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This was Charles’s year.
This wasn’t like 2022, when he could see the potential. This time, whether it was there or not, he was going to take it.
He could already see the clips of him leaving the podium immediately, him snapping at George for questioning him for doing the cardinal sin of racing against him, but he was hungry. His husband winning almost an entire regulation period and then some was one thing. He’d been signed so young, and by the time he was the first driver, he was ready to take everything while breaking anything he could. Charles knew when they karted together that that annoying blonde Dutch kid was going to Formula 1 to win titles.
But then Oscar, in only three years in the series, led the championship, then Lando won, and then all the rumors came out with Mercedes having the dominant car this regulation period. More rookies were showing their prowess, and Charles suddenly saw his window of opportunity closing.
He wasn’t going to allow himself to be skipped in winning a title as he’d sooner fall on his sword.
Charles fixed a glare at the third-place trophy that rested on the side table next to the small couch. He’d lifted the first-place trophy before and couldn’t help but note how light this one was.
He’s better than you. He’s better than you. He’s better than you.
Charles gritted his teeth. He was the one signed to Ferrari to be the youngest full-time driver. He was the one who won races in his first year at Ferrari, not once but twice. He was the one who could race against Max and set paces faster than Lewis.
Ferrari saw something in him that they didn’t see in anyone else.
But what did he see in Ferrari? A blind man being led by the blind with hopes and promises of greatness, and each time it falls through, he still comes back to worship. As the team got further from its domination, Charles's faith became just that, not backed by any deliverance he had been used to seeing.
And here it was, the car was the gift he was looking for, the one he had been promised from the start of his career. Il Predestinato would finally bring greatness back to Ferrari.
And yet, as he caught that inkling of what was possible if Ferrari could develop a truly dominant car, he had Lewis—even seven titles later—still hungry for one more to break the biggest record. If Charles wanted it, it wasn’t going to fall into his lap. He would have to be unequivocally better.
He no longer wanted to be the lamb sent for slaughter. This time, he would be the shepherd, the way he was supposed to be.
He heard the door click and open. “Lewis—“ he started as he turned, only to see navy against rosso corsa.
Charles turned back to his trophy when he saw the smug smile on his husband’s face. They both stayed silent as Max moved to him, not even worrying about poking the bear, as his arms immediately wrapped around Charles’s waist and placed his chin over his shoulder.
“Schtaje…” Max sang mockingly as Charles turned his head further away from his prying husband. He wanted to stay mad, and Max always made it hard.
“You’re going to kill him before Japan, I have money on it.” Max nipped at his ear before blowing a raspberry into his neck. Charles barked a laugh against his will before he tried pushing against Max’s arms, which only tightened around his waist. Max laughed and laid a few kisses on his cheek, his lips wet and intentionally slobbering all over his neck before letting him go.
Charles turned to look at Max fully, wiping the spit on his neck in disgust as Max crossed his arms. He was already back in his jeans and polo, his strong arms flexing and his eyes laughed at him as he smiled. Despite not having seen the podium, Max seemed to be in okay spirits. He must've had a good race, or—and Charles felt himself become giddy at the thought of this—Max's baseline mood just rose whenever he was with him.
“Where did you end up?” Charles asked. He’d been so focused on his P3 that he never looked at the time tables of where Max had ended up.
“P6.” Wow. Max rocked from his heels to his toes. “Was P5, but we pitted, and I got stuck behind Lando before I was told to just save my battery. Got fastest lap, though? I think?”
“Got stuck behind or couldn’t get past—“
“Stuck.” Max cut him off. Charles’s lips quirked; those two Brits were always sore spots. “My battery just shat itself around lap 55.”
Charles hummed. He wasn’t surprised that Max had been able to make up the places he did, but it was still impressive hearing it, and he noted the way his stomach pulled hot and shelved that for later. To be completely honest, he was waiting for Bryan to radio “Verstappen 5.2 seconds behind,” but instead just kept sweating more in his gloves as he heard a different multi-time champion close in on him.
“Impressive,” Charles crossed his own arms. They stood at a stalemate, arms crossed and waiting for the other to give. Charles didn’t want consolation; he wanted race wins, and Max wasn’t going to push to give it to him, nor did he want cooing from Charles over his own race result.
