Chapter Text
"Fuck. Where is it?"
Charles wrenches the second drawer open and scowls at the insides. He already knows it's pointless and yet he rifles through it, tearing at pairs of black and white socks until he reaches the bottom. Then he slams it shut with a huff and moves on to the next one.
He knows he brought all three with him; he vividly remembers stuffing them into the bottom of his ski boots when packing. But whilst two are already accounted for - rammed into his jean pockets and at the very bottom of his laundry bag - the third is missing.
And it wouldn't be hard to find.
Red, lacy- minuscule. They're his favourite and only for special occasions. Which is why Charles knows he would never, ever forget them. So, he's pretty sure they must be lost.
"Are you alright?" Arthur asks from the doorway, "Your grunting is disturbing everyone."
"I'm looking for something."
The floorboards behind him creek and Charles doesn't need to turn to see the sceptical look on his little brother's face, "Anything I can help with? Maybe, I took it thinking it was mine."
Doubt it, Charles thinks. He's pretty sure his brother doesn't have any red, lace thongs. The thought makes him shiver. "It's fine; I'll find it."
Arthur huffs, "Whatever. But Enzo wants to leave soon and he'll go without you if you don't hurry."
Charles rolls his eyes and drops into a crouch to search the lowest drawer, rifling through t-shirts he's sure won't be hiding anything. Back turned to the door, the sound of it clicking aligns with the end of Charles' fruitless search. The thong isn't here - it isn't anywhere in his bedroom. The irritation leaves Charles' body all at once as he finally admits defeat and closes the drawer.
It's gone.
He doesn't understand why this keeps happening to him. It's the third time he's lost one of his thongs in the past fortnight. The first he'd searched for for a whole two days before they'd finally turned up, sitting in the middle of his underwear drawer like they'd always been there. Mocking him. He'd thought he was going crazy when he found the object he'd been tearing his bedroom apart for there - in plain sight. Charles had been prepared to blame himself, thinking he'd been stupid enough to miss what was right in front of him.
But then it happened again a few days later.
First, it was the black satin one. Then, it was the frilly pink one. Now, it's the red lace one. Always disappearing when he wants to wear them most, only to turn up a few days later.
What is it they say? Once an accident, twice a coincidence... three times a pattern. Charles' suspicion is palpable now. Either he's truly losing his mind and misplacing his thongs without noticing, or their chalet has been invaded by a panty-stealing goblin who, at least, is polite enough to return them a few days later.
In summary- it sucks and Charles is pissed. He had plans for that red, lace thong. Plans that involved the cute Italian boy in the neighbourhood. The tall one with the dark, wavy hair and big blue eyes. The boy who was supposed to be the solution to the little problem between Charles' legs.
That thong was supposed to be his lucky token; now he's sure he'll stay a virgin forever.
For a second, Charles almost considers giving up the night altogether. He's had the whole thing schemed in acute detail for months and that thong was supposed to be the central piece of the plan. He won't feel good in his usual pair of plain boxers - or, at least, he won't have the confidence boost that thong was supposed to give him - and, without it, what's the point? Luca won't want to kiss him and he certainly won't want to put his hands down his pants. So, he might as well forgo the evening altogether.
Maybe, he can convince his parents to start Harry Potter again with him. They might even pity him enough to open the bottle of rosé he knows they've been hiding in the basement.
But, no. That's not what he really wants.
Charles sinks to the floor with a sigh. He's not ashamed that his lip stuck out in that pout his maman always scolds him for. Not when he's been looking forward to this night and the opportunity to finally- finally- not be the only one from his friend group back home to still be a helpless virgin. The furthest he's gone is a bit of over-the-clothes fondling and, freshly eighteen, that's just a little bit embarrassing.
But he's pretty sure Luca's interested. They kissed at this same party last year and they've been texting pretty regularly since. Sure, the kiss was a little too sloppy and he thinks Luca might care about the perfect swoop of his hair a bit much, but he's prepared to look past that. It'd be worth it.
The door clicks and Charles' head knocks against the dresser, prepared for more hassling from Arthur or for Lorenzo to come scolding him. At least, until he hears familiar, soft-spoken English.
"You alright, Charlie?"
Max.
Heath gathers in his cheeks. It's hidden with Charles' back to the door, but he still feels the usual wave of humiliation at his reaction. Which is a new one, he realised the previous year. Starting somewhere between Christmas and New Year's Eve for reasons he hasn't yet allowed himself to examine.
