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Max heard the soft beep of the keypad on his apartment door, followed by the quiet click of it opening and closing. Footsteps, light and familiar, approached the bedroom. Charles appeared in the doorway, a look of open concern on his face. He was already dressed, his hair slightly damp from a shower, and he brought with him a faint, clean scent that contrasted sharply with the stale sickness in the room.
"You are still in bed," Charles said. It wasn't a question.
"Obviously," Max replied, his voice a rough scratch. He cleared his throat, which only made it worse. "I feel terrible."
Charles walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. He placed a cool hand on Max's forehead. "You are warm. You have a fever."
"Brilliant diagnosis, doctor," Max muttered, though he leaned into the touch. The coolness of Charles's fingers was a small relief.
"Have you taken anything?"
"Nothing here. I thought I had something." Max gestured vaguely toward the bathroom. "I was wrong."
Charles sighed, a soft, fond sound. "I will go to the pharmacy. You need medicine, and maybe some things for soup. You should not be alone like this."
"You don't have to," Max said, but the protest was weak. He did feel awful, and the thought of Charles handling it was profoundly comforting.
"Of course I have to," Charles said, as if it were the simplest fact in the world. "You are my boyfriend, and you are sick. I will go. What do you need? Something for the throat and the fever?"
Max gave him a short list, his words clipped by discomfort. "Anything for a sore throat. Paracetamol. The strongest they have."
Charles nodded, committing it to memory. "Okay. I will be quick. You try to sleep."
He leaned down and pressed a quick, careful kiss to Max's hot forehead, avoiding his lips. "I will be back soon."
Max watched him go, a strange tightness in his chest that had nothing to do with his illness. It was the simple, steadfast care. Charles didn't make a big production out of it; he just saw a problem and moved to fix it. Max listened to the door open and close again, leaving the apartment in heavy silence. He should sleep. But now that Charles was gone, the room felt too quiet, and his own thoughts were too loud with discomfort. After a few minutes of staring at the ceiling, he pushed the covers back. The room tilted slightly as he stood, but he steadied himself. A drink of water. That was a good idea. He shuffled out to the living room, poured a glass, and drank it slowly. The water felt good on his throat. He drifted toward the large window that looked out over the quiet inner courtyard of their apartment building. The sky was a flat, pale grey. It was a perfect day for staying in bed, if you weren't feeling like death warmed over. He stood there, leaning his forehead against the cool glass, idly watching the empty courtyard. Then he saw Charles.
Charles emerged from the building's side entrance, a reusable shopping bag folded in his hand. He walked with his usual purposeful stride toward the small gate that led to the street. He was almost to the gate when a small flash of movement caught Max's eye from a cluster of potted plants near the building's wall. A little cat, mostly grey with patches of white, darted out. It was a skinny thing, a regular visitor to the courtyard that Max sometimes saw from a distance. The cat trotted directly into Charles's path and stopped, looking up at him. Charles stopped walking. He looked down at the cat. Max couldn't see his expression from this angle and height, but he saw Charles's posture change. The purposeful stride melted away. Charles crouched down. Max watched as Charles reached out a hand, letting the cat sniff his fingers. Then, with a gentle motion, he began to scratch behind the cat's ears. The cat immediately pushed its head into his hand. Max could see the cat's back arch, a clear sign of pleasure. Charles's shoulders relaxed. He said something, his mouth moving. Max, three stories up, heard nothing. But he could imagine the tone. Soft, coaxing, friendly. Charles set the shopping bag down on the paved ground. The cat, emboldened, rubbed its entire body against Charles's crouched legs. Charles laughed, the sound probably silent from this distance, but Max saw the shake of his shoulders, the way his head dipped. He reached out with both hands now, gently stroking the cat's back and sides. The cat rolled over, exposing its belly. Charles, without hesitation, complied, giving the skinny belly a few careful rubs. The cat's legs kicked at the air in pure bliss. Max just watched. His own throbbing head, his sore throat, the chill in his limbs, all of it receded into a dull background hum. His focus was entirely on the scene below. Charles was completely engrossed. He wasn't just petting the cat; he was talking to it. Max could see his lips moving, forming words, his face animated with a kind of easy, open delight. He pulled his hand back for a moment, and the cat immediately butted its head against his