+ here’s a snippet from the omegaverse fake dating #lestappen fic i’ve been mentioning !!
Seb is humming as he sets the plates on the kitchen table, cheerful and oblivious to the small storm brewing behind Charles’ ribs. The whole house smells like butter and sugar; the morning light is soft; it should be a normal breakfast.
Except there’s Max. Max, who has no right to look at this at home.
They sit—actually, Max guides Charles to sit, light pressure at the small of his back like he’s done it a thousand times before. Charles’s hands shake just a little, so he hides them under the table. Max doesn’t miss it. Of course he doesn’t.
He pulls Charles’s chair closer to his own with a subtle motion of his foot under the table. Smooth, practiced, unmistakably intimate. Their knees bump. Charles jolts, barely. Max just pretends he didn’t notice. His arm lifts casually, draping over the back of Charles’ chair with an ease that makes Charles want to crawl under the floorboards. His fingers brush the top of Charles’ shoulder, feather-light, like they’re already familiar with the slope of him.
Seb turns with the bowl of fruit. “Eat boys, c’mon! You two are just becoming skinnier with every year, oh my word. Eat it Parrot, chocolate pancakes for you, as always.”
Before Charles can reach for one, Max is already sliding the plate in front of him—closer, closer—and cutting a piece with the edge of his fork. He speaks without looking up. “Eat it when it’s warm, darling—you like them warm. Not too sugary.”
Seb smiles, Charles would like to not notice that curve of his mouth and how proud, stupidly happy and young he looks. “Ah, aren’t you a sweetheart Max! You really pay attention.”
Charles nearly drops dead on the spot. Max looks smug as ever though, Charles hates him so much. And what’s coming after it’s somehow just worse. “I just know,” One thing about Max Verstappen is that he’s so good with his goddamnit words. It's easy to follow what he says when he bends the language just so right and makes it linger with his ocean blue eyes—Charles fucking hates every detail about him. Yes. And no. A big fucking no. Charles fucking hates how he remembers and wants to relearn every detail about him. “And it’s very hard to forget anything about him when he looks like that.”
Charles wants to get up and just run. Run and run until he forgets the first time he saw Max, the first time he kissed Max, the first time he understood Max and wanted to get—no, he just wants to run until he learns to forget Max.
There’s no time for Charles to tell him to stop this nonsense, he gives him a look but that doesn’t really make anything better because across the table Seb is giving Max those heart eyes which are screaming ‘you are it for each other and—when is the wedding by the way guys?’ So Max continues to play.
He lifts the fork—slow, deliberate—and holds it in front of Charles’ mouth. Charles stares at it, frozen. He’s going to kill himself. Or Max. Both are in the options. “I can feed myself.”
“I know,” Max says, tone light, gentle, a shade of affection that shouldn’t exist. “But Seb made breakfast. Be nice.” Charles is about to throw up. He’s about to dig a grave for two with his embarrassment and anger—he’s about to bury Max in one, then his own body.
Apparently, it seems like Seb is too far to notice any of this—Charles can see the way he beams. He opens his mouth because he has no choice. The pancake is soft, sweet, and too easy to swallow. It sits heavy on his tongue, heavier in his chest. He hates how warm it feels to be taken care of like this.
Max smiles—small, quiet, satisfied—and wipes a faint smudge of chocolate from the corner of Charles’ lip with his thumb. The touch is nothing. It lasts a second, it feels like a ghost of a gesture. Charles feels it all the way down his spine. He can’t look at Seb. Can’t look at Max either. The room feels too soft, too bright, too intimate. A lie, yes, but a lie with teeth. A lie that feels disturbingly easy for one of them. Max doesn’t look like he’s acting. It feels familiar, like memorizing something already in his chest. That’s the worst part.
Their legs brush again under the table. Max doesn’t move away. Charles does, slightly—then stops, because Seb glances at them with that warm domestic smile and Charles suddenly understands—he isn’t being watched. He’s being believed. And he is the one who built this lie.
So he straightens. He leans slightly toward Max. He tries to smile. It feels fragile and wrong, but Max softens instantly, hand sliding a little lower on the back of Charles’ chair, thumb tracing an absent-minded arc against the wood. Like Charles is something he could hold if he wanted. Like he’s done it before. (And he did. When Charles was eighteen, and nineteen was at the door, and when twenty three was just blue and twenty five was all about being broken.)
lmk what you think!! im halfway through this draft,, i hope i’ll be posting this asap :))
