Archive of Our Own ^beta

The south of France house was silent except for the gentle whir of cicadas outside and the intermittent babble from Isabella Verstappen-Leclerc. Max remained at the large kitchen window, coffee mug in hand, and let his gaze rest on the garden where Charles sat cross-legged on the lawn, their daughter snug against his chest in a baby carrier. Charles was saying something to Isabella in a stream of soft French, his voice rising and falling and lilting in that soothing way. Max couldn't make out the words, but he didn't have to. He recognised that tone, gentle, steady, so full of love that it infused the entire air around him.

Six months ago, everything changed when Isabella was born. Max had thought he knew what love was before, such as his love of racing and his love for Charles, but holding that little baby flipped a switch in him. Now every spare second of the day was split between his partner and his daughter, it was the biggest success of his life.

Putting down the mug, Max traversed the warm flagstones and stooped to deliver a kiss first to Charles' lips, then to Isabella's downy head.

"Morning," he whispered. "How's my princess?"

Isabella cooed, punching the air with one fist. Charles chuckled. "Already getting excited about cars. Just like her papa."

"Which one?" Max joked.

"Both, clearly," Charles replied, smirking as he rested his head on Max's shoulder.

--

Their summer break days had settled into a routine. Mornings were languid, coffee, bottles, baby laughter, slow kisses. Afternoons, they strolled down to the beach, Isabella covered under a broad hat, Charles cradling her carefully while Max lugged the seemingly endless gear that a baby needed. Nights were spent cooking together, with Max slicing vegetables while Charles rocked with Isabella on his hip, music low from the radio.

It wasn’t anything big, no awards or celebrations, but it meant everything.

One day, Max insisted that Charles take some time for himself.

"Go nap, or read, or play piano, or hell do nothing at all," Max said, taking Isabella from Charles' arms. "I've got her."

Charles wavered, caught between needing the break and missing her even when she was only in the next room. Max bent, kissed him gently, and tacked on, "Please. You carried her, given birth to her, fed her, comforted her. Let me be the one who doesn't let go for a few hours."

So Charles allowed himself to fall into their bed, the sheets cold against his skin. He slept soundly for the first time in weeks, his body thanking him for the reprieve. He woke up hours later to the sounds of laughter coming from the living room. Padding silently in, he froze in the doorway.

Max was lying on the rug, Isabella sitting on his chest, bouncing up and down happily as he made over-the-top car sounds. "And Verstappen takes the lead!" Max declared theatrically, racing Isabella's stuffed bunny across the floor. She shrieked with pleasure, small fists waving.

Charles felt very happy when he saw this. He leaned against the doorframe and smiled a big smile that hurt a little. He didn’t know how much he needed to be reminded that he was not alone in this. Max was fully committed, just like the father he had hoped he would be.

--

Charles was restless. The new season of F1 was approaching, and although he enjoyed his maternity leave, he missed the race track. Max saw it in the way Charles watched the highlights, and in the way his hands twitched as if they wished to hold the steering wheel.

That afternoon, after Max had put Isabella down to sleep for her nap, he got Charles to come into the little home gym they had set up in the converted garage. Sunlight filtered in through the open door as Max adjusted the settings on the stationary bike.

"You don't have to force yourself," Max murmured, handing Charles a water bottle. "Just some, to loosen the muscles up again. I'll be right here."

Charles shot back a glance that was half amusement, half annoyance. "You're more nervous than I am."

"Of course I am. You've had a baby, Cha. I don't care if you're a racing driver, you're still recovering. I don't want you getting hurt."

The words hung in the air, weighted with the undertow of fear Max still felt at times when he recalled those hours in the hospital. Seeing Charles struggle through labour had been more frightening than any accident he had ever witnessed on track. But then Isabella had been born, perfect and screaming, and Charles had smiled at him through tears. That was still the moment that unravelled him if he considered it for too long.

Charles took his hand, intertwining their fingers. "I know. And I'll keep my promise to listen to my body. You just need to trust me, amour."

Max clasped his hand. "Always."

They began slowly, easy cycling, stretching, some bodyweight exercises. Max circulated, adjusting Charles' form, providing water, pushing sweat-dampened hair off his forehead. At one moment, Charles rested against Max's chest after completing a set, panting but smiling.

"See?" Charles whispered. "Not broken."

Max kissed the top of his head. “Perfect. You’re perfect.”

Then Charles lay down flat on the mat, and Max lay beside him. They both gazed up at the ceiling and rested.

"Do you miss it when I'm not there?" Charles said abruptly. "The races. Do you miss me being on the grid?"

Max inclined his head, looking at him. "Every second. No one challenges me like you. But I know you are safe and happy here with her. Racing can wait."

Charles' throat constricted. He stretched out, connecting their pinkies. "I'll be back next season. Stronger than ever. Annoying you on the track again."

Max grinned. "I don't doubt it for a second."

--

The next day, they took a picnic down to the beach. Isabella burbled contentedly in her stroller as Charles and Max lay out on a blanket. Max was reading from a book of fairy tales in a deep, dramatic voice, making silly voices for all the characters and causing Isabella's eyes to grow wide with delight. Charles propped his chin on his hand and just gazed at them both in quiet amazement.

