Chapter Text
For Max, it started in its simplest sparks almost a year before in Qatar. It was a race like any of the others that season, swelteringly hot and wild for the markers behind him. But overall, the win was a forgone conclusion. A simple punctuation to the weekend that stood between him and celebrating his third championship.
He pulls to the placard, flanked to either side by those orange washed miracles. An expected result after the sprint before, if not a tad buffeted by the qualifying of each of the McLarens.
He moves through the motions of the race conclusion, smiling good natured at Lando and to Oscar. He had never given him much thought before, but the glow of this weekend had alighted something in his brain. Not quite sirens, no flashbulbs or alarms. Just a small simmer of a need to watch him coming forward that jolts though his nervous system as they exchange pleasantries at the end of that grueling slog.
The thoughts are fleeting though, filed away as thoughts of Charles’s finish and how their plans post-race would shake out now that he was champion. This relationship between them was new, but it was solid. The two of them coming together in a way that just felt right. A forgone conclusion, as most things had been so far this year.
Max smiles through the post-race interview, his mind completely elsewhere.
He moves on to the cooldown room, thankful to be out of the heat finally. Jokes pour from his lips as he enters the room, only to find Oscar laying on the floor, limbs outstretched, head thrown back.
He talks without thinking, eyes glued to the visage of the man in front of him. The subtle strength in the arms that flex behind his head. The bobbing of his Adam’s apple in rhythm with his chest as he breathes on the floor. The slope of his chest leading down to that small waist, pulling up into strong thighs and-
Oh my god.
Oscar throws a wry smile his way as he sighs, a punched-out sound that creeps down into Max’s belly in a way that is sure to become painful to endure. Max watches in near slow motion as Oscar’s head falls back,
eyes falling shut as he heaves another breath,
back arched slightly off the ground,
hair framing his face as he writhes, splayed out on the floor like a visage of every lewd thought Max has ever had.
He should feel guilty, he knows, looking at a man like this when he is taken— happily so—and yet…
Max barely registers the joke about the Mercedes crash he laughs at, too preoccupied by the thought of wanting to fall to the floor and lick the sweat off those pink tinted cheeks.
The image sticks, even as they climb on to the podium. Max finds himself staring hard out into the crowd, looking to Christian, looking to Helmut. It kills the heat building in his groin enough to make it through the podium celebrations.
Then they pop the rose water open. And it’s sad how little it sprays so Max turns only to find Oscar looking at the bottle with a frustration as he shakes it with the jerky motions that have those thoughts parading to the front of Max’s mind again.
Oscar’s brow line is furrowed as he celebrates, the sheen of the rose water on his hands as he jerks the bottle backward and forward.
It’s entirely self-serving and semi-unconsciously that Max points the bottle to the younger man, spraying the water across him.
Oscar looks to him, mouth hanging open in a slightly slack-jawed way, peering up through his lashes as the water comes down.
Subservient, contentedly at the whim of Max.
Oh God.
Max squees his eyes shut and thinks of Helmut Marko, the sensation of a cold shower, GP standing right next to him on the podium.
Its barely enough, but Max makes it off the podium without creaming his pants like a teenager.
In fact, he is able to keep it together until he pulls into the shower of his driver’s room. Max is just a man, a simple man with simple needs, and the thoughts of Oscar are unrelenting.
The moment the water starts he pulls himself into his hand, picturing those long lashes blinking at him from where Oscar could be kneeled in front of him. It’s easy to picture— Oscar silent and subservient below him as Max runs his thumb along a vein that stretches across the base of his cock, throwing his head back as a groan pushes out of him.
It only takes a slight shuffle of the imagination, picturing those flushed cheeks, the way Oscar looks when breathing hard, and the fantastical image of Oscar tied up, strong arms pulling against rope, skin turning that delicious shade of pink as he falls utterly and silently desperate below Max, and he is falling over the edge.
Max’s vision goes near white as he cums across the wall of the shower.
And almost as striking as the orgasm is, the near immediate despair that crashes over him is just as severe.