knee, demanding more. Charles laughed again, a fuller motion this time, and resumed his attentions. He scratched under the cat's chin, and the cat stretched its neck out, eyes closing in ecstasy. Time seemed to stretch. Max had no idea how long it had been. Five minutes? Ten? Charles was supposed to be on a urgent mission for medicine, for him, and here he was, completely waylaid by a scruffy courtyard cat. A normal person might feel a flicker of irritation. Max felt nothing of the sort. The tightness in his chest returned, but it was a warm, expanding feeling now. It pushed against the sickness, creating a quiet, private space inside him that was just for this moment, for this view. He saw the way Charles's fingers, so precise and strong on a steering wheel, were now delicate and gentle on the little animal. He saw the easy curve of Charles's back as he crouched, the focused tilt of his head. He saw the simple, unguarded joy. Max was rooted to the spot. He didn't move. He just watched. The thought of his medicine was distant, unimportant. This was more important. This was a secret glimpse, a moment of pure Charles, with no audience, no performance, just innate kindness meeting a small creature's demand for affection. The cat finally had its fill. It gave Charles's hand one last head-butt, then trotted off with a flick of its tail, disappearing back into the plants. Charles stayed crouched for a second longer, watching it go, a small smile still playing on his lips. Then he seemed to remember himself. He looked at his watch. His smile faded, replaced by a look of mild alarm. He snatched up the shopping bag, stood up quickly, and hurried out the gate, breaking into a light jog as soon as he hit the sidewalk. Max finally stepped back from the window. He felt strangely light. The physical misery was still there, a persistent ache, but it was overlaid with this new, soft warmth. He walked to the sofa and sat down, waiting. He pulled his phone from his pocket. Almost unconsciously, he opened the photo gallery. He had taken pictures. He hadn't even really thought about it; his hand had just moved. He had zoomed in, trying to capture the scene. There were several. A blurry one as he'd first fumbled with the phone. Then a clearer one: Charles in profile, crouched, his hand extended toward the grey cat. Another, the cat rubbing against his leg, Charles's face turned downward, his expression soft and amused. The best one was the last. Charles was looking at the retreating cat, his profile clear, the smile on his face gentle and unguarded, the late morning light catching the edges of his brown hair. It was just a back and a slight side view, but it was perfect. It was Charles. Without a second thought, Max opened his settings, went to his wallpaper, and selected the photo. He set it. The image of Charles, caught in that quiet, tender moment with a stray cat, now filled his phone screen. He locked the phone, looked at it, unlocked it, looked again. A slow smile touched his own dry lips. He put the phone down and closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to hold the image in his mind. The apartment was quiet again, but the silence felt different now. It felt expectant, and warm.
He must have dozed off for a few minutes, because the next thing he heard was the keypad and the door opening. He opened his eyes as Charles bustled in, a pharmacy bag in one hand and a small grocery bag in the other. Charles's cheeks were faintly flushed, either from the jog or the cool air outside.
"I am so sorry," Charles said immediately, his voice full of genuine remorse as he kicked off his shoes. "There was a line at the pharmacy, and then I had to find the right things, and the soup ingredients…" He was already walking toward the kitchen, unpacking. "I tried to be fast. How are you feeling? Worse?"
Max pushed himself up on the sofa. "I'm okay," he said, and his voice, while still rough, was quieter. "No worse."
Charles came back into the living room, holding a box of pills and a bottle of a syrupy medicine. "Here. This is for the throat, it is a local anesthetic. And these are for the fever. You should take one now. I will get you water."
He disappeared and returned with a fresh glass. He watched as Max took the pills, his green eyes sharp with concern. "You should be in bed."
"In a minute," Max said. He took the glass of water and drank. "What took you so long at the pharmacy? A big line?"
Charles's face did a complicated thing. A flicker of guilt, then a sheepish honesty. "Well. The line was not so big. But… there was a delay. Outside."
"Oh?" Max kept his face neutral. "What kind of delay?"
Charles sat on the coffee table in front of him. "The little grey cat. The one from the courtyard. It stopped me. Right by the gate. It wanted attention. I just… I gave it a little pat. But then it was so friendly, and it rolled over, and it looked so thin…" He trailed off, watching Max for signs of annoyance. "I lost track of time. I am sorry. You needed medicine and I was playing with a cat."
