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Charles hides a yawn against the back of his hand before he goes back to rummaging through the depth of his tote bag, blinking wearily behind tortoiseshell glasses. He can’t wait to be home, eat whatever won’t take longer than a few minutes to prepare, and crawl into bed before it’ll even be eight-thirty.
He’s had a rough day. Scratch that, he’s had a rough week and it’s only Wednesday.
They’ve been understaffed at work for months now, what with his boss firing staff left and right whenever his mood would go South and scaring away nearly as many as he has booted, inevitably more than doubling Charles’ workload of what was supposed to be an easy part-time job to bridge the gap between graduating from his master’s degree and being admitted to a suitable doctoral program, which in turn has resulted in him racking up more overtime in the past quartal than he did in half a decade of working various student jobs.
He keeps being told he ought to remember his worth and not waste his talent, that he should’ve handed his notice in by yesterday, but with his only viable alternatives being to either move back in with his mum and younger brother at twenty-seven or take Pierre up on his offer to shoulder his rent, and with Charles not being particularly inclined towards one or the other option, he’ll be stuck in this one-way street until one of his applications is successful. He’s still hopeful to be admitted in Nice for the winter semester after Marseille hasn’t been able to offer him a place earlier this year, having claimed budget difficulties and lacking capacities.
Finally unearthing his key ring from where it somehow managed to slip to the very bottom of his tote, Charles takes a right off the pavement and onto the walkway that leads towards his apartment building.
He has no mind to watch where he’s going, though, which is why he almost ends up falling face-first onto the ground when a flash of grey dashes out from underneath the ornamental hedge on the right hand side of the walkway and scurries under his foot just as he’s about to set it down, sending him stumbling and reflexively windmilling his arms.
Said flash of grey – a cat, his brain has since concluded – leaps behind the communal paper bin and Charles shoots a half-hearted glare into its direction after he has pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. He’s admittedly a bit unsteady in the knees and, now that he has regained secured footing, can feel his face throbbing from the embarrassment of having come close to face-planting in public.
“That wasn’t very nice,” he grumbles, uncaring of the fact that he wouldn’t be understood even if the cat were within earshot. The tip of a bushy tail repeatedly swipes into sight from behind the yellow bin, so as if the cat is wagging it fast in agitation or has it raised in fear.
Charles initially wants to ignore it.
There are numerous cats roaming around the neighbourhood at any time of day or night, and he just wants to be home after the day he’s had. He wants to take a shower, eat, and maybe watch an episode or two of the show he’s been meaning to catch up on to distract himself from the fact that he has to go back to work tomorrow, and yet he only ends up walking two steps before the most pitiful meow he’s ever heard has him pausing in his tracks again.
He wants nothing more than to finally, finally be home. He also knows that his conscience won’t allow him a minute of actual shut-eye if he ignores what could be an injured cat, so he bags his keys and approaches the bin, making sure to walk slowly and refrain from any sudden movements, as having to chase the cat around the place to catch it would really put the cherry onto today.
Setting his tote down onto a relatively clean part of the walkway, Charles crouches down beside the bin before he leans over to look behind it, hoping to come across as less intimidating in this position than he would standing at his full height.
His heart aches at what he finds.
The cat that’s huddled into the back corner of the low retaining brick wall is smaller than he expected it to be – not really kitten-sized, but as far as Charles can tell not fully grown either – and visibly terrified, if its wide eyes and flattened ears are anything to go by.
“Oh, who are you? I’ve never seen you around here before,” he says, keeping the tone of his voice low and gentle.
The colouring of the cat’s fur is unique enough that Charles is certain he would’ve remembered seeing it day-prowling around the premises of his apartment building, as many other cats are free to do while their owners are at work, even if there’s no way of telling how much of the dusky grey might be dirt.
He shuffles across the rough paving slabs on his knees, but halts and sits back onto his heels when the cat backs further against the brick wall and spits a hiss at him. It wraps its tail tightly around its body and lays its ears back, its wide, frightened eyes moving to and fro as if there’s not a single thing it’s not scared of in this moment, and Charles knows he won’t be going home without it. There’s no way he could just up and leave it behind.
It’s not wearing a collar, which most likely means it’s a stray rather than someone’s runaway pet with a warm bed awaiting its return, and seems to favour its right front paw over his left, though Charles can make out neither blood nor swelling from where he’s kneeling.
He waits for the cat’s ears to swivel back into their former position before he dares a second attempt at getting closer to it, making soothing noises under his breath as he sets into motion again, and while those wide eyes are now fixated on him and the cat’s tail twitches anxiously, it doesn’t hiss or try to evade him this time.
“It’s okay,” Charles whispers, once more sitting back onto his haunches. He’s gotten near enough to touch it now, but rather than doing that and risking throwing it into a panicked frenzy, he reaches out to offer it his palm first. “It’s okay... I don’t want to hurt you, I promise. Will you come with me?”
He holds his breath when the cat’s damp nose bumps against the pad of his middle finger, and slowly exhales when it proceeds to rub its cheek against his palm, its eyes losing their hunted look and its posture slowly but surely relaxing at the caressing touch to its face.
Charles smiles down at it and takes a minute to scritch under the cat’s chin as well as between its up and forwards ears, drawing a quiet purr from it. “I think that’s a yes, no?” The cat pushes its head harder into his palm. “Come on, let’s go home then.”
He braces to be met with one last act of resistance, but the cat remains quiet and pliant when he reaches under its chest with one and cradles its hind end with his other hand to lift it off the ground. “That’s a good cat,” he whispers in praise, and reassures himself it’s situated securely in the crook of his left arm before he clambers onto his feet with only his right hand for leverage.
It does wriggle in his hold as he bends to collect his tote bag, though quickly settles with a few strokes down its back. Charles grimaces at the grime that now sticks to his fingers. “You need a bath pronto,” he says, picking a leaf from the cat’s fur to reinforce his words.
The mrrrp sound it makes comes aptly enough that Charles has to laugh out loud.
“Yes, you are so dirty. Does that mean you won’t fight me on it? Because it would be really nice if you wouldn’t scratch me bloody.” This earns him a flick of an ear. “I promise I’ll find you something tasty to eat, too.”
It’s a bit of a struggle to fish his keys from the bag with one hand already occupied, and Charles nearly drops the tote twice in the progress, but then he’s unlocking his front door and able to savour the long-awaited feeling of coming home after a long day, even if it’s later than expected and with an unannounced guest in tow.
“There we are, home sweet home,” he says to the cat in his arms, toeing his shoes off by the rack in the entryway. He deposits his keys in their usual place on the small side table and hangs up his tote, then continues down the hallways towards the bathroom, where he plugs the sink and adds a squirt of soap to foam in the lukewarm water he fills it with.