Because somewhere in the paddock, his boyfriend Charles is probably slugging through media so he can make is over to their hotel room to celebrate his championship. And instead of thinking of him, his amazingly beautiful boyfriend, Max is out here jerking off at the thought of his coworker?
[Max’s brain does briefly supply that Charles is also his coworker, but that thought is counterintuitive to his current crisis]
He yanks the dial on the shower over to ice cold, violently shaking his head as the water hits his face as if to shake the thoughts from his brain. A baptism of sorts, deeming him holy again.
The ice in the water is near enough to quench the guilt and arousal that still flows in him.
He thinks of the race, thinks of Charles, files away his thoughts into the neat little boxes of his brain that made him a champion.
He shakes his hair dry, pushing it under a cap as he makes his way out of the paddock, shuffling through media and debrief after debrief.
He is pleased to say that no thoughts of Oscar arrive after that, especially once he returns to his hotel room only to be ambushed by a very eager, very naked Charles.
He doesn’t think of anything but the way Charles moans his name, clawing his nails into his back as Max thrusts in and out of the tight heat of his body. Eventually ending in his mind being pleasantly blank as he falls onto the bed after cleaning them both up.
Charles’s head finds its way to his chest, propped up on his chin as his hands distractedly draw designs on Max’s exposed stomach. The small laughter Charles huffs out as goose skin follows in the wake of his ministrations reverberates through Max’s chest.
“Great job this weekend, champion.” Charles half whispers, pulling up to kiss Max in a sweet loving way. Max kisses back, slotting in easily. Two gears shuffling down as they fall into something more peaceful.
“I’m glad it was you I could share it with.” Max whispers back, smiling lightly. Charles just sighs, head falling back to Max’s chest.
“I wish I could have been up there with you.” Charles says, quiet, contemplative. Max is about to respond when Charles speaks again, is tone shifting to something less intimate and into something more akin to their race debriefs as he speaks.
“Those McLaren’s were just so fast this weekend! Especially that rookie –“ Max’s face does something weird at the sudden mention of Oscar, and he’s thankful Charles is turned away from him and doesn’t notice. “I think we’ll really have to look out for him next year. It’s some big talent.”
Max fakes a yawn, pushing the topic away as he tries to push away his guilt from his earlier jerk session. “Liefje, could we save the debrief for tomorrow?"
Charles just smiles, eyes scrunching up in the corners as he sits up to turn off the lamp and settles back into lying on Max’s chest.
Max breathes deeply, taking in the smell of Charles’s shampoo and the stench of sex still present in the room. His hand wanders up to tangle in Charles’s hair, and he can feel him smile against his skin. It’s not hard to fall asleep after that.
That night is the first time the dream comes, the one of him pulling Oscar into their room. The dream where he sits at the headboard, feeding his cock into Oscar’s mouth while Charles rides him. In the dream they take turns bossing the younger aussie around. Dream Charles taking a lot of pleasure from pushing Oscar back and moaning wantonly as he rides him— only pausing to kiss Max with a passion.
The dream is hot and usually results in him waking up with some morning wood that Charles has no problem taking care of. And Max never mentions the dream out loud, figuring that the thoughts aren’t all too damning as long as the fantasy still involves Charles.
He convinces himself over time that it is just about Charles, Oscar is just a fill in for a threesome partner. And he moves on, leaving it at that and not prying into the thoughts anymore, thinking that the fantasy is sure to dissipate with time.
Max Verstappen is a Champion. Max Verstappen is a liar. The dream keeps occurring.
-=-=-=-=-=-
For Charles it’s not a spark as much as it’s a narrative, divided cleanly into three acts.
Act one starts in Monaco, or rather in the week leading up to Monaco. The small jokes through the weekend pulling them close together. He finds himself smiling at Oscar’s jokes in the press conference, allowing himself the ability to admire the glow on the boy’s cheeks as they giggle.
Its innocent in a way. A way that is quickly ignored when he wins the race— wins his home race in his hometown in front of his people. It’s the flood of emotions of the win, his tears on the podium. Oscar is up there with him.
And Charles is a simple man, with simple needs. In the elation of the podium, he pops a boner. So, as he pulls into a small alcove between his media duties, he rubs out a quick one before some quick eyed photographer can get a picture of his moment.
