Chapter Text
You don’t have to be quiet anymore, Max signed. Not if you don’t want to be.
The news didn’t break with fireworks.
It trickled in—like a loose thread someone pulled during a press conference, a photo posted without much thought, a few stray glances that lingered too long in the paddock.
The first real ripple came after qualifying in Austin.
Charles had been sitting on the low wall outside the Red Bull motorhome, tucked away in the shadow of the structure, sketchpad in his lap. He wasn’t watching the track anymore—he was watching the door, waiting for Max.
Someone snapped a photo.
And it wasn’t just the image itself—it was what the camera caught: Max exiting the garage, wiping sweat from his brow, meeting Charles’s gaze across the walkway. The look that passed between them was unmistakable.
Soft. Intimate. Married.
The photo hit social media within the hour.
It didn’t go viral right away—but it was enough for people to start asking questions. Enough for journalists to hover a little too close to the Red Bull hospitality lounge the next day. Enough for Christian Horner to frown slightly over his espresso and ask, “So, Max… that young man with the curls—your… friend?”
Max didn’t blink. “My husband.”
Christian raised both eyebrows. “Ah.”
No judgment. Just surprise—and a long, thoughtful sip of coffee.
In the Ferrari motorhome, meanwhile, Charles had become something of a mystery.
No one quite knew who he was.
He didn’t wear a team pass. Didn’t speak to the media. Didn’t seem particularly interested in racing. He spent most of his time sketching or reading quietly in the corners of hospitality, often with a subtle earpiece in his ear that helped him follow the environment around him.
Fred Vasseur had walked by him three times before finally turning to Carlos and asking, “Do you know who that is?”
Carlos blinked. “Max’s husband.”
Fred looked scandalized. “What?”
Carlos shrugged. “Yeah. Married over summer break. Quiet about it. Charles is deaf, I think.”
Fred looked back toward Charles, who was nodding at something Max signed as he sat beside him. Then, more softly, he said, “I see.”
By Sunday morning, the whispers had turned into a quiet buzz.
“Is that Verstappen’s boyfriend?”
“Husband, actually.”
“No way.”
“Swear to God. He’s an architect. I heard he designed a museum in Nice.”
“Did you see how Max looked at him?”
“…Like he was the only person in the world.”
After the race—another win for Max—Charles met him in parc fermé, as always.
He didn’t rush. Didn’t wave or shout. He just waited by the barrier with a quiet smile, watching Max’s every move like he was the only person worth tracking in the chaos.
Max spotted him instantly.
And in front of all the cameras, the mechanics, and the world, he made his way over—not just to wave or nod—but to wrap a hand around the back of Charles’s neck and press a kiss to his forehead.
Not rushed.
Not hidden.
Just theirs.
Someone gasped. A camera clicked. Dozens, maybe.
Charles didn’t flinch. He’d spent a lifetime learning how to survive in a world that didn’t always understand him. But here, in the smoke and champagne spray, he only leaned into Max and signed something quickly.
You looked beautiful out there.
Max smiled.
“You always do.”
In the press conference later, a journalist raised their hand.
“Max—about the man we’ve seen with you in the paddock recently—can you confirm he’s your partner?”
Max’s expression didn’t change.
“I can,” he said. “He’s my husband. His name is Charles.”
There was a moment of stunned silence.
Another journalist leaned in. “You’ve kept it private until now—was that intentional?”
“Yes,” Max said. Then, with more softness than usual: “Charles didn’t ask to be part of the circus. But I’m not hiding him anymore. He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
And just like that, the press room quieted.
No more questions followed.
Just Max, sitting at the center of the table like he always did—except this time, the walls around him weren’t quite so high.
That night, Max returned to their suite to find Charles out on the balcony, curled in his hoodie, scrolling on his tablet. The sky was dark over Austin. Stars faint and scattered.
How bad was it? Charles signed, looking up.
Max shook his head and signed. Better than expected.
Charles raised an eyebrow.
Fred knows. Christian knows. I think half the paddock does now. Max sat beside him. I told them your name.
Charles’s expression turned softer. He reached for Max’s hand.
I’m not afraid.
Max laced their fingers together. Good.
They sat in silence, the kind Charles loved—thick with meaning, with comfort, with them.
Max leaned his head on Charles’s shoulder and signed, You don’t have to be quiet anymore.
Charles looked down at him and smiled.
I was never quiet. You just listened differently.