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Chapter Text

Max Verstappen had had a really horrible and frustrating time during the practice sessions in Australia. The new Red Bull car, which he had hoped would turn things around for him, instead seemed unpredictable and erratic, snapping at the rear in a way that was unnerving. It seemed to refuse to take his normal aggressive driving inputs, so every lap was a hard slog. The car was twitching beneath him, making it even more difficult to control it as he should. At the conclusion of the second practice session, FP2, he was seething with anger, and he strode out of the garage silently, saying nothing to anyone around him.

In the meantime, the Ferrari squad had appeared to show great strength and potential. Charles Leclerc had managed to grab the top position in the second free practice, or FP2, with the SF-25 finally proving to be the competitive car he had been long hoping and waiting for. He felt hopeful and optimistic. For once, it truly did feel like they would have a genuine chance of winning.

They had interrupted what they were doing to sit and eat lunch together in the paddock, and Charles was precariously balancing a chessboard on the table that sat between them. There was a mischievous glint playing on his lips, evidence that he was in a teasing mood. "I still don't understand why you won't learn to play properly," he chided gently, advancing his knight on the chessboard.

Max frowned at the board. "Because it's useless. The queen can go anywhere. It's dumb."

Charles erupted into laughter, pounding his head in merriment. "The problem is, you just don't like the fact that you're not very good at it.".

"I'm not that terrible at it," Max protested, shifting a pawn at random.

"You lost in just five moves in our last game."

Max huffed in frustration, his eyes narrowing as he glared at the board with an expression that implied that it had somehow personally attacked him. Charles, meanwhile, nonchalantly munched on a piece of his pasta, watching with indifferent amusement as his friend struggled with what was happening.

"You are going to lose this game too," Charles noted with a hint of confidence, rapping his finger firmly against the waiting chess clock to emphasize the point. "You need to concentrate and focus."

Max muttered a grudging sigh of frustration, but he did strive to actually reflect upon his immediate path forward. These peaceful intervals were not frequent for them, those quiet instants spent away from the angry clash of rivalry on the race track or caught up within the ceaseless mayhem which filled the universe of Formula 1. It was here in this quiet spot, though, where they merely existed as Max and Charles, as two humans who had endured most of each other's lifetimes together, whose fates became inextricably enmeshed upon more occasions than either of them ever wished to cut apart again in cold clinical light.

Charles sipped his water. "I feel I can win on Sunday.".

Max lifted an eyebrow, finally looking away from the game board that had commanded his attention for some time. "You think you stand a chance, huh?"

Charles nodded his head in concurrence slightly. "The car handles great. Actually, it handles better than it has in years. Maybe it is finally my time."

Max took part in no arguing or bickering. The Ferrari really had looked very fast and competitive out on the road. But he knew all too well how this story had ended last time. He extended a hand across the table to the fork in front of him, nudging and poking lightly at food on his plate. "I really hope you do."

Charles tilted his head. "Really?"

Max shrugged, not meeting his gaze. "Better you than Lando."

Charles smiled, playing his next piece prior to leaning back in his chair. "I'm going to win this game, by the way."

Max groaned. "I hate this stupid game."

Charles grinned. "You'll learn."

--

Max Verstappen ended in a second place, a mere half a second behind Lando Norris. A fresh start should have worked well for him; instead, the very thought of the possibility of what he could have changed nagged at him constantly in his mind. Sure, his car was not great, but he was almost there. He could taste the victory. Lando was the one to finally end the streak of being out in front for the title; yet another straw that broke the camel's back for Max.

George Russell was the third one on the podium, but Charles Leclerc was far worse. P8. By Ferrari standards, a humbling result, especially after all the noise at preseason that 2025 would be their year. There hadn't been a great deal that Charles had to say in front of the media pen. He had answered tight-lipped questions with terse responses, his jaw clenched, his burning eyes showing his ire for the lost victory. He had acted strong in front of the cameras, but Max knew Charles well. The winner wasn't the kind of person to just forget about things. Max had simply been quiet, giving the media minimal responses. He should have been happy he made the podium but was just oh-so-frustrated.

So when Charles texted him, simply, “Your room?”, he did not hesitate.

Charles barely slammed the door after himself when he began to rip off the Ferrari team jacket and throw it aside, stiff in movements from sheer irritation. Max, stationed by the desk in his Red Bull polo shirt with fingers tapping the surface, noticed him.

Neither of the two talked for a while. It wasn't necessary.

Max took a sharp breath. "Fucking Lando."

Charles gave an incredulous look. "At least you were fighting for a win."

"And you should have been up there," Max answered, voice nice and sharp, though not at him. "The Scuderia yanked you up again."

A short, bitter laugh escaped Charles as he rubbed a hand through his hair. “No shit. The strategy was terrible. No pace whatsoever. Just a sitting duck. Quite literally because my seat was so wet from the rain."

Max shook his head, arms crossed over his chest. "I don't get it. You were supposed to be fighting with me at the front and not how far behind?"

Charles gritted his teeth. "Forty-two seconds."

Max let out a low whistle. "That is pathetic."

Charles shot a glance at him. "Merci, Max. That's so helpful of you."

"I'm saying what you're thinking."

"Well, maybe don't," said Charles, his voice clipped with growing irritation. “I don't need you to point out how shit my race was; I already know."

Max narrowed his eyes. "So why are you here?"

Charles opened his mouth, swallowed his words, and turned red in the face for that last frustrating ride of air all through his nose. His hands were clenched into fists before he turned away, preparing to lose himself in a few steps, marching around in what only seemed like an attempt to shake away the frustration.

Max kept watching him, his own irritation simmering. "You don't have to be pissed at me just because Ferrari can't get their shit together."

Charles spun back around. "I'm pissed because I am sick of this! Every year, it is the same thing. I tell myself it is going to get better, that this is going to be the year we finally fight for a title - and then--" and then he gestured wildly. "Eighth, Max! Eighth! It's embarrassing."

Max shrugged. "Then leave." A quick snap in humourless laughter escaped Charles.

"Oh, right, just let me break my contract and waltz into Red Bull." Max didn't answer. He really didn't have to. Both of them were aware Ferrari wasn't about to let Charles go so easily and that if they ever did, Red Bull probably wouldn't take him.

Charles shook his head. "You don't understand; you don't know the feeling of always believing in something that keeps letting you down."

Max's jaw quivered. "You think I don't know disappointment?"

"Not like this," Charles' voice was low, bitter.

"Not like watching your team sabotage you year after year." Max clenched his teeth tight, steel barriers of frustration coming up again around his chest. "So what do you want me to tell you, Charles? That it's unjust? That you should have better? You know that already."

Charles stepped forward, his eyes burning. "I don't need you to say anything."

Between them crackled their anger in the air, fraught with frustration and heavy with things left unsaid.

Max could feel it thrumming against his skin as his heart slammed in his chest.

Charles was far too close now, far too taut- for a split second, Max wondered whether or not he was about to get punched. Instead, Charles yanked him by the collar and kissed him.

It wasn't soft. It wasn't gentle. It was a crash of lips, gripping hands, all the pent-up frustration framing every movement. Charles shoved Max back against the desk, their teeth colliding before Max flipped them, shoving Charles into the nearest wall. Charles made a noise, half frustration and half something else entirely, as Max's fingers dug into his hips.

Their breaths were loud and ragged; the kind of panting that somehow still felt like fighting, some competition that could somehow only end in this outlet. It became a rough kiss, deep and demanding, and for the briefest moments, there was no thought to it.

This wasn't how this was supposed to be. Thinking complicated things. It was about release-a termination of the outside world beyond their hotel room. Max bit hard into Charles's lower lip. Charles responded by clawing at Max's back, pulling him closer. Clothes fell away in the dancers of urgency. Tension thickened the air with heat, with frustration, and with some nameless thing they both preferred to pretend didn't exist.

---

Max lay on his back, with his arm crossed on his forehead, and his breath was finally evening out.

Beside him was Charles, sprawled on his back next to him, looking at Max, with his breath slowly fading out.

The silence stretched in the room for a while. There were no words needed, nor did they need to acknowledge what had just happened beyond the obvious.

But then, as always, the conversation changed into something else. Not about what had just happened: never about that.

"I got a new cat," Max murmured after a moment, staring at the ceiling.

Charles blinked at him, having been thrown off by the sudden turn of the conversation. "What?"

"A cat. Donatello."

Charles huffed a quiet laugh as he turned to his side and propped himself up on an elbow. "You and your Ninja Turtles obsession."

Max shrugged. "He's a good cat."

Charles traced a pattern abatedly against the sheets, his body still warm next to Max's. "Leo has been an idiot lately. He keeps knocking things off the counter for no reason."

"He is a dog. It is his job to annoy you," Max stated flatly.

Charles hummed in agreement.

Max, in absentminded strokes, made big, slow circles on Charles' back. It was soothing in a way neither of them recognised.

"So you're flying directly to China?" Charles countered.

"Yeah. Come with me,” Max said lightly. “You wouldn't have to deal with commercial flights."

Charles hesitated but eventually nodded. "That might be nice."

Max's fingers kept moving, drawing warmth into Charles' skin. With unspoken words, both hoped they did not need to say it out loud.

Max turned his head to look at Charles, who was still quite close and warm in the spot they were in. His hair was messy, so Max raised his other hand, his act reflexive, and smoothed a stray tuft down flat.

Charles didn’t stop him. Didn’t say anything about it.

Instead, he let his eyes slip shut for a moment, let the tension drain from his shoulders.

Neither of them said it, but maybe, just maybe, they didn’t need to.

--

Max was the first to wake up. This was a habit he had developed over the years. His dedication and intense training had caused him to adopt the habit of waking up early, regardless of the time he went to bed the previous night. He lay motionless for a while, his eyes fixed on the ceiling above him, before he eventually turned his head to look at the warm bundle of comfort sleeping next to him.

Charles was fast asleep, still in a deep sleep, resting easily sprawled on his stomach with the sheets only just managing to cover the lower part of his back. Half his face was buried in the plush softness of the pillow, and his breathing was deep and slow, his lips slightly open as he slept. His hair—that was usually so neatly combed and so immaculately well-groomed—was in a total disheveled state, standing in all directions like a wild tangled nest.

Max grinned. Not a morning person.

Rolling onto his side, Max carefully propped himself up on one elbow, taking the opportunity to study Charles with a smile. It wasn't often he got to see him like this—completely open and vulnerable in a manner he never allowed himself to be when he was awake and aware. The strain that habitually rested in his forehead was absent now, instead replaced by one that was soft and serene.

Max had a passing and very brief idea that Charles was extremely adorable in this particular way, but he discarded that idea without a second thought.

Instead, he extended his hand and gave Charles a gentle tap on the shoulder to rouse him. "Wake up," he ordered.

Charles made a discontented noise of frustration and, finding comfort, buried his face deeper into the softness of the pillow.

Max prodded him again. "Come on. We have a flight."

"No."

Max chuckled. "Yes.

Charles theatricaly groaned, curling up more. "Five more minutes.".

"You said that ten minutes ago."

Charles slowly opened one eye, still on the brink of sleep, and scowled at Max. "I hate you."

Max grinned. "I know.". However, Charles did not stir at all and did not make any movement. Max let out a deep sigh, shaking his head in annoyance as he leaned a bit closer to Charles. His voice was gentler this time, but with an undercurrent of urgency. "Charles. We need to leave."

Charles groaned once more but began to move at last. "Okay. But I'm going to shower first."

"You can take a shower while flying."

"I most certainly have to shower now, especially after out activities last night Max" Charles grumbled disgruntledly as he dragged himself out of bed, stumbling to the bathroom in a semi-state of bewilderment, half-closing and straining his eyes to stay open.

Max saw him off, shaking his head slowly with a little private smile known only to himself.

By the time Charles had finally come out into the open—his hair obviously damp from the shower, his eyes still bearing the tell-tale signs of sleepiness but gradually growing more alert—Max had already proceeded to gather up all of his belongings and was standing patiently by the door.

Charles regarded Max, then glanced over at the clock and noted the time, before letting out a heavy sigh that spoke volumes about his annoyance. "I still hate you."

Max extended his hand, cradling a steaming cup of coffee. "If you drink this, I promise you will hate me a little less."

With no sign of hesitation, Charles took it gladly, muttering to himself, "Mm. Maybe."

They headed to the airport soon after, and as was unavoidable, Charles—typical of him—fell asleep in the car. At some point during the ride, Max looked over to steal a glance at him and found Charles with his head leaning against the window, mouth barely agape again. Max's face broke out into a smile, but he restrained himself from taking a picture of the moment. Barely.

--

Charles was lounging comfortably in a relaxed manner across one of the spacious seats, his legs extended to their fullest reach in a manner that would have been utterly impossible and quite uncomfortable on any commercial airline. One of the numerous benefits of flying with Max, something that Charles thoroughly enjoyed, was the availability of all the space he had at his disposal—though it was something that Max would never allow him to forget or overlook.

"Private flying is truly the only way one should ever consider flying," Max had said with a self-satisfied grin, as they stepped aboard the aircraft.

Now, sixty minutes having passed since the flight took to the air, Charles was beginning to feel the cumulative effects of rising early that morning. He let out a wide yawn, stretching his arms way up over his head in an effort to find some relief from the tension. Then he turned his gaze to Max and asked, "How long is the flight?"

"Approximately ten hours."

Charles groaned. "That's awful."

Max smirked. “I’ll take you home to Monaco after the race. You’ll survive.”

Charles squinted slightly, his eyes narrowing as he focused intently. "Will I be provided with any in-flight entertainment during the flight?"

Max swiftly threw a game controller at him, and Charles just managed to catch it in time. "We can play FIFA?"

Charles grinned, perking up immediately. "Prepare to lose."

Max snorted, grabbing his own controller. "I don't lose.".

"It's quite presumptuous of you to make a statement like that, considering I completely annihilated you in our last game."

Max rolled his eyes. "One lucky game doesn't count."

Charles just disregarded him completely, focusing on the task ahead of him as he began making preparations for the next match. "AS Monaco versus PSV," he announced with an arrogant smirk of contentment, well aware that this particular couple would surely get on Max's nerves like nothing else.

Max narrowed his eyes slightly, suspicion in his gaze. "You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?"

"Of course."

Their first game was an exhilarating display, with a din of shouting, friendly trash talking, and the odd push of the elbow that would occur whenever one of them got a bit too big for his britches. Charles did score the first goal, which caused him to throw his arms up in a gesture of celebration in a moment of victory, basking in the glory of what he had just accomplished, but it was short-lived as Max quickly responded by tying the score shortly after. As the game continued and Max took the lead with a score of 3-2, Charles was literally fuming with a sense of frustration that seemed to permeate the air around them.

"I just know this game is fixed," Charles said under his breath, as if in disbelief and frustration.

Max grinned. "No, you're just bad.".

"Be quiet s'il te plaît."

"Please be quiet." Max replied in a sarcastic but playful tone.

Charles shoved him. Max shoved him back.

The match had ended 4-3, clearly in Max's favour, and when Charles saw this, he dramatically collapsed back into his chair and let out an over-the-top groan that conveyed his anger. "You cheat," he accused, speaking his disbelief at the turn of events.

Max snorted. "That's rich, coming from you."

Charles raised his hand casually. "It doesn't matter. Start a new game. I need some revenge."

Before they were able to begin their task, the flight attendant entered the cabin with a warm smile and presented them with a selection of foods. Charles, who had been slightly irritable just seconds earlier, instantly brightened at the appearance of the snacks.

Max leaned back in his chair, observing Charles with interest and amusement as he inhaled his plate of pasta with relish, as though he had not eaten for a week. "You always eat like Ferrari is starving and dieting you," he commented with a smile.

Charles pointed his fork at him, making his point. "Yes, they do. I am in the unhappy situation of being a Ferrari driver."

Max rolled his eyes theatrically but chose not to protest. He drank slowly, allowing the silence that had fallen between them to stretch out in a surprisingly pleasant manner.

Taking a moment to collect himself, Charles settled back into his chair with a self-contented sigh that expressed his own contentment. "Okay. Now I'm ready and set for a rematch of FIFA."

Max grinned. "Good. You'll need the energy to lose again."

Charles was going to start an argument, but at that moment a glint of mischief sparked in his eyes. He tilted his head to one side, his voice adopting a surprisingly casual tone. "Actually. I have a new plan. Better than FIFA…" he began, his demeanour shifting as he lounged a bit. "Have you ever had the chance to join the mile-high club?"

Max almost choked on his drink in surprise. "What did you just say?

Charles smiled at the expression on Max's face. "You heard me."

Max screwed up his eyes. "No."

Charles furrowed his brow in incredulity and disbelief. "You're kidding me? I really figured that you, of all people—"

"I prefer to be comfortable," Max joked.

Charles laughed. "So boring. We have to change that."

Max scowled at him. "You're kidding."

Charles merely offered him a lazy, slow grin. "Am I?"

There was a silence. Then Max tossed his controller down, got up, and took Charles by the wrist. Charles barely had a chance to allow a smirk onto his face before he was being led gently yet firmly towards the private bedroom in the back of the jet.

--

As they stepped from the smooth, plush jet onto the runway, the oppressive and suffocating humidity of Shanghai assaulted them the second they were free of the cool plane air, enveloping them like a warm, dense blanket. Charles covered his eyes from the blinding brightness of the radiant noon sun, the heat beating down upon him, while his hair was still mussed and tousled, a result of not sleeping well on the long flight—though Max was well aware that the rumpled appearance was not solely due to that cause. He turned his eyes to Max, stretching his arms and legs forcefully, carefully working out the tension and knots that had seeped into his shoulders during the approach to the waiting car that was parked beside them.

Charles elbowed him. "Jet lag catching up with you already?

Max shook his head. "Not really. I slept during the flight.".

Charles puffed out his chest. "I attempted to sleep."

Max snickered, side-eyeing him. "You looked pretty busy."

Charles rolled his eyes but could not help smiling. "You're impossible."

They got into the black SUV that was waiting for them, the seats wonderfully cool against their skin. They were greeted by the driver in courteous English, checking their hotel information before moving off from the private terminal. The trip into the city was seamless, the skyline stretching out with its futuristic skyscrapers and blinking billboards.

Charles let out a sigh, resting his head back against the seat in a reclined position. "I honestly feel as though I could sleep for an entire week and not want to be bothered."

Max hummed, scrolling through his phone. "You're going to be miserable at media day."

Charles groaned, running his hands over his face. "Don't remind me."

Max was smiling, as evidenced by a smirk on his face. "It's something you've just got to do, I guess. You've got to smile, be nice, and answer the same three questions repeatedly—'Can Ferrari compete this year?' 'How does it feel to be racing in China again?' 'Do you think you can beat Max Verstappen?'"

Charles groaned louder. "I hate you."

Max chuckled. "No, you don't.".

Charles shot him a sidelong look, but there was no actual hostility or anger in the expression. "I hate media."

"Same."

The world around them was a blur, something familiar yet somehow far away at the same time. There was complete silence for a while between them; their fatigue from traveling was finally catching up with them and bearing down on their minds. Charles could not contain his curiosity after a while and slowly opened one eye to assess the situation. "What is the plan from here? Do we go to the hotel first before anything else?"

Max agreed slightly with a nod. "Yeah, definitely. We'll unload our things and perhaps sleep quickly and rest for a while. Then I need to head to the factory and get some simulator work done that I need to do."

Charles made a face. “You’re going straight to the sim?”

Max casually shrugged his shoulders. "I really need to get the whole setup sorted. Red Bull is still not comfortable at all with the situation."

Charles paused to look at him closely, his eyes resting on him for a whole second. Having had ample time with Max, he could identify the subtle yet evident frustration underlying Max's demeanor. The Red Bull car, with its new design, which had just been revealed, was still not flawless in its performance, and due to this, Max had been going through a lot of misery over the whole weekend in Melbourne, trying to get the car to feel just right and live up to his expectations.

Charles leaned back in his seat, breathing out as he did so. "I ought to make a reminder to call Ferrari as well."

Max returned a chilly and indifferent gaze. "Are they even awake and on the job yet? The strategists are still trying to work out the reasons why they completely blew their opportunity in Melbourne."

Charles groaned once more, kicking at Max's foot. "Stop."

Max simply smiled.

They arrived at their hotel shortly after their journey, stepping into the pleasantly cool air-conditioned lobby that provided a refreshing escape from the outside heat. As expected, it was the epitome of five-star luxury, featuring elegantly sleek furniture that spoke volumes about sophistication, and an attentive staff who were well accustomed to F1 drivers casually breezing in and out throughout the busy race week.

While they waited patiently at the reception desk for assistance, Charles transferred his weight and rocked back a bit on his heels. With a casual but friendly tone, he inquired, "Would you care to go out for dinner later?"

Max looked at him. "Depends. Are you really going to stay awake?

Charles's face darkened into a profound scowl. "I hate you."

Max smiled. "Again, no, you don't."

They exchanged the keys to their rooms in their hands, and they headed towards the elevators that waited for them. Charles pressed the button for his floor with confidence while simultaneously meeting Max's gaze with a calm expression. "So, are we going to meet in just a few hours?" he asked to confirm.

Max nodded his head in obedience. "Do try not to slobber on your pillow when you sleep.".

Charles raised his middle finger in a clear display of contempt as the elevator doors closed behind him with a smooth whoosh.

A few hours later, after they both had been able to accomplish some much-needed rest and recovery, they ended up running into one another yet again in the lobby of the building. Charles appeared to be a little more awake than he had been earlier, his hair still a slightly disheveled appearance but his eyes now considerably clearer and more awake than before.

Max lifted an eyebrow. "Good nap?"

Charles yawned. "Good enough. I still hate time zones."

Max looked at his watch. "We've got time before dinner. Want to walk around some?"

Charles considered, then nodded. "Yeah. Let's do it."

As they stepped out into the vibrant and bustling streets of Shanghai, teeming with energy and life, their easy and relaxed banter was back to normal as if it had never skipped a beat. If there were any onlookers present—two world class drivers who were not just rivals but friends as well—no one would ever have been able to guess the amazing and unprecedented events that had unfolded 30,000 feet above the air just a few hours before. They did not plan to reveal the information to anybody.

Chapter Text

The Shanghai paddock was alive and buzzing, pulsating with the same energy that is inseparable from a race weekend as Max stepped out of the Red Bull hospitality structure. Already wearing his team polo and cap, he looked every bit the dedicated racer. The air was thick with moisture, offering a stark contrast to Melbourne's trademark dry heat, and mechanics and engineers hurried past him between the various garages. They were busily working to prepare for the weekend's first session, with all set for the racing to come.

Charles made his arrival in a highly individual style, walking in alone from the rest. The vivid Ferrari red of his car was particularly striking and stands out amidst the throng of the paddock. Although he exchanged polite nods with several of the team, otherwise he kept a low-key profile, shoulders down and eyes on the road ahead. His mood continued to be difficult to discern behind the darkened lens of his shades, but Max had been around him long enough to know the unmistakable stiffening of tension in the way his shoulders were set.

Their first contact, albeit brief, was especially significant—a mere passing glance exchanged between them as Charles headed in the direction of the high-end Ferrari garage, while at the same moment Max headed towards the Red Bull pit.

"Ready?" Max said with a hint of a smirk.

Charles scoffed. "Are you?"

Max shrugged. "We'll see."

There were no additional words necessary or requested at that moment. They both realised they had a shared mission to fulfil together.

There was an undeniable feeling of lightness that came over Charles as he started walking around the paddock, and it was not something that had to do with anything Ferrari—long ago, he had learned to temper his expectations in a fair manner. It was more the reassuring presence of his family that buoyed him. His dear maman and both his brothers had made the time to come to be with him, which was really a momentous occasion given the crazy schedules and busy lives that they all lived.

"They’re here!" Lorenzo exclaimed excitedly, a big smile spreading across his face as he came over. "Look who's here—our favourite sibling"

Arthur snorted in disbelief. "You say that like we really have any other viable options?".

Charles rolled his eyes theatrically, a motion so close to second nature, yet there was an undeniable affection that filtered through on his face as he hesitated to pull them both in close for a quick, genuine hug. "You're lucky I missed you," he teased, indicating how much their presence truly mattered to him.

Their mother was right behind them, her very presence a source of warmth and comfort, her face bearing a gentle and loving smile as she reached forward to cradle Charles' cheek in a gentle gesture. "Mon bébé," she tenderly whispered, her voice thick with emotion, placing a gentle kiss upon his forehead as a demonstration of her affection. "Comment allez-vous ? Mangez-vous correctement?" she inquired solicitously, needing to know that he was looking after himself and eating sufficiently.

Charles released a soft puff that sounded like a little laugh as he stepped back from the argument. "Oui maman, je mange. And no, you really don't have to go check my fridge."

"Je ne te crois pas," she stated matter-of-factly, her voice plain and without guile, yet her eyes were gentle and warm. "How are you feeling now?"

"Good." His response was automatic, almost instinctive, but when his mother raised an eyebrow inquiringly, he let out a resigned sigh. "I guess I'm nervous. Ferrari does seem to be looking very good this time, but, honestly, we've said the same thing before many times."

Arthur bumped him gently with his shoulder. "Strong or otherwise, I just need you to know that you remain irrevocably the best on the grid.".

“Kindly pass that to the McLarens", Charles whispered quietly to himself.

Lorenzo slowly shook his head, the movement conveying his disbelief. "No, no. For us, you will always be the best, without a doubt."

Charles felt a warm, comforting warmth that began to spread in his chest, a thing which only emerged when he was around those special individuals who simply understood him at a fundamental level.

In this treasured haven, surrounded by these amazing individuals, there was no burdensome expectation placed upon him, and there were no oppressive cameras following his every move and step. Instead, it was simply the simple yet very profound, enduring love of his family, a love which provided him with that feeling of belonging and security.

Arthur clapped a warm hand on Charles' back, urging him forward. "Come along, dear sibling, going to give us a tour or what?"

Charles smiled broadly. "Well you should know your way around Mr F2 driver but what you really want to do is check out the delicious treats on display in the Ferrari motorhome right?."

"Obviously," Arthur responded, straight-faced. His mother put her arm around him softly, creating a cozy connection between them.

"Allez, mon bébé," she encouraged warmly. "You show us the way and lead us." And for a brief moment in time, Charles could momentarily set aside and forget about the stifling pressure and tension that was bearing down on the weekend that lay ahead of him.

--

Underneath Max's influence, the Shanghai track succumbed to his will as he went through Turn 1, testing the limits of the Red Bull with various adjustments to the grip of the steering wheel. The feel of the car was a distinct improvement over Australia—stability and predictability had markedly improved. Not perfect, but definitely better. He managed to clock in solid lap times while tracking Lando and Charles on the timing sheets.

At the end of the session, Max had finished P16, but somehow, it really didn't bother him too much, the car just felt better. P2 for Charles however, Max felt a sense of pride for his friend.

That Ferrari was going like a rocket!

Max stepped away from the car and peeled off his gloves. From here, he could see Charles on the big screen within the cooldown zone, dismounting from the Ferrari with his helmet still on. Yet Max knew him well enough to know when he was actually smiling.

“Are you enjoying it?” he asked, later facing off with Charles outside the entrance to Ferrari's hospitality area.

Charles crossed his arms, still sweaty from work, and smiled. “A little.”

Max leaned back against the railing. “Watch yourself. You know what happens when Ferrari looks too strong on a Friday.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “Oh, fuck off.”

Max's laugh propelled him off the railing. “Just saying. I’ve seen this story before.”

Charles shook his head; the amusement gleamed in those eyes.

If Charles was fast in practice, he was untouchable in Sprint Qualifying.

Max thought he had done a decent-if bordering on great-lap in SQ3 until Charles turned in something utterly unreal.

LECLERC - P3

“Fuck,” Max grunted, making his way into the pit lane. He was sitting there for a second assessing the gap—well, Red Bull was decent, Ferrari was flying.

Max was drinking out of his bottle in the cooldown when Charles strode in, still smiling. He flopped down beside Max, groaning contentedly as he hit the chair.

“So,” Charles drawled as he stretched his legs out, “do I get a ‘well done'?”

Max rolled his eyes, but he definitely smiled. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

Charles snorted, “Oh, I will.”

“Feeling confident?” Max glanced sideways at him.

Charles leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Maybe.”

Max took another sip of water, sneaking sideways glances at Charles. He honestly believes he has this one in the bag.

He wouldn't tell Charles, but he was kind of enjoying watching him be this smug. It was so entertaining knowing they were going to throw down for it tomorrow.

And if there was one thing Max really wanted, it was a fight.

--

Charles had been so sure that he was going to be able to win.

He had the pace. He had the confidence.

And so, for all his efforts, he continued to fall down the order, struggling desperately just to hold position and stay in the points.

The rest of the start of the race had otherwise gone quite well for him—though his get-away off the line wasn't exactly perfect, he was managing to keep P3 as they rounded Turn 1, really doing a decent job of keeping both Max and Lando behind him. That being said, as they reached Lap 3, he began to get the sense that something was a little bit wrong with his car.

The Ferrari handled differently. Twitchy, unstable. Whenever he attempted to push, the rear threatened to step out, and by the time Lando and Max passed him, he was already falling behind.

With each lap, his frustration only increased and intensified.

"What is going on now?" he growled into the radio with a note of annoyance after another driver—Russell, this time—zoomed past him as if he was just standing there and not even moving a bit.

The voice of his engineer crackled with static in his ear, creating a brief moment of disruption. “We are currently investigating the situation, Charles,” came the assurance.

Looking into it.

Fucking great.

By the time the checkered flag waved, Charles crossed the line in P5—a dismal performance considering where he had started. Max had claimed the third behind oscar, a Red Bull vs. McLaren fight. Charles caught a glimpse of the celebrations only as he drove into parc fermé, ripped off his gloves, and strode into the Ferrari garage without so much as looking at anyone.

Max had been enjoying a moment of reprieve in the welcoming atmosphere of the Red Bull hospitality booth, catching his breath from the day's events while scrolling through his phone without any restraint, when he suddenly spotted Charles on the screen before him.

The Ferrari debrief was taking pride of place in the media pen, drawing the eye of those sitting around it—a quiet, but potent image of Charles, who was sitting in a chair, his arms tightly folded across his chest. He was gazing intently at the table in front of him, as though he had the urge to burn a hole in it using nothing but the strength of his stare.

Max let out a sigh. He knew that look.

After a short while that totaled only a matter of minutes, he found Charles, who was standing behind the garage where the Ferrari was kept. Charles stood with his hands squarely on his hips and was staring blankly at the earth below him, deep in thought.

Max stopped beside him. "You look awful."

Charles took a swift breath, shaking his head in the negative. "The car was not operational."

Max rested against the wall. "Felt fine yesterday."

"Indeed, there is no doubt about that, Max."

Max tilted his head. "I'm just saying—

"I don't want you to 'just say' anything for the moment."

Max raised both his hands in the air in a gesture of surrender. "Okay then. I won't say a word."

Charles slammed his jaw shut in frustration before he ran a hand through his rumpled hair in a desperate attempt to calm himself. "It's just—every time we take one step forward, it feels like we take two backward. I was so utterly convinced that we had everything correct this time.".

Max shot him a brief look. "You still have to pass the qualifying rounds.".

Charles laughed. "Yeah. Great."

Max remained silent for a while, as though in contemplation. Then, in an easy manner that presupposed familiarity, he casually nudged the side of Charles with his elbow, making contact with his eye.

Charles blinked at him. "What?"

Max shrugged slightly. "I'm just making sure you still have a pulse. You're behaving like your championship run is done and it's only Saturday.".

Charles exhaled, but the edge of his mouth twitched a fraction. "You're an asshole."

Max grinned. "I know."

For a moment, Charles simply stared at him, something in his eyes that was difficult to interpret and mumbled something evasive—before he slowly shook his head, exhaling deeply in doing so. "I need to get out of here."

Max cocked his head to one side. "Come play FIFA later.

Charles snorted. "Oh yeah, that will fix everything.".

Max smiled. "I'll let you win.".

Charles rolled his eyes. "You never let me win.".

Max nudged the other person's shoulder with his. "You know, maybe today I'll actually go ahead and do it."

Charles exhaled a frustrated sigh, his head shaking in disappointment. But Max could see that the tension of his frustration had eased just a little.

--

Though Max failed to take the pole for qualifying, a P4 finish was certainly not a bad result.

Oscar was the star this time, gaining his first pole somehow. The Red Bull wasn't perfect but he could do it.

Charles, unlike the rest, once more found himself placed in P6.

Following the disastrous sprint race, Ferrari's team had been tinkering with his setup in an attempt to squeeze out additional speed—but regardless of the changes they tried, it felt as though nothing they did achieved anything beneficial. In fact, if anything, the changes had only served to make things worse.

When Charles stepped out of the car, it was clear that he was in a very angry mood because he had also sounded extremely irritated over the radio. His voice was strained to the extent of expressing his frustration.