He believes it must be the adrenaline of the moment, the urgency of it that has him pulling the first person that appears in his brain, the myopic lust of the win.
He pictures Oscar’s face in front of him, and its quick and simple.
The spark it ignites is quickly quenched as Charles puts himself away and moves on to the media, shaking the image from his mind and letting the whole of everything wash over him—Monaco, his home – his dream.
It feels like a baptism, deeming him holy. Deeming him whole.
He feels like he’s walking on air as he makes his way through the media, working towards the press conference room.
The media turns to him, hungry and rabid as he opens the door. He smiles as he floats past, eyes scanning across all their faces only to eventually land on Oscar’s doe eyes and pink glazed cheeks turned to watch him. A small smile crimping the edges of his lips in a blissed, almost cherubic way.
And if Charles is good at anything, it is multi-tasking—so he lets the thoughts simmer in the back of his brain as he sits and begins to answer questions.
Had Oscar always looked this good? Charles hadn’t quite paid attention to the new driver until Qatar of the previous year, and even then it was in a competitive and professional regard. But now-
His brain is an utter scramble as he talks, wrestling comprehensible answers from the emotions bubbling within him.
The question about Max draws him back. 31 points between them now, closest they’ve been in ages. Him and Max side by side in competition as in life. He smiles, responds back in that easily trained way.
He zones out, letting the monotony of the press wash over him as he studies Oscar, thinking of Max, thinking of home, letting it roll over him like water. He doesn’t untangle his thoughts till two days later when he wakes up hungover on Max’s chest, asleep on his mother’s couch, and things start to make sense again.
Act two of this budding flame arrives in Baku.
Baku is—Baku is something totally indescribable to him. It’s hard racing, lap after lap of slogging fight. Teeth bared and no punches pulled fight.
In the typical race, Charles was one to find himself annoyed with this type of battle. His urge to win and his frustration at being unable to do so would eat at him until he became more and more explosive. A standard barrel of potential energy ready to unleash, either in a wild overtake or in the pits after the race.
All that is to say, his emotions through the race with Oscar are different. The aussie races hard and races fair. Charles finds himself smiling and laughing in a semi-manic way as he is blocked from overtaking, each line different, each lap new.
The zeal of a race like that is almost foreign to him, only spotted on rare occasions these last few years when he and Max had shared the tarmac.
The race takes forever to end, yet it still ends too soon.
The Ferrari driver in him boils with small rage at not winning, but that almost disappears as he looks to Oscar, smiling wide a beam of sun across the track.
It pulls across him, a sunflower pulling to the east as his eyes track Oscar as he celebrates.
He recalls a conversation from almost a year before, telling Max in the wake of his championship that Oscar would be someone to look out for. It’s a statement that christens itself true in that moment.
Charles cannot tear his eyes away.
He watches him jump down, wander over to his team. Charles is sure that he should be doing something right now, but instead his mind is trapped in the constant stream of want rushing through him.
But then his eyes catch Max in the corner of his vision, and he rips away, thoughts diverted once again. The flow of want ebbs to a trickle.
That night when he meets Max in his room, the thoughts echo in his head.
Charles has always been defined by one thing, desire. It wasn’t enough to be in f1, he had to drive for Ferrari. It wasn’t enough to be a race winner, he had to become champion someday.
Max got that better than most. They just clicked together that way. For the first time ever, Charles had felt content with what he had, operating in that domestic life with Max.
The wanting though—it creeps into his stomach with silent footfalls and finds someplace warm to sleep.
He wants to grab Oscar by the scruff and pull him into a dark corner until that bright smile is consumed by the cover of his kiss. He wants to push him down and ride him until he cries. He wants—
Max’s breath rumbles slightly, not quite a snore but a soft sound he made when he fell into a deep sleep. his fingers twitch where they rest on Charles’s side. His face looks so young when he rests—
Charles squeezes his eyes shut and forces the thoughts of Oscar out of his head as he falls into a light rest. The want still simmers, embers floating in charred smoke, drifting on ready to catch fertile tinder.