He repeatedly strokes over the cat’s back after he has shut off the tap, as it did hide its face into the crook of his arm at the noise of running water, and tells it in a low voice: “You’ll be okay. I know you probably won’t like the bath very much, but you are filthy and that cannot feel good either, no?” It meows and raises its head to chase his fingers when he scritches between its ears. “Yes, that’s what I thought.”
Charles doesn’t think he’s ever met another cat that was this responsive to either his words or his touches, but then again his experiences with cats are limited to those that live in his apartment building and occasionally allow him to pet them, and his mother’s opinionated Siamese that barely tolerates his presence on a good day.
“Okay, here we go...”
He mentally prepares for the worst-case scenario of scratched-up hands and bloody forearms, but is once more proven wrong in his assumption when the cat allows itself to be immersed in the sudsy water, making him wonder whether it’s used to being bathed from a time before it came to live on the streets, or just too exhausted and in too much pain to put up much of a fight.
Charles isn’t sure which of the reasons for its behaviour he would prefer over the other. Both have him feeling impossibly sorry for this little cat and ready to do something stupid, though, like growing attached to it without waiting to see if it’s not already someone else’s beloved pet and thus setting himself up for an inevitable heartbreak should he not be able to keep it in the end.
The water quickly turns murky as he begins to move his fingers through the cat’s fur, and while the area of its chest and stomach lighten from a dirty grey to a shade of creamy white the more grime is washed out, it doesn’t affect the dusky markings covering the upper side of its body from its head to the tip of its tail, where they gradually darken to black.
He doesn’t miss how it has pulled its left front paw to its chest and keeps it firmly out of his hands’ way, and decides not to touch it, lest he accidentally aggravates whatever injury it has. Gently holding the cat by the scruff of its neck, Charles pulls the plug from the sink and waits for the dirty water to drain before he rinses the cat under the tap, only wrapping it in a bath towel once he has made sure that there’s no residue soap left in its fur.
“All clean,” he says, tucking the towel around the cat until it’s properly wrapped in it.
It looks adorable like this, with only its small, sodden head peeking out of the makeshift swaddle, and Charles can’t resist to retrieve his phone from the back pocket of his trousers and take a photo of the cat looking up at him. The downward angle makes it seem as if it’s pouting into the camera.
He puts his phone away again, then hugs the cat to his chest and rubs its back over the towel to dry its fur. “Oh love,” he laughs, “that wasn’t so bad, was it? You weren’t even complaining during the bath!” He swears he hears it grumble in response. “Okay, okay, I take it back, it was obviously the worst possible thing I could’ve done to you. I’m very sorry,” Charles tells the cat, kissing the spot between its ears now that it’s clean before he leaves the bathroom for the living room.
Fifteen minutes later find him worrying his bottom lip between his teeth as he watches the cat explore the room on three legs, its front left paw having not touched the ground since Charles has set it down.
He contemplates what to do next. Even if the paw isn’t bleeding and the cat doesn’t seem to be in a lot of pain, Charles knows that it needs to be seen by a vet, if only so they can check for a microchip. But it’s late now, close to seven, and he’s hungry and tired and has had enough human interaction for a day, and he could always take it to the clinic before his shift tomorrow, but the possibility of prolonging its pain due to his inaction makes his stomach churn, which in turn pretty much seals the deal for him.
He pushes up his glasses to rub the weariness from his eyes as he reaches for his phone again, this time to text Arthur and make a call to the vet clinic in Fontvieille while he waits for his brother to reply.
Charles
Hey, can you do me a favour? Can you ask Mum if she’d let me borrow Bijou’s carrier, and if yes, bring it over?
The receptionist informs him that they will be open until ten and that no, of course it won’t be a problem for him to turn up without having booked an appointment first – one of the very few advantages of everything and everyone in the principality catering to the needs of the rich and famous, a circumstance which usually tends to complicate Charles’ life rather than make it any easier.
By the time he finishes the call to the clinic, his phone has vibrated multiple times against his ear, and Charles keeps one eye on the cat, who seems to have found an interest in the fringes of the woollen throw blanket draped over the arm of the sofa, as he goes back to his chat with Arthur.
Arthur
???
She said yes
Omw now, be there in 5
What do you even want it for?
Charles
I found a cat
And I need to take it to the vet
Arthur
Let me in
His younger brother greets him with an unimpressed look and a single raised eyebrow, their mother’s soft-sided fabric carrier in hand. “You found a cat,” he says in lieu of a proper greeting.
“I found a cat.” Charles makes a reach for the carrier, and rolls his eyes when Arthur pulls it away before he can get a hold of its handles. “Really?”
His brother doesn’t give in. “Where did you even find a cat?”
“Behind the paper bin.”
Arthur’s eyebrow drops at this reply. “You’re kidding,” he says, finally allowing Charles to take the carrier from him.
Charles sighs. “I wish I was.”
“Is it hurt?”
“It’s limping and I think it injured its paw, so it’s best if the vet takes a look at it. Do you want to come in?”
“Can’t, sorry. The boys are streaming and I promised them I won’t be long.”
Charles tells him not to worry about it and thanks him for having come over in the first place, and Arthur promises him that he’ll find the time to come over and meet the cat at some point during the week before he leaves and Charles is facing the task of getting the cat into the carrier.
Having learned a painful and unforgettable lesson the first time he had to do the same with his mother’s cat, he leaves the carrier in the hallway – where the cat can’t spot it – and goes to pick it up where it’s still playing with the blanket, pressing a kiss to the top of its head once he has gathered it in his arms again.
He hates how it hasn’t even been an hour yet and he can already see himself keeping it.
“We’re going to see the vet now, okay? They will have a look at your little paw, so you’ll feel all better, and when that’s done, we’ll go and buy you food and maybe a few toys if you behave, yes?” Charles keeps up with the monologue through unzipping the top flap of the carrier and folding it back, through carefully lowering the cat inside and closing the zipper before it has a chance to leap back out.
It doesn’t happen a second too soon, as there’s an audible thump when the cat does try to free itself, and then it’s yowling so loud the volume it reaches makes him flinch.
“I’m sorry, but you need to stay in there for now,” he tries to placate, and hurries that bit more to get into his shoes and grab everything he needs. Shouldering his tote, he crouches down by the pet carrier and lays his palm against the mesh on its front. Charles didn’t take into consideration that it would smell like his mother’s cat and now hopes that his scent, as new as it still is to the cat, can be familiar enough to keep it from panicking any further. He smiles when it does stop its heartrending yowling and pushes its face into his palm instead, allowing it to find solace in the touch for a moment before he stands and takes the carrier with him.
It's a fifteen-minute walk to the clinic, where the same receptionist he has talked to on the phone hands him a client-and-patient registration form and directs him into an empty treatment room to wait for the next available veterinarian.
Charles takes a seat in one of the chairs that are tucked along the wall opposite of the treatment table and deposits the carrier in the chair beside his, making sure it’s in no risk of falling off, before he arranges the clipboard on his thighs and starts to fill out the form. It’s a matter of a minute or two, as once he has written down his name, address, e-mail address and phone number, he can simply cross out most of the remaining answer fields.
