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.