Act three there begins, at a race like any other, on the bright streets of Qatar. A room, and two men suffering under feelings buried.
-=-=-=-=-=-
In the hotel after Qatar, Charles can’t get his brain to rest.
He is sitting on the edge of the bed, picking at his fingernails as Max digs through his luggage looking for something.
“Charles, have you seen my sweatpants?” Max asks, looking up at Charles. Charles doesn’t look up, mind elsewhere as he thinks.
“Charles?” No response. Max throughs a balled-up pair of socks at him, which finally gets his attention.
“Wha- Uh Max. sorry what were you saying?” Charles says looking up at Max suddenly, eyes locking in. Max frowns at him, moving around the bed to sit next to Charles.
“What’s going in that head of yours?” Max asks, settling a hand on Charles leg.
“Ah it is nothing—don’t worry about it.” Charles tries to placate; it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He’s hiding something, and Max can tell its eating at him.
“Char-“Max draws out, lifting the hand to rest it on his back, rubbing gentle circles. Charles looks to the side, smiles slightly, then goes back to picking at his cuticles.
“Would I-“ Charles starts, soft like a whisper before pausing, letting his head drop back to stare at the ceiling.
“I don’t even know how to say this without sounding awful.” Charles starts. “I just have this thing that’s been haunting me, and I have no idea how to even tell you about it without fear of making everything bad, You know?”
Max could almost laugh. Does he know?
“Surprisingly—Yeah I think I know.” Max says, cheeks flushing as Charles’s head suddenly swings to look at him.
“You—know?”
Max looks away, “Yeah, I have something. I wanted to talk with you about, but I was very afraid to bring up.” Charles’s hand comes to rest on Max’s hand that had fallen into his lap. Max looks at it and draws his gaze back to look into Charles’s eyes. “I don’t want to tangent though—I just want to say I get it. And I won’t be mad.”
Charles’s eyebrows scrunch up in the middle in that way that they do when Max knows he’s coming up with an idea of some type. It’s very cute, the way Max can almost picture the lightbulb flickering on above his head.
“Why don’t we—Let us just both say the things we’re worried about at the same time. Then it is not weird, and we both get it off our chests. Win for both of us, right?”
“I mean—”
“No this is what we are doing.”
“Ok.”
Charles pulls Max to the center of the bed so they are both facing each other as they clasp each other’s hands. It feels very juvenile. Max can’t help but giggle. Charles laughs brightly in turn.
“It is kind of stupid I know.” Charles whispers conspiratorially. Max snorts at it.
“It’s not stupid if it works.” Max shrugs, smiling as he uses his fingers to twist idly at Charles’s rings. “So should we count down or—"
“yes, of course. In three”
“two”
“one”
“I keep having a fantasy about inviting Oscar into our bedroom for a night because I find him really attractive, and I feel awful about it.”
“I Can’t stop thinking about how hot Oscar is and it’s making me feel dreadfully guilty because I want him so bad.”
They both pause, looking into each other’s eyes with jaws dropped.
Oh.
Oh!
“Mon deus you too!” Charles exclaims, jumping up onto his knees and leaning into Max, and Max falls back with a laugh, letting them topple onto the mattress.
“What was it for you?” Charles asks, propping himself up on Max’s chest and pulling his legs up to kick idly like a schoolgirl. Max snorts slightly at the action, blushing.
“Don’t make fun of me.” Max mumbles, looking away. Charles just smiles.
“Come on Max. if you tell I will—”
“OK.” Max looks away, flexing his hands in the sheets and he takes a deep breath.
“Qatar last year.” Max says in one breath, and Charles’s jaw drops.
“Max—”
“Do not-“ Max holds up a finger, sending a lighthearted glare his way. “Do Not judge me.”
“I am not speaking” Charles says, staring.
Max squints his eyes and after a beat, moves on.
“You know how he was on the floor in the cooldown room?”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. And with the championship and everything. Really got in my head I guess.” Max half mumbles, turning a pure Rossa Corsa red.
It’s beautiful on him.