By the time Max finally located him after the crash, he was outside the luxurious Ferrari hospitality marquee, aimlessly scrolling through the content of his phone without any particular interest.

Max positioned himself right in front of the individual. "P6?" he inquired, seeking clarification.

Charles kept his gaze downward, not lifting his eyes. "Please, just don't start."

Max rocked back on his heels. "Wasn't gonna."

Charles sighed heavily, finally jamming his phone into his pocket. "I should have been faster."

Max shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not."

Charles scowled as he looked at him. "What sort of answer would that be?"

Max grinned. "A realistic one."

Charles stalked away. "I hate you."

Max grinned. "I know."

Charles groaned once more and rubbed his eyes. Then, without looking at Max, he grunted, "Your room?"

Max didn't bat an eye. "Yeah."

--

The moment the door gave a soft click and shut tightly behind them, Charles abruptly came to life, turning his complete attention to him.

There was no hesitation and no gradual building of tension or anticipation as Charles took a firm hold of Max by the front of his shirt and yanked him forward hard. Their lips clashed together in an unexpected, overwhelming intensity in one swift motion.

It was desperate. Frustrated. Borderline angry.

Max barely had time to process it when his back hit the wall. Charles kissed him roughly—roughly enough that Max groaned into it, fingers tearing into Charles' waist, keeping him standing.

Charles' hands got tangled in Max's shirt, holding it tightly as though he needed something to cling to in that moment. His breath came in rough, hacking gasps, and his entire body was strung taut with a nearly overwhelming tension. Max could feel it all—he felt every ounce of frustration, disappointment, and pent-up energy coursing under Charles' skin, creating a overwhelming undercurrent of emotion.

Max allowed him to take it. He let him have it.

Charles bit down on his lower lip, the action conveying both anticipation and anxiety. He also tugged at it gently, letting out a rough exhalation as Max's hands slipped beneath his shirt, fingers making contact with his bare skin. Charles' heat was palpable, his body humming with a contained energy that could not be denied, and an intensity that Max could sense had been building all day.

Max returned the kiss with a lighter pressure—slower and more deliberate. Grounding.

Charles groaned into his lips. "Max—"

Max made a low humming noise in response, allowing his hands to roam and move freely, skimming them lightly over Charles' back as he did, observing the tension that was coiled tight within the strands of his muscles. Charles was definitely tense, his body practically quivering from the overwhelming weight and pressure of the weekend events that had unfolded so far.

Max pulled away just enough to meet his eyes. Charles' eyes were wild, slit with frustration and something else.

Max grinned. "Feel better yet?"

Charles let out a breath of exasperation, his head shaking with incredulity. "Not even close," he replied emphatically.

Max chuckled, his hands moving down slowly, finally coming to rest on Charles' hips. "Do you want me to give you the opportunity to beat me at FIFA again?"

Charles gave a piercing and fierce stare. "I did not need your help in helping me to win."

Max wore a broad grin on his face. "Oh, yes, that's exactly what happened.".

Charles groaned, pushing at Max's chest—but he didn't back off. If anything, he leaned in closer, forehead falling against Max's shoulder. His breath was warm against Max's skin, still laboured, still uneven.

Max's face relaxed a bit, as he allowed himself to relax and envelop Charles' back in a gentle and soothing embrace. "Want to discuss what is running through your head?"

Charles was quiet for a moment. Then his voice was muffled into Max's shirt. "I hate this."

Max shifted his hand slowly, stroking Charles' back gently. "What is it that you hate?"

Charles breathed in deeply and slowly exhaled. "The inconsistency is frustrating to the core. In one session, I know I can take the win, and then next session, I am fighting hard just to qualify for Q3." He then shook his head incredulously. "I was so totally sure that we got everything right this time."

Max sat quietly, patiently and attentively, and allowed Charles to get it all out. He knew all too well what that was like—the overwhelming pressure of expectations bearing down hard, the extreme frustration of knowing you should be doing better, and the overwhelming sense of powerlessness that comes from feeling you're doing everything you can but the car just doesn't appear to be running as it ought to or getting where you need it to go.

Charles took a step back, momentarily softening the intensity of their gaze as he stared at Max. His hands still grasped at the fabric of Max's shirt, fingers intertwined and gripping the fabric tightly. "I don't know how you do it."

Max tilted his head. "Do what?

Charles let out a sigh, shaking his head. "Stay so calm. Even when things don't go right.".

Max grinned. "You think I'm calm?"

Charles gave him an unyielding, hard gaze. "I do not see you throwing me against a wall for a kiss just because we had a rough session.".

Max released a carefree laugh, his fingers lightly stroking against Charles' side in a flirtatious gesture. "Maybe I should take that into consideration. It definitely looks like you like it."

Charles rolled his eyes, though he didn't loosen his grip on Max's shirt. "I'm serious."

Max drew a breath, his features easing. "It's not calmness. It's just." He shrugged. "I cannot control everything. So I don't let it get to me."

Charles puffed out a breath. "Yeah, well. You're more skilled at it than I am."

Max stopped to examine him intently, his eyes holding as he weighed the circumstances, before he reached out to brush a loose strand of hair back behind Charles' ear. "You care too much," he said, his voice laced with worry.

Charles frowned in confusion. "Is that bad?

Max gently shook his head back and forth, expressing his dissent. "No. It's what inherently makes you you."

Charles didn't say anything. His hold on Max's shirt relaxed a bit, his fingers grazing Max's chest instead. His breathing had slowed, steadied.

Max grinned. "And I'm just better than you, too."

Charles released a frustrated sigh, his annoyance expressed clearly. "You are such an asshole."

Max grinned. "I know."

Charles shook his head slowly and thoughtfully, but this time, when he leaned forward to kiss Max, the kiss was gentler than before.

Less desperate. Less frantic.

Something totally different.

Max permitted him to set the pace—slow, deliberate, and lingering. He felt his frustration slowly dissolve, make way for a sensation that was far more quiet and subdued. Charles exhaled a breath onto Max's lips, his hands rising, fingers threading into Max's hair, pulling him in closer, as though all he really wanted was to feel the sensation of being connected.

Max let out a soft hum that resonated against his lips. "Are you still angry?"

Charles let out a small laugh. "Always."

Max let out a gentle laugh, leaning his forehead against Charles' comfortably. "But it's not as much, though."

Charles sighed. "Non. Not as much."

They stood there for a moment, breathing each other in.

Then Charles sighed and leaned back a bit. "I should go.".

Max's eyebrow went up. "Yeah?"

Charles nodded. "Race tomorrow."

Max grinned. "I can think of worse ways to relax.".

Charles gave him a look. "Not going to happen, Verstappen. Not before a race."

Max smiled. "Worth a try."

Charles rolled his eyes but leaned in one more time, brushing a swift kiss against Max's lips before finally moving back.

Max looked on intently as he ran his hand over his hair, letting out a heavy, long sigh of breath through his mouth.

Then Charles glanced at him, and for a moment something indeterminate and difficult to decipher flickered across his face.

Max's eyebrow shot up. "What?"

Charles shook his head slowly, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You really are a dick."

Max chuckled. "I try."

Charles let out a sigh of frustration, shaking his head in disbelief prior to moving towards the door.

Max stood there, crossing his arms firmly over his chest, and watched him leave.

There was a slight smile that appeared on his lips, inching upwards a bit, as he heard the soft click of the door shut after him. Things were going to get interesting tomorrow.

Chapter Text

The initial laps were chaos.

Charles barely made Turn 1 when Lewis hit him—his front wing rubbing off his car, the carbon fibre crack unsnapping. He scarce had time to acknowledge it before his engineer's voice was heard in his ear.

"We see some damage, but performance is stable."

Charles gritted his teeth. No shit, damage was present. He could feel it—less downforce, a hint of understeer now kicking in. But he was still fast. Fast enough to continue pressing, not pit too early and sacrifice precious track position.

"Box now for a new front wing."

"No." Charles snapped in before they could even finish. He adjusted his grip on the wheel, teeth gritted. "It's fine. I can drive this way."

His engineer hesitated. "You're sure? We—"

"I said it's fine!"

He knew how this worked out. Pit now, his race was up. Ferrari would waste an eternity with the stop, and he'd be wasting the whole race attempting to work his way back. Not something to be done.

So he remained out.

And he pushed.

Each lap, he felt his car's restrictions, but he adapted. His hands instinctively moved, changing his inputs, managing the instability, extracting every millisecond he could.

But he was on his own.

The entire race, he struggled tooth and nail, but as far as strategy went, his team dismissed him.

"I think we should do one stop."

Silence.

Then: "We are doing the two-stop, Charles. Box this lap."

He almost screamed. Why waste his time? Why did they even bother consulting him if they weren't going to listen? He'd known—known—that the one-stop was the smarter move. They left him battling tire degradation in the end, losing seconds, losing places.

When the chequered flag fell, he was fifth.

Max was in front of him in fourth.

And neither of them was happy.

Charles stood in the Ferrari motorhome, his arms crossed over his chest, his racing suit reduced to waist level. His hair was wet with sweat, his face set in a tough, unyielding mask as he listened to his engineer try to tell him why they had disobeyed him.

"The data suggested the two-stop would be faster—"

"Then the facts were wrong." His voice was short, terse. He wasn't in a mood for this today.

His engineer sighed. "We shall investigate—"

"Yeah," growled Charles. "You go ahead."

He turned away in case he blurted something out he couldn't take back.

As he strode out into the paddock, he spotted Max.

The Red Bull driver was against a table near the hospitality compound, arms crossed, as irate as him.

Their gazes met.

For an instant, they just stared at each other.

Then Max snorted and shook his head. "What a fucking mess."

Charles emitted a sour chuckle. "For you or me?"

Max recoiled from the table, taking a walk over. "Both."

They froze, rigid for a beat, watching the podium ceremony across there—Oscar first, Lando second, George third.

McLaren domination.

It boiled with rage.

Max breathed hard. "I just had no rhythm today. Nothing I did panned out."

Charles smoothed out his hair. "At least you got to race your own race. My team never even saw me."

Max stared at him, watching his face.

"You should have been racing for a win," Max growled. "Not P5."

Charles let out a flat laugh. "Yeah. Tell that to Ferrari."

Max glared, before he could spew out another word, a reporter was heading towards them.

Charles sighed. Showtime.

Max grinned nastily. "Ready to lie through your teeth?"

Charles forced a smile. "Always."

And like that, they turned it on—professional, polite, media-trained.

Like everything was okay.

Like they weren't seething.

--

The knock on his door came at just past midnight.

Charles already knew who it was.

He opened the door, and there stood Max—still in his Red Bull team uniform, his hair slightly mussed, his face thunderous.

They didn't say a word.

Max had barely managed to shut the door when Charles charged at him.

Charles wasn't gentle. Not at all.

He forcefully shoved Max against the wall of the hotel room. Charles was breathing heavily, clearly furious. He grabbed Max's hoodie, pulling him closer—not to comfort him, but because he was so frustrated. Charles was tense, his jaw clenched, and his eyes filled with intensity.

Max let it happen.

"You have got to be kidding me," Charles said, his voice trembling as he held onto Max’s hoodie. "Underweight? They fucking disqualified me for being underweight!!"

Max remained silent. There was nothing he could say.

Charles let out a sharp laugh, but it wasn’t funny. "It wasn’t even my fault, Max. The car was fine. It was fucking fine! And now I lose everything for nothing!"

The anger, hurt, and exhaustion were clear.

Max could see it all in Charles' eyes—anger, frustration, and helplessness. It was consuming him.

So Max just stood there, calm, allowing Charles to pull him closer and vent his feelings.

Charles needed this.

"Say something," Charles demanded, his breath warm against Max's skin.

Max tilted his head slightly, his expression controlled. "What do you want me to say?"

"That it’s unfair!" Charles shouted. "That I should be winning, not getting disqualified because my team can’t do their jobs right!"

Max softly sighed. "Yeah, it’s unfair."

Charles gripped him tighter, still burning with frustration. "You don’t understand, Max. Your car is always fine, your team listens to you, they give you a good car. I don’t have that. And when I finally do something right, they fucking take it away," he said, his voice breaking.

Max gently placed his hands on Charles’ waist, grounding him. "You’re right," he acknowledged quietly. "It’s not fair."

Charles swallowed hard, his breathing quick, heartbeat racing. He should have calmed down. He should have stepped back.

He didn't.

Instead, he grabbed Max’s hoodie and kissed him.

It wasn't soft.

It was hard and filled with anger, all teeth and heat, his frustration in every move. Charles kissed Max with aggression, needing something to regain control.

Max accepted it. All of it.

He let Charles bite his lip, push him back against the wall, and press against him as if he wanted to lose himself in Max.

Charles pulled away for a moment to swear under his breath before diving back in, his hands moving to hold Max's jaw like he needed to hold on—like letting go would mean falling apart.

Max kissed back with equal intensity. Because this was Charles.

Because Charles could vent everything on him, push, pull, and claw at him, and Max would remain. Unmoving. Unshaken.

Because even if Charles wouldn’t say it—Max understood.

The heat between them built rapidly, almost spiraling into something more, something reckless. But then—

Charles stopped.

His breath hitched, his hands still clutching Max’s hoodie. He was trembling.

"I can’t fucking of this Max," he whispered, his voice rough and broken.

Max nodded immediately. No arguing. No complaints. Just acceptance.

Charles exhaled shakily, resting his forehead against Max’s. His hands stayed tightly gripping Max’s hoodie, like he couldn’t quite let go.

Max gently ran his fingers through Charles’ hair, speaking softly and calmly. "It’s okay."

Charles swallowed, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply.

Max stayed right there. Supporting him, keeping him steady.

And neither of them moved.

"Im sorry I know you had a bad race too but I fucking swear to God," Charles growled, "if I have to listen to my engineer one more time tell me to 'trust the data'—"

Max cut him off. "I know how you feel. My car was like a fucking tractor."

"Your crew actually listens to you," Charles snapped. "Mine—" He pushed a hand through his hair, panting out. "I told them. I told them one stop was better, and they fucking didn't listen and now this."

Max chuckled. "They don't deserve you."

Charles gave a harsh laugh. "Merci. That helps."

Max's jaw clenched. "McLaren is going to win this championship outright if something doesn't happen."

Charles snorted. "And it isn't going to happen."

Silence.

Heavy. Frustrated.

Then—

"Fuck it. Come here."

Max bridged the space between them in a heartbeat, pulling Charles in by the waist once again.

The kiss was savage. Enraged.

Teeth clashing, hands holding on, as if they both needed to feel something else.

Charles struggled, fingers tangled in Max's hair, nipping his lip, all of his anger pouring into it.

Max growled, spun them around, and slammed Charles hard into the wall.

This was not gentle.

This was raw. Hungry. Now.

They tore at each other—t-shirts pushed up, hands grasping, mouths savage.

They didn't speak.

Didn't need to.

This was how they spoke—this way their bodies brushed, this way they learned how to push, how to take. Before either of them knew it, clothes were scattered everywhere, Charles was on his back, Max biting softly on his collar, leaving a mark in his wake. Both of them, once again lost in each others bodies.

And when it finished, when they were a wrung-out heap in the bed, gasping, Charles waited a few seconds before folding into Max's side.

Max did not turn away.

Did not shove him off.

But he turned his body to the side slightly, pulling Charles closer.

His fingers brushed through Charles' hair, smoothing over it, soothingly.

Charles exhaled a breath, eyes fluttering shut.

Then, gently—

"I thought this was the year."

Max went rigid.

Charles swallowed. "I thought—" He breathed a shaking breath. "I thought I'd be fighting for a championship."

Max didn't answer. Just kept stroking Charles' hair.

Charles spoke so softly that the words were barely audible. "And now I feel like it's getting away."

Max's grip was a little tighter. "It's not over yet."

Charles laughed. "It feels like it."

Max shifted, pressing a small kiss to the top of Charles’ head. "You’re Charles fucking Leclerc."

Charles let out a weak laugh. "That supposed to mean something?"

Max smirked slightly. "Yeah. It means that you can pull off the impossible."

Silence.

Soft, heavy breathing.

Charles’ body relaxed.

And eventually, he fell asleep—curled into Max’s chest, Max’s hand still in his hair, his own fingers lightly gripping Max’s shirt.

Max didn’t move.

Didn’t dare move.

Because as much as they claimed this was just physical—

The truth was, neither of them could let go.

Max woke up first.

It was no shock to those who knew him—he had always been the kind of person who rose with the sun, regardless of how late he had been out the previous evening. His years of rigorous training, the early morning routines that came with early race weekends, and the all-encompassing nature of his responsibilities had all worked to condition him to waking at the break of day, as the sun began its rise in the heavens.

Charles, on the contrary, possessed a personality and attitude that were the exact opposite of what had been previously described.

Max slowly turned his head to the side, his lips curling into a smile as he took in the beautiful vision that was right beside him.

Charles was totally dead to the world.

His head was buried deep into the soft, plush pillow, and his unruly brown hair stood up in all directions in a messy, uncombed manner. The mark that Max had left the previous night shining brightly on the tan skin of his collarbone. The sheets were pulled haphazardly around his waist, making him appear rumpled. He was spread out on the bed like a starfish, with one of his arms stretched out across Max's stomach, holding him close even in the middle of his sleep.

Max quietly changed position, observing closely as Charles creased his forehead in confusion, uttering a stream of unintelligible words prior to nuzzling his face deeper into the soft, comforting pillow.

Fucking adorable.

Max allowed himself a moment to simply look, to take in the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of Charles' back as he breathed. He noted the gentle fluttering of Charles' lashes, which moved ever so slightly, and the way his lips were parted just enough to create an impression of softness that was almost laughably endearing.

Then Max did the only sensible thing.

He bent in close, his voice low and playful. "Charles."

No answer.

Max grinned. "Wake up, sleeping beauty."

Charles groaned loudly in objection, trying to raise his head even slightly. "Non," he said firmly.

Max blew out a laugh. "It's almost eleven."

Charles pried one eye open and regarded Max with a face that conveyed the sense that Max was personally responsible for having wrecked all of his life. "And?"

"And, Max added with a smile, "you ought to get up."

Charles collapsed back onto the sofa. "Non."

Max couldn't help but roll his eyes in exasperation, yet he did not stir, choosing not to alter his position. He allowed Charles to move in closer, his face pressed against Max's side, with the warmth of his breath brushing against Max's skin gently.

"You're impossible," Max muttered, pushing a hand through Charles' hair with an absent-minded manner.

Charles breathed contentedly. "Mmm. 'S nice."

Max's fingers stopped moving.

Dangerous.

This was dangerous.

Yet Charles was half asleep, completely oblivious to the fact that he was making this situation much easier than it really was.

Max gulped and took a deep breath, making a conscious effort to keep his voice steady and calm. "Are you hungry?"

Charles didn't budge. "puet-être plus tard”

Max snorted. "You'll starve before you get up out of bed."

"Let me," Charles growled, "be miserable in peace."

Max vigorously shook his head in dissension, all the while groping for his smartphone that was close by. "I'll just order breakfast for us," he said assertively.

Charles murmured assent but did not even try to move.

Max briefly looked his way as he was attempting to place the order. "Is there something special you would like?"

Charles groaned. "Je m'en fiche. Juste… càfe."

"Of course." Max rolled his eyes, putting down his phone.

There was a warm, comfortable silence between them.

Max sat and watched closely as Charles gradually surrendered to sleep once more, his breathing deep and even as he slumped against Max's side.

For once in a rare while, Max did not mind at all the prospect of staying in bed for just a bit longer than normal.

When the unexpected rap on the door was heard, Charles was hardly reacting to it at all.

Max derisively laughed. "Are you going to get that?"

Charles let out a pathetic noise, pulling the sheets over his head. "Non."

Max rolled his eyes, rising out of bed to accept the tray from the hotel room staff.

When he turned around to look over his shoulder, he noticed Charles was still completely covered and wrapped up by the piles of blankets.

Max sported a wicked grin on his face as he carefully placed the food in front of him before sitting on the bed's edge. "If you don't get up and come with me, I'm going to eat your croissant," he teased, leaving no one in doubt about his intention.

Charles appeared out of thin air, his eyes barely open and yet full of indignation at being betrayed. "You wouldn't really do that," he protested in shock.

Max grinned. "Try me."

Charles groaned and painstakingly worked his way into a sitting position, his hair appearing even more disheveled than it had before. He appeared completely and utterly exhausted, rubbing his bleary eyes in the style of a frustrated kid being awakened from sleep far too early.

Max laughed. "Jesus, you really are awful in the morning."

Charles issued a feeble glare, but it lacked intensity or menace. Instead of trying to make some dramatic statement with his face, he accepted the cup of coffee that Max offered him and took a contemplative sip, breathing out a slow sigh as the energizing properties of the caffeine began to diffuse through his system.

Max watched him, grinning. "Better?"

Charles sighed again, dramatically this time. "A little."

Max smiled. "Good. Because I've got an idea."

Charles raised an eyebrow, taking another sip of coffee. "What?"

Max reclined slightly. "Remain in China with me for a couple of days."

Charles's eyes fluttered open, taken by surprise. "What?"

"I simply don't feel like returning to Monaco just yet," Max indifferently shrugged his shoulders. "I figured that I'd stick around for a bit longer, and see and learn a bit more of the country. I also figured that you might be up to joining me on this small adventure."

Charles stopped, setting his coffee down. "You want me to stay?"

Max shot him a look. "Blijkbaar."

Charles glanced in just for another moment longer, then tilted his head slightly to one side with a hint of questioning.

"You wouldn't normally be in a position where you would invite somebody like this," he said with careful consideration.

Max rolled his eyes. "Don't get weird about it."

Charles took a breath with a cloud of air, making his displeasure obvious, yet at the same time, a faint smile lingered on the edges of his mouth.

"Very well," he replied after a moment, feigning indifference. "I will remain here, I suppose."

Max smiled. "Knew you would."

The next few days felt like a fever dream.

They steered clear of anything that seemed too formal, preferring secluded spots, tiny markets, and secret eateries.

They found themselves sampling a multitude of delicious foods that they could hardly even pronounce, wandered down unknown streets that were completely alien to them, and wound up on a spontaneous boat tour that neither one of them had ever considered or planned on taking.

Charles then thought that he would make Max pose for photos in various positions, all of which were intended to irritate him.

Max frowned every time but let him do it anyway.

At one particular point while they were together, Max caught Charles looking at him with a soft and gentle look that spoke volumes. But just as he was about to say something in return, either in terms of thoughts or feelings, Charles quickly moved and jokingly stuffed a tasty dumpling into Max's mouth, silencing any potential words from being spoken.

Max scowled. "You're lucky I like you."

Charles just smiled. "I know."

For a time, it was quite simple to put on a disguise and act as if everything was okay.

To pretend they weren’t rivals.

To pretend they weren’t just friends with benefits.

To pretend that this was something real.

--

The moment their feet touched the earth, reality hit them like a ton of bricks.

The second their feet touched the ground after disembarking from the jet, their phones lit up with a flurry of incoming messages—updated schedules, detailed team briefings, and all manner of media obligations waiting to be dealt with.

Charles groaned, massaging his temple. "Back to normal, huh?"

Max smiled. "Define normal."

Charles let out a tired laugh. "You know what I mean."

Max shot him a brief look. "Yeah," he replied.

They remained there for a fleeting instant, a transitory moment in time, with something unsaid hanging thickly in the air between them.

And then Max patted Charles on the shoulder with a warm clap of his hand, expressing solidarity. "I'll see you out there on the track next week in Japan."

Charles gulped. "Yeah. See you."

And in an instant—

It was none other than Max and Charles who had returned once again.

Just friends.

Just rivals.

Just acting as if nothing at all had altered or shifted in any way.

Charles had returned to the schedule of endless engineer meetings after his leisurely few days with Max. But he was already dreading looking forward to Japan. It pained him so much every year, recalling what had occurred, recalling Jules.

It was the night on Tuesday before Charles had to depart to travel to Japan the next day and he was in bed. He lay there awake, pages of thoughts stirring within his mind, mostly Jules.

He was attempting to divert his mind from his current thoughts by watching a film, but without success. However, his attention was abruptly captured when the screen of his phone brightened with a notification.

Max FaceTiming. Max always appeared to have a sixth sense about when Charles wasn't doing too well. Perhaps this call from Max is just what is needed to help him calm down.

He let out a deep sigh, his hand rising to massage his tired eyes before he answered. "You do realise it's nearly midnight, don't you Verstappen?"

Max's face showed up on the screen with a huge smile, looking enthusiastic. "Yeah, but you're still awake and alert."

Charles rolled his eyes but didn't complain. "Barely."

Max sat back, the light in the background of his hotel room fading. "All set for Japan?"

Charles breathed a slow, long sigh, his fingers idly playing with the edge of his soft duvet. "Almost there," he whispered.

Max narrowed his eyes slightly, picking up on the shift in Charles’ tone. "You don’t sound excited."

Charles was caught off guard in that moment. Even though he did not wish for his feelings to be quite so transparent, the truth was that this particular weekend always hung on him more than he cared to acknowledge.

"Suzuka is extremely tough on me," he said in a hushed tone, his voice barely above a whisper. "Each year, I say to myself that it will become easier, but, unfortunately, it never does."

Max said nothing for the time being, just waited, letting Charles go on in his own time.

"I grew up with Jules guiding me, you see?" Charles continued, his voice taking on a distant quality as if his thoughts had whisked him away to some other place and time—back to Maranello, back to those exciting days of karting, back to that uncomplicated era before everything underwent a dramatic transformation. "He was always present in my life, always watching out for me and offering his guidance. He was like an elder brother to me."

Max was already very much aware of the fact. In reality, every single person in the paddock was completely aware of the immense impact Jules Bianchi had had on Charles's life. But when Max listened to Charles talk about his feelings for Jules in such emotionally charged, vulnerable, and raw a tone, it brought a stinging throb to Max's heart.

"He's the one who initially encouraged me, telling me with total certainty that I had it in me to be the best of motorsport, que j'arriverais en Formule 1. In the times when I was full of doubts and uncertainty about whether I had what it took, he didn't waver and never doubted me," Charles said quietly introspectively. "Il a été la première personne à connaître sur moi... he helped me to accept and love myself.. I- I just catch myself thinking about how much je souhaitais il était assis ici à côté de moi. Racing beside me. Battling hard for championships. It's really difficult not to consider all of the what-ifs of what could have been.. si les choses étaient différentes.”

Max gulped hard, noting the constriction in his throat. He had no empty words to offer, untainted by any meaningless promises that would be a source of comfort.

Max gulped hard, noting the constriction in his throat. He had no empty words to offer, untainted by any meaningless promises that would be a source of comfort.

Instead of remaining silent, he spoke the words he had to speak. "You don't have to go through this by yourself, Charles."

Charles gazed at Max across the screen, his eyes looking a bit glassy as he took in the truth. "Je sais," he said.

Max's voice gentled, speaking his sincerity. "I'm not just saying these things. This weekend, when you need help or even just a shoulder to cry on, just speak the words, and without hesitation, I'll be there for you."

Charles snorted a small, weary laugh. "You trying to comfort me? That's a first."

Max grinned. "Don't get used to it."

A pause.

Then, quieter—sincere—

"But seriously. I've got you. Altijd."

Charles relaxed, releasing a breath in his chest. "Merci, Max."

Max simply nodded in gratitude. "What are friends for? Take lots of rest. I'll be waiting for you again soon in Japan."

Charles smiled slightly at him, with gratitude and appreciation. "Oui, I'm looking forward to seeing you again soon."

And the moment the call had ended, Charles already felt somewhat lighter.

Chapter Text

Charles perched on the side of their hotel bed, feeling the fabric against them as he eased into a comfortable position. Their hands were idly clasped together in his lap, a gesture that betokened calm, and his eyes were fixed intently on the image he saw staring back at them from the mirror across the room.

He could not help but notice that his hair had grown out a little bit since their last haircut—just enough for the ends to curl slightly, framing a gentle wave that touched his ears. This subtle movement made them stop every time he caught sight of themselves, bringing on a jumbled set of emotions as he contemplated his appearance.

He was in two minds about how he felt toward it. There were some days when he'd gaze at himself and think it looked quite becoming, telling themselves that it made them appear softer in a way that connected to the person that he was on the inside. But there were other days, too, when the feeling was completely opposite; it was as if it were a nagging itch under his skin, a bothersome feeling of something being alien and out of place, something that wasn't really his at all. Today, sadly, was one such difficult day when he experienced that disconnect.

He sighed, brushing his hair back, only to have it fall into position again. He could style it back. He could shave it all off. Neither solution felt quite appropriate.

He rubbed a hand thoughtfully over his face, as if to wipe away the weariness of the day, and then he picked up the small bag of makeup that was neatly rolled up in the drawer of the dresser. It wasn't much—just a few items he had picked up along the way, a hoard of products that occasionally provided assistance when nothing else was going to work or could possibly make a difference.

His fingertips grazed the base products in front of them before he eventually decided on a light cover-up, applying it sparingly as he smoothed it under his eyes and along their jawline. The result was hardly noticeable, but it was enough to even out his tone across his skin, helping him feel somewhat more in control of how he presented himself to the world.
It had a small impact, but it counted.

He took a deep breath once again, his lungs filling with air, and then he looked over at his suitcase. His Ferrari team outfit had been carefully laid out and was already set out in front of them, waiting patiently for them to wear it.

Charles lifted the vibrant red polo shirt slowly, allowing their fingertips to graze the smooth fabric as he examined its texture and quality before pulling it over his head. Once he had it on, he found the fit was actually quite good, tailored to compliment his physique; however, as he stood before the mirror and began making minor adjustments, he couldn't shake the feeling that something still wasn't quite right.

It was the way the fabric rested on their shoulders, which didn't sit quite right, and the way it cut across his body that made him feel slightly uncomfortable. And on top of this, there was this sensation that he was meant to wear it a particular way—buttoned all the way up—as though it were a uniform intended for another person entirely.

It was not something he had time to sit and think and ponder about. Not at this moment.

There was a knock on his door, which surprised them.

"Charles, we have to leave in ten minutes," his press secretary shouted from across the room, ensuring that he could catch the tone of urgency in her voice.

"Coming," he replied mechanically, without even being aware.

His hands flew up toward the buttons on his polo, retracting before he finished fastening them completely. He adjusted his watch, settling it around his wrist with effortless skill, and brushed his palms over his hair a last time. He resembled himself. Or the part of himself everyone was used to seeing, anyway.

--

The blinding flash of a hundred cameras was almost dazzling as Charles emerged from the sleek car. The ecstatic fans surged forward against the barricades, shouting his name in excitement and waving their red Ferrari flags high in the air.

He raised a hand in acknowledgement of the applause but kept on walking resolutely, his gait determined and full of purpose, while his face was set in a calm and serene composure in the midst of the chaos surrounding him.

He'd gotten good at this. Keeping things steady, staying neutral.

Suzuka had never been an easy circuit for him. He had adored this track as a child, wishing every day that he might one day compete here in the years to come; he and Jules spent hours upon hours seated, fixated while watching old races conducted here. Yet the enormous pressure and prestige of this track began to feel increasingly stifling, grinding down on him year after year as he struggled to reach his childhood and now adult dreams.

As he walked through the paddock door, he stopped for a brief moment to wave and nod to some of the friendly faces that he had met at past meetings as he walked along.

"Mr. Leclerc, I just wanted to remind you that the media session is about to begin in fifteen minutes," his press officer told him as he walked up to him.

The words struck him with the force of a blow to the stomach, though they were never intended to pack that strong a punch.

He swallowed hard with evident difficulty, stiffly nodding in reply, but the temporary feeling of ease that he had been able to achieve a little while back had already deserted him entirely. He hardly took in the rest of what was being spoken around him, only catching occasional words here and there—briefings that were being talked of, schedules that were brought up, and expectations that were given.

Mr. Leclerc.

The fleeting moment dissipated swiftly, melding into the monotony of everyday life as he made his way toward the luxurious Ferrari garage. In the back, cameras had already been meticulously arranged, eagerly anticipating his arrival. He inhaled deeply, steadying himself, as a microphone was carefully handed to him, ready for the upcoming event.

"Are you ready?" asked the interviewer.

Charles paused to shift his position, consciously setting aside all else that occupied his thoughts and focus.

"Always."

And just like that, he seamlessly transitioned into the role of Charles Leclerc, who is recognised as Ferrari’s number one driver. He became the individual that the world had anticipated and looked forward to seeing succeed.

--

Charles breathed a sigh of relief as he finally moved away from the crowded Ferrari pit garage, a sense of relief washing over them now that the never-ending media commitments were, for the moment at least, over and done with. He couldn't help but wonder how much longer he could keep smiling and give the same responses to the journalists before he finally cracked. The forthcoming challenge of Suzuka was already weighing heavily on his mind, and the last thing he wanted right now was a further reminder of just how far adrift he was in the title fight.

