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.