Hate to race lestappen

One Last Dance

It was stupid.

Stupid how much joy it brought them—how quickly the apartment filled with toys and bowls and plastic crinkly shit that Max claimed gave him a headache but still bought three of.

They went to the pet store twice in one week, both of them clearly out of their depth, arguing over the colour of leashes and what toys were "actually practical."

They bought everything. A massive scratching post, a bed Cas never used because he slept in Max's hoodies, treats Sass turned his nose up at unless they were from Charles' hand. They had no clue what they were doing, and it was perfect.

They started walking Cas together. Mornings and late afternoons when the sun hit the buildings in that soft, golden way Monaco always saved for its favourites. Max liked to complain about the leash getting tangled or Cas sniffing every goddamn bush, but Charles could see the way he looked down at him—like this tiny, warm thing made his hands feel useful and his head feel quieter.

Charles hadn't felt this good in ages. It felt illegal almost, to wake up next to Max, to roll over and see Sass curled into a loaf on the pillow next to them while Cas chewed a sock on the floor. It was messy and loud and happy in a way Charles never expected.

And he loved it. He loved Max.

Of course he FaceTimed Pierre the first night.

He had to. Pierre was his best friend, and best friends deserved the full breakdown, visual evidence included.

He'd only meant to show him Sass—Pierre had known about the kitten already—but when Cas wandered into frame and started chewing on the charger cable, Charles couldn't stop grinning.

Pierre blinked. "Wait. That's not the cat."

Charles turned the camera and held it on Cas proudly. "No. That's Cas."

Pierre leaned in. "That's a fucking dog."

"I know."

"A dog."

"Mhm."

Pierre blinked again, then broke into a laugh. "You're both absolutely fucking insane, I hope you know that."

"Yeah," Charles said, beaming. "I do."

The whole week felt like that. Like things were happening that weren't meant to, but made total sense anyway. And then, just like that, it was Thursday, and everything kicked in again.

Race weekend.

Charles stood in the kitchen, Sass sprawled on the floor like a prince, Cas bouncing between Charles' feet. He bent to pick up the dog as Lorenzo stepped inside.

"Wow," Lorenzo said.

Charles looked up, nervous, but his brother was already kneeling, letting Cas sniff his hand.

"So, I'm dog-sitting. And cat-sitting."

Lorenzo looked around the apartment—Max's apartment—but said nothing about the shoes by the door or the sim setup in the corner or the cap on the counter that definitely wasn't Charles' team. He just nodded.

"You trust me with the keys?"

Charles paused. "They're not... mine. I mean, they are now. Just—"

Lorenzo raised a hand. "You don't have to explain."

"You sure?"

"Since you said you needed me to come here and not your place." He reached out and scratched behind Cas' ear. "Max, huh?" Lorenzo said, and pocketed the keys.