He shrugged his shoulders as he made his way to the cafeteria, where he knew Pierre and Max were already waiting. He needed a break. Something normal.

As he came into the room, he could see them both immediately. Pierre was leaning back with a casual smile, setting up a chessboard between them, and Max was leaning back in his chair, mid-rant.

"…and I can say, without hesitation, that Donut is by far the most dramatic cat I have ever had the pleasure of owning. Just yesterday, he got into a vicious fight with a pillow, and the way he was growling, you would have thought he was fighting a battle that would decide the championship itself."

Pierre snorted derisively. "At least your cat shows some fight and spirit in him. Simba just rolls over and passively lets things go as they will."

Max's gaze strayed as Charles gracefully settled in the chair opposite Pierre. "It took you a long time to get here. What's up? Is Ferrari having you do yet another of those promotional spots called 'we will improve'?

Charles grumbled. "Don't even bother."

Pierre smirked as he moved a pawn forward. “Come on, you know those videos are iconic.”

"Not at all when I have to maintain the act that I actually believe what they are saying." With little consideration, Charles helped Pierre to set up the final pieces.

"Alright," said Pierre casually, "do you vouloir blanc or would you prefer noir?"

Charles' eyes narrowed slightly at the wording. He knew Pierre well enough to catch it—that he wouldn't say "do you want to play as the white or black king?" like he would have otherwise done. It was a slight alteration, subtle but deliberate, and it caused something to settle in Charles' chest.

"I'll have noir," Charles replied, his voice lower than it had been.

Max, having no clue about the conversation happening between the others, started tapping his fingers in a rhythmic manner on the table's surface.

"Are we just going to sit here and let you two geeks immerse yourselves in a game of chess, or is there something I can do to make myself useful in this scenario?"

Pierre rolled his eyes. "You don't even know how to play."

"I've been learning."

"You are still terrible."

Max furrowed his brow in displeasure and frowned deeply, but instead of entering a disagreement or a furious argument, he firmly reached over and grabbed a generous handful of fries off Charles' plate.

He ignored the fierce glare that was given to him because of this action.

"Anyway," he went on, trying to steer the conversation back, "I have this sinking feeling that Donut and Sassy are plotting against me secretly. The other day, when I came back home from a long day at work, I saw both of them just sitting there, staring at me fiercely."

Pierre arched one of his eyebrows in a questioning manner. "Have you ever stopped to consider the fact that maybe they just don't like you?"

Max chuckled. "That's not possible."

Charles exhaled a tiny, rather wry huff of laughter, shaking his head in gentle incredulity as he refocused his attention on the game that was being played out before him.

This was really quite pleasant. It was just plain, uncomplicated chat, the kind that did not require him to think deeply or carefully. Pierre had always been someone that he could count on, someone who actually went out of his way to understand his ideas and emotions without being nosy or too inquisitive.
And then, of course, there was Max—Max was just… Max. For some peculiar reason, that very special quality of his helped make everything feel just better. For the time being, at least for now, they could act as if the upcoming weekend was not one that would finally arrive for them.

–

Neon lights from the bowling alley ricocheted off glossy lanes and polished plastic balls, throwing soft reflections onto the floor. Overhead, music hummed along—something cheery and catchy—and Charles stretched across the ball return, wincing at the screen while Lewis inputted names with the seriousness of someone preparing to compete for a world championship.

"Lord Perceval?" Charles's eyebrow went up.

Lewis smiled. "I considered 'Princess Charles,' but I figured I would be nice to you."

Charles snorted. "Fair enough."

The two were out in downtown Nagoya, a low-key bowling alley hidden from the fray of media week. It was Lewis' suggestion—something ordinary to unwind. Charles had not anticipated having as good a time as he was, yet there was just something about Lewis' presence, calm and earthy, that made him relax.

They were not very good. Lewis had style but no accuracy. Charles was good but inconsistent, alternating between strikes and theatrical gutter balls. They were laughing, joking, and taking fuzzy photos in the mirror-lined back wall for the most part.

Somewhere along the line, Lewis grabbed a brief video of Charles in mid-swing. It captured him with tongue out in the foreground, ball flying right, taking down eight pins.

"Solid!" Lewis yelled from behind the camera, laughing as Charles raised his arms in false triumph.

Charles sighed, but when Lewis uploaded the video on Instagram with the caption "Monaco's best on the lanes ???????????? #BowlingWithRoyalty"

Charles did not complain. He even shared it on his own story with a shrugging emoji and "I'm trying."

Meanwhile, Max was half-watching a documentary about venomous snakes when the Instagram notification vibrated in his hand. He opened it lazily, thumb scrolling through his feed until the video began auto-playing.

He recognised that alley. Knew it was in Nagoya. Knew Lewis had taken Charles there.

He viewed the clip once, and then again, noticing Charles' loosened shoulders, noticing how he smiled after the throw had been made. Not the media-smile he'd wear for interviews—this was the genuine article. Soft. Natural.

Max's stomach churned.

Why would that have bothered him? Charles might have friends. Lewis wasn't a threat. They had been friends for years, years before Max had—

His thoughts tripped there, like they always did. Before Max had fallen into whatever this was. This tangle of late-night hotel visits, post-race rants pressed into skin, quiet mornings with Charles curled into him like he was made for Max’s arms.

It was not jealousy. That was foolish. He trusted Charles.

But then he logged in again via the story once more. Slower this time. Zoomed in on Charles' face for no other reason than he could.

Monaco's finest, Max muttered through his teeth, snarling, throwing his phone a little more forcefully than he had to.

Max was jealous.

He was in love.

And those two things were becoming harder to separate.

--

Practice in Suzuka had been anything but simple. The circuit was temperamental—everything was fine in FP1, crashes and fires in FP2, and a patchy mess in FP3. But what annoyed Charles the most wasn't the warm weather or the McLaren's once again being unbeatable. It was the red flags. Three incidents throughout the sessions had disrupted his rhythm, and he'd had hardly any decent running. He’d spent more time sitting in the garage with his helmet on, fingers drumming anxiously on the wheel, than he had driving. Every time he was about to get into a flow, someone went off—gravel, barrier, yellow flag, then red.

He had succeeded in dealing with the issue in a manner that appeared to be professional on the outside, maintaining an aura of calmness and control. However, by the conclusion of FP3, it was clear he was openly incensed, as he was heard quietly muttering under his breath to himself in French, expressing his displeasure subtly. He bit the inside of his cheek, a physical indication of his irritation, as he navigated his way back to the garage with a determined stride.

"Three red flags. Three," he spat in desperation to his engineer, making him realise how bad the situation was. "What's the use of all this rehearsal if we won't even get to ride?"

Qualifying, at the least, proved to be a far cleaner affair altogether.

There were no surprise stoppages and absolutely no frenetic moments—just clean and uninterrupted laps that permitted the drivers to concentrate wholly on their performance. Max was in the zone from the very start, incrementally gaining confidence as he worked his way through Q1 and Q2. This gradual build-up of confidence eventually led to a perfect final run in Q3, which allowed him to claim the much-coveted pole position.

Charles, on the other hand, put every single bit of effort he possibly could into getting the most out of the car. He ended up claiming a spot in P4—nothing special but definitely a decent result, although not quite in accordance with his target. Nevertheless, it was good damage control after what had been a very frustrating and tricky beginning to the weekend's proceedings.

When the drivers were done with the press and started heading towards the exit out of the paddock, Max was able to reach Charles within seconds before he reached the area of exiting.

"Hello," Max said casually, his voice intentionally low. "Come to my hotel room later?"

Charles regarded him with a worn-out expression, his face a mix of fatigue and affection. "Ouias," he affirmed with a nod of his head. "I'll definitely be there."

There was no teasing in his tone. No playful smile. Only gentle reassurance.

He needed the tranquility Max always seemed to provide.

And Max? Max just needed him.

Max's hotel room was dimly lit, with the soft, ambient glow from the lively city outside providing gentle and subtle patterns that swayed on the walls. As part of his usual habit, he had left the door slightly open and unlocked, as he always did, in anticipation of Charles's visit. With the soft click of the door closing behind him, it was followed by the familiar voice of Max from where he was resting on his bed.

"Took you long enough," Max replied, his eyes hardly rising from the small screen on his phone, which he scrolled through with focus, his legs laid out in front of him.

"Traffic," Charles muttered under his breath in playful annoyance, as he kicked off his shoes with a sense of relief and draped his hoodie over a chair in a sloppy bundle. His hair was still damp from the cool shower he'd taken after completing the qualifying round. He was exhausted and slightly frazzled from the efforts of the day, but still—so heart-stoppingly gorgeous in that relaxed way that always had Max's stomach twisting with a mix of appreciation and want.

Charles sat down on the bed next to him with a lack of graciousness, appropriating one of the plush hotel pillows and hugging it firmly to his arm. Max looked over at him, smiling as he took in the scene.

"You see," he stated, snapping his phone shut with a decisive gesture and facing Charles completely, "the only reason I got pole position was to get your attention."

Charles's eyebrow rose inquisitively, clearly intrigued. "Is that so?"

Max grinned smugly. "What can I say? Positive reinforcement does the trick."

Charles chuckled softly, suppressing a smile as he leaned easily into the side of Max for support. "Well, I must say, consider me very impressed."

They remained that way for a moment, enveloped in a kind of silence that was not awkward or out of context—rather, it was comfortingly familiar. There was a sense of comfort that lingered in the air between them.

Yet underlying this calm surface, tension was ever present, humming just below the surface, particularly on weekends such as this. As he sat, his fingers tapped distractedly, following the seam of Max's sleeve, and Max's eyes dropped down, catching the motion with a spark of interest.

"Stop looking at me like that, will you?" Charles muttered, his whisper almost inaudible.

"Like what, exactly?"

"Like you're going to kiss me."

"I am going to kiss you," Max said, his body already inching nearer as he leaned forward.

Charles made no attempt to prevent him.

The kiss started off slowly, almost languid in nature—just the bare brush of their lips against one another and the soft whoosh of a breath that they exchanged in that intimate moment. But all of that quickly shifted when Charles made a subtle but intense movement, climbing onto Max's lap with purpose, and suddenly the kiss had transformed into something different. It was needy, desperate even. It was as though they hadn't been engaged in this passionate act a hundred times before, but it felt as if it were the very first time all over again.

Max hands pulled at Charles' shirt, pulling it off in an instant before kissing him once more. Charles quickly started tugging at Max's shirt, pulling away from his lips ever so slightly to pull the fabric over Max's head, not caring where he discarded it. Charles could feel Max running his hands up and down his back as he reconnected their lips. Warm skin against warm skin, and before Charles could stop himself, he was instinctually grinding down onto Max's lap, causing a small moan from the dutchman.

Max's hand traveled down the sides of Charles, towards the waistband of his trousers but Charles caught it, gently, fingers wrapping around Max's wrist to hold him still.

"Not tonight," Charles replied firmly, his voice low but unmistakably certain. "Race tomorrow."

Max let out a loud groan, falling back into the soft pillows with an exaggerated sigh. "You, your stupid teasing and unbending commitment to being professional."

Charles smiled, pleased, laughing softly. "Someone has to keep us in line."

Max's hand reached out one last time and found Charles' hand once more, their fingers loosely and tenderly entwined in a soft caress. Charles leaned forward and closer, gently placing a soft and loving kiss on Max's cheek, then cuddled up next to him. He wrapped one arm around Max's waist, drawing him in closer, and nuzzled into his chest, getting comfortable in an easy pose.

"You're still warm," Charles grumbled.

"You're always so cold," Max joked, shifting slightly so that Charles could settle in more comfortably and closely against him.

They remained in this way for some time, their natural rhythm of breathing synchronising with one another, as the tensions and frustrations of the weekend were momentarily lost and set aside, all within the comforting light of this moment of being together.

At last, Charles stirred, nuzzling into Max's neck one more time before pulling back slightly. "I should go."

Max's forehead creased. "Nooo… Stay."

Charles smiled to himself. "I will. Tomorrow night."

"Do you promise?"

"Promise," Charles whispered low, his lips brushing against Max's in a soft caress. "Good luck in the race."

"You too," Max whispered, as he saw him put his hoodie back on. "You've got this."

And Charles—tired, a little anxious, but finally at ease—believed him.

–

The race was not exactly a thriller.

With a clean start, Max led the race from the front, unruffled by either tire wear or pressure from behind. The McLarens tried, of course—Lando held P2 all the way, and Oscar followed him in third, both lacking just enough pace to be in the hunt.

Charles had a quiet but strong performance. He performed well on his tires, avoided trouble, and brought the car home in P4. No drama. No mechanicals. Just a clean run—nothing flashy, but nothing disappointing, either.

For once, at this moment, he wasn't experiencing that all-too-familiar frustration as he eased his car into the parc fermé reserved area. Instead, he was filled with an overwhelming sense of satisfaction. Maybe even a small pride was burgeoning within him, particularly when he thought about how really, really bad and difficult the first two races had been for them. And on top of that, it was worth recalling that Max had won—and after weeks of relentless McLaren dominance, this win felt like a shared victory for the two of them.

Charles saw Max leaning against the Red Bull hospitality tent, surrounded by a throng of media people and a bustling crew of crew members who were already packing up their equipment. Max wore his cap at a rakish angle to one side, and there were tell-tale champagne stains down the front of his fireproof overalls, but amidst all the commotion around him, he had the widest, happiest smile on his face.

Charles waited until the cameras pulled back before walking over.

Max's eyes lit up with excitement as he recognized him at once. "P4, isn't it? I told you you'd come back."

Charles rolled his eyes but grinned. "Yeah, yeah. I was alright."

"You were more than decent, for sure," Max said, taking a moment to wipe his hands on a towel. "The fact that you are top 5 again, that is something that is always worth praising and celebrating."

Charles snorted with scorn. "How very generous of you."

He strode into the room with a swaggering gait and slapped Max on the back with a welcoming handshake, leaning in just slightly to convey his excitement.

“Congratulations, by the way. I just had to say you were unstoppable out there on the field."

Max's smile eased noticeably, and there was a slight hint of warmth in his face that only Charles seemed to be able to bring out.

“Thanks a lot. It was really great to finally beat those papaya bastards."

Charles gave a low laugh, almost to himself. "Very well, I'll drink to that idea."

There was a silence that hung in the air—a silence that was not awkward, but rather the type of silence that inevitably filled the air when both of them knew each other without needing to use words to communicate their feelings or thoughts. As Max passed Charles, his fingers made a gentle touch, grazing Charles' hand in a silent recognition of their bond.

"See you later?" Max softly murmured, his voice low and tinged with a hint of doubt.

Charles inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment. "You know where my hotel is."

And just like that, they went their separate ways—for now.

The city was lit up in bright colours just beyond the window, the neon hues reflecting off the smooth and shiny glass of Charles' hotel room, putting on a dazzling display. Within the room, though, everything seemed decidedly calmer and more peaceful—there was softer, dimmer lighting that created a laid-back atmosphere, low, calming music playing quietly from Charles' phone, and an exquisite chilled bottle of champagne standing in an ice bucket sitting conveniently by the minibar, further contributing to the feeling of luxury.

Max stepped into the room, freshly showered, wearing joggers and a hoodie, hair still damp. He blinked at the bottle.

"You certainly seem to be in a very good mood today," he observed, raising an eyebrow in a questioning manner.

Charles had already gotten settled in comfortably on the couch, legs crossed neatly in front of him as he relaxed in loose-fitting sweatpants and a plain white tank top that served to accentuate his casual state.

His hair had been tied back and put into place using a clip, lending him the appearance of having been dressed-up while still being casual.

"I figured you really did deserve it," he said, smiling, nodding toward the bottle sitting nearby.

“You finally managed to dethrone papayas, I mean," he continued, promoting the achievement.

"I thought it was definitely worth it to celebrate."
Max grinned and walked across the room.

"You celebrating me now?"

"I'm actually celebrating the fact that the McLaren’s aren’t winning for once," Charles said with a mischievous grin spreading across his face, already eagerly reaching for the cork.

They sat together on the sofa, glasses clinking gently before they took their initial sips. The champagne was expensive and smooth, the kind of celebratory treat Charles never permitted himself during a race weekend. Tonight, however, it felt right.

"You had a great race today," Max noted thoughtfully, watching intently over the edge of his glass.

Charles shrugged his shoulders in a show of indifference. "While P4 is not quite what I wanted or hoped for, it certainly is not a complete disaster. Also, watching you fend them off successfully gave the sense that we both won this one."

Max could feel a calming warmth spreading across his chest, one that had nothing whatsoever to do with the alcohol he'd been consuming.

He shifted a little so that he was facing Charles more, an expression of curiosity on his face. "So. Do I get a reward then?"

Charles shot him a swift glance in his direction, his eyebrow rising in courteous astonishment. "Is champagne not enough for you Mr. Verstappen?"

Max moved in closer, a sly sparkle playing in his eyes. "It's lovely Charlie, just not that type of reward that I had in mind."

Charles let out a soft laugh, playfully swirling the remaining drops of his beverage in the glass. "What do you have in mind? Do you want a sticker? A medal?"

Max smiled. "I was thinking more of a kiss."

Charles slowly and intentionally set his glass down on the table, prolonging the moment just a bit longer as a teasing joke. He slid closer to him, their knees now gently touching, causing a spark between them.

"Do you want a kiss?" he repeated, his voice low.

Max's smile slipped by a fraction—just enough to reveal that he wasn't entirely immune to Charles' proximity. "Yeah.”

Charles looked at him, his eyes lingering for a moment, and then—after what felt like an eternity—he leaned in and kissed him. The kiss was gentle, their lips barely touching, hardly at all, like a whispered promise between them. Max reacted without thinking, his hands moving to Charles' waist, where he pulled him in gently, bringing him closer.
It was not rushed this time.

No fury. No frustration. Just the quiet thrum of affection unspoken, wrapped in the intimacy of low light and quiet breaths.

Charles positioned himself comfortably on Max’s lap, his arms wrapping securely around Max's neck, their lips remaining in constant contact without a moment's pause. As they continued to kiss passionately, Charles's fingers wandered into Max’s still-damp curls, entangling themselves in the soft strands as they deepened the kiss further. Their mouths moved together in perfect harmony with practiced ease, as though they had already discovered and understood the intimate rhythm of each other’s hearts long before this moment.
Max's hands slid gently beneath the hem of Charles' tank top, his thumbs sketching over the heated skin beneath in gentle strokes. Charles felt a shiver trace through him, yet he made no move to extricate himself from the intimate contact. Rather, he pressed in closer still, his body tight against Max's, and a low sigh escaped his lips as Max began to kiss down the tender skin of his neck.

This time around, it was more of a slow experience—a softer and more calculated nature. It felt like each individual touch was a question asked with the answer being shown simultaneously in real time.
By the time their clothes were carelessly thrown in a trail to the bedroom, something felt different. Less heat, more gravity. More real.

As they finally lay together in the peaceful aftermath of their encounter, Max began to stroke the length of Charles' back in a sequence of slow, lazy caresses that seemed to emanate tenderness. He could feel the distinct pounding of Charles' heart slowing back to normal beneath his hand, an indication that a tranquility was falling over them both.

Charles sighed softly, allowing his breath to leak out as he nuzzled into the side of Max, his cheek coming to rest gently against the warmth of Max's bare chest.

"Staying tonight?" Charles muttered half-heartedly, half asleep already.

Max gazed down at him in wonder at how he was entirely engulfed in the plush blanket, as if he belonged there. As if he had always been meant to be there.

"Yes," Max whispered quietly, quietly placing a soft kiss on the very top of his hair. "Believe me, I'm not going anywhere at all."

Charles simply said nothing in response, but the manner in which he tightened his arm around Max spoke volumes more than any words could possibly have without him actually saying a word.

Max stared at the ceiling for a long while after Charles fell asleep in his arms.

He was in a dilemma.

This was the kind of dilemma where just one look, one kiss, or one incredible night like this one might possibly ruin his prospects with anyone else for a very long time to come.

And yet— he would not trade it for the world.

The warm golden light of the morning gradually and silently made its way through the curtains of the hotel room, leaving gentle, soft lines on the pure bed sheets beneath. Charles slowly started to wake from his sleep, his body snugly enveloped in the warmness of the blankets—Max's arm was still protectively wrapped around his waist, while his chest was tightly against Charles' back, his breathing steady and rhythmic on the back of Charles' neck.
Charles blinked slowly, not yet willing to face the day. With Max behind him, it was a weight, a grounding. Solid. Secure. And for now, he allowed himself to sink into it, just a little while more.

Max emitted a low, lazy hum that conveyed his contentment and drowsiness. "I'm still here," he said quietly, his voice rough and raspy from having just awakened from a deep slumber.

"Mmhmmm." Charles' voice was muted, slurred with sleep.

He had not stirred yet. His eyes darted towards the pale light that was slowly tinting the walls of the room, and then down to Max's hand, which was laid just beneath his ribs so that he could feel its warmth. He was acutely conscious of his body in this moment—the soft gentle curve of his waist and the warm tight pressure of skin—and a silent unease began to form in his chest, making him uncomfortable.

Not pain. Just something lingering. Restless.

Later, Max rolled over, steeled himself to look at him. "You always this quiet in the morning?"

Charles rolled over, onto his back, with a sleepy, soft grunt as he instinctively drew the warm blankets snugly up over his chest. "Non," he replied, a smile starting to spread onto his lips, bringing a hint of brightness to his face. "Juste tranquille aujourd'hui."

Max leaned in to plant a kiss on his temple. "You look cute when you're calm."

Charles didn't respond to that question; instead, he just rolled his eyes in exasperation and playfully swatted at Max with the pillow.

They lingered in bed for a little while longer, contentedly wrapped in that warm, cozy, post-race cocoon of togetherness. It was really quite easy, actually, because the silence that enveloped them was more comforting and soothing than it was tense or awkward.

As they struggled at last to find the strength to drag themselves out of the warmth of their comfortable bed, Charles moved in a quiet and slow movement, across the bedroom to the bathroom.

Meanwhile, Max determined it was well past time that an order was placed for breakfast. Charles then paused to gaze upon his own reflection in the mirror for a rather lengthy moment—reveling in each nuance of his appearance—before he took up a hairbrush. Gently, painstakingly, he set about working through the chaos of tangled waves within his hair, working in a slow deliberation and with careful intent, pulling strands forward with careful fingers, and then coaxing them back, and again forward, all in pursuit of trying to discover a manner which truly… felt correct.

He scooped up a little of the product and then started carefully crafting the edges with precision care using his fingers alone. Nonetheless, even when it looked reasonably okay to the eye, they were stuck lingering in doubt. He continued adjusting, moving things around again. Slightly inclining his head to one side, he carefully examined his creation. His jaw was firmly set in frustration and concentration. It still wasn't quite up to the precise plans of what he really wanted.

Eventually, he gave up with a quiet sigh.
He pulled on the clothes he'd laid out—baggy jeans, loose hoodie, soft socks. Safe clothes. Clothes that would not cling too much. Clothes that would not make him feel as if he had to answer questions he was not ready to answer.

When he emerged from the room, Max had prepared a delightful breakfast array on the small table that sat by the window—a cup of steaming coffee, a selection of fresh fruits, flaky croissants with butter, and eggs cooked to perfection.

“You made all this appear?” Charles asked, voice light.

Max smiled. "I have skills."

Charles approached him with a gratitude-filled smile that warmed the room and sat down next to him. Their legs touched softly, the body heat from each of them radiating waves of contentment that wrapped around them like a blanket.

There was a feeling of comfortable silence between them as they shared the meal, and Charles delicately picked at the crunchy croissant with his long, dainty fingers. Max could not help himself and stole the strawberries from Charles's plate, especially in instances when he felt he was not being seen.

"Are you flying out today?" Max inquired, munching on his food.

"Ouais, later this afternoon." Charles stretched himself, and the sleeves of his hoodie slid down, well below his wrists. "Et toi?"

"Later tonight, Yuki is joining me. Why don't we arrange to meet at the track tomorrow? We can have a walk around? Get our bearings?"

Charles nodded. "Ouais."

Max leaned in a bit closer, gently nuzzling the softness of Charles' cheek with familiarity. "You sound like you're in a pretty odd mood today."

"Ouais," Charles replied. "Mais, c’est pas mal. Juste tranquille.”

Max paused to study him intently, scrutinising his expression before finally cracking a smile. "That's okay."

They ate their breakfast slowly, every bite a languid delight. Max did make a few attempts to lean in and snatch quick, teasing kisses from Charles—every kiss filled with loving teasing. Although Charles acted like he was annoyed at Max's advances, he batted him off teasingly, the whole while lifting his chin up invitingly to make it easier for Max to reach him.

Finally, it was time to leave.

Max had dressed himself up in travel gear, wearing a relaxed black hoodie that looked comfortable and cool, and tugging his cap low over his face to cover it. Charles, on the other hand, paused for a moment to stand in front of the mirror, taking a few extra seconds to attend to his appearance as he carefully adjusted his sleeves and smoothed the hem of his own hoodie, making sure it fit just right and looked just so for their trip ahead.

He noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that Max was gazing at him in the mirror.

"Quoi?" Charles said, his eyebrow rising in surprise.
Max simply shrugged, smiling gently. "Nothing. You just look… good."

Charles, unable to hide his real feelings, rolled his eyes in playful annoyance, but the broad smile that spread across his face openly revealed his delight. He strode confidently to Max, leaning forward in affection to place a gentle kiss on his lips—once, then again, allowing the moment to linger only a fraction longer than he initially planned.

"Would you mind sending me a text message when you land, so I know you're safe?" Max whispered softly, his fingers brushing lightly against the side of Charles.

"Always."

Max hesitated for a moment, weighing his choices, then gently tucked a stray curl behind Charles' ear, his hand lingering a moment longer than politeness could account for.

"You're sure that you're alright?"

Charles managed a weak-looking smile that seemed to have some tiredness involved in it. "Ouais. I actually had a very nice night last night, it was different but nice.. merci Max."

Max nodded his head, and the two of them just stood there amidst that calm and silent moment until Charles eventually stepped back and tugged his hood gently over his head.

"See you in Bahrain," he added.

"See you soon," Max said back, his voice emerging a bit too soft and gentle for the occasion.

Charles turned and began to walk down the lengthy corridor, his hands buried in the front pocket of his hoodie, his head lowered and eyes on the floor.

As he traveled, he could not help but notice that the heaviness within his chest began to shift and change—transforming itself into an emotion that was a complex mix of fear and desire, stirred together with a haunting question that he had yet to answer for himself.

Chapter Text

The plane touched down in Bahrain just after sunrise, the desert light casting a pale gold sheen across the airport tarmac. As Charles stepped off the private team jet, the dry heat hit them in a wave, baking into their hoodie-clad frame. He kept his hood up as they walked to the awaiting cars, sunglasses on, face calm but unreadable.

He didn’t need anyone looking too closely.

The ride to the hotel was unexpectedly calm, enveloped in a still quiet that was a sharp contrast to the frenetic world outside. He had grown accustomed to these moments of peace while traveling: with the window rolled down a small notch, so a gentle whisper of wind might find its way in, while the thrum of the busy city sounded in the distance, so delightfully different from the familiar rhythm of Tokyo. Bahrain, in its own unique way, was certainly beautiful, with a beauty that was all its own; but the rules and regulations here were unforgivingly strict—especially for someone like them.

His interactions with their staff was always marked by courtesy and succinctness, so that every time they spoke, it was with respect and briefness. After all those meetings, when he eventually reached his hotel suite, he let out a deep sigh, as if they had been holding their breath since the time he landed on the tarmac.

He quickly changed into their pyjamas, a simple t-shirt with his shorts, before laying down in bed. He had arrived quite late into Bahrain, he had a long day ahead of him with the media, but in all honesty, Charles just couldn't wait to get back into their car. As much as they loved media days, he loved nothing more than being in control of his car, chasing the cars ahead, desperate for a win.

He couldn't even remember most of media day, it came and went, routine interviews, social media content filming with Lewis, and yet, Charles found himself missing Max. Of course Max was still here, they were just across the paddock from each other, but Charles missed him. He missed the way he felt. He knew they couldn't risk anything, they had to be respectful towards the culture, but that didn't mean they didn't miss him. It is normal to miss your friend when you are so close right?

Charles just decided to put all his energy into his car. Maybe it would be a good distraction.

Free Practice 1, 2 and 3 came and went in a blur of sand-swept laps and average feedback. Charles logged his runs efficiently, working with the engineers, testing the mediums and then the softs. There were no issues—just a standard session.

Boring, almost. But that wasn’t a bad thing.

Max was just as low-key in practice, running his long runs without much fuss. Their paddock interactions amounted to little more than a passing hello, a generic "good session?" exchanged in the area between media zones and hospitality tents.

Subtle. Necessary. At one point, they stood next to each other during a joint media session, careful not to touch, not even to glance too long. Charles folded his arms across his chest, Max kept his sunglasses on. It would’ve looked like a rivalry to the press. But beneath it, Charles caught Max’s fingers twitching slightly, like they itched to reach out.

He didn’t. Of course he didn’t. Not here.

Before they knew it, qualifying had arrived, and it was nothing short of a shock of electricity under the stunning floodlights of Bahrain. Charles had an unmistakable love of racing at night—it was the cooler air that got him going, combined with the entrancing sheen of the lights glinting on the tarmac. This special atmosphere made everything seem much clearer and incredibly purer.

His Q1 and Q2 sessions were solid. Clean laps, no drama. Q3, however—that was where he brought it.

He pushed every apex, held the throttle just that bit longer, trusting the grip.

As he crossed the line, he let out a brief blink as he noted the time. He was in P3, right behind both George and Oscar.

And then, half an hour later, word came through: George had a grid penalty for impeding. Charles was bumped up to P2.

"Second on the grid!" His race engineer cried whilst pulling Charles into a hug, and Charles couldn't help but let a beam of a smile break out, his fist pumping up in the air as he hugged his engineer back, his elation and excitement getting the better of him.

It felt good for a change. Really good.

He waved to fans. Spoke to press. Let his team pat him on the back and toss compliments at him. He soaked it up but quietly, his smile never quite reaching too wide. Still, his shoulders were looser than they’d been in weeks.

Max, unlike the others, was in P7. He did a pretty messy Q3 lap on worn-out tyres. Things were not as bad as could be, but they were definitely enough to leave a visible frown on his face.

Charles didn’t get a moment alone with him. Not here. Not in the paddock. But Max caught his eye as they passed in the media pen, nodding once. Charles offered a subtle smile. That was enough.

–

Charles stretched out propped up in comfort on the large surface of his hotel bed, one arm wrapped protectively around their pillow, while his other hand lay holding their phone just above the level of his chest in relaxed fashion.

His hoodie sleeves had been rolled up to his elbows, giving a glimpse of their arms, and his hair remained damp from a brief shower he had washed up in moments before. Since the qualifying session, he felt surprisingly good and hopeful. For once in quite a long time, he was closing Saturday with a legitimate chance at achieving the victory so coveted.

The gentle, barely audible hum of their phone suddenly lit up the dark room, casting a faint but detectable presence over the air.

Max🐱, is calling…

Charles answered the FaceTime, already grinning by the time Max's face filled the screen, half-shadowed by the gentle lamp glow of his own hotel room.

“Bonsoir," Charles said in a low, easy voice.

“Hi." Max smiled, the smile on his face but not quite reaching his eyes.

“Are you okay?”

Max shrugged. "Could've been better. P7 isn't exactly thrilling.".

Charles murmured. "You'll fight back tomorrow. You always do."

There was a pause, and during it, Max turned his eyes on him, pinning him into an unnecessarily long beat within their gaze that lasted just a bit too long. It was as though he was committing to memory the gentle curve of Charles' face or even the faint breadth of the hood of his sweatshirt resting against the slope of his collarbone.

"Okay," said Max finally. "I'll try."

They talked for a while, exchanging ideas and thoughts. There was nothing in particular heavy or serious in what they talked about—nothing but a casual sharing of observations on strategy, the state of the track surface, and how the tyres had behaved in Q3. Charles went on to rave a bit about the new floor upgrade, which had played such a large part in him being able to make up precious time in the final sector. As he spoke, his hands gesticulated freely in the air, describing his passion, blissfully unaware of how Max's face had softened as they had conversed on the other end of the line.

“Would you like to play a game of chess?" Charles spoke, dispelling the silence that had hung in the air for what felt like forever.

"Do you mean the app you made me download?"

"Of course." Charles smiled. "I'll even let you get started."

"You always allow me to start."

You're always going to lose anyway," Charles quipped, opening the app.

Max softly shook his head as he let out a low laugh, while he slid his finger across the screen to open the game. "One of these days I'll finally beat you, and then you're going to be the one crying."

Charles did not immediately respond to the question, but just gave him a knowing look that said it all. "I doubt it," he replied succinctly.

The game played itself out amidst the quiet stillness, the two players intently concentrated yet very clearly tired out, their fingers tapping away routinely against their screens before periodically lurching into a sudden break to dart their eyes briefly to the other's face.