Breed? Spayed/neutered? Date of birth? Microchip number? Any previous serious illnesses or surgeries? Any allergies to vaccinations or medications? Behavioural warnings?
He signs the form over the designated line at the bottom of the page, then pauses, and returns to the one field he hasn’t crossed out. He knows it’s stupidly sappy and definitely not as serious as it feels to him right now, but he can’t bring himself to not state a name. If it turns out to be a missing pet, whatever Charles writes now won’t matter one bit once it’s returned with its owner. If it isn’t, though, if it was either born a stray or abandoned to live on the streets, the least Charles can do is to give it a name.
“I can’t keep calling you Cat, can I?” he jokes, bringing his hand to the mesh at the window of the carrier. The cat’s nose brushes over his fingers. “I mean I could, but that would be silly, no?” He smiles at the responding meow. “How would you like Câlin? Since I don’t know if you’re a boy or a girl yet.” The cat purrs and rubs it face against his palm, and Charles’ smile widens. “You like that name, don’t you? Okay, Câlin it is.”
He fills in the name, then sets the clipboard aside and replaces it with the carrier, wriggling a finger through the mesh to stroke whatever part of Câlin he can reach, in this case the bridge of the cat’s nose. Charles only pulls it free when the sliding door is opened.
Having closed the door behind them, the vet moves across the room to where Charles is sitting. “Mr. Leclerc?”
“That’s me,” he says, standing up and shaking the proffered hand.
The vet introduces himself as Dr. Olivier Barthelemy, then asks for the registration form and tells Charles to bring the patient to the table in one breath, and Charles feels an unjustified stab of embarrassment at the way he frowns at the clipboard. “It’s not my cat,” blurts out of him. He hurries to elaborate: “I mean I’ll keep it if it doesn’t belong to anyone else, but I don’t know anything about it except the name I gave it. I found it outside, and I brought it in because I think that it hurt its left front paw.”
The smile Dr. Barthelemy shows him is free of any judgement, and he exhales shakily, dropping his gaze to the carrier as most of the anxious tension drains from him.
Charles holds onto the edge of the treatment table while Dr. Barthelemy pulls the carrier further towards him, opens the zipper and reaches inside to carefully lift Câlin out. The cat’s ears are almost as laid back as they’ve been when it shied away from him earlier, but it doesn’t hiss or spit or attempt to leap off the table.
“Well aren’t you a beauty,” the vet says, moving both of his hands over Câlin’s arched back in a soothing gesture. He’s handling the cat with an ease that gives away years of work experience, takes its face into his hands to examine its teeth, eyes, and ears before he turns it around and has a look at its hind end.
Charles strokes Calin’s head while Dr. Barthelemy concludes his examination in silence.
“He’s definitely a male. Castrated, and I estimate about six months old. We would need to test his bloodwork to know for certain, but I don’t have any doubt that he’s a pureblood British Shorthair. He could’ve come straight out a textbook with his complexion. Beautiful.”
Dr. Barthelemy keeps one hand on Câlin’s back to secure him in place and reaches under the table with his other, retrieving a small, round contraption that Charles has never seen before. He proceeds to move it up and down Câlin’s right, then his left flank, and Charles thinks he sees a grim expression fleetingly pass over his face before it’s replaced by professional aloofness again.
“And he’s not chipped.” Dr. Barthelemy returns the device to where he has taken it from and remains silent as he strokes Câlin’s back for a moment. “If he is a stray, he couldn’t have been on the streets for more than a couple of days before you found him. His coat and his teeth are both in excellent condition and he has not a flea or louse on him. He is at a healthy weight, but I’d still recommend deworming him, as we don’t know what he ate outside and there’s no way to determine when he was last treated.”
The vet’s voice is sober, more serious when he tells him: “Sadly, Mr. Leclerc, what I’m seeing leads me to believe that he was abandoned. British Shorthair kittens are considered an expensive breed for the regular cat owner, especially those than come with papers, and in over fifteen years of practicing I’ve never come across one that was a true stray. Never. Maybe he was a gift that wasn’t wanted, or his owner moved and didn’t want to take him along, but this is not a cat that was born a stray.”
Charles doesn’t retort that he can’t see himself leaving Câlin – or any other animal – to fend for himself in any scenario.
“Now there’s always a slim chance that he somehow managed to slip through a door or a window and simply didn’t find his way home. But given that he’s not chipped, which he’s required to be by law... It all points towards this little guy no longer being wanted.”
“It would explain why he’s this trusting, no?” Charles asks. “I was able to bathe him without being scratched, that has to mean something.”
He feels so, so incredibly sorry for this cat, who seems much too small to face the outside world on its own, and is even more grateful that he didn’t ignore his gut this time. The image that popped up in front of his inner eye during Dr. Barthelemy’s explanation – of Câlin huddled in one hiding spot or another, injured and scared and hungry as evening turns into night – made him want to gather him into his arms and never let go of him again.
Dr. Barthelemy tilts his head in acquiescence at Charles’ input. “Yes, it does. He would be feral otherwise, or at least a lot less trusting in us humans than he is, and I doubt you would’ve lived to tell the tale.” To prove the truth of his point, he scratches at the base of Câlin’s tail and makes the cat arch its back into the touch despite its laid-back ears before he swiftly turns Câlin around one more time, drawing an unhappy growl from him. “Now let’s have a look at that paw...”
Charles flinches when Câlin lets out a pained yowl and scoots backwards, his claws clanking noisily against the stainless steel of the treatment table. Dr. Barthelemy does his best to secure the hold he has on the back of Câlin’s neck, but before Charles can really process what’s happening, he has an armful of meowing cat and Dr. Barthelemy is disinfecting an angry scratch on the back of his hand.
“I know, I know,” the vet says, sounding utterly unfazed as he bins the swab he used on himself and moves around the table, “I’m always the meanest guy around.” Câlin flicks his ears. “Yes, yes, I know you don’t like me right now, but I still need to have a look at your paw before you can go home. Would you mind holding him for this?”
The last part is obviously directed at Charles, who nods.
Câlin lays his ear back and meows unhappily, but remains comparatively calm where Charles has arranged him into a cradle hold while Dr. Barthelemy carefully tests the bend of his left wrist joint. “There doesn’t seem to be a fracture in his carpals.” Charles presses a quick kiss to the spot between Câlin’s ears. “Ah, found the culprit!”
He watches how the vet procures a pair of tweezers from the breast pocket of his coat and gently squeezes down onto the pad of Câlin’s paw to spread his toes, and grimaces in sympathy when Dr. Barthelemy holds up the tweezers with a hooked thorn pinched between its ends, stroking Câlin’s side when the small wound is disinfected.
