Work Text:
Thank you for leaving
Me alone in my studio
300-square-foot apartment
The walls are bare. The entryway is empty. The kitchen table is gone. There are parts of the floor visible that Charles has never seen before. The first couch he’d ever bought—and brought into their apartment—is still pressed up against the wall. The rug he’d begged Max to buy for them because he’d fallen in love with the dark green and black chequered pattern—even if Max wasn’t particularly a fan—is still on the floor.
Everything else is gone.
There are dark spots on the wall, places where pictures used to hang, so they didn’t get sun bleached by the light streaming through the window. That light mocks him now: bright, welcoming, warm.
Looking at the boxes stacked where the coffee table used to be in the middle of his rug, Charles feels cold, hollow, and numb.
Is this how Max felt when he’d hastily packed for Pierre’s house two days ago?
I've started drinking
Tough sport when you're kinda broke
Pierre.
Charles needs to call Pierre.
He needs to sit down.
One step at a time, Charles moved through the liminal space that used to be his and Max’s shared apartment. He slumps into his side of the couch, sinks like a rock into its cushions. He looks to the right, to Max’s side.
There’s a stack of notebooks. Their notebooks. The ones they wrote all of their songs in. Charles’ songs, as Max had always called them.
He can feel the tears coming, prickling at the corners of his eyes.
He needs to call Pierre.
But I'm a pro regardless
Pierre’s phone rings out. Of course it does. He’s not awake yet.
Charles had run here the second the sun started to crest the skyline—unable to sleep the night before—knowing he’d fucked up. That he had to try to fix it. Fix this. Fix them. Fix this thing he’d broken.
Irrevocability broken, apparently.
He tries to call Pierre again.
He looks at the notebooks while the phone rings, and rings, and rings, and rings.
Max had moved everything out of their apartment. Everything. Even the furniture was gone. Everything except for what belonged to Charles. Carefully packed as efficiently as possible in those boxes he hasn’t touched yet. But Charles knows Max, all of his stuff will be there.
He reaches out towards the notebooks. Max wouldn’t have left these if he didn’t mean for Charles to use them.
But I promise you that one day
Use them to live out his dream. The one they’d been working towards. For Charles to be a singer, a composer, an artist.
I'll be the one that got away
It was supposed to be the three of them; Max and Charles working on the lyrics; Charles and Pierre working on the music; and Pierre making it sound good in the production booth, with Max shooting random ideas into the breeze.
But now because of what he’d done, Max won’t be by their side. By his side.
You'll hear me when this song plays
He’s going to be reminded of Max every time he sings. With every note. With every melody. With every word.
Because all of them are half his.
So long, see you in the bleachers
His fingers slam down on the keyboard.
The lights flash. The spotlights twirl across the stage.
He tilts his head back when he sings the words, a cocky smile on his face.
My song blowing out the speakers
It’s deafening. It’s electric. It’s everything he’s ever dreamed of.
The crowd sweeps him up, and he screams.
You left, but I won't be the one to break
They scream the words right back at him. These words from his second album. These words that were the first he’d written on his own. Written without Max.
The song he’d had to write alone before he could even consider writing songs with anybody else.
Oh
Might take Hailey from Bieber
My face on your friend's t-shirt
You left, but, babe, you're gonna wish you stayed
Charles doesn’t know how long it took Max to move out of their shared apartment. All he knows is that the Dutchman was gone two days later.
He regrets not calling Max that morning, in the early light. Maybe he would have picked up. Maybe they could have fixed things. Maybe–
The world is made up of maybes.
Charles wonders if Max ever wished he’d stayed. He wonders if Max ever wonders if Charles had gone back to the apartment to look for him.
He knows that Max left the notebooks behind for a reason, because he wasn’t coming back.
I'm in it for the long game
Charles’ post show ritual consists of finding his and Max’s old DMs on Instagram. He has to scroll practically down to the bottom to get to it. He opens the stream.
ChaCha16
Do we know what we’re bringing to Perriot’s potluck?
MaxieVer33
Stroopwafels?
I don’t think there will be nearly enough desert.
Everybody is always bringing main dishes.
ChaCha16
Okay!
I am at the shops so I will pick up milk and eggs.
I think we have flour still at home, oui?
MaxieVer33
We are out of brown sugar.
Charles’ finger hovers over the textbox, but he never taps the screen there.
Oh, I can see it
My own star on the boulevard
The EP he and Pierre produced in the Frenchman’s home studio took off like a Formula 1 car at the start of a race. They sit on his couch—Charles’ couch, taking up space in the spare room that has become his—and watch the numbers tick up, up, up, up.
Charles clings to Pierre when the call from Vettel comes a few weeks later. The second he hangs up he bursts into tears; happy tears.
Pierre gets him bakery bought stroopwafels to celebrate, and suddenly Charles is crying for a whole nother reason. Charles wants to call Max. Max deserves to celebrate this too, half of the words are his.
Your mom just sent me a photo
Sophie and Victoria come meet him backstage after his first show. His first real show in a theatre, and not at some bar, or church, or restaurant, or whatever.
And he’d been doing so good, not trying to look for Max in the crowd. He’s glad though, that Sophie and Victoria were up in the front row with Maman and Arthur and Lorenzo, singing along.