Charles had drawn his knees tightly into his chest, the sleeves of his hoodie being stretched out in front of his hands, and his hair a little still unkempt and thrown about from all the time spent messing it around in front of the mirror beforehand.

Max was observant. He was acutely sensitive to all that surrounded him. He took particular notice of the fact that Charles had dressed today in a more relaxed-fitting outfit, which seemed to be the reverse of his usual attire. Also, he couldn't help but notice that Charles had lingered a bit longer than usual in the bathroom that morning before heading out to the paddock, as if taking those few extra moments to gather himself and find himself again before heading out into the world. Max didn't pry—He never felt that it was his place to demand answers—but nonetheless, he still noticed.

And he wanted to reach through the screen and tell him he was beautiful. That he was brilliant. That he was soft and sharp and made Max feel like his heart had grown wings every time he smiled.

But he didn’t.

Since they weren't… that.

Not in a formal manner. Not verbally.

They had built a framework of rules. There were definite lines drawn. This formed something solid that sometimes wandered into a realm of softness, but it was never definitively marked or outlined.

Max gulped, opting instead to offer a crooked smile that conveyed a mixture of feelings. "Checkmate," he stated resolutely.

Charles furrowed his brows and looked intensely at the screen before him. “Once more?”

Max grinned. "You were distracted.".

"I was not."

"You were watching me."

Charles rolled his eyes, yet the corner of his mouth twitched. "Perhaps.".

They both laughed, warm and full of exhaustion, the silence they had enjoyed now brimming with something unsaid and deep. It hung quietly there between them—slow in coming, sweet, and secret.

At last, Charles yawned. "I should sleep.."

"Ah, yes," Max whispered softly, his eyes still fixed intently upon him. "You have a pole that you must follow after."

Charles grinned, cheeks flushing with glee. "You'll still beat me off the line eh?."

"I will be careful and not run into you," Max joked, a tone of humor in his voice.

“That'd be appreciated." Charles drew the blanket over his legs, his voice gentle. "Goodnight, Max.

"Goodnight, Charles."

The call finally ended, but Max continued to stand there gazing at the darkened screen of his device, his heart beating a little too hard for what was supposed to be a simple game of chess and a thirty-minute conversation.

He took a moment to run his hair through his fingers in a gesture of frustration and thought, then released a slow, deep sigh as he allowed the tension to gradually drain from his body. He was consumed completely and entirely by an overwhelming passion for Charles Leclerc, a passion which engulfed him totally. He was utterly fucked. And Charles was unaware.

–

The chequered flag, the emblem of victory, waved vigorously above the endless desert horizon as multicolored confetti swirled and eddied into the parched, dusky atmosphere as Oscar took the finish line victoriously.

The McLaren team personnel were already excitedly pouring out onto the pit wall, their vibrant orange attire surging forth in a wave of jubilant celebration and euphoria. George was close behind, marking his feat by punching the air vigorously over the radio, his voice full of elation. Lando coasted in stylishly for a worthy third place—his voice thick with a smug, contented purr as he thanked the team for their effort and support.

Charles looked ahead directly as he crossed the line in fourth place, his jaw tightness pulsating.

He did not even bother to reply to the final radio message that had been sent.

"P4, Charles. Not the podium finish we were hoping for, but still a valuable bank of points."

He didn't mind. They hadn't listened to him. Again.

He had asked, even pleaded, to try the delta strategy, which would have permitted him to campaign for clean air when the chaos unfolding in front could have been worked to his benefit. Instead of being given this chance, he was bottled up with no room for maneuver, his rhythm gone, and then was put onto a set of hard tyres that stubbornly refused to come on, making him feel sluggish and dead as he struggled against the aggressive Bahrain asphalt beneath him.

Lando had overtaken him. His fight wasn't good enough..

He was furious. Not with Lando. Not even with the result. With the pattern.

Every time they were on the verge of finding or accomplishing something truly profound and real, his team would always snatch it from his grasp with their conservative choices and uninspired degree of aggression. He had an overwhelming desire to scream in frustration at that point.

Through a set of robotic motions that were nearly mechanical in their exactness, he methodically unclipped his belts, freeing himself from the car's enclosure. In a single, frustrated motion, he pulled off his helmet, throwing it aside as he got out of the car. As he stepped out, he deftly maneuvered around the waiting cameras, giving them a practiced nod that spoke of both acceptance and poise.

Somewhere behind, Max's Red Bull pitted into P7.

As Charles spotted him in the parc fermé area, he could see immediately and with such clarity—Max was seething with rage. His helmet was still tightly strapped on his head, his gloves tightly bunched in anger, and the manner in which he stood there so rigidly next to the car spoke volumes of unspoken thoughts and emotions.

Their eyes locked for merely a second, and that too only after Max took off his helmet—his sweat-drenched curls dropping to rest on his forehead, as his face was absolutely impassive.

Charles responded with a brief, less-than-enthusiastic nod of acknowledgment. Max reciprocated in kind. They locked eyes for a moment that was just a fraction too long.

No words exchanged between them were necessary. Not at this moment. Not when both of them were all too aware of precisely how this day had transpired and what had happened.

Max, to much anticipation, finally began making his way towards the media pens, grumbling some low oath under his breath that was too softly spoken for his engineer to quite decipher. Meanwhile, Charles stopped for a moment to fall back behind, looking around him, before he too started off on his own path, as the cameras waited eagerly for each of his footsteps.

The corridor leading to the cooldown room was filled with the sound of different voices, creating an energetic ambiance. In the room, Oscar was already there, sharing laughter with Lando, as the two friends shared a casual handshake, a sign of their friendship.

Charles stood in the entrance for more than was really necessary, holding his helmet in one hand and the fireproof gear snug around his arms. Even before he saw Max, he knew that he was approaching—this had always been the case with him. There was a quality distinctive to the sound of Max's feet; they were heavy and yet even, bearing a recognisable heaviness that heralded his approach.

"You look very angry," Max said, halting alongside him, his voice deliberately lowered so that any microphones that might be present could not pick it up.

Charles glanced over, teasing quietly. "Was I that obvious?”

“Only to a person who truly understands you,” Max murmured softly, then he added with a sense of disappointment, “Your team really messed things up for you.”

Charles let out a bitter laugh, his gaze fixed on the ground beneath him. "Yeah, I'd say yours wasn't exactly much better either."

“I had zero grip whatsoever during the race. The pit stops were absolute madness, with everything seeming disorganised and panicked. And to top it off, my rear wing was shaking really aggressively the entire second stint, which was super frustrating." Max released a sharp breath, allowing his tongue to press against his cheek in a frustrated expression. "All in all, that's not exactly a recipe for success on the track.".

They stood there in complete silence, while the deep hum of celebration emanated from the cooldown room that was just behind them.

Charles finally looked up, face gentler now. "You'll bounce back."

Max kept his eye steady with determination. "So will you, without a doubt."

For a moment, they just stood there. Teammates in misery. Comrades in chaos. Charles gave an infinitesimal, hardly noticeable nod, tinged with exhaustion, as he entered the room to make a congratulatory gesture in the form of a gentle pat on Oscar's back. The cameras, which were capturing every moment, followed him, recording the action.

Max remained in that posture for another few seconds, his gaze on the figure walking away from him. His face was as difficult to decipher as ever, but within his eyes was an unmistakable intensity, a suggestion that something more lay beneath—something vulnerable and raw. Something that only Charles got to see.

–

With a sharp and violent bang, the hotel room door slammed closed behind Charles, the force of it so intense that it made the frame shudder with an audible intensity. His race suit was discarded carelessly onto the couch, its rumpled and crumpled shape a mirror to their own deflated and defeated feeling. The room was poorly lit, the only light being that which spilled in from the vast cityscape beyond the window, casting long, dramatic shadows that stretched out across the floor.

He collapsed backward onto the bed with a loud thud, their face buried deep in the soft pillow, and emitted a tortured, muffled yell that reflected the turmoil within. The sheer frustration of the race, the mistakes in strategy calls, and the unresponsive, dead hard tires—it all reached a boiling point and spilled over in that instant. He pounded the mattress fiercely with their fists in a tantrum of despair, the dull thuds being muffled by the bedding beneath him and offering little respite to his emotional anguish.

Across the vast expanse of the city, tucked away in the confines of yet another hotel room, Max was before the bathroom mirror, intently examining the puffiness that had developed on his knuckles. The wall in front of him had received the full force of his anger and frustration and now had the slight dent on its otherwise shining and flawless expanse of paint. He shivered momentarily as he gingerly flexed his fingers, pain being a telling and unmistakable reminder of his numerous failures throughout the day.

He held his phone, pausing for a while to compose himself and consider the situation before proceeding to compose a message: Max: "Wrist's messed up. Need a hand with the bandage. Come over? Just tell them you’re helping with my wrist if anyone asks."

He pressed the send button, and the message was successfully delivered to Charles at that moment.

Charles's phone blared on the bedside table, catching their attention. He reached for it, his hand moving quickly as he began to read Max's message. A small, wry smile slowly tugged at the corner of his mouth, a flicker of amusement passing over his face. Everything that had occurred during the day didn't signify for a moment beside Max's casual invitation.

Charles replied, "I will be there in 10 minutes."

The knock at Max's hotel door wasn't rushed but wasn't friendly either—it was routine. He didn't even glance through the peephole. He simply opened the door and admitted Charles, stepping aside silently. Charles didn't say anything as he passed him, his jaw tight, eyes blazing with tightly controlled fury. Max shut the door and locked it, his movements a matter of habit.

Charles didn't sit. He let his little cross-body bag fall onto the couch and faced Max as if preparing for battle, which was far from the plan. Max's gaze swept over him, still in his team t-shirt and joggers, hair a bit disheveled, as if he hadn't ceased moving since the race finished.

"Your wrist," Charles had said first, voice curt. "You said it was bad."

Max glanced down at the bandage he'd tossed half-heartedly around his wrist. "It's not broken. Just slammed it against the wall."

"You gotta knock off the wall-punching," Charles grumbled, his tone half concern and half exasperation.

Max snorted, a sharp, mirthless sound. "Walls don't talk back."

Charles glanced up, his eyes locking with Max's. The tension between them was palpable, a combination of their mutual frustration and unspoken feelings.

"Today was a disaster," Max cut in, shattering the silence.

"Tell me about it," Charles said, taking a seat beside him.

"Fuck this weekend, fuck Lando, fuck McLaren and fuck Ferrari" he growled instead, bridging the gap, fingers stilling to grasp Max's hand and survey the injury.

Max stared at him silently. Charles handled him with care, tender even, but the linger of his fingers on Max's wrist—it wasn't about the wound. It was about needing something to keep him occupied other than the tempest raging within him.

"They didn't listen to me," Charles finally said. "I told them the delta plan. I told them. And then they put me on hards. Hards, Max. Fucking hards."

Max said nothing. He did not have to. Charles was not speaking to receive counsel—what he required was someone who would listen.

"And your car?" Charles inquired after a pause.

Max snorted, low and bitter. "Pit stops were shit. Balance was worse. Breaks decided they didn’t want to work. If I attempted to push, I felt like I was driving on ice. Didn't matter what I did."

They just stood there for a moment, furious with each other. The silence was almost tangible—electric. Max's eyes narrowed, noticing how Charles was breathing too quickly, chest heaving in and out in sharp, jerky motions. Charles' fists tightened once, twice, then eased.

“I hate this," Charles complained.

"I know."

And that was all it took.

Charles surged forward, and Max met him halfway. Their mouths crashed together, heat and anger and desperation. It wasn't gentle—it never was, not at first. It was brutal, a fight of teeth and lips, Max shoving Charles back against the nearest wall, hands already pulling at his shirt. Charles grabbed the front of Max's hoodie, yanked him closer still, their teeth colliding, ragged breaths between each kiss.

“Fucking race. Fucking McLaren," Charles growled between kisses.

“Could've been worse. Could've been me," Max muttered, shaking the hoodie off as Charles nipped at his nape, not to mark him, but to experience something—anything—besides frustration.

Their bodies came together in tandem, muscle memory. Clothes were discarded with abandon, buttons bursting, zippers half-unzipped. Charles shoved Max backward toward the bed, but Max caught his wrist and spun them both around and pinned Charles instead, as if in defiance. Both of them were panting, already hard, their anger boiling over into desire.

Max bent forward, his eyes dark. "Say what you want.".

Charles did not wait. "You."

They fell onto the bed, arms and legs tangled, sheets barely turned down, the bed creaking beneath them as they gave in—again. Max's hands were rough on Charles' hips, Charles' fingers tearing at Max's back, a silent battle of agony and ecstasy. They kissed like they were fighting, like the other was the enemy and the one safe haven left.

The air was heavy with heat, laden with the scent of sweat and lust. Muffled moans by skin, by pillows, by lips. They didn't speak. There was nothing to say—not when they were like this.

It was not about love. Not tonight. Tonight it was about surviving the crash of their sport, the pressure, the disappointment, the solitude of being at the top but never enough. They fucked as if they were burning, like they could incinerate the disappointment in their flesh.

The hotel room was silent now, except for the soft hum of the air conditioning and the wind chime rattle of gusts against the window. The aftermath always had this feeling—silent, raw, a bit too real.

Charles was curled to the side, his back to Max, Max's arm still around his waist, warm and solid. They hadn't spoken at all since they both fell apart, and hadn't been brave enough to shatter the silence that seemed to cling to them like dust. Their bodies were still slick with sweat, the sheets tossed halfway down the bed. Neither of them had even tried to clean up.

Max's thumb drew a slow path across Charles' stomach, missing and grounding. He knew better than to speak. Not yet. Charles' breathing was shallow, his body taut, despite the fact that he was letting himself be held.

Then, unheralded, Charles emitted a gentle breath that caught in his throat. A stifled sound was forthcoming—too muted to be a sob, too anguished to be anything else.

Max said nothing. He simply clutched him harder and drew Charles closer to his chest.

Charles pressed his face into the pillow, furious with himself for crying again. For falling apart like this, for being too much, for not being able to hold it together even when he was alone.

"Je suis désolé," Charles whispered, hardly audible.

“Don't be," Max said immediately, voice husky from before, lips brushing against Charles' shoulder. "You don't have to be.".

Charles let the quiet stretch out again, but this time it was not heavy. It was only reflective. Nevertheless, he didn't turn around. He couldn't.

“Je suis fatigué, Max," he finally said. "I'm so tired of always putting something in and never having anything."

Max closed his eyes. He didn't need to ask what Charles was talking about. It was everything—racing, identity, the weight of always walking a tightrope between who he was and who the world thought he was.

"I know," Max said, his voice now gentle. "I see you."

Charles' shoulders jerked as if he would cry all over again, but he didn't. He simply let silence do all the talking.

Max wanted to be able to say more—anything, anything at all that would be helpful. But they didn't discuss actual things. That wasn't the bargain. That wasn't the way this went.

So he did that instead, drawing the sheet over them and letting his fingers become intertwined with Charles' beneath. Their hands nestled together easily, like they belonged that way. He kissed the nape of Charles' neck, clinging there, hoping that it conveyed what words couldn't.

Charles did eventually look at him, red-rimmed eyes, damp cheeks. He blinked once, seemingly uncertain of what to say, then moved until he was nestled beneath Max's chin, their legs tangled together beneath the sheet.

“Just let me stay,” he whispered.

Max didn't speak. He simply put both arms around him and hugged him closer. And this time, it was not lust, nor anger, nor frustration. It was only about them, whoever they were during this secret, suspended time.

At last, Charles' breathing steadied, the weight of the day finally overcoming him. Max remained awake a bit longer, simply looking at him. Committing to memory the way his hair curled across his face, the small crease between his eyebrows that never quite went away, even in sleep.

Max knew this wasn’t sustainable. He knew this wasn’t simple. Yet as Charles moved nearer in his sleep, reaching for him even while asleep, Max closed his eyes and allowed himself to imagine, for a few hours at least, that this was enough. That they were enough.

–

The sunlit warmth, gentle and soft, seeped through the thin slats in the curtains, looking pale and muffled, and it painted soft, delicate stripes on the bedspread, setting a peaceful mood. The hotel room retained a lingering scent from the last night—a heady combination of sweat, sex, and the residual heat of bodies that had wrapped themselves around each other for a moment of ravenous intimacy. But now the silence wrapped around the room more comfortably. It was not oppressive and heavy like it had been before; it lacked the acuteness of frustration that filled the air before.

Just… quiet. Peaceful.

It was Charles who first stirred awake, blinking slowly as he let his eyes slowly adjust to the soft light around him. For a moment, he didn't move at all—he just let himself lie there, his head comfortably on Max's chest, his arm casually slung across Max's stomach as though it belonged there. The soft thud of Max's heartbeat sounded beneath his ear, giving him a sense of grounding and stability in a way that was strangely comforting, even though unexpected.

He should've backed off. They didn't do this much—this gentle morning after thing. Not normally. Not unless things had gotten a bit too real the night before.

But Max did not appear to be in any hurry either. One of his hands rested calmly between Charles' shoulder blades, his fingers idly drawing slow circles, barely even registering the movement being done.

“Morning," Max grumbled, his voice rough with sleep.

Charles responded with a soft hum, and then he raised his head slowly, carefully, as he brushed the hair back from his eyes in a contemplative gesture. The way his hair was lying at that moment did not quite suit his own personal style—it was nothing more than a rumpled tangle of curls flattened in one direction and falling far too low over his face, obscuring his vision.

He grimaced slightly at the reflection that gazed back at him and made an effort to brush the flyaway wisps back, to present himself in a fashion more in keeping with the way in which he wished to be viewed by the world in general.

Max observed the gesture closely, imbibing the scene with restrained interest and maintaining his silence all the while. He did not speak a word, but he made a slight movement in his position, his fingers idly passing through the disheveled curls, softly teasing them into place with deliberation.

"Don't fix it," Max whispered. "It's cute like this."

Charles rolled his eyes in frustration, trying hard to conceal the smile that was teasingly tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Tu es vraiment très irritant."

"You chose to stay," Max replied, his tone teasing and playful but also gentle. "I can't possibly be that annoying."

Charles let out a slow breath as he sat up slowly, stretching his body gingerly, causing the bed sheet to fall down and gather around his hips. He stopped to rub his eyes, which were heavy with sleep, trying to wipe out the remaining sleep, before reaching over to pick up his phone from the nightstand beside him.

"Le vol est dans quatre heures," he said, his voice somewhat distant by this time. "Je dois prendre une douche et ensuite je dois faire mes valises."

Max sat up directly behind him and reclined on his hands for balance. "There is still time for you to stay for another hour. You can get some more sleep."

Charles shook his head. "I should go to my own room. In case anyone asks…”

"They won't," Max cut in, in a gentle and compassionate voice.

Yet Charles shot him a wry glance, one of comprehension. "We are in Bahrain, Max. I was only supposed to be helping with your wrist, not staying the night."

Right. Max didn't want to answer with words. He simply leaned forward and gently kissed Charles's bare shoulder. It wasn't a kiss of desire or claiming. It was just a gentle gesture, almost reverent.

Charles halted for a moment, his body freezing for half a second prior to spinning back to face him. "Are you okay?”

Max agreed with a nod, but his eyes spoke the truth of what was happening within his head. There was a deeper sentiment at play that existed beneath the surface. Something significant that he wasn't verbalizing.

“Just tired," Max said. "From the race. And yesterday. And all of it.".

Charles gave a weary smile. "Yeah. Same."

They prepared for the day ahead in a somber mood, both of them making an effort to keep away from the mirror as much as possible. Charles dressed slowly, moving at a slower pace than he was wont to; he made a conscious and contemplative choice to wear a loose-fitting hoodie together with loose-fitting jeans, attire that hid his tired figure.

As he was getting himself ready, he tied his hair back loosely, but he could not resist pulling out strands repeatedly, constantly readjusting and fiddling with the appearance until it ultimately felt alright and tolerable to him.

Max quietly sat on the bed edge, observing him intensely, but chose to keep quiet. It was just Charles being Charles.

By the time Charles had dressed, his mask was back in place. Cool. Calm. Composed. He tugged on his cap, adjusted his sunglasses, and hung his bag over his shoulder.

He then addressed Max, who was standing by the door. "I'll see you in Jeddah?"

Max got up, moved toward the door, and continued to open it for him with a welcoming gesture. "Yes. You know where I am in the meantime if you need anything."

Charles hesitated for an extra moment. Then, quickly—almost sheepishly—he leaned in and kissed Max on the cheek. It was soft. Out of context. And over too quickly.

Max smiled, but let it go. "Safe flight.".

"You too."

And so, with that, Charles eased himself silently out into the darkened hallway, the door softly clicking closed behind him as he left. The room was noticeably colder and more empty without him.

Max exhaled slowly, breathing out long and deep as he ran his hand down his face in a tired motion. The pain in his wrist remained and continued with an unpleasant intensity.

His chest hurt too, but the feeling there was of a different nature and degree. Friends with benefits. That's all it was. That's what they'd said. That's what they kept saying.

And yet.

Max gazed at the door for just another moment longer before finally turning away to begin the process of packing his belongings. Jeddah was waiting. And maybe, so was Charles.

Chapter Text

The plane had finally touching down on the Jeddah runway and producing a gentle, yet palpable shock as it landed.

Outside, the bright sun cast sharp golden lines that shimmered across both the warm sand and cool steel buildings of the busy coastal city. Charles had spoken barely a word during the flight since initially boarding the plane—his friends Pierre and Kika, seated comfortably opposite him enthusiastically filling the ambient atmosphere with their own spirited discussion and contagious laughter.

He did not mind their banter in the slightest. Their affection for each other was soft and familiar, and it brought a feeling of comfort that wrapped around him, even though it made the pain of his own loneliness a bit more pronounced, making it weigh more in his chest.

"Cha doing alright, yeah?" Pierre inquired as they stepped off the tarmac together and into the waiting vehicle that the hotel had dispatched to pick them up. The tone of his voice was light and friendly, but with a touch of wariness in the inflection.

Charles smiled gently. "Yeah, just tired. And hot."

Pierre shrugged. "That's Saudi for you."

Kika moved forward from her seat opposite him and extended her arm to offer him a cold bottle of cool water that she had fetched. "We're having dinner at the hotel this evening, and you're more than welcome to join us."

Charles provided a courteous shake of his head, declining his option. "Thank you for the invitation, but I would prefer to simply sit back and rest awhile."

Pierre exchanged a look with Kika, but didn't push. He knew Charles too well not to.

They carefully dropped him off at the entrance of his hotel before they headed off to their own accommodations. Charles softly murmured a goodbye, lingering for a moment as he waited until they were completely gone from view, and then he slowly made his way inside the building.

Their hotel room was nice—clean lines, neutral colors, large bed with starched white sheets—but it was too big. Too quiet. He let their bag fall at the foot of the bed and collapsed backwards onto the mattress with a sigh.

The previous week had been undoubtedly heavy and it weighed down on them. Bahrain had left him bruised in places he hadn't had the time to process, both physically and deep in his emotional psyche.

The actual race was a chaotic whirlwind, added to by the team's refusal to hear their concerns, the difficulty of the hard tires, and the silent, almost easy manner in which Lando overtook him, as if it was an inevitability he could not escape.

And then there was Max—Max, who seemed always to be a constant in his life—pulling him close, letting them fall apart in each other's arms before finding comfort and intimacy wrapped up together in bed, only to say goodbye again in the morning, as if nothing had truly shifted at all.

It was exhausting.

He lay there staring at the ceiling for a long while, his eyes blinking upwards at the gentle, serene light fixture hanging above them, urging his racing thoughts to decelerate and achieve some measure of tranquility.

Without even a moment of conscious thought, he instinctively reached out and extended their hand to his phone, eager to check what updates were available. He began scrolling through his various social media websites—he noticed that Pierre and Kika had already posted a charming photo they'd taken whilst in flight. Oscar had put up an inventively taken photo of his trainers stretched out on the runway. Max had nothing to see that was new, just old press photos from years back that still garnered likes from followers.

Max.

Charles sighed and opened his App Store.

They hesitated for a half second. Then he typed: "Dating."

A dozen apps appeared. He downloaded the most popular one without giving it too much thought, his thumb lingering as it installed. The logo glared back at them like a challenge.

He did not even know what they were doing. He was not searching for anything. He was not prepared for anything. Yet the pain in his chest was loud tonight, and the stillness of the hotel room even louder.

Once the installation was complete and successful, he took a deep breath, opened the app, and began the process of creating a profile—tentatively, slowly. He breezed through most of the bio questions and chose instead to simply post a casual picture of himself wearing sunglasses and a hoodie and eventually decided to display his intentions as "just browsing."

When it inquired about gender, he paused.

He scrolled through the options, fingers poised.

Then, they selected "male."

It was like a betrayal against himself. But he wasn't ready.

Not yet.

He didn't swipe the screen whatsoever. He did not even glance at it. Rather, he simply gazed very intently at the screen for a very brief moment before they continued to lock the phone and then tossed it heedlessly across the bed.

He gradually sat up and directed his gaze at the mirror that was opposite them in the room. His hair was still somewhat mussed and disheveled from the long flight on the airplane. He ran his fingers through the hair on his head, attempting to get it to fall in a manner that was much more suitable and in line with the way he wanted to appear.

It didn't work.

He got up from bed, walked to the bathroom, and then splashed cold water on their face. For a fleeting moment, he considered putting on a bit of concealer. This was only to help them feel a bit more like himself again. But in the end, he chose not to. Not tonight, he said to himself.

The second he was outside again, his phone instantly vibrated with a notification.

A message from Max.

I've landed. Hopefully, Pierre and Kika are not being too annoying. Are we still on to meet tomorrow at the paddock?

Charles gazed intently at the message on the screen for what felt like an eternity, his thumb resting tentatively over the keyboard, weighing his next move.

He typed, deleted, typed some more.

They're very sweet. I'm really looking forward to seeing you tomorrow, Max.

He did not mention missing him at all.

He never made any thoughts or statements that were significant or important.

Since they weren't in love.

They were merely friends, nothing more than friends.

--

The Saudi sun rose gently over the Jeddah Corniche, casting long, lazy shadows across the paddock. Practice was like a soft wind—uneventful, clean laps and muted chatter over team radios, barely anything worth putting into a letter home. Charles went through the motions with crisp precision, but his mind wandered at the edges. Max had been oddly quiet, especially over the radio. He had little to say at all.

By qualifying, tension had given way to something close to enjoyable. Even Charles's usual nervous energy he approached Q1 with seemed less oppressive this time around. The car was feeling solid. Stable. As if at last, the team had listened.

Q3 was only halfway through when Lando caused a minor scrape down the wall, sending the session into an immediate red flag. The halt was brief—long enough to disrupt the rhythm, but not long enough to fully derail things.

As they emerged back outside, Max released a lap so quickly that it seemed as though the Red Bull had wings, taking to the air. Pole position. Again.

Charles, meanwhile, settled into P4. He might have pushed harder—perhaps. But he did not. Not for lack of trying. Simply because Max's lap was inviolable.

By the time Charles got back to his driver room, there was a faint smile still on his face. Not a wide grin—just the quiet, contented curve of his mouth that only seemed to appear when things had gone well.

He was dabbing the sweat from his neck with a towel, in front of the mirror, when the door was knocked on. It was not the firm knock typical of an engineer or a press officer.

A softer one.

"Come in," Charles called, already having an idea of who it was.

Max slipped inside the door, hat still on, the race suit loose around his waist, and his undershirt wet at the collar. He seemed less tense than Charles had ever seen him in days.

“You looked good out there,” Charles said, tossing the towel on the bench. “Annoyingly fast.”

Max shrugged modestly, lips trembling. "You looked good too."

Charles snorted. "I was fourth, Max."

"Yeah, but you looked good doing it."

Charles stopped, his eyes locating Max, an eyebrow lifted, a smile trying to break at the corner of his mouth.

"Flirting with me now?"

Max smiled, blinking away like he was embarrassed. "Can't I compliment a friend?

"I was joking." Light-hearted. Yet Max's tone had softened, grown more guarded. He did not glance at Charles when he spoke.

Charles sank onto the couch in the corner, motioning Max to approach. "Here to debrief, or to charm me?"

"Can't it be both?"

They laughed and Max sat down next to him. Not too close, but close. The sort of close that would be nothing in any other nation. But here, in Saudi Arabia, everything had meaning. A look held too long. A hand touching too near. Every single interaction had invisible lines etched across the air.

So they sat apart, a deliberate and calculated space between them.

"How does the car handle?" Charles said, shifting gears.

Max relaxed, his hands running through his hair. "Good. Livened up in Q3. Was a bit jumpy when braking, but I quite like that.

Charles whistled. "Tame the beast?

"Something like that."

They fell silent, easy and comfortable. Charles reached for his water bottle. Max observed him, unnoticed, his eyes following the line of Charles' jaw as he tipped his head back to drink. His hair was longer now—still short, but with a softer quality to it intentionally. Something about it made Max hurt a bit.

Charles put down the bottle and turned to him. "You think you've got the race tomorrow?"

Max shrugged once more, yet his eyes shone with enthusiasm. "If the beginning is easy, I suppose."

Charles nodded. "I'll be right behind you.".

The manner in which he said it—low and even—gave Max a peculiar shiver down his spine. He couldn't quite determine whether Charles said it as warning or invitation. Perhaps it was both.

"Looking forward to it," Max muttered, low tone.

There was another silence. A longer one this time. The sort where words weren't necessary.

Max noticed how Charles sat—arms thrown over his knees, leaning forward slightly. He seemed relaxed. Open. But also tired. There was something vulnerable in the curve of his shoulders, something that made Max want to reach out and put a hand between them. Just to ground him.

Of course, he didn't.

Instead, he cleared his throat. "You look. lighter this weekend."

Charles blinked. "I do?

"Yeah. Just. I don't know. Not carrying the weight of the world for once."

Charles smiled gently. “It’s great when the car actually runs.”

Max released a quiet laugh. "Yeah. That helps."

Their eyes locked for a second too long, and Max experienced that all-too-familiar pull in his chest. He'd said a hundred times it was casual. Just fun. Friends, nothing more.

But as Max looked at Charles in the pale glow of the driver's room, relaxed and beaming—he was in love.

It loomed over him, dense and immovable, lurking in the silent places where they laughed together and met smiling eyes.

Charles got up, stretching, shattering the moment. "I need to shower. Don't want to reek of sweat and regret at the team dinner."

Max also stood up. "Yeah. I should get going."

He paused in the doorway, hand on the knob. "Hey, Charles?"

"Yeah?"

"Good luck tomorrow."

Charles glanced back over his shoulder, smiling once more—easy and gentle. "You too, Max."

And then Max was gone, the door closing with a click behind him. Charles remained in the silent room, still holding on to that soft smile as though it had taken root without his knowledge.

--

The Saudi sun was absolutely ruthless, relentlessly beating down over the Jeddah street circuit as if it were daring anyone to step up and challenge its fierce dominance. The air shimmered with an oppressive heat, but amidst that, there was a tension in the atmosphere that was thicker than the humidity hanging heavily over the grid.

Charles tightened his gloves on the formation lap, heart rate steady, mind concentrated. Fourth on the grid. Near enough to battle. He was accustomed to mayhem here—prepared for it.

He did not have to wait long.

Lap One. Turn One. The scene was one of utter chaos.

The pack tightened and, just a bit ahead of him, Max veered ever so slightly off-line for a split second, going past Oscar in the meanwhile.

The stewards moved quickly. Five-second penalty.

Charles saw it on the big screens while they were racing. "Oof," he muttered to himself, knowing full well how that would go down with Max. He was mad already when things went right.

Two cars tangled-- Pierre and Yuki. The yellow flag was immediate, and within seconds, the Safety Car was called.

By Lap 20, it was becoming more and more obvious that Oscar and the McLaren crew were playing a long game in trying to get the upper hand in the race. They pitted early, revealing an aggressive and bold approach to their race strategy, and it paid off for them. The undercut maneouver was unexpected and caught Max completely off guard—and once the five-second penalty came into play, it was pretty much game over for him.

Oscar was the winner. Max, second. Charles, third.

It is, beyond any doubt, a podium.

As the vehicles entered parc fermé, Max, in a fit of pure frustration and anger, slammed his helmet onto the Red Bull cart with no consideration to the cameras before him. Charles, however, merely shot him a brief but piercing glance before he continued to climb out of his own car, a little less energetic in his movements but visibly proud of himself for the spectacle he had just created.

A podium, in essence, was simply a podium.

They were led into the waiting room before the ceremony began, their perspiration sticking to their suits in a way that seemed almost tangible, and their smiles seeming to be both forced and slightly nervous, betraying the flush of adrenaline that had run through their system.

“Third looks good on you,” Max said, voice a little breathless.

Charles momentarily moved his eyes, his face still enigmatic for a while, then gradually transformed into a softer look. "Isn't this preferable to ending up in fourth place, don't you?"