Deworming is less of a hassle than Charles feared it would be. Câlin allows his head to be tilted back and the tablet to be placed on his tongue, even swallows it without needing any incentives, and doesn’t hesitate to take the treat Dr. Barthelemy offers him once the tablet is gone.
“That would be it for today. If no one has claimed him by then, I’ll see this little guy next Wednesday and we’ll do the microchip and any necessary booster vaccinations. Do you have any questions?”
Charles shakes his head, “No, no questions.”
“Don’t hesitate to come in earlier should you notice anything unusual about his behaviour,” Dr. Barthelemy tells him as they shake hands.
He carefully deposits Câlin back into the carrier after the vet has left for another patient, and makes sure the zipper has been closed all the way before he brings it up to eye level. “You were so brave,” he whispers, smiling at the cat that’s blinking its large, round eyes at him and nosing at the mesh.
The amount he sees on the card reader the receptionist presents him nearly makes him balk, and if he does avert his eyes from the screen when he taps-to-pay, it’s between him and the cat he hasn’t expected to stumble over in every meaning of the word.
It’s past eight by the time Charles steps into the supermarket of his neighbourhood he frequently shops at. He makes a beeline for the pet supplies in the back, and is overwhelmed by the different brands and kinds of meat he’s supposed to choose from in the section for cats. Câlin must be able to smell where they are, because he meows and paws at the mesh as if telling Charles to hurry up, who laughs and says: “I’m trying to make a choice here, chéri. There’s chicken, beef, venison, fish... Which would you like?”
It's a silly thing to ask a cat, of course. He only realises he’s not alone in the isle when the elderly lady pushing her walker pauses in front of him and pats his forearm in a grandmotherly gesture. “Most cats are sold on chicken and fish,” she lets him know. “Believe me, dear. I’ve owned them for seventy years.”
Charles goes beetroot red at having been caught talking to a cat in public, but manages a smile and a I’ll believe you then, thank you. He eventually settles on two cans of each a fish and a chicken dish from a mid-price range brand that promises to be wheat free and only use organic ingredients, and because he remembers that he doesn’t own any fitting bowls, adds a set of shallow ceramic dishes to his shopping basket. They’re joined by a pack of grey-and-white fleece mice with colourful feather tails and bells in their round bodies and a selection of treats before he heads to the self-service checkout.
He's glad his mum has never asked for the litter box back she dropped off the last time he watched Bijou. He never could’ve carried everything in one trip, and he’s really starting to feel the bone-deep tiredness of the day he’s had now that the initial excitement of having found an injured cat is giving way for something much less frantic.
The wave of relief that washes over Charles when he shuts the front door behind him for the final time this evening is palpable, relaxing his posture and making it a bit easier for him to breathe. The sun is on its course to dip below the horizon, flooding Charles’ flat with warm, golden-orange light that dances on the white peaks of the Mediterranean where he can catch a glimpse of it through the window as he carries everything into the kitchen, placing the bags on the table and the carrier on the floor.
Câlin leaps out the second the zipper has been pulled back enough for him to fit through the opening and immediately dedicates to grooming himself, licking away at his front legs and paws, occasionally rubbing one over his head, and Charles watches him for a minute before he unpacks the purchases.
He decides that Câlin would need to be fed first, so he thoroughly scrubs the red ceramic bowls in the sink, then fills one with water and empties a can of ocean fish in broth into the other, and grins when he now has an incessantly meowing cat pawing at his shins. He laughs and turns away from the counter, a bowl in each hand, “What?” Câlin meows louder at that, his tail sweeping against the tiles. “Patience is a virtue, chéri,” Charles teases him playfully, but leans down to place the bowls on the floor anyway.
Câlin wastes no time to devour his dinner, making adorable little noises while he eats.
Charles checks the time on his phone and sighs. He hasn’t planned an elaborate dinner to begin with, but now it’s late enough that he doesn’t even want to handle the stove for a simple pasta dish and will be happy with whatever fills his stomach enough to last the night.
He’s slicing a banana into a bowl of multigrain cereal he keeps for times like this when Câlin suddenly leaps onto the countertop beside him. “Nonono,” Charles chides with a gentle tone, setting the knife aside to slide his hand under the cat’s belly and lift him off. “I like you very much, but I won’t like your hairs in my food.”
Câlin licks his lips.
He isn’t all that surprised to see one of the bowls already empty. “Oh chéri, are you still hungry?” he asks, checking the back of the unopened fish dish for serving recommendations. He finds that cats over six months can have up to one-and-a-half can twice a day, so there won’t be any harm in opening the second can, especially since he doesn’t know when Câlin last had a filling meal. He’ll have to buy more tomorrow, but that’s okay.
Charles eats his own dinner standing by the counter and watching Câlin have his fill, yawning more frequently now, eyes at half-mast behind his glasses.
Having put his cereal bowl into the dishwasher and left Câlin’s to soak in the sink, he sets up the litter box in a corner of the bathroom before he undresses and steps into the shower, brushing his teeth while the conditioner sits in his hair.
It’s still light outside when he plucks his phone to the charger and crawls into bed with a groan, pulling his sleeping mask over his eyes after he has rolled over onto his side – only to push it back up onto his forehead when he feels something land by his feet not a minute later.
Ignoring his half-hearted complaints about cat hairs, Câlin makes his way up the bed and situates himself against his chest as if this isn’t the first night they’re spending together. “Okay, you can sleep with me,” Charles whispers, moving a hand over Câlin’s curled-up form, reminded of the vet’s assessment about his open display of trust towards him and the subsequent conclusion that he wasn’t born a stray, which would’ve been heartbreaking enough, but most likely no longer wanted and discarded to fend for himself.
He can’t fathom how anyone can take a kitten in and care for it – long enough to get it used to bathing and cuddling and sleeping in his human’s bed – and abandon it later.
As if he’s able to read his mind, Câlin pushes his head against the underside of Charles’ chin and purrs louder.
“It’s a good thing the vet checked you for fleas, no?” Charles folds the arm he hasn’t slipped under his pillow around Câlin, then lowers his sleeping mask and whispers: “Good night, chéri. I love you.”
For the first time in weeks, he falls asleep with someone other than dread of the next workday as the last thing on his mind.
“You know what I’m going to say.”
“Yes. Don’t.”
“As long as you haven’t forgotten that my offer is still standing, I won’t. This time.”
Charles makes a flippant gesture with his hand, even though Pierre can’t see it. “Offer? What offer? I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about, you’ve never offered me anything,” he jokes, shifting his weight from one leg to the other where he’s leaned back against the kitchen counter with his phone held to his ear two days later.
On the other end of the call, Pierre snorts. “Ha-ha. You’ve always been the funnier one of us.”
“I appreciate it, Pierre. Really, I do, it’s just...”
“That you’re still in a Stockholm Syndrome-esque relationship with that fucking job. Yes, I’ve heard all about it.”
