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The hotel room smelled faintly of lavender, the scent wafting from a candle Max’s mom, Sophie, had brought with her. She always said hotels felt too sterile, too cold, without a little warmth to make them feel like home. Max adjusted the cuffs of his blazer in the mirror, sneaking a glance at his mother and Victoria chatting on the couch.
He felt a pang of something he couldn’t quite name—awkwardness, maybe. Or guilt. He’d been away so much these past few years, always hopping from one racetrack to another, that even family gatherings felt foreign now. It wasn’t that he didn’t love them—he did. He just didn’t know how to bridge the gap that had formed between them.
So night like these happened.
Victoria’s laugh broke through his thoughts, and Max caught her teasing glance in the mirror.
“Are you sure you don’t want to wear something nicer?” she asked, smirking. “You look like you’re going to a business meeting, not the ballet.”
Max rolled his eyes. “It’s just a blazer, Vic. It’s not that deep.”
“Maybe not,” Sophie said, her tone light but her gaze sharp. “But you could at least pretend to be excited. We don’t get to do this with you often.”
Max bit back a sigh, turning to face them. “I am excited. I love the nutcracker.”
Victoria snorted. “Oh, you’re definitely excited. Can’t even remember the name. We’re watching Giselle.”
Sophie shot her a look, but Max just shrugged. He wasn’t lying—he was happy to be spending time with them. It was just that ballet wasn’t really his thing. He didn’t dislike it because he thought it was too girly or anything like that; it just didn’t hold his attention. The last time he’d gone to one, he’d spent most of it mentally running through race strategies. That was probably what he would be doing tonight, if he was being fully honest.
Still, he’d agreed to come because he missed them, even if he didn’t know how to put it into words.
***
The theater was packed, the soft hum of conversation filling the air as they found their seats. Max sank into his chair, feeling out of place in the sea of polished, refined people around him. His mother and Victoria, on the other hand, fit right in, chatting animatedly about the production.
Max tuned them out, his mind drifting back to his last race before the winter break. He’d lost pole position on the 54th lap— 54th lap —and it still stung. He was still leading the grid, but now the gap between him and Lewis was too small for his comfort. But there was really nothing he could have done about that last race, the grip on his tires had started to fade, and no amount of skill could compensate for a car that wasn’t performing at its peak.
He clenched his jaw, his foot tapping against the plush carpet. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his team, but if they wanted to secure his fourth championship, the car needed to be better. He needed to be better.
He spent the next twenty minutes thinking about curve 11 and how Lewis was able to overtake him so easily.
A sharp intake of breath from Victoria snapped him out of his thoughts.
“Oh, wow.” she whispered, her eyes wide.
“What?” Max asked, glancing at her.
She didn’t answer, her gaze fixed on the stage. Max followed her line of sight, and for a moment, he forgot how to breathe.
There, under the spotlight, was a dancer unlike any Max had ever seen. His movements were fluid, his body strong yet impossibly graceful. But it wasn’t just the way he danced—it was him . The brown curls that framed his face, the high cheekbones, the piercing green eyes that seemed to hold the entire audience captive.
Max had dated his fair share of beautiful people—both men and women—but this was different. This wasn’t just beauty. It was magnetism, the kind of allure that made you forget where you were, what you were doing.
Max couldn’t take his eyes off him after that. His every leap and turn captivated him, and for the first time, he found himself understanding the appeal of ballet. The man didn’t just dance—he commanded . Every move seemed effortless, as though he was born to be on that stage.
“Who is he?” Max muttered under his breath.
Victoria shushed him, too engrossed in the performance to answer. Max fumbled for the program, scanning the cast list until he found the name: Charles Leclerc .
The name echoed in his head, setting off a strange, unshakable need.
He wanted Charles. Not just to admire him from afar, but to know him, to take him to dinner, to kiss those soft-looking lips raw, until they were red and bruised. And, if he was honest with himself, to have him forever.
***
The theater’s backstage buzzed with its usual post-performance chaos—dancers shedding costumes, assistants rushing with water bottles, and the low hum of muted conversation. Charles had just slipped out of his dressing room, still in his Giselle Act II costume, when he noticed a figure standing by the edge of the hallway.
The man was hard to miss. Broad-shouldered, tall, and with an air of barely-contained energy, he looked entirely out of place amid the polished refinement of the theater. He held a bouquet of tulips—bright orange, clashing entirely with the decor—and his face lit up when he spotted Charles.
“You were incredible,” the man said, stepping forward with a boyish grin. His Dutch accent was faint but unmistakable. “I mean, really. I’ve never seen anything like that before.”
Charles blinked, taken aback by the man’s boldness. “Thank you,” he said coolly, his expression guarded.
“I’m Max,” the man continued, shifting the flowers from one hand to the other. He seemed nervous, though he was clearly trying to hide it. “Max Verstappen.”
“Okay.” Charles raised an unimpressed brow.
Max hesitated, then rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “I, uh… I race cars. Formula 1. I’m the—well, I’ve won the World Championship. Three times, actually.” His voice trailed off toward the end, as if realizing how it sounded.
Charles tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “And you’re telling me this because…?”
“Because I…” Max faltered, his confidence unraveling under Charles’ icy stare. “Because I thought you might… want to have dinner with me? Or coffee? Or something?” His words tumbled out quickly, as if he were trying to get them over with before he lost his nerve entirely.
Charles stared at him for a long moment, the corners of his mouth twitching—not with amusement, but irritation.
“So, let me get this straight,” Charles said, his voice clipped. “You watched me perform for one evening, decided you liked what you saw, and now you think flashing your titles at me is enough to get me to go out with you?”
Max blinked, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, his cheeks turning a faint shade of red. “I just… You’re amazing. And fierce. And beautiful. And I thought you might be interesting to talk to. That’s all.”
Charles folded his arms across his chest, his gaze cool and unyielding. “Let me save you the trouble,” he said sharply. “I’m not interested. At all.”
Max shifted awkwardly, clutching the bouquet as if it might anchor him. “Okay,” he said softly, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly. “I understand. I’ll—uh, I’ll leave you alone.”
But before he turned to go, he hesitated, glancing down at the flowers in his hands. “Can I still give you these?” he asked, holding out the bouquet with an almost shy expression. “I picked them because they’re bright. Like you.”
Charles blinked, his resolve flickering for just a moment. But he quickly pushed the sentiment away, shaking his head as he stepped back. “No, thank you.”
Max’s face fell, but he nodded, his grip tightening on the tulips. “Right. Of course. Sorry.” He gave a faint, awkward smile, then turned and walked away, disappearing into the bustle of the theater.
Charles exhaled sharply, running a hand through his damp hair as he watched Max leave. It wasn’t the first time someone had tried to charm their way into his good graces with flattery and grand gestures, and he doubted it would be the last.
But something about Max lingered in his mind longer than he wanted to admit.
***
Max had always been single-minded. It was what made him the champion he was—the ability to focus entirely on what he wanted and do whatever it took to get it. But this was different.
Charles Leclerc wasn’t a race to be won, even if the pull Max felt toward him was every bit as intense. Maybe more.
So he was back at that theater. Again. In Paris this time… He himself didn’t believe that he flew to another country just to see him again.
He tried to justify it to himself by saying he just really enjoyed the ballet, but he knew the truth.
After the final bow, Max found himself outside the theater, a bouquet of white roses in hand. The cold night air bit at his cheeks, but he barely felt it. His mind was racing as he used every bit of his name and connections to get backstage once again.
Charles had just slipped backstage, towel draped over his neck, when he spotted Max lingering in the same place as before, holding yet another bouquet. This time it was a mix of white and red roses, tied with a ribbon that matched the color of Charles’ red costume from Giselle .
Charles sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You again?” he said, walking toward Max with deliberate steps. “I thought I rejected you already. Should I call security this time, or will you leave quietly?”
Max blinked, startled by the harshness of the greeting. He opened his mouth to speak but hesitated, holding the flowers a little tighter as if they might shield him from Charles’ sharp glare.
“No, no—I’m not here for that,” Max said quickly. “I mean, I’m not asking you out or anything.” He took a half-step back, visibly flustered. “I’m just… a fan of ballet. Giselle, specifically. It’s, uh… beautiful.”
“A ballet fan?” Charles crossed his arms, one brow arching skeptically. “A fan of Giselle ?” He leaned in slightly, his voice dripping with disbelief. “Alright, then. If you’re such a fan, tell me—what’s Act II about?”
Max froze. His mouth opened and closed a few times, and a faint pink blush began creeping up his neck. “Uh…” he stammered. “It’s… the part where, you know… the dancing is, um, really… dramatic?”
Charles’ smirk was sharp, cutting through Max’s fumbling. “That’s what I thought. You literally just watched it. You watched it twice and yet, you didn’t pay attention.”
Max winced, shifting uncomfortably under Charles’ gaze. “Okay, fine,” he admitted. “I didn’t really understand what was happening. But that’s why I came back. I… I want to learn.” His voice softened toward the end.
Charles paused, caught off guard by the sincerity in Max’s tone. But he quickly dismissed it, his walls shooting back up. “Learn all you want,” he said coolly, brushing past Max. “Just don’t expect anything from me.”
Max watched him go, his chest tight with embarrassment. He glanced down at the flowers in his hands, unsure of what to do with them now. As he stood there, awkward and out of place, he made a quiet decision: next time, he would be better prepared.
***
Max sat in the audience, gripping the edge of his seat as the curtains rose. This time, he forced himself to focus—not just on Charles, but on the entire performance. He watched the story unfold, his eyes following every gesture, every step, every glance exchanged between the dancers. He didn’t understand all of it—ballet was still foreign form of communication to him—but he absorbed as much as he could.
When the final act ended and the audience erupted into applause, Max joined in enthusiastically, his palms stinging from how hard he clapped. He was nervous—more than he’d been at the start of any race—but determined.
Backstage, Charles didn’t look surprised to see him. Annoyed, maybe, but not surprised.
“Let me guess,” Charles said, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. “You’re here to tell me how ‘dramatic’ it all was again?”
Max smiled sheepishly, holding out a fresh bouquet of flowers. “Actually,” he said, “I wanted to tell you about Act II.”
Charles tilted his head, intrigued despite himself. “Go on, then.”
Max took a deep breath. “It’s about forgiveness, right? Giselle forgives Albrecht even though he betrayed her, and she protects him from the Wilis. Even though she’s… well, dead.” His cheeks flushed as he finished, his nervous energy bubbling over. “I mean, I don’t know if I got all of it, but that’s what I took from it. And it was… incredible. You were incredible.”
Charles stared at him, momentarily at a loss for words. He hadn’t expected Max to actually do his homework, let alone come back with such earnest enthusiasm.
“That’s… correct,” Charles said after a moment, his voice softer than he intended. But he quickly recovered, his tone cooling again. “Though I suppose you’re only saying that to impress me.”
Max’s face fell slightly. “I’m not,” he said quietly. “I mean, I probably came off that way before, but… I just wanted to understand why you love it so much.”
Charles frowned, caught off guard by the vulnerability in Max’s voice. But instead of responding, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Max standing there once again.
***
Max was sprawled across the couch in his Monaco apartment, one arm draped over his face while his phone lay on the coffee table, the screen still lit from his latest Google search: "How to win over someone who hates you." It wasn’t helpful. Most of the advice involved “playing it cool,” but that didn’t feel like him.
“I’m doomed,” he muttered.
“You’re not doomed, mate,” came Daniel’s voice from the kitchen. Max had invited him over for advice, though it felt more like inviting himself to be roasted. The Aussie emerged with two beers, plopping onto the couch next to him. “You’re just... a bit hopeless.”
Max groaned, grabbing the beer Daniel offered and taking a long sip. “He’s so... cold. And uninterested. And intimidating. But then he gets on stage, and he’s all... passion. He makes you feel things you didn’t even know you could feel. And I’ve dated—men, women, you name it. No one’s ever made me feel like this before.”
Daniel’s eyebrows shot up, the teasing grin on his face widening. “Oh, we’re really in it, aren’t we? Max Verstappen has a crush. ”
“It’s not a crush,” Max protested, but his cheeks betrayed him by flushing pink. “I just... I don’t know what to do. I asked him out—like, properly—and he rejected me so fast I don’t think I even finished the sentence.”
“Well,” Daniel said, leaning back and taking a sip of his beer, “what exactly did you say?”
Max winced, remembering the awkward exchange. “Something about how I’m a three-time world champion and how I wanted to take him to dinner. I wasn’t trying to brag—it just came out. I thought it would make me sound... impressive.”
Daniel snorted.
“Oh, mate, no wonder he said no. You might as well have led with your bank statement. People like him don’t care about that stuff. They’re not impressed by flashy titles or how much horsepower you’ve got.”
Max slumped further into the couch.
“Then what am I supposed to do? He doesn’t even look at me like a person. He looks at me like I’m... annoying.”
“To be fair,” Daniel said, grinning, “you are annoying.”
“Not helping,” Max muttered.
“Alright, alright.” Daniel set his beer down and rubbed his hands together. “Here’s what you do. You want him to see you as more than just some guy with trophies, yeah? Start small. Show him you care, that you’re thoughtful. Like with a gift, you know?”
Max frowned. “A gift? Like what? Flowers? I already did that. He never even took them.”
Daniel waved a hand dismissively. “Flowers are fine, but let’s think bigger. What’s something he really likes? Something that shows you’re paying attention?”
Max thought for a moment, recalling the one time he overheard Charles talking to someone backstage. “Shoes. He loves shoes. He was talking about this brand—louboutins. He’d say he’d die to have Louboutin sneakers.”
“There you go!” Daniel said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Get him those shoes. The ones he’d never buy for himself. It’s thoughtful and shows you’re willing to put in the effort.”
Max hesitated. “But... wouldn’t that make me look desperate? Wouldn’t it be too much?”
“Only if you act desperate. Here’s the trick.” Daniel leaned in, his grin turning conspiratorial. “You’ve got to act like you don’t care. Like, ‘Oh, I just happened to pick these up for you. No big deal.’ Be cool about it.”
Max gave him a skeptical look. “You’re telling me to act cool?”
Daniel burst out laughing. “Okay, yeah, you might struggle with that part. But trust me, just... don’t overdo it. Be casual.”
Max sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t think I can do ‘casual.’ When I want something, I go all in. You know that.”
“Yeah, but this isn’t a race, mate. It’s a marathon. If you go all in too soon, he’s just gonna keep running the other way.”
“Why does this have to be so hard? He’s just... everything.” Max groaned again, sinking deeper into the couch. “When he’s on stage, he’s like pure fire. It’s like he’s dancing for himself, like nothing else exists in the world. And offstage, he’s the opposite—so controlled, so... icy. I don’t get it.”
Daniel chuckled, shaking his head. “Sounds like you’ve got your work cut out for you. But hey, at least it’s not boring, right? You love a good challenge.”
Max managed a small smile. “Yeah. I guess I do.”
Daniel raised his beer.
“To you, mate. And to winning over your icy ballet prince.”
Max clinked his bottle against Daniel’s, a determined glint in his eye. “to my schatje,” he said softly, knowing Charles wasn’t his. Not yet.
One step at a time, he thought. Shoes first. Feelings later.
***
Max had spent an embarrassing amount of time agonizing over the box sitting on the passenger seat of his car. The shoes were tucked neatly inside, pristine and perfect in their bold red hue— a color that Charles seemed to enjoy, based on his post-show attire. He wasn’t entirely sure if this was the right move, but Daniel’s voice echoed in his mind: “Be thoughtful, not over-the-top. And try not to be so awkward for once.”
“Easier said than done,” Max muttered to himself as he parked outside the theater.
The bouquet of flowers in his hands felt like a safety net. White lilies this time, softer than the overwhelming arrangement of colors he’d brought last time. The shoes were tucked under his arm, wrapped in simple paper so they didn’t scream “luxury gift.” He took a deep breath and stepped inside, his heartbeat hammering against his ribs.
Charles was backstage when Max found him, stretching gracefully in front of a mirror. He didn’t look surprised to see Max, though his expression hardened immediately. “You again,” he said, crossing his arms. “This is becoming a habit, isn’t it?”
Max winced but held his ground, even as heat rushed to his cheeks. “Not a bad one, I hope. I swear, I’m not... I’m not trying to bother you.” He held out the flowers, stumbling over his words. “These are for you. Just... for after the show.”
Charles took the bouquet, his expression skeptical but slightly softened. “Lilies,” he said, examining the blooms. “A better choice than last time.”
Encouraged by the lack of outright rejection, Max offered the wrapped box. “And, uh... these. I overheard you talking about them with someone last time. You said you’d always wanted a pair but never got them, so... I thought...”
Charles raised an eyebrow, still not reaching for the package. “You were listening to me?”
Max flushed deep. That made him sound like such a stalker.
“Not on purpose, I swear.” Maybe he wasn’t doing such a good job of playing cool. “And I noticed you wear a lot of red, so I figured you’d like them in red. I... I’m sorry if this is too much. I just wanted to do something nice. You don’t have to keep them if you don’t want to.”
There was a long silence, during which Max felt like the ground might open up and swallow him whole. But Charles didn’t seem angry. If anything, his sharp gaze softened, just slightly, as he studied Max.
“You pay a lot of attention, don’t you?” Charles said, his tone somewhere between curiosity and exasperation.
Max swallowed hard, nodding. “I kinda have to. Occupational hazard, and all.” He tried to joke but it landed flat. “I just... I don’t know how else to show that I—” He stopped himself, realizing how desperate he might sound. “I mean, I don’t want to come off as... weird.”
Charles finally sighed, setting the flowers down on a nearby counter. “It is weird,” he admitted. “But also... thoughtful, I guess.”
Max blinked, caught off guard by the faint hint of warmth in Charles’s tone.
“That said,” Charles continued, “this”—he gestured to the box—“is too much. I can’t accept it.”
“Right. Of course. I understand.” Max felt his heart sink but forced a small smile.
“However,” Charles said, picking up the lilies again, “I’ll keep these. And if you want to bring flowers to the next show, make it red roses. They’re my favorite.”
Max’s eyes widened, a flicker of hope igniting in his chest. “Really? You’d... like that?”
“Well, if you're gonna keep bringing flowers, might as well be the ones I like.” Charles gave him a pointed look, though there was a trace of amusement in his expression. “Red roses. Only red roses. And no more expensive gifts. No more overhearing me. If you want to give me something, ask me. If you want to make an impression, do it with something that doesn’t cost my whole rent. Got it?”
“I can do that,” Max said quickly, his face breaking into a small, earnest smile. “I promise. No more shoes.”
“Good,” Charles replied, turning back to the mirror and resuming his stretches. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a performance to prepare for.”
Max nodded, taking a step back. “I’ll see you at the next show, then?”
Charles didn’t turn around, but the faintest smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “We’ll see.”
***
As Max walked back to his car, the unopened box of shoes still tucked under his arm, he couldn’t stop the grin spreading across his face. It wasn’t much, but it was progress.
And for Charles, Max realized, he was willing to take things slow—one thoughtful act at a time.
***
Max sat at his desk, a notepad in front of him filled with scribbles, crossed-out words, and increasingly frustrated doodles of roses. He’d been brainstorming all day, trying to come up with something thoughtful to bring to Charles’s next performance. Flowers were easy—he’d already ordered the most perfect red roses he could find. But he wanted to do more.
Daniel, lounging on the couch with a bag of chips, watched him with amusement. “You look like you’re planning a heist,” he said between bites. “What’s the big deal? You’re already bringing him the flowers he wanted.”
Max shot him a look. Of course he didn’t understand.
“He said no expensive gifts, but I don’t want to just... show up with flowers and nothing else. It feels... lazy.”
Daniel raised an eyebrow. “Since when are you this romantic? You’ve never done this much for anyone before.”
Max didn’t answer right away, tapping his pen against the notepad. “He’s different,” he said finally. “He’s... Charles. I don’t know how to explain it.”
“You’ve got it bad, mate. What’s next, writing him a love poem?” Daniel grinned, clearly enjoying this far more than he should.
Max froze, his pen hovering mid-air.
“No,” Daniel said immediately, sitting up. “Don’t. Please. I was joking.”
Max frowned, considering it for a moment before shaking his head. “No, you’re right. That’s too much. But...” He brightened as an idea struck him. “He said he likes thoughtful gestures, right? So what if I bring something that shows I’ve been paying attention?”
“Like what?” Daniel asked, still skeptical.
Max smiled, already grabbing his car keys. “You’ll see.”
***
Two days later, Max stood backstage again, holding his usual bouquet of roses—deep red and freshly cut. But this time, tucked under his arm, was a small leather-bound notebook.
Charles emerged from the dressing room, his sharp, rehearsed movements a stark contrast to the fluid grace he displayed onstage. His eyes narrowed slightly when he saw Max. “Back again?”
Max held out the roses first. “Red roses. Like you asked.”
Charles took them with a faint smile, but his expression quickly turned suspicious when Max handed him the notebook. “What’s this?”
“It’s, uh...” Max hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. “I thought maybe you’d like it. It’s just... something small.”
Charles opened the notebook cautiously. Inside, the first few pages were filled with detailed sketches of dancers mid-performance—flowing movements captured with surprising skill. He flipped through a few more pages, finding quick notes scrawled in messy handwriting: descriptions of ballet techniques, terms, and even a brief history of Giselle .
“I... tried to learn more about ballet,” Max explained, his voice quieter than usual. “I didn’t know anything the first time, and you were right to call me out on it. So I thought... maybe I should actually understand what you do. And why is it so...” He paused, searching for the right word. “Beautiful.”
Charles blinked, looking between the notebook and Max, clearly caught off guard. “You did all this?”
Max nodded, blushing slightly. “I’m not great at drawing – if I’m being honest, I traced most of these from my computer – but I wanted to show that I’m serious. About you. And what you love.”
For a moment, Charles didn’t say anything. His fingers traced one of the sketches—a rough but earnest attempt to capture the famous pose from Giselle’s second act. He could see the effort in every line, the thoughtfulness behind every word scribbled in the margins.
“You’re... very persistent,” Charles said finally, though his tone lacked its usual sharpness.
Max gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. “You don’t become a champion if you aren’t.”
Charles closed the notebook and looked up at him, his expression unreadable. “You’re lucky I like roses.”
Max’s smile widened. “Does that mean I can come to the next show?”
Charles sighed, though there was the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “I can’t stop you, can I?”
