#and it is not beta read because bestie is busy moving so sry

[toppamplemousse]

ok no one requested this but it's been in my brain for a while so. bottle ep max pov, end of summer 1. warnings for angst.

if u haven't read bottle episode then this won't make sense. linked here :)

summer 1 bottle episode | max pov, 1198 words, rated e

Charles had wriggled his way into Max’s life in a similar fashion to how he wriggles into Max’s space on the sofa. There’s plenty of space for the both of them, really, and there’s even an ottoman to stretch their legs out, but Charles isn’t doing that. Instead, Charles is squirming his toes under Max’s thighs, trying to distract Max from playing chess on his phone, even if Charles claims he is focused on reading his book. His toes worm their way under Max’s leg, and Max can feel how incomprehensibly cold they are, despite the humid summer thunderstorm outside.

Max doesn’t turn away from the game of chess at hand – he is shaping up for a nice move to capture his opponent’s knight – but rests his left hand on Charles’ ankle. That placates Charles, obviously, as if asking to be touched was too much, but wriggling his freezing cold feet under Max is sufficient. He mindlessly brushed his thumb over Charles’ ankle, mapping the bone and skin and softness of it all. 

He has to leave for work soon, and the familiar ache settles in his chest. Max doesn’t quite know when it started, the pang of emptiness when he had to leave Charles and go to work, the way he wished every minute could stretch on for hours and he could just spend more time like this, in comfortable silence, just existing with Charles. 

He doesn’t know when he became so used to seeing Charles in everything, everywhere he went.

The coffee grounds in the sink that never quite make it down the drain. The rogue contact lens case that missed the trash can. The socks in his laundry that definitely do not belong to Max because they are Armani for Christ’s sake. There’s bits of Charles everywhere, in every crevice of Max’s being, and it’s ridiculous. He wants more. He wants Charles’ clothes in his wardrobe and he wants a new place that isn’t a studio with a proper bedroom to give them space and a sink with two toothbrushes and two sets of shoes by the door, two sets of keys hanging up.

It just feels – Max can’t ever quite place it. They’ve never discussed anything, obviously, just accepted hanging out with each other more and more frequently until they started discussing times when they wouldn’t hang out with each other. It’s been one summer, one, and now–

Max doesn’t have the metaphors he would like to in order to describe it. There’s a Charles-shaped mould into which Max fits. There’s a crevice in his heart where a certain Monegasque now sits. There’s a thunderstorm outside and Max would stand outside in it and get drenched to the bone if Charles asked him to. 

He won’t say it to himself, he couldn’t, but he sees it in Charles’ eyes and he feels it in Charles’ touch and it’s written between all the words they do and do not say in the sheets in the morning when they’re too sleepy to have a proper conversation. He won’t say it, but it feels like–

“Anyone you know interested in a bar cart?” 

Max looks up at Charles, who has put the book down on his chest, then looks over to the bar cart that sits awkwardly against the wall of Charles’ kitchen. He looks back at Charles. 

“No, I mean, I can ask.” Max is puzzled at this sudden question. Charles’ bar cart has far too many odd bottles of wine and liquor on it that won’t fit anywhere else. “Why?”

Charles’ gaze is flitting across the room, looking at his furniture. Max isn’t even sure if Charles has registered his confusion yet. His toes tap in their limited space under Max’s leg. 

“Oh, you know, just need to get this apartment back to the way it was soon. Obviously the bar cart cannot make it in my suitcase.” Charles lets out a chuckle. Max doesn’t see what is very funny. He looks back at the bar cart, and back at Charles. There’s something settling beneath the green eyes now. Max is afraid he knows what it is. 

“Might need your big arms to help me put the couch back where it was, too.” Charles pokes at Max’s skin, a smile on his face. Max sits up, pulls back, darting his eyes around Charles’ face.

Max’s lungs collapse and his chest sinks and it feels like all the blood running through his veins evaporates and leaves behind a bag of bones with nothing else.

Charles is leaving.

Max always knew he was going to go back to school at some point, but–

He was delusional enough to think that maybe Max would be a part of it.

Max had tried so hard not to think about the future from the moment he knew about Charles’ plans, his temporary summer in New York. But he couldn’t help but wonder, daydream about it. Max had thought maybe he would ask Charles if he wanted to keep dating, and Max could visit him in California in the fall, and Charles could come by again at Christmas, and maybe they could go to Monaco together over the New Year. Maybe Max could visit again in the spring, two times if Charles wasn't too busy, and then they could discuss which coast to live on or pick somewhere completely new to start. 

And, and, and. 

What a fucking idiot.

The conversation goes very poorly. Max is outraged– he bites back tears and he rips the inside of his cheek with his teeth. Charles looks like a kicked puppy, big glassy eyes and pouty lips and helpless words that tear into Max piece by piece.

Charles had been insatiable from the moment Max met him, and he was foolish enough to have started believing it was because Charles wanted him for more than just a good fuck. Charles was always climbing in between Max’s legs and getting his lips on any part of skin and whispering filthy things into his ear. It’s not like Max didnt’ want that – Max loved being inside Charles, loved fucking him until he begged, loved watching him come undone on his cock. But he thought there was… more. That the way Charles intertwined their hands at night or the way he bought things because they reminded him of Max or the way his eyes lit up when he laughed meant something. 

Meant anything.

Max slams the door shut behind him. He’s so mad, so upset, he wants to tear the whole building down. And he wants to be mad at Charles, wants to hate him and hate him and hate him, but Max is the only one to blame.

Max, who foolishly believed there was something more. Max, who thought Charles wanted him. Max, who let himself get swept up by a pair of green eyes and a smile that blinded him and dimples that deceived him. 

Max cries the whole walk home, but New York City streets have seen much stranger sights. Sniffling, sobbing, wiping his nose against his sleeve. 

The thunderstorm rages on. He gets drenched to the bone. Charles did not ask him to.