Pierre has called him when Charles was on his way home from yet another gruelling and seemingly never-ending day of trying not to lose his mind in the terrible atmosphere at the firm and fall over himself to complete the insane workload, and most of said call, which has lasted through a trip to the supermarket and him cooking dinner, has consisted of Charles pouring his heart out and Pierre being the ever-patient and ever-understanding listener.
“Come on, it’s not that bad,” he tries to argue. The attempt falls flat, even to his own ears.
Charles hears a sigh followed by ruffling, and doesn’t have to see his best friend to know that he’s running a hand over his face how he always does when something frustrates him. It’s difficult to swallow around the lump that’s growing bigger in his throat the longer the silence stretches out between them.
Câlin leaps after one of the fleece mice. The ring of the toy’s bell is loud in the otherwise quiet kitchen.
“Charlie,” Pierre eventually says, with a voice so low and soft he’s nearly whispering, “it is that bad. Just because we haven’t seen each other in, like, six weeks doesn’t mean that I’m not noticing what that job is doing to you.”
He finds his vision blurring with tears and quickly leans his head back to keep them from falling, blinking at the ceiling.
“You’re stressed. All the time. Even on your days off, because you’re worried that incompetent asshole of a boss is going to call you in and you won’t be able to tell him no because you’re worried he’ll fire you if you do. You’re in bed before eight-thirty on most day, which is insane if you ask me. I get the urge to hide from the world after a bad day, you know I do, but something has to change if every day makes you feel like that.”
Charles pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s losing the battle against his tears.
“Not to mention that I’m starting to wonder who of us has longer days – and I’m taking flights, media duties and sim practice into consideration here, Charles.”
Pierre’s still speaking softly, not reproachful or angry, and for some reason it hits harder this way because he’s right. He’s right. Charles can’t even lie to himself about it.
“When was the last time you called your mum? Or Arthur, or Lorenzo?”
“I texted Arthur... two days ago,” Charles mutters, and at Pierre’s pointed silence, musters a laugh. “I’m sorry for interrupting you. Do go on.”
His best friend sighs. “What I’m trying to ask is: when was the last time you did something for yourself? You’re out there running yourself dry for a boss who has never been appreciative and work that’s so below of what you’re actually capable of doing. I’m not the only one who’s worried that when you do crash, it won’t be a pretty sight.”
“I have no other choice!” It wasn’t supposed to come out this snappish. Charles didn’t expect his voice to tremble either. “I have no other choice because my dad wasn’t some- some hotshot architect with a million Euros on the side and contacts that could’ve bought me a job at a prestigious firm!”
Feeling like he’s running out of air, he breathes in, in, in to loosen the grip of the invisible vice around his chest and quickly clasps his free hand over his mouth when it only results in him sobbing.
Câlin pauses his play and looks into Charles’ direction, his head tilted to one side.
“Marseille told me to apply again next year. Nice is taking their sweet time processing my application and if they turn me down too then-” His voice catches and breaks mid-sentence, and he has to turn around and lean heavily against the counter, suddenly exhausted to his core. “Then I’ll be stuck here, Pierre. Stuck in this fucking day-to-day, working this fucking job that-”
“You won’t be stuck,” Pierre cuts in. “There are other universities than Marseille and Nice, Charles. I know you only chose them because you’re anxious about leaving Monaco and not because your grades don’t allow for anything else, so don’t try that route with me. I swear to God, Calamar, if the season is over and your situation hasn’t changed for the better, I’ll buy you an apartment in Paris and drag your ass there myself. Sorbonne already wanted you once, they’ll accept you with open arms.”
Charles wipes at his nose with the back of his hand, sniffles, and says: “I don’t know what’s worse, you buying me an apartment or me leaving Monaco to live in France.”
The laugh Pierre gives at that is booming.
He feels something bump against his ankle, and is quick to push himself off the counter and drop into a crouch when he realises that Câlin has come to him.
“At least you’re thinking about it. That’s literally all I wanted.”
“Enough about my miserable life,” Charles says, petting the top of Câlin’s head. “How’s Spa treating you?”
“Made it through FP 1 and 2, but I already told you that earlier. The car finally feels like it can land me in the points again, so it’s treating me pretty well so far.”
Câlin places one paw on Charles’ thigh to chase his hand. “I’ll be cheering you on.”
“I can still fly you out to Belgium,” Pierre tells him. “Just let me know and I’ll arrange it.”
“You know I have work.”
“Eh, you can always quit.”
Charles’ laugh is wet with residue tears. He scritches Câlin under the chin and the cat closes its eyes in bliss, purring contentedly. “You want me to quit my job so I can watch you race?”
“I’d like to see my best friend more than I currently do, yes.”
“What’s next? Please tell me you’re not about to ruin twenty years of friendship by confessing that you have other than platonic feelings for me.”
Pierre makes a show out of humming, as if he’s actually considering it. “Come on now. Don’t be like that, Charlie. Wouldn’t it be fun if you were around for every single race weekend? You wouldn’t even have to pay one cent for anything, I promise.”
“Pierre!” Charles feigns an affronted gasp, “People would think you’re my sugar daddy!”
“Let them think what they want, plus I’m pretty sure non-sexual sugar daddy/baby arrangements are a thing.”
“Don’t pretend that you don’t just want me for my body, Gasly. I know you.”
His best friend laughs, “Sorry to break your heart, but you’re so not my type. Doesn’t change that I’ll get you in the paddock one day, even if I have to drag you there screaming.”
Charles makes a vague noise of agreement.
“I don’t understand why you never say yes, though. You’d get a pass other people have to pay like 10.000€ for.”
“I’m not... I don’t want the attention.” He shudders at the idea of every single one of his gestures and steps being watched by eyes and cameras alike. “And do you see me getting along with people whose outfits cost more than my entire life?” Câlin decides that he’s had enough attention for now and ambles off towards the living room, leaving Charles to stand up with a groan. “It’s just not my world.”
“Would you come if you were my boyfriend?”
“Pierre-”
“Hypothetically speaking here, Charles! You can choose any other driver for that scenario.”
He rubs at his eyes. “If, hypothetically speaking, you or any other driver were my boyfriend, I’d probably work on my fears so I could support you or them like I think one’s partner is supposed to do. Happy with that?”
Something in his voice must’ve given away that his mood has taken a bit of a nosedive, because Pierre is no longer joking when he tells him: “You know I’m not trying to force you into anything you don’t want to do, right? I was just thinking of it as a holiday for you, depending on the race you’d like to see. But I understand why you feel like you do, Charlie.”
“I know, I know...” Charles sighs. “I’m sorry I’m such a downer at the moment.”
“I think everyone would be in your situation. Don’t be sorry, it’s what I’m your best friend for.” There’s a sudden commotion in the background of Pierre’s end of the line, the noise of a door opening and closing and someone calling Pierre’s name, who groans and says: “I have to go. Talk to you after the race on Sunday?”
“Of course. Give them hell.”
“Will do!”