“No,” Max agreed. “But you can tell me to go. To never show up again. To call security on me. I’d… I’d hate that, but I’d understand.”
Charles stopped, staring at the leather notebook in his hands. God, Max would give anything to be able to read his expression. To know him so deeply, he’d know what he was thinking before he’d say it.
“Why would I bother security?” He ends up saying. “They already have a hard enough job without me annoying them about harmless fans.”
“So… I can keep coming to the shows? And giving you flowers?”
“You can do whatever you want, mr. Verstappen. You have free will.” As Charles turned to head back to his dressing room, he paused, glancing over his shoulder. “The sketches are... not terrible, by the way.”
Max’s grin only grew as he watched Charles walk away, the roses in one hand and the notebook in the other.
***
The studio was quiet, save for the rhythmic tapping of pointe shoes against the polished floor and the faint hum of the piano in the corner. Charles stood at the barre, adjusting his posture, the sweat from a grueling rehearsal still glistening on his skin. He liked these moments when the world melted away, leaving only the music and the movement. But today, something tugged at the edges of his focus—a persistent thought he couldn’t quite shake.
“Charles,” came a voice from across the room. It was Madelene, one of the principal dancers, her dark hair pulled into a haphazard bun. She held up a torn piece of fabric from her costume with an exasperated look. “Do you have a needle and thread? I think this thing is about to fall apart, and we have a run-through in twenty minutes.”
Charles nodded, walking over to his bag. “I think I do. Give me a second.”
He crouched down, unzipping the worn leather bag he carried everywhere. Amidst the usual chaos—extra tights, an old water bottle, a pack of blister bandages—his hand brushed against the smooth, familiar cover of a notebook. His breath hitched slightly as he pulled it out, Max’s sketches and notes staring back at him.
Madelene wandered over, curious. “What’s that?”
“Nothing,” Charles said quickly, tucking the notebook under his arm as he rummaged for the sewing kit.
“Nothing?” Madelene smirked. “You’re blushing. Is it a diary? Come on, you can tell me.”
“ Mon dieu , I said it’s nothing,” Charles muttered, but his cheeks reddened further. He handed her the needle and thread before retreating to the far corner of the studio with the notebook.
Alone now, he opened it, letting his fingers trail over the pages. He hadn’t looked through it properly before, but now, with the sunlight streaming through the windows and the sounds of the rehearsal fading into the background, he let himself take it in.
The sketches weren’t perfect—far from it. The lines were messy, the proportions a little off. But there was something about them that struck him. Each one captured a moment, a movement, an emotion. The notes in the margins—awkward, clumsy attempts at understanding ballet terms—made him smile despite himself.
He flipped to a page where Max had tried to summarize Giselle :
"Giselle loves this guy but finds out he lied. She dies from a broken heart. Then her ghost saves him from these evil dancing ghosts. It’s sad but... kind of beautiful? In a haunting way."
Charles laughed softly, shaking his head. He could almost hear Max’s voice in those words, earnest and a little unsure.
If he was honest with himself, the notebook touched him far more than the shoes ever could. It wasn’t just a grand gesture—it was effort, time, and thought. Max had listened. He’d paid attention.
At first, Charles had thought Max was just another self-entitled jerk, someone used to using his titles and fame to get what they wanted without ever lifting a finger. Then, after the shoes, he’d thought Max was a little bit of a creep, someone trying too hard to impress him in all the wrong ways. But now...
Now he wasn’t so sure.
Max was awkward, that much was obvious. He didn’t seem to know how to navigate conversations or how to express himself without stumbling over his words. But there was a sincerity to him, an almost boyish eagerness that Charles found... endearing. Sweet, even.
He closed the notebook, holding it to his chest for a moment before sliding it back into his bag.
“Charles,” Madelene called from across the room, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Thank you! You saved me.”
He waved her off, but as he returned to the barre, his mind drifted back to Max. He hated to admit it, but he was starting to look forward to the next bouquet of red roses.
They made his hotel rooms smell nice, that’s all.
***
Charles leaned against the doorway of the theater, eyeing the figure waiting just outside with a small bouquet of red roses in hand. Max was leaning against a pillar, looking out of place in his casual jeans and a navy jacket. There was something about him today—his usual eagerness seemed dimmed, his shoulders slightly hunched as though weighed down by something heavy.
The roses were smaller this time, modest, but still thoughtfully arranged. Charles had to admit he appreciated the effort Max put into these gestures, even if he wasn’t sure why he kept showing up.
Charles sighed, steadying himself before stepping outside. “You’re back,” he said, crossing his arms. His voice came out sharper than intended.
Max startled, looking up with wide eyes before offering a lopsided smile. “Of course. Red roses, just like you said.” He extended the bouquet to Charles.
Charles took it, fingers brushing briefly against Max’s. He immediately noticed how cold they were. How long was he waiting outside? “Thank you,” he said, softer this time, but Max’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“You seem... off,” Charles found himself saying, almost against his better judgment. He didn’t want to ask. He didn’t want to care. But something in Max’s quiet demeanor bothered him.
Max hesitated, glancing down at the ground. “I, uh... I had a race three days ago,” he said finally.
“A race?” Charles asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Formula 1. You know, the driving thing I do.” Max’s lips twitched in a faint attempt at humor, but it didn’t land.
Charles nodded. “What happened?”
“I DNFed.” Max rubbed the back of his neck.
Charles blinked, clearly lost.
“What does that mean?”
Max looked up, meeting his eyes, and for the first time, there was a flicker of some sad emotion that Charles couldn’t quite place. “It means I didn’t finish the race. My car broke down, and I had to stop.”
“Oh,” Charles said, unsure what else to say.
Max exhaled a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair.
“It’s... frustrating. You work so hard, push yourself so much, and then something out of your control happens, and it’s over. I was angry—at the team, at the car, at myself. I keep thinking, if I’d been better, maybe... I don’t know. Maybe it wouldn’t have happened. But now...” He trailed off, shrugging. “Now I just feel like I need to do more. If I want to win my fourth championship, I need to try harder.”
There it was again—that unshakable drive Charles had glimpsed before. It mirrored something in himself, that endless hunger to be better, to perfect his craft, no matter the cost. He understood that pressure, that relentless pursuit of something greater.
Charles shifted the bouquet in his hands, looking at Max. He softened, just a little. “You’re already good,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “You wouldn’t have three championships if you weren’t. And sometimes... things happen. It doesn’t mean you’re not enough.”
Max looked up, startled by the sincerity in Charles’ tone.
Charles cleared his throat, feeling his cheeks warm under Max’s gaze. “Here,” he said quickly, plucking one of the roses from the bouquet and holding it out to Max.
Max blinked, clearly surprised. “For me?”
“You look like you need it more than I do.” Charles rolled his eyes, trying to mask his embarrassment.
For a moment, Max just stared at the rose, then at Charles. Slowly, a small, genuine smile curved his lips. “Thank you,” he said softly, taking the flower with a kind of reverence that made Charles’ chest feel oddly tight. “Really, it means a lot.”
He watched as Max walked away, the single rose clutched tightly in his hand, a spring in his step that hadn’t been there before.
***
After that evening, Charles sat cross-legged on his couch, the rest of the roses arranged neatly in a vase on his coffee table. He wasn’t sure why he couldn’t get Max out of his head—the way his voice had wavered when he spoke about the race, the way his smile had lit up when Charles gave him the rose.
Without thinking, Charles opened his laptop and typed “F1 race” into the search bar.
A flood of results appeared, and he hesitated for a moment before clicking on the first video. Highlights from Max’s recent race played out before him—the roaring engines, the speed, the crash that ended Max’s run. Charles winced, imagining the frustration Max must have felt.
He found himself digging deeper, searching for terms like “DNF,” “pit stops,” and “downforce.” It was all confusing at first, but he kept going, curiosity driving him. If Max had taken the time to learn about ballet, maybe it was only fair he tried to understand racing too.
By the time he closed his laptop, Charles felt a strange sense of connection. Max wasn’t just a fan or an awkward admirer anymore. He was someone who worked just as hard, pushed just as much, and cared just as deeply.
And, despite himself, Charles found that he wanted to know more.
***
Max’s heart felt like it was caught in his throat as he walked with Daniel through the theater backstage, Charles a couple meters away, talking to a cast member. The idea of introducing Charles to Daniel had seemed good in theory—another layer to prove to Charles that he wasn’t just some random guy throwing flowers and gifts at him, that he was serious about him – to the point of introducing him to friends.
But now, with Charles a couple meters ahead, effortlessly poised, Max wasn’t sure it had been a smart move after all.
Daniel, however, seemed completely at ease, walking beside Max with his usual swagger. His gaze swept around the elegant interior of the theater before landing on Charles, who stopped to greet a colleague and exchanged a few words in French.
“Okay, mate,” Daniel whispered, leaning slightly toward Max. “I get it now. He’s gorgeous. Maybe not ‘fly around Europe and destroy the planet with your carbon footprint’ hot but I get the appeal.”
Max groaned. “Daniel—”
“No, no, I mean it,” Daniel continued, grinning. “I’d buy flowers for him too. Might even throw in a diamond necklace while I’m at it.”
“Stop,” Max hissed, his cheeks flushing red.
Charles turned back toward them, his brow arching slightly as though he’d overheard. “Oh, hello. You’re here again.”
“That he is. Hello,” Daniel said smoothly, stepping forward with a charming smile. “It’s an honor to finally meet you, Charles. Max has been talking about you non-stop.”
Charles’s eyes flicked to Max, who immediately avoided his gaze. “Has he now?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Daniel said with mock seriousness. “Won’t shut up about your dancing, your drive, your legs—”
“Daniel,” Max groaned, covering his face with one hand.
Charles’s lips quirked slightly, but he remained as composed as ever. “How flattering,” he said dryly, though there was a flicker of amusement in his tone.
“So,” Daniel pressed on, undeterred, “when are you going to give my boy here a chance? He’s really not as awkward as he seems, you know. Well, okay, maybe a little awkward—”
“Daniel,” Max snapped, his voice mortified. “For fucks sake, mate.”
Charles crossed his arms, clearly unimpressed but still polite. “I wasn’t aware this was a team effort.”
“It’s not!” Max interjected quickly, shooting a glare at Daniel. “He just doesn’t know when to shut up.”
“Hey, I’m just saying what he’s too shy to say himself,” Daniel said with a shrug. Then, leaning slightly closer to Charles, he added in a stage whisper, “Though you might want to prepare yourself. This one’s a bit hopeless when it comes to romance.”
Charles couldn’t suppress the small laugh that escaped him, though he quickly masked it with a cough.
“Is that so?” Charles raised an eyebrow.
“Unfortunately, yes,” Daniel said, smirking at Max.
Max glared at him. “I think we’ve said enough.”
Charles glanced between the two of them, his usual frostiness softening just a little. “I can see why you keep him around,” he said to Max.
“Honestly, I’m not sure anymore,” Max muttered, earning a laugh from both Charles and Daniel.
The tension that had lingered between Charles and Max felt lighter now, less sharp. Daniel might’ve been an absolute menace, but somehow, he was helping.
When the conversation shifted to lighter topics, Daniel found himself observing Charles more closely. There was something striking about him beyond his beauty—an intensity in his eyes, a quiet determination in the way he carried himself. It was the same kind of drive Daniel saw in Max, the kind of fire that could burn through any obstacle.
He shot a quick glance at Max, who was looking at Charles with that unmistakable mix of awe and admiration. Yeah, he thought. They might just be a perfect match.
***
“Alright, Charles, it was great meeting you.” As they stepped outside into the cool evening air, Daniel shook hands with the dancer. “I can see why Max is so smitten.”
Max groaned. “Daniel, please—”
“I mean it,” Daniel said, grinning. Then, turning back to Charles, he added, “You should come to one of our races sometime. I’ll hook you up with paddock passes. VIP treatment, the whole deal.”
Charles raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “I’m not sure Formula 1 is really my thing.”
“Ah, come on,” Daniel teased. “Who doesn’t love fast cars and free champagne?”
Charles’s gaze flicked to Max, who was looking both hopeful and nervous. A small smile played on Charles’s lips as he said, “Alright. If Max wins his next race, I’ll consider it.”
Max’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“Really,” Charles said, his tone teasing. “But only if you win. No pressure.”
Daniel burst out laughing. “Oh, you’ve done it now, mate. He’s going to spend the next week obsessing over his lap times.”
Max ignored him, his grin stretching from ear to ear. “Deal,” he said, holding out his hand.
Charles shook it briefly, his smile turning just a little softer. “Good luck, then.”
As Charles turned and walked away, Daniel leaned toward Max, smirking. “Told you he likes you.”
Max watched Charles disappear into the night, his heart racing for a completely different reason than usual. Maybe, just maybe, he had a chance after all.
***
The Spanish sun blazed down on the Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya, the roar of engines and cheering fans filling the air. Max sat in his car on the starting grid, P4 glaring at him from the screens. He was jittery but focused, gripping the steering wheel like his life depended on it.
All week, the thought of Charles's teasing smile and that simple challenge— Win your next race, and I’ll consider it —had been haunting him. He couldn’t let it go. For the first time in his career, winning wasn’t just about the championship or proving his worth. It was about something—or someone—else entirely.
As the lights went out, Max’s singular focus kicked in. He got off to a decent start, holding position into Turn 1. But decent wasn’t good enough. Not today.
***
The race was chaos. Max was aggressive, threading the needle with overtakes that made even his team hold their breath. On Lap 18, he lunged down the inside of Turn 5 to take P3. By Lap 33, he was hunting down the leaders, his relentless pace closing the gap to P2.
"Max, box this lap," his race engineer, Gianpiero, called over the radio.
“Not yet,” Max snapped. His voice was sharp, urgent.
“Max, you’re risking the tires—”
“I said not yet. ”
He could hear the frustration in GP’s sigh but ignored it. Every lap was crucial. Every corner had to be perfect. He couldn’t let Charles down.
On Lap 45, he made the move for P1, diving into the final chicane with a precision that bordered on reckless. His rival locked up, and Max powered through, emerging on the straight in the lead. His heart pounded as he pushed the car to its limits, defending like his life depended on it until the checkered flag waved.
The moment Max crossed the line, he let out a guttural scream of triumph.
“YES! That’s P1, Max. Incredible drive,” GP said, his voice a mix of relief and awe.
Max couldn’t help but laugh, the tension melting away as he slowed down and waved to the roaring crowd. He’d done it.
***
In Parc Fermé, Daniel was the first to reach him, practically tackling him in a bear hug.
“Holy shit, mate! That was insane!” Daniel shouted, pulling back to grin at him. “If that’s how you drive when you’re trying to impress a guy, I’m terrified of what happens when you want to propose!”
Max rolled his eyes, but his cheeks flushed red. “Shut up,” he mumbled, though he couldn’t hide the smile tugging at his lips.
“Seriously, though,” Daniel said, slinging an arm around Max’s shoulders. “If Charles doesn’t show up after this, he’s got no taste.”
Max laughed, shaking his head, but the thought of Charles actually being proud of him made his chest feel lighter than it had in weeks.
Later, during the post-race interviews, Max faced the inevitable question from Tom.
“Max, congratulations on a brilliant win today. You were aggressive out there—some might say a little reckless. What was going through your mind during those overtakes?”
Max took a deep breath, gripping the microphone tightly. “I had a result in mind,” he said, his voice steady, “and I wasn’t going to stop until I got it.”
The room buzzed with murmurs, the reporters scribbling furiously. Max didn’t elaborate, and he didn’t need to. The conviction in his tone said it all.
As he left the press conference, the only thing on his mind was whether Charles had watched the race—and if he’d been impressed.
***
Max could barely contain his excitement as he waited outside the theater, the small bouquet of red roses clutched in his hands. He was practically bouncing on his feet, earning amused glances from a few other audience members lingering nearby. This was it—Charles’s answer. He had won the race, driven like his life depended on it, and now he was finally going to see if Charles had meant his teasing promise.
When Charles emerged from backstage, dressed in casual sweats and a hoodie, Max’s heart stuttered. He looked just as beautiful as he did in costume, albeit in a more effortless way. Charles stopped when he saw Max, his expression softening before turning guarded.
Max held out the bouquet with a sheepish smile. “For you,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. “I—uh—won the race. Like you said.”
“I know. I watched it.” Charles accepted the flowers with a small nod, though he didn’t quite smile. “Congratulations, by the way.” he said, his tone polite but distant.
“So… does this mean you’ll come to the next race?” Max asked, his words tumbling out eagerly before he could stop himself.
Charles’s face fell, and Max immediately knew the answer wasn’t going to be what he hoped.
“I’m sorry, Max,” Charles said, his voice gentle but firm. “I can’t.”
Max blinked, trying to mask his disappointment. “Oh. Is it… something I said? Or—”
“No, it’s not you,” Charles interrupted, his expression softening with what looked like guilt. He hesitated, glancing down at the roses in his hands before speaking again. “Look, I… I didn’t mean to make a promise back then. I wasn’t thinking. And the truth is, I’m just not ready to… be with someone right now.”
Max frowned slightly but stayed quiet, sensing there was more Charles wanted to say.
Charles sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly as if the weight of his words was too much. “I’ve been a ballet dancer since I was three,” he began, his voice low but steady. “Ballet is everything to me. I worked my whole life to get where I am. I gave up… so much. I lost my father, and I danced the next day. That’s how important ballet is to me. It’s the most important thing in my life. And I only have a couple more years before I have to retire.”
Max watched him closely, his chest tightening at the vulnerability in Charles’s voice.
“I can’t afford to spend these years with someone who would ask me to give up,” Charles continued, his tone growing firmer. “Who would ask me to choose. I need you to understand this, Max. I need you to never ask me to choose between you and ballet, because I know what I’ll be choosing every time.”
Max froze for a moment, the weight of Charles’s words sinking in. “I’d never ask you to choose,” he said earnestly, his voice softer now but still firm. His blue eyes met Charles’s gaze, unwavering. “I would never do that to you. I know how much ballet means to you. It’s who you are, and I respect that. I… I just want to be part of your life, not take anything away from it.”
Charles let out a bitter, almost hollow laugh, and the sound sent a pang through Max’s chest. “That’s what they all say,” Charles murmured, more to himself than to Max.
Max frowned, confused and hurt by the response. “What do you mean?”
Charles hesitated, looking down at the bouquet of roses in his hands as if it held answers he couldn’t quite grasp. After a long pause, he spoke, his voice low and guarded. “There was someone before,” he began, his words measured. “Pierre. He was… passionate, like you. About sports, about his career. He said all the same things. That he’d never make me choose, that he understood how important ballet was to me.”
Max stayed silent, watching the tension in Charles’s face, the way his jaw tightened like he was trying to hold back emotions he didn’t want to share.
“But it didn’t stay that way,” Charles continued, his voice tinged with bitterness and hurt. “He was fine with it at first. Supportive, even. But as time went on, it changed. He started asking why I had to rehearse so much, why I couldn’t skip a performance to spend time with him. And then, one day, he…” Charles swallowed hard, his voice faltering for the first time. “He told me to choose. Him or ballet.”
Max’s heart sank. “And you chose ballet,” he said quietly, already knowing the answer.
“Of course I did,” Charles snapped, his eyes flashing as he looked up at Max. “I’ve been a dancer since I learned how to walk. Ballet is my life. I’ve sacrificed everything for it—friends, family, relationships. I can’t—” He paused, closing his eyes for a moment to steady himself. When he spoke again, his voice was softer but no less resolute. “I can’t be with someone who would ask me to give up the thing that defines me. I won’t go through that again. I can’t.”
Max felt a lump forming in his throat. He wanted to reach out, to reassure Charles that he wasn’t Pierre, that he wouldn’t make the same mistakes. But he could see it—the wall Charles had built around himself, the pain and fear that lingered just beneath his sharp words. And he understood.
“Charles,” Max said softly, his tone gentle but firm. “I’m not him. I’m not Pierre. I know I’m not perfect, and maybe I don’t always know the right way to show it, but I would never— never —ask you to give up ballet. I know what it’s like to give your whole life to something, to have it be the one thing that keeps you going. Racing is that for me, just like ballet is for you. I could never take that from you, because I’d never let anyone take it from me.”
Charles studied him, his green eyes searching Max’s face for any sign of insincerity. There was a flicker of something—hesitation, perhaps, or maybe a hint of doubt. But then, just as quickly, his gaze hardened again.
“I believe you mean that,” Charles said finally, his voice soft but tinged with caution. “But it doesn’t change anything. I’m not ready, Max. Not yet. I’m still… I’m still dealing with what happened, and I’m not in a place where I can be with someone. Even someone who might actually mean it when they say they wouldn’t ask me to choose.”
Max nodded, the ache in his chest growing, but he forced himself to smile—a small, understanding smile. “I get it,” he said quietly. “Really, I do. I just… I hope you know that I’d never hurt you like that.”
Charles nodded slightly, his expression softening just a fraction. “Thank you,” he murmured.
There was a moment of silence between them, heavy with unspoken words, before Max cleared his throat and forced a brighter tone. “So… how about we just be friends, then?” he offered, his smile tilting awkwardly. “No pressure, no expectations. Just friends.”
Charles raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching slightly as though he wanted to smile but didn’t quite let himself. “Are you sure you can do that?” he asked, his tone skeptical but not unkind.
“I can do that,” Max said quickly, his eagerness making Charles chuckle softly despite himself. “As long as it means I can still cheer you on and, you know, bring you flowers sometimes. Friends do that, right?”
“I suppose,” Charles shook his head but didn’t hide his small smile this time. “Are you sure though? That you can handle being just friends?”
Max thought about it for a second. It was a no-brainer, really. Friends would suck because he was quite sure he was in love with Charles. But not having him at all was way worse.
“Yeah, I can.”
Charles thought about it for a second but nodded. “Friends, then.”
Max’s grin widened. “Great! So… as friends, would you maybe want to come to the next race? No strings attached. Just a paddock pass for a friend.”
Charles hesitated for a moment before smirking, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Fine. But I expect you to win again.”
Max laughed, the tension between them finally easing.
“I always expect me to win too, so…”
As Charles walked away, the bouquet of roses in hand, Max couldn’t help but feel a small spark of hope. It wasn’t what he wanted, not entirely, but it was a start. And for Charles, he’d take it.
