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Don't get him wrong, Charles is not that type of guy.
Usually he isn’t. Well... Often. Most of the time. Whatever.
He wakes up from the strange vibrations echoing in his chest; the pressing weight is light and warm. His nose is stiff; there is fur everywhere. A lot of fur. He is practically surrounded by it. It’s soft, but quite hard to breathe through, so instead of suffocating and dying miserably god knows where, Charles surrenders to the inevitable and opens his eyes. Immediately, he is greeted by the purring, hairy ball. A cat. A tabby cat.
To be exact, it’s the tabby cat’s butt. Sprawled across his face.
Awesome. What a great start to the day.
“Putain,” he swears, pushing the cat away—it jumps with an offended “meow” and contemptuously hisses, leaving a small scratch on his wrist. What the fuck is wrong with it?
Charles tries to swipe the fur strands from his mouth, but to no avail. Not that he hoped for much, but he wanted to stay in bed just for a little more—enjoy the moment of sunbathing in the lazy morning light before everything gets ruined by facing the harsh reality of a new day. Charles sighs in defeat. As hard as it is to admit, it looks like he is done with sleeping. Time to take a thorough shower.
As he stands up, two big things instantly pop up in his head, blissfully empty seconds ago. Well, actually, make it three. First of all, it’s probably one of the worst hangover migraines he has ever had in his entire life. Secondly, he is sore to the bone. Thirdly and lastly, he has no idea where he is. Must be somewhere by the sea because Charles can hear the waves washing over the shore. God, this is so bad. He is so bad. The worst, actually. Irresponsible and careless. And what if someone saw him? Saw him with… The pain kills him. He might pass out right now, falling on these cold floors and cracking his head open, and nobody will know. They will find him only after a week, his face and body decomposed to the point that his poor, crying Maman won’t be able to identify him. All the newspapers will write about it; oh, what a tragic, tragic ending. Sad, but fully deserved.
The seagulls scream in the background; the sounds of mooring yachts and murmuring chatter crawl through the open windows. His lips prickle from the salt of the wind.
Okay, all drama aside, it should be Monaco. Charles hasn’t gone that crazy yet. He won’t leave his country for a quick fuck.
And, well, he can recall the main plot. Vaguely.
Last night he went to the club. The music was loud, but his thoughts were louder. The alcohol was bitter. One drink after another, and another, and another—until he was absolutely wasted, his head spinning. He felt funny. Everything was heavy. His body was heavy, with his chest tight and almost floating. The words were heavy, coming out of his mouth as an endless string of non-distinct gibberish.
Nevertheless, he asked for more. He couldn’t stop; he couldn’t break this vicious cycle he had spent two years stuck in. Drinking himself to oblivion seemed like the only right choice. Until something… Someone gently took the drink out of his trembling hand, saying weirdly soothing bullshit. Charles remembers his alertness suddenly spiking because someone splashed ice-cold water on his face. He almost woke up, torn out of the sharp claws of this daunting nightmare. His thoughts were finally silenced.
But it wasn’t enough. Charles wanted to forget.
After that, his conscience decided to finally check out, leaving behind only a few of his memories. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t matter much. The evidence is loud and clear: he woke up in the stranger’s bed, naked and aching. So. That means he let someone take him home. Obviously, duh. Which is… A choice. Because, really, Charles is not that type of guy and never was. But at this rate, he thought he might as well see if it was worth trying.
What? He is young, beautiful, and has nothing—and no one—to lose.
Was it worth it, though? Charles narrows his eyes, trying to focus. Bits and pieces are buzzing in his head; flashy split lights sparkle like a colorful mosaic—a hurricane of yellow, red, blue. A lot of blue, crystal clear northern waters; it’s bright and dazzling. He remembers how it felt: a firm grip on his waist, with the big hand holding him in place by the hip; wet trails of sprinkled kisses snaking around his neck and collarbones; hushed whispers and muffled moans; bubbly satisfaction of being filled, blooming in his chest. Oh, how Charles loved being split open by rough thrusts—deep and precise, determined; when his head is finally, finally empty and he cannot even think why he was so upset before; he cannot think at all. He chokes, hit by the shockwave that ran through his body, and everything is too much and not enough—the tension, the pleasure, the want…
“Fuck,” Charles winces, looking at the mirror.
