at all.
Suddenly, there is a hand on Max's shoulder. He flinches on instinct-But that is not his father's hand, no, Jos hasn't moved, that's-It can only be Charles.
And then, before his father can speak further, the hand is pulling him into the house and locking the door.
Max slips to the ground, suddenly unable to keep himself upright, and Charles catches him a bit, slowing his fall. Max tries to breathe, but, now that he's not facing his father, he can feel himself breaking down a bit further.
Charles doesn't ask any questions.
They sit there, for who knows how long, as Max tries to get back into his body, Charles holding his hands and stroking the backs of them gently, so gently, (because everything Charles did was done with more care than Max had ever imagined) with his thumbs and modeling steady breathing for Max.
They get up, and they go on.
++++
The first time Max admits that he loves Charles, it is a morning like any other.
Or, maybe not like any other, because Charles is leaving to spend Christmas with his family the day after tomorrow. So, really not like any other morning, really. But that might just be because every day Max wakes up to Charles is unprecedented in a new way.
It is also not like any other in that apparently Charles wakes up first this morning, because, when Max finally opens his eyes, he finds himself staring up into his eyes, Charles having for some reason propped himself up to look down at Max.
"Hello," Max mumbles, stretching a bit.
And it is the little smile that plays across Charles' face that makes Max continue. "I love you, Charles." Because Charles, sweet and playful Charles, deserves to know.
And the grin Max gets back is worth every little syllable. If Max never sees that look again, he will still die a happy man. "I love you too, Max," Charles says, a bit breathless.
"Kiss me, then," Max says, and it is more a question, one that Charles answers with a press of lips against Max's own.
For a moment, it is as perfect as it always is. Then, suddenly, much sooner than Charles would normally, he pulls away, and Max can see... Is it anguish? Guilt? In Charles' eyes. The other man sits up, breaking all contact with Max, and Max goes to chase his body with his own, but Charles puts his hand out to stop him.
Oh. Then... Was the 'I love you' too much? But Charles had also said- Max shakes his head. For once, the only way to figure this out is to ask. "Charles? Did I- What's wrong?"
"Max, I... I haven't been entirely honest with you, and I... Please understand, I do love you," Charles says, eyes searching for Max's approval. Oh. He's cheating, then. Okay. Max-Max can deal with that. As long as Charles loves him, he can- He will have to be able to- It'll have to be- Max can live with this. He can try, at least.
"Okay," Max says, and he can hear his own voice cracking. He can't- He can't look at Charles right now, but Max is sure he can get over this.
"No, Max, it isn't- I'm not breaking up with you, and it's not- I haven't cheated, or anything like that," Charles pauses as Max's head snaps to look at him, and Max knows,knows, that he isn't lying. But if it isn't that, then... "I just, I... I'm not who I say I am."
Okay. What the hell does that mean. Charles hasn't really said he's anyone, really, and come to think of it, Max doesn't even know his last name. But, it really doesn't matter to him who Charles is, as long as he loves Max, as long as he will stay, at least sometimes. Well, maybe if Charles is like, a known serial killer or a really bad mob boss or something, then there might be issues. But otherwise? "Then... Who are you?"
Charles takes a deep breath. "I am Charles Leclerc."
Oh. Then he must be, like, famous or something, right? If Max should know who that is. But he has never heard that name before, doesn't even ring a bell in the back of his mind. "And... Who is that?"
Charles blink at him, just once, and then giggles a little bit. "I am a Formula 1 driver."
That really doesn't clear anything up at all. "Is that a... Like, a math formula? You're a famous mathematician?" That doesn't explain the 'driver' part, but, y'know, maybe they have weird titles for mathematicians or something like that.
At this point Charles bursts out laughing, not even a polite giggle or something nicer, a full bellied laugh that has him gasping for air. "No... Max, no, it is... It is a motorsport, like, like, it is like NASCAR, a bit, Max, I drive a car, I am an, an athlete. Not, no, not math, no. There is, I mean, math is a part of it, but it is not the part that I do."
That's cool. NASCAR Max knows a bit about, just because people talk about it sometimes at the gas station or someplace, he knows that there are races and they go in circles, essentially, and not much else. And... Wow, that explains a lot. The traveling, the eating habits, the exercise and the muscles, the odd breaks from work, all of it. Max doesn't know what compels him to ask his next question, though maybe it is the ease with which Charles said his full name and expected it to be recognizable, that means, maybe, "And, I mean, are you good?"
Charles looks at him very carefully, as if asking if that really matters to Max,which it doesn't, but eventually answers. He's still catching his breath a bit. "This season I won my 3rd World Championship."
Oh. Charles isreally good. "And you like it?" Max, personally, can't really imagine driving a car really fast for a living, and all of this is really recontextualizing Charles for him, as someone who does a sport for a living, and Max really can't quite get his head around it.
Charles grins a bit. "I love it, Max. I have done it forever, and I will not give it up until my body gives out or no one wants me on their team anymore."
But that raises a different question in Max's mind. Because... Don't people die, in NASCAR? Or, at least, get injured? It is Max's turn for a deep breath. "Is it dangerous? Do people... Do they die?"
Max watches as Charles' face shutters, instantly. Oh. Recently, then, or maybe often, and maybe this is something that Max cannot bear. "It is much safer now, Max, than it was even 2 years go, and deaths are... They are rare. I will not say that they do not happen anymore, because they do, and it... It will never be a safe sport, and I know that, and everyone who gets in a car knows that, and it is a choice I make, a risk I take, every time. It is not something I take lightly, but understand that it is not... It is not really much of choice, for me. I love it, and I know that one day I may get in the car and not get out of it, but I have to make my peace with it if I want to be able to do what I love."
Max nods, because he cannot think of anything else to do. Charles' explanation makes sense, but it does not really soothe Max's worries.
"I have more questions," Max says, and he does. He wants to know how it all works, for Charles, because he seems to be so passionate about it, and Max wants to be able to share in that passion, at least a little bit.
Charles smiles. "I have more answers. But, you are... Okay with it, yes? I am sorry that I didn't tell you. I do love you, it just... It was easier, maybe, not to tell you. Forgive me?"
"I forgive you," Max says, and then it occurs to him... Charles isfamous, and everybody wants to know everything about famous people. They'll want to know about Max, and- Is Charles out, even? Is it safe for him to be? Max is completely fine with being a secret, it's better that way, but if Charles wants, he'll do anything.
But those were questions for later, for when Charles is not within his arm's reach, for when Max cannot simply pull him back down into bed, to hold him as if there is nothing else.