***
Charles adjusted the pass hanging around his neck, feeling conspicuously out of place as he stepped into the Red Bull garage. The energy was electric, engineers bustling around, mechanics checking and rechecking every inch of Max’s car, and screens lighting up with live telemetry. He felt awkward, unsure of where to stand or what to do with his hands. What was he even doing here?
And then he saw Max.
Max practically lit up like the sun. His grin was blinding as he strode toward Charles, looking effortlessly confident in his Red Bull undershirt and race suit, the top half tied around his waist. Charles couldn’t help but notice how the snug fabric of the undershirt clung to Max’s chest and arms. He swallowed hard, suddenly aware of the heat creeping up his neck.
“You made it!” Max’s voice was warm and genuine as he stopped in front of Charles. He placed a hand lightly on Charles’s arm, and Charles felt a strange flutter in his chest. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”
Before Charles could respond, Max was already leading him through the garage, introducing him to the team with the same enthusiasm he had for overtaking on the track. Everyone seemed to know who Charles was—or at least they had an idea.
“This is Christian,” Max said as they stopped in front of the team principal. “Christian, this Charles Leclerc, my uh… friend.”
Christian Horner offered Charles a smile that was equal parts curious and amused. “So, you’re the guy who’s got Max so damn motivated lately,” he said, a teasing lilt in his voice. “Keep it up. If he manages to win this year, I’ll get you on the bonus pay roll too.”
Charles blinked, heat rushing to his cheeks. “I—uh—I’m not really—”
“He’s just joking,” Max cut in quickly, though his own ears were a bit red. “Ignore him.”
Christian laughed, patting Max on the shoulder before turning back to his work. Charles wasn’t so sure it was a joke, but he let it slide.
Max continued the tour, pointing out the intricate details of the car, the telemetry screens, and even showing him the pit wall. Charles found himself getting swept up in Max’s enthusiasm. It was endearing how passionate he was, how his face lit up as he explained everything. There was something magnetic about Max. Maybe it was the way his muscles moved under that thin shirt, or the way his hair stuck up slightly, or even the light sheen of sweat on his skin from the heat of the garage. He looked effortlessly hot —and Charles hated that his brain kept reminding him of it.
By the time Max was gearing up for the race, Charles felt like his face had been perpetually warm for the past hour. He tried to shake the feeling as he was escorted to the guest area to watch the race.
He settled into his seat, still feeling a little out of place. The murmurs around him didn’t help.
One of the women sitting nearby—Charles thought she was a driver’s partner but couldn’t recall who—leaned over with a knowing smirk. “You’re new, aren’t you?”
Charles nodded politely.
“Welcome to the WAG’s club. Well, HAB on your case,” she asked with a laugh. “Should I add you to the group chat?”
Charles blinked, his confusion turning to mortification. “No, no, it’s not like that,” he said quickly, his voice a little too loud. “We’re just friends.”
“Oh, right.” she replied with a wink, clearly not convinced.
Charles turned back to the track, willing the ground to swallow him. He told himself he wasn’t like the others here. He wasn’t going to sit on the sidelines of someone else’s passion like he had with Pierre. He remembered the hours he spent on the bleachers, pretending to be interested in boring tennis matches just so he could be a supportive boyfriend to someone who didn’t reciprocate.
Charles turned back to the track, feeling thoroughly out of place. He reminded himself why he’d said yes to this in the first place—to support Max as a friend. Because they were going to be friends now. Only friends. He wasn’t here to be anyone’s WAG, or HAB, or anything else.
And yet, when the race started, Charles found himself getting swept up in the excitement. The roar of the engines, the tension in the air—it was impossible not to be drawn in.
When Max overtook Lewis Hamilton in a daring move, Charles gasped, his heart pounding. His fingers gripped the armrest of his seat as he leaned forward, unable to look away. It wasn’t until Max crossed the finish line in second place that Charles realized he’d been holding his breath.
After the race, Charles made his way back to the paddock, his heart still racing. When he saw Max—sweaty, grinning, and utterly radiant—walking toward him, Charles forgot how to breathe altogether.
Max looked good . Too good. His hair was damp, sticking to his forehead, and his racing suit was unzipped and hanging off his hips, exposing his fireproof undershirt, now clinging to his chest and shoulders. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes sparkled with adrenaline.
Charles’s mouth went dry. He’d always thought Max was attractive, sure, but this—this was something else entirely. His pulse quickened, and a blush crept up his neck, threatening to reach his ears.
Max’s grin widened when he saw Charles, and before Charles could say anything, Max pulled him into a tight hug. Charles froze, his senses overwhelmed by the warmth of Max’s body, the scent of sweat and something distinctly him. He wasn’t sure if his face was red from the hug or the fact that he was distinctly aware of how solid Max felt in his arms.
“What did you think?” Max asked as he pulled back, his grin still firmly in place.
“I—I thought it was amazing,” Charles managed to stammer, his voice quieter than he intended.
Max pulled back slightly, his grin softening into something more genuine. “I’m glad. I wasn’t sure if it’d be your thing.”
“It’s…” Charles hesitated, searching for the right words. “It’s different. But in a good way.”
Max’s face lit up again, and Charles felt his heart do an annoying little flip.
“Listen,” Max said, his tone growing a bit more apologetic. “I’d love to stay and talk, but I’ve got the podium, interviews, debriefs—everything. But, uh… if you feel like waiting, we could grab dinner after. As friends, of course.”
Charles’s brain short-circuited at the thought of sitting across from Max at dinner, pretending he wasn’t still blushing from the hug. “I—thank you,” he said quickly, a little too formal. “But I should probably get back to my hotel.”
Max looked slightly disappointed, but he nodded. “Of course. Maybe another time?”
“Maybe,” Charles said with a small, hesitant smile.
He left the paddock feeling both relieved and regretful. Back at his hotel, he flopped onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. His thoughts were a mess of Max’s grin, his hug, and the way he’d looked so damn good after the race.
Charles groaned, covering his face with his hands. He wasn’t supposed to feel like this. Not again. But as much as he tried to convince himself otherwise, the memory of Max’s sparkling eyes and warm smile wouldn’t leave him. Maybe he should have said yes.
***
Their friendship was a surprise, really. Charles hadn’t intended for it to become… this .
It started with Max texting him silly pictures—his cats curled up in ridiculous positions, a half-eaten sandwich captioned, “Guess what corner of the fridge I found this in?” , or a selfie of him looking bored in a meeting.
Charles found himself laughing at these, caught off guard by the simplicity of it. The texts were never overbearing, just a sporadic little burst of sunshine in the middle of his day. Slowly, he started texting back. A picture of his pointe shoes after a long rehearsal, looking battered and frayed with the caption, “RIP to my toes.” Or a blurry snapshot of himself and his dance partner, both grinning as they tumbled out of a lift gone wrong, followed by, “I think we invented a new move today.”
And then it wasn’t just pictures. It was checking in, sharing pieces of their days. Max would text after a tough practice session, ranting about his team’s latest data or how his engineers were driving him mad. Charles, in turn, would vent about late nights perfecting choreography or the muscle cramp that refused to go away.
It was simple. Light. Easy.
But it scared Charles.
Sometimes, after reading one of Max’s texts, he’d feel his chest tighten in this strange, almost alien way. Warm and fuzzy, like his heart was wrapped in a soft blanket. It terrified him. It felt too good, too comfortable. He couldn’t let himself lean into it, couldn’t allow himself to crave this kind of connection. Because he knew what happened when you let someone in.
You lose them.
***
The rehearsal studio smelled faintly of sweat and resin, the soundtrack of ballet steps echoing off the walls. Charles was perched on the edge of the stage, sweat dripping down his temple, when the familiar hum of Max’s voice startled him.
“Do they feed you here, or are they trying to starve you into submission?”
Charles looked up, grinning as Max strolled in, holding a brown paper bag in one hand and two iced coffees in the other.
"Max?" Charles asked, a little breathless. "What are you doing here?"
Max shrugged, casually but with that trademark spark in his eye. "I was in the area. Thought you might be hungry."
Charles raised an eyebrow. “You’re never ‘in the area.’ You don’t even live in this country most of the time.”
Max’s grin turned sheepish. “Okay, so I might’ve planned this. But I’m right, aren’t I? You haven’t eaten.”
Charles couldn’t argue; his stomach growled on cue. He took the bag gratefully, opening it to find a neatly packed pasta dish and a slice of chocolate cake. (“What can I say?” Max tried to justify himself. “Carbs are important.”)
“You’re a lifesaver,” Charles said, pulling Max to sit beside him on the stage.
They ate together, Max occasionally glancing curiously at the dancers rehearsing on the floor.
“You make it look so easy,” Max said between bites.
Charles smiled, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “It’s not. But neither is driving at 300 kilometers per hour.”
Max tilted his head, considering. “Fair point. Still, you look... like you belong here.”
Charles stilled for a moment, caught off guard by the sincerity in Max’s voice. Before he could reply, one of his castmates, Marie, sauntered by.
“Oh la la, this looks yummy” she teased in heavily accented French, her eyes darting between Max and Charles. “Well, and so does him … Who’s this young man, Charles?”
Charles flushed instantly, shocked at the boldness of his friend but Max just laughed, clearly unbothered. “This is Max. A friend of mine.”
“Nice to meet you, handsome.” Marie winked at him. “Feel free to show up anytime.”
She disappeared before Charles could say anything, leaving him red-faced and Max smirking.
“I like it here,” Max teased. “I should come more often,”
“Shut up and eat your pasta,” Charles muttered, though the warmth in his cheeks refused to fade.
***
The second time Charles visited Max’s paddock was somehow just as overwhelming as the first, although no one offered him to join the WAG’s club.
This time, Max had introduced him to another driver, Lando Norris, who was quick to strike up a conversation.
“You’re that dancer Max talks about all the time,” Lando said, grinning. “He won’t shut up about you. Kinda annoying, really, but that’s just who he is.”
Charles glanced at Max, who looked suddenly very interested in adjusting the cap on his head. “I heard he talks about me sometimes.”
“Oh, not sometimes. Nonstop,” Lando confirmed, much to Max’s chagrin. “So much so, I’ve looked up one of your performances online. You’re really good.”
“Thank you,” Charles replied, genuinely touched.
Lando lingered, asking more questions about Charles’ ballet career, and while Charles was happy to chat, he couldn’t help but notice the way Max’s jaw clenched ever so slightly.
When Lando finally walked off, Max turned to Charles, his voice deceptively casual. “He’s always like that. Just oh so friendly, you know?”
Charles fought back a smile. “Max Emilian, are you jealous of your friend?”
“Of Lando?” Max scoffed, though his ears turned red. “Of course not. He is also not my friend.”
Charles leaned closer, his voice teasing. “Good. Because I’m here for you, not him.”
Max’s shoulders relaxed, and he gave Charles a small, grateful smile.
***
Max:
I’ve decided Azerbaijan is too far from Monaco. This is unacceptable.
Charles:
It’s literally your job, Max. You’re fine.
Max:
Barely. What are you doing?
Charles:
Rehearsing. Auditions are coming up soon.
Max:
Still not going to tell me what role you want?
Charles:
Non. I don’t want to jinx it.
Max:
You’ll get it. I’m sure of it. You’re the best dancer I know.
Charles:
I’m the only dancer you know.
Max:
Doesn’t make it any less true.
Charles smiled at his phone, his heart warm despite himself. Talking to Max always left him feeling lighter, like the weight of the world was just a little less heavy.
He hesitated for a moment before typing his next message.
Charles: I miss you, by the way.
The reply came almost instantly.
Max: I miss you too, schatje.
***
The nightclub was pulsing with energy, the music vibrating through the floor as Max and Charles celebrated his latest win. It was just the two of them tonight, and Charles was determined to let loose.
Max had been swarmed almost instantly by fans and admirers, one girl in particular catching his attention. She was tall, blonde, and clearly interested, leaning in close to Max as they talked.
Charles tried not to watch, but it was impossible to ignore the flash of irritation that sparked in his chest. He downed the rest of his drink, clenching his jaw as the girl laughed at something Max said.
It wasn’t fair. Max wasn’t his. He didn’t have any right to feel jealous, but—
“Charles!”
Max’s voice cut through his spiraling thoughts, and suddenly he was there, his hand warm on Charles’ wrist. “Dance with me?”
Charles blinked, startled. “What about that girl—”
“Who?” Max interrupted, tugging him toward the dance floor. “C’mon, I want to dance with you.”
Charles didn’t resist, letting Max pull him into the throng of people. They moved together easily, the music a steady rhythm between them. Charles couldn’t help but feel smug, knowing Max had chosen him.
***
Charles got the call late one evening, his phone vibrating in his pocket as he walked home from rehearsal. When he answered, his artistic director's voice was practically glowing.
“Congratulations, Charles,” she said. “You’ve got the lead in Onegin. ”
He froze mid-step, the words sinking in. Onegin. A role he had dreamed of playing for years.
The second he hung up the phone, his hands were shaking. He texted Max without even thinking: Got the role in Onegin. I can’t believe it.
Max’s reply came within seconds. Of course you got it. You’re the best. Also… what’s Onegin?
Charles laughed out loud, standing in the middle of the sidewalk like an idiot. He texted back, explaining the role, his fingers moving faster than his thoughts. When Max responded with, I’ll be there opening night, Charles’s chest felt like it might burst.
***
Charles was alone in the rehearsal space, sweat beading on his forehead as he pushed through the movements again and again. Onegin was a challenge, a story so emotionally dense that each rehearsal seemed to rip a little more of him open.
The role of Eugene Onegin was something he wanted for so long, he couldn’t even fathom it was actually happening. The character was aloof, deeply conflicted, and cold—so different from who Charles used to be when he first watched it in theaters, all those years ago. But the more he danced, the more he realized how much like Onegin he was these days.
Cold. Bitter. Sad. Lonely.
Every leap, every turn, felt like a desperate cry for something—love, meaning, or even redemption.
The pain in the character was raw, and in a way, it mirrored Charles’s pain. His deep grief, the fear of never being enough—it all spilled out onto the stage. But sometimes, it felt overwhelming.
Onegin’s inability to love, his refusal to let anyone get close, that bitterness—it struck Charles deep. Every time he reached for the emotion, he felt as though he was opening an old wound that had never truly healed.
His movements were sharp, his posture tense, and his mind wandered too often to things he couldn't change. He could hear his father's laughter, feel Jules’ guiding hand on his shoulder, but they were echoes now, distant memories he could never hold again. Sometimes, it felt like the more he danced, the more he danced away from them.
He was almost afraid of rehearsing, afraid of how it made him feel. He didn’t know if he could keep putting this much of himself into a role, risking his sanity for the art he loved.
It was during one of these particularly trying moments, when the ache in his chest felt unbearable, that his phone buzzed in his bag. He had almost forgotten it was there.
Max.
Charles wiped his eyes quickly, not wanting to admit to himself that he’d been on the verge of tears. He pulled the phone out, seeing a message from Max that made him pause for a second.
Max : How's rehearsal going? You’ve got this, I know you do. Proud of you, schatje.
It wasn’t much, just a few words—but it was enough. Enough to remind him that someone cared, that someone was watching him from across the world, thinking of him.
Charles smiled to himself, shaking off the heaviness of his thoughts. It didn’t erase the pain, but it lightened it for a moment. He could breathe again. Max had this uncanny ability to make him feel like he could keep going, even when everything felt too much.
Charles : Thank you, Maxy. Means more than you know.
He stared at the screen for a moment, fingers hovering over the keyboard, but before he could add anything else, another text came in.
Max : I can’t wait to see you dance again. It’s been too long. I miss you.
Charles’s heart fluttered at the words. He didn’t know how Max could see it that way—especially when his own view of himself sometimes felt broken. But it made him feel warm, like the whole world wasn’t so bleak after all.
***
Max stood under the bright lights of the media center, surrounded by microphones and flashing cameras. His mind wasn’t here, though. It wasn’t on the questions they asked about the upcoming race or the fact that his performance in qualifying had been underwhelming. It wasn’t even on the team’s frustration or the endless media circus, overanalyzing even the smallest of movements Max made.
His mind kept drifting back to Charles.
It had only been a half a day since their last message exchange, but Max couldn’t stop thinking about him. How Charles had been pushing himself in rehearsals for Onegin , how he seemed so focused but also burdened by the weight of the role. He kept wondering all the time how he was doing. Max wished he could be there, to support him, to tell him that he didn’t have to carry all of this on his own.
Instead, Max stood there, trying to ignore the bitterness of the media spins about his team’s issues and the constant pressure they put on him to keep being the best. He hated this part of the job—the demands of the sponsors, the endless questions about team dynamics, the lies spun to the press.
But then his phone buzzed.
He couldn’t help but smile when he saw it was from Charles.
Charles : I’m rehearsing and feeling like I’m losing my mind a bit. But I wanted you to know I thought of you during the pas de deux. About what you said, and I didn’t fuck up the turn this time. So thanks.
Max’s heart skipped a beat. Charles , the dancer whose soul poured into every move, the same Charles who could make a thousand emotions dance through the air. His words were always so honest, so raw. It was like Charles was sending a piece of his heart across the world with every text.
Max didn’t hesitate. He typed quickly.
Max : I wish I could be there to see it. You're amazing, Charles. I can’t wait for your next performance.
He stared at the message for a second, considering what else to say, but before he could add anything, he was whisked away for more interviews and questions. God, he couldn’t wait for this to be over, so he could go to his hotel, take a nice bath and text Charles the whole night.
But then, as if by magic, another message came through.
Charles : Here’s a picture from rehearsal. Not sure how I feel about it, but... you’re my only audience for now.
Max opened the picture, and his breath caught. Charles looked so incredibly beautiful—his body in perfect form, his face a study of concentration and emotion. He looked like he was living every word of the performance, and Max couldn’t help but admire the sheer passion Charles poured into everything he did.
He felt a jolt of something powerful. He’d been dealing with sponsors, team pressure, and the race, but all of that seemed to fade in the face of Charles’ face. All he could think about now was how badly he wanted to be with him, to share moments like these, to witness the beauty of Charles' art up close.
Max quickly typed back, his fingers almost tripping over themselves in his haste.
Max : You are breathtaking. I can’t wait to see you live, schatje.
Fuck, it was so hard being friends these days.
***
Opening night came faster than Charles expected. As he stood backstage, waiting for his cue, his heart pounded in his chest. Not from nerves, but from anticipation. This was the role he’d poured his heart into. The one he’d dreamed of for so damn long.
Most dancers coveted roles like Siegfried or the Nutcracker or Hilarion, but ever since Charles watched Onegin when he was twelve, he was absolutely fascinated with the story and the sheer emotion it took to pull off a character like this.
The theater was silent, the air taut with anticipation as Charles stepped onto the stage. The lights were blinding, but he didn’t notice. His entire being was consumed by this role, by the story he was about to tell.
Tonight, it wasn’t just about technique or perfection. Tonight, it was about something much deeper for him.
As the music swelled, Charles began to move, each step a release, each gesture a tether to the emotions he had buried so deeply. His feet glided across the stage, his arms curved in perfect lines, but it wasn’t the choreography that carried him—it was the weight of everything he had ever lost.
He thought of his father. He had been three years old when he first danced, his father holding his tiny hand as he stumbled through his first plié. His father had been his biggest supporter, the man who beamed with pride at every recital, no matter how small. And yet, when Charles joined the National Ballet, the culmination of everything they had worked for together, his father wasn’t there.
He’d died just weeks before Charles got the offer.
Charles had danced the next day. He had stood in the studio, his knees shaking, his throat raw from crying, and he had danced because he didn’t know what else to do. It had been his only way to cope, his only way to keep going.
The memory hit him like a wave, his chest tightening as he spun across the stage. His movements became sharper, more desperate, as if he could dance his way through the grief that still sat heavy in his heart.
And then there was Jules. His godfather. His rock. The man who had defended his choice to pursue ballet when others scoffed, who had stood up for him when he was bullied for loving something so delicate, so “unmanly.” Jules had been there for every milestone, cheering him on, until he, too, was gone.
Charles leapt into the air, his body twisting with perfect precision, but in his mind, he was that young boy again, looking up at Jules with tears in his eyes, asking why people hated him for loving something so beautiful.
And Jules’s answer rang in his ears now, as clear as if he were standing in the wings.
“Because they don’t understand it, Charlie. But you don’t need them to understand. You just need to keep dancing.”
His throat burned. His vision blurred.
He blinked rapidly, fighting the tears that threatened to spill as the music rose to its crescendo. He thought of everything he had sacrificed for ballet—the sleepless nights, the missed birthdays, the relationships that had crumbled under the weight of his devotion. Pierre’s voice echoed in his mind, sharp and accusing.
"It’s always ballet with you, Charles. You don’t have time for anything else. You can’t keep giving all of yourself to something that doesn’t love you back.”
And he hadn’t. He hadn’t had time for Pierre, just like he hadn’t had time for anyone else. Ballet had taken everything from him—his time, his energy, his heart.
But it had also saved him.
He couldn’t quit. He couldn’t give it up, not after losing so much already. It was his lifeline, his anchor, the only thing that made the world make sense.
By the final note of the score, Charles was trembling. His chest heaved, his muscles ached, and his throat was tight with unshed tears. The applause roared to life, crashing over him like a tidal wave, but he barely heard it. His vision swam as he bowed, his body going through the motions automatically.
As he walked offstage, the tears threatened to break free. His hands shook as he reached for a towel, his mind spinning with everything he had just poured out onto that stage. He had danced like it was the last time he ever would, and in a way, it felt like it was.
Charles hadn’t fully composed himself when he saw Max waiting for him.
“Charles!” Max’s voice was full of awe, his eyes wide and alight with excitement. He crossed the distance between them in two strides, his hands gesturing wildly as he spoke. “That was—oh my god, you were incredible! The way you moved, the way you—" He paused, seemingly at a loss for words. “I’ve never seen anything like it. You were… you were amazing.”
Charles blinked at him, the rawness of the performance still clinging to him like a second skin. He wasn’t sure what to say, wasn’t sure he could say anything at all. Max kept talking, his words tumbling out in a flurry of praise, and Charles felt himself crumbling under the weight of it all—the grief, the exhaustion, the adrenaline, and now this overwhelming adoration.
Max’s compliments weren’t just surface-level. He wasn’t saying Charles was good in a generic, polite way. He was talking about the art, the emotion, the technique. He had seen Charles, really seen him, and it was too much.
