Fics like your future had a voice (and he spoke like me)

Rapid fire thoughts in French pour into his head, each more hysterical sounding than the last. He recognizes “merde”, “putain”, and “pensée” and that’s it. Unhelpful. “Charles,” he murmurs, slightly apologetic, “French.” Charles’ eyes get even bigger, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. He makes a noise that if Max were a slightly less merciful person he would call a squeak. Watching him make the absolutely unhinged connection in real time is fascinating. Then carefully, in tentative English, You are hearing my thoughts? Miserable, Max nods. Then shrugs. Fuck. “Max,” Charles practically hisses, his grip on Max’s hand going tighter. The pinprick of his nails feels like the only thing connecting Max to the earth. “What the fuck?” * Or, the year Max turns thirty, he spends about a month mid-season being able to read minds via physical touch. Charles is there too.

Fics like your future had a voice (and he spoke like me)

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