“Wow, a year of this and I never knew! Chéri, it is no good to hold on to secrets like this.” Charles says, pouting slightly as he caresses Max’s cheek. Max gives him an incredulous look, batting the hand away and shifting up on an elbow to look at Charles.
“Oi no, you have to be just as bad! What was it for you?”
Then it was Charles’s turn to blush and look way.
“Some parts Baku, some parts Monaco, really.” Charles says with a shrug. Max smiles in a predatory way.
“Monaco? Where you were joking about adopting him?” Max says moving to straddle Charles’s hips, trapping him as his hands bracket him in over the shoulders. “Do you want him to call you daddy?”
Max says it in a joking way he knows, but something about the position and the conversation has a whimper pulling out of the back of his throat.
Max gasps, a cat with a canary. “You do!”
Charles pushes him off by the shoulder, grumbling out a “shut up, putain” as Max lets his weight carry him back onto the bed with a bounce.
He lets out a deep sigh, and Charles takes the chance and tucks himself under Max’s arm. He draws patterns on Max’s skin.
“So-“Charles starts. Max hums in response, hand twisting a lock of his hair absentmindedly.
“What do we do about this?” Charles asks, soft and a touch melancholic. He wants.
“We don’t have to do anything. We are good the way we are.” Max starts, inhaling a tight breath. “Or“
“Or?” Charles twists to look at Max, who’s grip tightens slightly in his hair.
“Or-“ Max visibly swallows, Adams apple bobbing slightly. “I could tell you about this fantasy I’ve been having, and we can invite him over at next chance.”
Charles smiles moving to nip at Max’s jaw, kissing as he goes. “Tell me, mon petite.”
Max groans and starts talking none the less.
And later that night, when they are both laying back and cleaning the cum off each other, Charles uses the time to speculate.
“Do you think his accent gets as thick in bed as it does after a race?”
Max huffs a laugh, running a warm rag over Charles’s stomach.
“No, I reckon he wouldn’t speak unless we allow him too.”
“Hot.” Max snorts, and Charles pushes out an easy grin.
“I am sure he will be at the Gala at season close. Should we ask then?” Max shrugs and makes a non-committal noise.
“Oh come on, I know how much you appreciate a man in a suit. Remember last year?” Charles prods.
“I think it’s for the best that I try not to. I think one round is enough for tonight.” Max jokes but doesn’t disagree.
“The Gala then. Do not worry, I have a plan.” Charles smiles, kissing Max a final time before grabbing his phone.
“What are you doing?” Max asks, squinting as the bright display creates a blue glow to fall over Charles’s face.
“Nothing, nothing. Just getting Oscar’s number for future use.” He says pulling up a text chain.
Charles smiles, placing his phone on to the nightstand, and curling up with Max for a quiet night’s rest.
-=-=-=-=-=-
Oscar cannot get over the feeling of someone watching him. He should really be used to it by now. The feeling of the media snapping pictures as he makes his way through the floor of the gala, but this feels different somehow.
He makes his way to his seat, second row back, and the feeling hits him tenfold, like a strike to the skull. He looks up and tries to discern who exactly is looking at him.
His eyes wander for a bit, looking out at the drivers and engineers and businessmen all socializing, networking and drinking while dressed to the nines. His own collar feels a bit hot at it all, so he tugs at his bowtie slightly as his eyes finally find purchase on the objects that are causing that odd sensation of staring.
And of course, its them. Max and Charles, clustered together in rapid conversation, sneaking occasional glances his way, obvious as the sun is bright.
Oscar wasn’t sure what exactly had happened between him and those two recently, but he did know this:
- Charles and Max were most definitely and item, even if the media didn’t know it
- They were acting weird about him
It had started with Max, ever since Qatar the year before, after McLaren’s success in the race and his own win in the sprint. Since then, Max approached him more for conversation, but there was also something lingering under the surface, something primal and strange.
Every now and then Oscar would find Max looking at him, a contemplative look resting on his brow as his shoulders would climb up to his ears, looking almost like a lion about to hunt down some pray. It was unnerving, and Oscar had no idea why it was happening.
He had brought it up with Logan, who seemed to think that it was easily explained, a simple symptom of his successes. Arthur however completely disagreed.