One. His hair is completely disheveled. Two. His eyes are red and tired. Three. His lips are swollen. Four. There are tiny purple marks on his shoulders—some kisses, as it seems, were alternating with light nibbles. Charles swallows, thirsty, a jolt of sudden arousal making him twitch. There is this irritating itch that he hates immediately. Because he wants to remember more.
The water is purposefully cold because his thoughts must stay in line. He needs to stay in line, for fuck’s sake. The idea of spending the night was specifically designed for him to forget, not the opposite; his curiosity be damned. Well, whoever that mysterious someone was, Charles gives him (and that was, indeed, a he; there is no hesitation) a five-star Google review. Good job, no complaints. It’s been a while since he has been fucked this thoroughly, his legs feeling like jelly even after a refreshing shower.
When he comes back, that tabby cat is lying on the bed, Charles’ shirt in between its paws. It’s his favorite shirt, the baby-blue button-up that never declines. The cat stares at him, dares for a challenge. No, seriously, what the fuck is wrong with it?
Just when Charles is ready to start the fight of his life, he catches something in the corner of his eye. It’s a square of white paper on the nightstand, placed exactly by his phone. Which is plugged into the charger. Interesting.
Needless to say, Charles didn’t even think of charging it yesterday; all this is a kind initiative by that mysterious someone.
“FYI, your dad is so much cuter.”
Insulted, the cat disapprovingly meows in response, but doesn’t move an inch.
He sighs and picks up the note. The handwriting is terrible, and that alone should result in the loss of points, but Charles would rather die than admit defeat to the fucking cat. It’s two sentences only, and they are readable, at least. He’d give him that.
“Left for work. Make yourself at home.”
Ha! He lets out an evil giggle. Charles-Cat: 1-0. Because he decides when the count starts, and it starts now.
“It looks like I’m staaayinggg,” he singsongs, waving the piece of paper in front of the cat. However, even this doesn’t help him get his shirt back—the hellish creature simply doesn’t give a fuck. It closes its eyes, indicating its final decision to nap.
Incroyable. Charles huffs in frustration. What a showoff.
It’s silly, he knows it, but the thought itself has an appeal. And it’s not because the cat holds his shirt hostage, and not even because its dad was nice enough to leave a note that, frankly, meant nothing but general manners (they didn’t even exchange numbers, c’mon, Charles wasn’t welcome here, not really). But… There was a reason why he did what he did yesterday. Let’s just say today is not a good day. He has absolutely no desire to return to his flat to make it only worse by facing the embodiment of what he already knows.
“You are leaving me no choice, I guess,” he mutters more so as an excuse to himself, and turns around towards the closet.
He’s been told to make himself at home. It’s okay. Charles repeats it as a mantra in his head. It’s okay. He is allowed to do so.
In theory. In practice—fuck around and find out. He’ll take whatever time he can spend here without getting kicked out, because, again. Absolutely no desire to come back to his own house. And if he decides to act shamelessly for one night, he can do it for one day as well. Twenty-four hours in total. Please allow a man to be delusional and lose his shit for once in his life. Then, fingers crossed, everything will return to normal.
Charles nearly trips while opening the closet door. At first, he thinks he is hallucinating because there is a cat. Another one. It’s the same fucking tabby cat that was dozing off in the bed a moment ago. The same fucking tabby cat that put its ass on his face when he was sound asleep. But then, he looks back, and— They are identical. What the fuck.
“There are two of you,” Charles laughs in disbelief. This one is no better by any means because it occupies his jeans. Of fucking course it does; Charles is not even surprised at this point. Just wondering what kind of beef these cats are having with him, because logically, if they don’t like him (and they clearly don’t!), they should’ve ruined his clothes or done their best to force him out of the flat. But there is none of that. What the fuck is wrong with these cats?!
There is no protesting when Charles steps over the twin creature and finally gets to the closet. That gives him relief. Almost. Then, he looks at the clothes, and the realization (big thing number four) dawns on him.
Oh my god. Charles fucked a Red Bull fan. Because—there are rows and stacks of navy blue kits, and there is not a slight chance that he is mistaken. He even struggles to locate normal clothes—non-branded ones. Honestly, this level of devotion is a bit concerning. And creepy. Jesus Christ. Did they know who he was? Did they—
But wait. The number.
The name.
Oh my god. As if he thought it couldn't get worse, of course it got worse. Not only did he fuck a Red Bull fan, he fucked a Max Verstappen fan. The Max Verstappen fan, it seems, because Charles doubts that even Max Verstappen himself has this much merch.
What the hell.
