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Charles Leclerc woke up because his face wasn't attached to his body anymore.
That was the first clue.
The second clue was that his mouth felt like a pillow stuffed full of socks, and also maybe bees. And the third clue—very important—was that the ceiling was moving.
"Hhhhwhaat the fuck," Charles thought heroically.
He opened his eyes. It was like trying to lift two enormous wet sponges glued to his eyelids. His vision swam. Everything was bright. Glowy. Shiny. Like he was inside a snow globe that had been filled with anaesthesia gas and shaken by angels.
He blinked, or at least attempted a blink. It might've been a slow, confused squint. Same difference.
"Am I dead?"
"Am I bread?"
"Am I a lettuce?"
The thoughts came one after another, a freight train of confusion. He reached up a hand to touch his face but found it sluggish, like trying to move underwater. His hand slapped his own forehead with a soft 'plap.'
Somewhere in the distant, misty world beyond his eyeballs, a nurse appeared. She was holding a clipboard. She smiled at him in the way people smile at hamsters.
"Charles," she said brightly. "You're all done with surgery! You did so well!"
Charles opened his mouth to respond but what came out was "hrrrrfffthgggrrttthhhh," which, if translated, meant something like "Thank you, beautiful goddess of the clipboard."
She patted his shoulder gently, possibly to make sure he didn't float away like a balloon. "We'll have your friend come get you soon, okay?"
Charles nodded. Or maybe his head just wobbled on its own like a bobblehead on a dashboard. The nurse tucked a blanket around him, like a child at naptime.
And then—
AND THEN—
She left.
Charles was alone.
Alone, adrift, like a brave little marshmallow man on a river made of anaesthesia and dreams.
He stared at the ceiling.
The ceiling stared back.
He wondered briefly if he had become a pancake. Maybe a very handsome pancake. Maybe the handsomest pancake.
And then—
The door opened.
And into the room walked a man.
Not just any man.
The man.
Tall, tanned, curly hair, grin like a slice of sunshine through storm clouds. Wearing a hoodie that said "Honey Badger" on it. (Charles read it upside down. It took him three minutes.)
Charles blinked at him. The man grinned wider.
"Hey, mate!" the man chirped, voice cracking like a teenager's. "How you feeling?"
Charles' brain spat out one conclusion:
Daddy.
Daddy had come to save him.
It made so much sense. Daddy always saves the handsome pancakes. That was basic physics.
The man came closer, hands outstretched, like he was worried Charles might collapse or explode or both. "Name’s Danny, remember? I’m your friend."
Charles squinted suspiciously. "Daaaddy?"
Danny—Daddy—made a face like he had just bit into a lemon but was trying to be polite about it.
"Close enough," he said, ruffling Charles' hair. "But Max is gonna fucking kill me if you keep calling me that."
Charles froze.
The world froze.
Even the ceiling stopped breathing.
A new character had entered the lore: Max.
Max.
Max.
Who was Max?
Why did Max sound so important?
Why did Charles' stomach flip over like a dying fish at the sound of that name?
He didn't know who Max was. He didn't know what a Max looked like. Max could be a chair. Max could be a balloon. Max could be an entire concept.
But Charles did know—with the solemn certainty of a drunk man talking about the moon at 3am—that he wanted to see this Max person.
Preferably naked.
Preferably soon.
He stared up at Daddy-Danny, his drugged-up brain firing on one and a half neurons. His tongue lolled out of his mouth slightly.
"Maxxxxx..." Charles said dreamily.
Danny looked horrified.
"Oh, mate," Danny said, ruffling Charles' hair again like a dog that had wandered into traffic. "You are so fucked."
Charles sighed, long and heavy, like a woman in a soap opera missing her long-lost lover. His eyelids fluttered shut as visions of a blurry, vague, impossibly hot Max swirled behind his eyes.
He was pretty sure Max had abs.
And thighs.
And arms strong enough to carry him like a sack of flour.
And maybe—maybe—wings?
Maybe Max was an angel.
Yeah. That felt right.
An angel sent to take care of Charles Leclerc, the Handsomest Pancake.
Charles reached up blindly, grabbing at the air like a child trying to catch bubbles. "Bring me...to Maxxxxxx..." he croaked, voice cracking dramatically.
Danny wheezed a laugh so loud a nurse peeked in to make sure Charles hadn’t coded.
"Okay, okay, Romeo," Danny said, wiping tears from his eyes. "Let's get you home before you start writing him love poems."
Charles didn’t hear him.
He was too busy dreaming about Max.
And all the beautiful naked possibilities Max might offer.
The nurse came back.
Or maybe it was a new nurse.
Or maybe Charles was seeing double.
Or maybe there were now two hospitals stacked on top of each other like pancakes because the universe loved pancakes just as much as Charles loved pancakes.
(He was pretty sure he was still a pancake. A very handsome one.)
The nurse smiled at him again — so bright, so nice — and then there were suddenly more people. A swarm. A herd. A full rugby team of nurses and aides and maybe a guy from maintenance too.
"We’re going to help you into a wheelchair, okay Charles?" someone said.
Charles gave a regal nod. His head flopped sideways onto his own shoulder like a melting snowman. "I trust you, chair people," he mumbled into his hoodie.