The line beeps, announcing that Pierre has hung up, and Charles stares out of the kitchen window, at the glimpse of the Mediterranean, for what could be minutes before he finds the strength needed to fix himself a serving of the dinner he has cooked. He eats in silence, to still his hunger rather than please any appetite, and without his phone or anything else to keep him from mulling over his conversation with Pierre.
It sticks with him while he takes care of the dirty dishes and packs the leftovers into a Tupperware to store in the fridge, threatens to overwhelm him when he’s massaging conditioner into his hair and wonders if this is what life decided to give him after the years of hard work and study – a job that’s draining him more and more with every day that passes, and a best friend he barely ever sees in person.
He knows things won’t seem quite as hopeless tomorrow, when it’s Saturday and he doesn’t have to be at the firm, but it’s easy to give in to the melancholy now.
Exiting the bathroom in loose sleepwear, Charles finds Câlin doing what the cat has done multiple times over the past two days: pacing from one end of the hallways to the other, the tip of his raised tail swaying nervously as he meows again and again, high-pitched and urgent. Just like yesterday, and the day before, Charles can’t shake off the feeling that he’s calling for someone. His feline siblings, maybe, or his owner, who let him sleep in their bed and still abandoned him.
It breaks his heart.
“Chéri,” he says with a sigh, crouching down and holding out both of his hands, “it’s okay, come here.”
Câlin doesn’t need to be told twice. He turns around where he has been meowing at the front door and gallops right into Charles’ arms, who scoops him up and presses a lingering kiss to the top of his head in the hope to give Câlin the same kind of solace he has found in him.
Charles shakes his head as he looks at Câlin. The cat has been following him on the heels since he stepped into the kitchen, trying to get his attention by meowing and threading through his legs. “What?” he asks when the rustle of packaging has Câlin meowing louder and pushing onto his hind legs to paw at Charles’ thigh. “They are for me, chéri. You already had your treats.”
One of Câlin’s paws reaches upwards.
“No.”
He pours an appropriate amount of chocolate-covered raspberries into a snack bowl, and because he has never claimed that he’s not a pushover, grabs the half-empty bag of crispy cat treats from the top shelf before he closes the cupboard and makes his way back to the living room.
Câlin leaps onto the sofa beside him to paw at the bag while Charles is fumbling with its resealable opening, purring now that he has his eyes on the treats.
“You’re becoming spoilt,” he mutters, only to contradict himself by taking a small handful rather than a single treat out of the bag. He feeds them to Câlin one at a time, though.
The poster Charles has thrown together in Word with Câlin’s photo and his phone number has been hanging on the communal notice board in the foyer since Thursday, but as of today no one has called or messaged him and claimed that they were looking for a cat of Câlin’s description. He’s not on Facebook or Twitter/X, and the only reason he hasn’t gotten rid of Instagram yet is because Arthur and Pierre like to send him funny Reels, so his options are pretty much limited to the notice board and he’s fine with it. He’s getting used to sharing his home with a cat.
“All done,” he says after Câlin has finished the last treat, sparing a glance at the TV, where Pierre has progressed to sixth place in lap twenty-one of the Belgian GP.
It used to be a ritual with his dad: the two of them spending Sunday afternoons of race weekends on the sofa with snacks and a Grand Prix running on TV, his dad showing off his impressive knowledge about F1 cars and race engineering and him nodding along as if he understood any of it. His dad never said it out loud, but Charles always knew that he would’ve liked to see one of his sons becoming a racing driver, so after his attempt at karting hadn’t gone very well, this became their thing instead.
Charles hasn’t missed a race since he died, reminded of him and their time together by the motor noises and the technical talk he still doesn’t understand. He’s rooting for Ferrari, simply because his dad was a Tifoso through-and-through, nearly as much as he is for Pierre, whose friendship is the only good thing his try in karting has resulted in.
Câlin climbs over his thigh to settle in the cradle of his lap.
“Looks like there’ll be another Papaya podium,” Charles tells him, running one hand over his curled-up form and reaching for his iPad up with the other. His boss has sent a bunch of legal documents, and the e-mail they were attached to was very clear that it can’t wait until Charles will be back at the firm tomorrow.
Pierre would lose it if he told him.
The drafts are faulty, as he has become accustomed to since he took on this assistant’s position, and the crease between his eyebrows deepens the more sentences he strikes out and rewrites in the Editor. His boss easily makes ten times of what he earns per month and yet it feels like it’s him who actually ensures that the firm doesn’t collapse like a house of cards under a leadership that doesn’t seem to know what it’s doing and a workforce that’s rapidly thinning out.
Charles looks up from the iPad when the commentators’ excited voices announce the final lap and holds his breath until he sees the chequered flag beside Pierre’s name – in fifth place, just behind Piastri, Norris, Hamilton, and Russel. He cheers and applauds loud enough to disgruntle Câlin, who dozed off in the meanwhile.
“Sorry, chéri,” Charles apologises, nearly folding in half to kiss the spot between Câlin’s ears. He curls one arm around the cat to keep it from falling off his lap as he leans over and grabs his phone from the coffee table.
Charles
[Alt Text: A selfie of Charles holding up his thumb and grinning into the camera, Câlin on his lap.]
Congratulations on finishing in P5! 🥳
It’ll be a while until Pierre can read and reply to his text, so Charles turns his focus back towards the document he has been working on while the first drivers are already being interviewed post weight-in. He doesn’t pay attention to them, too confused by two contradicting sentences in a row to notice how Câlin raises his head when the reigning world champion is asked about the issues with his car this weekend.
By the time his phone vibrates with incoming messages from Pierre, the podium ceremony has been held, and experts are discussing how the tires were managed.
Pierre
Thank you ❤️❤️❤️
Since when do you have a cat???
Charles
I’m pretty sure I told you when you called me?
I found him outside and the vet said he’s not chipped so he was probably dumped by his previous owner :-( I named him Câlin.
Pierre
You 100% DID NOT tell me!!!
I can’t believe this... We used to tell each other everything... You just broke my heart...
He’s very cute tho 😂❤️
And people fucking suck, I’ll never understand how anyone can just dump their pet
Like I'd die before I’d EVER do that to Simba
Charles
[Alt Text: The photo Charles took of Câlin after he bathed him, showing the cat swaddled in a fluffy, baby blue towel and held in the crook of Charles’ arm.]
That was when I found him, had to give him a bath because he was so dirty 🥹
Pierre
Awww poor little guy ❤️❤️❤️
It’s kinda funny how Max lost his cat and you found one
Not that it’s funny that Max lost his cat
He’s devastated and people are saying it’s why he didn’t make the podium this weekend
That he wasn’t “all there” in the car because he’s so worried about what happened to his cat and honestly idk what I’d do in his situation :(
He’s obviously trying to hide it from the cameras but you can see it in his eyes :( I feel so bad for him, he loves his cats and Donut is still little
Some fuckass journalist asked him if he found him yet and he actually looked like he was about to cry :(
https://instagram.com/p/...