It's their twelfth year of spending the season together. From when they were five-year-olds at the kids' club - babbling to one another in their native tongues - all the way to now. Charles has spent nearly every stage of his life with Max and his family, their winter chalets standing side by side for as long as anyone can remember. Christmas Eve, Christmas and New Year's are all shared with the Verstappens and he and Max have been tied at the hip pretty much since the very beginning.
They're practically brothers at this point; their relationship as close as the one Charles shares with Lorenzo and Arthur. Sure, he feels sort of giddy whenever Max gives him that intense, blue-eyed gaze and his heart likes to skip a beat or two whenever he makes him laugh - but that's only because their friendship is extra special. Soul-sisters, his papa likes to joke.
Charles has never really admitted just how much he likes the sound of that.
"Ouais," Charles mutters over his shoulder with a sheepish smile, "Just... looking for something."
Max leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest and head tilted, "Arthur said. He also said that you're being stubborn and not allowing anyone to help you."
"I don't need help," Charles huffs, cursing his annoying little brother, "It's not here, anyway."
The corner of Max's mouth quirks up and Charles feels his insides squirm at the sight. In fact, he thinks everything might be squirming at the sight of Max in his doorway, his white t-shirt stretched over his chest and biceps bulging. Charles vaguely remembers the other mentioning his frequent trips to the gym this year, but it's a whole other experience seeing it in person.
Once, he might have described Max as awkward- gangly, even. A growth spurt when he was fourteen always made him look a little like his body had grown too quickly for the rest of him. Now, he finds no resemblance to that version of Max. Tall and broad, muscles stretching the thin fabric across his arms and thighs. Handsome, Charles might admit if you held a gun to his head.
Nothing more, though. Obviously.
"Well, I was going to head back to mine to pick up that bottle of vodka now that mum's gone out for the evening," Max says, completely ignorant to everything going on inside Charles' head, "Do you want to come?"
Charles is clambering to his feet before he even finishes the question.
The Verstappen chalet is almost a perfect mirror image of the Leclercs'.
Of course, Sophie has her own taste for interior design. It’s a lot more glamorous inside than the Leclercs'. While there are scuffs on the floors and dents in the walls from all the brawls the brothers have shared throughout the years, the Verstappen chalet is immaculate. There’s barely a scratch or speck of dust and everything is expensive and luxurious.
Charles is sure Pascale would like to do something similar back at theirs, but she’s smart enough to know any precious vase or mirror is destined to be broken with four boys running amuck.
He's always liked it here, though. He likes the quiet; the stillness. Back at theirs, there’s always some kind of noise. Whether it’s the radio in the kitchen, the TV in the living room or the game consoles upstairs- he loves his big, noisy family, really. But, sometimes, the quiet is nice.
It wasn’t always like this, though.
Charles remembers the years when Sophie and Jos were still together. The nights when he’d leave his window cracked open, listening out to the frequent bangs and muffled sound of raised voices. He was never being nosey, though. He did it for Max, waiting to see his shadows dart across the lawn and listening to the sound of him climbing the trellis up to Charles’ window.
They never talked about it, of course. Not even when Sophie, Max and Victoria returned a few years back and Jos was nowhere to be found. He just knew that Max missed his dad sometimes, but that he looked more and more unburdened with every Christmas he didn’t return.
Now, Charles lingers in the hallway as Max scurries into the kitchen. There’s the faint sound of music coming from a room at the other end of the house, but it’s quiet otherwise. Whilst the other searches for the vodka, Charles pauses at the entryway.
A collection of photos hangs above a side table, professional photographs of each of the Verstappen children and their mother. It feels a little like looking at his own past, sometimes. He can attach a memory to every single of one them. The year he and Max took skiing lessons for the first time; the year the two of them were grounded on Christmas Eve for sneaking out on their own. The year Sophie let them try mulled wine for the first time and the one his Papa took them up the mountain to see the sunrise on New Year’s Day.
He runs his finger along a photo of a chubby-cheeked, pink-faced Max. His eyes are so blue despite the outdated camera and the sight makes Charles’ heart ache as he stares at it, recounting just how much has changed in the past few years
“Do you mind grabbing my jacket from my room?”
Charles startles, finding Max with his head poked out of the kitchen and looking at him.
“It should be on the back of my chair.”
Charles nods and heads in the direction of the staircase. In the background, he hears the faint voices of Victoria and Max talking to one another, but he ignores them as he takes the stairs two steps at a time.
He doesn’t need to look to know where he’s going. Walking to Max’s room feels like muscle memory at this point, the journey as familiar as the one to his own room. Though, Max has what would be Lorenzo’s room in their own chalet, at the end of the house and furthest away from everyone else. The bachelor pads, the two like to joke far too often.
Charles doesn’t think either of them are very funny.
Pushing the door open, Charles finds that Max’s room doesn’t look too different from how it usually does. It’s neater and tidier than his own, with less laundry on the floor and possessions cluttering every surface. Less like a tornado has blown through and more like the space of a well-adjusted, neat individual. (At least, according to his maman, that is)
It's not completely devoid of character, though. Max has more posters than Charles, plastered across the one bare wall behind his bad. Infographics about the solar system and depictions of every world flag mostly - nerdy things Charles likes to tease him for - but there are a few the two of them share. From magazines they’d bought together as preteens with whatever pocket money their parents had granted them. Michael Schumacher standing in front of his bright, red Ferrari and Aryton Senna’s iconic yellow and green helmet.
There are pictures of them together, also. The two of them in their ski gear - one red, one blue - grinning from the top of a mountain. A couple of them at different holiday parties in colourful paper hats and coordinating sweaters their mums forced them to wear.
But then there’s Charles’ favourite. A small one, no bigger than his hand, of Charles alone. It’s from a couple of years back, taken at a New Year's Eve party hosted at the Leclercs'. Charles is smiling in it, dimples wedged deep into his cheeks and eyes almost closed. It sits right next to the bed frame, stuck to the wall by a few pieces of blue tack and right next to Max’s pillow.
Charles smiles to himself as he kneels on the bed, thinking of Max sitting in a similar position every morning - his first sight of the day Charles, always. He’s so distracted by the thought, that he almost misses the flash of colour that creeps into the lower parts of his vision. But it’s so startling and so stark against its background, that he finds his gaze drifting there unconsciously.
Led against the dark navy sheets of Max’s bed, is a tiny flash of crimson red. Charles frowns at it, blinking a few times in case his sight is playing tricks on him, but it stays there. Sitting backwards on the mattress, the red reveals more of itself and Charles realises suddenly that it’s stuck beneath the pillow. With a tentative hand, he reaches down to touch it and his heart jumps. Soft lace strokes the pads of his fingers, chillingly familiar, and he pulls the rest of it out.
It’s his thong. The red one; the one he’s spent all evening looking for. Under Max’s pillow.
A lot of thoughts cross Charles’ mind all at once.
Why exactly his favourite thong would be in his best friend’s bed is the question that screams the loudest and, even when he tries, Charles can’t think of a plausible explanation. He’s pretty much completely certain he wouldn’t mistakenly misplace his underwear in his friend’s bed and, without that as an option, his mind goes to places he wishes it wouldn't.
Heat roars in his cheeks as his fingers play over the fabric, threading it between each digit like he's never touched it before.
He didn't even know Max knew about this. They've never spoken about it - why would they? Charles doesn't ask Max about the type of boxers he likes, Max doesn't ask Charles if he likes a Brazilian cut over a traditional thong. That's not the kind of friendship they have.
Charles doesn't even know if Max is a virgin still, for Christ's sake. But here he is, Charles' red thong hidden like a secret beneath the pillow he sleeps on every night. The thought is as mortifying as it is intriguing, Charles' heart racing like he's the one hiding stolen underwear in his bed.
How did Max even know about it? Was he snooping when he found it in Charles' drawer, hidden beneath boring, plain boxers and tucked away in the darkest corner? Or had he learnt about Charles' secret long before that point? Caught a glimpse of lace or satin over the top of his waistband?
Is he the panty-stealing goblin Charles has been imagining? Running some illicit, three-day operation to steal and replace his thongs without anyone ever knowing.
So many questions, none of which bring any clarity to Charles as he sits, shell-shocked, on his best friend's bed. The worst one - the one he's trying his hardest to leave untouched - is why?
It's the worst only because the obvious answer - life-changing and terrifying - is that Max has been getting something out of stealing his underwear.
Charles' eyes drift back to the wall, to the picture a few inches away from the pillow, and- no. Surely, not. He'd know if Max had... feelings for him like that. If he might even remotely look at him as anything more than friends.
But then his gaze falls back to the slip of fabric in his hands. Could he be wrong? Could Max have been hiding his feelings so well that Charles has never had the slightest inclination?