He was manhandled — gently but with the unmistakable air of people who knew how to move large unconscious bodies — into a wheelchair. His legs flopped out uselessly in front of him, one sock hanging halfway off his foot like a sad flag.
Someone handed the handles of the chair to Daddy.
Daddy—no, Danny—cackled under his breath and started wheeling Charles out into the hospital hallway.
Everything was so bright.
So busy.
So... loud?
There were people—actual people, standing around, holding up their phones like little pixelated suns. Some of them were taking pictures.
Charles squinted, confused. "Hhuh?"
"Yeah, mate," Danny said, steering him expertly past a confused old man on a walker. "You’re a bit famous, remember?"
Charles blinked slowly. His brain—his one, single brain cell—made an executive decision.
"Must be because I'm so handsome," Charles slurred with great dignity.
Danny lost it. He actually bent over the chair laughing, pushing it forward blindly while howling like a dying hyena.
Charles, never one to waste an opportunity, lifted his arm and tried to wave. Mostly, he just flapped his wrist like a fish out of water.
"Am I..." Charles said solemnly, looking up at Danny with glassy, pleading eyes, "...the handsomest pancake?"
Danny didn't even hesitate. "Sure, mate," he said through hiccuping laughter. "You’re the handsomest fucking pancake the world’s ever seen."
Charles beamed.
The hallway spun a little from the force of his smile.
Danny, still wheezing, pushed the wheelchair faster, zigzagging past nurses and posters that Charles was pretty sure were telling him to floss or else die.
They came to a stop at a large desk — billing, according to a sign that looked like it had been printed by someone very angry about fonts. Danny leaned over the desk, talking to a woman who looked at Charles with a tight professional smile like she, too, had seen some shit today.
Charles wasn’t listening.
Because—
Because—
Standing next to Danny at the desk was a man.
Not just a man.
The man.
Tall. Strong. Broad shoulders under a black hoodie. Wild dirty-blond hair curling at the edges like he lived in the sea and the sun blessed him personally every morning. Hands that looked like they could catch lightning. And blue eyes—
Oh.
Oh.
Those eyes.
Those were the eyes that poets wrote about. Those were the eyes that could make a man think about marriage and taxes and sharing a Netflix account.
Charles forgot how to breathe.
Charles forgot how to exist.
The man looked at him.
LOOKED. AT. HIM.
Charles, king of pancakes, immediately short-circuited.
Does he have abs? Charles thought wildly. He has to have abs. No one looks like that without abs. It’s illegal.
Charles leaned sideways dangerously in his wheelchair, peering at the man’s stomach with all the subtlety of a drunk raccoon.
Danny noticed just in time, grabbed Charles' head, and gently pushed it upright again like fixing a wobbly doll.
The man — the glowing, beautiful angel-man — was talking quickly to the receptionist. His voice was low and warm, like a hot shower on a rainy day. Charles caught snatches: insurance, payment, sign here.
Then—
The man turned to Danny.
Charles tried to compose himself but ended up just gaping like a stunned goldfish.
"I'll take him," the man said, pointing at Charles.
Charles felt this statement in his soul.
Charles wanted to be taken.
Taken somewhere warm.
Taken somewhere private.
Preferably without clothes involved.
Danny gave a suspiciously innocent shrug. "Sure, mate. I’ll get the car and pull it up front. You handle...uh, Pancake Prime here."
Before Charles could demand clarification on whether Pancake Prime was a title or a governmental position, the tall beautiful man took over the wheelchair handles from Danny.
Their hands brushed for a second.
Electricity.
Fireworks.
A deep, sacred knowledge that if this man asked him to rob a bank right now, Charles would say yes.
The man crouched down to Charles’ level, those blue eyes crinkling at the corners with worry. "You okay, liefje?" he asked gently.
Charles' mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
Not even a wheeze.
Just pure, unfiltered awe.
The man smiled — a small, careful smile like he knew exactly how fragile Charles was right now — and started pushing the wheelchair toward the exit while Danny jogged away down the hall to fetch the car.
Charles sagged back into the chair, stunned, smitten, and completely convinced that this man was either his guardian angel, his future husband, or possibly the god of abs.
Maybe all three.
The beautiful man — the Hotman, capital H — expertly wheeled Charles through the automatic doors.
The sunshine hit Charles’ face like a blessing from the gods.
He immediately began squinting like a suspicious baby.
It was so bright.
So bright.
Too bright.
"Ugh," Charles groaned and tried to burrow under the thin blanket on his lap.
Hotman didn't seem to mind.
Hotman laughed — a low, fond rumble of a laugh that vibrated all the way through Charles' spine like an overly tuned guitar string.
Then, suddenly, Charles was being scooped up.
SCOOPED.
Two big, warm, sturdy arms lifting him under the armpits, bridal style if bridal style was done very badly and in public and Charles was mostly deadweight.
"Up we go," Hotman muttered with that same patient tone used on badly-behaved toddlers and small dogs.
Charles didn’t resist.
He flopped.
He trusted Hotman.
Hotman was love.
Hotman was life.
Somehow — through sheer brute force, probably — Hotman manoeuvred Charles into the backseat of a sleek black car. Charles oozed bonelessly onto the leather seats like butter melting off a hot pancake.
"Don't move," Hotman said, buckling him in like Charles was some very important oversized toddler.
Charles beamed up at him.