Max snorted. "Barely."

Yet there was no warmth then. Instead, only frustration clung to his skin, the same way sand clings to a person's body after a day at the beach. But when they walked out onto the podium and the crowd erupted in a thunderous din beneath them, Max felt a momentary distraction from his anger, forgetting all about it, if only for a little while.

Because Charles was sitting right beside him, a breath away. Charles with his curls damp and that near-blinding smile that illuminated the entire room. Their eyes held for a fleeting second as the anthem rang in the background, and Max could have sworn that something in his chest cracked open as if something deep inside him had been awakened.

Then, after the race had concluded, Charles made his way back to the paddock where he soon came across Max. He was leaning against a wall that was close to the Red Bull garage, half in and half out of his racing suit and looking lost in thought. As Charles reached him, Max did not look up to see him but nor did he choose to walk away or float away from the moment.

"Congratulations," Charles said gently and warmly.

"You too," Max grumbled. "Good recovery from Bahrain."

Charles shrugged easily and jokingly, nudging Max's boot with his own boot in a casual, friendly manner. "Is something on your mind that you want to talk about?"

"What about?" Max's jaw was set and clenched.

Charles didn't answer. Just waited.

Max let out a half-hearted, barely audible groan of frustration as he rubbed his hands down the length of his face in a frustrated gesture.

"I just hate McLaren. I hate that Oscar got away with it. It makes me angry that they pulled off their pit stop perfectly, and I was completely caught off guard, completely unaware of what was going on. And don't even get me started on the penalty—" he abruptly stopped talking in mid-sentence, shaking his head in disbelief. "I was in front of him. I stayed in front of him the whole race. This is what racing is all about. But I guess these days and times, it is now illegal to actually race."

Charles let him rant. Let him go. He didn't interrupt.

Max sighed finally, shrugging his shoulders. "It just—sucks. That's all."

And in a reflexive action, without even contemplating the repercussions, Charles stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him. Max fell into a temporary pause, then allowed himself to melt into it, pushing his face into the shoulder of Charles.

It was not romantic. Not here. Not now.

Simply warm and grounding.

"Yeah, I know," Charles whispered. "Get it out. You can."

And just at that very moment, as Max breathed out again and released a sigh, he sensed something strange fall into his hand.

He looked down, directing his eyes to the surface before him. There, motionless, was a hotel key card.

The room number is written in a neat and legible hand that runs consecutively across the clean white strip.

Charles pulled back a little, meeting his gaze.

"No pressure," he said quietly, using a gentle tone so that his voice was calming. "Just in case you don't want to be alone tonight."

Max gazed at the card a moment too long before he nodded once, slipping it subtly into his pocket.

"Thanks," he growled, voice rough.

Charles managed a small tired smile. "I should go to debrief.. see you later Max"

And then, in that fleeting moment, he was gone, walking away determinedly in the direction of the Ferrari hospitality suite as if he had not just handed over to Max the one thing that had been his source of comfort all weekend.

Max remained in that stance for a while, his thumb gently running along the border of the card tucked in his pocket, as his heart still throbbed steadily with leftover adrenaline—albeit not from the race itself. From him. By Charles.

--

Max was on his tiptoes, knocking on the door of the hotel room, still in the upper half of his Red Bull tracksuit, which clung to him like a badge of his active life. There was also a residual scent of rose water mixed with adrenaline about him, creating a unique smell. It was a wonder how quick it took for the door to open a crack.

Charles was there in the same location, already changed and in a comfortable pair of loose-fitting black joggers that appeared to drape effortlessly on him, paired with a soft, over-sized cream-coloured t-shirt that fell casually askew off one shoulder. His hair looked damp, still holding its slight curls from having taken a quick shower not long before, and there was a sort of glow about him—either residual heat from being at the podium for a while, or perhaps it was just the general aura of Charles himself that made him look so radiant.

"Hello," Charles said in friendly greeting, a smile tugging playfully at the corner of his mouth. "I didn't honestly believe you'd actually come after the race you had."

Max went in without a moment's hesitation. "Couldn't say no."

The room was bathed in a soft dimness, for the light came only from a lamp placed by the bed, which filtered through, providing a warm glow. On the low table were two glasses already set, waiting to be filled, and beside them an unopened wine bottle stood upright, untouched and waiting for the moment to be opened and savored.

"Fancy," said Max.

Charles shrugged. "It's what we deserve. First double podium of the year."

Max grinned and dropped onto the edge of the bed. “Cheers to that.”

They toasted one another with a cheerful clinking of glasses—red wine instead of the customary rose water tonight, which lent the evening a fresh twist—and then they sipped in an easy silence that enfolded them like a calming embrace. Max couldn't help but watch engrossed the way Charles' throat rippled rhythmically as he swallowed from his glass, how the dark red wine stained his lips the faintest degree darker, creating a dramatic contrast with his skin tone. There was something irrepressibly peaceful and calm about this version of him tonight, something that drew Max in. Although he still appeared somewhat guarded, there was an unmistakable softness about him somehow. He was more at ease with himself, more at peace than Max had ever witnessed.

"I want you to know that I am very proud of you," Max said out of the blue, completely surprising Charles.

The Monegasque gazed at him unflinchingly, eyes opening wide and sparkling in a compound of astonishment and incredulity. "For what?"

"Your race," answered Max thoughtfully. "It's remarkable. Your ability by being able to fend off George and Lando both skillfully. And I must also praise you for not running into anyone."

Charles snorted, and in doing so, his smile transformed into a more sincere and genuine one. "I'm proud of you too," he replied, his voice lower and softer now, as though the solemnity of what he was saying had grown heavier. "You truly deserved the win, even considering the penalty."

Max tilted his head. "You think?"

"Of course." Charles inclined his body a little towards the front, clinking his glass against Max's in a friendly fashion. "It's just a matter of being quick and agile on the track. Even if the FIA highly disapproves of how we do it."

Max gave a half-jocular laugh, the tone ringing with a new and youthful timbre. "It is even better when we do well when the FIA specifically hates us."

The night wore on slowly. No haste. No stress.

They came together eventually, in that silent manner they always did. But this time, it was not frantic. It was not frustration masquerading as desire.

It was gentle.

Charles' hands explored and mapped the contours of Max's body with a delicate tenderness that conveyed a deep sense of intimacy. In return for this gentle caress, Max reciprocated by committing to memory the harsh angles of Charles' shoulders, the spare curve of his back, and the beautiful softness of his skin in the gentle glow of the hotel lamp.

For once in a rare while, it wasn't entirely centered on the idea of release. No, it was really about being present in this moment.

Later, they lay there entwined in the bedclothes, with Max on his side, watching with rapt attention as Charles slept peacefully beside him. The lamp on the nightstand still cast its golden, gentle light over the room, in effect highlighting the relaxed and easeful curves of Charles' sleeping face.

Then Max leaned forward with a gentle touch, softly sweeping aside a loose lock of hair that had drifted onto Charles' forehead. Charles shifted slightly at the touch but slept on and did not wake up.

"Cute," Max murmured under his breath, a playful glint in his smile. "You have this special charm in the mornings."

Charles slowly blinked his eyes, half-asleep still and comfortably slumped over Max's warm chest. "Hmm?" he whispered softly.

"Nothing," Max whispered.

Yet Charles smiled weakly into his skin, his eyes still shut. "Merci."

It was such a small thing. But to Max, it seemed large. Charles had never been so open with himself before. Not with his body. Not with himself.

Max saw with attentive observation how the other man had made no effort to conceal himself this evening; rather, he had quite deliberately selected a loose, comfortable shirt, choosing it not from any impulse to camouflage himself or render himself inconspicuous but merely because it was consonant with his concept of self. The way in which his hair curled was precisely as he preferred it, no longer styled in a mode that could be described as harsh or virile-aggressive. This realisation filled Max's chest with a reassuring feeling, bringing a sense of contentment and gratification to him.

Although reluctant to depart, Max was aware that the upcoming week off was fast approaching with an inexorable feeling of inevitability. There were flights to reserve, sponsor functions to visit, and a thousand piercingly critical eyes on him.

Charles rolled over slowly, grabbing for his phone. "You should get going before it gets too late."

Max emitted a dramatic sigh. "Five more minutes.".

"You'll miss your flight."

Letting out a deep sigh that escaped his lips, Max pulled himself up from the seated position, already embarking on the search for his beloved hoodie.

Charles sat up as well, brushing his hair back in a casual sweep of his fingers. Here, now, he looked effortlessly handsome, projecting a soft and slightly disheveled charm, and still bearing a flush to his cheeks from the passion they had engaged in a moment prior. Max held the look for a half-second longer than he intended.

"Wishing you a great week off," Charles said, speaking warmly and kindly. "And… I'll see you in Miami.

"Sure." Max nodded positively, his hand lingering only momentarily above the door handle. "I am already very excited about it."

Charles smiled. "Don't get so eager. You're going to have to actually race me again."

Max grinned. "I enjoy racing you."

"Liar."

"See you in Miami, Charles."

Charles offered a slight, inconspicuous wave, observing as he noiselessly slipped out of the room, nearly like a secret that had just been revealed.

--

The adrenaline had dissipated a long time before. The anger too. Now there was just silence.

Max was perched on the side of his bed, his body still wrapped in the loose hoodie. His hands idly explored the material as he sat there, finding their way into the subtle, lingering scent that was still woven through the fabric, a reminder of their last meeting.

He could not focus.

Not due to the race itself. Not based on the penalty that was imposed.

But because he couldn't keep his mind out of the fact that Charles had looked at him tonight.

The way he'd smiled.

How he'd touched him.

How he hadn’t hidden himself.

Max had never loved anyone more than he loved at this moment.

He softly shut his eyes, letting a faint breath slip out of his lips, floating away like a soft prayer spoken to the heavens.

He didn’t know when—or how—but he hoped one day Charles would see what he saw. Not just in himself. But in them.

Max stretched out on his bed, resting his arm at the back of his head in a casual manner, as he turned his focus to the ceiling. Miami couldn't come quick enough.

Chapter Text

The Miami paddock was abuzz with its customary hum of searing heat and a palpable sense of anticipation that seemed to hang in the air like a visible mist. Impressive palm trees loomed around the edges, resembling stern guards protecting the domain, and the Florida sun beat down, its gentle rays bouncing off the smooth, sleek surfaces of the various team motorhomes and hospitality modules that lined the edge.

Charles stepped out of the Ferrari module, walking into the riot of colour, with an oversized hoodie, trendy shades perched comfortably on his head, and his distinctive red cap already stowed in the rear pocket of his baggy trousers.

For a change, he was in a relatively good mood. The week he had spent away had been a rather interesting experience.

Pierre was found near the doorway reserved for drivers, with his arm loosely, casually around the shoulder of Kika in an affectionate embrace. The pair of them both seemed very comfortable, their grins perfectly synched, and Charles could not help but return their smiles also. Pierre invited him over by waving him, briefly removing his arm from where it had comfortably rested on the shoulder of Kika so he could share a fist bump greeting with his buddy.

"Is Monaco being kind to you and giving you a good time?" Pierre asked.

Charles shrugged his shoulders casually as he played with the sunglasses, nudging them up on the bridge of his nose. "It was quiet, actually," he responded matter-of-factly. "I needed that kind of peace." Then, after a hesitant pause, as if considering his next words with care, he continued, "Strangely enough, I did actually match with someone on one of those dating apps. We're going to go out for a drink when I return to Italy."

Pierre's eyebrows shot up. "Oh?”

"She does appear quite nice," Charles replied in a relaxed manner, flattening down his hair as he appeared to be attempting to persuade himself more than persuade any other person in the vicinity. "I'm not looking for anything in particular, it's simply out of curiosity, you understand?"

Pierre nodded, a smile hovering on his lips as though in awareness, and then he glanced sideways—he had caught something that Charles hadn't.

Behind them, Max Verstappen had slowed the pace of his walk intentionally, pausing for a moment. He hadn't actually intended to eavesdrop on what they were saying. Truthfully, that had not been his intention at all. But as it happened, he had just been passing by on his way to the Red Bull team debriefing session.

A date?

His stomach churned uncomfortably. Charles' voice—his calm, casual, questioning voice—rang in Max's head like white noise.

He remained silent and uttered not a syllable, nor did he miss a step; instead, he simply compelled his facial expression into a perfectly neutral mask and continued stubbornly on his way without so much as a flicker of hesitation.

Charles turned on his heels, walking quickly, and caught just a glimpse of Max as he vanished through the large paddock doors.

"Did he just completely ignore me?" he whispered to himself, talking more to himself than to Pierre.

Pierre did not respond. Kika discreetly squeezed his hand.

--

The very first and singular practice session took place and concluded without generating much excitement or notable attention. As is typical with the sprint format, it tends to create a situation characterised by a certain amount of condensed chaos; however, FP1 in Miami unfolded in a remarkably smooth manner. Teams efficiently cycled through their tire selections at a rapid pace, while drivers skillfully navigated the traffic on the track, performing their manoeuvres like participants in a well-rehearsed dance routine.

Charles demonstrated a consistency that might be termed solid, if in no way spectacular or out of the ordinary. Max, on the other hand, seemed to be just a hair below his usual standard of performance—he grumbled about an unusual imbalance in his setup, along with a bit of temperature fluctuation here and there—but nothing that might be said to adversely affect his overall performance. Later that same afternoon, however, when they again encountered one another in the paddock itself, Max strode purposefully right on past Charles without so much as a nod, as if he had not even noticed him.

"Alright," Charles said in a heavy breath, expressing his frustration. "He is deliberately avoiding me."

He sat down beside Pierre in the lavishly equipped hospitality suite in Alpine's paddock, his mood changing radically, as if a dense cloud had suddenly appeared to block the shining sun.

"Do you think he's mad at you?" Pierre questioned in a doubtful tone.

Charles didn't respond, fiddling with the label on his water bottle.

--

Sprint qualifying came along with blistering pace, taking everyone unawares. The sun began setting on the horizon, painting a beautiful picture as it cast glittering golden streaks on the circuit, while the first cars fired up in the pit lane, poised for action to begin.

Charles was serene and calm in demeanour. The car, which he was driving, felt good and was just right. Ferrari had not yet done anything silly or made any errors, and for the first time in a while, he actually did feel confident in the setup that was beneath him. As he completed his out lap, it felt solid and reliable. On his first attempt in SQ1, he was one of the top five runners.

At the same time, Max was cursing under his breath to Gianpiero via radio, struggling with the task of getting clean air and a good rhythm for his driving. He was still as swift as always—he had that natural speed—the problem was there was tension visible in how his jaw looked every time the camera cut over to him when he was in the garage.

He completed sprint qualifying in P4. Not bad. Not great.

Charles had put himself in P6 after pushing too hard on his final lap, which had affected his performance. He was not that disappointed about it. Not really. It was only when he was walking back to the paddock, thinking about the race, that he spotted Max. Max was disappearing in the opposite direction, ignoring Charles completely, not even sparing him a glance.

He shifted his gaze towards Pierre, lowering his voice to a barely audible whisper. “What the hell is going on with him?”

Pierre let out a sigh. "Do you want me to guess, or?"

Charles frowned, his arms crossed over his chest.

"It's probably about your date," Pierre clarified with an introspective face. "He just happened to overhear our conversation this morning."

Charles blinked. "But. Max and I are not a couple."

Pierre's face said it all: Yes. But that doesn't mean Max is not in love with you.

---

Charles spent that night sitting alone in the stillness of his hotel room, his fingers aimlessly gliding through the various options on the dating website. To his astonishment, the Italian woman had messaged him once again, her messages on the screen with a sensuous allure. She was pleasant and had an excellent sense of humour. Though nothing in their conversation appeared particularly serious or serious, as he attempted to pen a thoughtful reply to her message, his thoughts began to wander back to another person from his past, a person who was always in the back of his mind.

Someone who, for some reason or another, would not even glance his way today.

He allowed the app to slip from his hand onto the nightstand, then sighed reluctantly and rolled back onto the bed with a relaxed fluidity.

Max had always been focused—single-minded, secretive, sulky when things did not go his way. But this silence was unlike any other. It was not irritation with the car or vexation with a media engagement. It was cold.

Charles rolled onto his side, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out why he was guilty.

---

Meanwhile, back in the Red Bull hotel block, Max was stiffly laid on his own bed, still in the same sweatpants and hoodie he had worn after the hot qualifying session. His phone was face down next to him on the bed, and he had not had time to look at it since he got back from the event.

He found himself repeatedly hearing the sound of Charles’ voice echoing in his mind from that very morning.

Once more, he felt the tightness in his throat. He recognised that what was happening was foolish, and he understood that very well. They did not have any formal arrangement or commitment between them. They were simply friends, nothing more than that.

Yet, these friends had developed a habit of occasionally tearing each other's clothing away in moments of spontaneity and passion, followed by desperate embraces in the wake of the emotional turmoil that accompanied race days.

And now Charles was going on dates. He gradually closed his eyes and softly groaned as he sank into the comfort of his pillow.

--

The bright Miami sun, suspended in the sky, had not yet sunk below the horizon, yet Charles was already being suffocated by an overwhelming tide of anger that seemed to be drowning him. The air conditioner in his hotel room was humming gently, its weak attempts proving nearly useless in trying to relieve the scorching heat emanating from the rage that seethed in his chest. He was standing in front of the mirror, still wearing his racing suit, with his jaw locked so tightly it was shooting pains through his muscles. Unfortunately, he had not even made it to the starting line of the race, something that weighed heavily on his mind.

He was confronted with a crash before the sprint had any chance to even start.

He hadn't crashed, not in the traditional meaning of the word, anyway—rather, he'd lost control and slid wide of the track, taking out a barrier on his way to the grid by accident, and abruptly his entire session was over.

DNS.

Did Not Start. He hadn't even had time to process what had just happened before he was being politely ushered from the area, helmet under arm, while the stoic cameras trailed in close behind him like vultures sensing an opening for vulnerability.

And Max? Max, who actually had a genuine opportunity to gain points in the race, finished in 17th position. It was a dismal and disappointing sprint for the two of them.

His downward spiralling thoughts were interrupted by a gentle knock.

He paused.

Another knock. Two knocks, to be precise. Max's signal.

With a sigh, Charles let out a long, tired breath that appeared to resonate around the room before he walked over to the door. He stretched out and opened it quietly, not saying a word in the process.

Max was standing there in a Red Bull hoodie, half his face lit up by the light in the hall, his hair messy like he'd been running his hands through it all day. His eyes roved Charles slowly, warily, scanning him over like he might still be bleeding.

"Are you alright?" Max questioned, his voice much gentler than normal.

"No," answered Charles honestly.

Max nodded as if he assumed that. He came in without an invitation, and Charles didn't prevent him. They stood for a moment, the whir of the A/C and the muted rumble of traffic outside the only noises in the room.

Charles sighed, the sound escaping his lips as he rubbed his mussed curls in frustration. "I didn't even get to the grid. What's wrong with me?"

"You struck a patch of wet weather," said Max calmly. "It's one of those things."

"It just shouldn't be happening to me. Not now. Not after all I've had to go through and get past." His voice cracked, betraying the anger that was simmering within him. "I'm not even mad about the car itself. What really makes me angry is that I'm angry at myself. I fucked it."

Max moved a step closer. "You didn't fuck anything. You made an error. It's not the end of the season."

"Tell that to the media. To Fred. To everyone already whispering about me slipping." He was sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, face in hands. "And then you—seventeenth? What happened?"

Max let out a laugh that contained no real humour. "The car's balance is simply terrible. There's nothing that's correctly attached. I couldn't find any grip even if the car begged me for it. But if I'm completely honest…" He shrugged casually, moving so that he was standing directly in front of Charles. "I was far more concerned about you."

Charles raised his eyes to his. The fatigue in his eyes was evident, with the redness at the corners of his eyes showing the long day, and his cheeks were bright red, showing a profound frustration.

"You should not be," he whispered.

"I'm always worried about you," Max answered.

Something changed in Charles' face—his jaw clenched tighter, his forehead furrowed, and Max recognised that look. The storm was brewing.

"I just hate this situation so much," Charles spoke under his breath, strain and tension filling his voice. "I cannot stand that this is how my weekend is going. I really hate how so terribly fucking alone I feel every single time I make an error."

"You're not alone," Max stated, his voice firm and comforting, like making a solemn vow that echoed with sincerity.

Charles looked at him for a hard moment. "Prove it. Because it fucking feels like I am."

Max blinked. "What?"

Charles rose to his feet, his eyes locked unflinchingly with those of Max's. The tension that existed between the two of them was palpable, a lot like a guitar string when it breaks, having been pulled too tight for too long.

"You always say that you are always with me whenever I need you." His tone had now become softer, and his voice lower, as if with a sense of urgency and gravity. "Well—just at this moment, I find myself needing your help. I have a great urge to let out what has been holding me back. I really need—"

He stopped himself.

Max moved in closer, bridging the gap between them so that their breasts were nearly touching. "Then use me. If it's what you need, then I am right here and available to you."

Charles drew in a sharp breath. "Max…"

"Charles," Max whispered gently, imperceptibly nodding his head upwards to keep his eyes locked on Charles' gaze. "It's your turn now. Use me as you need to. Let go of your anger, don't hold back. I can take it."

There was hesitation. A flicker of worry in Charles’ eyes.

"We have the race tomorrow," Charles spoke, his voice barely audible, a whisper.

"I'll be fine Char," Max whispered softly, attempting to comfort the other. "Just… allow yourself to feel something else for a short while."

Charles didn't hesitate for one instant to wait for some other sign or signal.

Rather, he took a bold grip on Max's waist and drew him closer, their lips colliding in a passionate crash that was more emotionally charged than technically proficient. Max surrendered completely to the kiss, his hands clutching wildly in the fabric of Charles' shirt, allowing himself to be enveloped, swayed, and overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment.

They moved desperately but not clumsily. Charles didn't try to break Max—he just had to forget, to root himself in something other than frustration and failure. Max did not struggle for a moment. He embraced the weight of it all, gave himself over entirely, needing this just as much.

They were quiet and did not converse again—for quite a while.

Before long, after the seeming strain had passed, they were entwined amidst the bedsheets. Neither of them had the desire to say very much. The silence that surrounded them was not heavy—it was something requisite and significant.

Charles made the first move, idly rumpling Max's curls, which were by now thoroughly destroyed and sticking out every which way.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked in a gentle and soft voice.

"No," Max replied, his eyes screwed tightly shut as he talked. "It was exactly what I needed too. It also helps that you just happen to be really good at that, even if you don't do it often."

Charles gave a brief, almost embarrassed nod.

Max slowly turned his head towards him, his eyes holding a gentle tenderness. "Are you alright now?"

"I'm… not angry anymore."

"Good," Max nodded in approval. "That's a good start".

They did not cuddle this time either. But Charles still stayed close, his hand resting gently on the hip of Max, with his thumb tenderly sweeping back and forth in a soft movement.

"I'm sorry if it affects your driving tomorrow," he said, his voice thick.

"I promise you that I will be okay Charles, I wanted to do it just as much as you, it was nice to not be the one in control for once."

Charles smiled weakly and placed a kiss on the top of Max's head.

"I should sleep." Charles said after another moment of comfortable silence.

"Yes, you should," Max agreed.

Neither of them arose.

At last, Max took the blanket and pulled it over them both.

"Tomorrow's a new day," he said.

Charles murmured. "Mhm."

They would both leave separately in the mornings. They always did.

But for this one night, Charles permitted himself the luxury of feeling slightly less alone and less isolated.

And Max permitted himself to imagine—just for a moment—that they were something more.

Chapter Text

The Miami sun was just getting up and spilling its golden light across the landscape when Charles found himself once again pissed off at his team. The events of yesterday replayed vividly in his mind like a rerun movie. Qualifying had been a disaster for him. While Max had masterfully taken pole position, Charles had achieved a dismal eighth place. Buried deep inside, beneath his stoic mask, was a bubbling frustration, but he wasn't going to let it get the best of him and surface or be noticed by others around him.

As he came into the paddock, he strode across to Max trying to maintain a forced smile on his face.

"Congratulations on taking the pole position," he said, his tone calm and composed.

Max regarded him with a purposeful gaze, a glimmer of worry momentarily playing in his eyes as he took in the scene. "Thanks a lot, Charles. Are you alright?"

Charles nodded, his grin failing to reach his eyes. "Yeah, just need to keep tabs on the race."

The moment he was by himself in the stillness of his driver's room, Charles allowed the facade he had been maintaining to crumble. He walked anxiously back and forth across the room, his fists tightly balled, as though the burden of the devastating disappointment was descending upon him with a feeling of intolerable pressure.

The oppressive heat of Miami stuck to him, an unpleasant guest, entwining itself around him. Sweat was sticky and gross against the base of his neck, and he shifted uncomfortably. He let his head fall back slowly, his gaze fixed on the ceiling above, and for a moment, he just… breathed deeply.

Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone and scrolled down the list of names until he came to the one that said Maman.

It rang once. Twice.

"Bonjour, mon cœur?"

Charles closed his eyes slowly at the sweet sound of her voice.

"Bonjour, Maman."

There was a silence for a while—long enough for her to realise what was happening. "Did you have a bad day?"

He chuckled softly, and as he did, it sounded more like a sigh of exhaustion than anything. "Disaster."

"Do you want to talk about what has been on your mind, or would you prefer to act as if the race is not happening and tell me of what you had for lunch today?"

Charles couldn't help but grin in spite of himself. "I had, uh, three small bites of pasta and a can of Red Bull."

"A gourmet diet, of course."

"Of course."

There was yet another pause—this one longer and more substantial, filled with a weighty silence. “Please tell me what happened, my child.”

He winced at the term of endearment, not because it hurt, but because it always caught him off guard when she used it instead of son or baby boy. His mother had never made the mistake. Never hesitated. She had learned the day Charles had asked her to.

He shifted a little on the sofa, his tone low and soft. "The team totally messed up the strategy again, regardless of how clearly I explained it to them. I explained it to them very clearly that I wished to do a delta push, but they went ahead and totally disregarded my request. Then they fitted me with hard tyres, which left me in a vulnerable situation, like a sitting duck. As a result, Lando drove past me as though I was standing on the sidelines."

A beat.

"Again and again," he repeated, with a tinge of bitterness now. "This is happening again and again.".

"Je suis vraiment désolé, ma chère."

"Je me sens simplement… invisible parfois. As if they've decided already what type of driver I am and won't listen when I attempt to tell them I'm something different. Something more."

He swallowed hard. "C'est épuisant."

Initially, there was no immediate response to the question or remark offered. The sole sound that could be heard was the soft, subtle whisper of her breath passing through the speaker. After a brief pause, she finally responded: "Je pense que beaucoup de gens ont du mal à voir qui tu es vraiment, Char. But I want you to know that just because they cannot see it, it doesn't make it any less real."

He blinked rapidly, biting the inside of his cheek. "Merci, Maman."

"You're a talented driver. And a beautiful person. Even if other people don't want to see it."

He glanced down at his lap, where his fingers began to idly tug at the sleeves of his flameproof racing suit. "It's not all about the racing."

A profound silence enveloped the atmosphere once more.

"I mean, sometimes I don't even know who I am," he admitted, his own voice barely above a whisper. "In the paddock, I dress how they want me too, team kits, jeans. But when I am at home, it completely changes and differs. I waste a lot of time redoing my hair again and again, trying to make it look like something that I like—honestly, though, I just can't seem to figure out why it appears to be so vital to me. I just… have this desperate need to feel like everything is just alright."

"You don't have to have a complete understanding of who you truly are to be deserving of feeling like being your authentic self," she spoke, her voice low and even, exuding warmth and reassurance. "Et peu importe ce que tu es ou peux être, tu es, sans aucun doute, à moi."

His throat constricted.

"And I truly love you, with all my heart."

"What about if I change?" he questioned, his voice barely above a whisper.

She replied without hesitation, and with a firm tone, "Even if you transform every day, or even every hour, it does not matter. You are still my child. Regardless of what changes may take place, tu ne cesseras jamais d'être mon bébé."

Charles put his hand over his eyes. "You're going to make me cry."

"Good. Better to cry with me than yell at your race engineer."

He laughed, on the brink of crying. "That's fair."

They shared a comfortable silence together for a long time, a soothing sort of quietness that wrapped itself around both of them—the sort of comfort that could only be had and known by a mother.

She hesitated for a second before she could speak, finally asking, "Is there something that you need from me? Do you want me to be in Imola for you?"

He smiled softly, a gentle expression crossing his face. "No, I'll be okay. I think I just really needed to hear your voice."

"Of course, I'm always here. And I'm always proud of you."

"Merci, Maman."

"Go rest. Go shower. You'll feel better after."

"Yes, of course. Je t'aime tellement."

"Je t'aime aussi, mon doux bébé."

He put down the receiver, and for the first time that entire weekend, the tightness and tension that had been building up in his chest began to loosen a little.

--

Race day eventually arrived, with a intense combination of excitement and tension that permeated the air. Max began the race from the highly coveted pole position but was plagued by unexpected issues with his car, in addition to the McLaren drivers, which ultimately relegated him to a fourth-place standing.

Charles, however, had to contend with conflicting team instructions and the quandary of an underperforming car that was uncharacteristically off the pace, which left him managing a mere seventh-place finish. The frustrations that surrounded both drivers were unmistakable and deep, but Charles gave Max his space when they were within the paddock area, cognizant of the fact that Max needed his space to effectively contend with what had transpired.

Later that night, Charles stood outside Max's hotel room.

Max hardly had a chance to close the door to the hotel room behind him before Charles slammed him firmly against it.

"Fuck Ferrari" Charles panted hard and low, his hot, heavy breath on Max's lips.

Max didn't say anything—he just glared at him, wide-eyed, gasping for air. It was one of those races. A nightmare in slow motion. Fourth place. The car not playing ball. A McLaren 1-2. And now, Charles—flushed from his own awful P7—was standing here, clearly just as angry.

Charles kissed him with passionate aggression. It was a kiss fueled by anger, by frustration. His hands tightened on Max's face, as though he was trying to kiss the frustration right out of his system. Max didn't struggle; he never did, always allowing Charles to be the dominant one in these moments.

Yet when Charles was about to reach for his shirt, Max discreetly placed a gentle pressure on his chest.

"Wait," he panted, and a little out of breath.

Charles stood rooted to the spot, confused.

“We’re both pissed off. Let’s—just talk first. Please.”

Charles started as if he was going to start arguing, but something in Max's tone appeared to resonate with him. He let out a frustrated breath, stepped backward, wrapped his arms tightly around his chest, and strode a few steps around the room, like a trapped animal searching for an escape.

"This team—my team—they just don't damn well listen to me," Charles muttered under his breath, his voice particularly gravelly and tense. "I explained it to them very carefully. I said let me go. The Williams was nothing big in the grand scheme of things. I could've taken out that car easily without a second thought. But no. Nobody trusts my instincts or my abilities. It's like I'm some sort of decoration sitting there in that car sometimes, rather than an important member of the team."

Max was silent, preferring to observe the scene in front of him. He could clearly feel the shuddering anger concealed beneath Charles' tones—the manner in which it struggled to hold back an overwhelming compulsion to shriek out loud.

"They had me fighting for scraps out there, you hear me? Seventh place. Just damn seventh. And I get to sit and watch you"—he nodded towards Max, his voice briefly adopting a bitter edge before he was once more composed—"wrestle with the same issues that I did. At least with you, you still picked up some points."

Max perched on the bed's edge, his elbows firmly resting on his knees. "Yes, but they're absolutely useless points in the grand scheme of things. I was a sitting duck out there in the race. The tires completely went, and they just—sat back and watched. We all knew that the undercut was coming and coming our way, and they just… let Oscar have it without doing anything."

Charles let out a brief, solemn laugh, one that had very little real humor in it. "Well, at least I know you're not afraid or intimidated by your own crew.".

That shut Max up.

Silence settled for a beat.

Then, taking a conscious step, Charles moved across the room once more and then sat down next to him, easing himself down into the chair. His face reflected that he was still tensed up, his jaw clenched hard. But Max watched him intently, and for one fleeting moment, the old line that separated anger and lust once more became distorted. Just as always, whenever they were together.

Max's head inclined forward. "Do you want to use me again tonight?

Charles turned slowly to him, his eyes narrowing. "What?"

Max shrugged a little, yet the voice was soft and somewhat subdued. It had a tone of intimacy as he continued. "Well last night you fucked me? You needed to release your anger, and you told me that it helped you."

Charles blinked.

Max provided a little, somewhat lopsided smile, attempting to act cool. "You can do it again if you need too. I don't mind at all. Just let me know what you want."

The words hung there between them for a moment. Then Charles shifted—intentional, calculated—swinging one leg over Max to straddle him.

When he spoke again, his voice was quiet and muted. "Max, I don't want to use you. It's just that I really don't know what other choices are left to me given all that is happening right now."