But Charles is not in a position to be picky—not when his own clothes are imprisoned by the evil cats. He finds the shorts: they are too loose on his waist and a bit tight on his ass, but it’s Nike, thank god. That’s the end of the easy part. Then, it quickly gets very complicated; no decent shirt is seen in the vicinity. Instead, Charles reluctantly picks up the hoodie. There is no way to escape it: the screaming Red Bull logo and even louder red number one, but it's soft and comfortable, so he can manage.
The obligation to be devoted to Ferrari—to Italy—scratches at the back of his mind. He tries to convince himself that it's fine as long as no living soul catches him wearing this blue atrocity.
During the whole time when Charles changes and goes through seven stages of denial, he is watched closely by the cats. He feels a bit awkward because they are dead silent. He’d prefer to be hissed at than this cold-blooded judgment. Little fuckers.
The kitchen is spotless, or rather dusty. The fridge is… It went through the Vietnam War. There is a tub of Greek yogurt, two raw eggs, and an unhealthy amount of Red Bull. Original and sugar-free. No other flavors. Boring.
After looking around and ending up with no coffee or tea, Charles gives up and starts assembling a rough draft of a meal that he’d never dare to call breakfast. He boils some eggs, finishes the yogurt, and downs a sugar-free Red Bull in five confident gulps.
“Make yourself at home. Yeah, rrright,” he grumbles, making a face. He is not particularly a hater of the energy drinks, but damn, not at ten in the morning. It feels morally wrong. Sinful.
If there was a review, Charles imagines it going something like this: “Hospitality: 5/10 (waking up alone with the crazy cats), amenities: 7/10 (full closet of MV merch!!!), location: unknown, breakfast: 0/10 (wtf is this?!), host: 10/10 (unfortunately, sex was really good).”
But honestly, his own living situation isn’t much better: always on the run, snacking or eating takeout, having a bite of this and that, dieting and restricting himself, but hey—he always has some coffee at home. This is non-negotiable.
After a joke of a meal, Charles tries his best to relax and forget what day it is today. The urge to check the phone every five minutes becomes only stronger with each passing minute, so he has to force himself to watch some stupid reality show. This works like magic; cheap drama is a perfect distraction. Who is Amanda going to choose, Tom or Harry? Both are terrible choices, if you ask Charles. But his expertise is kind of questionable, too. Take his most recent relationship, for example—two years in endless hiding, being someone’s dirty secret, and for what? He scoffs, rolling his eyes. Amanda cries because Harry turned out to be an asshole. No waaaay. Who would’ve guessed.
Charles can’t even call his ex like that. He completely lost the sense of direction where their relationship was going a while ago, and he can’t say whose fault it was. Not that it mattered now, when everything ended. Charles was the one who drew the line, the one who took all the blame, even though it wasn’t necessarily true.
His head has been hurting nonstop for two weeks. Has he made the right choice? Should he have stayed, giving another chance? The last one?
“Bullshit,” he mutters, standing up, and scans the room in search of the bar. There is no drinking problem, he swears; today is just not the day.
Unfortunately, he doesn’t find any alcohol, but finds the trophy, tucked in the corner of the living room. A racing one.
Charles knows what it is; he has seen it before. It’s a replica of the driver’s championship trophy.
“This dude is really strange,” he chuckles, returning to the TV. Tom and Harry are gone, and Amanda is on the quest to find true love. Again. But this time everything will be different; of course, it will be.
His phone lights up with the new message notification; he reads the name atop and immediately presses the button to dismiss it.
Unreasonably irritated, Charles comes back to Amanda’s adventures in the cruel world of men. He doesn’t check the clock, too determined—he is stronger than this, he is smarter, he is prettier. He is miles ahead. Sober or not, Charles has got it.
And he does. Amanda becomes Elise, the story repeats itself, one stupid episode after another. Wrapped in the warm blanket, he fights through the drowsiness when he hears the cats. They are much closer than he could’ve thought, now occupying the sofa. Surrounded by the enemy from both sides, Charles does the most logical thing—stands up and leaves to collect the laundry. He might not be the best guest, but he will never make it to the blacklist. At least, he hopes so.
Charles takes off the dirty bedsheets and collects his clothes from the floor. He finds another championship trophy—an identical one—standing by the other side of the nightstand.
Now, this is getting weird. Who the fuck would want to buy two replicas? Even if you are the most devoted fan in the world. Verstappen should probably file a police report for stalking.