Then Hotman shut the door gently (like he didn’t trust Charles not to fling himself into traffic if left unattended) and got into the passenger seat.
Meanwhile, Daddy — no, Danny — was already sliding behind the steering wheel, looking absolutely fucking terrified.
The car started rolling forward.
Charles watched the city blur past the window, his brain making the little Windows XP loading noise in the background.
About twenty seconds in, he remembered something Very Important.
"Daddy," Charles said, solemnly, from the backseat.
Danny stiffened at the wheel. "Mate," he hissed.
Hotman slowly turned his beautiful head to stare at Danny, expression freezing like a lion who just heard his prey squeak in the bushes.
Charles was oblivious.
He was a happy pancake in a happy car.
"Daddy," Charles said again, louder this time, tugging at the seatbelt like it was a leash. "Can we get ice cream? I want... the green one. The green one that taste like... like... like trees. Mint?"
Danny cleared his throat violently. "Yeah, sure, buddy," he said in a voice so tense it could have been used to tow an 18-wheeler.
Hotman was still staring at him.
Laser eyes.
Blue death beams.
Charles, king of obliviousness, clapped his hands weakly. "YAY! Daddy's the best!" he chirped.
The car swerved a little as Danny’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel.
Hotman finally snapped. "Why is he calling you Daddy?" Hotman barked.
Danny immediately barked back, "Because he’s high as fuck, obviously!"
"You didn’t correct him?!" Hotman sounded personally betrayed.
"I TRIED!" Danny said. "But then he asked for ice cream and I panicked!"
Charles, meanwhile, was now gently licking the air and pretending it was mint ice cream.
He was deeply unbothered.
This was his world now.
They were just living in it.
The Hotman and Daddy were full-on arguing now — sharp words flying back and forth like boomerangs.
Charles caught bits of it: "responsibility" — "he's a grown adult!" — "YOU WERE LETTING HIM CALL YOU DADDY IN FRONT OF ME??!" — "HE THINKS I'M AN ICE CREAM DISTRIBUTOR, NOT HIS FATHER FIGURE, CHILL!"
Charles decided this was none of his business.
He turned his face back to the window.
The road outside rushed past in dizzying smears of concrete and glass.
I’ve driven here before, Charles thought, squinting.
Definitely. Yup. I know this place.
There was a little twisty bit of road up ahead, and Charles was SURE he had taken it at like... 300 kilometres an hour. Maybe more. Maybe while screaming. Maybe while overtaking three cars at once. Maybe while hallucinating a rainbow.
Or maybe he was confusing it with Mario Kart.
Who could say?
He leaned forward conspiratorially toward the front seat. "I have... driven here," he whispered to no one in particular. "Very fast. Very zoom."
Neither Hotman nor Daddy acknowledged him.
They were still busy verbally killing each other in the front seat.
Charles nodded seriously to himself.
Very fast. Very zoom.
Maybe he should buy a horse.
Yeah.
A horse.
The car jerked a little as Daddy — Danny — slowed down.
Charles blinked slowly, like a turtle seeing a UFO.
Outside the window was a fluorescent wonderland: an ice cream shop glowing in pastel lights like a beacon for the clinically insane.
"Get him something cold. Maybe it'll sober him up," Hotman muttered, already unbuckling his seatbelt.
"With pleasure," Danny said grimly, before flinging open the door and stomping toward the shop like an exhausted single father.
Charles craned his neck around to watch him go, squinting at the road again.
This particular stretch of asphalt looked suspiciously familiar.
Charles squinted harder, until his whole face crinkled like a sad raisin.
"I'm pretty sure... my car died here once," he announced gravely.
Hotman turned in his seat and looked back at him, amused. "Your car died?"
"Yeah," Charles said, frowning importantly. "It stalled. Dieded. Like—like when a bird falls out of the sky. Pfft."
He made an exaggerated nosedive motion with his hand, complete with sad crash noises.
Hotman chuckled, and the sound made Charles' heart do a little somersault in his chest.
Oh no.
Ohhhhhh no.
Hotman was really, really pretty.
Like magazine cover pretty.
Like "crash-your-car-into-a-lamp-post" pretty.
Like "start-writing-terrible-love-poetry" pretty.
Charles blinked owlishly up at him.
Then he gasped.
Loudly.
Dramatically.
"Are you single?!" Charles demanded.
Hotman startled, laughing. "Uh, no," he said, shaking his head.
Charles' face immediately crumpled like a sad paper bag.
"Oh," he said, lip wobbling. "Are you in love with your partner?"
Hotman's smile softened. "Yeah, very much," he said quietly.
Charles' lip trembled harder.
And then — with absolutely zero warning — he started crying.
Like, full body sobbing.
Ugly hiccuping sniffles.
One lonely tear rolling dramatically down his cheek like he was in a soap opera.
Hotman went from amused to horrified in 0.2 seconds.
"Hey, hey, no, don't cry," Hotman said, panicked, immediately throwing open his door and climbing into the backseat next to him.
"You have love and I don't!" Charles wailed.
"You literally have a husband," Hotman said, baffled, reaching over to pat his head awkwardly like a malfunctioning robot.
Charles didn't listen.
He was busy spiraling into despair.
"You're even more dumb when you're high," Hotman said affectionately, smoothing Charles' sweaty curls back from his forehead.
Charles sniffled and blinked up at him.
