#the intercontinental

Giovanni grins at him, the straightens up, covering Charles’ hand so it’s held between both of his own, warm in his embrace. His hands are huge. 

“You’re too kind,” Giovanni says, patting his hand. “I believe you know my brother, Alessandro.” 

“I do?” Charles asks dumbly, blinking up at him. He can’t really think of an Alessandro, but he does meet a lot of people, he supposes. “Um, I don’t think so?” 

Movement by the door catches his eye, so Charles flicks his gaze over. What he sees makes him freeze. 

He does, in fact, know Alessandro. 

Slicked back hair, gold necklace, tattoos crawling up his neck and down his hands, and a ring on every finger. 

Or, what’s left of his fingers, at least. 

“Shit,” Charles breathes. “Are you here to hurt me?” 

Giovanni chuckles, then takes his hands from Charles’ to pat the top of his head. Charles feels a bit like a dog. 

“You’re like a little lamb,” Giovanni says, patting his again. “I love lambs.” 

Charles stares at him. He doesn’t know what the fuck is going on. 

“You’re really here?” Charles asks tentatively, lifting his head out of the pillow again. 

Max looks as gorgeous as he remembers; his suit is cut perfectly, with the tiniest bit of tightness across his shoulders to accentuate how broad they are; his lips are so full and pink, that damned freckle there, taunting him; blue eyes that are so sharp and aware. 

The only imperfection is that his blond hair is gelled down, when it really should just be left to be free and fluffy. 

Max stands from his seat, throwing his head back to drink the last of his espresso. Then he puts both the cup and the newspaper on the table to walk towards the bed. He’s so graceful, and his thighs strain so beautifully against his pants, and, God, he’s walking over here while Charles didn’t brush his teeth last night and there’s dried drool on his cheek—

Max pulls the landline phone from its cradle, shoving it between his shoulder and ear. 

“You need something greasy for breakfast,” Max tells him, eyes scanning down the list of numbers on the phone, then pressing the 1 and 8 buttons which will get him room service. Charles only did it last night. “Any preference?” 

Charles reaches across the table, hastily shoving two fingers against the switchhook. “No room service.” 

Max stares at him, then closes his hand—his stupidly big, sexy hand—around Charles’ wrist and pulls it away. 

“They—those people—they drugged me last night—” 

“What’s it to you?” Charles grumbles, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “Emilian.” 

Max’s eyes flick up to him, then back to the paper. “That’s not my name.” 

Charles huffs. He’s feeling tender and vulnerable this morning, and not even Max’s presence is soothing it. He knows Max cares—he’d protected him from afar for months, and has suddenly appeared without Charles even asking for it—but he wants more. Especially after he’d been laughed at last night, for pining over the man sitting across from him. 

“That’s what they said it is.” 

Max clicks his tongue to the roof his mouth. “And you’re going to believe them?” 

Charles huffs again, then picks his fork back up to poke at his eggs again. 

“It’s my middle name,” Max tells him after a moment, a little stiffly. Charles looks up from his plate, all too hopeful. “Emilian, it’s my middle name. I use it for business. My given name is Max.” 

Oh. Charles’ heart flutters, a little too much, but it settles him nonetheless. He got his real name, that nobody else even knows. A smug smile spreads across his lips before he can stop it.