This thought is funny, until it’s suddenly not. When he loads the laundry, Charles sees the third one, hidden in between the washer and the dryer. The sickening realization hits him at the same time as he hears the front door lock clicking. One moment he is paralyzed, the next one—he storms through the corridor towards the hall, fearing his suspicions are true. Are they true? This can be a simple coincidence, but it’s too many coincidences—so, a pattern. He doesn’t really know what’s worse.
The man stands by the door; his eyes are cold and blue. Charles freezes, unable to utter a word.
A marble statue, that’s what he is from now on. Take him away. Put him in the museum. Save him.
But even in history, some facts are undeniable. Add the new one to the list—he fucked Max Verstappen.
And now, he is trapped. There is nowhere to run. There is nowhere to hide.
Max Verstappen stares at him, clenching the phone in his hand. A mix of conflicting emotions races through his flustered face. Confusion and shock are on top of the pile.
Totally understandable because yeah, same.
Finally, there seems to be a slight recovery of common sense and balance in the universe. Max is the first one to speak.
“I left four hours ago, but you are still here.”
“You said to make yourself at home,” Charles blurts out defensively, subtly feeling the upcoming heart attack from the embarrassment.
Gosh, he wants to evaporate on the spot. Forget this moment ever happened. Erase their collective memory. Call the authorities. Call Matrix. Call Neo.
Despite the utter absurdity, Max doesn’t look even a tenth bothered by how he should be. He chuckles. Chuckles!
“That’s fair, I did say that. Well, suit yourself.”
He said what? And why the fuck is he still standing by the door?
“You can come in, by the way.” Charles rushes him into the apartment as if it didn’t belong to Max.
“Ah, yes, right.”
When he takes off his shoes, Charles has a second to look at the framed photos, pinned to the wall by the entrance. In most of them, Max is a little kid, smiling with his family or sitting in the cart. In some of them, though, he is a teenager, holding his first trophies. His facial features are well-recognizable.
Fuck. Charles should’ve checked. He should’ve paid more attention. The signs were here and there; they were everywhere. This whole fucking time.
He should’ve spent at least a couple of minutes thinking it through before deciding to stay. But no—as always, he has been too focused on himself, drowning in self-pity. Now he is paying for his own foolishness. And Max, clearly awed for whatever reason, won’t stop staring at him. The silence between them is suffocating.
When they walk into the living room, his crazy cats are mysteriously gone. It’s probably for the better.
Charles has to do something. Say something. Otherwise, he’ll self-combust.
“I'm Charles—”
There is not even a second left for doubt. Max cuts him off instantly, the downward lip curl as the sign of his evident disapproval. “—Leclerc. Yes, I know. You are...”
Charles physically recoils, his shoulder hitting the wall, and closes his eyes, bracing for the critical impact. It’s unavoidable and has already become an inseparable part of his introduction, conditioned by his status in this sport—he had none—rather than his own achievements.
Which is fine. He almost made himself believe that it wasn’t a big deal. After two years, it surely shouldn’t be.
For Charles, however, it never became a habit, no matter how hard he tried to change his attitude and make peace with it. Endless manifestations, endless conversations. Positive affirmations and other shit.
In the end, he never got used to it.
(He knows that he never will.)
Carlos’ friend. That's what Max is going to say. Carlos’ friend. That's what he was reduced to in the racing world.
In their eyes, Charles didn't possess any background or personality; he just came with Carlos, complimenting him as an expensive, nice “extra”. Actually, not even that because he was just a good friend—that's how Carlos introduced him to his coworkers and friends.
There is a stretch of silence. Charles holds his breath. The hit never comes.
Surprised, he opens his eyes.
Max clears his throat, waving towards the sofa to sit them down.
“Charles Leclerc, a supermodel. The second face of Monaco after the royal family. You walk mainly for Italian brands. You also have your own small clothing business. I know who you are, of course.” After a brief pause, he adds, blunt as always, “Everyone here knows, I think.”
Taken aback, Charles has to regain his composure and close his mouth before thinking of the response. But his brain is left somewhere in between the epiphany of sleeping with Max Verstappen and, well, facing Max Verstappen right here and right now. You know.
So, obviously, he doesn’t think. Again. That’s an alarming pattern, but he’ll worry about it later.
“But not you, though.”
“What?”
“You are Max Verstappen,” he responds like it’s a well-known fact, and, to his credit, it is. “You are sort of famous for being oblivious to everything that is not racing or geography.”