"I'm pretty sure I'm the same amount of dumb all the time," he said thoughtfully.
Hotman barked out a laugh. "Yeah, probably."
Charles brightened a little at the laugh, feeling it sink straight into his chest like sunshine.
Hotman had a good laugh.
The kind that made flowers grow and birds sing and ugly crying French boys stop ugly crying.
Charles wiped his nose dramatically on the sleeve of his hoodie. "When's Daddy coming back?" he asked pitifully.
Hotman smiled slyly. "Daddy went to get the milk," he said.
Charles paused.
Frowned.
Squinted suspiciously.
"Nooo," he said, wagging a finger accusingly. "Daddy went to get ice cream."
"What's the difference between ice cream and milk?" Hotman asked, tilting his head.
Charles' eyes widened like he'd just been hit by angels.
"They're both dairy!" he gasped.
Hotman smirked. "Exactly."
Charles nodded solemnly, as if Hotman had just solved the great mysteries of the universe.
Then — with all the grace and dignity of a half-baked toddler — Charles reached out and poked Hotman's face.
Right in the cheek.
Boop.
Hotman blinked.
"Would you hate me if I became a homewrecker?" Charles asked seriously.
Hotman snorted. "In this particular case? No."
Charles grinned.
The kind of grin that would get him punched in most social settings.
He poked Hotman's cheek again — boop — and sighed dreamily.
"Your face is illegal," Charles declared.
"Illegal?" Hotman asked, raising a brow.
"Yeah. Like... like high-speed racing." Charles wobbled his hands to emphasise the sheer speed and danger.
Hotman smirked wider. "You do high-speed racing for a living, you know."
Charles thought about it.
Squinted.
Nodded sagely. "Yeah yeah I remember. I drive the horse."
Hotman burst out laughing.
Real, belly-shaking laughter.
Charles stared at him like he was witnessing the birth of a new star.
Heavens, he loved that sound.
If he could bottle it up and drink it, he would.
Hell, he’d inject it straight into his veins.
Hotman laughed so hard he had to wipe tears from the corner of his eyes.
Charles beamed at him, heart swelling like a marshmallow in the microwave.
Life was beautiful.
Daddy was getting ice cream.
Hotman was laughing.
Charles was maybe a horse racer.
All was right in the world.
Charles was still basking in the glorious afterglow of Hotman's laughter when a terrible, devastating, world-ending thought struck him.
He gasped sharply, clutching Hotman's sleeve.
Hotman blinked down at him, amused. "What's wrong now, mon petit désastre?"
Charles' bottom lip trembled with the weight of his own suffering.
"Can I kiss you?" Charles whispered, voice wobbling, eyes enormous and earnest.
Hotman’s eyebrows shot halfway up his forehead.
He bit the inside of his cheek, fighting a smile.
"You still have gauze stuffed in your mouth, baby," Hotman said gently, reaching up to brush a curl off Charles' forehead.
Charles stared at him.
Frozen.
Processing.
And then—
The tears came back.
A full tidal wave.
Charles burst into fresh, heartbreaking sobs, clutching Hotman’s jacket like it was the last floaty on the Titanic.
"I caaaaaan't even kiss you!" he wailed, as if personally affronted by the entire dental profession.
Hotman's face crumpled with fondness.
He slid closer, wrapping Charles up in a hug so tight and warm that Charles immediately sagged against him like a sleepy kitten.
"Shhhh, shhh," Hotman whispered, petting his hair softly. "It's okay, liefje. I'll kiss you later, when we get home, okay?"
Charles hiccupped.
Sniffled.
Tilted his head up, eyes huge and shining like he was a Disney princess in distress.
"Home?" he asked, voice small and cracked.
Hotman smiled so gently it could've stitched the broken seams of the universe.
"Yeah, home," he said, pressing a featherlight kiss to Charles' forehead, right between his messy curls.
Charles immediately stopped crying.
Completely.
As if Hotman had a secret "OFF" button tucked somewhere in Charles’ hairline.
He blinked dazedly at Hotman.
Then he frowned.
"But—but—what about your partner?" he mumbled through the gauze, looking heartbreakingly concerned.
Hotman snorted softly, stroking Charles' cheek with the back of his fingers.
"My partner will be fine," he said, amusement dancing in his bright blue eyes.
Charles nodded, looking very serious. "If they leave you, I’ll marry you instead," he said solemnly, reaching up and patting Hotman’s chest like he was making a blood pact.
Hotman barked a soft laugh, eyes going crinkly at the corners, pure warmth radiating from every inch of him.
"Thank you, schatje," he murmured.
Charles froze.
Squinted suspiciously.
"What's a 'schatje'?" he demanded, trying to look intimidating but failing because he was still wrapped around Hotman like a koala.
Hotman just smiled and leaned in closer.
Their noses brushed.
Their breaths mingled.
And then, with the kind of gentleness that could shatter worlds, Hotman placed a kiss on the tip of Charles' nose.
Soft.
Warm.
Tender.
"It means sweetheart," Hotman whispered against his skin.
Charles' heart exploded into confetti.
He melted into Hotman's chest with a sigh so dramatic it could've won an Oscar, holding on like he never wanted to let go.
Somewhere, very distantly, Charles thought that maybe—just maybe—he was already very, very in love.