"You're good at that," Charles said when Max was done. "Perhaps you missed your calling."

Max shrugged with a smile. "I prefer our audience of one."

Charles leaned in closer, kissing Max's jaw. "She's lucky to have you."

“No,” Max said, turning his head to give Charles a gentle kiss. “We’re the lucky ones.”

A few days later, they made a trip into the local town. Isabella was wrapped up in her stroller as they strolled along cobblestone streets that were filled with cafés and flower vendors. Charles selected fresh lavender, grinning when Max tucked a sprig behind his ear. They stayed awhile at a market, purchasing ripe peaches and a crusty loaf of bread. Isabella brought smiles from strangers, and Charles glowed with pride whenever someone stopped to coo over her.

They sat at a small bistro at a table in the shade, Max holding a bottle for Isabella while Charles drank lemonade. "We look normal, don't we?" Charles whispered.

Max cocked his head. "We are normal. Our normal."

Charles pinched his knee beneath the table. "I prefer our normal."

--

That night, encouraged by the peaches they had purchased, Charles demanded to make a tart. Max smiled as flour powdered Charles' hair and Isabella shrieked in her high chair, pounding a spoon on the tray.

"You're creating more mess than dinner," Max joked.

"Shut up and peel the peaches," Charles retorted, smiling.

They cooked together, giggling as Max attempted to pilfer slices of fruit. The tart came out a bit lopsided, the crust browner than planned, but when they sat on the patio eating it directly from the dish, Isabella chattering in Charles' lap, it was perfect.

Later that night, after getting Isabella into bed, Max and Charles were back on the terrace, wine glasses in hand. The stars twinkled overhead, the sea breeze a cool caress on their skin.

"Remember when we were twenty?" Max asked abruptly, a smile playing on his lips. "Sneaking around and thinking no one would catch on?"

Charles chuckled, his cheeks reddening. "We were trying to be careful."

"We weren't."

“No. But look at us now, we have a whole baby.”

Max leaned across the table and grasped Charles' hand. "Yes, we do."

For a second, it was just them again, just Max and Charles, together, in love, now parents choosing each other every day. They leaned over the table, kissed gently, then allowed the silence to wrap around them, comfortable and complete.

--

The evening before Max had to leave, Charles fell into bed early, weariness dragging him down almost immediately. Max stayed awake, creeping quietly into Isabella's nursery when she woke. He picked her up gently, cradling her in his arms as the faint night-light cast the room in gold.

As she yawned and looked up at him, memories flooded in. He remembered Charles' shaking smile more than a year ago, when he had first told him, hands trembling, eyes misty. We're going to have a baby. Max had been shocked, elated, scared all at once. He had held Charles so tightly, making promises he hadn't even known he had within him.

And then the baby came into the world. That endless night, Charles was clenching his hand so tightly, surrounded by sweat, tears, and terror. Max had never felt more helpless, watching the man he loved most in the world go through something he could not quite share or comprehend. When Isabella cried, Max thought his heart was going to burst. He glanced at Charles, exhausted but radiant with happiness, and he knew for certain that this was his greatest victory in life.

Now, six months later, he kissed his daughter's head and said, "I love you and your Papa so much." Isabella closed her eyes and breathed softly on his shoulder. Max remained like that for a long time, softly rocking his now sleeping daughter. He didn't even know how life could possibly get better.

--

The day of Max's leaving arrived all too soon. The house was already different, quieter perhaps, even though Max was still present, dragging his suitcase to the doorway, checking twice that he had not left his passport behind. Charles stood by the kitchen counter with Isabella balanced on his hip, her small hands grasping his shirt as if she too felt something shift.

Max halted and gazed at both of them. His daughter and his fiancé. His entire world, right there in the soft morning light. He breathed deeply, then strode swiftly across the room, grasping Charles' cheek before bending to kiss Isabella's forehead.

“I don’t want to go,” Max admitted quietly.

"I know," Charles replied, his voice soft. "But you love it. And you'll return to us. Always."

Isabella cooed softly, reaching her hand out to Max's hair. Max smiled, kissing her tiny hand. "You take care of papa, okay? Don't let him stay up too late."

Charles rolled his eyes, but his throat felt constricted. "We'll watch every race. She'll be cheering for you. So will I. Go win your home race amour."

Max embraced them both firmly, never wishing to let them go. Charles softened for a while in the warmth, inhaling the comforting blend of Max's cologne and baby powder. It calmed him, despite the pain in his heart.

When the car horn outside eventually sounded that it was time, Max kissed Charles one more time, slow and lingering, before moving away. "I'll be back before you know it," he said.

Charles nodded, fighting tears. "We'll be waiting."

And then Max was gone, suitcase in hand, the door shutting softly behind him.

Charles stood in the silence, Isabella heavy against his chest, and whispered into her soft hair, "He'll be back soon. He always comes back."

The cicadas buzzed outside, as they had at the start of summer.

Life would continue with meals, naps, exercise, and short walks to the beach.

For the moment, Charles kissed Isabella's head and smiled softly. Because even in the waiting, there was love, constant, unwavering, and Charles couldn't be more grateful for his small family.