#snufflet

The sharp, frantic knock on his front door jolts Max from his downward spiral—it literally sounds like the fire brigade trying to bust down his door with all the banging and shouting. Max hastily wipes away his tears and jogs over, yanking the door open, fully expecting firefighters or even the police.

Instead, he sees a red-faced, breathless Charles who's in a white button-up shirt soaked through with sweat. His pristine dark charcoal gray suit pants are wrinkled and crumpled, and his fine Italian leather shoes are completely scuffed.

But the Monegasque driver doesn't look concerned that his normally pristine appearance is completely ruined—

Instead, he gives Max the shock of his life as he all but barrels into him, arms wrapping around Max's thick neck as he buries his face in Max's old, faded t-shirt. "Max, oh Max—!" Charles's muffled voice sobs.

Panic, alarm, and the unmistakable tidal wave of concern swell up in the Dutchman. It's instinct the way his own arms immediately wrap around Charles's slim waist, tugging the brunet close—close enough that their bodies are pressed together, dips and curves perfectly matched as Charles clings to him and Max clutches him tight.

As tight as he can.

He doesn't know if this will be his only opportunity to hold Charles and he...well, Max has never claimed to be a saint.

He seizes the moment and tries to memorize the lines of Charles's body, his uneven breaths, the way sweat and tears stain Max's shirt. "Shh, Charlie, please don't cry—I'm here, I'll always be here. Tell me what's the matter and I'll do anything I can to fix it."

"M-Max," Charles's warm, damp breath sends shivers down Max's spine, "I—I know you s-saw the photos, the ones with me and Victoria. And I want you to know it's not what it looks like—"

Max's heart sinks like a stone.

Fuck, he never wanted Charles to feel guilty for dating his baby sister. He knows there's no one more worthy of Victoria's heart than Charles. And he shouldn't have to apologize for who he falls in love with.

"Charlie, baby—I mean, Charles," he hastily corrects, "you don't have to apologize. I'm not mad—honest, I'm not. I know you'll treat Victoria right and look after her. I know that." It feels like swallowing rusty nails as Max forces the words out.

For Charles.

For Victoria.

He swallows and swears he can taste blood. "I'm—happy for you." He stutters but manages to get the sentence out.

Charles freezes in his arms.

Slowly, he lifts his head, allowing Max to see his tear-stained face. The way those emerald green eyes are bloodshot and devastated. His nose red from crying. "Tell me the truth, Max Verstappen," he begins, "because I'm going to tell you the truth right now. There is nothing going on between me and Victoria."

"I saw the photos, Charles. You were on a date. You hugged her. You...you looked at her like she was the only person you ever wanted to see."

"We weren't on a date." He corrects fiercely. "We met up at that cafe in Nice because she's been helping me with something for quite a few months now." Charles moves one hand from Max's neck to his jaw, those small, calloused fingers pressing against his stubble. "I asked her to help me confess my love to the most talented, hard-working, stubborn, silly, and amazing man I have ever met in my entire life. I asked her to help me confess my love to you, Max Verstappen. Because you are the only Verstappen I want to kiss and date and be with forever."

"Charlie...I—I don't—" His mind is frozen, unable to comprehend anything at all because this...

This feels like every dream, every hope, and every prayer coming true all at once.

It's too good to be true.

And Charles, whose intuition and heart have always been tied to Max's, clocks this immediately. "You don't believe me."

"I want to." He doesn't dare to breathe. "But I never thought you would want me, Charlie. I was...not okay with loving you from afar but I thought I could force myself to be okay with it. If you were happy...if you and Vic were both happy...I wouldn't stand in your way."

"But if it wasn't Victoria? Then you'd fight for me?"

"If it wasn't Victoria then I would happily homewreck whoever it was you were dating because I'm...I'm in love with you too, Charlie." Max doesn't hesitate. Charles deserves to know the truth.

That Max is not a good person. He is greedy and covetous and selfish to his core.

But instead of horror and disgust, Max receives a dazzling, dimpled smile that makes his heart stop beating and then—

Charles's lips, pressed against his.

It has to be a dream—a delirious, beautiful dream.

But Max has always been an opportunist.

He hugs Charles even tighter—

And kisses him right back.

🇳🇱 🇲🇨 🇳🇱 🇲🇨

Later, after their lips are swollen from kissing, Charles will demand Max help him onto the couch because he sprinted all the way over and his new Italian leather shoes have cut into Charles's feet. Max, still thinking this is a dream, carries him bridal style to the couch and gets down on his knees. He places Charles's left foot on his lap and unties the laces of his shoes—

That's when he sees the peeling skin and bits of blood from how roughly the shoes must have rubbed against Charles's foot as he sprinted here in the middle of the day, beneath the hot sun, just to confess to Max.

That's when the haze finally lifts. As he's gazing at the proof of Charles's love.

At his ruined shoes, bloodied feet, and the little giggle Charles lets out when Max suddenly leans up and kisses him again. "I love you." Max repeats. "I love you, Charlie."

Because now he knows that Charles is really here.