Before he could stop himself, Charles closed the distance between them, grabbing Max by the lapels of his jacket and pulling him into a kiss.
It was desperate and messy and full of all the things Charles couldn’t put into words. Max froze for a heartbeat, then melted against him, his hands finding Charles’s waist.
For a moment, the world stopped. It was just them, tangled together in the dim light of the backstage corridor.
But then, just as quickly as Max had given in, he broke the kiss.
“Charles,” Max said softly, his voice laced with something that sounded like regret. His hands lingered on Charles’s waist, but he pulled back just enough to look into his eyes.
Charles stared at him, his heart pounding, his breath coming in uneven gasps. For the first time that night, he felt something other than grief. Something warm and fragile and terrifying.
And he wasn’t sure if he could handle it.
Charles’s heart sank at the sadness he saw there.
“I can’t…” Max hesitated, his gaze searching Charles’s face. “I can’t do this if it’s just for one night. I—” He stopped, looking almost pained as he spoke. “I like you so much, schatje. It hurts. But I can’t just be a moment for you. I can’t do casual, or… or meaningless. If you don’t want something serious, if you’re not ready, please don’t do this. It will break my heart.”
Charles felt like he couldn’t breathe. Max’s words hit him like a freight train, the weight of them settling deep in his chest.
He wanted to say something, but no words came. All he could think about was the ache in Max’s voice, the way his hands trembled slightly where they rested on Charles’s hips.
And then, suddenly, everything seemed to click into place.
“I…” Charles swallowed, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m scared, Max. I don’t know if I can—” He stopped himself, taking a shaky breath. “But I don’t want to keep running away from this. From you.”
Max’s eyes widened slightly, hope flickering across his face.
Charles looked at him, really looked at him. At the way he was so open, so vulnerable, so real . And he realized that, for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t afraid of letting someone in.
“Okay,” Charles said softly, his voice steady now. “Let’s go on a date. A real one. No flowers, no gifts. Just us.”
Max blinked, as though he hadn’t expected that answer, and then a slow, radiant smile spread across his face.
“Yeah?” Max asked, his voice quiet, like he didn’t want to shatter the moment.
Charles nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah.”
Max’s grin widened, and he let out a laugh, soft and full of relief. “Okay.”
For the first time in what felt like forever, Charles felt light. Like maybe—just maybe—he could let himself fall.
***
Charles felt a buzz of excitement as he pulled up to the small, tucked-away karting circuit just outside of Monaco. It was a crisp, sunny day, and the hum of engines already filled the air as other racers zipped around the track. He hadn’t been karting in years—not since he’d gotten serious about ballet—but the thrill of it had never left him.
Max was waiting for him near the paddock, dressed casually in jeans and a Red Bull hoodie, his hair slightly ruffled by the wind. The sight of him made Charles’ chest do an annoying little flutter he tried to ignore.
“Charles!” Max greeted him with a wide grin, waving him over. “Ready to eat some dust?”
Charles raised an eyebrow, slipping off his sunglasses. “ Me ? Eat dust? You forget, Verstappen, I’ve done this before.”
Max laughed, his whole face lighting up. “We’ll see about that. It’s been a while for you, hasn’t it?”
Charles smirked, determined not to let Max’s teasing shake his confidence. “Don’t worry about me. Worry about yourself.”
They suited up quickly, each grabbing helmets and gloves. Max couldn’t stop glancing at Charles as they prepared, his cheeks dimpling whenever Charles caught his gaze. Charles pretended not to notice, though he could feel the warmth creeping up his neck.
Once they were strapped into their karts, Max leaned over and called out, “Just so you know, I’m not going to go easy on you!”
Charles laughed, his voice muffled by his helmet. “Good. I’d be disappointed if you did.”
The signal was given, and they were off.
The track wasn’t huge, but it had enough twists and turns to make things interesting. Charles quickly found his rhythm, weaving through the corners with an ease that surprised even him. It was like riding a bike—he might have been rusty, but the muscle memory came rushing back.
Max, of course, was right on his tail.
“Nice try!” Max called out as he slipped past Charles on a straight, his laughter carried by the wind.
Charles gritted his teeth, narrowing his eyes in determination. He leaned into the next corner, pushing his kart to the limit as he tried to reclaim the lead. The competitiveness between them quickly escalated, each refusing to let the other dominate for long.
It was exhilarating.
But it was also fun in a way that made Charles’ heart race for reasons that had nothing to do with speed. Every time Max passed him, he’d flash a cheeky grin or make a playful comment, and Charles found himself laughing despite his best efforts to stay focused.
When Charles finally managed to squeeze past Max again, he couldn’t resist looking over his shoulder and teasing, “What happened, Verstappen? Losing your touch?”
“Oh, you’re so getting it now,” Max shot back, his eyes gleaming.
They were nearing the end of the session when Charles, emboldened by his growing confidence, decided to take a risk. Max was ahead, but not by much. Charles saw an opening as they approached a tight corner and made his move, diving in aggressively.
The next few seconds felt like slow motion.
Charles’ front wheel clipped Max’s rear, sending Max spinning off the track and into the gravel. Charles immediately braked, his heart plummeting.
He jumped out of his kart, running over to where Max sat in his stalled vehicle. “Max! Are you okay? I didn’t mean—”
Max was already laughing, waving him off. “I’m fine, Charles. It’s just karting. Relax.”
Charles frowned, his stomach twisting with guilt. “But I pushed you off the track. That’s not—”
“Seriously,” Max interrupted, climbing out of his kart and brushing off his suit. “It’s fine. This happens all the time. You were going for the gap. I respect it.”
Charles hesitated, studying Max’s face. The Dutchman’s grin was easy, his tone light, but something about it didn’t sit right. Max wasn’t upset, but he also wasn’t treating the situation like the real race Charles had been hoping for.
“You’re being too nice,” Charles blurted, crossing his arms.
Max tilted his head, confused. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Charles sighed, suddenly feeling awkward. “I wanted you to race me, Max. Really race me. I don’t need you to go easy on me just because…” He trailed off, unsure how to finish the sentence.
Max’s brow furrowed, his smile fading slightly. “Just because what?”
Charles shrugged, looking away. “Because you like me or whatever.” He did not blush, because he was a full grown adult and not a teenager discussing crushes. “You’re the world champion, act like it.”
The silence between them stretched, broken only by the distant hum of other karts on the track.
Then Max chuckled, soft and a little self-conscious. “Okay, first of all, ouch. I’m the three time world champion, by the way. Second, fine. If you want me to stop being nice, you’d better be ready for a proper ass-kicking next time.”
“That’s all I want.” Charles felt his lips twitch, the tension in his chest easing.
“Good.” Max grinned again, leaning closer. “But for the record, I do like you. So don’t blame me if I do something stupid like buy you flowers after I push you off the track too.”
Charles rolled his eyes, but his heart fluttered all the same.
***
After their session, they returned to the paddock, both a little sweaty and disheveled but grinning from ear to ear.
“Admit it,” Max said, nudging Charles’ shoulder as they peeled off their gloves. “I was better.”
Charles snorted.
“In your dreams. I totally had you on the straights.”
“You pushed me off the track, Charles!” Max shot back, laughing.
“And you still couldn’t catch up after,” Charles teased, sticking out his tongue. “World champion my ass!”
Max shook his head, his gaze softening as he looked at Charles. “You really had fun, didn’t you?”
Charles hesitated, then nodded. “I did. More than I expected.”
“Good,” Max said, his voice quieter now. “Because I like seeing you like this.”
Charles’ cheeks warmed under the intensity of Max’s gaze. He looked away, fiddling with the strap of his helmet. “I’ll be even happier when I win next time.” he muttered, though his smile betrayed him.
Max’s laughter rang out, bright and unguarded, and Charles felt that same light, fuzzy feeling creeping in again—the one that terrified him as much as it thrilled him.
As they left the circuit, Charles couldn’t help but glance over at Max, his heart skipping a beat at the sight of him, carefree and utterly radiant in the afternoon sun. Maybe he did the right thing by finally saying yes.
***
Max tapped his fingers nervously against the steering wheel as he drove Charles to the small Italian restaurant he had picked for their dinner. It was tucked away on a quiet street in Monaco, far enough from the usual glitz and glamor to give them some privacy. Charles sat beside him, humming softly to the tune of the radio, seemingly at ease. Max, on the other hand, felt like his stomach was doing donuts on a track.
He glanced at Charles as they stopped at a red light, catching the soft profile of his face in the evening glow. It amazed him how effortlessly beautiful Charles was, how he could look so calm and radiant while Max felt like he might combust.
"You're quiet," Charles said suddenly, turning to look at him. His lips curved into a teasing smile. "Are you nervous about beating me at karting earlier? Afraid I’ll want a rematch?"
Max laughed, shaking his head. "I’ll hold you to that. Can’t wait to become a two time date-night kart champion."
“As if. I’m totally beating you next time.” Charles chuckled, leaning back in his seat.
Max’s heart couldn't help but flutter at the implication of a next date.
***
The restaurant was cozy and inviting, with warm wooden accents and the faint aroma of garlic and herbs wafting through the air. They were seated at a corner table, away from prying eyes. The atmosphere was intimate but not too romantic, though Max couldn’t help but wish it were.
Charles lit up the moment the waiter brought out a basket of warm garlic bread. He tore into a piece immediately, sighing in delight.
"This," Charles said between bites, "is already the best decision you’ve made tonight."
Max chuckled, watching him. “Good to know. If we ever fight, I’ll just bring you more garlic bread.”
Charles grinned, his eyes sparkling in the dim light. "It’s a foolproof plan."
Their conversation started light—Charles talked about his rehearsals, his love for Italian food, and how garlic bread might genuinely be his one true love. But as the meal went on and the wine flowed, the mood began to shift.
Max swirled his wine glass, staring into the dark red liquid before finally speaking. “Can I tell you something?”
Charles looked up from his plate, his expression softening. “Of course.”
Max took a deep breath, his thumb running along the edge of the glass. “I want something serious with you, Charles. I know we’ve been doing this friendship thing, and it’s been amazing, but... I want more. I don’t think I’m very good at hiding that.”
Charles blinked, his lips parting slightly as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.
Max continued, his voice quieter now. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately—what I want in my life. When I was a kid, all I wanted was to be a champion. My dad... he made sure of that.”
Charles leaned forward slightly, his gaze fixed on Max. “He pushed you hard, didn’t he?”
Max nodded, his jaw tightening. “Hard isn’t even the right word. He was relentless. Nothing I did was ever good enough. If I didn’t win, it wasn’t just disappointment—it was anger, punishment, shame. I grew up thinking that if I wasn’t the best, I wasn’t worth anything.”
Charles’ eyes softened, and he reached out hesitantly, placing a hand over Max’s on the table.
Max glanced down at their hands, then back up at Charles. “I don’t hate him for it anymore. I think... he thought he was doing what was best for me. And maybe he was, in a way. I became a champion because of him. But lately...” He trailed off, his voice thick with emotion. “Lately, I’m not sure the championship is everything to me anymore.”
Charles tilted his head. “Are you thinking about retiring?”
Max shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t know. Maybe. I miss when racing was fun. When it was just me and the kart and the feeling of freedom. Now it’s all sponsors, media, making the team happy. The actual racing feels like such a small part of it sometimes.” He hesitated, his eyes searching Charles’ face. “But then... racing to get that win, knowing you’d be there in the paddock, cheering for me—that felt different. It felt like the old days again. Like I was racing for something that actually mattered.”
Charles’ grip on Max’s hand tightened slightly, his brows furrowing. “Max...”
Max smiled faintly, his voice soft. “I think maybe you’re that spark I’ve been missing, Charles. You make me feel like... like there’s more to life than just winning.”
Max's confession lingered in the air between them, soft but heavy with meaning. Charles sat back slightly, eyes searching Max's face for any trace of hesitation, any hint that this wasn’t real. But Max’s gaze was unwavering, steady, and full of something so raw it made Charles’ chest tighten.
"Max," Charles finally murmured, his voice barely audible. "I... I don’t know what to say."
"You don’t have to say anything," Max said quickly, though his fingers fidgeted slightly with the edge of the napkin in front of him. "I just wanted you to know how I feel. What you mean to me."
Charles’ lips parted, but no words came out. Instead, he reached across the table, his hand covering Max’s. It wasn’t much, but the simple gesture carried all the emotion he couldn’t yet articulate. Max turned his hand over, lacing their fingers together, and Charles let himself hold on, grounding himself in the warmth of Max’s touch.
For a moment, they simply sat there, the quiet hum of the restaurant around them fading into the background. Then Charles let out a soft laugh, the corners of his mouth lifting into a small smile. "You know," he said, voice still a little shaky, "if you keep saying things like that, I might actually start believing you’re too good to be true."
Max grinned, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "I could say the same about you, schatje."
Charles groaned, his cheeks flushing. "You have to stop calling me that," he said, though the smile tugging at his lips betrayed his protest. “It’s embarrassing.”
"Never," Max teased, his thumb brushing lightly over the back of Charles’ hand.
The rest of the evening passed in a warm, easy rhythm, the weight of Max’s earlier confession replaced by a sense of comfort that felt entirely new to Charles. They talked about everything and nothing—Charles shared stories from his rehearsal process, and Max regaled him with a particularly dramatic account of a teammate’s recent blunder.
When dessert arrived—a shared tiramisu that Max insisted was a necessity—Charles laughed as Max took the first bite and immediately groaned in delight.
"Why do you look happier than when you won your championship?" Charles asked, amused.
"Because this," Max said, pointing dramatically at the dessert with his fork, "is better than a championship."
Charles shook his head, laughing as he took a bite. The rich, creamy flavor melted on his tongue, and he had to admit, Max might have had a point.
By the time they left the restaurant, the evening air was cool and crisp, the streets of Monte Carlo lit with a soft golden glow. Max’s car was parked nearby, and as they walked toward it, Charles slipped his arm through Max’s, leaning into him just slightly.
"You’re in a good mood," Max remarked, glancing down at him with a smile.
"Maybe it’s the garlic bread," Charles quipped, though the warmth in his eyes told a different story. “Or maybe the tiramisu… Or maybe, it’s the hot guy who took me on a fun date. Who knows?” Charles had a mischievous glint on his eyes as he watched Max’s cheeks turn scarlet.
The drive home was quiet but not awkward, which wasn’t something Charles wasn't used to. Most of the time he found himself scrambling to fill long spaces of silence with something, just so things wouldn’t be weird.
But Max made him feel comfortable enough in the silence.
When they reached Charle’s apartment door, neither of them moved to get in right away. Instead, they lingered by the door, the space between them charged.
"Thank you for tonight," Charles said softly, his gaze locked on Max’s. “I’m really glad we went out.”
Max stepped closer, his hand brushing Charles’ cheek. "Anytime," he murmured, his voice low and full of promise.
Charles tilted his head up slightly, his breath catching as Max leaned in. Their lips met, soft and tentative at first, but the kiss deepened quickly, heat building between them as Charles wrapped his arms around Max’s neck, pulling him closer.
When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing heavily, their foreheads resting together.
"Do you want to come inside?" Charles asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Max’s eyes searched his, and when Charles saw the flicker of hesitation, he quickly added, "Only if you want to. No pressure."
Max smiled then, soft and reassuring. "I want to," he said, his hand trailing down to rest lightly on Charles’ waist.
They made their way into Charles’ apartment, the door clicking shut behind them. As soon as they were inside, Charles turned to Max, pulling him into another kiss, this one more urgent, more desperate. Max backed him up against the wall, his hands gripping Charles’ hips as their kisses grew heated.
Charles’ fingers tangled in Max’s hair, and he let out a soft, breathless laugh as they broke apart for air. "Bedroom," he gasped, his hands lowering to tug at Max’s shirt “Now.”
"Bedroom." Max agreed, his grin turning wicked as he leaned in again, this time going for Charle’s neck.
***
Charles found that settling into a relationship with Max felt like a puzzle falling into place—effortlessly, as though this was how it was always meant to be. Their days became a steady rhythm of small shared moments, stolen kisses, and quiet companionship that he didn’t know he’d been missing until now.
***
For their second date, Max picked Charles up for a cozy lunch date by the marina. As Charles slid into the passenger seat, Max greeted him with a grin and a box of macarons he’d picked up on his way over.
“For you,” Max said, placing the box onto Charles’ lap. “I figured you might need a pre-dinner snack.”
Charles’ face lit up, the soft warmth in his eyes making Max’s chest tighten. “You’re spoiling me, Cheri,” Charles teased, already opening the box.
“Good,” Max replied with a smirk, his hand brushing briefly against Charles’ as he shifted gears. “You deserve it.”
Lunch was fun. It brought Charles the kind of ease that comes with truly knowing someone for years, which he thought was good. They shared stories from their week—Charles complaining about a particularly frustrating lift in rehearsal, Max recounting a dramatic moment during a team meeting.
“You’d think they were arguing over world peace,” Max said, rolling his eyes. “They just wanted to know which tik tok trend we should do.”
Charles laughed, leaning back in his chair, his smile so genuine it made Max forget the rest of the world for a moment.
***
Nights apart were filled with late-night phone calls. On one such evening, Charles lay sprawled on his couch, exhaustion evident in his voice as he told Max about the grueling rehearsal schedule for Onegin .
“I think my legs might fall off,” Charles groaned, his voice muffled through the speaker.
Max chuckled, his own voice softened by concern. “Maybe I should kidnap you and keep you in bed for a week.”
“As tempting as that sounds,” Charles teased, “I think I’d go crazy without dancing.”
Max’s tone turned serious. “You need to take care of yourself, Charles. Pushing too hard won’t help anyone.”
“I know,” Charles murmured, the warmth in Max’s voice soothing the ache in his chest. “I miss you.”
“Miss you too, schatje.”
***
Some nights, Max stayed over at Charles’ apartment, their evenings filled with lazy conversations and tangled limbs on the couch. On other nights, Charles stayed at Max’s place, snuggling with Jimmy and Sassy as much as he could.
One particularly lazy Sunday, they spent the entire day in Max’s living room. Charles sprawled on the floor, flipping through a magazine, while Max lay on the couch, playing FIFA (Charles tried to play a few rounds with him but he was so bad that he simply decided to stop).
“You’re really bad at relaxing,” Max commented, watching as Charles shifted restlessly for the fifth time.
“I’m not used to doing nothing,” Charles admitted with a sheepish smile.
“Well, get used to it,” Max said, tossing a pillow at him. “This is what Sundays are for.”
Charles laughed, his head falling back as Sassy headbutted him on the ribs.
***
One Thursday night, Max walked into his apartment, expecting his usual neat surroundings, only to find chaos. Clothes were strewn across the couch, empty coffee mugs were scattered on the table, and dance shoes were piled in a corner. Max stood frozen in the doorway, staring at the mess.
“Charles!” he called out, his voice tinged with annoyance.
Charles peeked his head out from the bedroom, his hair a mess. “Oh, hey. You’re early!”
Max gestured to the living room. “What happened here? Did a tornado come through?”
Charles flushed. “I was... looking for something.”
“For what? The meaning of life?” Max deadpanned.
Charles crossed his arms defensively but then saw the genuine frustration on Max’s face. “Okay, okay, I’ll clean it up. I’m sorry.”
Max sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s fine. Just... maybe try not to destroy my apartment next time?”
Charles walked over, wrapping his arms around Max’s waist. “Can’t promise,” he said, looking up at him with a sheepish grin. “You’re cute when you’re annoyed, though.”
Max tried to hold his stern expression but failed, laughing as he pressed a quick kiss to Charles’ forehead. “You’re impossible.”
***
Charles had bad days, too, and Max always listened patiently when Charles ranted about his coworkers.
“And then he has the audacity to correct me, when he’s the one who missed his cue!” Charles fumed one evening, pacing back and forth in Max’s living room.
Max, sitting on the couch, watched him with an amused expression. “You’re very type A, did you know that?”
“Shut up. It’s just…. This show means everything to me, and he’s just—ugh, he’s so infuriating!”
Max grabbed Charles’ wrist, pulling him down onto the couch beside him. “You’re incredible at what you do, and that guy is a jerk. Want me to use my connections to get him fired?”
That pulls a hard laugh from Charles. “You wouldn’t!”
“I would!” Max assures him, pulling him closer on his arms. “I would do anything if you asked me, schatje.” There was a playfulness in Max's voice but the way his eyes looked made it very clear to Charles that he meant it. He would do anything for Charles. Ain't that thought scary? But it's also comforting , he realizes, that he'd do anything for me.
Charles smiled, shaking his leaning into Max’s shoulder. “Thanks, Cheri, I appreciate it, but I can deal with this on my own.”
***
There were days when Max wasn’t in the mood to talk. After a particularly frustrating race, where a botched strategy cost him the win, he came home and slumped onto Charles’ couch, silent and brooding.
Charles didn’t push. He simply sat beside him, resting his hand lightly on Max’s knee.
“I’m here when you’re ready,” he said softly.
Max didn’t respond, but later, as they lay in bed, he reached for Charles’ hand, intertwining their fingers.
***
Not everything was quiet, though. There were fun nights out, like the time they went clubbing after Max’s victory in Monaco. Charles had been the life of the party, dragging Max onto the dance floor despite his protests.
“You’re terrible at this!” Charles laughed as Max awkwardly moved to the beat.
“Shut up! I’m great at this!” Max retorted, but he was grinning, his eyes never leaving Charles.
***
Max still makes time to watch Charles perform, even if he is in the middle of the season, even if he is bummed he can’t go to all of them anymore.
Still, he attended the last of Charles’ shows in the Onegin season, sitting quietly in the audience and marveling at how graceful he was on stage. Afterward, he handed Charles a familiar box with a gift he held on for the last couple months.
“Max,” Charles groaned, rolling his eyes, recognizing it right away.
“Just open it,” Max insisted, his face earnest.
Charles sighed but opened the box to find the same Louboutins Max had tried to give him a few months prior. This time, though, he smiled. “I still think its weird you ‘heard’ me talking about these.”
Max simply blushed. “Are you keeping them this time or…?”
“I’m keeping them.” He rolled his eyes but smiled. “Or else you’re gonna try to give them to me again. I’ll make this huge sacrifice.”
Max grinned, pulling Charles’ closer. “You’re so brave for this.” He makes him before pulling Charles into a kiss. “You were brilliant out there.”