Whoever Hotman's partner was, they must be the luckiest person in the whole wide world.
The car door slammed shut as Daddy—no, Danny—climbed back into the driver's seat, a plastic bag crinkling in his lap.
Danny twisted around, flashing a lopsided grin at them. "Got your stupid ice cream, Charles," he said. "Mate, you staying back there, or are you going to act like a normal adult?"
Hotman tightened his arms around Charles, who was half-melted into his side like a marshmallow in the sun.
"Yeah," Hotman said, lazily. "I'm staying. Deal with it, Daddy."
Charles giggled.
He liked when Hotman called Danny 'Daddy' too.
It made the world feel extra stupid and sparkly.
Charles' eyes locked onto the bag Danny had tossed into the passenger seat.
The ice cream was calling to him.
Like a siren song.
Like destiny.
He reached out with both hands, grabbing at the air like a sad little crab.
"Non...," Hotman murmured, catching Charles' wrists easily.
Charles blinked up at him, lip wobbling.
"No ice cream until we get home, liefje," Hotman said, voice so soothing it could've lulled a tiger to sleep.
Charles processed this devastating betrayal in real-time.
His face crumpled.
His mouth opened in a silent scream.
The heartbreak was so profound that he looked personally victimised by the entire concept of delayed gratification.
Before Charles could start sobbing again and flooding the backseat, Hotman leaned in and—
Softly.
So softly.
Placed the tiniest, sweetest kiss on Charles' puffy, gauze-stuffed lips.
Charles froze.
His brain short-circuited.
For a moment, there was no Earth.
No ice cream.
No Daddy Danny.
Only Hotman's lips, brushing his own like a whispered secret.
Charles’ entire soul lit up like a Christmas tree being electrocuted.
Danny gagged from the front seat. "Oh my goodness, get a room. No PDA in the hostage vehicle, PLEASE."
Hotman didn't even flinch.
"Then stop staring at us through the rearview mirror, Daniela," he said smoothly, smirking against Charles’ forehead.
"I'm trying to drive us home, you assholes!" Danny barked.
But Charles barely heard them.
He was too busy grinning like a maniac, his entire body vibrating with happy chemicals.
Hotman chuckled lowly and leaned in again, placing another kiss—this time right on Charles' gloriously puffed-up, numbed bottom lip.
Charles squeaked.
Actually squeaked.
Like a damn chew toy.
It was the happiest sound ever made in human history.
His heart somersaulted into another dimension.
"I love you," Charles blurted out, absolutely high out of his mind and floating.
Hotman didn’t miss a beat.
"I love you," he whispered back, smiling so softly it could've melted Antarctica.
Charles gasped.
Drama exploding behind his eyes.
"I love you more!" he cried, clutching Hotman's hoodie with both fists like he needed to physically anchor himself to this perfect, stupidly gorgeous man.
Hotman laughed under his breath.
Leaned in close.
Pressed their foreheads together.
"Impossible," Hotman murmured.
And for a moment—for a long, sweet, fuzzy moment—Charles felt weightless.
Like he was being cradled by the universe itself.
Outside, Danny grumbled something about quitting babysitting forever.
Inside, Charles thought that maybe, just maybe, life was made up of small, stupid moments exactly like this.
Warm arms.
Butterfly kisses.
Whispered "I love you"s.
And the prettiest Hotman in the world, holding him like he was the most precious thing ever made.
Charles sighed happily.
He forgot all about the ice cream.
He forgot about the gauze.
He forgot that he didn’t even know the Hotman's name yet.
All he knew was that he was in love.
Hopelessly.
Stupidly.
Eternally.
And Hotman—whoever he was—loved him right back.
The car hummed along the road, Danny muttering death threats at potholes under his breath, the plastic bag of ice cream squished against the gearshift.
In the backseat, Charles was very, very busy.
He was lying sideways across the seat, half on Hotman’s lap, blinking up at him like he had just discovered the eighth wonder of the world.
A single, devastatingly important question bloomed in Charles' mind like an overfertilized cactus.
He opened his mouth and asked it.
Loudly.
With passion.
"Do you have abs?"
The words echoed through the car like a gunshot.
Danny audibly choked.
Hotman tilted his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Maybe," Hotman said, voice all warm and smug. "Do you want to see?"
Charles gasped so hard he nearly inhaled his own tongue.
His eyes went huge.
His hands flailed.
"YES!" Charles cried, full of desperate, unfiltered need.
Danny screeched from the driver's seat. "NO HE DOESN'T WANT TO SEE, GOODNESS, CHARLES."
Charles ignored Danny with the pure dedication of a man who had never once followed a logical instruction in his life.
"I wanna touch," Charles said dreamily, hands already groping the air like a drunk raccoon reaching for shiny garbage.
Danny let out a guttural noise that sounded like a dying moose.
"I swear," Danny hissed, slamming his palm against the steering wheel. "If either of you strips in this car, I am abandoning you at the nearest ditch."
Hotman just chuckled, way too calm for someone being threatened with roadside abandonment.
"Relax, Danny," Hotman said lazily. "I'm not showing anything. Yet."
Danny actually screamed into the windshield.
Meanwhile, Hotman caught Charles' flailing hand in one of his own, grinning down at him like he was the cutest thing on Earth (which, to be fair, he absolutely was).
