Archive of Our Own ^beta

Charles doesn’t look at the date when he wakes up.

He doesn’t need to.

He knows the weight in his chest all too well, the way it settles deep between his ribs before he’s even fully awake, like it’s pressing down on his lungs, making every breath feel too shallow, too deliberate. He knows the dull ache in his limbs, the exhaustion that isn’t just from the lack of sleep, but from something heavier. Something that clings to him like an anchor, dragging him down into the past before he even has the chance to resist. 

He knows, even before he even opens his eyes, that’s it's today. It’s always like this, every year. But this time, it’s even worse. 

Because this time, he isn’t just haunted by the past. He’s terrified of the future, as well. 

It only had been two nights ago when Arthur had sat across from him, his hands curled into fists in his lap, his shoulders tense, his voice far too careful, too calm. He had spoken lightly, the way people do when they’re trying to convince themselves and their loved ones that something isn’t a big deal, when they’re trying to lie without actually lying. 

“I just have to do some tests. Routine, just to be safe,” Arthur had said, almost dismissive, like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t something that should matter. And maybe, in every other family, it wouldn’t. But Charles knew that for himself, his brothers, and his mother, it mattered. Because this, this was as close to their biggest fear as the family had come.  

Not this, n ot again.

Not his little brother. 

But Charles had reacted as any other family member. He had smiled. He had nodded. He had said “good ” because what else was he supposed to say? He had made his face look as neutral as possible, had forced his hands to stay still, and had buried every single instinct that he wanted to react, that he wanted to panic, that he wanted to say “you don’t understand, it never starts with something serious until it is, suddenly it’s too late, suddenly you’re sitting in a sterile hospital room and someone is telling you words you’ll never be able to forget.”  

Instead, he had told Arthur that it was good to be careful. That it was important to check these things early. That he was glad he was going. That was what an older brother was supposed to do, right? Be calm, be rational, and be strong. 

It was only later, when he had been alone in his apartment, when he had no one watching him, no one to hold it together for, he had felt his legs give out beneath him. He had pressed his hands against his knees, had gasped for air, had felt like he was falling apart from the inside out, and it had taken everything in him not to let himself break completely. 

Because he had heard those words before. 

He had sat in another room, years ago, when it had been his father telling those exact same things. 

Just some tests, r outine. Just to be safe. 

And a week later, everything had been different. Because a week later, it had been cancer. 

He has never been a person who believes in omens, not in the way some people do. He doesn’t believe in signs or warnings from the universe, doesn’t believe things happen because of fate or because they were meant to. He has always believed in cause and effect, in logic, in science, in hard work and effort and making things happen for yourself.

And yet—

Yet, the second Arthur had said those words, something had snapped inside of him. 

His mind had gone straight back to that hospital room, back to the too-white walls and the beeping machines and the quiet, steady voices of his mother and the doctors who were speaking in words that didn’t make sense. Back to the way he had felt powerless, back to the way everything had changed in an instant before he had even had the chance to prepare for it.

Back to the grief, even before he had lost anything. 

He had tried to rationalize, over and over again. Told himself that Arthur is young, that he is healthy. That routine screenings are just that – routine. That the odds of him developing the same disease that took their father were low. 

But where logic would’ve won any other evening, this time, it was losing the fight against the weight of what he’s already lost. Because this was his little brother, the one he had sworn to love and protect, the one who had once been small enough to hold in his arms, the one he had watched grow up with so much life in him, so much future ahead of him. 

And fuck, how was this even fair? 

If someone had to carry this uncertainty, the possibility of being sick, if someone had to take this weight—why couldn’t it be him? Why did it have to be Arthur? Why did it have to be his family again? 

But life wasn’t about fairness, and he knows that.

He had lived that. 

And yet, even knowing that this was not about what was fair or unfair, knowing that he couldn’t take this from Arthur even if he wanted to—he still felt like he was failing. Because he should be stronger than this. He should be there for his brother, should be calm, should toughen up and push everything down because his brother was going through so much worse than he was right now. 

But for some reason, he can’t. 

Every time he tries to push it away, to convince himself that he’s fine, that Arthur will be fine, that it’s nothing—

He hears it. His father’s voice, saying those same damn words, only to be followed by a deafening silence months later.

He can’t do it again. He can’t sit in a waiting room with walls that are too white, too sterile. Can’t hear a doctor say things that will never storm echoing in his head. Can’t pretend to be strong while the ground is collapsing beneath him. He knows he should try to pull himself together, to be the brother Arthur deserves. But he doesn’t know how to do that, because no matter how much he wants to be strong—all he feels is helpless. 

And for the past two days, he has been stuck in that feeling. He hadn’t slept that night; hadn’t eaten the next day. Had barely functioned, moving through the hours like his body was acting on autopilot, like he wasn’t fully there, like he was just watching himself from a distance, watching someone who looked like him going through the motions of normalcy while his brain was looping, over and over, through the what ifs. 

What if something was wrong? What if his little brother was sick? What if it was happening again?  

What if—what if—what if—

And then, this morning, the weight in his chest only doubled because today wasn’t just today. Today was his day. 

Charles feels like he’s unraveling before the day even begins. His phone vibrates on the nightstand every once in a while, as messages flood in one by one, the screen lighting up in the darkness. He doesn’t check them; he already knows from who they are from and what they say. 