Charles had already given Max his condolences yesterday when he crashed out of qualifying. Before they went back to the hotel, Charles had found him in his driver's room, sitting on the ground against the wall with a towel over his head and his elbows on his knees. They both knew the crash wasn’t his fault, but that didn’t make ending up in P20 any better. He hadn’t seen Max like this since he had an extra 3 next to his number.
So Charles sat beside him, not touching or speaking, instead just placing his hand on the floor in the empty space between them. Charles didn’t know how much time passed before Max’s own hand shifted away from holding his legs to bump his pinky against Charles’s. Charles didn’t jump, but he did let out a breath, smiling when he looked down and saw that Max’s wedding ring had made it back to his ring finger from his necklace.
Slowly but surely, their hands soon overlapped each other before Charles pulled Max’s into his lap and began tracing his fingers and tendons, turning it over in his hands as if he would be able to suss out any damage himself. Max’s towel dropped off his head as he watched Charles lay kisses to the back of his hand and his fingertips, featherlight but full of care.
Charles didn’t want that type of care. Not right now at least. He needed someone to be as angry at him as he was at himself and the race. And Max knew that in the same way Charles knew to sit next to Max and allow him to lean closer first.
“P3 is impressive—“ Max started, but Charles cut him off.
“It should’ve been P1.”
Max’s brow furrowed, started to key in. “Your jump off the line, though. P1 before you even got to turn 1.”
“And then I did nothing with it!” Charles shouted. “I battled for ten laps and then what? VSC and we do not go in to pit, and what am I supposed to do now? They have the faster car and the newer rubber.”
Max squinted. “Why didn’t you call for a box?”
Charles threw his hand to the side. “Because they said we were going to go with Plan A—“
Max cut him off this time. He didn't believe in Ferrari, he didn't put his faith in any one team. “And you could see it not working. So why not just go into the pit? Tell them you want to box, force them to give you new tires?”
“Because…” Charles blanched. Max was stating it as if it were that easy. Like every team was like Red Bull and would immediately bend to Max’s whims.
But the reason they do so is because Max delivers. He’s given them four championships; he, of all people, knows when it’s time to box and stay out. Even now, he can qualify at the literal back of the grid, and the team still won’t break a sweat. They just put him on hards and let him loose.
They trust him.
He’s better than you. He’s better than you. Please don’t leave me. He’s better than you.
Max raised his eyebrows as his question went unanswered, his forehead wrinkling and blue eyes peering at him. “Because? Because you don’t want to? To be nice? Because you don’t want to win?”
Charles gritted his teeth. He was already mad at the race; he didn’t have time for self-doubt to crop up about his own marriage, which he knew held no water. “Of course I want to win.”
“Winners don’t get dog walked by their team.” Max’s voice was hard. If Charles didn’t know better, if he didn’t know his own husband, he would think the Dutchman was actually mad at him. But despite his internal thoughts, Charles needed it, someone who would take his anger and point it somewhere, poke holes where he should’ve been better. Not because Max expected better, but because he knew Charles was better. “If you want to win, act like it. Push for it.”
Charles felt his face burn as he glared at him through his lashes. He had to look up at Max; their height difference was barely an inch, but Charles had already taken off his racing boots, and Max was in regular shoes. So, he stood in just his socks, and he knew he looked ridiculous, but he couldn't stop his fuming. “I did not get dog walked! It was a split-second decision.”
“You hesitated.” Max countered, and Charles wanted to put his hands on his neck and wring it. “Even Lewis said he should’ve gone in, and you did what? Did you have any opinions on it? And you say you want to win?”
“I do want to win! I want a title—“ The anger returned with embarrassment, rising from the pit of his stomach and burning in his chest.
“Everyone wants a title,” Max sneered. “But what are you going to do to get a title? Pussy footing around your team isn’t going to—“
Charles grabbed the front of Max’s polo, bunching it up in his hands, and used the leverage to push him against the wall, not so gently slamming his back into it. His sudden strength surprised even him, but he was suddenly consumed with rage, rage only Max could pull out of him. It pulsed through his entire body, making his heart simmer and his hands shake.
Max was the only one he could be mean to. Let his anger out and know that the next day, they would still fall back on each other.