“Thank you, mon coeur.”
***
The paddock was alive with its usual pre-race chaos—teams hustling to perfect final setups, fans clamoring for glimpses of their heroes, and reporters buzzing around like flies. Max was standing just outside his garage, engaged in light banter with Carlos Sainz, while Charles hovered nearby, enjoying the scene. He loved being here—not just as Max’s…whatever they were—but because it was exhilarating to see Max in his element.
“Don’t worry, mate,” Carlos was saying, leaning casually against the barrier. “I’ll go easy on you today. Wouldn’t want to crush your spirit before the summer break.”
Max smirked. “Oh, please. The only thing you ever crush is that shit box you call a car.”
“Oh, getting your claws out?” Carlos laughed, one of brows raised. “Are you trying to impress your friend there?”
Charles, unable to resist, jumped in with a cheeky grin. “My boyfriend only impresses me by winning championships.”
There was a beat of silence, just a split second too long, before Carlos burst into laughter, clapping Max on the shoulder. “Oh, is that so? Guess you’re hard to impress then. Good thing Max has done it a couple times then.”
Max chuckled along, but his gaze flickered to Charles, who suddenly realized what he’d said. His eyes widened slightly, and a faint blush crept up his cheeks as he avoided Max’s eyes.
Carlos didn’t seem to notice anything amiss and sauntered off, waving them both off with a grin. “See you on track, Max. And you,” he pointed at Charles with mock seriousness, “keep hyping him up. Maybe it’ll work this season too.”
Once Carlos was out of earshot, Max turned to Charles, his expression somewhere between amused and curious. “Boyfriend, huh?” he said, his voice low and teasing.
Charles froze for a moment before forcing a casual shrug. “What? It’s true, isn’t it?”
Max raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I mean… I’d like it to be true, but we haven’t exactly talked about it.”
“Well, consider it official,” Charles said quickly, his tone playful but his eyes softening. “Unless you don’t want to be?”
Max’s smile softened too, his hand twitching like he wanted to reach for Charles but stopped himself. They were still in the paddock, after all, surrounded by cameras and curious eyes. “Of course I want to be,” Max said, his voice quieter now. “I’d like to be, but I wasn’t sure where we stood.”
Charles blinked, stunned for a moment. Then, he laughed softly. “Where we stand? Max, I’ve been practically living at your apartment. I packed you lunch yesterday. What did you think we were?”
Max shrugged, his playful smirk softening into something more genuine. “I didn’t want to assume. You’re kind of out of my league, you know.”
Charles scoffed, but his expression was tender. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“So… we’re official?” Max asked, his tone light but his eyes serious, seeking confirmation.
Charles smiled, the kind of smile that lit up his entire face. “Yeah, we’re official.”
Max’s answering grin was so wide it nearly split his face in half. “Good. Because I’ve been calling you my boyfriend in my head for weeks now.”
“Mon dieu, you're embarrassing.” Charles teased, but his fond tone betrayed him.
Max let out a small laugh, glancing around to make sure no one was paying too much attention. “And yet, I'm your boyfriend,” he said, the word tasting like something new and wonderful on his tongue. “God, I wish I could kiss you right now. I’m sorry I can’t yet…” His eyes were filled with guilt.
“Don’t,” Charles interrupted, his voice firm but understanding. “I don’t need the world to know right now. I just need you to know.”
Max looked at him then, his blue eyes soft and filled with something that made Charles’s chest ache in the best way. “I do,” Max murmured. “I know.”
The moment lingered between them before Max straightened, the familiar race-day focus slipping back over his face. “I better get going,” he said reluctantly. “But you’ll be here after?”
“Always,” Charles said with a small, reassuring smile. “Good luck out there.”
Max nodded, and with one last look, he turned and disappeared into the garage.
Charles watched him go, his heart feeling a little lighter, a little fuller. He made his way to the spectator section, heading toward the WAG area where the other partners and families sat. He hesitated for a moment before stepping in, but as he found a seat, something hit him.
This time, he wasn’t just here as a spectator. He wasn’t just Max’s friend. He was here as Max’s boyfriend .
The thought made his chest swell with pride and his stomach twist with nerves all at once. He glanced around at the other partners, who were chatting casually or watching the monitors, and realized with a little jolt that he was one of them now.
A grin tugged at his lips as he sat down, giddy with the realization.
***
The sun sparkled over the water like scattered diamonds as Charles expertly steered the Leclerc family’s small boat along the Côte d'Azur. The breeze was light, carrying the scent of salt and summer as Max reclined against the cushioned seats, letting himself relax into the gentle rocking of the boat. Charles, barefoot and grinning in his swim trunks and a loose white linen shirt, looked effortlessly at home.
“You know,” Max said, watching him, “you look like you belong in some movie about rich playboys who fall in love with their humble assistants.”
Charles laughed, his face lighting up. “Does that mean you’re my naive hot assistant who helps me get a change of heart and be less of a playboy?”
The boat anchored just off a secluded stretch of coastline, where the water was crystal clear. Charles had packed a picnic lunch, complete with fresh baguettes, cheeses, fruit, and even a bottle of chilled rosé. They sat together on the deck, the warm sun on their skin, sharing bites of food and soft laughter.
After lunch, Charles dove into the water first, surfacing with a playful grin. “Come on, mon amour! The water’s perfect!”
Max hesitated for only a moment before jumping in after him, the cool water wrapping around him like silk. They swam lazily, splashing each other and diving under to chase after small schools of fish. At one point, Charles grabbed Max’s hand underwater and pulled him close, his smile soft and full of affection. They surfaced together, their faces only inches apart.
Charles brushed wet hair away from Max’s forehead and leaned in, kissing him softly. It was warm, sun-soaked, and tasted faintly of the sea. Max thought his heart might actually stop for a moment—no, explode entirely.
Later, as they dried off on the deck and stretched out to sunbathe, Max found himself staring at the sky, a strange but welcome calm settling over him. Charles lay beside him, propped on one elbow, watching Max with a small, content smile.
“So,” Charles said after a while, “what’s the next race? I feel like I need to prepare myself to lose my boyfriend to the entire world again.”
Max chuckled. “Hungary, in two weeks. It’s a good circuit for me. I like it.”
Charles hummed. “How did you start racing? I mean… What made you fall in love with it?”
The smile on Max’s face faltered. He shifted slightly, staring up at the sky, and Charles immediately noticed the tension in his body. “Sorry, you don’t have to—”
“No,” Max interrupted, shaking his head. “No, it’s okay.” He paused, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “It’s just… complicated.”
Charles sat up, giving Max his full attention, his expression soft and open.
“My dad was a Formula 1 driver,” Max began, his voice steady but distant. “Not a great one. He never won a championship, but he wanted me to… to do what he couldn’t. To be better. So he pushed me into karting when I was four. And at first, I loved it. I loved driving. I loved winning. I loved the feeling of being faster than everyone else.”
Charles nodded, but stayed quiet, sensing Max wasn’t done.
“But for my dad, it was never enough. I won every race in a season once—I was eight—and he still wasn’t satisfied. He’d push me harder, make me drive until I couldn’t feel my hands. If I didn’t win, he’d… he’d get angry. One time, he left me at a gas station after a bad race. I sat there for hours, wondering if he’d come back.”
Max’s voice cracked slightly, and Charles’s heart broke a little.
“I felt like I was only worth something if I won. So, I decided to never stop winning. I became the youngest driver in Formula 1 history. I had my super license before I even had my real driver’s license. I’ve broken records, won three world championships, and sometimes…” Max exhaled, shaking his head. “Sometimes I still think it’s not enough. I could win ten perfect championships, never lose a single race, and it still wouldn’t be enough to make him proud of me. To make him… love me.”
Charles’s hand flew to his mouth in shock. His eyes burned with anger, but also with sadness for the man sitting next to him. “Max…”
Max laughed bitterly, shrugging. “It is what it is.”
“No, it’s not,” Charles said fiercely, sitting up and grabbing Max’s hand. “It’s not okay. He never won anything! How dare he push you like that? How dare he make you feel like you’re not enough?”
Max glanced at him, startled by his sudden intensity.
Charles softened then, his voice gentler but no less certain. “Max, you’re more than enough. You’re incredible. And not because you’re a champion, but because you’re you. You’re the sweetest, most caring, hardworking person I’ve ever met. You say I deserve everything, but you’re the one who deserves the world, mon cœur. ”
Max blinked at him, his lips parting slightly. “Charles…”
“I mean it,” Charles said, squeezing Max’s hand tightly. “I’m so proud of you. Not because of your titles, but because of who you are.”
Max leaned forward then, pressing his forehead to Charles’s. “You’re going to make me cry, you know.”
“Good,” Charles teased softly, kissing his cheek.
For the first time in a long time, Max felt a strange kind of peace settle over him. With Charles by his side, maybe—just maybe—he could be enough.
***
It was on a lazy Wednesday night where time seemed to stand still. Charles was sprawled across the couch in Max’s Monaco apartment, half-curled against Max’s side, his head resting on his boyfriend’s shoulder. They had been aimlessly scrolling through a streaming service, failing to pick a movie, and Charles had just started telling a silly story from his days as a young dancer—a tale involving a clumsy partner, a disastrous lift, and a near-decapitation by a falling prop.
Max was laughing, his hand gently rubbing circles on Charles’s back as he listened. Charles beamed at the sound of Max’s laughter—so open, so genuine. It wasn’t the kind of laughter Max gave during interviews or in front of cameras. It was just for him.
Then Max, still chuckling, suddenly said, “God, I love you so much.”
He said it so casually, like it was the easiest, most natural thing in the world, as if it had already been said a hundred times before. He didn’t even seem to realize he’d said it.
Charles froze.
The words echoed in his mind, blotting out everything else.
“I love you.”
Max was still talking, oblivious to the fact that he’d just shaken Charles’s entire world.
Charles blinked, his heart pounding. Love? His mind reeled, spiraling through every moment they’d shared. The quiet nights spent on the couch, Max’s laughter filling the room. The thoughtful texts that made Charles feel like someone truly cared, even on the hardest days. The way Max looked at him during a rehearsal, pride shining in his eyes as if Charles had hung the moon.
It hit Charles like a tidal wave. He did love Max.
The realization was overwhelming, but it wasn’t scary. For the first time in his life, love felt easy. Effortless.
It wasn’t like his past relationships, where love had been tangled up in compromise and sacrifice. He didn’t have to choose between Max and his dancing. He didn’t have to give up a part of himself to make this work. Loving Max didn’t mean loving his art any less—it didn’t mean less of anything.
Max wasn’t just another person he was trying to fit into his life. Max was his life .
He thought about all the things he loved about Max: the way he was quiet and awkward but fiercely loyal. The way his competitive spirit burned so brightly, and yet, when it came to Charles, he was nothing but soft and tender. The way he didn’t push Charles to open up about his fears but always made him feel safe enough to share them.
Max had become his constant—his anchor. And Charles didn’t know when it had happened, but it didn’t matter.
He looked at Max, who was now rambling about how ridiculous Charles’s story had been, still blissfully unaware of what he’d just confessed.
Charles’s chest tightened as a warm, almost unbearable affection swelled within him. He reached out, placing a hand on Max’s cheek, forcing him to stop mid-sentence and look at him.
“Max,” Charles said, his voice soft but sure.
Max blinked at him, puzzled. “Hm?”
“I love you too.”
Max froze, his mouth falling open slightly. His confusion melted into disbelief, and then a slow, radiant smile spread across his face. “You do?” he asked, his voice almost boyish in its wonder.
Charles nodded, his thumb brushing across Max’s cheekbone. “Yes, I do. I love you.”
Max let out a shaky laugh, his eyes bright with emotion. “Wow. That’s... I mean, I knew I wanted to say it, but I didn’t expect—”
“You already said it, dumbass ,” Charles teased, fondly.
Max’s face flushed. “Right. I did.”
Charles laughed softly, leaning in to press a kiss to Max’s lips. It was slow and sweet, a kiss that spoke of every unspoken word between them. When they pulled apart, Charles rested his forehead against Max’s.
“I think I’ve been in love with you for a while,” Charles admitted. “I just didn’t realize it until now.”
Max smiled, his arms wrapping around Charles and pulling him close. “I don’t care when you realized it. As long as you do now.”
Charles let out a contented sigh, burying his face in Max’s neck. “I do. I really do.”
They stayed like that, wrapped in each other’s arms, the rest of the world fading away. Loving Max wasn’t just easy—it felt inevitable.
***
It was a quiet night in Max's apartment, the kind of night where the world outside seemed far away. Charles was stretched out on the couch, his legs draped over Max’s lap as they shared a bowl of popcorn and half-watched an old movie. Max, however, wasn’t paying attention. His eyes lingered on Charles, his mind elsewhere.
“Something on your mind?” Charles asked softly, catching Max’s faraway expression.
Max hesitated, his fingers fidgeting with a piece of popcorn. “Yeah. Something’s been bothering me.”
Charles sat up slightly, giving Max his full attention. “What is it?”
Max took a deep breath, his eyes flicking down to where their hands were loosely intertwined. “I want to come out,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Charles blinked, taken aback. “You... do?”
Max nodded, his jaw tightening. “I want to post pictures of us. I want to hold your hand in public without looking over my shoulder. I want to tell the world that you’re mine, and that I’m yours. But I can’t.”
The frustration in his voice made Charles’s chest ache.
“It’s not fair,” Max continued, his words picking up pace. “I hate that I have to hide this—hide you . You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I can’t even celebrate it. All because of where I race, what I do, who I am in the eyes of the sport.”
Charles reached for Max’s hand, squeezing it gently. “Max...”
Max’s voice cracked as he went on. “I hate that there are countries where I’d be arrested for loving you. I hate that my career means I can’t just be me . But at the same time, my career is everything I’ve worked for. I don’t know who I am without it.”
Charles stayed quiet, letting Max vent.
“I feel selfish,” Max admitted, his head dropping into his hands. “I feel selfish for wanting both. For wanting you, and my career, and the freedom to just live openly. But the truth is, I’m scared. I’m scared of what would happen if I came out now. It's not fair that I feel selfish for wanting this. It's not like I want something crazy, I just want to be out in the open with you… ” he started to mumble.
Charles slid closer, wrapping his arms around Max’s shoulders. “Max, listen to me.”
Max lifted his head, his eyes glossy with unshed tears.
“You are not selfish,” Charles said firmly. “You’re in an impossible situation. I understand why you can’t come out, and I would never, ever ask you to do that. I know how much Formula 1 means to you. It’s who you are.”
Max leaned into Charles’s embrace, resting his forehead against Charles’s shoulder. “But it’s not fair to you,” he mumbled.
Charles tilted Max’s chin up, forcing him to meet his gaze. “It’s not fair to us . But it’s not forever. One day, things will change. One day, we won’t have to hide anymore.”
Max searched Charles’s eyes, finding nothing but sincerity and understanding. “One day,” he echoed, his voice steadier now.
Charles smiled softly, brushing a hand through Max’s hair. “We’ll have our time. Until then, we’ll make this work. Because I love you, Max. I love you enough to wait.”
Max felt his chest tighten with emotion. “I love you too,” he whispered, pulling Charles into a tender kiss.
When they broke apart, Charles leaned his forehead against Max’s. “For now, we’ll keep it just ours. No one else matters, anyway.”
Max nodded, his arms tightening around Charles. “Just ours.”
They stayed like that for a long time, holding each other as the movie played on, neither of them watching.
***
Max was deep in focus, his hands gripping the wheel of the simulator as the hum of the virtual engine filled the quiet room. The Red Bull engineers were monitoring his lap times, but Max’s thoughts kept drifting. Despite the adrenaline rush of perfecting his racing line, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about Charles. They hadn’t texted much today, with Charles busy rehearsing for some big audition, and Max had to resist the urge to pester him for updates.
The sharp ring of his phone broke his concentration. Frowning, Max took one hand off the wheel to glance at the screen. It was Charles. A soft smile immediately spread across his face as he reached for the phone, signaling the engineers to pause the session. He removed his headset, already anticipating the sound of Charles’ voice.
“Charles, finally,” he greeted, his tone affectionate, only to pause when he heard an unfamiliar voice on the other end.
“Hello, is this Max?” It was a woman. There was a hint of an accent Max immediately recognized. His heart stuttered, unease prickling in his chest.
“Yes, this is Max. Who’s this?”
“This is Pascale, Charles’ mother,” she said gently, her voice steady but tinged with worry. “I’m sorry to bother you, but... Charles is at the hospital. He got hurt during a rehearsal. They had to take him into surgery.”
Max froze, the words hitting him like a punch to the gut. “What?” His voice cracked. “What happened? Is he—how bad is it?”
“He tore his ACL,” Pascale explained softly. “He’s in surgery now. He kept crying and asking for you before they took him in, so I thought you should know.”
Max’s mind went blank except for one thing: Charles was hurt, and he wasn’t there. He couldn’t focus on the rest of her words, the rush of guilt and worry drowning out everything else. “I—I’m in London,” he stammered, his voice trembling. “I’ll come right away.”
“Max, it’s not necessary,” Pascale said, though there was a grateful warmth in her voice. “You don’t need to drop everything—”
“I’m coming,” Max interrupted firmly. “Tell me where he is.”
Before she could argue, Max was already standing, his hands trembling as he grabbed his bag. He barely muttered an explanation to the engineers as he left the room, his mind racing faster than any car he’d ever driven.
***
The plane couldn’t move fast enough. Max sat stiffly in his seat, bouncing his knee with anxious energy. Every passing second felt like an eternity. He stared blankly at his phone, scrolling through old messages from Charles, trying to distract himself from the growing panic clawing at his chest.
He thought of Charles' smile, the way his face lit up when he was excited, and the way he’d laugh at Max’s dry humor. He thought of how passionate Charles was about ballet, how it was his whole life. And now... the thought of Charles not being able to dance again made Max’s stomach churn.
“Please,” he whispered to himself, gripping his phone tightly. “Please be okay.”
***
When Max finally arrived at the hospital, it was late at night, but the waiting room was still quiet with muted activity. His heart was pounding as he approached the reception desk. After getting directions, he rushed to the orthopedic wing, where he found a woman with soft blonde hair sitting next to two younger men.
Charles’ mother. Charles’ brothers.
Pascale stood as she saw Max approaching. Her expression was tired but kind, and she offered him a small smile. “Max,” she said gently, holding out a hand. “It’s good to meet you, even if it’s under these circumstances.”
Max barely managed to say, “Hi,” his eyes darting around for any sign of Charles. “Is he—has he—?”
“He’s still in surgery,” Pascale said, her calm demeanor doing little to ease Max’s nerves. “It’s going well, though. The doctors are optimistic.”
One of the younger men stood, staring at Max with wide eyes. “Wait,” he blurted. “You’re Max Verstappen ? Like, the Formula 1 driver?”
Max flushed, scratching the back of his neck. “Uh, yeah,” he mumbled. “Hi. I’m... I’m Charles’ boyfriend.”
The room fell silent for a moment. Arthur’s jaw dropped, and Lorenzo blinked in surprise. “Charles’ boyfriend ?” Arthur repeated, his voice almost comically high-pitched. “How does Charles know Max Verstappen?!”
“Arthur,” Pascale scolded, giving him a sharp look. “We’re in a hospital.”
Max couldn’t help the small smile tugging at his lips despite the tension in his chest. “It’s... a long story,” he said awkwardly, glancing back at Pascale. “Can we talk?”
Pascale nodded, leading him a short distance away from her sons. Once they were out of earshot, she turned to him with a warm but serious expression. “Charles talks about you a lot,” she said. “He didn’t tell me you were together, but... I can see why he cares about you.”
Max swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult to speak. “I... I’d do anything for him,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “When you called, I couldn’t stay in London. I had to come.”
Pascale’s eyes softened, and she placed a hand on his arm. “Thank you for being here,” she said. “It means a lot to me—and to him, I’m sure.”
Max hesitated before asking the question that had been haunting him. “Do you know if he’ll... if he’ll be able to dance again?”
Pascale sighed, her expression turning somber. “It’s too early to tell. The doctors will need to see how the surgery went and how well he recovers. Charles has been injured before, but this is the first time he’s needed surgery.”
Max nodded, his heart sinking. He could only imagine how devastated Charles would be if he couldn’t return to ballet. But Max pushed the thought aside. Whatever happened, he’d be there for Charles—no matter what.
***
Max sat in the waiting room, his leg bouncing uncontrollably as his nerves gnawed at him. Across from him, Arthur stared unabashedly, his eyes wide with shock and curiosity. Lorenzo, on the other hand, was seated next to Arthur, arms crossed, his expression stoic and unreadable. Pascale stood nearby, arms folded but with a look on her face that said she had dealt with enough of her sons’ antics for a lifetime.
Arthur, unable to contain himself any longer, leaned forward. “Okay, but seriously,” he said, his voice filled with disbelief. “ How do you even know Charles? Like, you’re Max Verstappen. You’re... you know... you . And Charles is just... Charles.”
Pascale sighed heavily. “Arthur, this isn’t the time.”
“No, no, it’s fine,” Max said quickly, running a hand through his hair. He figured honesty was the best policy, though he could already feel the embarrassment creeping in. “Uh, well... I first saw Charles in a ballet. In Amsterdam.”
Arthur blinked. “And…What? You met my lame ass brother and started dating him?”
“Arthur,” Pascale hissed, her patience wearing thin.
Max laughed nervously. “Charles was... breath taking.” He paused, glancing down at his hands. “After that, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. So I, uh, may have gone to more of his shows. I was kinda obsessed with him.”
Arthur’s jaw dropped. “You were obsessed with Charles?” he asked, his voice climbing in pitch. “ Charles ? My Charles? The guy who puts milk first on his cereal and was afraid of the dark until he was nine?”
Max smiled softly. “Yeah. That Charles.”
Arthur leaned back, completely floored. “I’ve never seen him as ‘obsession material,’ but hey, good for you, I guess.”
Lorenzo finally spoke, his tone sharp. “So, let me get this straight,” he said, his dark eyes narrowing at Max. “You were obsessed with my little brother, started going to his shows, and somehow worked your way into his life? A little stalker-ish, isn’t it?”
Pascale groaned. “Lorenzo, don’t start.”
