Charles was going to murder Pierre fucking Gasly. They were academics rivals but, last nigt, they were both drunk and Charles ended up in Pierre's bed. But that wasn't the big problem. No, in fact, Charles left before Pierre woke up and he was 100% sure that Pierre would be too drunk to remember that night. No, the problem was the hickies all over his neck, his collabrone and his arms. He had sport the next hour and his shirt was sleeveless. How was he supposed to explain that to his friends ? God the teasing would have no end. No end. Charles saw George and Pierre entering. Pierre was wearing a Redbull polo shirt tucked into cream linen pants and white shirt. The man had a few hickies but Charles seemed to habe been more raisonnable than the Frenchman. Ugh, the Monégasque thought he's a Redbull Fan. Charles was himself a big Ferrari Fan and obviously couldn't stand the racing team. Charles opened his locker and Alexander leaned next to Charles. "He's extra-hot and he's so nice ... I wonder what he smells lile" The Brit sighed. "Who ? Pierre ? He smells sea, books and cherry. Sometimes he wears Black Ford perfume." Charles answered. "No ! I'm talking about George !" Alexander said. Oups. Fuck. Mission aborded. Why the fuck did he talk about Pierre ?! Shit shit. "Oh yeah. I was joking. I don't know Pierre's perfume. The Monégasque looked at the confident man, flashback of their nights coming back in flash. Pierre's ringed hands, his crucifix above Charles, feather-like touches ... Charles groaned. "I hate Pierre so much." Or well, he really tried to hate him and to convince everyone he hated Pierre fucking Gasly. He looked at the man neck. Damn. He left this hickies. Pierre left marks on him. Oh god he was praying that the Frenchman wouldn't remember.