Max had been working at the WBIS for six weeks. He liked working there, especially since they left him alone to do his job. He caught up on all the professional journals he’d missed because of circumstances and even got to do a little experimenting on his own.

He’d been living with Charles Browne for the same amount of time. That should have been long enough for Charles to know whether he loved him or not, devrait-ce pas? Only apparently not. Charles continued to insist he was straight.

In spite of his declared heterosexuality, Charles liked taking him to bed, liked what he did with his mouth and his ass, and frankly, so did Max, but as soon as Charles finished, he’d give Max’s cock a few pulls until he climaxed, and then he rolled over and fell asleep. No sweet words, no cradling Max in his arms. No offer to perhaps one day let Max top him.

Max sighed and unlocked the front door of Charles’s apartment. Six weeks, and all that Max had in this home were a couple of drawers in Charles’s dresser and five hangers in the closet to hold the shirts and trousers he wore to work. He felt ... transient.

A crash sounded from the living room and he hurried down the hall, sliding to a halt in the doorway.

Pieces of the telephone were on the floor beneath a large dent in the wall. Charles panted and glared at him, then swore under his breath and kicked the console table.

“That wasn’t a good idea, mon cher,” Max couldn’t help observing. Charles wasn’t wearing shoes.

He curled his lip at Max. “Think I goddamned well don’t know that?” he muttered as he hopped on one foot, favoring his injured toe. Max remained silent, and finally Charles snarled, “Vincent still won’t give me the okay to come back to work.”

“Do you wish for me to speak with him? You’ve regained most of the weight you lost --”

“It won’t do any fucking good. Vincent will let me come back when he’s good and fucking ready. I don’t know how the fuck I wound up in his department. I’ve always been in Foreign Affairs.”

“What’s brought on this --?” He bit back the words. If he referred to Charles’s loss of temper as a tantrum, he’d wind up sleeping in the guest room. Again.

“Go fuck yourself, Max. You’re only living here because I owe you.”

Max flinched. He’d gradually become aware of that. “You needn’t be grateful any longer.” He left the room and went into the kitchen.

When M. Vincent had brought him to America from Paris, all he’d had were the scrubs he wore. M. Mann had been so kind as to buy him enough clothes to last a week, so he’d have something to wear while he did laundry.

“I’ll repay you,” he’d told him.

“Not necessary, Max. You kept me alive. I owe you more than a few outfits.”

However, Max wasn’t a ... a leech. The WBIS paid him well, and he set aside something from each paycheck. He’d learned to expect people to go back on their word to him, so when the time came, and M. Mann wanted his money, he’d be prepared.

He found a couple of brown paper bags in the kitchen, as well as a Baggie for his personal items, and then he climbed the stairs up to their bedroom.

No, not theirs any longer. Had it ever been?