"Here," Hotman said, lifting his hoodie a little and guiding Charles' hand underneath.
Charles' fingers touched warm, firm skin.
His whole brain lit up like Times Square.
He gasped.
Loudly.
So loudly that Danny muttered a prayer for strength.
Beneath his fingertips, Charles could feel them.
Abs.
Real ones.
Not the kind you got from laughing too much at memes, but the serious, carved-by-angels kind.
The kind that felt like they could deflect a small missile.
"Oh my goodness, You are so hard," Charles whispered reverently, as if Hotman's abs were the holy grail.
He dragged his palm clumsily over the muscles, eyes wide.
He clutched Hotman's hoodie with both hands and stared up at him, awestruck.
"I need to marry you," Charles declared, utterly sincere.
"Marry...my abs?" Hotman teased, dimples flashing.
"Yes," Charles said, nodding so hard his whole body wobbled. "Marry...everything."
Danny slammed his forehead against the steering wheel.
"I'm never driving you idiots again," Danny groaned.
Charles didn’t hear him.
He was too busy staring at Hotman like he hung the stars and invented Nutella.
"Abs husband," Charles mumbled, still petting Hotman's stomach like it was a precious artifact.
Hotman threw his head back and laughed, the sound low and warm and so good it made Charles' chest feel like it was wrapped up in sunshine.
Danny gagged dramatically.
"If you guys start making out back there, I’m taking a hostage video and sending it to your parents," he barked.
"Which one?" Hotman asked innocently.
Danny shrieked.
Charles just giggled helplessly, still half-buried in Hotman's hoodie, drunk on love, anaesthesia, and ab muscles.
In that exact moment, Charles decided two things with absolute certainty:
One—he was going to marry this Hotman.
Two—he was going to lick those abs one day.
Maybe not today.
Maybe not tomorrow.
But someday.
And it was going to be glorious.
He fell asleep against Hotman's chest, smiling so hard his face hurt, dreaming of abs, ice cream, and weddings with really, really short shirts.
Charles blinked awake slowly, his eyelashes fluttering like tiny confused moths.
The world was a little fuzzy, a little too bright, a little too soft.
Also, he was...floating?
No, wait—he was being carried.
By Hotman.
In Hotman's arms.
Like some beautiful princess in a fairytale, if the princess was drooling slightly and missing a sock.
Hotman caught Charles' dazed gaze and smiled, so sweet and tender it made Charles’ heart feel like it was being gently microwaved.
"We’re home, schatje," Hotman murmured, voice low and careful like Charles was a precious thing that might break if he spoke too loudly.
Charles just blinked at him, completely bewitched.
The front door creaked open—Daddy (Danny) waving them inside like an overworked butler.
Hotman carried Charles through, all careful steps and steady arms, and then lowered him onto the plush sofa like he was setting down a crown jewel.
Charles sat there for a second, wobbling slightly, hair sticking up in tragic tufts, trying to piece his brain back together.
His gaze swung around the living room and immediately locked onto the Red Bull can sitting on the coffee table.
Charles narrowed his eyes at it suspiciously.
He pointed one shaky finger at it.
"That red bull looks offensive," he announced gravely.
Both Daddy and Hotman turned at the same time, outrage blooming across their faces like synchronised flowers.
"Excuse me," Daddy said, scandalised.
"That’s rude," Hotman added, clutching his imaginary pearls.
Charles, undeterred by their horror, leaned in and whispered very seriously, "Horses are better."
Daddy looked personally victimised.
"Sure, Charles," he sighed, throwing his hands up in surrender. He plopped the ice cream bag onto the coffee table and turned on the TV, mumbling something about 'ungrateful little brats.'
Charles turned back to Hotman, feeling very proud of his bravery.
He reached up and grabbed Hotman’s sleeve like a little kid about to tell a Very Important Secret.
"I’m technically married," Charles informed him solemnly.
Hotman quirked an eyebrow, trying very hard not to laugh. "That makes a lot of sense," he said, voice thick with fondness.
Charles nodded wisely.
"If I wasn’t married," Charles continued, words slightly slurred, "I would definitely go out with you."
Hotman’s heart just about melted out of his chest.
He crouched down so they were eye-level, smiling that small, stupidly tender smile again.
"And who," Hotman asked gently, "are you married to, schatje?"
Charles wiggled in place like he had a secret too powerful to contain.
"It’s a secret," he said, whispering theatrically.
Then he pointed at Danny.
Hotman barked out a laugh.
Danny, mid-sip of water, sprayed it everywhere.
"No offence, mate," Hotman grinned at Danny, grabbing Charles’ pointing finger delicately between his own and pressing a warm, quick kiss to the tip, "but I think he can do better."
Charles giggled so hard he hiccuped, collapsing sideways against the couch cushions.
He got serious again a moment later, blinking up at Hotman with wide, guileless eyes.
"Actually," Charles said solemnly, "I’m married to Max."
Hotman nodded sagely, like Charles had just revealed the location of Atlantis.
"Oh," Hotman said, all gentle hums and soft eyes, "that makes sense."
He sat down next to Charles, still holding his hand.
"And who is Max?" Hotman asked.
Charles shrugged loosely, looking dreamily up at the ceiling.
"I dunno," he said. "But he gives off husband energy."
Daddy snorted from across the room.