That’s Donut
Later, he would say that his stomach didn’t flutter, and that he wasn’t thinking anything when he clicked on the link.
maxverstappen1 ☑️ My British Shorthair Donut (Donatello) has been missing since Monday. He’s six months old. If you have any information about his whereabouts, please fill out the form that’s linked in this post and my team will get in contact with you as quickly as possible.
5,7 M likes • 690k comments • 2,5 M shares
4 days ago
f1 ☑️: #findDonutVerstappen 🍀 • 447k likes
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f1_updates: The last thing this man needs rn... #findDonutVerstappen • 103k likes
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alex_albon ☑️: Oh no, I hope he’s found soon! :-( • 72k likes • liked by author
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rookienando: This season is doomed fr, praying for his safe return 🙏🏻 • 55k likes
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lordmax33: Are there any news yet? 🥺 #findDonutVerstappen • 21,8k likes
↳ f1withjaye: @lordmax33 apparently not so Spa won’t end good, I’m calling it now • 9.523 likes
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Charles stares at the photo on the screen, then at the cat that’s dozing on his lap. Holy shit, it’s- “Donut?”
Even though he has tested out the name to himself only, Câlin blinks awake, his ears twitching attentively.
That’s Max Verstappen’s cat. He has found Max Verstappen’s cat.
“Donut,” he repeats, this time with a voice that’s unsteady around the edges. Câlin meows. “Okay, so apparently you’re Donut Verstappen...”
He has no idea what to do.
It takes Charles embarrassingly long to remember the form that’s referred to in the post, which is when he unlocks his phone and follows the link to a subpage on Verstappen’s official website. He’s asked to fill in his basic information – his name, e-mail address, phone number – and state in a few short sentences how he found the cat he believes to be Donut, presumably to sort out those who want to reach out for clout, and finally to upload a photo before he can submit the form.
Once that has been done, all that’s left for him to do is wait for someone to reach out to him, and because curiosity always tends to get the best of him, he looks up the interview Pierre has hinted at.
In the video, which has already been edited and uploaded multiple times, the Dutchman has just stepped through the paddock gate when he’s approached by a journalist. “Max, we heard that one of your cats went missing earlier this week?”
Verstappen’s face is blank, a seemingly perfect mask of professional indifference by a media-trained Formula 1 driver, but Charles can see what Pierre meant: his eyes aren’t as expressionless, the pain in them visible to anyone who wants to see it. “Yes. Donut.”
“And you haven’t found him yet?”
Pierre was right, that’s a fuckass journalist. The corners of Verstappen’s mouth twitch downwards, treacherously giving away his emotional distress. Charles aches at the realisation that the source for the man’s pain is currently purring in his lap. “No, we’re still looking for him. We’re not giving up.”
“Thank you, Max. Good luck for today.”
Today’s result is the worst of Verstappen’s 2025 season. P8, not even half a second before Stroll.
Charles strokes Câlin’s – Donut’s – back for a little while longer before he picks him up for hug. He’d love to keep him, but knows it wouldn’t be right. “I’ll get you back to your Max,” he whispers, kissing the top of his head.
He didn’t have to wait too long. Having expected it to take a few days until whoever was assigned to read the mass of submitted forms would eventually come across his, he was surprised to be notified around ten the next morning, when he had just returned to his desk with the fourth cup of coffee of the day to battle the stress-induced headache he already felt creeping in on him.
+31.........97
Hi Charles, this is Julie from Verstappen.Com. Max believes that it really is Donut in the photo you submitted with your form. Would you be alright with someone from his team stopping by to verify?
Charles blew at the steam rising from the mug and took a first, careful sip before he typed his reply.
Charles
Of course. I’m currently at work and will be until 14:00, so anytime after 15:00 is fine with me.
+31.........97
Great! Would you mind sending me your address?
Of course he didn’t mind. He sent her his address, then put his phone down screen-first and leaned back into his office chair. He never would’ve admitted it, not even to himself, but in that moment, he was torn.
One part of him – the bigger and rational part, the one that’s holding him back from simply quitting this job – was happy to help reunite Donut with his rightful owner, and relieved that his and the vet’s assessment had been wrong and Donut is loved and missed and hadn’t been abandoned after all. It’s this part that never would’ve allowed him to knowingly keep someone else’s pet. Another part of him, though, didn’t want to say goodbye to Donut, having grown attached to the cat in the five days he had him.
Charles has mulled over those vastly different emotions for hours, through countless phone calls with clients and e-mails to associates, and is now enjoying one last cuddle session with Donut before he’ll let him go home.
The cat must sense that something is up. He hasn’t left Charles’ side once since he came home from work, having butted his head to Charles’ ankles and rubbed against his legs while Charles changed into more comfortable clothing, and is a purring furball on Charles’ lap when the doorbell rings two minutes after three.
Charles lifts Donut from his lap and onto the sofa. “Stay here,” he tells him, scritching him under the chin before he goes to answer the door. He opens it with a flourish, only to feel his smile slip and his face go red at the sight of Max Verstappen on his doormat. There’s no mistaking that it’s Max Verstappen, four times and current Formula 1 World Driver Champion, smiling at him with shadows under his eyes that hint at days of not enough sleep and a pet carrier in hand.
He suddenly becomes painfully aware that he’s barefoot in a pair of cut-off joggers and a threadbare AS Monaco shirt with a bandana keeping his hair out of his face. He expected an overworked and underpaid intern with photos of Donut for one last comparison, not Max Verstappen himself. Where did he even find the time to come here when Pierre is still in Enstone?
“I...” Charles clears his throat. “Sorry, please come in,” he manages to say, moving back to open the door wider and allow the Dutchman to step over the threshold.
The awkwardness dissipates when Donut meows in the living room and Verstappen’s shoulders drop as if he’s only been waiting to hear it. He gives Charles another brief smile, then lowers himself onto his knees and calls Donut’s name. There’s the thumping of paws against hardwood flooring, and Charles hears how Verstappen’s breath hitches when the cat comes running down the hallway.
“Oh godzijdank gaat het goed met je, kom hier.” The Dutchman wastes no time to gather Donut in his arms. “Ik maakte me zo’n zorgen om je.”
Charles watches how Donut presses his head to the underside of Verstappen’s chin, and feels a flutter in his chest at the way Verstappen is holding Donut like he’s the most precious thing. He’s beautiful, shoots through his mind. The implication behind it has his heart somersaulting. Oh no. Oh nononono, Charles, no.
Verstappen’s eyes are red at their waterlines and he’s blinking suspiciously fast as he hugs Donut close, and Charles has to look away, feeling like an intruder to their reunion, like he’s not supposed to witness this moment of vulnerability.
“Dat mag je nooit meer doen, begrip je? Nooit meer.” He doesn’t speak Dutch, but the tone of Verstappen’s voice is reminiscent of a father scolding his son and makes it easy for him to smile when the Dutchman looks at him again. “Thank you for not leaving him outside.”
Charles’ heart does the same complicated manoeuvre it has done just moments ago. Oh yeah, he’s screwed.
“Was he good?”
“He was an angel. Well, for me at least. Not so much for the vet.”
Verstappen’s brow furrows. He looks at the cat in his arms. “He was hurt?” he asks, sounding so much like a frightened boy half his age that Charles’ first instinct is to hug him and assure him that Donut is perfectly okay.
He doesn’t, of course. “It was just a splinter, he was fine once it was out,” he hurries to say instead, and because he’s good at making situations worse for himself, asks: “Would you like something to drink?”
To his surprise, Verstappen takes him up on the offer.
“Water?”
“Water is fine.”
Charles resists the urge to glance over his shoulder as he goes to get two glasses from the cupboard and the water carafe from the fridge, and looks at Donut rather than Verstappen’s face when he passes him a glass, having the inane fear that he would be able to hear his thoughts should he look him in the eyes.
Verstappen arranges Donut in the crook of one arm to take the glass from him. “Thank you, Charles.”
Charles absolutely does not think about how nice his name sounds coming out Verstappen’s mouth, with his slight lisp and non-French pronunciation. The silence that hovers over their heads is heavy, loaded with something he can’t quite put a finger on, and yet not awkward. It’s cut short when Verstappen asks him where he found Donut.
“I stumbled over him more than I found him. Literally.” He smiles at the memory, “I was on my way home when he was suddenly right under my foot.” The Dutchman puts his glass onto the counter to have a hand free and stroke over Donut’s back, but his smile is directed at Charles. He’s beautiful, his mind supplies once again, unhelpful as ever. He can only hope his face isn’t as red as it feels. “I just had to take him home.”
Donut chooses this moment to look at him and meow, and before he really knows what he’s doing, he has taken the three steps needed to cross his small kitchen and is holding out his palm for Donut to rub his cheek into it.
“I’ve hung up a poster in the foyer. The vet said he’s not chipped, so I thought he was a stray until I saw your post...” Charles trails off when he looks up and realises how close he’s standing to Verstappen. He doesn’t move away, though.
“He was chipped when I got him, but it migrated and had to be removed. His vet suggested we should try again when he’s fully grown.” Max’s eyes, having held his gaze until now, dip down to Charles’ lips for a split second before they wander back up. “I’ll make sure you’ll be paid what you spend on him.”
“Nono, that is not necessary,” Charles tries to argue. He’s proud that his voice remains steady despite his racing heart.
The other man smiles at that, honest and lopsided and Charles can’t do but reciprocate it. He doesn’t take his eyes off Charles as he kisses the top of Donut’s head, and Charles swears he almost goes weak in the knees. “I’ll make sure you’ll be paid back.”
“Okay,” he breathes. He swallows heavily, then asks: “How did he go missing?”
“My sister usually looks after the cats when I can’t, but she’s on holiday with her family so I had to hire a sitter.” A shadow passes over his face, “And some sitter it was. Leaving the balcony door open and taking a day to notice he was gone. If Jimmy and Sassy would’ve followed him... They’re Bengals, you know.”
“They wouldn’t have let me bathe them, no?”
Verstappen laughs, “No, definitely not.” He picks up his glass to empty it, leaning his head back in a way that shows off the muscles in his neck.
Charles wonders if his fingers would touch were he to wrap his hands around it and quickly averts his gaze when that has his thoughts going down a more sinful path.
“Thank you for the water. And thank you, again, for taking care of my little boy.”
He manages a smile, “I’m glad I could help.”
They slowly make their way back to the entryway. Charles carefully keeps his distance while Verstappen secures the cat in the carrier he has brought with him, trying his best not to acknowledge how his chest aches at Donut leaving him.
“Okay then,” the Dutchman tells him. For a lack of better things to say, he utters an okay in return. “I’ll reach out to you about the money.”
Charles lacks the courage to look him in the eyes when he nods and tells him not to worry about it, and thus misses how Verstappen gives him another once-over before he leaves.
He leans his forehead against the door after he has closed it, squeezing his eyes shut. He doesn’t think he’s ever made a bigger fool of himself than he did just now. He knows that he didn’t imagine the looks and the smiles and that they definitely were flirting with each other, but he’s not delusional enough to believe that Max Verstappen meant anything with it. He was probably only being polite to the person who found his cat, and it happened to be him.
Charles exhales shakily, reminding himself that he’ll never see him again – but Monaco is only that big, and with his luck he’ll start seeing him at every other corner.
Charles
Turns out Câlin wasn’t a stray after all
His owner just picked him up
Pierre
Oh Calamar, I’m so sorry :(
FaceTime tonight?
An hour later he’s working on a set of project sketches, all signs of Donut’s stay with him carefully tidied away, when his phone screen lights up with one, then a couple more notifications in quick succession.
+337.........40
I know I’ve told you many times already but I really can’t say it enough: thank you so much for taking care of him, Charles. I was beginning to lose hope that he’d ever come home again.
[Alt Text: A snapshot of Donut cuddled-up between two Bengals, all three cats seemingly fast asleep.]
Jimmy and Sassy missed him a lot as well. They’ve calmed down now that he's back.
This is Max, by the way. Should’ve started with that ^^
Charles
I’m going to miss having him around, but I’m happy he’s home :-)
+337.........40
You can always come and visit him if you want! :)
It’s a nice thing for Verstappen to tell him, one could even say thoughtful, but Charles knows it’s a platitude as any other. Him visiting Max Verstappen at home because he’s missing a cat that was never his to begin with? Great joke. He’ll be forgotten about soon enough, once the turmoil of having lost Donut will have faded, and it’s for the best.
His alarm goes off at six-thirty on the dot the next morning.
Charles grumbles and blindly throws out a hand to feel around the top of the bedside table for his phone, squinting at the screen. He’s much more awake when he sees that Verstappen has texted him late last night, hours after their conversation tapered off.
+337.........40
So this might be the riskiest thing I’ve ever done (and some part of me is hoping that you’re already asleep so you won’t read this until tomorrow) but is there a chance that I can see you again? Maybe after Budapest? I’ll be back in Monaco next Monday and... I’d really like to see you again, Charles. If that’s okay with you, of course.
This isn’t happening. Sitting up against the headboard abruptly enough to make him dizzy, he stares at the message on the screen, his mouth hanging open. This can’t be happening.
Charles
Do you mean seeing me again as in a date?
He types and sends it before he can hesitate. He has to make sure that he didn’t just lose his ability to comprehend written words overnight.
+337.........40
Yes, a date :)
Charles laughs and runs a hand over his face, then through his sleep-tousled hair. This is happening.
Charles
Then it’s okay with me :-)
+337.........40
☺️