Max allowed his hands to lie on Charles' hips. "Then don't think. Just feel. Let me make you forget about everything and just let go."

That was all that was needed.

The kiss was slow this time—controlled, with the same storm simmering beneath the surface but tempered with something else. Desperation, perhaps. Or longing.

Clothes were slowly stripped away, layer by layer, in a slow and deliberate unveiling. Each touch was branded into his mind with a burning and piercing intensity that marked itself on his senses. Max surrendered to the experience, allowing Charles to take whatever he desired from him, but in the process permitting himself to desire it equally intensely in return.

And in that moment, somewhere caught in the midst of frustration and heat, Max leaned down, lowering his mouth to Charles' neck, and sank his teeth into the tender flesh. All he could think of was Charles mentioning his date. Max could at least leave his mark on Charles.

Not teasing. Not playful. Possessive.

He did not ask. He did not think.

It wasn't until much later—when Charles had settled in comfortably, half-asleep curled up against him, his chest rising and falling in a rhythmic motion in a steady cadence—that Max finally got the chance to see the faint mark that was starting to blossom and become visible just below Charles' jawline.

His lips brushed it lightly and gently, and within him, pride and guilt entwined and coiled around each other like twists of wire.

--

Charles squinted and scowled into the bathroom mirror, even as he rubbed a towel through his still-damp hair that hadn't dried yet. By now, he was already woefully behind in getting everything packed for his flight to Monaco, which would be followed by his journey to Imola, and his mind was still dulled and fogged by the thick haze that came from too little sleep and far too much emotion churning through him.

He happened to notice the identifying mark which was apparent on his neck.

"Max." he muttered under his breath, rubbing two fingers over the bruise. It wasn't huge, but it was noticeable. And swollen enough that makeup would perhaps not fully conceal it with the heat and humidity of the Miami paddock still clinging to everything.

He was not furious or angry. Not in the least. Yet there was a pinching sensation in his chest that tightened—a confused jumble of shock and confusion blended with something else, something he did not want to name or describe.

Max hadn't asked.

But he didn’t mind. Not really.

And maybe that was the root cause that led to the current situation.

Charles came out of the bathroom, towel in hand, and caught sight of Max as he was putting his hoodie on. He asked with a touch of surprise in his voice, "You're leaving already?"

Max turned to the person beside him and offered a drowsy smile that spoke of his mild sleepiness. "Yes, I have an early flight. And by the way, congratulations again on securing P7!"

Charles rolled his eyes. "Don't start."

Max smiled, then relaxed. "You were great, though. Even with the car. And the team."

Charles gave a small smile. “You too.”

Max moved a little nearer, gently brushed Charles' hair with his fingertips in a tender gesture. "You really do look cute in the mornings."

Charles's eyes widened in surprise. "What?

Max shrugged his shoulders in a casual manner, suggesting a feeling of indifference. "I'm just saying, you really should try wearing your hair in this style more often."

The compliment seeped its way into a cozy corner tucked far within Charles' bosom, where it settled and lingered on.

"Thanks," he said softly to himself, not quite sure how to go on with the warmth and comfort it brought to his heart.

Max left a quick kiss on Charles' forehead. "Have a safe flight home."

"You too," Charles said, his voice suddenly falling to a soft whisper.

Max decided to turn and leave, but just as he was going to shut the door that was behind him, he paused for a second to glance back over his shoulder.

"See you in Imola, Char," he said hopefully.

Charles lingered there for a good while, gazing at the vacant area where Max had just occupied.

Max was now alone in his car.

He was sitting in the rear of the car that was driving him to the airport, looking out of the window, but his mind was so far away that he was not actually observing any of the frenetic traffic that surrounded them.

His mind wanted to text Charles.

He didn't. Instead, his thoughts turned to the special mark that had been evident on Charles' neck. It was the same mark he had left behind without asking for any sort of permission.

He knew that Charles had noticed even if he didn't say anything.

Max leaned his head back and sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

"I'm so fucking in love with him," he breathed to no one.

And Charles still didn’t have a clue.

Chapter Text

On this Wednesday in Bologna, a stone's throw from Imola, the atmosphere was unbelievably calm and tranquil. The hotel suite that Charles had chosen to occupy during their stay resembled a messy dressing room more than it did a comfortable haven aimed at rest and sleep. Shirts were strewn everywhere one looked, hung over every available surface, in a slightly untidy spectacle.

Pierre, however, was lying on the couch, phone in hand, scrolling through all types of apps with no real aim or focus. Charles, meanwhile, was in front of the mirror, primping at the collar of yet another button-down shirt with very careful attention, displaying attention to detail and an interest in presenting himself in the best light.

"Aw, you're thinking too much," Pierre responded, darting a glance upwards briefly. "Seriously, you look just fine, Char. Actually, I'd say you look more than just fine, if I'm being honest."

Charles was tugging at the hem of their shirt, something that borderline felt as if it were doing so independently. This particular shirt was among the more classically masculine of their collection, characterised by its fitted silhouette, pointed collar, and a level of pressing that had it so close to death it wasn't amusing. Though it technically fit, there was something about it that just didn't quite sit right. At all.

"I wish to be presentable," Charles muttered. "She is nice."

"She might be," answered Pierre quietly, picking up on the uncertainty in Charles' voice. "But you don't need to become someone different for her, you know? Just be toi-même."

Charles weakly smiled towards the Frenchman, as they basked in the familiar warmth of Pierre dissolving into their common language. "C'est ça le problème, je crois. Je sais même plus qui je suis des fois."

Pierre rose from where he was sitting and crossed the room with a quiet resolve, finally standing beside Charles to take their shoulder firmly yet gently in a reassuring manner. "T'es mon ami. Mon préféré."

That helped. A little.

Yet, when Charles departed the hotel, they had deliberately opted for a subdued and quieter version of himself. Their hair was styled carefully and neatly set, and his chest seemed a little broader due to the starch of the stiffer shirt he had on. His lips were devoid of gloss or shine, and there was no hint of shimmer on their cheekbones. There simply wasn't any time now to be questioning his choices or decisions now.

The girl, Alessia, was nice. Intelligent, witty, and charismatic in the easy manner that only made Charles all the more nervous. The restaurant was cozy, hidden in a quiet road with decent wine and gentle candlelight. On paper, it was ideal.

She chuckled at his jokes, knew something about F1 but not too much, and actually appeared interested in his life off the circuit. He enjoyed her company. He liked her. He did. But with each course, he was increasingly aware of performing. Straightening his spine. Lowering his voice. Keeping his gestures smaller, neater, more restrained.

As the evening dragged on and was drawing to a close, there was a single moment that happened. When at last dessert was brought to their table, and she moved in ever so slightly closer than she had before, that he began to allow for the possibility that this relationship could just work. In that moment, he let her kiss him just outside the door to the restaurant, a kiss that was as quick in its duration as it was light in its touch.

However, it did in no way appear to capture the spirit of Max.

It really wasn't fair, if you came down to it. To compare a first kiss, something that is meant to be innocent and pure, to something so hopelessly complicated and emotionally charged as them. Yet, for all of this unfairness, the recollection of that comparison sat in the recesses of his mind, rather like a bothersome splinter that cannot be ignored.

He finished off the night by wishing her a courteous goodnight, along with a promise that he would text her soon. She smiled at him, happily unaware of any underlying truths.

Rather than returning to his own hotel room to sleep for the night, Charles found himself standing in front of Pierre's suite door, knocking on it seconds before midnight.

Pierre opened the door with a knowing expression, already stepping aside to allow him entry. "I take it that the kiss you got was not anything earth-shattering or life-altering?"

Charles dropped onto the sofa and dragged his hand through their hair. "I feel… phony."

Pierre uttered nothing, not one word, but simply offered him a glass of cool water and sat down next to him.

"I tried to come across as a person who was charming," Charles went on, their voice low and tired, betraying his fatigue. "I tried to act confident, to project an air of masculinity. I made a point to laugh at the right places, gave her compliments on her dress, and escorted her home like my papa always told me to do. And it wasn't a bad time, Pierre, it just wasn't really me. Not in any sense."

Pierre settled back into his chair, his eyes boring intensely into him as he followed his every move. "You don't owe anybody anything, mon ami. Least of all for a person who does not even know the true essence of who you are."

"I know," Charles said, taking the cool water in slowly. "I just thought that this time I'd feel something different. That this was the thing that I needed to have, something that wasn't artificial and was real."

"And what about Max?" Pierre asked softly.

Charles did not say a word, but Pierre knew.

Pierre placed his arm out across the area between them and playfully smacked Charles' knee with his own in a light gesture of affection. "You don't actually need to have everything fully sorted out right now. But you need to be kind to yourself throughout all this. You're only human Char. If you find that in a relationship you need to cut or leave bits of yourself behind, then quite honestly, it is not even worth the fight or emotional expense."

Charles let out a sigh, resting their head against the couch. "I wore the shirt you chose. The stiff one."

Pierre let out a frustrated groan. "Ugh, no wonder you felt awkward. The way you appeared was like a banker off to a funeral."

This brought a laugh from Charles that managed to dissipate the tension just a little bit.

"Promise me something?" Pierre said with a straight face. "Before you go on your next date, just stop for a second and consider if it will feel more like you, or will it make me feel like you're lying."

Charles nodded slowly. "Merci, Pierre."

"Anytime, ami."

The night had grown late, enveloping everything in a gentle stillness, and the world outside was unusually quiet and unmoving.

For a moment of rare peace, Charles finally allowed themself to let go and free himself of his tensions—not as the individual everybody else wished them to be, but as the individual he had yet to share with the world. And maybe that was enough.

--

The paddock felt strangely empty without Charles.

It was media day at Imola, and while the journalists descended upon the usual suspects, Max included, there was a notable absence where Charles Leclerc habitually stood, smiling and artfully tousled hair, fending off questions with his trademark charm.

Max tried his hardest not to let it get under his skin at all. He went through the motions of conducting his interviews, managed to crack a few light jokes, and even managed to smirk his way through doing a bit of a ridiculous fan challenge with Yuki

But even as he attempted to appear calm and collected, he could not help but dart glances in the direction of the Ferrari hospitality suite, clinging to a small hope that Charles would pop out from around the corner at any moment, rolling his eyes in that particular way he had and just asking for a coffee.

He never did.

Max finally relented by late afternoon and texted him.

Heard you’re sick. No fun without you here. Hope you feel better soon.

He found himself gazing intently at the screen for a period of time that extended longer than it needed to, and he finally locked it after an eternity, tucking it slowly into his pocket. The gesture felt ever so slightly too personal, a bit too open in tone, but with that discomfort, he decided to send it anyway.

Charles did not get back to the message until that night.

sorry, i just woke up, nothing major, just fatigued, ill return tomorrow. merci max.🖤

The black heart was not something he had ever witnessed. Max wasn't sure what to do with it, he was uncertain and curious, but it lingered in his head, occupying space, until he eventually drifted off to sleep.

Charles came back the following morning, much to everybody's surprise, looking better than might have been anticipated. A little pale, perhaps, but otherwise in very good spirits. He was wearing a casual, loose-fitting hoodie and joggers, with his hair tied back in a somewhat unkempt style beneath a trendy Ferrari cap.

"I'm alive," he exclaimed, as at last he caught sight of Max, who was standing in the paddock during intervals in the practice periods.

Max attempted to maintain a relaxed and playful demeanour. "Media day was rather dull and uneventful without you around."

Charles smiled. "You mean nobody bothered you for a couple of hours? Sounds like heaven."

Max chuckled. “Alright, maybe a little peaceful. But it wasn’t the same.”

They exchanged a brief glance, one that was only long enough to be misconstrued as something more than friendly, yet not quite long enough to arouse suspicion, before Max chose to interrupt this moment by saying, "Do you feel better now?"

Charles shrugged. "Just tired. But I did miss the car."

"Good," Max said. "You looked like shit when you texted me."

Charles laughed. "I did not send a selfie."

"Yeah, but I could tell. Lowercase and emojis. Classic sick texting."

As they strolled slowly together across the big paddock, returning in the direction of the team buildings rising up in the distance, Max couldn't help but be pondering what to say next. He couldn't quite see why he needed to pose his question out loud, but before they were even at the entrance door, he turned to his friend and asked, "So, uh… how did your date go?

Charles's eyes widened in surprise. "The date?"

Max inclined his head, attempting to keep his voice from being overly curious or worried about the matter. "You did discuss it with Pierre, didn't you?"

"Ah, oui, it was.. all right, I guess."

"Fine, just fine?" Max replied with a light voice.

Charles shrugged slightly, his mouth twisting into a smile that wasn't quite a smile. "She was very nice. Sweet and intelligent. She did everything one would do in such a situation."

"But?"

"But I did not quite feel myself."

Max's brow creased. "That doesn't sound good."

"It wasn't bad," Charles said hastily, as though attempting to persuade himself of that very fact. "We kissed. She seemed into it and present. But I wasn't. Not really. The whole thing was… disconnected, like there was some kind of gap between us."

Max nodded slowly, carefully, ensuring that his voice remained even and level. "Do you think it was entirely the girl's fault? Or could it have anything to do with just the situation you were in?"

"I don't know for certain, I suppose," Charles admitted with a slight shrug. "Perhaps it's both of those things. I think what I most wanted to do was prove to myself that I could do it. Be viewed as normal."

Max's jaw tightened slightly at the term. "Hey," he muttered, almost softly. "You don't necessarily have to feel pressured to be 'normal.' Whatever the word even means."

Charles looked at him in astonishment.

"I'm serious, I mean what I'm saying," Max went on to say in earnest. "You're certainly complicated, no question about that. But it's the complication that makes you.." He stopped himself before he said 'you,' before he revealed something potentially more harmful. "Interesting. A lot more interesting than most individuals out there."

Charles offered him a gentle and calm smile, one that spoke volumes. “Thank you very much.”

They lingered another moment, two drivers in their team kit beside an unremarkable door, while the frenetic activity of the paddock surged about them in a vibrant, turbulent way.

"Have you seen her again?" Max questioned.

"No," Charles replied, moving his head in a firm gesture. "I explained to her that I would be occupied with the races for a very long while."

Max did not wish to appear too happy. "Well. That's reasonable."

"Yeah," Charles said with a hint of agreement. "Besides, I have more than enough distractions surrounding me here in this environment."

The manner in which he said it, teasing, light, caused Max's heart to skip a beat.

But before he could respond, a Ferrari public relations assistant summoned Charles for a serious briefing, and the opportunity for the moment was gone.

Yet as they walked in their separate ways, Max could not resist turning around to glance over his shoulder.

And when he caught Charles doing the same, even if only for a fleeting moment, it was enough to allow some spark of hope to remain alive in him.

Even in the silence of words at that time, there was a multitude of unspoken thoughts and feelings, just below the surface, ready to be unearthed.

--

The sun was low and golden over Imola by the time qualifying wrapped up, and Charles didn’t even bother taking off his helmet before slumping down into the back of the Ferrari garage.

Eleventh.

He had not even managed to progress into the third qualifying round.

He stared blankly at the telemetry in front of him, as if the numbers could somehow explain why the car hadn’t responded to him, why the grip had vanished in sector two, why the setup had felt fine in practice but utterly wrong when it actually mattered.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to throw something. Mostly, he wanted to get out of the red suit that felt too tight and too heavy, like it was weighing down every part of him.

A soft ping broke his spiralling thoughts.

Hi Char, I saw you had a rough quali. Want to grab food or chill later?

Charles stared at the message for a long time, thumb hovering over the screen. Max had qualified second, just behind Oscar, he guessed. Charles should be happy for him. Part of him was. But the rest of him was stuck somewhere between envy and exhaustion.

Congrats on your P2. I am just going to go back to my hotel, sorry. I need an early night's sleep. Good luck to you for tomorrow!🖤

He swiftly switched off his phone before Max had a chance to utter a word.

The hotel room was too silent. The bed too large. The silence only made everything churning within him even more intense.

Charles sat on the edge of the bed, still in his fireproofs, and buried his face in his hands. The date. The miscommunication with his engineers. The feeling that something inside him was unravelling no matter how much he tried to keep it all together.

He fumbled for his phone.

In these types of cases, he would always call for assistance and guidance from only one person.

“Maman?” he asked, voice small, cracking slightly as the line connected.

“Mon bébé,” came her warm voice on the other end, full of affection and concern. “Tu vas bien?”

He shook his head before realising she couldn’t see it. “No,” he whispered. “I.. I had a really bad day.”

"Tell me everything my love," she replied without hesitation, her voice gentle and inviting. "From the beginning."

And they did. He told her about the setup changes that didn’t work, the way the car slid in places it never had before, how Q2 just slipped away from them. He didn’t cry. Not yet. But the tension in his chest only got tighter as he spoke.

"I feel like I'm falling behind somehow," they admitted honestly at one particular moment. "It's like everyone else is changing and moving forward, and I'm just, standing still and can't make any progress."

His mother was quiet for a moment, then: “You are not stuck, baby. You’re overwhelmed. There’s a difference.”

He swallowed hard. "It doesn't feel different."

“I know,” she said softly. “But you are doing your best in a world that rarely slows down for anyone. And you.. you are carrying more than most, even if no one sees it.”

He gently closed his eyes, allowing the words to sink deeply into their bones, finding their place in him.

“You’ve always been sensitive to everything around you,” she continued, “and that’s not a weakness, mon bébé. It’s why people love you. Why you feel so much.”

“I don’t want to feel this much,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Sometimes I just want it to stop.”

"I know," she said again, quietly. "But you are not alone. And you are not less of a person because of it."

Charles dabbed at their face in shock to find his eyes tearful.

“And maybe,” she added, “you don’t have to be anyone else tomorrow. Just be yourself. The person you are—not the one you think the paddock expects. Just be Char Leclerc.”

That hurt more than he had expected. He didn't even know why.

“I love you,” he murmured.

"I love you more," she said affectionately. "Now you need to get some rest, my dear bébé. And keep in mind that one bad qualifying run does not define the driver you are, or the person you truly are."

He stayed on the line a few moments longer, eyes closed, just listening to the sound of her breathing before they said goodnight.

By the time they crawled into bed at last, the tight knot in their chest was still present but was no longer choking him with the same intensity as before.

He let himself sleep, knowing tomorrow would be tough—but at least they’d face it a little less alone.

--

The roar of engines, the blur of scarlet and papaya, the rattle of gravel kicked up from tight corners. Imola lived up to its reputation as brutal and beautiful in equal measure. But for Charles, the beauty had faded fast.

There were two safety cars.

Both of them timed just wrong for his strategy, wiping out what little momentum he had built in the opening laps. Then came the ignored calls on the radio, another weekend where it felt like no one at Ferrari actually heard him. And to top it all off, an investigation for an overtaking manoeuvre he’d executed cleanly. He hadn’t done anything wrong. But of course, that didn’t matter.

As the exciting race was reaching its conclusion, it was clear that Max had placed himself on the podium's top step, lapping up the glory of his victory. Lando, meanwhile, was hot on his heels, finishing with a deserving second, and Oscar claiming the podium pride of place in third. Charles was crossing the line, finishing sixth in the hotly contested race.

It is certainly not a disaster.

But it sure felt like it was one.

He finished the cooldown lap in silence. Even his engineer was uncertain when he congratulated him.

"P6, Charles. Though not the outcome we would have preferred, it is a decent recovery."

He didn’t respond. What was the point?

The paddock was a haze of celebration and press chaos when Max found him.

Still half in his race suit, hair a damp mess from sweat and helmet static, Charles was standing near the back of the Ferrari hospitality area, pressed against the edge of a wall as if trying to disappear into it. He looked lost. Wrung out.

Max had a moment of hesitation before saying anything, holding his trophy tightly in his hand, with his sunglasses flipped up onto the top of his head. It was astonishing that it shouldn't have been so blatantly obvious, how tightly Charles' arms were crossed over his chest, how quickly he was blinking his eyes, his jaw clenched with tension, and his chest rising and falling with a breath that was anything but level. And still, despite this, Max saw everything.

He handed off the trophy to a nearby staff member without a word and crossed the paddock in long, determined strides. He didn’t care who saw.

"Hello," Max said quietly as he halted right in front of him.

Charles initially did not even glance his way. Rather, he had him staring fixedly at the gravel that was right at his boots.

"Sixth," he growled. "Fucking sixth."

Max reached out, hand tentative at first. “Can I…?”

Charles nodded his head quickly before Max had a chance to complete his sentence, and before he had a chance to utter a word, Max embraced him and held him very closely.

The instant their bodies came together, something within Charles broke.

His arms came up, clinging to Max with force. His breath hitched, chest tight and rising too quickly. And then it spiralled. Fast. Too fast.

His entire body began to shake involuntarily.

Max's arms tightened around the form he was embracing. "Okay," he whispered quietly, his voice low and soothing, as though he were speaking to a frightened wild animal. "Okay. I've got you, and everything will be just fine."

"Max... I can't breathe..." Charles panted, grasping wildly at the back of Max's suit to try and balance himself.

“You can,” Max whispered. “Just not yet. But you will. Come with me.”

He guided Charles away, past the media pens and team structures, past a cluster of fans and cameras and crew. There was a small staff-only corridor behind the Red Bull garage, quiet and tucked away. Max led him there gently, shielding him from sight.

As soon as they were alone, he backed them against the cold, hard concrete wall, Charles snug between his legs, his back to Max's chest.

"Breathe deeply with me," Max said, embracing him with a soothing hug using his arms. "We will breathe in together, okay? In for three, out for three…"

Charles tried. He choked. His vision blurred with tears, body taut with panic, but Max didn’t let go.

“You’re safe,” Max murmured into his hair. “You’re safe. Nothing’s going to happen to you. I'm here.”

It took minutes.

Yet as the minutes painstakingly ticked by Charles' breathing began to fall into a steady rhythm. The constriction in his chest relaxed sufficiently that he was able to lean into Max without the danger of falling over completely.

Max chose to remain silent then, even as Charles finally emitted a sob that was wrenching and full of exhaustion.

He just held him close.

It was almost dark by the time Max walked Charles back to his hotel room. They didn't speak a word along the way. They didn't need to.

Charles unlocked the door with trembling fingers. He didn’t even turn on the lights. He just stepped inside, turned to face Max in the dim glow from the hallway, and quietly asked:

"Will you stay?"

Max nodded immediately. "Of course, as long as you need."

Charles gazed at him for a long while, imbibing the sight of his red-rimmed eyes, tousled hair, and fireproof suit that was still half-unzipped. At last, after what felt like an eternity, he finally stirred and moved. But it was not to step in for a kiss, nor did he take a step in his direction at all.

He merely stepped closer and softly placed his forehead on Max's shoulder in a silent moment of understanding.

“I’m tired of being alone in this,” he whispered.

“You’re not alone,” Max said immediately, fiercely. “Not with me.”

They changed out of their team kits slowly. Quietly. Not out of seduction, but comfort. Charles was drained and Max knew, he always knew. Without needing words.

They did not talk.

But Charles didn't have to.

Max laid down on the bed, opening his arms for Charles. Charles immediately laid down and cuddled up to Max. He wrapped his arms around his waist, resting his head on the Dutchman's shoulder. Max slowly ran his fingers through Charles' hair, soothing him.

Max didn't let go of Charles. Not because Charles had asked, but because Max knew. He knew from the way his fingers trembled, the way he curled in on himself, the way his voice cracked the few times he’d tried to speak. He needed time. He needed calm.

So Max gave it to him.

They lay there in silence for a while, Charles on his side cuddling Max, the light from the city outside slipping in through the curtains in soft silver streaks. Their legs were tangled under the duvet, not out of lust or habit, but necessity. The feeling of Max just being there.

It was Charles who started and spoke first in the conversation.

“They ignored me again,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “I told them, before the second safety car, I said it’d be better to wait, to hold position and extend the stint. But they didn’t listen. And then I got investigated. Investigated, Max! For something I didn’t even do. Just trying to survive out there.”

Max let him speak. He didn't interrupt. He just watched Charles with soft eyes and slow breaths, anchoring him.

“I was driving well. I know I was. But it never matters, does it? One bad call, and they throw the whole thing away.” Charles laughed bitterly, running a hand through his hair. “Sometimes I think I could scream into the radio and they still wouldn’t hear me.”

“You were driving exceptionally well,” Max said in a soft tone. “You were truly incredible, Charles.”

Charles looked at him then. Really looked at him. Max didn’t glance away.

"Do you mean that?"

Max's voice was even. "Always.".

Charles groaned and let his head fall back against the pillows. "You deserved the win."

Max returned a somewhat crooked smile, revealing a hint of mischief. "Yeah, that's right. I did."

It caused Charles to expel a snort of surprised laughter, easing the strain that had been present in his face for a second, causing it to crack a little with the abrupt outflow of mirth.

"I am absolutely not going to let your win pass without it's proper celebration," he stated, struggling to pull himself into a sitting position.

Max's eyebrow went up in surprise, clearly intrigued. "What are you doing?"

“Ordering champagne,” Charles said, already reaching for the room service menu. “You think I’m letting you sulk with me after a win? No chance.”

Max blinked. "You're being serious?"

“Deadly.” Charles picked up the phone. “You carried that shitshow of a Red Bull through that shitshow of a race. You deserve a toast at the very least.”

By the time the bottle arrived, Charles was already back under the covers, this time sitting up against the headboard, hair a mess and eyes a little brighter.

Max poured.

They tapped glasses gently together, and Charles offered him a small smile. "To the winner of Imola."

Max gave him a look. “To the best driver Ferrari has and doesn’t know what to do with.”

Charles huffed a laugh and took a long sip.

They did not get intoxicated, and they truly did not have the desire to do that. One glass each was more than enough for them, as the bottle gradually began losing its chill while it sat on the nightstand, eventually being left to forgetfulness because of the warm, comforting dialogue that flowed between them and the soft hum of the communal area in which they were together.

Charles talked more after that. Not just about the race, but the build up, the stress, the pressure. Max listened like he always did, silently, attentively, occasionally letting his fingers graze Charles’ arm or thigh in quiet comfort.

And then, sometime past midnight, Charles yawned mid-sentence.

Max smiled and set down his glass. “Bedtime.”

"Already?"

"You're the one who's collapsing."

Charles rolled his eyes but there was a hidden smile forming.

They settled back under the duvet together. No expectations between the two. No edge of lust between them for once, just warmth. Max lay on his back, arm open in invitation, and Charles tucked himself in without hesitation.

Head on Max’s chest.

Fingers curled against his side.

Their legs were entwined again, naturally.

Max held him. Carefully. Reverently.

Charles let out a soft sigh, almost like a cat curling into a safe lap. “Thanks for today.”

“For what?”

"For staying. For…everything."

Max swallowed around the lump in his throat. His hand moved gently over Charles’ back, thumb stroking lazy lines into the cotton of his t-shirt.

"You don't need to thank me, Chares," he whispered. "I'd do it again. Every time."

He felt Charles smile against his chest, small and tired.

Max did not fall asleep immediately after getting into bed.

He lay there long after Charles’ breathing evened out, after the moonlight softened and the night settled. He watched the ceiling. He let himself feel it, the weight of Charles in his arms, the warmth of their bodies pressed together, the trust it took to fall apart and then fall asleep in someone else’s bed.

He didn’t say it out loud.

But the words made him feel a sharp, hurting feeling in his chest.

I love you.

Max closed his eyes and pulled Charles closer, burying his nose in his hair softly, breathing him in like he could memorise the scent.

If this was all he’d ever get, he’d still hold onto it like it meant everything.

Because to him, it did.

--

The soft rustle of sheets was the first thing Max registered when he woke, followed by the steady weight against his side. Charles, still asleep, curled into his chest, his curls tickling Max’s jaw, one arm wrapped possessively around Max’s waist like he was afraid he’d disappear if he moved.

Max did not move.

He just lay there, content in the warmth of it, eyes barely open as he listened to the subtle sound of Charles breathing. Gentle, even. Finally calm.

But Max couldn’t relax completely. Not yet.

He tipped his head slightly to the side and softly whispered, "Charles?"

A soft hum.

Charles stirred but didn't open his eyes. "Mm?"

"Are you okay?" Max said softly, attempting to keep the peace and tranquillity that enveloped the calm morning. "I mean, are you doing okay after yesterday?"

Charles exhaled through his nose and slowly opened his eyes, gaze still heavy with sleep. “Je vais… mieux. Je crois. Encore fatigué. But… I’m glad you were here.”

Max lifted his hand and tucked an errant curl behind Charles' ear with gentle tenderness.

"You really frightened me last night," he admitted with a vulnerable quality to his voice.

"Je me suis fait très peur hier soir," Charles admitted with a tinge of vulnerability.

He briefly turned away, as if collecting his thoughts, and then looked back.

"It was too much. Just everything at once. I just, snapped under the pressure."

"You didn’t snap," Max said softly. "You broke under pressure, and you let someone help you. That’s not the same."

Charles smiled, a small, grateful thing. "I’ll be happy when I’m home," he murmured. "When I can just… be. Without the team, or the media, or pretending I’m okay when I’m not."

Max nodded, brushing his thumb gently along Charles’ shoulder. "Yeah. Me too."

Charles hesitated for a moment, his brain left suspended in mid-air for a fraction of a second longer than usual, before shifting his gaze back onto Max once more.

"Would you like to come over to my place before media day? I thought that it would be good if we could spend some time together.. just the two of us."

The hope that resonated in his voice was subtle and soft, yet completely undeniable and clear. Max couldn't help but suppress the big smile that spread across his face, a genuine expression of happiness.

"Of course, absolutely! Just tell me when and I will be there." Charles let out a small laugh and nudged Max lightly in the ribs.

"You’ll be there before I’ve even had coffee."

"Correct."

They remained that way for a little while longer, enveloped in a comforting kind of silence that neither was devoid of meaning nor was it unpleasant—no, rather, it was gentle.

Eventually, they were left with a situation where separation was unavoidable. Their teams had been waiting patiently for them, desperate to get back to their respective factories for meetings.

As they waited at the door, Charles readjusted his cap and looked over at Max. "Thanks again. For last night."

Max shot him a glance. "Anytime."

And he really did mean what he was saying.

Even as they parted ways, retreating once more into their own places, enveloped once again by the usual din and the vibrant performances that characterised existence in the paddock, Max held on to the comforting warmth of that beautiful morning far within him.

The softness and gentleness of the voice that belonged to Charles.

The trust in his invitation.

The knowledge that he would see him again soon.

And perhaps, just perhaps, that one day Charles would understand that Max had already found a sense of home within himself wherever he happened to be.

Chapter Text

Monaco had a strange kind of quiet to it—restless but golden. Max always felt a little more at ease here, surrounded by the hum of the sea and the sparkle of old streets. And Charles’ apartment, perched high enough to see the marina, felt more like a sanctuary than any hotel suite ever could.

“Okay, but you always pick Rainbow Road,” Charles whined as Max grinned at the character select screen. “It’s rigged in your favour.”

"Just accept I'm better at Mario Kart and drop it," Max joked, playfully shouldering him on the couch.

Charles rolled his eyes, but the corners of his lips turned upward. "You're not better, you're annoying."

They lapsed into easy silence, the atmosphere heavy with the sound of karts and shells whizzing by Max had grown accustomed to. Charles' laughter at Max spinning out on a banana peel was the sort of laughter Max had grown to appreciate, unrestricted, full of light. The genuine kind. The sort Max would gladly lose a race for.

And then finally Charles called a halt to play to fetch drinks, throwing over his shoulder, "Bathroom's down the hall if you need it."

Max nodded, putting down the controller and heading down the hall. Charles' apartment was messy but lived-in, various racing books on low bookshelves, a jacket slung over a chair, a half-full cup abandoned on the windowsill. The bathroom, the apartment in general, was warm, well-lit, and faintly scented with Charles' shampoo and cologne.

Max washed his hands and looked up into the mirror and paused.

There was a small pride flag attached to the bottom corner of the mirror.

Five stripes of pink, white, purple, black, and blue.

Max blinked at it, his head tilting slightly. It wasn't the rainbow pride flag. Not bi, either. He didn't really think much of it at first, a flag is a flag. It was a beautiful flag at least.

Nevertheless, something in the tidiness of it, in how it had been set down like a stabilising reminder, piqued Max's interest.

He came back from the bathroom and sat again with Charles on the couch, where the Monegasque had already set up another race. They played on until the sky outside turned a honeyed gold, the air in the room mellowed by laughter and good-natured joking, neither one of them uttering anything serious.

But afterward, when Charles got up to show something on his laptop to Max, photos of a karting competitions when he was younger, Max noticed the sticker. It was small, wedged into the upper left corner of the silver MacBook, but it was the same flag. Same colours. Not randomly placed. Max didn’t say anything. Not now.

Charles looked through some pictures on his computer, most of them blurry shots of him and Pierre as kids, cheeks red from sun and joy, kart suits too big and helmets pushed back with confident little grins.