“I do my research. Sometimes.” Max blinks.
Are his cheeks red? Well, not for Charles to judge. His own face is probably in the shade of a boiled lobster. So.
“Sometimes.”
“Yeah, when the subject is worth it.”
Is it? He almost asks, but bites his tongue in time. They are going in the wrong direction, a very wrong one. This already sounds almost like flirting. And they are what—five minutes in the most awkward conversation Charles had in his entire life? Insane.
They land on the couch, staring at the muted screen. The show is still on. Amanda is getting married to someone. Charles has no idea who it is, but good for her. Compared to him, she is in heaven. And he is… No, not in hell, actually. He is… Somewhere. In the same coordinate system as Max Verstappen, who keeps fucking staring at him, and why the fuck does he do that. Which is not necessarily bad, just—he can’t escape it. Or at least that’s what he tries to tell himself.
“You are… In my hoodie.”
Okay. Thank you, dear universe! Charles got his answer; fuck off now. Please? S'il vous plaît? Per favore? This is the moment when he should inform Max that his cats are uncontrollable and crazy. This is the moment when he should accuse them of stealing his clothes. This is the moment where he should defend himself, preserving some dignity. Instead, Charles admits it. What a genius move it is.
“Yes. Is it… A problem?” Max looks even more amused than he was. Is there a limit to it?
“Er, no, not at all.”
“Okay.”
A pang of silence. Okay. Cool. Awesome.
Superb.
Grande.
But Max is not staring anymore; he is actually hiding his eyes now, so here is that.
“You can keep it. If you want.”
What is he talking about?..
“Huh?”
“A hoodie. I have ten of those. Probably even more.”
Charles blinks, understanding. “Oh.”
Max isn't mad or anything. He is nervous.
Ohhh. Suddenly, he feels fire in his chest. That's… Weirdly attractive. Satisfies something wicked and possessive that Charles has always had inside.
Not that he never had Ferrari kits—he had. But because Carlos was so against any publicity, he always made sure that it was kept at home, far away from people’s eyes. Max, however, doesn't seem to care. Or, at least, he hasn’t thought about it, about the implications, about the risks. And if Charles allows himself to indulge a little, he can even say that Max looks somewhat happy about it, with those blotchy red cheeks and a small smile. Which is absolutely crazy.
“Okay, well, never mind then—”
“Non, wait!” Charles reacts before even properly weighing it out—is it the third time? The fourth? The fifth? He lost count. “I’ll keep it, yes.” Max frowns in confusion. “Are you… Sure? It’s okay if you don't want it.”
“No, no! You got it wrong, I think. I’d love to…” Charles fidgets, unable to suppress uneasiness, because fuck, he is for sure overdoing it; his words must sound too much—
“Great. No return policy. I’ll hold you to that one.”
A bubbly giggle slips out of his mouth. The joke is kinda forced, but whatever, sue him.
“I won't return it ever,” he assures, nodding dumbly.
Max hums in approval. No, Charles is not delusional. There is a smile, a huuuge one. Still, there is a lot of unspoken and unsaid left out there, on display for them both.
It’s heavier than any boulder. It’s heavier than guilt.
Max proceeds with caution.
“And Carlos will be… Okay with that?”
“I don't know.” Charles shrugs. He’d lie if he said that it doesn't sting—it does. That's fucking primary reason why he decided to stay here rather than going back to his flat.
But. He is weirdly calm about it. As if one instance of good sex made him accept the situation. Well, for what it's worth—it wasn't just a random nondescript hookup, it was a hookup with Max Verstappen. A fucking awesome hookup with Max Verstappen. Thorough, and intense, and intimate, and—
“You don't know? What do you mean?”
He sighs. “We broke up. Wait, no.” Charles shakes his head. “We stopped being friends, I guess.” The correction is an afterthought. It’s stupid and petty, but he can’t help it. Max’s sour, almost repulsed expression says it all. It shouldn’t be this funny, but it is. Charles wonders what it says about him as a person.
“That's why you didn't show up in Canada.”
“Well, I had some work to do,” he freestyles stressfully.
But Max isn't done with him, not yet (and not anytime soon, it seems). “And in Monaco. I was wondering.”
Charles is abashed, but his shocked disbelief displaces everything else. He had absolutely no clue that there was someone in the paddock who actually looked forward to his appearance. Not just someone—Max.
What the fuck.
“You noticed?”
Max gives him a hard look. “Take a wild guess.”