But Lorenzo ignored her, leaning forward and pinning Max with a serious look. “Listen, I don’t care if you’re a world champion or a big shot celebrity,” he said firmly. “Charles has been through enough in his life, and he doesn’t need someone stringing him along or breaking his heart. So if you’re not serious about him—”
“I am serious,” Max interrupted, his voice uncharacteristically soft but filled with conviction. “I haven’t been more serious in my whole life.”
Lorenzo studied him for a long moment, his protective big-brother instincts clearly warring with the sincerity in Max’s words. Finally, he leaned back, though his expression remained stern. “Good. Because if you hurt him—”
“Lorenzo,” Pascale cut in, her tone exasperated. “Enough. Max flew all the way from London to be here. I think that tells us plenty.”
Arthur, however, was still stuck on one thing. “I can’t believe Max Verstappen was obsessed with Charles,” he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. “Like, our Charles.”
Pascale pinched the bridge of her nose. “Arthur, please.”
There was a long stretch of silence where all Max could think about was Charles. Charles getting hurt. Charles crying for him. Charles getting operated on. And then,
“Have you ever considered moving to Ferrari?”
Before that he could respond that, no, he could never hate himself that much, Pascale glared at him.
“Arthur Leclerc, Je jure devant Dieu que si tu dis encore un mot, je te punirai pour le reste de ta vie!” Pascale hissed and Arthur flushed a deep red.
“I'm twenty four, you can't ground me!”
“One more word.” She warned.
“I'm just saying, papa was tifosi…” He mumbled.
“Arthur!”
***
Max’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and for a stipid split second, he thought it might be an update about Charles. His heart leapt as he fumbled to pull it out, but it was just a message from his manager, asking about a meeting he’d missed. He ignored it, shoving the phone back into his pocket as his stomach twisted with anxiety.
Why would it be about Charles? Everyone who knew him was sitting in this room with him.
The hours stretched on, each one feeling longer than the last. Max couldn’t stop replaying what Pascale had told him about Charles’ injury. A torn ACL. Surgery. The possibility that Charles might not dance again. He couldn’t imagine what that would do to him. Charles loved ballet more than anything—his passion for it was woven into every part of him. The thought of him losing that broke Max’s heart.
“Max?” Pascale’s voice broke through his thoughts, and he looked up to see her standing beside him. Her expression softened as she took in his anxious demeanor. “He’s strong. He’ll get through this.”
Max nodded, though the worry in his chest didn’t ease. “I just... I hate not knowing,” he admitted. “And I hate that he was crying and asking for me, and I wasn’t there.”
“You’re here now,” Pascale reminded him gently. “That’s what matters.”
Arthur, who had been scrolling on his phone again, glanced up. “You really care about him, huh?” he asked, his voice unusually serious.
Max met his gaze without hesitation. “More than anything.”
Arthur nodded slowly, clearly impressed. Lorenzo, however, was still watching Max carefully, as if waiting for him to slip up. Max didn’t blame him. If he had a younger sibling as amazing as Charles, he’d probably be just as protective.
When the doctor finally returned to let them know Charles was out of surgery and stable, Max felt like he could breathe for the first time in hours. They were allowed to see him, but only one at a time. Pascale insisted on going first, and Max waited anxiously in the hall, his mind racing.
Arthur leaned over to him. “You know,” he said casually, “Charles is probably going to freak out when he sees you.”
Max frowned. “Why?”
“Because you’re Max Verstappen ,” Arthur said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I’d freak out.”
Max shook his head. “He doesn’t care about that stuff. To him I’m just Max,” he said quietly. “Just the guy who’s in love with him.”
Arthur blinked, clearly caught off guard by the raw honesty in Max’s words. He opened his mouth to say something but then thought better of it, leaning back in his chair instead.
When Pascale returned, she smiled at Max. “He’s awake,” she said. “Still groggy, but asking for you.”
Max didn’t waste a second. He stood and followed the nurse to Charles’ room, his heart pounding with both relief and nerves. As soon as he stepped inside and saw Charles lying there, pale but awake, his chest felt both heavy and light at the same time.
***
Charles’ eyelids fluttered as he tried to stay awake, his body still heavy from the anesthesia. The faint smile he managed when Max walked in faltered as reality crept back in. The sterile smell of the hospital, the weight of his leg immobilized in a brace—it all reminded him why he was here. His fingers curled weakly against Max’s, the beginnings of fear flashing in his eyes.
“Max,” Charles rasped, his voice quiet and strained. “They... they haven’t told me. How bad is it?”
Max’s heart clenched at the tremble in Charles’ voice. He knelt beside the bed, their hands still entwined, and leaned closer, his other hand brushing a stray lock of hair from Charles’ forehead.
“You don’t have to think about that right now,” Max said gently, though his own chest felt heavy with worry. “Let’s take it one step at a time, okay? You just made it through surgery. That’s the first step.”
Charles blinked rapidly, tears welling in his eyes. “But what if...” His voice cracked, and he turned his head away, ashamed of the tears slipping down his cheeks. “What if I can’t, Max? Ballet is... it’s everything to me. If I can’t dance, I don’t know who I am.”
Max’s grip on his hand tightened, his voice firm but soothing. “Charles, listen to me,” he said, waiting until Charles hesitantly met his eyes. “You’re more than just a dancer. You’re the most passionate, determined, and stubborn person I’ve ever met. If there’s even the smallest chance you can dance again, I know you’ll make it happen.”
Charles let out a shaky breath, his lips trembling. “And if I can’t?” he whispered.
Max’s chest ached, but he forced himself to hold steady. “Then we’ll figure it out together,” he said. “Whatever happens, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, Charles.”
The tears spilled freely now, and Charles squeezed his eyes shut, his face crumpling as he finally let the weight of his fear out. Max moved to sit on the edge of the bed, leaning over to press a soft kiss to Charles’ temple.
“It’s okay to be scared,” Max murmured. “But you don’t have to go through this alone.”
Charles turned his face into Max’s shoulder, his weak grip on Max’s hand never letting up. “I hate feeling like this,” he admitted, his voice muffled. “Like I don’t have control over anything.”
Max ran his fingers through Charles’ hair, a calming rhythm that seemed to soothe them both. “I know,” he said quietly. “I’ve been there too. But you’re one of the strongest people I know, Charles. And no matter what happens, you’re going to come out of this stronger.”
Charles didn’t respond immediately, the warmth of Max’s steady presence slowly easing his trembling. Finally, he tilted his head up, his tear-filled eyes meeting Max’s. “I don’t deserve you,” he said, his voice barely audible.
Max gave him a small smile, his thumb brushing away the tears on Charles’ cheek. “You deserve everything, Charles. And I’m lucky you let me be here for you.”
Charles stared at him for a long moment before letting out a soft, broken laugh. “I probably look awful right now,” he said, sniffling.
“You look perfect,” Max replied without hesitation.
Charles rolled his eyes but leaned back into the pillow, his fingers still clutching Max’s like a lifeline. For the first time since waking up, he felt a faint spark of reassurance, not because he wasn’t scared anymore, but because Max’s presence made the fear feel a little less overwhelming.
“Stay?” Charles asked quietly, his voice tinged with exhaustion.
Max leaned in, pressing a kiss to Charles’ forehead. “Always.” he promised.
***
If Max had to pin-point the moment where everything went downhill, he’d say it began in the hospital. With the sterile monotony of white walls and antiseptic smells, where optimism clung to the doctors’ words but seemed to slip right off Charles. The first few days were a blur of updates, forms to sign, and reassurances. “The surgery went well,” they said. “With the right therapy, he should regain most of his mobility.”
Max latched onto that “most” like it was a lifeline. If Charles could just dance again—maybe not like before, but somehow —things would be okay. He sat at Charles’ bedside, holding his hand, nodding along with the doctors’ explanations. But Charles didn’t say much. He would smile thinly, thank them politely, but Max noticed the way his fingers twitched when they talked about timelines, the way his eyes glazed over whenever they mentioned setbacks.
When they got home, Max dove headfirst into taking care of Charles. He didn’t know what else to do. He couldn’t fix what had happened, but he could make life easier for Charles in every way possible.
He rearranged the apartment to make it easier for Charles to move around—lowering shelves, clearing out clutter, even installing railings in the bathroom. He cooked all of Charles’ meals, set reminders for medications, and made sure everything Charles might need was within arm’s reach.
At first, Charles seemed grateful. He let Max help him settle on the couch, accepted the plates of food Max handed him, and even managed small smiles when Max tried to lighten the mood with jokes.
But as the days passed, Max noticed a shift. Charles started pulling away, in small, subtle ways. He would insist on carrying his own plate to the kitchen, even if it made him wince in pain. He started snapping when Max tried to help with things he couldn’t quite manage on his own.
“Let me carry that for you,” Max said one evening when Charles was trying to move a stack of books from the table to the shelf.
“I’m not useless, Max,” Charles replied sharply, his tone cutting.
Max froze, the books still in his hands. “I didn’t say you were,” he said softly.
Charles didn’t respond. He just turned away, leaving Max standing there, unsure of what he’d done wrong.
It happened again and again.
One night, Max found Charles struggling to open a stubborn jar of pasta sauce. Without thinking, Max reached over to help.
“ I can do it myself! ” Charles snapped, slamming the jar down on the counter.
“I’m just trying to help,” Max said, startled.
“Well, stop. I don’t need your help with every little thing,” Charles muttered, turning away from him.
Max bit his lip, swallowing the hurt. He reminded himself that Charles was in pain, that this wasn’t really about him. But it didn’t stop the doubt from creeping in.
Max took time off he couldn’t afford to take. He ignored Christian’s calls, brushed off his team’s questions, and focused entirely on Charles. He told himself that if he could just fix things—find the right therapy, cook the right meals, say the right words—everything would be okay.
But Charles only grew more distant.
There were moments when Max thought he caught glimpses of the old Charles—the quick smiles, the teasing jokes—but they never lasted. Most of the time, Charles seemed… absent. He would stare out the window for hours, barely acknowledging Max’s presence. When Max tried to ask him what was wrong, Charles would brush him off with a curt “I’m fine.”
Max didn’t believe him, but he didn’t know how to push without making things worse.
When Max had to leave for races, the guilt gnawed at him. He hated leaving Charles alone, hated the thought of him struggling without anyone there to help.
During race weekends, Max was distracted. He couldn’t focus on the track, his mind constantly wandering back to Charles. At one race, his distracted driving cost him pole position. He finished P3, slipping from the top of the championship standings for the first time in years.
That night, Christian called him into his office.
“Max, we need to talk,” Christian said, leaning back in his chair. He wasn’t angry—Christian rarely got angry—but his tone was serious.
“I know,” Max said before Christian could continue. “I’ll do better next time.”
“I’m not just talking about the race,” Christian said. “You’ve been off for weeks now. I know you’ve got a lot going on with your personal life, but you can’t let it affect your driving.”
Max opened his mouth to argue, but Christian held up a hand.
“Listen, I get it. You have a lot in your mind.I’ll be realistic with you: If you lose the championship, we won’t drop you. You already won us three championships and we’re beyond grateful. But if we see that you lost your edge things will change. The support, the resources, the winning cars—we put that behind champions, Max. Not drivers who can’t focus.”
Max felt the words like a punch to the gut. He wanted to argue, to defend himself, but he couldn’t. Because Christian was right.
***
Back at home, the distance between him and Charles felt insurmountable. Charles was colder now, his words sharper, his patience thinner. Max tried to bridge the gap with more effort—more help, more attention—but nothing worked.
One evening, he came home to find Charles sitting on the couch, staring blankly at the TV. The remote was on the floor, just out of reach, but Charles didn’t seem to care.
“Hey,” Max said softly, sitting down next to him. “What are you watching?”
“Nothing,” Charles replied, his voice flat.
Max hesitated before picking up the remote and handing it to him. “Here.”
Charles didn’t take it. He just looked at Max, his eyes tired and distant.
“You don’t have to do everything for me, you know,” Charles said quietly.
Max’s heart sank. “I’m just trying to help.”
“I didn’t ask for your help,” Charles muttered, turning away.
Max started to wonder if it was his fault. Maybe he was too overbearing, too smothering. Maybe Charles needed space, and Max was too blind to see it.
But how could he give Charles space when the thought of leaving him alone felt unbearable? Max loved him, and he wanted to show it in every way he could. But no matter what he did, it never seemed to be enough.
And the worst part? He couldn’t shake the feeling that Charles didn’t want him there anymore.
***
The days bled together after Charles’s surgery, a monotonous haze of pain, helplessness, and suffocating despair. He was drowning, but no one seemed to notice—not really. His mother’s quiet patience, Arthur’s loud jokes, Lorenzo’s steadfastness—they all meant well, but they didn’t understand. How could they? None of them had ever lived with their entire identity wrapped around something, only to lose it in a single, stupid moment.
And Max. Max, with his endless optimism, his unwavering support, his stupid, perfect life still intact.
Charles hated himself for thinking it, but it didn’t stop the thought from festering like poison.
He was trying—he really was. He smiled when Pascale brought him tea, laughed when Arthur made a joke, nodded along when Lorenzo reassured him that everything would be fine. He even mustered some excitement when Max called after a race, telling him about the podium, about the fans, about how everything was going.
But inside, he was hollow. And the effort it took to pretend—to be the Charles they all knew—was exhausting.
He felt trapped. Trapped in his own body, in this miserable, broken shell of himself. Every time he looked at his cast, every time he tried and failed to move without help, he felt like a failure. Like less of a person. He couldn’t even take care of himself, couldn’t walk to the kitchen, couldn’t shower alone. And worst of all, he couldn’t dance.
That thought hit him over and over, unrelenting. He couldn’t dance.
Some days he told himself it was temporary. That with time, with physiotherapy, he’d get back to where he was. But most days, the darkness crept in, whispering that it wasn’t. That he’d never be the same. That he’d never step on a stage again, never feel the exhilaration of moving to music, of pouring his heart into his art. And if he couldn’t dance, then who was he?
Nothing. That’s what.
Max visited whenever he could, flying in between races. He’d arrive with that easy smile, bringing stories of the paddock, of the races, of how close the championship was. Charles wanted to be happy for him. He really did. But every word felt like a dagger.
He watched Max on the screen one Sunday, standing on the top step of the podium, champagne in hand, the crowd roaring his name. Max was radiant, alive, living his dream. And Charles? Charles was a spectator in his own life.
The jealousy churned in his stomach, bitter and all-consuming. He wanted to scream, to break something, to cry. He wanted to be happy for Max, but he couldn’t. All he could feel was the weight of everything he’d lost.
Charles had been simmering all day. Every little thing grated on his nerves: the cast itching under his sweats, the way Pascale fussed over him, Arthur’s well-meaning comments, even the sound of the TV playing Max’s latest race highlights in the background. It was suffocating. Everything was suffocating.
He hadn’t slept properly in weeks, his leg burning in pain most of the time. He hated himself for needing help with everything—from getting out of bed to showering to eating. He hated how his body felt like a prison, hated how he couldn’t move, couldn’t dance, couldn’t be who he was supposed to be. Most of all, he hated that no one seemed to understand. Not his family, not his friends, and especially not Max.
When Max walked through the door that evening, he looked exhausted but still managed to give Charles a small smile. “Hey,” he said, dropping his bag by the door. “How are you feeling today?”
Charles didn’t answer. He kept his eyes fixed on the TV, his jaw tight.
Max sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. “Okay. I’ll take that as a ‘not great.’”
“What gave it away?” Charles muttered, his voice laced with sarcasm.
Max hesitated, then walked over to sit beside him on the couch. “I’m trying, Charles,” he said softly. “I’m doing everything I can to be here for you.”
“Yeah, in between your races and interviews and your living your dream,” Charles snapped, still not looking at him. “Must be exhausting.”
Max frowned. “That’s not fair.”
“Oh, isn’t it?” Charles turned to him, his eyes blazing. “Well, I don’t think life is fair either. Do you even realize how lucky you are, Max? Do you even care?”
“Of course I care!” Max’s voice rose, frustration creeping into his tone. “Do you think it’s easy for me? I’m trying to balance everything—being there for you, focusing on the championship, keeping myself together. I’m doing my best, Charles!”
“Well, maybe your best isn’t good enough,” Charles shot back, his voice sharp as a knife.
Max recoiled, hurt flashing across his face. “I don’t know what you want from me,” he said, his voice shaking. “Do you want me to stop racing? To throw away everything I’ve worked for? You told me once you couldn’t be with someone who asked you that.”
“I’m not asking you that!” He snapped. “I’m not asking you anything! That’s the point! I want you to stop pretending like you understand what I’m going through!” Charles yelled, his frustration boiling over. “You don’t! You have no idea what it’s like to lose everything you’ve ever worked for, everything you’ve ever been! You still have your career, your life, your future. I have nothing!”
“That’s not true,” Max said, his voice cracking. “You still have—”
“Don’t you dare say I have you,” Charles snapped. “Because that’s not enough, Max. None of this is enough. Having you it’s not enough for me!”
Charles could feel his chest heaving, his heart pounding as the words he had just shouted hung heavy in the air. Max was staring at him, wide-eyed and frozen, the color draining from his face. For a moment, it seemed like Max might fight back, might snap at him like Charles half-expected—but then his expression shifted. Hurt. Deep, gut-wrenching hurt.
Max blinked rapidly, his mouth opening and closing as if he was trying to find words but couldn’t. Finally, he whispered, “Not enough?” His voice cracked, and Charles wished he didn’t hear it. Wished he didn’t see the way Max’s shoulders trembled, the way his lips pressed together to stop them from quivering. “I thought—” He paused, his breath hitching. “You said I was enough for you.”
The air was sucked from the room. Charles swallowed hard, his fists clenched at his sides. He didn’t mean it, not the way Max thought. But the frustration inside him, the anger that wouldn’t leave, pushed him to double down instead of explaining. “That’s not —”
Max cut him off, his voice rising, more desperate this time.
“Then what are we doing, Charles? What is this? Am I just wasting my time? Am I just...just another thing you hate right now?”
The words landed like a blow to Charles’s gut. He shook his head, frustration building like a dam about to burst. “You’re twisting my words—”
“I’m not twisting anything!” Max shouted, his voice sharp and breaking. “You said it, Charles. I’m not enough for you. So why am I even here?”
Charles’s jaw clenched, his face heating as tears burned in his own eyes. “Because you won’t leave!” he yelled. “Even when I tell you to, even when I make it impossible for you, you just keep staying! Don’t you get it, Max? I’m broken, I’m nothing right now, and I can’t...I can’t handle this! I can’t handle you!”
Max reeled back like he’d been slapped. His hands shook as he pressed them to his temples, trying to keep himself from spiraling. “I thought we were doing this together,” he said quietly, his voice trembling but steady enough to cut through Charles’s defenses. “I thought I could help. I thought I could—” He stopped, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his words. “But I can’t even do that, can I?”
The silence between them was deafening. Charles felt like his chest was caving in, his anger dissolving into something heavier, darker—shame, guilt, regret. He wanted to say something, to take it all back, but the words wouldn’t come.
Max’s voice cracked again as he looked at Charles, his blue eyes red-rimmed and glistening with unshed tears. “I love you, Charles,” he said softly, brokenly. “But maybe I’m just not what you need.”
Charles felt the world tip beneath him. He wanted to scream, to grab Max and tell him it wasn’t true, that he needed him more than anything—but he was too raw, too hollow, too full of the poison that had been eating at him since the injury.
Max took a shaky step back, his hand gripping the strap of his bag like it was the only thing keeping him steady. He hesitated at the door, his eyes lingering on Charles one last time, like he was hoping for something. A word. A sign. Anything.
But Charles couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.
And so Max left.
The door closed softly behind him, but the sound echoed in Charles’s ears like a gunshot. The silence that followed was suffocating, the weight of it crushing down on him until he couldn’t breathe.
He let out a choked sob, his hands shaking as he pressed them to his face. The tears came hard and fast, blurring his vision, soaking his palms. He cried for everything he’d lost, everything he’d ruined, and everything he didn’t know how to fix.
Max was gone, and Charles was alone with the wreckage he had created.
***
Max didn’t even remember how he made it to his car. His hands were shaking so badly he could barely start the engine, and his vision was blurred from the tears streaming down his face. He shouldn’t be driving like this, he knew that much, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t stay. Not after... not after what Charles had said.
“ You’re not enough .”
The words echoed in his head, louder than the hum of the engine, louder than the pounding of his heart. He gripped the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles white, and pressed harder on the accelerator.
Not enough.
The phrase took on a life of its own, dragging him back to every moment he’d doubted himself. His father yelling that he wasn’t fast enough, strong enough, smart enough. His own voice whispering that no matter how many races he won, how many championships he claimed, it would never be enough. And now... Charles.
Max’s chest tightened as he remembered the look on Charles’s face, the anger in his voice. He’d thought—stupidly, naively—that he’d finally found someone who didn’t see him as a title or a trophy. Someone who saw Max, the person. Who saw him as enough. But maybe he’d been wrong about that too.
He cried harder, the tears blinding him to the point where he had to pull over to the side of the road. He buried his face in his hands, his breath hitching painfully. He didn’t even know how long he stayed there, parked on the shoulder of the highway, before he finally wiped his face and started driving again.
When he pulled into Daniel’s driveway, he was still a mess. His face was red and puffy, his shirt damp from wiping at his tears. He sat in the car for a long minute, trying to compose himself, but it was useless. He was falling apart, and there was nothing left to hold him together.
Daniel answered the door almost immediately, his usual easy smile fading into concern the second he saw Max. He didn’t ask questions, just stepped aside to let him in.
Max collapsed onto the couch, burying his face in his hands as the sobs overtook him again. Daniel disappeared into the kitchen and returned a moment later with a beer, setting it on the coffee table without a word.
The silence between them was comforting, in a way. Daniel didn’t push, didn’t demand explanations. He just sat with Max, his quiet presence a steadying force.
Eventually, the tears slowed, and Max picked up the beer, taking a long sip. His hands still shook, but he felt a little more grounded.
They played video games for a few hours, the mindless distraction exactly what Max needed. Daniel didn’t pry, though Max caught him glancing over every so often, his concern obvious.
It was a few hours later, after they’d each had a couple more beers, that Max finally blurted it out.
“Charles and I broke up.”
Daniel didn’t react the way Max expected. There was no surprise, no wide-eyed shock. Just a soft, understanding nod.
“Do you wanna talk about it?” Daniel asked after a long pause, his voice careful and gentle. “Or do you wanna get away?”