“I’m going to get that title,” Charles growled. “It is mine, and I’m going to fucking take it.”
Max grunted as his back hit the wall, but he wasn’t phased. If anything, he only became more smug as Charles manhandled him. As if he were exactly where he wanted to be. “With that Mercedes engine? You think you’ll beat it with just your might?”
You did. Charles almost said. But he was not his husband, and he was not in a Red Bull. That wasn’t the answer Max was trying to pull out of him.
“I will because I deserve it.“
“You deserved it? Why? No one deserves shit. You’re not special. You’re not predestined, you’re not God, and you’re not ordained by him.” Max looked down his nose at Charles, his sneer of a smile showing his gums as if he were a lion baring its teeth. “You show that you’re the best driver because you fucking worked for it.”
Charles pulled at his shirt to pull Max off the wall, only to slam him back into it, the metal rattling. “Shut up!" He hated his semantics. They had talked about this before, how nothing was deserved, good or bad, but instead everything was earned. Max had explained it by saying he didn't deserve Charles, which he vehemently disagreed with until Max illustrated how he had earned him. "I am better, and I am going to fucking prove it to you.”
Max tilted his head, leaning in. “You don’t need to prove it to me, Charles.” Evidently, even though he did not believe in Ferrari, he did give credence to Charles. The first of his devout. Max pointed his eyes to the door. “Prove it to them. All those people who said you should’ve left Ferrari three years ago. Because what are you gonna do if you can’t take it?”
He didn't even want to entertain the thought of once again losing out on the title, but the anger and rage were turning into something with more passion, still hot in his body and burning in his heart, but he found himself wanting to smile now instead of scream. Charles spoke through his teeth, hissing as they were close enough that their noses touched. “If I can’t take it from him, then I will put him through hell to get to it.”
He wouldn't allow himself to be the lamb, but if he couldn't be the shepherd, he would be the butcher.
Max’s smile grew, less smug and into something more satisfied. His shoulders relaxed as the small guard he had put up was taken down, his blue eyes darkening and hooding as he gazed at Charles.
“There he is.”
Charles’s hand grabbed the back of Max’s head and pulled him down to crash their lips together. Max’s hands immediately flew to Charles’s waist and pulled him in flush against his front. His nose pressed hard into Charles’s cheek, but he loved it, opening his mouth to catch Max’s tongue in his mouth.
Max bent slightly to grip the back of Charles’s thighs, signaling him to jump, where he easily caught him in his arms and wrapped his legs around his waist. Charles cupped his face, thumbs caressing his stubble, as he was carried towards the small desk and set down. That passion that was hot in his gut was now being breathed between their mouths, swallowed in their kisses, and burning fiercely under the pads of their fingers. Max’s broad hands were back on his waist, pulling Charles to align their hips and grind into him. Charles sighed, fingers scratching the back of Max’s head as his hair was too short to actually grab.
Max was always so fast to devour him at the first sign that Charles wanted him, encircling his waist and feeling up his torso while pushing him backwards to lie down. But Charles felt that same rise in him earlier, before disconnecting from the kiss to push at Max’s chest.
Max went easily, stepping back with red lips and blush high on his cheeks as he assessed if or where he had read something wrong. Similarly, he was also always considerate, no matter how in the moment he was, and Charles almost wanted to strangle him for it sometimes. Many times, Charles had wanted to use rolling around in bed to get Max to degrade and punish Charles for a bad race. That was one place he refused to do it.
Before Max could second-guess anything, though, Charles pushed himself off the desk and pushed Max to sit on the couch opposite. The Dutchman huffed as he was pushed down, his legs manspreading immediately as his hands twitched on his knees, realizing what Charles wanted.
Control, he thought as he pushed his race suit the rest of the way off his hips. This is what Max would allow, gladly. Giving him control that he didn't have on the track and giving him praise he didn't receive from the stands.
He reveled at how easily those blue eyes followed his every movement. They wouldn’t have sex here, not now. Charles needed to change out of his sweaty race suit anyway for the winners' press conference, but he couldn’t help but think about just taking Max right in that chair. Making him sit back, one hand on his chest as he rode him, not letting him do anything but take it.
For now, though, he turned to completely bend over once he got his race suit to his ankles, giving Max a full view of his boxer-covered ass as he pulled the elastic hem over his heel and foot. He heard the other grumble at this, slouching further in his seat and his hands suspiciously inclining towards the growing bulge between his thighs.
Charles turned once he got his race suit off to see Max look back at him with a heated gaze, working his jaw as his eyes flickered up from his ass to his face. Charles laid a hand on Max’s shoulder, pushing him back to lean against the chair before placing a knee on either side of his hips and situating himself in his husband’s lap. Max grabbed his ass in two handfuls, squeezing and groping as he pulled him further over his crotch before their lips reconnected.
He’d put on cologne since he didn’t have time to shower after the race before he went to the media pen. It was some scent to do with the ocean, with a layer of mint, but under Charles could still smell his sweaty musk, unconsciously rolling his hips into Max’s bulge.
Max, in turn, cursed and squeezed his ass, one hand slipping under his fireproofs and acting like a hot brand on his skin. “I want to see you fucking dogwalk that fucker.” Charles sucked on his bottom lip. “So hot watching you drive in the replays.”
Here he was worshipping Charles, his body and his skill, as if it were as easy as breathing. Still, Charles felt himself tingle at the praise. He had already felt insane euphoria, blocking George from passing turn after turn on his own race craft. Having Max reconfirm his abilities had him rolling on cloud nine, all the intrusive voices whisking away like they never even existed.
His ring hung off Max’s neck. His ass was in his hands, and Max was going home with no one but him.
He'd keep himself at the front, battling for wins, and even if he loses out, everyone will still be talking about him and how he just won't give up. How he doesn't know when to quit. He'll be a thorn in his side, race after race, and each time he'll return to Max, who will greet him with praises to push him further.
He felt fingers dip below his waistband and try to pull his underwear down. He wanted it so bad, but willed himself to put his own hands on the ones venturing where they shouldn’t.
“Not here.” Charles took Max’s hands away from R-rated back to PG-13 on his waist. “I don’t have time.”
Max kindly obliged him, kissing him more slowly as he accepted that this was the endpoint. “Mm, I've made you come in less time.” Charles ran hot as he couldn’t counter that claim.
Charles grabbed Max’s jaw, wide and strong as it filled his hand. “I will fuck you later.” He held his face in place to kiss his lips before he continued down his jaw and neck. “I want to have sex with you back in the hotel. I’m going to strip you down, push you down on that bed, and ride you until you pass out.”
Max groaned, his head falling back to rest against the back of the couch, allowing Charles to lick up his neck. “If I ever say no to that, kill me. I’ve been replaced by a shitty clone.” Charles giggled at him.
Charles squeezed Max’s cheeks where his jaw still rested in his hand, tugging so that his husband faced him again. Max puckered his lips in expectation, and Charles smiled, kissing the freckle on his top lip before laying a full kiss on both and standing up from his comfortable seat on Max’s thick thighs.
He pulled a new folded race suit from the cubby on the opposite wall. Thankfully, he was mostly dry of the sweat, and he wasn’t sticky. Max didn’t note the lack of champagne on him. It was faster to get ready for the press conference without being soaked anyway.
He felt Max’s eyes watch him as he pulled the new race suit over his ass, zipping it up just enough to stop at his hips before pulling his old fireproof off, which stunk, and replacing it with a clean one as well. He squeezed his eyes shut as he pulled his head through the tight collar, knowing his hair was a mess, looking back at Max, who still sat on the couch with a small smile on his face. Charles turned before he could smile back, his cheeks warm, not in embarrassment but something else. Something softer.
Max's belief in him sometimes didn't make sense, like a man believes in a god he'd never been blessed by. Even the victories he had racked up felt like decades ago, long enough to lose faith in him and for him to lose faith in himself. Was it a fluke? Had he dreamt it? Only to come back on random weekends, a battle for a race win, to come home and find Max ready to kneel at his altar.
He decided he needed a cooling vest as well, if not for the Australian heat, but to keep himself cool as he was riled back up by the press and not in the way that bettered himself.
Max did stand then, broad hands on his hips, turning Charles to face him again. He huffed once his arms were through the vest, ready to complain about whatever his husband wanted, only for Max to grab the ends of his vest and slot the zipper key into the teeth before he zipped him up in his cooling vest, putting him back together as he always did, sealing it with a kiss.
His anger was now quieted down to just a simmer, something he didn't want when Max had first walked into his driver's room, but now he was almost grateful. Almost.
“I am still mad you cut your hair,” Charles grouched when they parted.
Max hummed, tying the arms of his race suit together around his hips so it didn’t drag on the ground. “You’re always mad at me.”
“I would be less mad if you stopped cutting your hair.”
His head snapped up and blue eyes squinted at him. “Mate, I can’t just not cut my hair.”
“The problem is you always cut it too short!” Charles tugged on Max’s ear. “It was the perfect length. You could have trimmed it, but you cut it all off.”
“I didn’t cut it all off.” Max clarified, allowing his head to be tugged to the side by Charles. “It’ll grow back, schatje.”
Charles let go but still pouted, looking to the side to avoid eye contact. “And then you will cut it off again.”
“I mean, yeah.”
“And I’m not always mad at you.”
“I know. I was joking, Charlie.”
Max fiddled with the zipper of Charles’s vest to get him to look at him again. When Charles did, Max smiled, skin wrinkling around his eyes. Finally, Charles lost his battle and couldn’t help his own mouth twitching up, and they stood like idiots just gazing at each other. Max pulled on his zipper to bring their lips back together.
“Thank you,” Charles said once they parted.
Max shrugged and puckered his lips as he looked away. “You needed to get your head on straight.”
“Sure.” Charles punched his chest softly at how Max may have brushed off the acknowledgement he’d helped, but the red on his cheeks still gave him away.
Max leaned in for one last peck. He couldn’t get enough, no matter how much his Dutch tendencies stopped him from saying it out loud. “Give me something to cheer for,” he said against Charles’s lips, where he couldn’t see the emotions swimming in his blue eyes.
“Okay,” Charles promised them. When Max pulled back, he went back to business. “And stay here for a second before—“
Max waved him away. “Yeah, yeah. Go get grilled by media freaks.”
Charles huffed. Of course, he knew, Charles just had a problem that he now, after marriage, had to physically peel himself away from his husband. It was like their union had wrapped them in a rubber band, and each time they moved apart, the tension grew, and made them want to snap right back together.
He opened the door with one last glance at Max, who just stuck out his tongue at him. Charles wrinkled his nose back.
Charles fiddled with the zipper on his vest, looking both ways out of his driver’s room before being startled by seeing Lewis leaning against the wall beside his door. His arms were crossed, and he too, like Max, was fully changed and back in the Ferrari team kit tucked into his wide black pants.
“You have lipstick on your chin,” he noted, nodding his head.
Instinctively, Charles reached up to his face before realizing what he meant and knocked Lewis over the shoulder. “Not funny.”
“A little funny,” he chuckled. “I had to keep watch, but next time I’ll bring earplugs.” That’s how Max got in.
He disregarded Lewis’s comment; surely, them just kissing wasn’t that loud. If it was…he didn’t want to think about how much was able to be heard when they actually—
“Thanks for the flowers, by the way.” Charles cut off his own thoughts.
Lewis shrugged in his cool, nonchalant “I’m just here for fun” way. “No problem, mate. I’m just waiting to be invited to the real ceremony. Summer break, right?”
Charles nodded, his heart beating fast for a different reason. All thoughts of the race had dissipated, and he was once again daydreaming about standing with Max in union and not just signing a piece of paper. “That’s the plan.” He glanced at his closed door. “Max is still in there if you could…”
“I’ll walk him out. We came in together anyway.” Lewis held up a fist, and Charles bumped it with his own. “I’ll see you.”
Charles did still wipe his lips as he walked out of the motorhome, rubbing off the taste of Max and Red Bull to hopefully have his mind clear by the time he got to the press conference. He braced himself for the bullshit that the press would ask or whatever George might stir. He wasn’t as livid as he had been, through yelling, being scolded, and a makeout session; instead, what was left was a healthy level of what he could only describe as fervor.
The race was over; he couldn’t change anything about it now, and by tomorrow, he’d be on a plane with Max on the way to China. In Shanghai, he could take this, not stew on it, and use it to bring himself closer to that top step.
Day by day, race by race, he’d bring himself to salvation.