Chapter Text
Charles isn’t affiliated with any of the gangs that run Monaco’s streets, but he knows an awful lot about them. He tries to stay away, he really does, but it seems like everybody in his life is touched by their presence in one way or another.
It started with Jules, his godfather, his best friend, the man that first got him into street racing.
He remembers how Jules would tell him to stick to his side, stick to his side and never leave. He remembers how one day he was told to leave, to hang out at the barrier, and keep to himself there.
He tried to keep to himself, but he was eighteen, about to graduate, and bored. But he did stay at the barrier.
There were others he recognized also being banished to the same spot. Pierre, who was his best friend since childhood. Alex, who was on at least three sports teams at school. George, who was in the play every year. Lando, who was the percussionist for every band the school had. Max, who was Charles’ roommate.
The six of them weren’t friends by any means, but they were something. They were the forgotten, the ignored, the invisible. They were the kids who were there to race under the lights, and only under the lights.
Except for Max, who always stood a metre away whenever he was banished to the barriers.
Charles remembers watching Max sit down into the seat Jules had just sent him away from. He remembers that happening multiple times.
He remembers how Jules made him promise to stay as far away from the gangs as he could. He remembers wondering why, when Jules was so happy about receiving his Ferrari patch.
Charles’ first taste of iron made him understand.
Knock–Knock Knock–Knock.
They are adults now—years away from the kids they once were—and Max can still play his body like a piano forte.
He doesn’t remember anything that happened the week after Jules’ death. He doesn’t remember the funeral. He doesn’t remember attending the next three races.
He knows he didn’t drive.
He remembers Max helping him back through the window of their shared dorm.
He thinks about how pretty Max looked atop of tonight’s podium.
He’s not thinking when he pushes Max into the wall, and kisses him for the first time. He’s unable to attempt cognitive function when Max spins them around and traps him underneath his body.
“Charles?”
“Make me forget.”
“Are you sure?”
“Please.”
Charles makes Max fight for it, even though he wants to be held down. He scratches at the Dutchman’s back, leaving red trails parallel to his spine.
Max fails at keeping Charles’ arms pinned above his head, but he does well to keep his hips pressed into the mattress. Charles thinks Max likes the touch, the contact.
Knock–Knock Knock–Knock.
Charles isn’t scared of Max. He never was at any point in their relationship. Not even when he was assigned as roommate to the angry Dutch transfer halfway through his first semester of secondary school. Of fuck’s sake he thinks they are the only people in their grade who never traded roommates.
He cries out when Max enters him slowly, just the way he likes. He likes the stretch, feeling it for the thrust every time. The pads of his fingers rub along the cotton covering Max’s shoulders.
He remembers the way Max used to sometimes sneak back in through their dorm window on nights when neither of them had a race.
He remembers how Max would strip off his shirt, his pants, and make his way to Charles’ bed. How they would vie for control before Max overpowers him, pinning him to the mattress and making him see stars.
How he’d fight to get his arms free, only to wrap them around ridged shoulders and scratch—sometimes caress.
Knock–Knock Knock–Knock.
Sometimes Charles thinks twice before answering the door, but he’s weak. He’s weak for the way Max makes him feel.
Between his legs, Max works magic: bringing Charles to the brink of pleasure only to push him over the edge time and time again.
It’s not because he doesn’t want Max to see his apartment, even though it is a mess every time. It’s not because of Max. It has nothing to do with Max.
It has everything to do with what Max is, the tattoos on his back.
He remembers reading about what the Bulls did to Ferrari on his phone one morning at breakfast. How Pierre was reading the same article on his own phone. How Alex patted his shoulder once while passing him in the hallway. How George was on his football team for a game. How Lando passed him silly notes in history.
He remembers how he felt when the next time Max took off his shirt he had a new tattoo: a blood red pair of feathered wings spanning his entire back.
He remembers opening his phone after Max collapses on top of him. How he opened the article. How he skimmed it desperately with his left hand, his right tracing patterns on the back of the Dutchman’s neck. How he then went on to read a thousand more.
He tells himself he’s not looking for any mention of Max as he reads detail after gruesome detail. He’s not sure if it’s a relief or a disappointment every time he doesn’t see those three letters on his screen.
At some point Max plucks the phone from his hand and tosses it to the nightstand. “You aren’t going to find anything,” he says, and that’s the last time they talk about it.
Max stops taking off his shirt before climbing on top of him.
Charles called them angel wings once, when they two were showering together after a scene.
Max’s eyes darken in a way Charles hopes he never sees again. “They are crow’s wings.”
He can only nod.
He doesn’t let himself worry about Max too much, he has enough stress at his own day job. His hands always find their way to the Dutchman’s back, brushing Max’s feathers over the cotton of his shirts.
Max doesn’t show up often, only once every few months. It’s enough for Charles to get his fix, but infrequent enough that it’s a surprise every time.