Thinking of you today. Let me know If you need anything. – Pierre

Dad would be so proud of you. Let’s call later. – Lorenzo

I know you prefer to be alone on this day, but the champagne is cold. – Arthur

I love you, mon ange. – Maman  

They’ve all found their own ways to cope with today. Lorenzo needs to talk, needs to say their father’s name out loud. Arthur prefers to celebrate, to turn loss into something that feels like life. His mom surrounds herself with love, with warmth, with people who remind her she is not alone. And Charles—Charles disappears, hoping to forget.

They’ve stopped trying to change that. They understand, in their own ways, that for him, grief is something quiet, something he can only carry alone. But understanding doesn’t mean they don’t check in, that they don’t worry, that they don’t send messages he cannot bring himself to answer.

Because how would he be able to explain? How does he tell them that he feels like he’s drowning? That it’s not just today, it’s not just the memories, that it’s not just the grief that he has learned how to carry, but that it’s the fact that he can’t stop thinking about Arthur, can’t stop thinking about what happened last time he heard those words, can’t stop the feeling like if something like that happens again, he will not survive it? 

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t move. He just lays there, staring at the ceiling, breathing shallow, his body tense. Like if he lets himself move, he might break apart. He lays there for hours until eventually, the sun has long set above the horizon and the walls of his apartment start feeling too small, letting him know that he can’t stay here.

So, he leaves.

He doesn’t know where he’s going at first. Just walks. Doesn’t think. Lets his body move on instinct, lets his feet take him wherever they want to go, lets himself gets pulled somewhere, anywhere, as long as it isn’t there, as long as it isn’t home. As long as his phone is lighting up with messages from people who care about him but don’t understand that he can’t take comfort in their support right now, not when his brain is eating itself alive with panic. 

He doesn’t register where he’s going until he’s there, pushing the door open of a small bar hidden in a small alley, stepping inside. He feels the warm air rush over him, the dim lights glowing long overhead, the quiet hum of distant music surrounding him, but not touching him. 

It’s a familiar place. Not because he comes here often, but he has been here before on other days, and nights like this. When he needed to get out, when he needed to be somewhere else, surrounded by people who either don’t know him, or let him be.  

He settles at the end of the bar, his back towards the entrance, hidden in the shadows the dim light cast on him. Before he knows it, a glass of whiskey is being slid in his direction. Without looking up, he takes the glass in hand and takes the first sip, feeling the slow burn of it settle in his chest. 

He welcomes the sting, the warmth, the way it dulls everything just enough to make it bearable, even though it’s just for a moment. It doesn’t erase the grief or the fear – nothing ever does—but It does make it feel a little less sharp. 

He watches the ice melt in his glass, the edges softening, disappearing slowly, quietly. He thinks about how time does the same thing to grief. How people tell you It faces, that it gets easier. That one day, you wake up, and it doesn’t sit so heavily in your chest anymore. 

It’s a fucking lie. The grief doesn’t go away. It doesn’t fade. It just changes shape, presses into different parts of you, hides in different corners of your mind. Some days, it’s barely there. Other days, it feels like it’s swallowing him whole— like today. And the worst part—the part that makes his chest feel too tight—is that no one knows why. Not his teammates, not the fans, not even most of the people closest to him. No one looks at Charles today and sees what’s breaking inside him, not without asking. 

And maybe that’s why he came here, to a place where no one would look at him like that. Where no one would ask if he was okay. Because he isn’t, and he doesn’t want to lie.

The bartender knows him. Knows him well enough to pour a drink without asking questions, well enough to nod in quiet recognition but not pry, well enough to understand that sometimes, Charles comes here to be left alone.

So he drinks, alone. In silence. Lost in the weight of today, in the memories he tries to push down, in the fear he can’t escape, in the knowledge that nothing is ever safe, that things can change in an instant, that life is built on a foundation that can be ripped out from under you at any moment.

He barely notices the sound of someone pulling out the chair beside him. It takes him a second to register the movement, the shift in the air, the familiar presence next to him, solid and certain, like it had always been meant to happen.  

Max. 

Charles blinks, his fingers tightening around the glass, but he doesn’t react. Not really, because he’s surprised to see Max here, but also, he isn’t. It just feels typical, because yet again Max had found him, like he always seemed to do. Charles just never noticed, until now. 

There’s absolutely no hesitation in the way he sits down, no uncertainty in the way he settles into the space beside Charles, like he had always planned to be here, like it isn’t something that should be a question.

The bartender raises an eyebrow, then reaches for a beer without being asked. Max nods in thanks, wraps his fingers around the bottle when it’s slid across the bar, but he doesn’t drink immediately. He just sits, quietly. Waiting, like he knows it isn’t the time to speak yet. 

Charles exhales sharply, pressing his fingers against his temple and rubbing slow circles into his skin, momentarily torn between sending the Dutchman away, or welcoming his presence. Finally, he glances at the man next to him.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice low and rougher than usual, the remnants of exhaustion and too much emotion making it come out grittier than intended. 

Max shrugs, too casual, but there’s something in his eyes—something deeper, quieter, unshakable—that tells Charles he isn’t just here by accident. 

“I was in the area,” he answers, and the lie is so obvious it makes Charles almost want to laugh. 

Instead, he just shakes his head, scoffs under his breath. “Liar.” 

Max smirks, but it’s small, like he knows Charles doesn’t have the energy to make it mean anything. 

They sit in silence for a while, sipping on their drinks. They don’t look at each other, but there is something in the air. It’s not uncomfortable, but thick, heavy with everything Charles isn’t saying. 

Max is patient, he always is. It’s one of the things Charles appreciates greatly about the blond. But he also knows that Max won’t wait forever, that he will disturb the silence when he feels the other won’t. Eventually, Max leans forward slightly, rests his forearms on the bar. His fingers tap idly against the glass bottle in front of him, slow, deliberate, and Charles knows what’s coming even before Max opens his mouth to speak. 

Then, in a voice that’s too careful, too soft, too deliberate—

“I know what day it is.” 

It still makes him freeze momentarily. He wants to tell Max that he’s wrong, that he doesn’t know, that he should just drink his beer and leave it alone. Leave him alone. 

But he can’t do that. 

His throat tightens as he swallows hard, fingers still locked around the glass like it’s the only thing that’s keeping him together. He keeps his gaze fixed on the amber liquid, watching the way it moves when he tilts his wrist slightly. It’s much easier than looking at Max, at least. 

“Who told you?” he asks, his voice quieter than intended, the words barely making it past the tightness.

Max exhales, slow and even, like he was expecting the question. “No one.” 

This does make Charles look up, a confused frown settling between his brows. “Then how—” 

“I remembered.” 

Charles sucks in a breath, sharp, his grip tightening further, so hard his knuckles turn white, the glass pressing into his palm like a warning, like an anchor, like something to stop him from drowning.

“I always do,” Max continues, his voice steady, like this isn’t even a big deal to him, like it’s just something that is, something that has always been true. “Every year.” 

He forces himself to look at the blond now, eyes searching for Max’s face, trying to find the catch, the hesitation, the part where this isn’t just another act of kindness, another thing Max does because he’s a good person, but where it’s because of something more. But he finds nothing; no pity, no expectation, no look of someone waiting for a thank you or recognition. Just quiet certainty. 

Just Max, as he is. As he has always been. 

“You just… remember?” Charles asks eventually, and it sounds so small, like he can’t quite believe it, like something in his brain is trying to reject the idea before it can settle too deep. 

Max simply nods, taking a sip of his beer before answering, as if the conversation isn’t threatening to completely undo Charles at the seams.

“I also remember Jules,” Max says, tone softer now, careful with his words, like he knows they can be too much if he’s not careful. “Every year. Antoine, too.” 

Charles closes his eyes briefly, inhales slowly.

Because of course. Of cours Max understands grief—not in the way Charles does, not in the way that comes with hospital rooms and last words and the sharp, permanent closure of loss, but in his own way. Because Max knows what it’s like to lose someone you shouldn’t have lost. Some losses don’t come with funerals. Some don’t have eulogies, or flowers, or people whispering that time will heal. Some losses aren’t marked by a single moment but by a thousand tiny ones, by everything that was taken before you knew how much you needed it. Some things, some people are just… gone before you get the chance to understand what you lost. Even if it still seems to be there, from the outside at least. 

He exhales, shaky, unsteady, his fingers finally easing their grip on the glass, like his body is giving up the fight to keep this conversation at a safe distance. 

“You never said anything,” Charles murmurs after a beat. Not accusatory, just filled with something close to disbelief. 

Because he doesn’t know how to reconcile this truth, how to make sense of the fact that for all these years, Max has known, has remembered. And yet—he never said a word about it. 

There were no texts, no quiet check-ins, no I’m here if you need me messages, no forced conversations that Charles had to navigate while pretending he was fine. There was just silence, quiet patience, the steady presence of someone who never pushed, never demanded, never made it his place to step in until Charles wanted him to. 

Eventually, Max shifts, slow and measured. When he finally speaks, his voice is calm, as if the answer had always been obvious. 

“I never needed to.” 

And shit, that’s what does it. That’s what makes something inside Charles break open completely. 

It’s not the fact that Max remembers, nor the fact that he’s here, but that he never made this about himself. He never reminded Charles of the weight he’s been carrying, never inserted himself into the grief that wasn’t his to hold, never positioned himself as someone Charles should turn to. He simply had waited, quietly, steadily, for years. Just in case. 

He feels the words forming in his throat, but they are too big to speak, too raw to let out. Instead, he just shakes his head and presses his fingers against his temple like he can physically keep himself from unraveling any further.  

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he whispers, his voice barely there, like admitting that much is almost too much. 

“I know,” Max says immediately.

And then—after a pause, careful but sure—

“What do you need?” 

The question lands unexpectedly deep, a weight pressing against something fragile, something Charles has spent years keeping buried. No one asks him that. People tell him to talk. Tell him they’re sorry. Tell him it’ll get better, that grief fades, that he’ll find peace someday. But no one asks. 

And to be fair, Charles doesn’t know what he needs. Doesn’t know how to sit with it, how to carry it all, how to make it through the night without feeling like he’s being crushed beneath the weight of everything he can’t control. He just knows that his chest aches, that the thoughts don’t quiet, that he’s too tired to keep pretending he’s fine. That for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t think he can do this alone. 

But he doesn’t know how to ask for that. 

He spent too many years convincing himself that he has to be strong, has to try to hold it together, to handle things on his own because that’s what people expect from him. That’s what he expects from himself, frankly. Because the alternative—needing someone, leaning on someone, letting himself be seen—has always felt more terrifying than the silence. 

But the silence has been nothing but unbearable for the past few days. So when he speaks, the words slip out before he can stop them. They don’t come from his head, where all his thoughts are tangled and knotted, impossible to unravel. They come from somewhere deeper, somewhere unguarded, from a place inside him that doesn’t know how to lie right now. 

“You.” 

Max stills beside him. A quiet inhale, the smallest twitch of his fingers where they rest on the bar. A hesitation, not because he doesn’t understand but because he does.

“What?” His voice is softer than before, careful in a way that makes something in Charles’s chest squeeze painfully. Like he’s bracing for Charles to take it back.

Charles doesn’t. He exhales shakily, lifts his whiskey to his lips, and takes a long drink, trying to steady himself. It doesn’t work. He puts the glass down with more force than he means to, his fingers stiff where they rest against the glass. His heart is too loud in his chest.

He doesn’t know how to say it, doesn’t even know what he’s trying to ask for. He just knows he’s tired in a way that seeps into his bones, that makes him want to stop fighting, stop thinking, stop carrying all of it alone. He just wants to exist, for a moment, without the constant pull of grief, without the weight of loss, without feeling like he’s always one step away from losing something else.

He doesn’t know how to say that. So instead, he looks at Max.

Charles sees it in the way his expression shifts, how his gaze sharpens, searching his face like he’s trying to piece him together. Like he’s seeing something in him that Charles can’t bring himself to name.Charles wonders what he sees.

If he sees the exhaustion dragging at his limbs, the pressure that hasn’t let up in days, the way his fingers twitch like he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will. If he sees the quiet, desperate kind of fear that he won’t name, the fear of being alone in this, of waking up tomorrow and realizing tonight didn’t change anything.

Or if he sees more. The way Charles’s breath is coming too fast, the way his fingers twitch against his thigh like he’s resisting the urge to reach out, the way he can’t seem to stop himself from leaning in, from gravitating towards Max like it’s the only thing keeping him steady.

But he doesn’t move closer. If he crosses that final distance, if he reaches for something that isn’t his to take—

He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Max pulls away.

Max swallows, his throat bobbing slightly, his jaw tensing before he forces himself to relax. His fingers curl slightly against the bar, a hesitation, a restraint. Then, finally—he moves.

It’s small—just their knees bumping, just the press of an arm against his own. Just enough for Charles to feel it, to feel him.

To feel like he’s not alone.

Max isn’t saying anything, just looking at him, waiting. Not pushing or asking for anything, just… waiting. Giving him time, giving him space.

And maybe that’s why Charles shifts too. Why he turns just slightly, aligning their faces, closing the distance between them until he can see the way Max’s pupils expand in the dim light, the way his lips part slightly on an exhale. Max’s hand lifts, just a fraction, hovering near Charles’s wrist, not quite touching but so close that Charles can feel the warmth of him, can feel something unspoken pressing into the space between them.

Charles’s breath shudders out of him, his fingers clenching against his thigh, the tension inside him coiling tight.

Max doesn’t ask him if he’s sure. Doesn’t push him to explain. Doesn’t make him say the words Charles doesn’t have. Instead, his voice is quiet when he finally speaks.

“You have me.”

The words settle deep inside Charles’s chest, something heavy and definite, something he doesn’t have the strength to fight.

And for once, he doesn’t want to.

So he makes a choice. Slowly, carefully, he reaches for Max’s wrist, letting his fingers trace over the skin there, feeling the warmth, the tension, the way Max’s pulse jumps beneath his touch. 

Max sucks in a quiet breath, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he lets Charles’s fingers slide up his arm, lets him lean in just a little more, just enough for their lips to almost brush, for the air between them to feel too heavy, too charged, too much. 

And then—he moves. 

His hand comes up, His fingers skim the back of Charles’s neck, warm and grounding, before he closes the last of the space between them. Their lips meet softly. Carefully. Just a press, a hesitation, a moment of something fragile, something neither of them are ready to name.

Charles simply lets himself fall into it. Lets himself press closer, lets himself cling to the warmth of Max’s hoodie, lets himself believe, just for a second, that he doesn’t have to be alone in this.

And Max kisses him like he knows exactly what Charles needs. Slow, steady. Without expectation. Just this moment. Just the quiet steadiness of Max, grounding him, holding him together when he feels like he might break apart.

The kiss lingers, slow and unhurried, like neither of them are ready to break away, want to acknowledge. Max’s fingers are still curled around the back of Charles’s neck, holding him in place like he thinks Charles might pull away. 

But he doesn’t. Instead, he presses forward, just slightly, deepens the kiss just enough to make his intentions clear, let his lips part just enough for Max to understand that he isn’t stopping, that he doesn’t want to stop. 

Max responds immediately—a quiet inhale, a subtle shift, a barely-there tilt of his head that Charles feels more than he sees. His fingers tighten slightly where they rest against Charles’s skin, like he’s memorizing the feel of him, like he’s been wanting this for so long that now that it’s real, now that it’s happening, he doesn’t quite know what to do with it.

Charles aches with the weight of it, the tenderness of it, the way Max is here and steady and real, holding onto him like he’s something worth holding onto. It has nothing to do with the fear still pressing against Charles’s ribs, nothing to do with the grief knotting itself into his chest like a wound that won’t heal. Instead, it has everything to do with Max, with how much he cares.

The kiss slows but doesn’t end, lingers in the space between urgency and hesitation, in the space between I don’t know how to do this and I need this more than I can explain. It’s careful and sure all at once, the kind of kiss that doesn’t demand but gives, and gives, and gives , until Charles feels something deep inside him break open.

When they finally part, it’s reluctant, slow, and hesitant like neither of them want to fully let go. Their lips separate, but their foreheads stay pressed together, their breath uneven, their bodies still close, the air between them thick with something too big, too heavy, too undeniable to ignore.

Charles keeps his eyes closed, his fingers curled loosely against Max’s hoodie, as if letting go completely might send him spiraling back into everything he’s been trying to outrun tonight.

Because for the first time in hours—in days—the weight pressing into his chest feels a little lighter, the grip of fear and grief not quite as suffocating.

Max shifts slightly, his fingers still resting against Charles’s skin, his voice quiet and careful, like he’s choosing his words with precision, like he’s giving Charles room to decide what happens next.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly.

It shouldn’t hit as hard as it does. But it does, because Max isn’t just asking if he’s okay after the kiss. He’s asking if this is too much, if this was the wrong moment, if Charles is in the right place to make this choice, if he needs Max to slow down, to give him space, to let him process.

He doesn’t want to go home alone, to sit in the too-quiet apartment with his own thoughts, to be left with nothing but the sound of his own breathing and the weight of everything pressing down on him again. He doesn’t want to feel like this anymore—like he’s standing at the edge of something terrifying, waiting for the ground beneath him to collapse.

Because it always collapses, doesn’t it?

That’s what grief is.

It’s waiting for something to be taken, knowing that at any moment, life can change, can break, can leave you gasping for air with no warning at all.

And Charles can’t do it again. He can’t sit alone tonight with the knowledge that he’s already lost so much and might lose more, that Arthur is still waiting, and that he has no control over any of it.

His hands tighten slightly against Max’s hoodie. He swallows, exhales, slow and unsteady, but still shaky around the edges. Then, finally, he opens his eyes.

Lifts his gaze to meet Max’s fully.

“Come home with me.” His voice is quieter than he means for it to be, but there’s no mistaking the certainty in it.

Max’s breath catches, his fingers flexing slightly where they still rest against Charles’s skin. His eyes search Charles’s face, his expression careful. And Charles realizes then that Max is checking, seeing if Charles is asking for the right reasons, if this is about grief, or fear, or reaching for something just to fill the silence. 

Making sure Charles means this.

He leans in slightly, their noses almost brushing, his fingers still curled into Max’s hoodie, still holding on.

“It’s not just about tonight,” he whispers, because it’s the truth.

Yes, tonight is too much, Yes, he’s afraid, and yes, he doesn’t want to be alone. But it’s not just that. It’s the way Max has always been there, holding space for Charles, even when Charles doesn’t ask for it. The way he makes it easier to breathe. It’s the fact that for the first time in forever, Charles isn’t holding onto something that is slipping through his fingers.

Max exhales, and Charles sees it the moment his expression softens, the moment the tension in his shoulders eases, the moment he understands that this is what Charles needs tonight. That he isn’t asking for something empty, but that he’s asking for him. 

“Okay,” he nods eventually. 

Charles nods too, swallows hard, then lets go of Max’s hoodie to reach for his hand instead, lacing their fingers together without thinking, not caring what it means, only knowing that it feels right.

Max doesn’t pull away. He just squeezes Charles’s fingers slightly, holding onto him just as much as Charles is holding onto him.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

They don’t speak much on the way to Charles’s apartment. There’s nothing to say that hasn’t already been understood in the silence between them, in the warmth of Max’s hand in his, in the way their fingers stay locked together even as they move through the city streets. It isn’t until they step inside the apartment that he lets go, just briefly, just to close the door, to take a breath.

The air inside is thick, heavy with something unspoken. Charles turns to Max, eyes searching his face, like he’s trying to figure out how they got here, why Max is still standing in front of him, why he hasn’t turned away yet. But Max just looks back, steady as always, waiting. Letting Charles set the pace.

He steps closer, slow and deliberate, reaching for Max’s hoodie again, fingers curling into the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. Max doesn’t resist, doesn’t pull away—just lets Charles find his way to him, lets him press forward until their bodies are close, until Charles can feel the warmth of him, solid and real and just there.

Max exhales, a quiet sound, barely more than a breath, but it’s enough. It’s enough to make Charles tip his head so he can close the last bit of space between them. He presses his mouth to Max’s in a way that’s not rushed, not desperate, but inevitable.

The kiss is slow, steady, unhurried in a way that makes him ache. It’s not about distraction, not about forgetting—not really. It’s about feeling, about grounding himself in something real, something tangible, something that doesn’t exist in the past or in the terrifying uncertainty of the past and the future. It’s about now. About Max.

Max’s hands come up, sliding against Charles’s waist, warm and careful, fingers pressing into the fabric of his shirt as he pulls him closer. It makes Charles shudder, breath catching as Max tilts his head, deepening the kiss just slightly, just enough to make his grip tighten, before he lets out a sigh. 

There’s nothing rushed about this. Nothing frantic. Just warmth, just hands tracing over fabric, just the quiet pull of bodies fitting together, of mouths meeting again and again, of breaths shared in the space between them. Max kisses him like he has all the time in the world, like there’s nothing else but this. It makes Charles feel like he is something to be cherished, not just taken.

And he finally lets himself be held. 

They move without thinking, backing toward the bedroom, toward the quiet sanctuary of dim lighting and soft sheets. Max presses Charles into the bed gently, his weight settling just right, his hands framing the brunet’s face as he looks down at him, eyes searching, checking. Charles exhales sharply, fingers gripping at the back of Max’s hoodie once more, pulling him down until their mouths meet again, until there’s no space left between them.

Max is careful, deliberate, moving like he knows exactly what Charles needs. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t push, just follows the quiet pull between them, lets his hands slide beneath Charles’s shirt, palms warm against bare skin. Charles shivers at the touch, at the way Max holds him, as if he isn’t afraid of touching something fragile.

Clothes fall away slowly, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left between them but the warmth of skin, the quiet press of bodies slotting together. Charles exhales shakily, eyes fluttering shut as Max presses a kiss to his jaw, then his throat, then lower still, tracing a path of careful reverence down his body.

Max moves lower, lips teasing, tasting, dragging over sensitive skin, making Charles tremble beneath him. His breath stutters, hands gripping at Max’s shoulders, his body arching instinctively into the touch. Max doesn’t rush—he takes his time, pressing kisses along Charles’s stomach, fingertips tracing the dip of his hips before moving between his thighs.

Charles gasps as Max’s fingers spread him open, slow and deliberate, teasing before touching, fingers featherlight against his most intimate spots. Max watches him, drinking in the way his breath catches, the way his fingers dig into the sheets, the way his body opens for him, pliant and wanting.

“Breathe,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to Charles’s knee. He lifts his head briefly, stretching his arm toward the nightstand, pulling the drawer open with ease. Charles barely registers the shift before he hears the soft click of a cap being flicked open.

Max coats his fingers, warming the slick between them before returning to Charles, pressing in again—slow, smooth, deliberate. Charles exhales shakily, the added slide making everything easier, more intense. His body tenses for a moment before melting into it, heat pooling low in his stomach, every nerve ending burning under Max’s focused attention.

Max presses in deeper, changing the angle, and Charles cries out, his body jolting as pleasure spikes through him. The sensation is overwhelming, sharp and consuming, sending sparks racing down his spine, making him forget everything but this, but the way Max moves, the way he touches him with purpose. His breath stutters, his fingers curling into the sheets, his entire body tightening with anticipation, with need. He’s lost in it, in the steady push and pull, in the precise way Max finds every sensitive spot inside him, in the way pressure builds unbearably, dragging him closer to the edge.

When Max finally pulls his fingers free, Charles whimpers at the loss, his body twitching with residual pleasure. Max kisses him, slow and deep, swallowing every desperate sound that Charles makes. Then he moves, reaching toward the bedside drawer, his fingers curling around the handle as he pulls it open without looking.

Charles knows what he’s searching for before Max even reaches inside.

“No,” he breathes, wrapping his fingers around Max’s wrist before he can grab a condom. “I want to feel you.”

Max stills, his eyes dark and searching. “Charles—”

“And you don’t have to hold back, I…” Charles’s fingers tighten, thumb brushing over Max’s skin, a silent plea. “Let me feel this. Please.”

Max exhales slowly, searching Charles’s face for hesitation, for second thoughts, for anything that might make him stop. But all he finds is certainty, raw and unguarded.

He settles back between Charles’s thighs, reaching instead for the bottle of lube. He slicks his fingers again, pressing them back inside Charles, ensuring he’s ready, that he’s open enough to take him without discomfort. Charles moans, rolling his hips into the touch, his breath coming quicker, his entire body tuned to Max’s movements.

Then he moves his fingers away again and reaches for the bottle, this time to smoothe the lube over himself with careful, thorough strokes. Charles watches how Max shifts above him, positioning himself carefully, lining up with slow, deliberate precision. His fingers tighten against Charles’s hips, steadying him as he presses forward, the stretch deep and overwhelming. Charles gasps, his legs tightening around the other man’s waist, his fingers grasping blindly at his shoulders, holding on.

Max groans low in his throat, his fingers flexing against Charles’s hips as he fights to keep himself steady. The heat of Charles around him is intoxicating, a vice that tightens with every shallow breath, every tremor in his muscles. His body trembles, his breath ragged, uneven as he sinks in fully—inch by inch, until he’s flush against Charles, until there’s nowhere else to go, nothing left but the weight of him pressing down and the way Charles gasps, eyes wide, pupils blown.

And for the first time in days, Charles doesn’t think. Not about the silence that had settled over him like a fog, suffocating and endless. Not about the grief clawing at the edges of his ribs, the restless ache that had kept him pacing for nights on end, searching for something, anything, that could make it stop. Not about the fear, the heavy weight of everything that had gone wrong, of the choices he had made, of the things he couldn’t take back.

Right now, there is only this. Only Max. Only the slow, dizzying stretch of him, the heat of his skin against Charles’s own, the way Max exhales shakily like he's feeling everything just as much, like he’s just as lost in it.

Max stills, just for a moment, just to let Charles breathe, to let him adjust, to give him time. But Charles doesn’t want time. He doesn’t want slow, doesn’t want careful—he wants this, all of it, now.

"Move," he gasps, his voice hoarse, desperate. His legs tighten around Max’s waist, pulling him in even deeper, making Max groan sharply against his throat. "Max—please."

Max exhales shakily, then angles his hips, searching for—

Charles jerks, his entire body arching off the bed as Max finds it, that spot, that devastatingly perfect spot inside him that sends electricity snapping through his spine. His breath punches out of his chest, a wrecked, choked moan slipping past his lips as pleasure crashes over him, raw and dizzying. His vision blurs, his fingers tightening against the blond’s skin, pulling him closer, anchoring himself to the warmth of Max’s body as everything inside him unravels.

For days, he has been drowning, caught in the undertow of his own thoughts, his own regrets. But this—this pulls him to the surface, drags in air where there had been only suffocating weight before. There’s no space for grief here, no room for fear, no echo of the past clawing at his heels. Only the heat of Max’s body, the sharp edge of pleasure, the press of skin on skin reminding him that he is here, that he is still capable of feeling something other than loss.

Max grits his teeth, barely holding himself together as he pulls out and snaps his hips forward again, hitting that spot with precision, dragging another helpless cry from Charles’s throat. His pace is relentless—deep, fast, the rhythm raw and consuming, each thrust sending Charles spiraling higher and higher, each snap of Max’s hips pressing into him like a brand.

Charles is burning. He’s writhing, lost in the heat of it, drowning in the way Max moves, in the way pleasure pulses through him with every push and pull, every shift of Max inside him. His breath stutters, shattering on exhalation, his body strung tight between pleasure and something that feels like breaking, like being torn apart in the best possible way.

“Fuck, Max—” he gasps, breathless, his voice breaking as Max picks up the pace, his rhythm hard and unrelenting, knowing that Charles needs it, needs this. 

"Let go," he breathes, his voice rough, strained. His hand slips between them, fingers wrapping around Charles, stroking him in time with every thrust, every deep slide of his hips. “You can let go now.” 

Charles sobs on a breath, his entire body locking up as it overtakes him, a white-hot wave of pleasure shattering through him, leaving him gasping, trembling, falling apart beneath Max. Max follows soon after, his own release pulled from him with a deep, shivering exhale, his body shaking with the force of it.

For a long time, neither of them move, tangled together, breathing heavy, their bodies slick with sweat and exhaustion. Max shifts eventually, just enough to press a lingering kiss to Charles’s temple, his fingers trailing absently over his skin.

The silence between them lingers, thick and suffocating, stretching over the space between their bodies. The room is still dim, the sheets tangled beneath them, damp with sweat, with heat, with the weight of it all. Charles is still catching his breath, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven movements, but the relief that had momentarily dulled the weight pressing down on him is already slipping through his fingers.

It never lasts.

He should have known better than to think it would.

Max is still beside him, his body steady, his fingertips warm where they rest against Charles’s hip, the weight of his touch grounding in a way that makes Charles’s throat tighten. But the second Max shifts, just slightly, the second his warmth starts to fade, something inside Charles twists. His stomach knots, his fingers twitch against the sheets, and before he can stop it, something sharp and unbearable swells in his ches again.

The walls feel too close. The air too thick. The room too small.

The ceiling above him blurs, shadows shifting in the dim light, and suddenly everything feels wrong. He swallows hard, but it does nothing to ease the tightness in his throat, nothing to stop the sensation that his own body is betraying him, that the ground beneath him isn’t solid, that at any second, something could snap.

He blinks rapidly, forcing himself to focus—on the sheets beneath him, on the faint hum of the city outside the window, on the weight of Max’s touch. But none of it helps. The tension keeps building, curling tighter and tighter in his chest, pressing against his ribs until his breath is coming too fast, too uneven, too shallow.

It’s happening again, the same way it always does. It never announces itself. Never gives him time to prepare. It just seeps into the quiet, finds the cracks he thought he had sealed, and rips them open.

He has been trying so hard to keep it at bay, to pretend he has control over it, that he can carry it the way he always has—silently, quietly, in a way that doesn’t make anyone else bear witness to just how much space it takes up inside him.

But then—Max moves.

Just slightly. Just enough for the warmth to shift, just enough for Charles to feel like it’s being taken from him, like he’s being left with nothing but his own thoughts, his own fear, his own breaking, unraveling self.

His fingers clench against the sheets, his chest tightening further, his throat burning with something thick and unbearable. He squeezes his eyes shut, willing it to stop, willing himself to push it back down, to hold it in, to force himself to keep breathing normally.

But his body doesn’t listen. His breath stutters. His pulse spikes. His limbs feel heavy and useless, like he’s sinking into something he won’t be able to crawl out of.

A single tear slips down his temple. 

Then another.

And another.

He barely even realizes he’s crying until his vision blurs, until the tension in his jaw becomes unbearable, until his throat aches from swallowing back the sound threatening to break free.

Max shifts again, just slightly, and Charles panics. His hand shoots out before he can think, catching Max’s wrist in a tight, desperate grip, his fingers pressing hard enough to leave marks. His body is trembling now, his breath coming in short, frantic bursts, his chest rising and falling too quickly, too shallow—like he can’t pull in enough air.

Max stills immediately. “Charles,” he says softly.

Charles doesn’t respond. He squeezes his eyes shut instead, jaw clenching as he fights against the way his body is betraying him. His breathing is a mess, shaky and uneven, his ribs aching under the strain. He wants to stop this. He wants to breathe. He wants to push the feeling back down where it belongs, lock it away like he always does.

Max doesn’t move. He just stays there, watching, waiting. He doesn’t try to touch Charles, doesn’t try to talk him down—just lets the moment settle, lets him fight it on his own.

But Charles is losing.

He exhales sharply, as if he’s trying to force the tension out, but his fingers still shake against Max’s skin. His stomach twists violently, his entire body bracing against something that’s already inevitable. He tries to turn away, to roll onto his side, to curl in on himself where Max can’t see him, where he can pretend he still has control.

But then Max shifts again. It’s the smallest thing, a gentle press of warmth against Charles’s side, the quiet certainty of someone who isn’t leaving, no matter how hard he tries to hold himself together.

It’s what breaks him in the end. His throat closes. His breath shatters. His ribs feel like they’re caving in, pressing down so hard he can’t pull in air—

And it comes out like a strangled, gasping sound—wrecked, desperate, an involuntary confession:

“I can’t—”

He gasps, his voice raw, his throat tight, the words barely making it past his lips. He doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say. Just that it’s too much.

The first sob rips out of him before he even realizes it’s coming. Violent. Guttural. A wrecked sound that he barely recognizes as his own. His body collapses a second later, like the fight has been completely knocked out of him. His shoulders curl in, his entire frame trembling as another harsh sob breaks free, then another, then another—until he’s choking on them, gasping, shaking, falling apart.

Max doesn’t hesitate. He moves instantly, his arm sliding around Charles’s back, pulling him in, pressing him close, like he knows Charles needs something solid to hold onto.

And Charles does. He grips at Max’s arms, at his skin, at anything he can reach, holding on like he’s afraid of slipping through the cracks, like he’s afraid of being left with nothing but this unbearable, crushing weight in his chest.

He doesn’t even know if he’s crying for his father.

For Arthur.

For himself.

Or maybe for all of it at once.

Charles chokes on a breath, his body wracked with violent tremors, his fingers curling into Max’s skin like it’s the only thing keeping him from slipping away entirely. He doesn’t speak—he can’t. Words are stuck somewhere in his throat, tangled up with the grief, the fear, the exhaustion of carrying something too heavy for too long.

But Max understands anyway.

He exhales softly, a warm, steady breath against Charles’s temple, before shifting just enough to press a gentle kiss there. The touch is barely there, quiet, grounding, something solid against the unraveling edges of Charles’s mind.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Max murmurs, voice low and certain. “You don’t have to hold it all together.”

The words settle deep, beneath the weight in Charles’s chest, beneath the ache in his ribs, beneath everything he has tried to swallow down. His breath hitches, another sob breaking free despite himself, and Max just holds him tighter.

And then, finally, he’s able to force the words out, his voice breaking around them, ruined and raw.

“I miss him.”

It slips out like a confession, like something ripped straight from his chest, like it’s been waiting to be said for far too long. He presses his face against Max’s shoulder as his body shakes harder, another sob forcing its way free.

Max doesn’t hesitate. His arms tighten around Charles immediately, unshakable, grounding, his presence solid in a way that Charles can’t explain but clings to anyway.

“I know.”

Max doesn’t tell him it will be okay. He doesn’t try to fix what can’t be fixed. He doesn’t say that time will make it easier. He just stays, holding him through it, letting the grief take up space, letting it be exactly what it is.

Charles curls in further into Max, his breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps, the weight of everything pressing down harder, suffocating. But Max doesn’t move. He doesn’t waver. His hand moves slowly along Charles’s back, tracing steady, deliberate circles, his grip firm, unshakable.

He doesn’t know how long they stay like this—minutes, hours, time stretching into something weightless—but eventually, his breathing steadies. The trembling subsides, leaving only the raw ache behind, dull but ever-present. The weight in his chest is still there, grief woven into his bones, but it no longer threatens to crush him. It lingers, pressing but not suffocating, a part of him he knows he will always carry.

He’s spent so many years learning how to hold himself together, how to be strong, how to carry things alone because that’s what’s expected of him. Because grief is supposed to be private. Because pain is supposed to be silent. He has buried his emotions so deep that sometimes even he forgets where he’s hidden them. But then, nights like these happen—nights where the weight of it all is too much, where memories claw their way to the surface, where he can’t outrun the past no matter how fast he tries to move.

And for the first time, he’s not alone in it.

That thought alone makes his throat tighten, something raw and unfamiliar catching in his chest. He shifts slightly, just enough to see Max more clearly, the dim light casting soft shadows across his face. There’s a steadiness in the way Max looks at him, something quiet but unmistakable, something that doesn’t demand anything, that doesn’t push him to speak or explain or be anything other than what he is in this moment.

And for a second—just a second—Charles lets himself believe that maybe that’s enough. That he doesn’t have to hold it all together, that he doesn’t have to carry everything alone. That maybe, just this once, he can ask for something without fearing what it means.

His fingers curl slightly where they rest against Max’s skin, the warmth grounding him, steadying him, reminding him that this isn’t a dream, that Max is real, that he hasn’t imagined the way Max held him together tonight when everything else was falling apart.

“Stay,” he murmurs, barely more than a whisper, the word rough from exhaustion, from grief, from everything pressing in at once. He’s not sure if it’s a request or something closer to a plea.

Max doesn’t hesitate. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like it was never even a question. 

And maybe it wasn’t. Maybe Charles was always supposed to reach for him. Maybe Max was always supposed to be here, in this moment, in this space where silence speaks louder than words.

He exhales, something in his chest loosening just a fraction, enough that the tightness in his ribs isn’t unbearable. He lets his eyes drift shut, lets himself sink into the warmth, into the steadiness of Max’s presence. His body is heavy, exhaustion finally catching up to him, seeping into his limbs like a slow tide. He should move, should let go, should find a way to put himself back together before morning comes.

But Max is still holding him. And Charles doesn’t want to move. Not yet. 

His breaths slow, his mind quieting, the storm inside him easing into something gentler. The last thing he registers before sleep pulls him under is the steady rhythm of Max’s heartbeat against his ear, the quiet warmth of Max’s arm around him, the simple, unshakable truth that for once, he isn’t alone.

That even though grief is something he will always carry, even though fear is something that may never fully leave him, he doesn’t have to face it by himself.

Not tonight.

Not ever.

Not anymore.