Max looked at him. Charles's expression was openly apologetic, but also still held a trace of that soft light from the courtyard, the memory of the small interaction. He was beautiful like this, Max thought, not in a way that was about perfect features, but in a way that was about the transparency of his heart. He was just good. He saw a small creature asking for kindness and he gave it, even when he had somewhere else to be. Max felt that warmth spread through his chest again, fierce and protective and so full of love it almost hurt.
"I know," Max said simply.
Charles blinked. "You know? How?"
"I was at the window. Getting water. I saw the whole thing."
Charles's eyes went wide. The faint blush on his cheeks deepened. "You saw? All of it? Me just… sitting there with it?"
"From the moment it walked up to you to the moment you finally ran out the gate like you were late for a grid walk," Max said, a hint of a real smile finally reaching his eyes. "You looked like you were having a very important meeting."
Charles groaned, covering his face with one hand. "Oh, no. Max, I am so sorry. You were sick up here and I was… I was making friends."
"Don't be sorry," Max said. His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. He picked up his phone from the cushion beside him. He unlocked it and held it out, the screen facing Charles. "Look."
Charles lowered his hand. He looked at the phone. He saw the photo of himself, caught in that quiet moment, looking after the cat. He stared. His expression shifted from embarrassment to surprise, then to something softer, more wondering. He reached out and took the phone, looking closer. "You took a picture?"
"I took several," Max admitted. "That was the best one."
Charles looked from the photo to Max, his green eyes searching Max's blue ones. "You are not angry? Or annoyed?"
"Why would I be angry?" Max asked. He took the phone back from Charles's loose grip. He looked at the photo himself, then back at Charles. "I needed medicine. You got medicine. The how and the exact timing…" He shrugged slightly. "I got to see that. It was worth the wait."
Charles just looked at him. The last of the chagrin faded from his face, replaced by a slow, dawning understanding and a warmth that mirrored what Max felt. "You are a strange man, Max Verstappen. You are sick and feverish and you stand at the window taking pictures of me petting a cat."
"You were happy," Max said, as if that explained everything. And to him, in that moment, it did. "You looked happy. It was a good picture." He paused, then added, "It's my new lock screen."
That did it. Charles's face broke into a full, radiant smile. It was the same smile from the courtyard, but now it was directed entirely at Max. He shook his head, a laugh bubbling out of him. "You are impossible. And sentimental. I did not know this."
"There's a lot you don't know," Max murmured, but he was smiling too, a real one, despite his sore throat. The act of smiling made him aware of his physical state again, and a slight shiver ran through him.
Charles saw it. The practical part of him reasserted itself immediately. "Okay. Sentiment is over. You are shivering. Back to bed. Now." He stood up and held out a hand to help Max up. "I will make you some soup. The boring, clear kind that is good for sick people."
Max let Charles pull him to his feet. He didn't let go of his hand immediately. He held it, their fingers lacing together. Charles looked down at their joined hands, then back up at Max. His expression was so tender it made Max's breath catch in a way that had nothing to do with his illness.
"You are a good neighbor," Max said, his voice gravelly again.
Charles squeezed his hand. "I am your boyfriend. It is a different thing. Better."
"Better," Max agreed. He allowed himself to be led back toward the bedroom. He paused at the doorway, looking back toward the living room window. The grey courtyard was empty now. But the memory of the scene below was vivid, locked now not just in his mind, but on the device in his pocket. A prescription, it turned out, wasn't just for throat lozenges and fever reducers. Sometimes it was for a moment of stolen patience, a glimpse of unguarded kindness, and a new favorite picture. Charles gently tugged on his hand, guiding him toward the waiting bed.
"You are thinking about the cat again," Charles accused lightly as he pulled the blankets up around Max once he was settled.
"Not the cat," Max said, his eyes already feeling heavy. The medicine, or the emotional warmth, was pulling him toward sleep. "The guy with the cat."
Charles's hand stilled for a moment on the blanket, then smoothed it down. He sat on the edge of the bed, just as he had that morning. "When you are better," he said, his voice low and sure, "we will go downstairs together. We will find the cat. I will introduce you."
Max kept his eyes closed, but the smile lingered. "It's a date."
"Good," Charles said. He leaned in and pressed another careful kiss to Max's temple. "Now sleep. I will be in the kitchen. I will check on you."