Charles cannot hide his astonishment—thirty minutes ago he wasn't aware whether Max simply knew who he was. And now, the more they talk, the more he finds out that Max knows. Like knows-knows-knows. For real.
He stares down at his hands.
“We had a fight in Italy, yeah. It was a thing that sort of was building up since the very start, and we always had fights about this, but this was the last drop.”
“I’m sorry.” Max sounds genuine. Then, after a short, thoughtful pause: “That’s why you stayed at mine?”
How… What…
And it’s not even the most impressive thing about it. Despite Max’s insane levels of insight, Charles doesn’t feel uncomfortable, not even a bit. This, this is what stands out the most.
You know what. Fuck it.
“Yeah,” Charles admits, squirming under Max’s attentive gaze. He is picking up his stuff from my flat today. We didn't live together, but he was around frequently enough.”
Well, if Max wasn't disgusted previously, now he sure is.
“You dated for two years and you haven't moved in together?”
“I honestly don't know if he has ever thought about that.” Charles shrugs, suddenly hyper aware of how strange it sounds. “He was so worried that people would find out. Rightfully so.”
And he understands it, he really is. In his line of work, being gay—private, but not secret—is a given. Expected even, to some extent. In any sport, let alone F1, being gay is scandalous. Controversial. The price you pay for coming out outweighs any possible advantages, if there are any. Most likely it will end your entire career.
So—yeah. Charles is fine with leaving no traces, digital footprint included. He never even thought of asking for any of that. He never demanded any grand gestures from Carlos; let alone sacrifices in the name of their eternal love. He wanted to be acknowledged. That’s it. Friends and family would have been more than enough.
But Carlos, he was afraid. Sometimes this fear was borderline with paranoia. Sometimes—rarely, at first, but more frequently during their second year—Charles felt that Carlos was ashamed and resentful of them, of their “entanglement”. That’s how his boyfriend called their relationship. Jokingly.
He joked a lot about them, too.
“That's it?”
Max shouldn’t be this patient. If anything, he should’ve kicked him out a long time ago. And Charles is really, truly grateful for it.
But now they are past his breaking point. He spent months trying to smooth out his sharp edges. Charles spoke out rarely, but they still fought because he snapped the same way he does right now.
“Do you want me to confess to you? Repent?”
“Is there anything for you to repent about?” Max's eyes are blue like the summer skies. And Charles is like his sun—too bright and burning. “I don't think so.”
“You don't know it for sure!” A shot back, but with no real heat behind it because Charles is the one to be blamed. That would be ridiculous, getting mad at Max for being here for him, after all the chaos Charles created.
“All I’m saying is that if you want to talk, you can talk to me.”
He sighs. “I wish I could, but there is nothing worth talking about.”
“Everything is worth talking about, of course.”
“You don’t know it,” he presses stubbornly, fighting a mischievous giggle by biting his lips.
“But I do. More than you can imagine, at least.” Max flashes his kind smile at him, the one impossible to resist.
Charles is, oh well—
There is a loud, disturbing ring. His phone.
There is no need to check who it is.
“Is it him?”
Charles wants to object. He wants to deny and lie. He wants to say no.
He doesn’t.
Max looks like he is about to do something. There is a dangerous glint in his eyes, the one Charles would’ve feared if it was directed towards him.
“Give me your phone.”
“You think I’m stupid? Fuck no.”
“Charles.”
“Max.”
“I promise I won’t do anything bad.”
Charles doesn’t trust him. Max knows he doesn’t. Still, they lock eyes in their stubborn, meaningless fight.
A minute passes.
Carlos keeps calling. The phone keeps ringing.
Another minute.
The phone doesn’t shut up.
“What the fuck does he want from you?” Max grumbles, petulant, his glare persistent as ever.
“The fuck I know,” Charles scoffs, matching the tone and quietly dying inside.
“Give me the phone.”
“No.”
“Please.”
Fuck.
“I can’t just believe you and—”
“Please, Charlie. Let me help.”
Fuuuuuck.
“For the record, I hate you.”
Famous last words. And the huge leap of faith.
Charles gives in, throwing his phone at Max, who dodges the hit but manages to catch it at the same time. Driver reflexes be damned.
“Finally, cariño—”
“We are busy,” Max interrupts with no attempt to listen till the end of the sentence.
Decisive. Careless. Rude.
Charles already likes it.
A bewildered pause.
“Who the fuck are you?” