Work Text:
If peaches had arms surely
they would hold one another
in their peach sleep.
And if peaches had feet
it is sure they would
nudge one another
with their soft peachy feet.
And if peaches could
they would sleep
with their dimpled head
on the other’s
each to each.
Like you and me.
And sleep and sleep.
Peaches—Six in a Tin Bowl, Sarajevo
He’d landed home from Silverstone, somehow escaping the team still celebrating, hundreds of messages on his phone.The flight back from the circuit landed long after midnight, hours later than it was supposed to. Max still smelled faintly of fuel and champagne, the ghost of the podium ceremony clinging to his jacket.
The sea below the apartment was black glass, flecked with the orange reflection of harbour lights, and his apartment was dark except for one small lamp in the corner by the couch. Charles sat there, rocking Lily against his chest, her small breaths rough from the cold. Each time she shifted, he murmured something soft in French, barely sound at all. The lamplight caught in his curls, turned them the colour of late sunlight.
“You’re back,” he said, voice rough with sleep, eyes closed.
“Yeah.” Max’s throat still tasted of champagne and adrenaline. “You’re still awake.”
“She’s got a cold.” His words were soft, rhythmic. He rubbed the baby’s back gently as he spoke. “She won’t sleep unless I keep rocking her.”
Charles opened his pretty, pretty eyes when he felt Max near. “Congratulations. I saw the race.”
Max’s mouth tugged into a small smile. “You were watching?”
“Of course.” Charles adjusted the blanket around the baby with one hand. “You were perfect. I told her—” he looked down at Lily, lovingly—“I told her that was her father, flying.”
He said it so simply that Max felt the ache of it. After a season of interviews and analysis, the words hit different here, wrapped in quiet and honesty.
Charles blinked hard, fighting drowsiness. “You must be starving. There’s soup in the fridge—tomato. Sit, I will warm it up.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Sit,” he repeated, standing carefully. He shifted Lily higher, the baby’s cheek settling into the hollow of his shoulder. She made a faint, nasal sound; he rubbed her back, swaying slightly as he walked to the kitchen.
Max sat down because it was easier than arguing. The apartment felt different with Kelly gone, stripped of her perfume and her sharp voice; only these small sounds remained—footsteps, the harbour waves, the soft click of the stove, the murmurs of, mon chou, pourquoi ne dors-tu pas, hmm, chérie ?
Charles opened the refrigerator, balancing Lily with the ease of long practice. The light spilled over both of them, gold on skin and cotton. He turned to stove, bowl in a hand, Lily in another, and then said over his shoulder. “Jimmy and Sassy wouldn’t leave the sim rig earlier,” he said, voice drowsy yet. “I think they missed you.”
“They missed the tuna,” Max murmured. His eyes didn’t move from the picture in front of him. It was more grounding than any podium. The sound of the pot settling on the burner was quiet but sharp in the silence. The spoon clinked once, twice, stirring. The smell of warm tomatoes filled the room.
Max watched him, watched the way the lamplight caught in his hair, the faint lines of fatigue around his eyes, the way he pressed a slow kiss to Lily’s temple before adjusting her blanket. It was a scene too ordinary for the life he led and yet, somehow more magnetic than any roar of an engine.
Charles turned slightly. “You will like it. I didn’t have fresh basil, but it’s still very, very good.”
Max managed a small smile. “You remembered.”
“Mhmm.”
He poured the soup into a bowl, one-handed, still cradling the child. When he set it in front of Max, the steam curled between them. “Careful. It’s hot.”
Max didn’t move. He was looking at him— the soft shadows under his eyes, the messy curls, the quiet effort even in exhaustion. Something in his chest ached, sharp and warm.
“You should sleep,” he said quietly.
“I will.” Charles’s eyelids fluttered, a smile half formed, a left dimple. “After you eat.”
He shifted Lily higher, and for a second she stirred, making a soft, nasal complaint. Charles hushed her automatically, rocking slightly on his feet. “Shh, mon cœur, it is alright,” he whispered, so gentle it didn’t even sound like language, just melody.
Max felt breathless.
When Charles brought the spoon over, steam curled up between both of them, a scene out a feverdream.
“Thanks,” Max said. He lifted the spoon, tasted the familiar heat, and felt something in his chest loosen.
Charles sank back onto the couch with the baby still against him, and Max sat down opposite him, the exhaustion from the flight ebbing into something quieter. The hum of the city outside was distant, waves brushing the marina. Inside, everything was tinted that same peach glow—lamp, blanket, skin, the faint shimmer of warmth after a long day.
“Schatje,” Max said after a while.
“I will sleep, yes, I will. Just making sure she’s settled.”
Charles leaned his head back against the couch, still rocking slightly, the rhythm so even it was almost hypnotic. His voice came again, barely above a murmur. “You did very good, Max. Incroyable”
The words landed like a pulse, slow and deep. Max could only nod, spoon halfway to his mouth, throat tight.
He looked over, eyes half-open, smile faint. “You’re really home now,” he whispered.
“Yeah.” Max’s voice came out rough. “You can sleep.”
Charles nodded once, but instead of shifting away, he leaned sideways until his shoulder met Max’s. The movement was small, instinctive, like someone reaching for warmth in the dark. Lily made a sleepy sound between them and then stilled.
For a moment they stayed that way, the sound of the sea coming through the window, the slow rhythm of three steady breaths. Charles’s head tipped slightly until it rested against Max’s neck; his lips brushed the edge of Max’s jaw, barely a touch, more welcome home than anything else.
“Good night, mon amour” he murmured, words blurring into sleep.
Max froze, then exhaled slowly. He adjusted the blanket so it covered all of them, the soft fabric brushing against Charles’s hair. His boy was already asleep, the baby a warm weight between them, the air carrying the faint scent of tomato and salt.
Max sat there until dawn, the glow from the harbour creeping across the floor, listening to the quiet proof that—for now—they were here.