Hotman chuckled and ruffled Charles’ wild hair with the kind of affection that could make flowers bloom just by existing.
"Danny," Hotman asked, amused, "how long is he gonna be like this?"
Danny checked his watch like he was checking a ticking bomb. "Couple more hours at least."
Hotman nodded and turned back to Charles, who was now busy trying to peel a cushion apart like it was a puzzle.
"Tell me about Max," Hotman said, his voice soft like he was asking for a bedtime story.
Charles paused, thinking very hard.
Then he smiled—this big, lopsided, painfully adorable smile that lit up his whole face.
"Max is... fast," Charles said, squinting thoughtfully. "And strong."
Hotman nodded solemnly. "Good qualities for a husband."
"And he's loud sometimes," Charles added, giggling. "Like... VROOOM."
He mimed driving a car with his hands, making awful engine noises.
Hotman chuckled so fondly it was practically illegal.
"And he's..." Charles mused, blinking slowly. "...like... he looks scary sometimes but he’s actually... like... soft."
His voice got quieter, a little more fragile.
"Like... you think he's gonna bite but then he just... holds you real tight and makes you feel safe."
Charles looked up at Hotman with shining eyes, heart wide open.
Hotman swallowed hard, something soft and aching blooming in his chest.
"Max sounds pretty special," Hotman said, brushing a thumb across Charles’ knuckles.
Charles nodded fiercely, little curls bouncing.
"He’s my husband," Charles whispered fiercely, cuddling closer against Hotman’s side. "I love him."
Hotman bent down and pressed a featherlight kiss to Charles' forehead, heart aching from how much he loved this ridiculous, precious, drugged-up boy.
"He’s very lucky," Hotman whispered against Charles’ hair.
Charles hummed happily and nuzzled into Hotman like a sleepy kitten.
For a while, everything was soft and sleepy.
Charles, half-melted against Hotman’s side, little puffs of breath warming the fabric of his hoodie. Hotman, stroking slow, lazy circles against Charles’ back. Danny, desperately pretending the TV was more interesting than the disaster unfolding on the couch.
And then—
Like a lightning bolt to the brain—
Charles sat bolt upright.
So fast Hotman nearly caught whiplash.
"I need to see pictures of your partner," Charles declared, wide-eyed, urgent, as if Hotman's mysterious partner was a missing person on a milk carton. "I need to study my competition."
Hotman blinked, trying to catch up.
Danny turned the TV volume up a notch, already sensing the storm brewing.
"Competition?" Hotman repeated, half laughing.
Charles nodded solemnly, grabbing onto Hotman’s hoodie strings like he was preparing for battle.
"Yeah," Charles said, so serious it hurt. "I gotta know what I’m up against."
Hotman couldn’t help it—he smiled, all crooked and helpless.
"Would you leave Max for me, then?" he teased, voice a low purr.
Charles didn’t even hesitate. Not a single heartbeat of doubt.
"ABSOLUTELY."
Hotman threw his head back and laughed, this full, warm sound that shook his chest.
Danny cranked the TV up louder.
"Should I be concerned or honoured?" Hotman asked once he could breathe again, wiping tears of mirth from the corners of his eyes.
Charles looked up at him with the most devastating little smile—open, adoring, completely guileless.
"Both is good," Charles said seriously, like he was offering wisdom passed down from the gods themselves.
Hotman laughed again, softer this time. He leaned down, and Charles immediately reached up and placed the gentlest little kiss right on the tip of Hotman’s nose.
A kiss so soft it barely even counted as a kiss.
More like a whisper of affection.
More like a tiny, warm, I see you.
Hotman’s heart squeezed so hard he nearly dropped dead on the spot.
Charles giggled and pulled back, swaying slightly with the effort of existing.
Then he tilted his head, face screwing up in deep, deep thought.
And asked, perfectly innocent:
"Max is big..." — a slight dramatic pause — "...are you big too?"
The room went dead silent.
Only the blaring noise of the TV filled the void.
Danny, face twisted in agony, slammed the TV volume even higher, like it was a life raft and he was drowning.
Hotman turned a beautiful shade of pink.
A colour so rare it should’ve been bottled and sold as fine art.
"Uh—" Hotman coughed, feeling like he was simultaneously combusting. "—depends what you mean by big, schatje."
Charles nodded wisely, as if Hotman had just delivered a profound philosophical truth.
He reached out and patted Hotman’s chest clumsily.
"You're big here," Charles said, tapping at Hotman’s heart like a tiny drunk poet.
Hotman swallowed thickly, feeling himself falling harder, deeper, absolutely gone for this chaotic little mess.
"And you’re big here too," Charles added, patting Hotman’s arm with a proud little smile.
Danny was now physically lying across the TV speakers like he was trying to merge with them and escape reality.
Hotman grinned, soft and easy.
He leaned in close, bumping his forehead gently against Charles’.
"You're big here too," he whispered, pressing his hand over Charles' heart.
Charles’ breath hitched.
He looked up at Hotman with these huge, adoring, ocean-wide eyes that said I would follow you anywhere.
For a moment, the world blurred out.
Just them. Just the warm quiet of two hearts beating wildly.
And then Charles, voice trembling with pure sincerity, whispered:
"I’m gonna marry you after I divorce Max."
Hotman laughed, helpless, so stupidly in love it physically hurt.