"Oh! Here," Charles said, stopping at a picture. "This was my first boyfriend."

Max leaned over, curious.

The boy in the picture stood beside Charles with his arm casually slung over Charles’ shoulder, both of them still in their early teens, a trophy clutched between them. The boy had soft brown eyes and an unruly mop of curls that rivalled Charles’ own.

“You were dating?” Max asked, surprised but smiling.

Charles gave a short, slightly embarrassed laugh. “Yeah. Briefly. We were teammates for two years. He kissed me once after I won a race and I panicked so badly I almost crashed the kart on the cool-down lap the next weekend.”

Max snorted. “That’s very you.”

Charles rolled his eyes, shutting the laptop gently and resting it on the coffee table. “You make that sound like an insult.”

"Not a bit," Max replied, nudging his shoulder against Charles'. "Just delightfully dramatic."

They both laughed, a moment of silence before Max laid his head down, thinking.

"So… guys and girls then?" he said, not so loud anymore but still casual.

Charles nodded. "I'm bi," he said. "Always sort of known, I think. Just… took a while to say it out loud. Especially in this sport. Came out to Pierre first, then my family when I was 14."

Max nodded. “Yeah. I get that.” He shifted slightly, leaning back into the sofa cushions. “I’m gay. In case that wasn’t already obvious.”

Charles blinked at him, mock-offended. “Max! You’ve seen me naked more than once. You’re supposed to be into girls.”

Max raised a brow. “Are you saying I’m not allowed to find you incredibly alluring?”

Charles flushed slightly but laughed, tossing a throw pillow at him. "Shut up."

Max grinned. “Seriously though, thanks for telling me. I mean it.”

Charles gave a small shrug, something quiet in his voice when he replied, “Feels easier with you.”

The moment settled softly between them. Then, in true Max-and-Charles fashion, it twisted into something more playful.

"Then…" Max began, lips smiling, "who did you lose your virginity to?"

Charles groaned. “Max!”

"What? It's a natural follow-up question!"

Charles put both hands over his face. "You're awful."

"Fine, i'll go first," Max offered graciously. "I was in high school. It was a girl. She was a football player. She was… so enthusiastic. I was really terrible at it."

Charles dropped his hands, laughter crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Wait. You were bad?”

Max pointed at him. “Extremely. I didn’t know what I was doing. I think she thought I was into it, and I was just… trying to get through it so I could leave and think about boys instead.”

Charles wheezed. "Oh my god."

"Your turn."

Charles sighed. “Fine. My first was that same guy. From the photo.”

Max's eyes grew wide. "Karting boyfriend!"

“Yes, but it was-” Charles paused, rubbing the back of his neck. “It was awkward. We were both fifteen. We had no clue what we were doing. It lasted, like, five minutes. We both cried after.”

Max tried to stifle his laugh and failed. "You cried?"

"It was emotional!" Charles protested. "I thought I was in love. He'd just told me he was changing teams, it felt like the end of the world."

Max grinned, a warmth collecting in his chest. "I love this. Tell me you wrote him love letters."

"I did," Charles groaned, hiding his face once more. "In French. They were so melodramatic."

"You're incredible," Max exclaimed, still laughing.

Charles looked at him across his hands, his face flushed but his eyes gleaming. "You're not to speak of this again."

"No promises."

They smiled at each other, the space between them less weighted now, full of shared stories and silent understanding.

They did not have to name anything. Not yet.

This was enough.

They continued to skim through the photos, smiling at each one Charles showed him, commented on how ridiculous Pierre looked in one of them, and eventually they said their goodbyes.

Yet Max's mind wouldn't stop.

He walked back to his own apartment that evening, the cool breeze brushing at his hoodie, and sat down at his desk before he even changed clothes. His laptop glowed softly in the dim light as he opened a browser.

He typed in the words without hesitation:

pink white purple black blue pride flag

The results came up fast.

Genderfluid Pride Flag.

Max leaned forward.

He scrolled through some sources, reading silently.

The genderfluid flag reflects gender fluidity, with each colour mimicking an aspect of gender identity: pink for femininity, white for all genders, purple for a mix of masculinity and femininity, black for the absence of gender, and blue for masculinity.

Max gazed at the screen.

He settled back in his chair, a hundred thoughts coursing through him.

He was not surprised.

Just thoughtful.

Things clicked into place. Slowly, softly. The way Charles would sometimes dress more androgynously off the paddock track. The way he avoided gendered compliments. The odd change in the way Pierre spoke to him, as if it was second nature—"ami" instead of "frère." The way everyone close in his personal life called him Char. And the way Charles was always more at ease around Pierre than with almost anyone else.

Max didn't notice since he hadn't been paying attention.

But now that he was…

He scrolled again, reading forums, articles, soft personal blogs about navigating identity, especially under the public eye. He lingered on one post about a person who wasn’t out publicly but kept symbols around their space as reminders, to themselves more than anyone else. To ground them.

His chest ached, a quiet ache, not painful, but full.

He remembered Charles' laugh. His temper. His proximity. His soft curls on Max's chest the other night, and how Charles had referred to his house as the one place he could be without judgement.

Max shut the laptop then, and sat in silence for a while.

He did not think differently of Charles.

If anything, he felt more.

More protective. More in awe. More careful, suddenly, about how he moved around him, how he spoke, what assumptions he made.

Because he'd never want Charles to ever feel unsafe in his presence. Never want him to ever have to hide.

Max gazed out of the window, the warm Monaco evening beckoning in outside.

"Okay," he muttered softly, to nobody.

And perhaps to Charles as well.

“Okay. I get it.”

He smiled, small but real, and got up to shower, still recalling those colours.

He wouldn't speak, not unless it was to Charles.

But Max would be prepared.

When Charles was.

For this, whatever they were, already was so much more than Max had expected.

And he’d be damned if he let himself mess it up by not trying hard enough to understand him fully.

--

Media day in Monaco was chaos. Always had been, always would be.

The enormous weight of expectation that enveloped Charles, the crushing pressure of history looming over him, and the constant, annoying whine of press cameras snapping every step and interviewers impatiently waiting for a soundbite, none of it clung to Charles like a heavy shroud the second he stepped out of the paddock hospitality door.

But this year, somehow, he was aware of it all being louder and weightier than ever. This was home and the reminders from everyone that surrounded him meant that he was never allowed to forget it for one instant.

"Charles, are you confident around this track?"

"What would it personally mean to you, if you were to win here in Monaco again?"

"Do you feel any extra pressure that comes from the fact that you are competing just a few blocks from the community where you were raised as a child?"

Pierre followed several paces behind Charles, deftly and discreetly doing his utmost to deflect unwanted attention whenever possible, but Charles managed the affair beautifully. He smiled in all the right places, deftly sidestepping questions that became too leading or aggressive. He had been around often enough before to know the unwritten script by heart. It was simple: smile warmly, nod in agreement, dodge questions tactfully, and play his role convincingly.

Max observed from the corner of the press pen, arms crossed over his chest, cap pulled low. He wasn't mobbed like Charles, but he didn't care. He liked watching anyway.

He could make it out clearly, the subtle edge there in the curve of Charles' smile, along with the faint tension found in his shoulders. Though he was managing in top form overall, Max recognised the indicators that informed him otherwise. It was always a different story for Charles in this particular setting. Everything was bigger, louder, and somehow denser.

However, as the interviews came to a close, Charles discovered that Max had been standing quietly beside the paddock gate waiting for him. Max had a bottle of chilled water in his hand, and on his face was a gentle, peaceful smile.

"You survived," Max said to him, his voice hardly above a whisper.

"Barely," Charles muttered under his breath, as he twisted the top off his drink and took a good, long swig from it. "I swear to you, they ask the exact same ten questions every single year."

"You are definitely getting better at dodging them."

"That's because I'm running out of patience."

Max snorted, dropping into step beside him. "Well, at least you looked good doing it."

Charles gave him a look.

"Professional," Max said, smiling. "Composed. Like someone who's actually going to do it this year."

Charles rolled his eyes but didn't argue. "We'll see."

From the moment he first hit the track in the initial practice session, Charles was totally in tune with the car and the driving. The car was nicely balanced, the grip was consistent and good, and for once, it looked like Ferrari had their setup perfectly sorted right from the beginning of the event. Each turn of the circuit came naturally and instinctively to him, while each sector of the track was negotiated cleanly without issue or drama.

He led the timesheets in FP1. Then again in FP2. And once more in FP3.

As Saturday afternoon arrived, the quiet murmurs among the crowd began to transform and shift in tone. Maybe, just maybe, the longstanding Monaco curse had finally run its course and exhausted all its lingering effects, maybe he would win again.

Charles consciously avoided giving what was happening much consideration. He made every effort to suppress any rise in his pulse whenever he noticed that his name was listed as P1 for the next three sessions. He concentrated on the data instead, carefully watching tire degradation and making subtle adjustments to the setup. He was attentive when Xavi gave instructions, requested additional laps as and when required, and fine-tuned every aspect as if driven by an unstoppable sense of determination.

Max stayed out of his way for the most part. He knew better than to get in Charles's way when he was in the zone. But he was always there, sometimes just in the other side of the garage, sometimes trailing him into the briefing room, sometimes catching his eye in the mirror during cooldown laps with the barest nod of approval.

Though he was quite taciturn, it was clear Charles did not need him to say a lot.

It was enough to just know that Max was there and close.

When qualifying came around, Charles was silent. Not anxious. Not tense. Simply silent.

Max found him in a reclined position, comfortably propped against a big stack of tires that had been left at the back of the garage. He was cradling his helmet, and his gaze was locked on the narrow, shiny, and winding turns of the famous Monaco street circuit.

"Pole incoming?" Max muttered quietly.

Charles kept his eyes on the track. "I'm going to try."

"That is the best that you can do."

Charles turned then, eyes flicking up to meet his. He looked calm, focused, laser sharp.

"I want this," he said straightforwardly. "I need this one.".

Max nodded, no joke, no bluster. "Then take it."

He did not.

Lando did.

By barely two hundredths.

Max was fourth after Lewis' grid drop, and Charles had no choice but to settle for second place on the grid.

The outcome was not a poor one by any stretch. Not according to any standards or expectations. But to Charles, who had recorded the fastest laps in each and every practice session, who felt so attached to the car, and who had dreamed about this very weekend in such vivid detail for so many years, this was a defeat more than it was a win.

He remained silent and composed on the radio as he skillfully steered his car into the pits. His crew around him were clearly elated as they cheered, amid shouts of encouragement and words of support from his engineers, but despite this, he just could not shake off the tension which gripped his own chest.
He had been so very near to his target. So incredibly near.

After the debrief, after the rounds of media, Charles ducked out of the Ferrari garage and leaned against a barrier above the harbour, helmet under his arms. The sun was low, casting long shadows on the water.

Max crept ahead cautiously, taking care to leave him plenty of room.

"P2 is still on the front row," he stated thoughtfully after a pause for consideration.

Charles looked away from him, avoiding eye contact.

"I had it in my hand. I had pole position covered."

"I know."

Charles closed his eyes for a moment, his jaw clenched.

"I had a two-tenths advantage at one point. But in sector three… I don't know what mistakes I made."

"You didn't do anything wrong at all," Max responded, his voice now softer and more calm. "It was just Lando who made the connection. That's just Monaco, that is."

"It is my home," Charles said matter-of-factly, with seriousness in his voice. "It is supposed to have special meaning."

Max reached out, brushing their shoulders together. “It still can.”

Charles finally turned his gaze on him, looking tired and yet resolute at the same time.

"Do you honestly believe that I still stand any chance of winning it?" Max looked him straight in the eyes, not blinking.

"In my opinion, you are the only one capable of doing this."

--

Two-stop mandates had turned strategy into chaos.

The pit wall chatter was manic, tyre degradation arrived quickly and early, and everyone was taking a gamble. Soft–medium–medium, or medium–hard–soft? Some teams pounced early, others held their breath and prayed.

Ferrari opted for balance. Not conservative, not aggressive. Just… safe.

And Charles drove like hell to make it work.

Starting from the dominant position of second on the grid, he had managed to get away with a text-book start, sticking closely behind Lando as they headed into Sainte Devote, holding the McLaren within range as they powered up the hill.

Max himself remained close behind them, clinging to Oscar. The three leading cars persisted in running nose to tail lap after lap, as the pit lane turned into a battleground of rubber and ticking away of precious seconds.

The first stops were uneventful.

The second, less so.

The introduction of that mandatory second stop completely transformed the whole situation.

McLaren made the bold decision late in the race, pushing Lando's second stint just far enough to stay in front of Charles, by the narrowest of margins. And all the while, Max was busy playing his own cunning strategy, not pitting, just going around lap after lap on worn tyres, refusing to give up any ground.

This effectively blocked Lando, allowing Charles to draw up behind him.

"Verstappen is still on the track, and he has not yet pitted," Xavi informed him, his voice strained. "You are now in the DRS zone."

Charles applied force as he pushed ahead. His sharp eyes could see Lando's rear wing just in front of him. He was very familiar with the rhythm of these streets, like the very cadence of his own heartbeat.

But Monaco giveth, and Monaco taketh away.

Max ultimately decided to pit on the final lap he had remaining, which was at the cost of his track position and allowing the first two drivers to benefit from the clear air. However, the delay that occurred had been sufficient to create a difference, Charles had been directly behind him, close but not near enough to overtake.

Lando crossed the line a couple of seconds ahead.

Charles crossed second.

Oscar was left behind in third place.

Max ended up finishing fourth.

The crowd erupted. Charles waved, helmet under arm, smiling beneath the onslaught of champagne and cheers. His home race podium. The one that had eluded him for so long, now his second in two years. He even allowed himself to smile, wholeheartedly, when the anthem was played.

However, underlying the exciting rush of adrenaline, hidden beneath the joyful celebration and the overwhelming feeling of relief…

He experienced the deep and empty resonance of the possibilities that might have existed in a different reality.

Later, Ferrari was abuzz with excitement, engineers were high-fiving each other in jubilation, while team staff members declared that their weekend was among their best yet. There was champagne being opened and flowing freely in the hospitality suite, with lavish plans underway for a decadent dinner at the port, something flashy and over-the-top.

"Charles, get over here and join us!" one of the mechanics shouted with a grin, clearly already several glasses into the evening's festivities. "You simply must! You're the prince of Monaco tonight, after all."

Charles smiled kindly, shaking his head. "Not tonight.".

"Are you sure?"

"I just want a quiet and peaceful moment for myself. You all please go and celebrate for me."

There were no arguments or disagreements of any kind. They all grasped the situation in their own individual and unique manner.

He had already done more than enough.

As he entered his apartment, a still quiet enveloped him, embracing him like an old friend. The air was filled with the familiar scent of the sea breeze blowing in through the open window, and the melodious sound of far-off music floated across from the nearby marina, making a soothing backdrop. He shrugged off his racing suit heedlessly, allowing it to fall in a careless pile beside the door, and stood barefoot on the cold floor near the balcony, gazing out contemplatively at the skyline in front of him.

Second place.

He felt a deep sense of pride.

He was. He knew what the team had accomplished, how well he'd raced. It wasn't about failure, not this time.

Yet it was not victory.

And part of him had longed for this moment with a burning, consuming passion. To win again among his home constituency, to feel that rush of victory once more. To prove in a convincing way that the victory of the year before had not been a lucky accident, a one-time stroke of good fortune. To hear the stirring melody of the anthem ringing from the top pedestal, to look down out at the cheering crowd below and fully grasp that he had actually overcome the challenges of the streets.

Instead, it was Lando's night.

Charles smiled faintly. If it could not be him… he was not disappointed that it was Lando.

However, the constant pain still existed.

He extended his hand to grab his phone, his thumb hovering uncertainly over a specific contact on the screen.

Max.

He hadn't had the chance to see him again since they left the podium. They'd shared a fleeting look in parc fermé, quick and impossible to read, but there had been nothing more since then. Charles was lost for words and hadn't known what he needed to say. Max had done a good job of keeping Lando back. He had kept him in his line of sight at all times. This had nearly changed the whole course of the race. But the fact remained that Max had also, in a way, ruined his own race in doing so, with disastrous consequences for himself.

Charles couldn't quite determine if the experience was intended for him or not.

However, he had a strong suspicion.

He let out a silent breath slowly and placed the phone on the table, having finally changed his mind about calling.

Not yet.

Rather than what might have been anticipated, he noiselessly made his way to the kitchen, where he paused long enough to pour a refreshing glass of water, and as he stood there, he allowed the quiet stillness to envelop him, holding him like a second skin.

No audience. No camera. No interviews. Only silence. It was not the triumph he had hoped for.

But it was peace.

--

The knock on the door was gentle.

Charles was sitting on the couch, second-place trophy still sitting on the dining room table, glinting in the golden lamp light of his apartment. He hadn't touched it since he placed it there. Champagne was a distant memory. He heard his phone go off and then it was followed by another knock.

He wouldn't even look at the screen. He knew well enough what was on it.

Padding barefoot to the door, Charles opened it to find Max, hoodie down low, cap pulled tight over rumpled hair, eyes dark and warm and filled with something that made Charles' throat close up.

“Hi,” Max said, voice gentle. “Can I come in?”

Charles nodded and stepped aside.

Max didn't say anything for a moment, not uttering a word. He didn't need to ask how Charles was, nor did he need to talk on the previous race they had shared. Instead, he merely stared at him intently, studying him with a critical eye, as if he could peer behind the layers of bombast and the serene exterior that Charles had struggled so hard to construct since they'd stood together on the podium.

"Honestly, I didn't think you would actually come here," Charles said softly.

"I felt I had to come and at least check in," Max explained. "For me, it seemed like you were fighting a huge fight to remain calm in the paddock."

Charles tried to smile. He managed.

Max eased the door closed with a careful pull, ensuring that it was shut, before making his way over to where the trophy proudly stood on display. He stood for a moment examining it closely, his eyes running over the shiny silver base and the intricate engraving that adorned it, then turned back to Charles.

And Charles… cracked.

"I—" His words shook and broke off when he spoke. "I stared at it and I just—"

He collapsed onto the floor before the couch, allowing himself to fall hard as his knees drew up instinctively to his chest in a defensive position, his hands shaking violently. The tears came abruptly and in force, pouring down his cheeks in a cruel fashion, their warmth searing in stark contrast to his face, as he ground the heels of his palms deep into his eyes, nigh desperately, as though he thought that in doing so, he might be able to stop the attack of his emotions.

"I should be happy. I should. It's my home race, and I got second, and everybody's so proud but.. Max, it hurts. It hurts so much. I was so close. I tried so hard."

Max chose not to say a single word.

Instead, he simply moved forward with a composed demeanour. Without speaking, he extended his hand towards the trophy that had caught his attention.

With deliberate care, he raised it gently into the air and then proceeded to place it securely into the cabinet situated beneath the television, ensuring it was out of sight and mind. It wasn’t discarded or thrown away carelessly. It was merely… set aside, for the time being.

Upon returning to the scene, Charles was still crying, his feelings evidently getting the better of him.

So, Max knelt down on his knees in front of the man and enveloped him warmly in the embrace of his arms.

"I know," he breathed, gently nuzzling his face against Charles' shoulder in a soothing motion. "I know, it's okay, get it all out."

Charles hugged himself into him, as though that tight embrace was the one thing holding him vertical and balanced. His entire frame shook, a reflection of the overwhelming feelings and burdens he'd been carrying around all day.

Max made no attempt to hurry him; he simply wrapped his arms around Charles's waist firmly, embracing him, with his chin lying lightly on the soft, inviting wisps of his brown hair, waiting quietly until the flood of tears finally began to recede.

And as they did, at last, Charles drew a shaking breath, his hands tightening into the fabric of Max's hoodie.

"You kept Lando waiting so long," he muttered. "Held him back."

Max nodded softly, a nod that was almost shy. "Yeah," he replied.

Charles raised his eyes to him. "Why?"

Max paused. Then, finally: "I wanted you to win. I knew I wasn't going to, our plan was ruined already. But if I could delay Lando just long enough…"

Charles gazed at him in astonishment, completely taken aback, his mouth slightly open in surprise.

"You—why?"

Max gave the faintest smile. "Because it's Monaco. And because it's you, Charlie."

The name lingered in the air.

Charles just froze.

His eyes opened wider, a pale expression of astonishment on his face, and his heart beat so rapidly that the quick thumping left him a little lightheaded. "You.."

He pulled his body back a little, his eyes moving up to meet Max's shocked, open stare. "What did you just call me?"

Max blinked, then smiled softly. "Charlie. I don't know—it suits you."

Charles gazed at him, his heart pounding so fiercely he could feel its pulse vibrating in his fingertips. "No one has ever referred to me by that name before."

Max returned a begrudging smile that spoke of scepticism. "Is it too much?"

Charles shook his head with sheer intensity, a burning gaze on his face, and his eyes were glassy again. "No, no not at all. It's.. it's better. I really like it. Actually, I love it."

And just like that, the tightness in his chest loosened.

Max leaned up, running his hand along Charles' cheek. "Come here."

With not even a moment of hesitation, Charles took a chance and made the daring action. He settled himself easily into Max's lap, straddling his thighs comfortably and familiarly, nuzzling his face lovingly into the soft curve of Max's neck, wrapping his arms tightly around Max's shoulders in an affectionate embrace.

They stayed like that for a long time, breathing in and out together.

By the time Charles eventually leaned back in his chair to throw him a look, the expression that filled his eyes had changed noticeably, while still bearing marks of fatigue, it was softer in quality now, yet with an increased level of warmth that had not been there previously.

"Thank you," he whispered. "For everything today. For… being here. For seeing me."

Max's hand moved slowly and cautiously up his backbone, providing a sense of peace and stability. "Always."

And then, slowly, Charles leaned forward and kissed him.

It was not characterised by a sense of desperate crudeness, not anything akin to the desperate kind of hook-up they had previously desired following tough races or following lonely nights. This was patient and gentle. Bodies coming together in the purest form of love. Even if they didn't name it yet.

As they finally parted from one another, both panting and a bit shaken by the intensity of the moment, Max tentatively cupped the nape of Charles' neck in his hand, his thumb rubbing gently and softly against the flesh in the vulnerable area.

"Come here," he whispered.

Charles let himself be guided, still astride Max's lap with ease, as he nestled his head securely beneath Max's chin for comfort, his arms encircling Max's waist in a warm hug. Max reached for a nearby blanket, expertly draping it around the two of them to fashion a snug cocoon around them both.

They sat like that for such a long time, silent, warm, secure.

In the end, Charles decided to bring out some champagne, not to celebrate the success of their efforts, but to pay homage to Max. It was a way to celebrate the simple fact of having survived the weekend, and the embrace of warmth that came from feeling loved in the silence that was otherwise around them.

They got settled on the floor, the experience of drinking directly from the bottle shared between them, their shoulders touching in close proximity, as they quietly laughed together at the wonderful chaos of double stops and Lando's smug, victorious smile displayed on the podium.

As the bottle ultimately hit bottom and was drained completely, the sounds of the room faded away and were replaced by an almost serene quiet. Amidst that silence, Charles instinctively leaned against Max's chest, his head coming to rest softly just above the calm pounding of his heart.

Max hugged him with an intensity that expressed a deep longing never to let him go.

And Charles… let him.

--

The sun poured into the apartment in beautiful, golden shafts of light, enveloping them in warmth, the soft sheets tangled in a knot around their bodies. At sunrise, Monaco lay peaceful and quiet, the loud and festive noise of the night before now softened by the gentle drone of a city slowly returning to life following celebrations.

Max opened his eyes, gradually waking out of sleep with a comfortable fog of grogginess surrounding him, but he felt completely relaxed. As he rolled slightly to one side, he discovered Charles still curled up closely against him, head lightly on Max's chest. Charles' hair was mussed and uncombed, and yet it gave him an air of careless freedom, but for some reason, it just looked appropriate at the moment. One of Charles' arms was flung loosely across Max's waist, and the two of them breathed in a slow, synchronised pattern, their breaths rising and falling together.

He did not move.

Didn't want to break the spell.

But eventually, Charles stirred, his brow creasing as he let out a sleepy hum and slowly opened his eyes. He blinked at Max, disoriented, then eased at once.

"Hello there," Max said in a low tone, his gravelly deep voice, while low, still held the remnants of sleep. "Are you feeling any better?"

Charles stretched out his limbs, his head still comfortably on Max's chest, before he nodded slightly. "Beaucoup mieux," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Merci pour tout ce que vous avez fait."

Max smiled kindly, his face warm and reassuring. "You don't have to thank me for simply taking care of you."

Charles gave him a gentle and quiet look in his direction, then he raised himself up a little higher, resting one hand in the hair to tenderly move it off his face. The small but purposeful movement drew Max's attention, he noticed that Charles' curls had sprung out quite a bit and were now falling below his ears. The hair was somewhat wild-looking and still damp from the quick shower he had taken last night.

Max hesitated, then said, "You're letting it grow?"

Charles blinked. "My hair?"

Max nodded, relaxing his arms behind his head. "Yeah. I like it. Looks good on you."

Charles blinked his eyes once more, and then he could feel a flush of heat travel to his face, a genuine pink colour suffusing richly through his cheeks. "Oh," he said quietly. For a second, he turned away, fiddling with the sheets in a faintly nervous gesture, before looking back to Max with a gentle, almost shy smile that spoke volumes. "Merci," he said appreciatively.

"I like it," Max put in sagely, attempting to sound as relaxed and laid-back as he could. "It really foes suit you."

Charles hesitated before looking up at Max, and the entire time, his smile remained wide and unwavering. After pausing for a bit, he quietly climbed out of bed and made his way to his wardrobe, as quietly as possible, and began changing. Max, however, remained sitting on the edge of the bed, occupied with checking his phone for messages and news.

When Charles returned, Max looked up and paused.

They weren't going anywhere particularly public or glamorous; instead, they were just going for a walk together with the intention of having a late breakfast together at a quiet, cozy little café.

This time, however, Charles had decided to wear something slightly different from his usual.

He wore a loose-fitting, cream-coloured shirt with the sleeves rolled loosely halfway up for a relaxed look, tucked into soft black trousers that were slightly too large, creating an effortlessly casual appearance.

On his fingers were tiny rings that brought a hint of sophistication, and a small necklace could be seen peeking out from beneath the collar of his shirt.

There was no screaming fashion statement being made, no, just something beautifully simple, somewhere between masculine and feminine. It was an outfit that looked just right.

Max did not stare openly, but the stillness of his attention lasted for a moment that was just a second too long.

Charles shifted uncomfortably. "Too much?"

Max shook his head emphatically without delay. "No. Not at all," he said with conviction. "You look.." He paused and cleared his throat, and a warm smile spread across his face. "You look absolutely perfect, Charlie."

Charlie.

There it was again.

Charles found that his breath had somehow got trapped in his throat.

Whenever Max spoke those words, it was as if something downright warm and beautiful was unfolding inside of him, right behind his ribcage. It was as if he was finally, truly seen and heard in that moment, without needing to make any kind of excuse or further explanation whatsoever.

He nodded once, swallowing hard. “Thank you.”

Max was going to say something more when his phone buzzed with a ready sound on the nightstand beside him.

He glanced at the screen, then winced. "It's Christian."

Charles raised an eyebrow.

"Team meeting," Max said as he began to roll off the bed, moving slowly as he reached for his hoodie that was in proximity.

"He might have given me the night off, but he definitely won't give me that luxury in the morning."

Charles smiled warmly and gently at him, a smile that showed his support, as he walked with him to the door.

"Of course, I completely understand. Go ahead and take care of your duties."

Max paused briefly at the door, his hand resting lightly on the doorframe as he weighed the situation.

"Are you really sure you're all right?"

"I am," Charles said, and this time he really meant it. "Thank you for everything."

Max looked his way again, as if he might say one more thing, before relaxing instead into a smile.

"See you in Spain, Charlie."

Charles felt a slight flush over his face but managed to maintain his composure as he provided a reassuring nod.

"See you in Spain, Max," he replied in a calm tone.

Max left the room, and while he was leaving, the door gently clicked shut behind him with a soft noise.

Charles paused for a moment, his hand resting lightly on the door handle, with a smile that remained on his lips as though clinging to something in secret known only to himself.

Chapter Text

The paddock was already alive with the noise and heat of another European Grand Prix weekend. Spain provided the type of energy Charles usually thrived on sun-kissed mornings, a circuit he knew like the back of his hand, and passionate fans. Yet the warmth was somehow different this time.

Heavy. Charged.

He meticulously adjusted the sleeves of his stylish Ferrari polo shirt as he darted out of the packed hospitality enclosure, seeking to steal away with five silent minutes of solitude before he would be forced to face another round of interviews sure to await him.

That is when he could hear somebody whistling.

"Eh, joyeux mois de la fierté, mon ami," Pierre said with a wide smile on his face, easily slinging an arm around Charles' shoulder in a companionable manner, as though the two of them were just two friends going for a casual walk together, and not two well-known Formula One drivers squarely in the midst of the media storm and limelight.

Charles blinked in surprise, before he realised what Pierre had said. A small, grateful smile twisted his lips. "Merci," he breathed, voice soft.

Pierre placed his hand reassuringly on his shoulder. "I thought it was better to say this now, than to have it all collapse into chaos and confusion later."

Charles chuckled. "You always have a knack for knowing the best time.".

They moved a bit farther away from the dense group of team members, eventually coming to a less crowded area near the edge of the paddock. Pierre scuffed idly at the loose gravel that covered the ground at his feet, the tiny rocks rolling fractionally under the pressure. "So," he commented in an offhand manner, "any new developments regarding your Italian lover?

Charles laughed, half-exasperated. "Why are you such a way?"

"Because I care," Pierre replied, raising an eyebrow. "Second date?"

Charles nodded slightly with a little sigh. "Yes, we met up earlier this week. The meeting was… okay."

Pierre's eyebrow went up. "Okay is never good."

"I don't know," Charles shrugged. "She's a nice person. Really kind, actually. But it just doesn't feel—" He paused, the moment to search for the best word that would portray what he was trying to think. "It doesn't feel like it fits, you know?"

Pierre remained silent for a moment, declining to respond right away. He subjected him to a lengthy, compassionate gaze instead.

Just a few feet away from where he was standing, Max had just exited the Red Bull hospitality tent, with a towel draped loosely around his neck for warmth. He was also halfway through consuming a bottle of cold water when his eyes landed on them.

He was not even trying to hear.

Okay. He was. Not intentionally. But he couldn’t stop his ears from picking up the words.

Now it's the second date, but it just doesn't quite seem like it's quite right.

It should not have mattered. It did not matter.

But it did happen.

Max's jaw tightened slightly, and he turned his eyes away in a sharp gesture, acting as if he hadn't heard a single word that had been said. Though, despite attempting to sound nonchalant, the tangy ache of embarrassment lingered low in his belly nonetheless.

By the time the inaugural practice session, or FP1, got underway, the air in Barcelona was considerably heavy and drenched with heat, making for a stifling experience for the drivers.

Charles drove out of the garage with ease, presenting an assertive beginning to his session, and the first few laps he drove seemed to be quite promising, courtesy of smoothness and consistency. In addition, it was clear that his car was driving much better than it had done in the last race.

Max was fast too, but Charles was not far behind. A lot closer than he ought to have been.

Pierre flashed a thumbs up and a congratulatory smile as they completed the cooldown lap. "You're flying today, man," he said, admiration filling his voice.

Charles inclined his head behind the protection of his visor. "It feels good so far.".

FP2 was much the same as earlier, comprising long runs and long tests on soft tires.

The Ferrari crew focused on fine-tuning the balance of the car in a bid to enhance performance, with Red Bull focusing on testing their new aerodynamic parts. Charles maintained a steady position within the top five drivers throughout this session, even topping the time sheets momentarily during the session.

As he entered the garage after a day, he removed his helmet, and the sweat was pouring down, plastering his curls, which had grown a bit longer once more, to his forehead. Despite the scorching heat, he had a smile that indicated his good mood.

After a considerable period of time, he experienced a sense of feeling that he was finally back on track, resembling the person he truly was.

A bit further away from the Ferrari garage door, Max kept an eye on him out of the corner of his eye.

Still trying not to let it show. Still failing just a little.

--

The sun beat mercilessly down on the Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya, the tarmac shimmering with heat as the last few minutes of Q3 counted down.

Oscar was the final person to cross the finish line.

Max Verstappen got his Red Bull back in third, good, as it should be. But not what he had hoped for.

And Charles…

"P7, Charles. That's all there is to it."

He drew a sharp breath, a quick and involuntary burst of frustration crossing his face, though this was mostly obscured by the helmet he was wearing. Seventh place wasn't terrible, not by a long shot, but nor was it good, so it was disappointing. This was particularly true given how well Friday had gone for him. He couldn't help but think of how dialled in he had been then, which made this finish all the more aggravating.

"Copy that," he said tersely, already driving into the pit lane.

