Give it some, give it some, give it some time, But I think we're supposed to be

Part Five.

"If you spill it, I will get out," Charles laughs, reaching forward to grab the glass of red wine from your hand. He lifts it up high, steady as he passes it over the edge of the bathtub. "I am not taking a bath in red wine."

"I wasn't gonna spill it," you're whining a little, the three glasses you've already had making your head swim. Across from you in the tub with your legs tangled together, Charles is flushed red over his cheeks and his chest, his eyes squinting with his smile and the alcohol. It's rare to get him drunk like this—there's always a race coming up, a training session, something that makes it impossible for him to truly let go. But it's the summer holidays now, you have four free weeks in front of you, and Charles is drunk, in the bathtub, bubbles pooling around his waist.

"Yes, you were," Charles leans forward, water gently lapping around him as he maneuvers himself onto his knees in front of you. You spread your legs a little wider, making space for him. "You were going to make a mess," he says, voice lower now. His free hand comes up to touch the side of your jaw, warm and wet from the bath. "Open."

You do as he says, as if you could ever deny him. Charles presses the warm lip of the wine glass to your mouth, tipping it forward gently. You let your head fall back as he does, until you can taste red wine in your mouth. He pours it gently for you, steady, as his hand slides down to your neck, thick fingers splayed across the warm skin there. He squeezes gently and you swallow, red wine down your throat.

" Bonne ," he says, lowering the wine glass. You lift your head back up slowly, eyes fluttering open. "You're beautiful."

You hum contentedly, slipping further into the warm water as the wine settles in your stomach. Even through the hazy sleepiness of being wine drunk, you can't stop looking at Charles, naked and soft and open, leaning back against the bathroom tile. His hair is damp, strands sticking to his forehead, and his shoulders are glistening with water and sweat. His eyelashes are wet from you splashing water in his face earlier, heavy and clumped together, dark brown harsh against the clear green of his eyes. When he props one arm up on the bathtub ledge your eyes follow lazily, stuttering on the hair under his armpit, the pale skin that stretches beneath. It's one of your private spots, the pale skin there, the deep freckle that breaks it up, the purple hickey on his ribs from your mouth, fading slowly. You want to leave another mark—you have plenty of time to do it.

Charles knocks his knee against yours gently, bringing your attention back up to his face. "You are staring, amore ," he smiles, dimple setting your heart up a notch. "Something interesting?"

"No," you lie, chin dropping to your chest as you try to hide a smile. Charles' fingers are under your chin almost immediately, gently lifting your face so your eyes meet his.

"It's not fair," you tell him, pouting like a petulant child. "You're so good looking, it's fucking distracting."

Charles laughs with his whole chest, the sound echoing in the bathroom. His pinky brushes over your bottom lip, still pushed out into a pout. "You think I don't feel the same way about you?"

Frankly, you think it's impossible that anyone could feel anything close to your love for Charles, but you don't say that out loud; it'll upset him, you know, and he'll spend hours trying to prove you wrong. Instead, you feel a heated blush creep out over your cheeks, a smile pushing your pout away.

"I love you," you tell him, in lieu of an argument. It's your favorite thing to say.

Charles smiles, the same way he did when you told him you loved him for the first time after an emotional race win last year. It had slipped out in the rush of emotions, in the heady rush of kissing him over the barriers, of his team pressing at you from behind to try to get a hand on his helmet, his shoulder, anywhere. Desperate to get a touch of him. You'd cradled his helmet in your hands and said it before you could even think about it—and Charles had said it back just as easily.