"I'll be waiting, schatje," he said, voice cracking from how badly he meant it.
Charles smiled so big and bright it could’ve powered the sun.
Then he yawned dramatically, flopped right back into Hotman's chest like a sleepy cat, and sighed contentedly.
"Love you, Hotman," Charles mumbled against his hoodie.
"Love you too, mijn hart," Hotman whispered, pressing a soft kiss to Charles’ hair.
Meanwhile, Danny watched them with the dead eyes of a man who had witnessed a crime, the TV blaring some random sitcom in the background.
He wondered if he could legally disown them both.
He wondered if it was too late to move to a different country.
He wondered if this was what being a single dad of two emotionally unstable golden retrievers felt like.
Probably.
Still, even Danny couldn't fight the tiny smile pulling at his mouth as he watched Hotman cradle Charles like he was the most precious thing in the world.
Because for all the chaos and ridiculousness—
It was really fucking cute.
Maybe, just maybe, he could survive it.
Maybe.
Charles, sprawled bonelessly across Hotman's chest, blinked up at him with these wide, pleading eyes, the very picture of dramatic desperation.
"Hotman," Charles whined, tugging weakly at his hoodie strings. "Show me a picture of your partner. Please. I need to see who I'm losing to."
Hotman laughed, soft and fond, like he was looking at a particularly stubborn kitten.
He gave Danny a look—one that said you seeing this shit?—and Danny just sighed and lifted his phone, starting to record.
Because obviously, this needed to be documented for future blackmail.
"Fine," Hotman said, the corners of his mouth twitching. "You want to see?"
Charles nodded furiously, hair flopping everywhere.
Hotman reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and with a couple of taps, turned the screen around for Charles to see.
His lockscreen lit up.
It was a photo.
Of Charles and Hotman.
Arms slung lazily around each other.
Sunset in the background.
Charles laughing so hard his nose was scrunched up and his eyes were squeezed shut.
Hotman smiling at him like he hung the moon.
Charles blinked.
Once.
Twice.
His nose wrinkled, his brows furrowing in that confused little way he did when he was trying to calculate something but the math was mathing in an illegal way.
"Wait..." Charles said slowly, staring at the picture. "...do I have a twin brother I didn’t know about?"
Danny, behind the phone camera, started cackling so hard he nearly dropped it.
Hotman snorted.
"Think a little harder, schatje," Hotman murmured, voice thick with amusement.
Charles squinted at the phone.
Leaning so close he practically smeared his face on the screen.
"That’s me," Charles muttered, gears grinding violently inside his high-as-a-kite brain. "That’s me with you. And if that's me... then..."
He trailed off, face screwing up, thinking so hard you could practically hear the static in the air.
Danny zoomed in with his camera, whispering "this is gonna be so good" to himself.
Charles blinked again.
"...Which means I'm your partner..."
The realisation was a slow, catastrophic landslide across his expression.
He looked at Hotman.
Back at the phone.
Back at Hotman.
Eyes getting wider.
Mouth falling open.
"...which means—" he gasped, scandalised.
Hotman tilted his head innocently. "Yes?"
"WHICH MEANS—" Charles yelped, voice cracking like a dying kettle. "YOU'RE MAX??!"
Danny howled in the background.
Hotman was grinning so big his cheeks hurt.
Charles flailed, smacking Hotman’s chest in a panic, like he was trying to restart his brain manually.
"YOU'RE MY HUSBAND?!" Charles shrieked, voice climbing octaves.
"Yes, schatje," Hotman said, full of laughter, "I’m Max. I’m your husband."
Charles made a tiny squeaking sound, somewhere between a gasp and a dying balloon.
His entire face turned red in slow-motion, like he was a cartoon thermometer about to explode.
He grabbed Hotman’s face between both hands, holding him like he was a holy artefact.
"I wanna have sex with you," Charles blurted out immediately, absolutely no chill, absolutely no thoughts, just pure feral instinct.
Danny wheezed so hard behind the camera he had to slap his knee.
Hotman laughed, leaning his forehead against Charles', cradling him so carefully it made Charles feel like a precious, delicate thing.
"Not when you're high off your ass, liefje," Hotman said warmly, kissing Charles' nose with a loud, playful mwa.
Charles melted in his arms, legs kicking weakly like an overheated puppy.
"But soon?" Charles whimpered, clutching Hotman’s hoodie like a lifeline.
"Soon," Hotman promised, voice pure honey, rubbing soothing circles into Charles’ back. "When you’re not trying to lick the walls."
Danny finally lost it, laughing so hard he had to set the phone down before he dropped it.
Charles grinned so bright it could’ve stopped wars.
He wriggled closer, pressing his whole stupid soft body into Hotman's.
"I have the best husband ever," Charles mumbled, voice wobbly with sleepiness and overwhelming affection.
Hotman kissed the top of his head.
"And I have the most adorable idiot for a husband," Hotman whispered back, sounding utterly, completely in love.
Charles made a tiny happy noise, like a content baby seal, and promptly fell asleep curled up on Hotman’s lap.
Danny picked the phone back up, zoomed in on the mess of them on the couch, and whispered:
"He’s gonna die when he wakes up and remembers this."
Hotman smiled, soft and proud, smoothing Charles' hair down with infinite gentleness.
"He’s gonna die happy," Hotman said.
And honestly?
He already was.