𝐀𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘

𝟐 - 𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆, 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐇

CHAPTER TWO

CRAVING, NOT CRUSH

POST AUSTRIAN GRAND PRIX

Max should stop. He knows he should stop going to the jazz club, but he can't help himself. Marc hasn't played in the past two weeks, which would make any regular person lose hope, but the pull of his music, of the connection they shared, was too powerful to ignore. Marc was a craving, not a crush.

He craved the peace of mind the soft piano tunes brought him, lulling him to a different universe where he wasn't living under the pressure of the world champion title, but rather enjoying a simple life as his true self rather than the carefully fabricated media facade he was used to showcasing.

The Dutchman, however, was no regular person, especially when it came to a certain mysterious pianist. And just like that, he found himself in front of the club for one last time, at least that's what he kept telling himself, in a very not desperate attempt to meet the gaze of the green eyes imprinted in his mind. He took a deep breath, the cool night air filling his lungs, and pushed the door open.

As Max stepped into the dimly lit club, he immediately felt the familiar atmosphere envelop him. The gentle hum of conversations, the clinking of glasses, and the soft strains of recorded jazz music welcomed him like an old friend. He made his way to his usual seat at the bar, nodding at the bartender who greeted him with a knowing look.

"Whiskey, neat?" the bartender asked, already reaching for a glass.

Max nodded, offering a small smile. "Yeah, thanks."

He settled onto the barstool, his eyes drifting to the empty stage. The piano stood silent, a stark reminder of the absence that had plagued him for the past few weeks. Max took a sip of his drink, the warmth of the alcohol doing little to ease the restlessness in his chest. He knew he should give up, move on, but the thought of never hearing Marc play again, never sharing those quiet moments of understanding, was too much to bear.

Just as he was about to lose himself in his thoughts, the door of the club creaked open, drawing his attention. Max's heart skipped a beat as he saw a familiar figure step inside. Marc. The pianist looked worn, gaze tired and a certain heaviness in his movements, but he was there, face covered with the usual simple black mask, leaving only his eyes and hair visible. Max couldn't help the smile that spread across his face, relief flooding through him.

Marc glanced around the room, his eyes scanning the patrons until they landed on Max. There was a flicker of recognition, and for a moment, their gazes locked. Marc offered a small, tired smile before making his way to the piano. Not like it was visible,anyway. The room seemed to hush in anticipation as he settled onto the bench, his fingers hovering over the keys.

Max watched intently as Marc began to play, the first notes filling the room with a hauntingly beautiful melody. The music was different tonight—sadder, more reflective, as if it carried the weight of unspoken burdens. Max could feel the emotions in every note, each one resonating deeply within him. He knew that whatever had kept Marc away, whatever struggles he was facing, it was all being poured into the music.

As the night wore on, Marc continued to play, his fingers moving with a grace and precision that seemed almost otherworldly. Max found himself lost in the music, the world outside the club fading into insignificance. Here, in this small, smoky room, everything felt right.

When Marc finally finished his set, the last notes lingering in the air like a whispered secret, he stood and gave a slight nod to the appreciative audience. Max watched as he began to pack up his things, a sense of urgency building within him. He couldn't let Marc slip away again, not without at least trying to talk to him.