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There are hands caressing his bare shoulders when he wakes up; fingers running down his skin, tracing a pattern that’s both familiar and new. He doesn’t move a muscle, barely breathes – not wanting to disturb the tranquil bubble he’s in.
It’s been a hellish weekend. A hellish month really if he’s being honest. A DNF in China, disqualified at Nürburgring, and then whatever shitshow Suzuka has been. He hasn't held back in interviews, hasn't even tried to swallow down the acrid disappointment that seems to fill his lungs anytime someone asks him about racing.
Not even Lando being in the same boat, having the same slump to his shoulders and general malaise about the whole thing has made Max feel better.
His phone is like a taunt where it sits face down on the night stand. Once he turns it over, and unlocks his screen, whatever quiet, whatever calm he’s in will disintegrate like a piece of match paper.
So he doesn’t –
He turns over instead, and locks eyes with a pair of jade irises that has been pretty much the only thing keeping him afloat these days. That and his cats.
“Someone’s finally awake,” Charles drawls, his breath skirting the side of Max’s face much like his fingers drawing up and down his sternum. They’d fallen into bed last night easily, fluidly, wrung out from the weekend but no less hungry for each other. Somehow Charles had known exactly what Max needed. To be pressed down, to be claimed. It’s rare when he craves that but each and every time it happens without Max having to ask for it. Charles just knows.
Just like he knows when to back away and when to not let Max sink into a hole of self-pity. He’d like to believe that’s also rare but lately it hasn’t been. Lately, that hole of pity has become a wide chasm, chasing Max no matter where he turns.
The only reason he hasn’t fully fallen in is the man lying besides him, all warm, bare skin and sparkling, mischievous eyes.
Max reaches out, stroking along the short, soft hairs lining Charles’s jaw.
“Had a long night,” he murmurs teasingly, and then pulls Charles in until his lips replace his thumb. It’s almost too easy, too familiar the way Charles kisses him back right away. The way he tastes, the small moan that spills from his mouth into Max’s. When they first got together, he’d wondered if he would ever get bored, ever find anything about this predictable, but he shouldn’t have worried about that at all.
He knows now that he’ll never get tired of this. Of Charles. He’ll never stop loving waking up in the same bed as him, being on the same track, on parallel paths for fifteen years, chasing each other.
Max is so, so grateful that they finally caught up to one another.
The need for oxygen forces them apart but Max stays close, his nose brushing the side of Charles’s face as they share the same pillow. Those beautiful green eyes watch him thoughtfully, and Max soaks it up.
“Are you alright, mon amour?”
“I am now,” he says and means it. There are a dozen different stressors waiting for him right outside this hotel room but as long as they’re here, safely wrapped up in sheets with nothing but hot skin and limbs and soft touches between them, Max can confidently say he’s never felt better.
And it’s all because of Charles.
“I’m so proud of you.” He whispers, and is rewarded with a light, barely perceptible flush that blooms at the base of Charles’s neck. It starts right by a faint love bite – a consequence of Max being unable to help himself as Charles pressed him into the mattress last night.
“What for?” Charles says lightly, but Max isn’t having it.
“Don’t do that. Don’t downplay what you pulled off on the track yesterday. You were flawless, schatje. Absolutely flawless.”
“And all it got me was the third step.”
That’s the thing. They’re one and the same. Max himself would not be satisfied with third. Very few people understand that drive, that thirst and thrill of competition, the insatiable need to win. To be the best.
The fact that Charles gets it just makes Max love him all that much more. Their rivalry has never been rooted in strife, but rather a mutual understanding – and a respect that Max is so glad they let evolve into something more.
“Toto built a rocketship, and you somehow held it off. You did that. No one else.”
“It won’t always be that way.” Charles counters, his bitten lip pulling down into a half frown that sends a wave of affection through Max. He acts on instinct, drawing Charles closer in, his leg draping around his hip as he traps the other man in the fold of his arms.
“It won’t,” he acknowledges, pressing a kiss along the messy curls tickling his chin. “But we keep fighting, right? We don’t give up.”
“Does that mean you’ll keep talk of retirement to a minimum?”
Max tries – and fails – to stifle a chuckle. “You know that’s just for the reporters. Something to stir the pot.”
“Is it?” Charles asks, leaning back to meet his eye, and Max can’t handle the worry he sees there. The fear that’s likely reflected in his own – because the idea of leaving this sport behind keeps him up at night, makes his skin break out in goose bumps, and his blood run cold.
He can’t imagine actually walking away but the joy just isn’t there anymore – that much is clear. That doesn’t mean he wants Charles to worry. To be distracted by this. He doesn’t want anything to jeopardize his chance at a championship.
As ambivalent as Max is about his future in Formula One, he has never been more certain that this is Charles’s year. He can do it. He can win. He just needs to stay focused. And it’s Max’s responsibility to keep him there.
“I’ll make you a deal. If I do make up my mind, if I do decide to leave, you will be the first person I tell. Until then you have to promise me that your only focus, your only concern will be your performance on the track. Not mine.”
Max isn’t sure what to expect, but the flash of amusement that crosses Charles’s face is not it.
“You still don’t get it, cherié. Everything you feel is what I feel. There is no me without you on that track. No matter who we’re fighting against.”
Max doesn’t know what to say to that. Charles must pick on it, because he heaves a long, dramatic sigh and rests his forehead back against Max’s shoulder.
“But fine,” he acquiesces. “I will trust you to tell me when you are serious. But only because I love you so much.”
Max grins; takes a moment to bury his fingers in the thick, soft curls he can’t get enough of, before hauling Charles up to kiss him. It’s sweet, and warm, and much more chaste than all the kisses they’ve exchanged in this particular bed. Somehow it feels just as important.
“I love you too. And even if there comes a day that I’m not there on the track with you, I’ll always be right here. You know that, right?”
Charles nods, and seals it with his own kiss – one that’s more languid, deeper, like he’s staking a claim on Max. And Max happily lets him do it.
He doesn’t know what the future holds. How long he has in this sport. What he’ll do after. But he knows whatever it is, he’ll be happy to do it as long as he gets to come home to this every night.
And for once in his life, that’s more than enough for him.