The paddock buzzed with the intensity of a tightly contested qualifying session. Drivers and engineers streamed out of pits, debriefs queued up, interviews pending. Charles stepped out of the Ferrari motorhome in his fire suit, helmet still grasped in hand, his expression unreadable.

Max was casually propped against the massive form of the Red Bull building, taking a refreshing swig from his water bottle, while damp curls were clinging to his forehead due to the heat.

He glanced up at the right time to see Charles pass by.

"Hi," Max stood up a little. "P7, okay?"

Charles let out a subdued huff that was nominally a little laugh, halting just inches from him. "Merci pour le rappel," he remarked dryly, poking Max gently in the elbow with his own.

Max's lips curled upward at the corners, and he had a half-smile. "Even so, you're still well-placed for the points."

"I know," replied Charles, providing a subtle shrug to his shoulders as if waving away the unease that he was feeling. "It just felt so much better yesterday. Today, however, has been… a bit off, to say the least."

Max nodded his head barely perceptibly, feeling that he would not be able to rely on himself to speak further without involuntarily giving something away. His hands grasped his water bottle firmly but gently, and he could feel the slight pressure of the plastic groaning beneath his grasp.

Charles subtly transferred his weight from one foot to the other, and simultaneously looked up at him with a gaze that was softer and more sympathetic in tone. "Good luck tomorrow," he sincerely wished him. "Finishing third is no small achievement and shows strength."

"You too," Max replied, and the words came out slightly quicker than he had intended.

Charles saw, but did not comment.

He offered Max a fleeting smile that lingered for a second or two before disappearing, then turned and started to walk away.

Max saw him off, his eyes straying briefly down the back of Charles' fire suit to notice how his hair had begun to curl softly at the back of his neck, a subtle sign that it was now growing out.

Far inside Max's chest, there was a complicated knot of jealousy, tightly coiled and hard to disentangle. This sentiment was not just regarding the girl who had caught his eye. It was not just about the dates they had or could have had.

It was the distance

The silent walls Charles erected, the layers Max had no idea how to strip away without pushing too hard.

And yet… he still found himself hoping.

--

It had started cleanly.

Max was steadfast in his third position, right behind the two McLarens ahead of him, while Charles was comfortably ensconced in fifth position. At this stage of the race, everyone was heavily invested in the long game. The focus was primarily on all the important aspects such as tyres, track position, and above all, patience.

Then, with fewer than 20 laps remaining in the race, the safety car was deployed on the track.

And everything unravelled.

Max was summoned. "Box, Max. Report, please."

"Which tyres?" he inquired.

"Hards," was the response that came back.

Max's heart sank. "Hards? Why?"

“It's all we have left Max,” was the entirety of what they were able to offer him.

He boxed, a surge of anger running through him but still focused on what he was doing. His stop was executed perfectly and without mishap, but when he reappeared, he was driving in traffic, right in front of Charles.

Then came the restart.

The safety car peeled off. The field bunched. The green flag waved.

Max lunged.

He attempted to pass the McLarens, attempting to stay ahead of Charles on the inside into Turn 1, but the hards weren't up to it, not how he wanted. The car locked up on the brakes, skidded wide, and Charles went sailing past, smooth and untouched. But Max wasn't finished. He attempted to re-take his position but clipped Charles instead, not hard enough to ruin or lose a position, but it was the beginning of his downfall.

He pushed. He clawed at his car. He defended from Russell behind.

And then George went for it.

Driving through the inside of the corner.

Max turned in, too committed, too frustrated, too fed up.

Their wheels clanged loudly.

Max shouted an obscenity in a voice filled with anger within the cockpit as he witnessed George's car bump into his, barely missing the gravel trap ahead. "What on earth is he doing?!

"Max, give the position back," was the voice that whispered gently in his ear. "We are being investigated currently.".

"He hit me!!"

There was no time to argue. The stewards ruled: ten-second penalty for causing a collision.

And Max's race was all but finished.

He'd sliced the line in fourth place, but he finished tenth due to his penalty, grinding his teeth and his sore hands from the way he'd been twisting the steering wheel. His radio was silent. No congratulations. Just static.

He did not even take the time to wait for the scheduled interviews or even for the cooldown bottle that he habitually relied on after a race. Instead, he stormed in high determination directly into the garage building, and then he went on to the driver's room, banging the door firmly shut behind him as he entered.

He hardly had time to breathe and gather himself before there was a fierce knock at the door, and then, to his dismay, it opened regardless.

"Max."

Charlie.

Still wearing his racing suit. Still pink from the podium and the champagne and the excitement of placing third.

Max's eyes closed into slits, a definite sign of rising irritation. "Do you plan on gloating?"

Charles blinked. "What? No. I was dropping by to see how you were."

"Oh, well, don't, then," Max retorted irritably, as he rose to his feet abruptly. "And the next time you ever feel the need to hit me, perhaps you could do me the courtesy of giving me a bit more space to actually fight back."

Charles froze. "You're blaming me?"

"You completely threw me off course and derailed my momentum!"

“You locked up!”

"I would have gotten past you again if you hadn't—"

"Oh, for the love of God, fuck you Max," Charles replied with a touch of annoyance in his voice, moving a step closer to him. "It is absolutely not my fault that your team chose to put the incorrect tyres on your car and told you to give George the position. I did nothing wrong here!"

"You could've given me space—"

"Why is that? So you could continue pretending that all of this wasn't a result of the errors of your team?" Charles shook his head in anger, his eyes burning with intensity. "I drove my own race and gave it my best. It was your team that botched things. Don't blame and take it out on me."

Max's jaw clenched. "I didn't mean—"

"Yes, you did," Charles said, his voice lower but still sharp enough to slice through the air. "I came to see you because I actually did care about how you were doing. I figured maybe you could use someone around you who understands what you're going through. But if your reaction is to yell at me in anger, then perhaps it'd be better for you to just be angry by yourself."

He spun around, fists tight, and left through the door without a backward glance.

The deafening silence that ensued as the door slammed shut.

Max was present, breathing heavily, chest tight.

He’d lost the race.

Been humiliated on strategy.

Penalised.

Crashed into someone.

Argued with the one person who had come to check on him without an agenda.

And now Charles was gone too.

Max slowly sat back down, covering his face with his hands.

This was not just a poor race.

This was a disaster.

And it was all his fault.

--

Charles had just come out of the shower when he heard the knock.

He sighed, towel draped around their shoulders, hoping it to be room service. He hadn't asked for anything, but Ferrari were lavish after podiums, and sometimes food simply appeared.

He answered the door in a tee and loose, comfy joggers, and then came to a sudden standstill, his body rigid with shock.

Max.

Hood over his head, eyes red, but a resolve radiating from him that suggested he had walked around the door for a whole hour, summoning up the courage to now find the strength to knock.

Charles said nothing and kept quiet. He instead moved aside, allowing Max to come into the space.

The silence was heavy with Max coming in slowly, his eyes fixed on the carpet as though it held all his regrets. Charles waited for him. Abruptly tense, still hurt from the recriminations flung at him a few moments earlier.

Max eventually looked up.

“I fucked up.”

Charles inclined his head once, just once, and remained there at the door. "Oh yes. You definitely did."

Max, whose body was tense, rubbed the back of his neck as his sleeves were pushed halfway up his forearms by the hoodie. "I wasn't really intending to take my anger out on you. I was just so angry, and everything about me was losing control, and I was clinging so hard to something, anything at all, and then when you walked in front of me, it all just came crashing down, and I… I completely lost myself."

Charles's eyebrow went up. "I passed you cleanly."

"I know." Max exhaled slowly, allowing a gradual flow of air to escape his lungs. "That is precisely why I fucked up. You did not actually do anything wrong."

Charles crossed his arms. "Then why blame it on me?

"I didn't mean for it to happen." Max gazed at him, and his eyes were more vulnerable and emotional than usual. "The thing is, I just did not have any other means of releasing all of the anger that was building up inside of me. I nearly hit a wall but then you came in and I-"

There was an awkward silence again between them, one that was uncomfortable, yet strangely familiar.

Max continued, his voice barely audible, "I took out on you and I am sorry."

Max sighed, biting his lip before continuing. "I heard you earlier. When you were talking to Pierre about your date..."

Charles blinked his eyes in surprise and confusion. "Right.. what does that have to do with anything?"

Max looked away. "I don't know. It just, fucked with me, I guess."

There it was.

Jealousy, cracked and leaking out of him.

Charles swallowed, his jaw tightening. "Max…"

Max finally glanced up at him once more, shoulders slumping. "I shouldn't care. It's not my business. But I do."

For a moment, Charles had no idea what to say. His chest was constricted. His mind booming.

Yet Max's eyes were filled with a profound sense of regret. It was something deeper than mere frustration or jealousy.

Charles stepped forward slowly, trying to be careful and deliberate in his movements. He reached out, his hand lightly coming to rest on Max's chest, being careful to be gentle.

Max struggled for breath.

"I know you're a mess," Charles whispered. "But you could've just said you needed me, needed my help."

Max gazed down at him, his long eyelashes dipping slightly. "I do," he affirmed.

That was all it took.

Charles grabbed the front of his hoodie and drew him in, causing their lips to forcibly meet in a kiss.

This was a far-from-tender experience. It surely was devoid of anything remotely soft.

This was a wild mix of teeth clashing together, the searing heat of passion, and a desperate, consuming sense of urgency, one that was both punishment and long-awaited liberation. Charles sank his teeth into Max's lip, forcing his teeth into the soft tissue as he pushed them back into the wall behind them, and Max moaned softly in response, surrendering to the moment, granting Charles what he desired without hesitation.

Clawed hands beneath the material of their shirts, fingers tight. The clothing crashed to the floor, shed in a moment of haste. Charles roughly pushed Max onto the bed, his movements infused with a harshness that spoke of a deep need to take back control of the situation. Max took it without question; he needed it so badly and felt himself wanting it more than ever.

They did not say much to each other.

They walked together as if they'd been doing this forever, like they'd rehearsed this a dozen times and still burned up every time they touched.

When it was completed, Max stayed laid on his back.

No taunting. No condescending comments. Only the noise of their breathing filling the space.

Charles rolled onto his side slowly, allowing his fingers to lightly brush against Max's shoulder in a soothing gesture.

Max extended his arm, allowing his hand to fall easily into Charles' hair, exerting a gentle tug. "The curls are new."

Charles felt the warmth flush across his cheeks as he was taken completely by surprise by the unexpected gentleness in the comment. "Yeah, I wanted to let it grow naturally, try it out."

"I think it's great, it suits you" said Max softly.

Charles looked away, blushing. "Thanks."

Max hesitated, fingertips tracing the length of Charles' exposed arm. "Can I stay? I don't know if I can trust myself being alone.."

Charles met his gaze.

"Of course."

Charles got up from his position so that he could switch off the lights that illuminated the space. Upon returning to bed, he discovered that Max had already preceded him to pull the cover over him. Charles gingerly found his way into the cozy warmth beside Max, settling for having his head on Max's chest while their bodies automatically became entangled in a loose and comfortable manner.

Max embraced him, clutching him in a close and tight wrap. This embrace was not fuelled by desire or lust this time, but a desperate sense of need.

"Sorry," he whispered once more. "For how I treated you. For losing my temper. For the jealousy."

Charles whistled softly against his skin. "You're forgiven. Just talk to me next time instead of lashing out."

He could sense that Max had begun to relax a little beneath him, revealing a shift in his tension.

Neither one of them explained what this was. What it meant. What would happen next.

But Charles didn’t pull away. And Max didn’t let go.

And perhaps, for tonight, that was the most one could realistically hope for.

--

The sun slipped in quietly through a tiny gap that had formed in the otherwise dense blackout curtains, filling the room with a gentle, golden glow that was almost too warm for this early morning hour. Charles woke first, his eyes fluttering as they fought to adjust to the intensity of the light that streamed in. He shifted slightly in the bed, becoming acutely aware of the presence of a heavy arm that was firmly wound around his waist, providing a sense of comfort and warmth.

Max.

He was still here in this place.

Lying in Charles' bed, half open mouthed, hair a knotted mess on the pillow, hoodie long since removed and one leg casually tossed over the duvet.

For one brief, vulnerable moment, Charles allowed himself to enjoy it. The quiet. The simplicity. No cameras. No grid. No tension.

Simply… Max.

He rolled over slowly, rolling into a position that allowed him to rest his head gently on Max's chest.

"Are you awake?"

"Mmm," Max grunted. "No."

Charles released a soft breath that sounded like a quiet laugh. "That's actually unfortunate. Because I just so happen to be."

"Tragic," Max muttered without opening his eyes.

They sat for a few more minutes, appearing as if they were in deep contemplation, before Max eventually opened one eye and gazed over at him.

"You're insufferably cheerful for someone who finished behind both McLarens."

Charles snorted. "I was on the podium."

"Third place still rhymes with pain," Max said under his breath, and Charles nearly choked on his laughter.

"Okay, now you're being dramatic."

Max, after a pause of reflection, finally sat up to a bit straighter stance, pushing his hand through his dishevelled hair thoughtfully. "Okay then. I must say, you did very well yesterday."

Charles's eyebrow shot up in surprise and interest. "Was that… supposed to be a compliment?"

"I told you you were good. Don't get ahead of yourself."

"Okay, I'm taking notes," Charles replied, leaning back. "Date, time, word for word. Max Verstappen congratulated someone else."

Max rolled his eyes in exasperation, but he did not feel the need to deny what was being implied. "You definitely deserved the podium. That was a fine drive on your part. I just feel McLaren must be using some form of sorcery or witchcraft with the way they handle their race strategy."

Charles reclined slightly, resting his hands behind him for leverage. "I would have no problem at all with it if they were not both so very smug and full of themselves."

"They are wearing radiant orange, they look like traffic cones," Max deadpanned. "They do not have an aura of trustworthiness about them."

This caused Charles to burst into laughter again, laughing this time, not merely chuckling, and Max gazed at him, observing him closely, with a warmth that appeared to flicker behind his eyes.

Finally, they both got up from their lying positions, slowly doing so, with the residual pain from the exhausting race weekend still present in their bodies. They got dressed in an easy silence, which was not filled with any strain, but was simply a familiar habit they had between them. The tension between them felt a lot lighter than it had been the previous night. There was less tension hanging in the air, and they were able to have a more grounding moment.

By the time Charles completed the action of pulling his hoodie, he had halted and turned his body to face Max.

"Do you plan on going home today?"

Max barely nodded his head, leaning over to pick up his phone from the bedside table where it was sitting. "Yeah, I'd say a couple of days will be needed for a proper reset. I'll probably spend most of it sleeping."

"Same here," said Charles. "I miss home. The sense of peace. No engineers constantly following me, tensing my every move."

Max grinned. "No third date?"

Charles looked at him, detecting the silent inquiry that lay behind the seemingly casual tone of his voice.

"I don't know," he replied with a tone of honesty. "Maybe, maybe not. Right now I just want to spend some time at home for a bit."

Max nodded once.

He didn't push.

They both proceeded to the door.

Max stopped before going outside, gazing back at Charles.

"You really did deserve that podium Charlie," he repeated, and his voice was noticeably gentler this time. "And… I need to thank you. For comforting me and forgiving me."

Charles provided him with a crooked grin. "Anytime."

Max began to turn and walk away, intent on departing, but before he had gotten too far, Charles bellowed after him, stopping him once again.

"Max?"

"Yeah?"

"See you in Canada."

There was a subtle flash of a feeling or emotion across Max's face, a look that had a striking similarity to one of relief.

"See you in Canada, Charlie."

And then, suddenly, he was gone, leaving Charles alone in the empty hallway, with a heart full of feelings, legs burning from the effort, and two weeks of silence ahead of him.

Chapter Text

It was crisp but bright in Montreal, summer brushing against the edge of spring, the kind of weather that made every breath feel sharper and every movement a little looser. Charles swung his racket with practiced ease, smacking the ball across the padel court with a satisfying thud.

"Still smug you're beating me?" Pierre shouted across the net, his stance balanced, his smirk more casual than it had to be.

Charles shrugged in mock innocence. "You're the one who referred to padel as your 'off-season cardio.' I'm just matching your energy."

Pierre let out a huff and lobbed the ball. “My energy is not that chaotic.”

Charles neatly set the ball up. "Have you met yourself?"

The game was more warm-up than competition. A way to loosen up from the flight, the media, and the pressure of an already gruelling season. Charles wasn't in the mood for talking, not really, but Pierre had a way of making it seem safe. Natural.

They called time at the conclusion of a tight third set and sat along the court's edge with bottled water, sweat evaporating on their skin.

"So," Pierre inquired, cocking his head, "how is the mysterious Italian girl?"

Charles let out a sigh, resting their head against the rear fence briefly. "I decided to not go further."

Pierre did not appear surprised. "Want to talk about it?"

"It just wasn't right," Charles said, staring down at their hands. "I didn't feel like… me. Not all the way. I was constantly trying to shape myself into what I thought she wanted. And I don't hold her responsible for that, she was sweet, it just… wasn't what I need."

Pierre considered this nodding. "She knew Charles, not Char."

Charles blinked, then let out a soft laugh. “Exactly.”

Pierre tapped his foot. "Then you did the right thing, mon ami. You deserve someone who won't make you question your own skin."

Charles did not answer immediately. They merely smiled weakly, eyes elsewhere.

--

FP1 was a failure.

The Ferrari was twitchy from the beginning, and Charles had barely completed some flying laps before snapping into the barriers. Not a large impact, but sufficient enough to destroy the entire session and knock them out of FP2.

By the time Max rolled out for the second session, Charles had endured a debrief, a check-up, and three recitations of "it's just unlucky, we'll bounce back." They were not in the mood to hear it.

They were at the Ferrari garage then, helmet not yet donned, standing at the rear in silence as Max's Red Bull blasted by on the TV.

It was odd, watching him like that.

Not just the car, but him. The subtle head tilts, the manner in which he carved through corners, pushed a bit harder than he had to in Sector 3. Charles couldn't hear what Max was going on about on the radio, but he could imagine. The clipped cool. The subdued confidence.

He observed the entire session.

And when it ended, and Max was fastest, Charles didn’t feel bitter.

He simply didn't feel quite right. As if the car accident had disrupted something outside of their floor and suspension.

--

The competition was close.

Too close.

George Russell took a shock pole for Mercedes, threading the needle in drying conditions and putting in one of the laps of the year.

Max came in second, obviously upset with traffic but still on the front row.

Charles… did no better than eighth.

He was already seething with annoyance as he got out of the car. However, he kept it hidden behind a mask of well-practiced smiles as he strode down the paddock corridor.

Max came by in the opposite direction, helmet tucked under his arm. They exchanged a brief glance.

"Good lap," Charles said, voice steady.

Max nodded. "Thanks. You okay?

Charles forced a slight smile. "Will be."

And they continued on together, into the race, into whatever came next, the weight of all that was not said pressing down upon both of them.

--

The Circuit Gilles Villeneuve hummed under a grey Montreal sky, the leaden clouds reflecting a dull glow on the track as the lights extinguished. Charles had begun in eighth place, but he was not worried.

More... Concentrated.

The call had come in late on a Saturday evening, he'd be starting on the hard tyres. Long first stint, manage the degradation, strike late. It wasn't glamorous, but it might just work. He had faith in the plan, attempted to have faith in the team.

And it did, for a time.

He stayed out of trouble, eventually warmed his tires up, then settled into a groove. The hards hung in there. Charles hung on better.

"Box now," was the cry.

Charles blinked. Now?

"But my tyres are fine, are we going to mediums?" he asked.

Silence.

Then: "Hards again. New set."

"What?"

But he was already at pit entry. Already too late to argue.

Tyres changed. Out of pit lane. He got back to racing, and on hards again.

A one-stop race, undone by a second stint on the same tyre. He now had to stop again. A second stop. More time lost. The strategy was dead before he could even fight for it.

Charles clenched his teeth and drove like a madman. But the damage was already done.

He fought his way back into first. And then came the final pit stop. A set of mediums, yes, but he re-joined the race in sixth a mountain to climb.

Max was second by this time, trapped behind George, with Kimi third and McLarens not far away.

Then.

Chaos.

Lando Norris dived into Oscar Piastri in Turn 1, trying to fit through a gap that simply did not exist. They hit each other hard, carbon fibre into the runoff area. The front wing of Lando flying off.

Safety Car.

No time left. The race would end behind it.

Charles sat in P5, looking at the rear of Oscar's car as the pack closed in. His tyres were new, his car still had speed, but none of it was relevant now. Not when there was safety car.

Not with that strategy.

Not again.

--

He tore off his gloves, then his helmet, and allowed them to fall to the bench with a soft thud. There was nothing but the soft whine of electronics and the muted race replay going on in the corner to break the silence.

Charles did not even glance at it.

He stood there for a moment, clenched jaw tense, fists curling futilely at his sides. Then he dropped abruptly down onto the bench and hid their face in their hands.

He was not angry with himself. He had not driven badly.

But Ferrari had disregarded their question. Had pushed a second stop that dropped him from a possible win to an empty, meaningless fifth. They'd taken from him, again, and they wouldn't even be able to understand why it was important.

Their breath hitched.

He was accustomed to disappointment. Not, however, like this. Not when it had been right there.

Then he sighed, and drew out his phone, opened the live link of the podium.

George, Max, and Kimi.

Champagne.

Applause.

A cracked smile from Max, silver trophy clutched in hand.

Charles stared at him, heart twisting.

He then switched off his phone, stood up, and walked out.

He did not do his media time. Did not bid farewell to his staff.

"Tell them that I'm ill," he snapped at his press secretary. "I'm leaving."

--

Max stepped out of the elevator with sore shoulders and a vacant expression.

P2.

Not bad.

But the strategy hadn't worked.

He'd wanted more, but Red Bull had been cautious.

Still, the frustration was minor compared to what he'd witnessed from Charles.

Max hadn’t missed it.

The flash of disbelief when the second set of hards went on.

The fight through traffic.

The dead-eyed walk from his garage after the race.

And now, Max halted in his stride as he arrived at his hotel room.

There, huddled on the floor outside the door, was Charles.

Hoodie over his head.

Arms folded tightly around his knees.

He looked small.

Quiet.

Like a person who couldn't hold it in anymore.

"Charlie?" Max said quietly.

Charles glanced upwards.

Red-rimmed eyes.

Quiet.

"I didn't know where else to go," he told me in a raspy whisper.

Max knelt beside him, aching inside. "You don't need to go anywhere else. Come in."

Charles nodded, and Max pulled him to his feet.

He made no further sound, but when Max opened the door to admit him, Charles held his hand for a fraction of a second longer than he had to.

And Max allowed him.

The door shut behind them with a click and there was a moment of crushing silence in Max's hotel room. Max threw the keycard onto the table and reached out to Charles, who stood in the middle of the room, looking about as lost as he could be.

Then Charles gazed at him. And that was enough.

His lower lip trembled.

"I—I can't do this," he whispered, holding himself together by a thread.

Max did not ask what this was. He did not need to.

In two strides, he bridged the space that was between them and wrapped Charles in his arms with no uncertainty. The sound that ripped from Charles' chest was raw, on the cusp of crying, as he clutched at Max's hoodie and finally let it all out.

Tears poured hot and swift. Anger. Grief. Uselessness.

"I had it, Max," Charles cried. "I had it, and they gave me hards again. And then, the stops. I didn't even get to fight at the end. I just, watched it slip away."

Max was quiet. Just tightened his grip, rocking them softly, one hand on Charles' back and the other wound in his hair. Letting him cry. Letting him feel.

Finally, Charles' voice broke again, softer this time:

"Maybe I should leave Ferrari."

Max's heart shrank.

"They don't listen. They say they believe in me but they don't support me," Charles swallowed. "And I want to be World Champion, Max. I want it so badly. But I'm starting to think that I'm wasting my time."

Max didn't speak. He only hugged him closer.

"I don't want to go, it's my team," Charles breathed. "But I don't know how many more years I can keep doing this. Being told to have faith in the plan and watch it fall apart at the seams."

A pause. Then, softer:

"Max, can you just… hold me?"

Max blinked. His chest tightened, and he nodded unreservedly. "Of course."

They crept to the bed in silence. Charles did not let him go. He sat in Max's lap, knees pulled up under himself, arms clamped tightly around Max's waist as Max held him like fragile baggage.

A few minutes elapsed before Charles breathed shudderingly. "Sorry," he whispered.

Max let out a soft snort. "Don't be."

"I didn't come here to fall apart."

"I think you came here to breathe."

That drew a little laugh. But quiet. And genuine.

Charles' shoulders dropped, just a tiny bit.

"Need a distraction?" Max asked.

Charles sniffled. "Yeah."

Max shifted slightly, brushing a curl off Charles' head. "My cats are total beasts. Jimmy chewed off the edge of my racing boots. And Sassy peed on my sim rig again. I think she's planning to destroy my career."

Charles let out a real laugh this time, wet and tired, but more genuine.

“She pissed on your sim?”

“She made direct eye contact with me as she did it,” Max said with theatrical offence. “Fucking alpha behaviour.”

Charles pulled back just enough to look at him. “You love her.”

“I do. She’s evil and I’d die for her.”

Charles smiled, eyes still glassy but softer now. "Leo tried to snatch a baguette from a tourist last week."

Max grinned. "Good boy."

"His leash snapped and he crossed the street. I was mortified. But he brought it back like it was a trophy."

"Because it was."

They both chuckled. The heaviness hadn't receded, but it had risen high enough to allow air back into the room.

Charles leaned on Max's shoulder, his forehead against his chest. "Thanks," he whispered.

"For what?"

"For not making me explain. For just… being here. Letting me in and just letting me.. get it all out I guess"

Max combed his fingers gently through Charles' curls. "You never have to explain anything to me, Charlie."

Charles blushed, the pink spreading quickly to his cheeks. He parted his lips, maybe to ask something—but hesitated. Let the moment breathe.

"I.. I really do like it when you call me that.. I prefer it to Charles," he confessed, voice low.

Max smiled down at him. "Good. So do I."

Charles closed his eyes and snuggled deeper into Max's side, letting out a deep, contented sigh. Max adjusted the blanket over the two of them and kissed the top of his head gently.

Charles' breathing slowed in a few minutes. He was sound asleep, hand still locked on Max's chest like a anchor.

Max didn't move.

He just sat there, watching him for a while. Watching the lines of tension ease from his face, the gentleness return to his features.

He had no clue what tomorrow would be like. Or the rest of the season.

But right now, this moment, he could have Charles. And he would.

--

The scent of hot croissants and fresh coffee filled the air before Charles even opened his eyes.

He woke, eyelashes fluttering, gradually acknowledging the sun seeping around the hotel curtains. The bed beside him was warm, Max's side already empty, but not Cold. He hadn't been away long enough for that.

Charles pushed himself up, bleary-eyed… and then froze.

The tray on the table near the window was practically glowing. A full spread of breakfast: golden pastries, fruit, eggs, orange juice, and a steaming pot of coffee. Max was perched in the armchair beside it, scrolling absently through his phone in nothing but joggers and a hoodie, barefoot, relaxed.

“Morning,” Max said, looking up with a soft smile. “Hope you’re hungry.”

Charles gave a quiet, raspy laugh as he sat up fully, stretching. “You got room service?”

“I figured you’d need food that didn’t come from a plastic container and wasn’t eaten in a panic between strategy meetings.”

Charles slid out of bed and padded barefoot to the table, smiling in a way that didn’t quite reach his eyes, but it was close. He sat down, letting the smell of the food warm him before taking a bite of the croissant. “You’re too good to me.”

Max shrugged. “You had a shit day yesterday. This is the bare minimum.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the soft clinking of silverware and far-off hum of the city beyond the only sounds. Charles played with a raspberry, then glanced over at Max, indecision flashing across his face.

"I ended it with that girl from Italy," he said, like it didn't actually require explanation.

Max blinked. His fork was frozen in mid-air. "Oh."

Charles took a sip of his coffee. "After the last race. I was only seeing her to prove something to myself, really."

Max nodded, trying to maintain a level expression despite the uncomfortably warm sensation that filled his chest. "That makes sense."

"She was sweet. But it wasn't… it wasn't right." Charles gazed out the window, then at his plate. "I think I was using it as an escape."

Max struggled to keep his tone steady. "You don't need to explain."

"I know." Charles gave a slight smile to him. "But I want to."

Max nodded again, more softly now. "Are you all right?"

Charles didn't answer right away.

Then he set down his fork. “No,” he admitted softly. “But I’m not completely not okay either.”

Max looked at him for a long moment. “That’s fair.”

They finished eating slowly, Charles taking more bites as he went, colour slowly returning to his face. After a quiet moment, Charles reached for a napkin and wiped his hands, then turned slightly toward Max.

"Congratulations on your podium, by the way," he said. "I didn't say it last night."

Max's eyes snapped to him, surprised. "Thanks."

"I was looking at you up there. Even with the safety car finish, you looked—" Charles paused, something warm tugging at his mouth. "You looked like you were proud. Though I know half of you would rather have been elsewhere."

"I was proud," Max spoke the truth. "But yeah. I wanted to be here too, too."

Charles went red but did not look away.

And then, after a breath, he leaned back in the chair. "I don't want to handle the team yet."

Max's eyebrows went up slightly. "You want to ditch?"

Charles snorted. "A little."

Well, Max said, brushing a few crumbs off his lap, "I'm leaving later today. If you want to get a ride, the seat next to me's vacant."

Charles blinked, then tilted his head. "You're serious?"

Max shrugged one shoulder. "Of course."

A pause.

"Yeah," Charles said, slowly standing up. "Yeah, I'd like that. I'll meet you there? I just need to go inform them of the change and collect my things from my hotel."

Max gave him a soft look, one that was pressure-less. Just gentle prodding.

"I'm proud of you too, Charlie."

Charles stopped in his tracks for a second. Then nodded, cheeks flushing pink again.

"Thanks, Max," he said, softer than before.

Max watched him go, the door clicking softly shut behind him with finality.

And as he looked across the empty plate Charles had left behind, the tilted coffee cup, the residual heat still in the chair, he smiled.

He hadn't fixed anything.

Not really.

But he was helping to keep the pieces from falling apart until Charles could.

--

The jet hummed steadily beneath them, soft turbulence barely noticeable as it carved its way across the sky. The world below was a blur of clouds and sunlit blues, but inside the sleek cabin, a quiet intensity had settled over the tiny chessboard between them.

“You’re stalling,” Max murmured, chin resting on his palm.

Charles narrowed his eyes. “I’m thinking.”

“You’ve been thinking for five minutes.”

"It's strategy," Charles said, and immediately followed up by trying to move his knight, and blundered into Max's trap.

Max took his queen with a dismissive flick of his fingers. "Checkmate in two."

Charles sighed and slumped back into the soft leather chair, theatrically falling into the cushion. "This is why I don't play chess with you. You're evil."

"I told you so," said Max, laughing. "I have been practicing since Pierre beat my ass."

"You sound like a Bond villain."

“Better than sounding like a Ferrari strategist.”

Charles burst out laughing, bright and warm, his guard lowered in a way Max didn’t see often enough. That laugh alone could’ve powered the jet, Max thought.

Then Charles’s gaze shifted, darker now, more thoughtful, and unmistakably deliberate.

He leaned forward slowly, elbows on knees, and tilted his head. “You’re always ten moves ahead, yeah?”

Max blinked. “Usually.”

Charles's voice dropped. "Good. Then you knew I was going to do this."

He leaned across to kiss him, distracted and wild, all teeth and lips, catching Max completely off guard. Max barely had a chance to do anything before Charles was pulling him up out of the seat, heading back to the rear of the plane and private lounge with a grin that was teasing and breathless.

It wasn't slow. It wasn't gentle. But it was necessary, raging and desperate, lips colliding with mutual frustration and something softer hidden beneath. Clothing was half-yanked, half-stripped, air stashed in throats, faces heated. Charles dominated with an appetite Max never attempted to restrict.

And Max let him because here, in this way, Charles wasn't suffocating from podium let-downs or Ferrari setbacks. He was simply himself.

Later, when breathing had settled and clothes had been mostly reconstituted, Charles stood in front of the tiny mirror set into the lounge wall, adjusting his hair. Max stretched across the couch, looking at him in silence.

"You're staring," Charles said without a word around.

"Can you blame me?"

The mouth of Charles curled, ever so slightly. "Shut up."

Max grinned. "You love it."

They had suddenly found themselves in Monaco before they knew it.

Charles turned, shouldering his bag, all business once more, except for the faint flush still visible on his neck.

"Thanks for the ride," he grunted, low and rough.

Max approached, eyes fixed on him. "Anytime."

Charles lingered by the cabin door, glancing back.

His eyes stayed there just a fraction longer. And then he nodded once, stern but kind.

And was gone.

Max lingered for an extra moment, racing heart in that old familiar way now. His uniform wrinkled, his lips still tasting Charles, and yet.

For the first time in months, something inside Max changed.

As if Charles finally started to feel it too.