Max felt so relieved. Daniel knew him too well. He considered it. He didn’t want to talk. Talking meant facing everything he was feeling, and he wasn’t ready for that.
“Get away,” he said hoarsely, his voice cracking.
Daniel nodded without hesitation. “Alright,” he said. He stood up, stretched, and grinned, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “How does Vegas sound?”
Max let out a shaky laugh, the first sound of amusement he’d made all day. “Perfect,” he muttered.
And just like that, Daniel was in motion, grabbing his keys, his wallet, and his jacket. Max followed him, still raw and broken, but grateful for the distraction. For a little while, at least, he could run.
***
Charles hadn’t known it was possible to feel so empty and so full of pain at the same time. His chest ached constantly, a dull throb that sometimes swelled into a sharp, unbearable pressure when he thought of Max. And he thought of Max all the time.
Everywhere he looked, there was a reminder of him: the coffee mug Max always used, still sitting in the cupboard; the blanket they’d curled under on the couch; the faint smell of Max’s cologne lingering on Charles’ pillow. His absence was suffocating.
Charles didn’t tell anyone what had happened. But his family wasn’t stupid. They noticed the way Max’s visits and calls had suddenly stopped, the way Charles’ red, swollen eyes betrayed hours of crying. They didn’t push him, though. Maybe they were afraid he would break if they did.
He spent most of his days in silence, cycling between physical therapy, obsessively following Max in the news, and crying until his body felt like it had nothing left to give.
He’d told himself he wouldn’t look, but it was impossible not to. His heart had shattered all over again when he’d read the headlines about Max in Vegas, stumbling drunk through the streets with Daniel. The photos showed Max looking as much of a wreck as Charles felt, but it didn’t stop the jealousy from creeping in. Max could run. Max could escape.
When Max finished tenth in the next race—his worst result of the season—Charles’ chest twisted with guilt.
The post race videos were viral at this point. Max getting out of the car, kicking the tires, throwing his helmet on the floor with so much strength that the visor cracked, screaming at some poor Red Bull engineer, and then walking away, a scowl on his face.
People were calling him childish and spoiled.
Charles knew he was acting out because he was hurt. He’d wanted to reach out. To ask him how he was feeling, if he wanted to talk, to tell him it was okay. He hovered over his phone, typing and deleting messages, never managing to send one.
But what could he say? He’d been the one to push Max away.
And nothing had changed. Charles still hated himself. He was out of the cast, but physical therapy was a nightmare. Every session left him in excruciating pain, and even walking felt like climbing a mountain. Dancing seemed impossible, a dream he was chasing further away with every limping step.
He hated himself for what he’d said to Max. He didn’t mean it—not like that. Max had always been more than enough for him. What he’d meant to say was that he was terrified. Terrified that he wouldn’t be enough, that without dancing, he had nothing to offer. He’d been so scared, and instead of leaning on Max, he’d lashed out.
Two days later, Charles sat on his couch, his laptop open in front of him. His mother had gone home the night before, finally giving up on trying to coax him out of his misery. He had barely moved since.
The Red Bull statement stared back at him, the words blurring through his tears.
"We apologize for Max’s behavior at the race and want to assure everyone it was an isolated incident stemming from personal problems. We ask for understanding and respect during this time."
Charles read it over and over, his heart breaking more each time.
It was all Charles’ fault.
He buried his face in his hands, his sobs wracking his body. He hated himself. Hated the things he’d said, the way he’d pushed Max away. Max had deserved better—so much better—and Charles had destroyed everything good between them.
The guilt was unbearable.
It was his mother who finally decided that enough was enough. For weeks, she had tried to talk to him, tried to cheer him up, but he could see the growing worry in her eyes every time she looked at him. He didn’t know what she saw when she looked at him, but he doubted it was anything good.
One morning, she marched into his room with her keys in hand. “Get dressed,” she said firmly.
Charles didn’t bother arguing. He could tell by her tone it would be pointless. He climbed into the car, slumping in the passenger seat without a word.
She didn’t say anything, just drove. When the car finally stopped, Charles felt his stomach drop.
He knew this place. His chest tightened painfully as he stared out at the cemetery, his throat already burning with unshed tears.
“Maman,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Why are we here?”
She didn’t answer. She got out of the car, and Charles had no choice but to follow. She led him through the rows of graves until she stopped in front of one he knew far too well.
His father’s grave.
Charles froze, his breath catching in his throat. His mother turned to him, her expression soft but resolute.
“You and my Hervé had a bond I never truly understood, mon coeur,” she said gently. “I know that the day he died, something in you died too. I love you, mon trésur, but this can’t go on any longer. You’re destroying yourself. You need to talk to someone. So, please, talk to him.”
The gravel crunched under his feet as Charles walked the path to his father’s grave. His mother had left him there, giving him space. Now, standing in front of the simple headstone, he shifted uncomfortably on his feet, arms crossed tightly over his chest.
The words carved into the stone seemed to mock him with their permanence. Hervé Leclerc. Beloved father and husband.
Charles felt a lump in his throat but didn’t move. He opened his mouth to speak, but the silence stretched between him and the grave like a chasm.
“This is stupid,” he muttered under his breath. “You’re not here. You can’t hear me. I’m just talking to... stone.”
The words felt hollow, even to himself. He turned as if to leave, but something held him in place. The memory of his father’s face flickered in his mind—his warm, easy smile, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed. Charles exhaled sharply, shaking his head at himself.
“Okay, fine,” he murmured, crouching down and sitting cross-legged on the grass. His knee stung but he ignored it. He stared at the grave for a moment longer before sighing. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”
The words came out awkwardly, halting at first. But once he started, it was easier to keep going.
“I don’t know why I stayed away so long. Maybe it was because... I don’t know. Coming here reminds me you’re not really here anymore. But I guess I should tell you what’s been going on, right?”
He looked at his hands, fiddling with the ring on his finger, before glancing back at the gravestone.
“I got the role I wanted. Onegin. The principal role. It was everything I dreamed of. A really hard season, though. Sometimes I wondered if I was good enough. But I think... I think I made you proud. I hope I did.”
His voice wavered slightly, but he swallowed the lump in his throat and pressed on.
“And I met someone. His name is Max. You would have liked him, Papa. I think you would’ve liked him a lot.”
Charles smiled faintly, the memory of Max lighting something fragile but warm in his chest.
“At first, I didn’t like him. I thought he was arrogant. He kept showing up at my rehearsals, and I thought, ‘Who is this man, and why won’t he leave me alone?’ I thought maybe he was a stalker. Can you believe that?”
He laughed softly, shaking his head.
“But then... I saw it. The way he looked at me, like he could see right through me. Like he understood me. He’s like me, you know? So driven it scares people sometimes. It scared me. But I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t help being drawn to him.”
Charles’ voice softened, his gaze distant as he got lost in the memories.
“Max made everything brighter, Papa. He’s so different from everyone else I’ve been with. He listens to me—actually listens. He doesn’t tell me to get a hobby or that dancing is an obsession. He never made me feel small for loving it. He supported me, even when it meant putting himself second. And me?”
His voice cracked, and he pressed a hand to his mouth, trying to hold back the tears.
“I was horrible. I said things I didn’t mean. I broke his heart, and I can’t even apologize. I’m a coward. And now he’s gone, and it’s all my fault.”
Charles buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking. But the words kept pouring out.
“I’m scared, Papa,” he whispered. “I’m so scared. I don’t know who I am anymore. I’m embarrassed by the way I’m acting, but I don’t know how to stop. I’m angry all the time, and I’m so sad I can barely breathe. Who am I if I’m not dancing? It’s all I’ve ever done. It’s the only thing that got me through losing you. And if I lose it now... would it be okay? Would I be okay? Would we still be close?”
The silence that followed was deafening. Charles stared at the grave, tears streaming down his face as he tried to imagine what his father would say.
He closed his eyes, picturing Hervé’s smile, the way he’d always been able to make things seem simpler.
He closed his eyes and imagined what his father would say.
“You’d hug me,” Charles murmured. “You’d tell me Max sounds like a good guy. You’d tell me to go after him, to apologize. To face my embarrassment and run to him because... because you always said we don’t value the good things in life enough. That if something makes us happy, we should go after it fiercely. You’d say that, wouldn’t you?”
The words felt hollow in the stillness of the cemetery. Charles’ hands trembled as he wiped at his eyes.
“But I don’t know what you’d say about the dancing,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “Because it’s not really you saying these things, is it? It’s just me, sitting here, imagining things I want to hear. I can only come up with the answers I already have, and I—”
His breath hitched, and the dam broke. Charles collapsed forward, his hands gripping the grass as sobs wracked his body.
He felt like he stayed there for hours, maybe he did, since the sun was dipping lower in the sky. His tears eventually dried, but the heaviness in his chest remained.
When his mother returned, she knelt beside him, her hand resting gently on his shoulder. Charles didn’t look at her, his gaze fixed on the gravestone.
“I miss him,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “So much.”
“I know, mon trésor. Me too.”
“I just don’t know what to do, maman.” He confessed in a whisper. “I think my life is falling apart and I don’t know how to fix it.”
Gently, she took his face on both of her hands, making him look at her. Sometimes she forgot how young her son was – he forced himself to grow up so fast after Harvé passed. “We can help you, darling, but you need to let us. Stop closing yourself to us. Please.”
She wiped the tears that fell on his cheeks. “Things are hard, but it won’t be like this forever. We’ll be here for you. But you’re the only person that can help yourself right now.”
Charles knew this. And that’s what scared him.
Still, he reached for a hug. In the safety of her arms, things didn’t seem that scary. “Okay,” He said.
***
Max sat in the corner of his hotel bed, his leg bouncing uncontrollably. His helmet rested on the table, its cracked visor gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights. He’d thrown it so hard after the race that the sound of it hitting the pavement still rang in his ears. A fitting echo for how his weekend had gone.
Worst placement of his career. A humiliating, infuriating disaster.
Max ran his hands through his hair, gripping the roots tightly as if the pressure might keep his mind from spiraling. He’d gotten an earful from the PR team right after the race, their stern voices drilling into him about professionalism, image, damage control. His chest still burned with the effort it had taken to keep his composure in that meeting.
Later, back in his room, his phone lit up with a call from his father. He stared at it, the ringing loud and insistent in the quiet room. He didn’t answer. He didn’t want to hear his screams and pointed comments about how he was a failure. He knew that already.
Instead, he let the call go to voicemail. But the messages and texts that followed were impossible to ignore.
Fucking disappointing.
You need to pull yourself together, Max. Do you think a champion ever comes in p10? Ridiculous.
I always knew you weren’t good enough. Prove me wrong.
The last one hit him like a punch to the gut, as though it had been plucked directly from the storm raging in his mind.
“Not enough,” Max whispered to himself bitterly, his throat tight. Charles’ voice surfaced unbidden, his words cutting like shards of glass.
You’re not enough.
All his life, Max had fought to prove himself. On the track, to his father, to the world. And now... it didn’t matter how much he’d achieved or how far he’d come. That feeling—of inadequacy, of falling short—was back, louder and sharper than ever.
His phone buzzed again, startling him. He groaned and reached for it, expecting another onslaught of criticism, but the screen flashed a name that gave him pause.
Daniel.
For a moment, Max considered ignoring it. He wasn’t sure he could deal with anyone right now, not even Daniel. But then he sighed and pressed accept .
“Hey,” Max mumbled, his voice rough.
“Hey, mate,” Daniel’s voice was warm, steady, familiar. It felt like a lifeline. “How’re you holding up?”
Max closed his eyes, leaning back against the bed. “Not great.”
“I figured,” Daniel said softly. “Listen, we need to talk about today. About what’s been going on. You can’t keep bottling this up, Max.”
Max exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. “What’s there to talk about? I’m a mess. I screwed up. End of story.”
“Come on,” Daniel said gently but firmly. “It’s more than that. I’m not here to grill you, okay? I’m here to listen. Whatever it is, just... let it out.”
For a long moment, Max didn’t say anything. His throat worked as he struggled to find the words, to let himself be vulnerable. But the silence on the other end wasn’t pressuring. It was patient.
Finally, Max spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.
“It’s Charles,” he said. “We had a fight before we broke up. A bad one.”
Daniel didn’t interrupt, letting Max set the pace.
“I’ve been walking on eggshells around him for weeks, trying to make things better. I just wanted him to feel okay again. But then... he snapped. He said I wasn’t enough. That I wasn’t what he needed. I left.”
Max’s voice broke on the last word, and he quickly cleared his throat, trying to steady himself.
“It hurt, Dan. It hurt more than anything. And I hate him for saying it, but I still—” He stopped, swallowing hard. “I still love him. And I miss him. And I don’t know what to do with all of this.”
There was a pause before Daniel responded, his voice calm and measured.
“That’s a lot, mate,” he said. “I’m glad you told me.”
Max let out a shaky breath, his hands gripping the edge of the bed.
“Here’s the thing,” Daniel continued. “What Charles said? That was fucked up. But from what you’re telling me, it sounds like he was talking out of hurt, not out of truth. People say things they don’t mean when they’re drowning in their own mess. Maybe that’s what happened here. Maybe not. But if you want to move on—whether that means letting go or fixing things—you two need to talk again.”
Max tensed at the thought, shaking his head even though Daniel couldn’t see him. “I don’t know if I can do that. I’m not ready to face him.”
“That’s okay,” Daniel said. “Take the time you need. But don’t bury it, Max. You deserve closure, one way or another. And in the meantime...” He hesitated, his tone softening. “Today was rough. Really rough. And it’s not like you to let it get to you like this. You’ve worked so hard to get here, Max. Don’t let this ruin everything. You’re stronger than this.”
Max felt his chest tighten again, a fresh wave of emotion surging up. He nodded faintly, even though he knew Daniel couldn’t see it.
“I’ll try,” he murmured.
“Good,” Daniel said. “And listen, mate. You’re more than enough. Don’t ever let anyone, not even yourself, tell you otherwise.”
Max’s lips twitched into a faint smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He thanked Daniel quietly, though his heart wasn’t in it.
They hung up shortly after, and Max sat in the silence of his room, staring at the cracked helmet on the table. Daniel’s words lingered in his mind, but the doubts were still there, whispering insidiously.
Not enough. Not enough.
Max closed his eyes, exhaling shakily. He didn’t know how to silence them.
***
Charles stood outside Max’s door, clutching the bouquet of tiger lilies so tightly that his fingers ached. His heart thumped erratically, and for the hundredth time, he considered turning back.
But he couldn’t. Not this time.
He adjusted his grip on the flowers, smoothing the delicate petals as if it might somehow smooth over the cracks between them. Max’s favorite. He hoped it wasn’t too little, too late.
Taking a deep breath, Charles knocked.
The door opened faster than he’d expected, revealing Max in sweatpants and an old hoodie. His hair was mussed, like he’d been running a hand through it repeatedly, and his face was pale, his eyes bloodshot.
Max blinked at him, his lips parting slightly in surprise. “Charles?”
“Hi,” Charles said, his voice barely above a whisper. He hesitated, lifting the bouquet between them. “I, uh... I brought you these. Can we talk?”
Max’s gaze dropped to the flowers, then back to Charles’ face. His expression was unreadable, but the silence stretched painfully. Charles fought the urge to turn and run.
Finally, Max stepped aside, nodding curtly. “Fine. Come in.”
Charles shuffled inside, clutching the bouquet like a lifeline. The space smelled faintly of stale coffee and something metallic. On the table, the cracked helmet Max had shattered after his last race sat like a monument to his frustration.
Max gestured vaguely toward the couch but didn’t sit himself. He crossed his arms, standing stiffly by the table. “Go on. Talk.”
Charles placed the flowers down carefully, then sat, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. He looked up at Max, whose guarded expression made his throat close. “I came to apologize,” he began, his voice cracking slightly.
“Apologize.” Max’s jaw tightened and he snorted. “For what?”
“For everything,” Charles said, his words tumbling out in a rush. “For what I said. For how I treated you. For... hurting you the way I did. You didn’t deserve that.”
Max let out a bitter laugh, his eyes narrowing. “You think flowers can fix that, Charles? You think showing up weeks later erases what you said?”
“No,” Charles said quickly, shaking his head. “I know it doesn’t. And I know I should’ve come sooner. But I—” He faltered, running a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t ready. Nothing had changed. I was still... lost. Still angry.” Max’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t say anything, so Charles continued. “I’m going to therapy now,” he said, his voice faltering slightly. “And physio. My mom... well, she made it clear I didn’t have a choice. But it’s helping. I’m not healed yet—not mentally, not physically—but it’s helping me see things more clearly. I knew I had to work on myself before coming here, because I didn’t want to make things worse.”
Max’s stare was ice cold, his voice sharp. “Worse than telling me I wasn’t enough for you? I don’t think you can manage that.”
Charles flinched like he’d been struck, but he didn’t look away. He deserved this. Every word. “You’re right,” he said softly. “I was awful. I said things I didn’t mean. Horrible things. And I know it doesn’t change how much they hurt, but Max, I swear, I didn’t mean it. Not a single word.”
Max scoffed, his arms dropping to his sides. “Then why’d you say it? Why, Charles? Because it sure felt like you meant it.”
Charles swallowed hard, his throat burning. “Because I’m scared,” he admitted, his voice trembling. “Because I don’t know who I am anymore. All my life, dancing has been everything. It’s what I’m good at, what I am. And now...” He gestured helplessly at himself. “I can’t even do that. And if I’m not a dancer, who the hell am I?”
He forced himself to keep going, even though Max’s expression didn’t soften. “That fear, that emptiness... it’s been eating me alive. And I took it out on you, Max. Because you were the one good thing in my life, and I didn’t know how to handle that. I pushed you away because I was scared I wasn’t enough.”
Max’s lips pressed into a thin line, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “So it wasn’t me, it was you? Is that supposed to make me feel better?” His voice cracked, the hurt unmistakable. “Because it doesn’t. It doesn’t undo the fact that you said it, that you made me feel like I wasn’t worth anything.”
Charles’ eyes filled with tears, but he blinked them back, his voice thick. “I know. I know it doesn’t fix it. But I need you to know that it wasn’t true. That you were... are... everything to me. I was the one who wasn’t enough. And I hate myself for making you feel that way.”
Max turned away, his shoulders tense, one hand running through his hair.
“I still hear it,” Max said finally, his voice low, pained. “In my head. Every time I mess up, every time someone criticizes me, I hear you saying it. ‘Not enough.’ Do you know what that’s like?”
Charles clenched his fists in his lap, guilt twisting his insides. “I do,” he said hoarsely. “Because it’s the same thing I tell myself every day. But that doesn’t excuse what I said to you. Nothing does.”
Max turned back to him, his eyes glossy, but his expression remained hard. “You hurt me, Charles. And I can’t just pretend that didn’t happen.”
“I’m not asking you to,” Charles said quickly. “I’m just asking for a chance. To prove that I didn’t mean it. To make it up to you. To... fix this.”
Max shook his head, his lips twitching in something like a bitter smile. “How, Charles? How do you fix this?”
“I don’t know. I can bring you flowers after every race. I can buy you the most expensive Louboutins I can find.” Charles let out a shaky laugh, half-desperate, half-joking. “I can write a whole fucking book about Formula 1 if that’s what it takes. Just... tell me what I need to do, Max. I’ll do it.”
Max’s mouth twitched again, this time with something closer to genuine amusement, but the pain didn’t leave his eyes. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know, Charles. I just... I need time.”
Charles nodded, his heart breaking but understanding. “Okay. Take all the time you need.”
He stood, hesitating for a moment. “I miss you, Max,” he said softly. “More than anything.”
Max didn’t respond, but his gaze lingered on Charles as he walked to the door.
As Charles stepped out into the cool night air, he felt the weight of the conversation settle over him. It wasn’t what he’d hoped for, but it was a start. And for now, that would have to be enough.
***
Max wasn’t sure why he found himself at Daniel’s apartment again. Maybe it was because Daniel always knew what to say—or at least knew how to make things feel less heavy. Or maybe it was just because Max didn’t know where else to go.
The events of the last night were still fresh in his mind. Charles showing up at his door with tiger lilies, his face drawn with guilt and openness. The apology. The rawness in Charles’ voice when he admitted he felt like he wasn’t enough anymore.
Max had wanted to forgive him right then and there. His heart had ached to. But the words Charles had thrown at him all those weeks ago still echoed in his mind, sharp and stinging.
" You’re not enough ."
No matter how many times he told himself that Charles didn’t mean it, that it was just the pain and depression talking, it still hurt.
So now, he was here. Standing at Daniel’s door like some lost puppy, unsure of how to move forward.
Daniel opened the door with his usual easy grin. “Maxy! What’s up?”
Max stepped inside, running a hand through his hair. “Can we talk??”
Daniel’s grin softened into something more serious. He stepped aside to let Max in, gesturing for him to sit on the couch.
“Okay, hit me,” Daniel said, plopping down beside him. “What’s going on?”
Max hesitated, his hands fidgeting in his lap. “Charles came to see me.”
Daniel’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh? And?”
“He… apologized,” Max said, his voice quieter than he intended. “He said he’s in therapy now. That he’s trying to get better.”
Daniel leaned back, his expression thoughtful. “Well, that’s a good thing, right? He’s trying.”
Max nodded slowly. “It is. But… I don’t know, Dan. It’s hard. What he said to me, back then—it really messed me up.” Max muttered, his voice thick with emotion. “And I get it now. I mean, he explained himself. He said he was terrified he wasn’t enough. But it doesn’t erase how it felt to hear those words. Especially…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening.
“Especially what?” Daniel prompted.
Max hesitated before finally admitting, “Especially because it’s what my dad used to say to me. That I wasn’t enough. That I’d never be enough.”
Daniel’s face softened with understanding. “Ah, Maxy…”
Daniel leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You know, mate, I think it might help if you talked to someone about this.”
Max frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean therapy,” Daniel said simply.
Max immediately shook his head. “No. I don’t need therapy.”
Daniel raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that? Because from where I’m sitting, you’ve got a lot of shit weighing you down. And talking to someone who knows how to help? It’s not a bad thing.”
Max crossed his arms, his posture defensive. “I’ve gotten this far without it.”
“And how’s that working out for you?” Daniel asked, his tone gentle but pointed.