“I’m telling you man, it’s like a whole keep your friends close and enemies closer thing.” Logan had said, punctuating his point by waving around a fry before tossing it into his mouth, munching down loudly.
Arthur’s face screws up in disagreement. “Ah non, it’s definitely not that. I see how he interacts with competition. He is not that conversational with people unless there is something else. This I know.” he says, reaching over to steal a fry.
“I mean he’s like that with Charles is he not? They talk all the time but are like mortal enemies on track.” Oscar inputs. Arthur’s nose scrunches in disgust again.
“Yes, this is how I know.”
“You just said that there is another element there, though?”
Arthur just gives him a side eye and shakes his head before going back to eat logan’s fries.
Logan lets out a loud cackle, kicking his legs up and throwing a hand over his mouth as he tries to suppress it. Oscar just turns a beat red color, leaving the two to squabble over fries as he swallows down this new information.
He had ideas of what exactly is going on with Max and Charles, but to have them confirmed is something else. And for Arthur to imply that Max was acting this way because he felt some type of way about Oscar?
Oscar’s throat goes dry at the thought, and he shakes it from his head, choosing instead to accept Logan’s view of things. He pulls his cap on tight and makes his way back to the garage. It was competition, nothing else.
Or it had been, until Charles also started acting weird. On many occasions during the Monaco weekend, he could feel Charles’s eyes watching him, studying him in a way. It was a feeling that only got worse after Baku. Oscar felt awfully like prey, just within striking distance of a predator. Something like a specimen to be dissected.
Oscar would never admit to it, but the feeling of this want from the both of them. The feeling he was being watched, studied by these both admittedly attractive men—
It did something for him. A secret he would die with.
He shakes the thoughts from his head, instead choosing to ask Arthur about his brother’s strange behavior when he sees him next in the paddock.
And of course, Arthur is totally unhelpful, staring at him in flushed horror before scrambling away while muttering French curses under his breath, shaking his head violently. Weird.
All of this comes to a head in Qatar, when they all climb on to a podium together, and Oscar can’t get over how their eyes track him. Every time he catches a gaze, he feels flustered; an urge overwhelming him, wanting to fall pliant and malleable into their hands.
He finds himself leaning towards Max when he speaks, trying to catch Charles’s eyes. Taking every opportunity to try to make them laugh, trying desperately to not make a fool out of himself in front of the two of them. The embarrassment it spreads in him is something on its own. Watching both as they circle each other, locked into each other, magnifications of energy that occasionally shine his way. It’s not too separate from the way a lighthouse spins its light to warn sailors off from the jagged rocks ahead.
And Oscar is just a man, young and desperate. He cannot remove the thoughts of the two of them from his mind.
Every interaction is a special type of torture as he tries so hard to act normal when Max comes up to apologize for spinning him, Charles watching them both with an appraising look. Oscar feels like he’s crashing on the rocks of them.
And the feeling returns here, as he moves to sit and finds them looking again. He feels like a prize dog, wanting nothing more than to bay at their feet and listen to their commands. He wants to lose himself to them.
What
Oscar shakes the thought from his head, settling into his chair and speaking lightly with Andrea, zoning out completely. And it’s easy to not pay attention, letting the officialities go on without his notice. He takes the chance to observe Charles and Max.
The Ferrari suit jacket was quite something on Charles’s form. Tailored to perfection and defining his body in a tight but sleek way. Max on the other hand, there was something about him in a suit that just looked a little off when he wears it done up proper.
With a bit of rumpling, a tie undone and a few buttons too, it would be downright sinful.
Oscar looks away and takes a sip of his drink.
The chatting starts to wind down some as the lights dim, and Oscar avoids the eye contact of the pair as they move to their seats.
And look, Oscar isn’t stupid, but he didn’t quite put together that their finishing positions would put them right next to him. He also didn’t consider how it would put him right between them. Oscar looks up, locking eyes with Charles, who brightens and drags Max over with intent.
Oh No
Charles approaches with an easy smile, something hidden beneath it that Oscar can’t quite place.