Or, is it just a teenage hormones thing? Is it just a thong worn by someone outside of his family and, therefore, better than nothing? (Charles doesn't like the fact that his stomach sinks a little at that thought)
Before he can mull on that thought, a voice calls to him from the other side of the house:
"Charles? Are you coming?"
Heart in his throat, Charles stuffs the thong back under Max’s pillow. He’s not going to ask him about it, he decides there and then. He won’t forget about it, of course. Instead, he’s going to keep a better eye on Max. Discover whether there’s any chance Max might have feelings for him beyond the natural walls of friendship.
See if there's even the slightest, smallest chance that there might be something else there.
And for the rest of the night, Charles does exactly that- he watches.
Suddenly his plans for the night- Luca and the loss of his virginity- feel trivial and insignificant. Small in the face of this new revelation.
How long has he been so blind?
Max is obvious even when he doesn't mean to be. It's in the way he stiffens when another boy comes close and how Charles doesn't even need to make an effort to stay by his side. It doesn't even appear like he notices the way he traces Charles' every step. When he moves, Max moves. When he breathes, Max breathes.
It's in the way his hands hover. How he spots Luca long before Charles, fingers twitching in the space between them until they're brushing at his waistband. Charles doesn't hear a word of the conversation between the two boys, distracted as Max's finger slips briefly through his belt loop like he's resisting the urge to pull him close.
It makes Charles’ face hot like he’s never felt before.
It’s so dizzyingly obvious: the quiet possession Max seems to have over him. Nothing too aggressive or overt. Always subtle enough to be brushed aside as innocent by anyone who might not know better.
But witnessing this reality only makes Charles giddier. As he points out the pretty girl smiling at them from the other side of the room and Max barely spares a glance her way, too busy trying to make him laugh.
Whatever seems to prompt this behaviour in the other boy - want or affection or something else entirely - Charles can't get enough of it. He never wants it to stop.
As the night drags on, Max’s touches - once a shoulder nudged against his own or a foot digging into his ankle - become something new. The arm around his shoulders, resting on the back of the sofa, edges closer and closer until Charles can feel the heat on the back of his neck. The fingers that had been sitting innocuously on the cushion dip lower and lower until they drag ghost-like touches up the slope of his shoulder.
Every laugh fans against the side of Charles' neck, leaving goosebumps in its path, and the thigh that had been resting a few inches away, now presses against the length of his own.
It’s maddening, really, and Charles has to fight every urge he has to lean back into the touch. Four vodka lemonades in and he’s discarded every previous hesitation he had. After all, what's a twelve-year friendship in the face of this want? He doesn't think anyone in the history of time has faced a temptation like it and come out the other side unscathed. He won't be the first to fall and he certainly won't be the last.
The drunker he gets, the less he can keep his thoughts away from that thong. Tucked beneath Max's pillow; the obscene secrecy of it all.
Charles’ imagination begins innocent - picturing Max’s long, pale fingers stroking the soft fabric yearningly - but quickly becomes something else. At his best, he conjures up images of red lace on soft, pink lips. A flash of scarlet briefly obscuring a freckle. At his worst, he sees crimson vivid beside pale skin and Max writhing against the sheets, hips bucking into the colour.
In Lorenzo's car on the way home, Max sleeps soundly beside him. It gives Charles the opportunity he's wanted all night: to stare openly and unabashedly at the other boy, drinking in every detail until he's fat with it.
Everything about the sight makes his heart ache more than it already did. Long black lashes fanning against pink cheeks, plush lips pouted and glossy in the passing streetlights. Charles wants to sink his teeth into them, he wants to lick inside his mouth and taste the bitter sting of tonic and gin and Max.
But beneath the desire and the mind-numbing fog, there's a gentle affection too. It thickens when he witnesses the way Max's body drifts naturally towards his own even in sleep. Knees and head slumped in his direction like a compass pointing North. To home.
Fuck, Charles whispers, head thumping against the window. This is what he gets for being a hopeless romantic.
Of course, he’s long since thought Max is attractive. Even when his hair was too short and his cheeks still protruded with youth. But it’s worse now. Now that Max is handsome and strong (and dedicated to him, always). Suddenly everything else - all the crushes of his past and every delicate desire - feels small and insignificant. He wants Max more than he's ever wanted anyone else. Anything else.
That want grows and grows and grows until he can't keep ahold of it any longer, spiralling out of control until it spills out of the crack in the car's windows and into the night sky. Too big for his tiny, beating heart and the frail ribcage surrounding it. He wants and he wants and he wants.
And Charles has never not gotten what he wants.