Brand-new car, I don't even need it
Charles doesn’t mind the fame, sitting behind a table and signing poster after poster of his face. The fans are great, the parties are fun, and the people he gets to meet are always interesting.
Charles was never in it for the fame. He’s here for the music.
You call me, I don't even see it
(Hey, this is Haiden, sorry, didn't get to this)
(I was probably too busy being famous)
Sometimes, Charles thinks he would do anything to hear Max’s voice again. Almost anything. Anything other than call.
He does know what he’s more scared of: Max picking up, Max not picking up, or finding out what Max changed his number.
So long, see you in the bleachers
My song blowing out the speakers
You left, but I won't be the one to break
Charles is the one who broke up with Max, screaming at him for loving too freely. Which is such fucking bullshit.
Charles wants to be loved by Max again. It was never stifling, even if he didn’t understand how Max could love him so much, so softly. He misses the warmth most of all.
But Charles packed up and moved it first. And he has to live with that every day.
Oh, oh
Might take Hailey from Bieber
My face on your friend's t-shirt
You left, but, babe, you're gonna wish you stayed
Sebastian helps Charles put together a back up band. So that there’s someone playing the accompaniment live. Alex is on the drums. George plays the bass. Lewis plays the guitar.
Lewis has his own music thing going on. He was the first opener for the Leclerc show, and he still does it from time to time.
They all have their own ways of goofing off on the bus, during the tour, in the studio. Each brings their own flare to the music, and Charles has always been a collaborator.
He loves his new friends.
And the crowd'll go
Sometimes the pressures of the crowd make everything feel a little hollow. Sometimes it’s the stale air in the tour bus, driving through the night.
Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah-nah, nah
Nah, nah, nah, nah-nah-nah-nah, nah
You left, but, babe, you're gonna wish you stayed
Charles wishes he’d stayed.
I'm in it for the long game
Max was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
Nah, nah, nah, nah-nah, nah, nah-nah
Nah, nah, nah, nah-nah, nah, nah-nah
You left, but, babe, you're gonna wish you stayed
Charles regrets a few things—most of them regarding his last night with Max—but the thing that keeps him up at night is the narrative he created about Max. About Emilian, his co-writer.
Charles didn’t just let the world think Max broke his heart, he told them it was Emilian that destroyed him.
He felt bad. It wasn’t true. Charles broke his own heart.
The thing he regrets the most, is letting Pierre believe that’s what happened. Letting Pierre choose him over Max without even listening to his side of the story.
When Pierre had found Charles in that empty apartment, he’d had no problems calling Max up, cursing him out, yelling over the phone, and blocking his number.
It had taken Charles a week after the release to muster up the courage to tell Pierre the truth.
I'm in it for the long game
Charles wishes he’d just let Max love him.
He’d not only lost his boyfriend, he’d also lost a friend. He’d even lost Pierre a friend.
You're gonna wait in line
You're holding up a sign
You're gonna wish you're mine
But I won't see you backstage after the show
Standing on the elevator, waiting for the lift to start up as George plucks out the first few bars, Charles wonders if Max has ever come to a show.
They’ve gotten bigger now, Sebastian even thinks Charles might be able to fill out stadiums on the next tour. It’ll be for his third studio album.
Charles wonders if Max is going to listen to the album, or if he’s listened to any of the ones he’s already released.
You're gonna wait in line
(you're gonna wait in line)
The crowds get bigger and bigger. Each venue is seemingly able to fit more and more people into the pit.
Charles spends the first two songs of every show skimming the all corners of the crowd he can see for Max’s face, for just a flash of his striking baby blues.
You're holding up a sign
(you're holding up a sign)
He reads every sign, hoping to spot Max’s handwriting. The big blocky paint letters he’s perfected to decorate all kinds of banners.
You're gonna wish you're mine
Sometimes he gets out of the tour bus and into a real bed in some hotel room somewhere.
He always feels so lonely in them, laying on a queen bed with unfamiliar sheets.
He grabs his phone.
ChaCha16
Sleepover at mine?
FullGas10
Always.
Oh my way.
But I won't see you backstage, and the crowd'll go
Nah, nah, nah, nah-nah, nah, nah-nah
Nah, nah, nah, nah-nah, nah, nah-nah
Charles takes his fingers off the keys to wave his arms back and forth to the beat Alex is putting down.
An entire stadium full of phone lights and coloured wristbands follow his head.
You left, but, babe, you're gonna wish you stayed
I'm in it for the long game
So long, see you in the bleachers
(nah, nah, nah, nah-nah, nah, nah-nah)
My song blowing out the speakers
(nah, nah, nah, nah-nah, nah, nah-nah)
Charles isn’t particularly proud of this song. Not because it’s bad, or not on par with anything else he’s written. Technically, it’s one of his cleanest. It’s a favourite of the fans—it’s a favourite of the band—and so he has to sing it every night.
He doesn't believe the words coming out his his mouth as he slams his fingers down on the keys.
There’s a reason Charles has to write at least part of every song on any of his albums. It’s because of his experience performing this one to a crowd. The experience of having everybody scream at him words he didn’t mean.
Words from the song everybody uses as proof that Emilian broke his heart, stomped it into the ground, and tore it to shreds.
The lights swirl around him, and he gasps through his inhale before singing the next line.
You left, but, babe, you're gonna wish you stayed
Charles wishes he’d stayed.
I'm in it for the long game