“Oscar. So good to see you here tonight!” Charles says with his typical brand of cheer. He settles into his chair with a heavy lean, letting his arm drape over the back as he twists to face Oscar. Max stays standing, watching the two of them. Oscar finds it hard to focus his gaze, eyes rapidly flitting between the two.
“Hey-“ So Cool. Nice going Piastri.
Charles looks to Max, sharing a knowing glance before looking back to Oscar.
“You look very lovely tonight.”
“Oh I- um” Oscar says dumbly, looking down at his suit before freezing at the sensation of tugging on his tie.
Max was touching him, fingers pulling slightly at the black cloth around Oscar’s neck. fingers just millimeters from his face, sturdy against his pulse.
Oscar doesn’t even breath, back straightening as he looks up at Max. His gaze is appraising, standoffish in a way that is just oh so appealing and—
Oscar squeezes his eyes shut and looks back to Charles, ignoring the sensation of warm fingers running across his neck.
“Lovely indeed.” Max says in a low voice, Oscar’s cheeks turning a bright pink. Then his hand is dropping away, heading to his seat, but not before he sends a glance over his shoulder to Charles, conspiratorial.
Your move
“I uh- I- You look nice too. So does Max” Oscar stutters out, fingers anxiously fidgeting around his drink. The glass feels colder all the sudden.
“We know.” Charles says with a smile, cocky and sure of himself. Oscar gulps again.
“This seating arrangement is dreadful, I hope you won’t mind playing messages between me and Max, chéri?”
“No- No, not at all. I live to serve.” He means for it to come out jokingly, but the honesty in his voice betrays him. But it seems not everything is lost at the way Charles’s eyebrows raise in surprise.
“You uh- yes. Ok.” The lights are too dim to see the color on Charles’s face, but Oscar is sure he must be blushing based on his spluttering and the speed at which he suddenly becomes a model attendee, turning his attention to the stage.
Oscar was still unsure of what type of game they were all playing, but he did at least know that he had just set himself on a level point total. Oscar smiles slightly, sitting back in his chair and playing distractedly with his jacket cuffs.
“Hey Osc,” Max whispers to the side, crooking his finger in a come here motion. Oscar leans forward immediately, and Max smiles.
“What on earth did you say to him?” Max asks, pointing to Charles.
“Nothing, Nothing I swear. Just told him I was happy to serve-“Oscar replies. “In sending messages I mean.”
Max smirks again, eyes sliding to Charles, then to Oscar, then to Oscar’s lips, then back up. Flirtatious as far as it goes.
“Well of course he’s flustered. He finds you rather attractive I hear.” Oscar goes florescent red.
What? Who what? Charles finds him-? What?
His face must betray his bafflement as his expression elicits a new conspiratorial and dark look on his face.
“Why don’t you go ask him? Ask Charles if he finds you attractive.”
“I uh. Are you sure? I thought you two were-“ Max sends him a hard look that has him shutting up, “Oh yeah OK.”
“Good boy.”
Oh god
Oscar squeezes his eyes shut, taking a deep breath to quench the fire burning in his gut. He leans over to Charles none the less.
“Charles?” The man in question hums in response, tilting his ear Oscar’s way but not taking his eyes off the stage.
“Max asks-“ Oscar takes a deep breath, picking at his cuffs again. “Max told me to ask you if—if you find me attractive?”
Charles huffs out a quite laugh, rolling his eyes, either oblivious or uncaring to Oscar’s obvious discomfort.
“Oh mon beau, you are so good at listening to commands are you not.” Oscar says nothing, eyes tracing the profile of his face, mouth dry as ever.
“Tell him the room for this evening is 816.”
Oscar is rapidly figuring out what game they are playing. It’s his move.
“Yes sir.” Charles sits completely upright in an attempt to not squirm in his seat. Oscar grins privately to himself before moving back to Max.
Match point.
“Max? Charles said that the room is 816.”
“Is that so. I’ll see him there.”
“Just him?”
“Well, I think we have room for more.”
Oscar settles back, energy thrumming in his veins as he forces his attention back to the stage.
The match is settled. Oscar thinks he won.