Max glared at him, but there was no real heat behind it. “I don’t need to talk to a stranger about my problems.”
“It’s not about them being a stranger,” Daniel said. “It’s about having someone who can help you unpack all this stuff. Someone who can give you the tools to deal with it.”
Max looked away, his jaw clenching. “I don’t know…”
“Max, what’s the worst that could happen?” Daniel asked. “You go, you don’t like it, and you stop. That’s it. But what if it helps? What if it actually makes things better?”
Max didn’t respond right away. He stared at the floor, his mind racing.
Daniel placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “Look, mate. You’ve been through a lot. And it’s okay to need help. You don’t have to carry all of this on your own.”
After a long moment, Max finally looked up at Daniel. “Do you think I should forgive him?”
Daniel tilted his head, considering the question. “That’s not something I can answer for you, mate. Forgiveness isn’t about letting someone off the hook. It’s about figuring out if you’re ready to let go of the hurt.”
Max frowned. “I still… I still care about him. I think I always will. But part of me is scared. What if I forgive him and he hurts me again?”
“That’s a risk you’ll have to take,” Daniel said honestly. “But here’s the thing: Charles is trying. He’s putting in the work. And that’s more than a lot of people would do. If you still care about him—and I think you do—then maybe it’s worth giving him a chance. But only if you’re ready.”
Max sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t know if I’m ready.”
“And that’s okay,” Daniel said. “Take your time. You don’t have to have all the answers right now.”
Max nodded slowly, the weight on his chest feeling just a little lighter. Daniel always seemed to know exactly what to say.
***
Physical therapy was hell. Charles had always thought of himself as resilient. He was used to pain, to pushing through it until his body bent to his will. In ballet, pain was a daily companion—the sting of blisters bursting mid-rehearsal, the ache of muscles pulled to their limits, the burn of hours spent perfecting a routine. He had thrived in it, found purpose in it.
But this was different.
Healing his knee was slow, agonizing work. Every session left him feeling weak, fragile, like his body was betraying him. Exercises that once would have been laughably simple—lifting his leg, bending his knee—now felt like mountains to climb. And it wasn’t just the physical pain; it was the frustration.
He missed dancing so much it ached. Ballet wasn’t just a job; it was his identity, his escape, his everything. And now, every wobble, every strained movement reminded him of how far he still had to go.
His physical therapist was kind but firm, always reminding him to be patient. “It’s a process, Charles. You have to let your body heal on its own timeline.”
But patience had never been his strong suit.
As grueling as physical therapy was, actual therapy was way worse.
His therapist, a calm and sharp-eyed woman named Laurie, was impossible to fool. She didn’t let him brush off his feelings with a well-practiced smile or deflect with charming anecdotes. She saw right through him, and she wasn’t afraid to call him out.
***
Charles sat stiffly on the worn leather couch, his hands resting on his knees. Laurie regarded him from her chair, her notebook resting idly in her lap. Her gaze wasn’t harsh or judgmental, but it was sharp enough to cut through any half-hearted answers.
“Let’s talk about ballet,” she began, her voice calm but probing. “When did you start enjoying it so much?”
Charles frowned at the question. “I’ve always loved it.”
“That’s not what I asked,” Laurie countered gently, tilting her head. “I asked when you started enjoying it. What made you fall in love with it?”
He hesitated, the memory tugging at the corners of his mind. “It was because of Jules—my godfather. He was a dancer. My family used to watch him perform, and I thought… I thought he was beautiful.”
Laurie leaned forward slightly, her eyes encouraging him to continue.
“I wanted to be like him,” Charles admitted. “I wanted to move like that, to make people feel something just by watching.”
“Who took you to your first ballet class?” She asked, her tone casual, though Charles could sense there was a purpose behind the question.
“My papa,” he said, his voice softening. “He signed me up for lessons and took me every week. He’d wait outside, even when the classes ran late. He never minded.” A small smile crept onto his face as the memories resurfaced. “Even when the shoes got too expensive, or the lessons started taking up too much time, he didn’t let me give up. He believed in me.”
“And how did that make you feel?” Laurie asked, her pen poised but not writing.
“I loved it,” Charles said, his voice tightening slightly. “The stage, the music, the applause… but most of all, the way he looked at me. How proud he was. Ballet made him happy, and that made me happy.”
Laurie nodded slowly, letting his words hang in the air before she spoke again. “Charles, do you realize how unhealthy it is to make ballet your whole identity?”
The statement felt like a slap, though her voice remained calm.
“What?” he asked, his brows knitting together.
“Think about it,” Laurie said, leaning back in her chair. “You started ballet because you admired Jules, and you stayed in ballet because it connected you to your father. It’s not just something you do; it’s something you’ve tied to the people you love most. Ballet isn’t just dance to you—it’s a way to keep them with you.”
Charles blinked, the realization creeping in like a cold draft. “That’s not… that’s not true,” he protested weakly, though even as he said it, he could feel the weight of her words sinking in.
Laurie didn’t press, letting the silence do the work.
“You think that as long as you have ballet, you still have them,” she said gently. “Jules, your papa. Ballet has become your shield. It’s how you avoid grieving their loss.”
“I have grieved them,” Charles insisted, though his voice cracked slightly.
“Have you?” Laurie asked, her tone steady but not unkind. “Or have you buried yourself so deeply in dance that you never had to face the pain head-on?”
Charles looked away, his jaw tightening. He could feel the lump forming in his throat, the one he always swallowed down before it got the better of him.
Laurie’s voice softened even further. “Charles, grief doesn’t go away just because you ignore it. It festers. And when you tie something as important as ballet to your grief, it becomes unhealthy. It becomes a crutch. And the moment that crutch is threatened—like now—it feels like your whole world is falling apart.”
The words hit him like a punch to the gut. He opened his mouth to argue but found he couldn’t.
“Ballet reminds you of them, doesn’t it?” Laurie asked, her voice steady but not pushing. “Of the love and support they gave you. But Charles, you don’t need ballet to keep that. It’s already a part of you.”
He swallowed hard, his hands gripping his knees. The tears threatened to spill, but he forced himself to hold them back.
“It’s okay to love ballet,” Laurie said, her voice as gentle as ever. “But you can’t let it be the only thing you are. And you can’t let it be the only way you hold on to them. Jules and your papa… they’re a part of you, no matter what. You don’t need to dance to prove that.”
Charles nodded, though his throat felt too tight to speak.
“Let yourself grieve,” Laurie said. “It’s going to hurt, but it’s necessary. And once you’ve done that, you might find that you love ballet even more—not as a shield, but as something that brings you joy.”
Charles closed his eyes, letting the words sink in. For the first time, he felt the faintest crack in the armor he’d spent years building around himself.
“How do I even start?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Laurie gave him a small, encouraging smile. “One step at a time. And you’ve already taken the first one—by being here.”
***
As part of his therapy, Charles also started mending relationships he had neglected. He reached out to his siblings, to apologize for the way had been acting since the surgery. Since before, really. Laurie made him realize he got so obsessed with ballet, he forgot to be a part of their lives too. He visited Lorenzo and his wife, had dinner with them and offered to dog-sit for them.
He went out with Arthur and his uni friends to a pub. Heard him talk about his degree and complain about the amount of work he had this semester.
All throughout, he promised himself that he wouldn’t mention the words ‘ballet, dancing, show’ or anything related.
He visited his mother more often too, sharing quiet afternoons over tea and conversation. They talked about his father and Jules sometimes. Nothing too deep, nothing about their grief. He wasn’t ready for that yet.
He even made an effort to reconnect with old friends he hadn’t seen in nearly a year. Coffee dates, casual dinners—small gestures that reminded him how much he had isolated himself.
And then there was Max.
Charles had thought about going to see Max after the apology, but he held back. He didn’t want to rush things. Laurie had told him, “Sometimes the healthiest thing you can do is give someone space.”
So he did.
But that didn’t mean he didn’t think about him. He watched every race, cheering for Max silently from his living room. He kept up with the standings, read every interview, and celebrated every victory—especially the one in Interlagos.
It was a masterful race, the kind of performance that reminded everyone why Max was a champion.
Charles wanted to be the one to congratulate him in person, to tell him how proud he was. But instead, he sent flowers (he thought i’d be fitting)—a simple white rose bouquet with a note that read: “Congratulations on the win. You were incredible.- Charles”
He didn’t expect anything out of it, if he was being honest. The one thing he was learning from physical therapy and actual therapy was to not hope for too much too soon unless he was expecting frustration.
So it was fair to say he was surprised when his phone buzzed with a simple text.
Max: Thank you for the flowers.
***
Max stepped into his home still riding the high from his win two nights ago, his body thrumming with adrenaline and the faint taste of champagne still on his tongue. The win had been everything he’d needed. It wasn’t just about making a comeback point-wise—it was proof. Proof to himself, to the team, to everyone who doubted him, that he could still do this. He hadn't lost his edge. That he was still the champion they all expected him to be.
That’s when he saw them.
The flowers sat in an elegant vase on his counter, soft and beautiful against the sterile backdrop of his apartment. For a moment, he froze, his brain struggling to catch up. Who had—?
And then he saw the card.
“Congratulations on the win. You were incredible.- Charles”
His breath hitched. He stared at the flowers, the words on the card blurring slightly as his mind kicked into overdrive.
His thoughts spun, sharp and chaotic, like tires losing grip in the rain. He clenched the card in his hand and sat heavily on the couch, his head dropping into his free hand as the noise inside him swelled.
The win in Brazil—God, how badly he had needed that. Not just to prove the media wrong, not just for the championship, but to prove something to himself. That he could still be Max Verstappen , the relentless, unstoppable force he’d been built to be. But even now, after proving it, he didn’t feel the way he thought he would.
The flowers didn’t help. They made everything more confusing.
Charles.
His thoughts turned to him like they always did, but they came faster this time, jagged and relentless. He missed him— God , did he miss him. Even now, even after all the pain, Max couldn’t stop loving him. He didn’t know how to. But then there was that hollow ache in his chest, the part of him that whispered that he wasn’t enough. That Charles had made him feel small, like his love wasn’t enough to fix the cracks.
His mind jumped again, back to the race. The rain, the chaos, the desperation. How hungry he’d felt, clawing his way from P17 to the win. It was the first time in months he’d felt alive behind the wheel, like he belonged there again. For so long, he thought Charles had been his spark—the reason he fell back in love with racing. But maybe it wasn’t Charles. Maybe it was the hunger itself.
Then there was racing. The thing he’d dedicated his life to, the thing he couldn’t seem to quit even though some days he hated it. The constant noise, the pressure, the endless demands from sponsors and PR and the show he had to put on. He thought about retirement more often than he wanted to admit, how tempting it was to just walk away. And then the guilt hit, hard and fast—he couldn’t quit. His dad wouldn’t let him quit.
Jos.
The name felt like a punch to the gut. His father had built him into this machine, this champion. And sometimes Max didn’t know if he was grateful for it or if he despised him for it. Maybe it was both. Maybe it didn’t matter.
His thoughts kept spiraling, jumping from Charles to racing to his father to himself. Himself.
What the hell was he doing?
He felt like a robot, like a machine built for one purpose and one purpose only. He moved through life mechanically, ticking boxes, following the plan. Even Brazil, even the most incredible win in his career, hadn’t filled the gaping void inside him. He felt empty, unmoored, and he didn’t know how to fix it.
Max’s chest tightened further, his pulse thudding in his ears as the thoughts swarmed him, frantic and overwhelming. He needed—something. He didn’t know what.
The flowers blurred in his vision as he stared at them, his jaw clenching as the storm inside him raged. He couldn’t look at them anymore. He threw them against the wall. The loud crash of glass shattering releasing him from his stupor.
What was he doing?
He grabbed his phone instead, his fingers fumbling slightly as he opened Daniel’s chat.
“Can I have that therapist’s number? The one you mentioned?”
He hit send, his breathing still uneven. His thumb hovered over Charles’ name next. He thought about the flowers again, how they made everything feel bittersweet. They were a gesture of kindness, of something broken but not gone.
He typed out the words before he could think too hard about it.
“Thank you for the flowers.”
The message sent, and Max let his phone fall onto the couch beside him. He stared at the ceiling, trying to steady his breathing as the silence settled around him.
The flowers sat quietly on the floor, scattered between broken glass and water.
Max thought, somberly, how they looked exactly how he felt.
***
Max sat on his couch, staring at the unsent message on his phone screen. Do you want paddock passes for Abu Dhabi?
The words felt heavy, even though they shouldn’t. It was a simple offer, an invitation to the last race of the season, but something about it didn’t sit right. His thumb hovered over the send button, but instead of tapping it, he sighed and leaned back, his head resting against the cushions.
His mind wandered, chaotic as always lately. Therapy had been… frustrating, to say the least. Three different therapists, three wildly different approaches, all in less than a month and none of them felt right. The first one had suggested confronting Jos, which had been enough to make Max never return. The second was relentlessly optimistic, peppering him with affirmations that felt hollow and meaningless. The third dug too deeply into his childhood, trying to pick apart memories he didn’t want to relive.
He’d given up after that. Therapy, he decided, wasn’t for him.
But Charles… Charles talked about his therapy sessions all the time now. Their texts, which had started up again after the flowers, were awkward at first, but they’d found their rhythm soon enough.
Baby steps, Charles had texted once, talking about some breakthrough in therapy. It’s not perfect, but it’s helping.
Max had stared at that message for a long time, wishing it could be the same for him. He wanted it to work. He wanted to feel better. Instead, he felt like he was just spinning in circles, thinking too much and getting nowhere.
Their conversations were lighter now, too, peppered with updates about Charles’ physio. He’d mentioned he might be trying light dancing again soon, a spark of hope in his words that made Max’s chest ache. He was happy for him. He was proud of him.
But he was also painfully aware of how much he missed him.
Max glanced back at his phone, reading over the message again. Charles had wished him luck for Abu Dhabi, said he’d be watching from home. Max had almost offered the passes instinctively, like a reflex. But something was holding him back.
He thought about something the first therapist had said, one of the few things that had stuck with him. “You’ve been conditioned to tie your self-worth to other people’s approval, Max. Your father, your team… even Charles. If you want to heal, you have to learn to put yourself first.”
At the time, he’d scoffed at the idea. Racing wasn’t just about him—it never had been. He started karting because it was his way to earn father’s approval. He dominated the sport because he wanted to prove he wasn’t just another hyped-up kid. Even this season, after all the doubt, he clawed his way back to the top to prove Red Bull – Christian – wrong.
But had any of it been for him?
Max sat there, the question bouncing around in his mind like a car on cold tires. He thought about Charles and how, for a while, being with him made life about more than just winning. But even then, he wanted to win. To make Charles proud.
Now, the thought of Abu Dhabi loomed over him. One more race. One more chance to prove everyone wrong, to claim his fourth title. But for what? For who?
He stared at the text again, his thumb hovering over the delete button this time.
Charles didn’t need to be there. Not because Max didn’t want him there—he did, desperately—but because this race couldn’t be about Charles. It couldn’t be about Jos or Red Bull or the doubters or the fans.
For once, it needed to be about Max.
He deleted the message.
For the first time in a long time, Max felt a strange sense of clarity. He was going to Abu Dhabi to win, but this time, it wasn’t for anyone else. It was for himself. Because he was enough.
***
The cheers from the crowd were deafening. Confetti rained down from the sky, sticking to Max’s damp skin as he stood atop the podium, holding the championship trophy aloft. His team screamed in celebration below him, Christian clapping him on the back, and the Dutch flag draped behind him in victory. It was his fourth title, but this one… this one felt different.
As the national anthem played, Max closed his eyes, taking in the moment. He felt the usual swell of pride, the satisfaction of a job well done. But underneath it, there was something quieter. He wasn’t euphoric, wasn’t buzzing the way he used to after a win. He felt steady. Calm. As if, for once, he wasn’t chasing something. He had done it for himself. Not for his father, not for Red Bull, not to prove anything to anyone. Just… for Max.
Because he was enough.
***
The hotel room was quiet.Max sat on the couch, his Abu Dhabi trophy sitting on the table in front of him, gleaming under the soft light. He stared at it, letting the reality of his fourth title sink in. This one felt different, not because of the numbers or the records but because he had done it for himself.
No proving anything to his father. No proving anything to Red Bull or his team. No trying to show Charles—or anyone—that he was worthy.
Just him. Just racing.
He leaned back, closing his eyes, a small smile tugging at his lips. For the first time in a long time, he felt… enough.
The knock at the door startled him, pulling him from his thoughts. He frowned, glancing toward it. Most of the team had left for the celebrations, but Max lied and said he had a stomach ache and didn’t feel like celebrating right now. He hadn’t expected anyone to come looking for him.
He got up, padding over to the door and pulling it open.
And there he was.
“Charles?” Max blinked, his voice soft with surprise.
Charles stood there, hands nervously shoved into his pockets, his eyes searching Max’s face. He looked like he hadn’t slept much, but there was something lighter about him—less tense, less weighed down.
“Hi,” Charles said quietly.
For a moment, Max didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t seen Charles in months, hadn’t spoken to him properly since they had started texting again. And now he was here, standing in his doorway, looking nervous and unsure.
“Can I come in?” Charles asked, his voice tentative.
Max hesitated for only a second before stepping aside. “Yeah, of course.”
Charles stepped in, glancing around the motorhome before turning back to Max. “I… I wanted to congratulate you. On the championship. You were amazing today.”
“Thank you,” Max said, his voice soft. Max blinked, still processing the fact that Charles was here. “How are you here?”
Charles gave a small, sheepish smile. “Daniel.”
Max let out a quiet huff, shaking his head. Of course it was Daniel.
“I wanted to say I’m sorry, again.” Charles said finally, his voice trembling slightly. “For everything. For how I treated you, for the things I said. I was in such a bad place, and I took it all out on you. You didn’t deserve that.”
Max looked at him, his chest tightening at the raw honesty in Charles’ voice.
Max studied him for a long moment, his thoughts swirling. He wasn’t hurt anymore. He’d let go of that a while ago. He had spent so much of the last month or so learning how to untangle himself from the expectations of others, from the constant need to prove his worth to everyone but himself, that he didn’t have time to hold on to the hurt.
“I’m glad you’re working on yourself,” Max said finally. “Really, I am.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’ve been working on myself too. Not in therapy—I tried, but it didn’t work for me. But I’ve been thinking a lot about… everything. About why I race, about why I push so hard. About why I let other people decide my worth.”
Charles didn’t say anything, just watched him with those soft, searching eyes.
“This championship,” Max continued, his voice steady, “I won it for me. Not for my dad. Not for Red Bull. Not to prove anything to anyone. Not for you, either. Just me.”
A small, bittersweet smile tugged at Charles’ lips. “I’m happy for you,” he said softly. But there was something else in his eyes, something hesitant, unsure.
Max saw it, and his heart ached. He knew what Charles was thinking—that Max had moved on, that he had outgrown him.
“I miss you, schatje.” Max said quietly, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
Charles’ head snapped up, his eyes wide. “You do?”
Max nodded, his throat tight. “I didn’t realize how much until we started talking again. And today, when I crossed the line, all I could think about was how much I wanted to tell you.” He let out a shaky breath, meeting Charles’ gaze. “I’m not angry anymore. I’ve let that go. But I still…” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “I still care about you. A lot.”
Charles’ eyes filled with tears, and he quickly wiped them away, laughing softly. “I’ve missed you too. So much.”
They sat there, the distance between them shrinking with every unspoken word.
“I don’t know what happens next,” Max said finally, his voice steady. “I don’t know if we can go back to what we were. But I want to try. If you do.”
Charles nodded, his smile tremulous but genuine. “I want to try too.”
Max reached out, his hand brushing against Charles’. It was tentative, a small gesture, but it felt like a promise.
***
Six months later.
The dressing room was quiet except for the soft rustle of fabric as Charles adjusted his costume. His reflection stared back at him from the mirror, a version of himself he wasn’t entirely sure he recognized. The nerves coursing through him weren’t just about the performance—his first since the surgery, since everything changed—but about everything this moment represented.
He had danced before, of course. In rehearsals, auditions, private practice sessions where he pushed his body to its limits, learning how to trust it again. But tonight was different. Tonight, he would step back onto the stage under the lights, in front of an audience.
It felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff.
His hands trembled as he tied a small ribbon dangling from his shirt. What if he failed? What if his body betrayed him? Worse, what if he didn’t know how to stop himself from falling back into his old patterns?
He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He thought about everything he’d worked on in therapy, the conversations with his physical therapist, with his friends and family...
A soft knock on the door pulled him out of his thoughts.
“Come in,” he called, his voice steady despite the storm inside him.
The door opened, and Charles’ breath caught in his throat.
Max .
He stood there, dressed casually in dark pants and a crisp white shirt, a bouquet of red roses cradled in his arms. His smile was warm and bright, soft around the edges in that way it always was when he looked at Charles. Like Charles was the sun, and Max was perfectly content to bask in his light.
“Hey,” Max said, stepping into the room.
“Hi,” Charles managed, his voice barely above a whisper. He watched as Max crossed the space between them, setting the bouquet down on the vanity beside him.
“For you,” Max said simply.
Charles looked at the roses, their vibrant red petals catching the light, and then back at Max.
“You didn’t have to,” Charles said, staring at the flowers with so much fondness his heart hurt.
Max raised an eyebrow, leaning against the edge of the vanity. “Of course I had to. It’s a tradition.”
Charles swallowed hard, his chest tightening. Max had a way of cutting through the noise in his head, of grounding him without even trying.
For a moment, they just looked at each other, the quiet settling over them like a blanket.
“You’re going to be amazing,” Max said, his voice soft but certain. “I know it.”
Charles’ throat tightened, and he had to look away, blinking back the sting of tears. “I’m not sure I know how to do this without…” He trailed off, his hands gesturing vaguely as if the words were just out of reach.
“Without losing yourself?” Max finished for him.
Charles nodded, his eyes meeting Max’s again.
“You won’t,” Max said, his voice steady. “You’ve come so far. You’re not alone anymore.”
The weight of those words settled over Charles, warm and comforting.
He took a deep breath, letting it fill his lungs, and for the first time that evening, the nerves didn’t feel so overwhelming.
Max reached out, his fingers brushing against Charles’ cheek. It was a simple touch, but it was enough to anchor him.
Charles stared at him, at the quiet confidence in his eyes, and suddenly, he knew.
He would be okay.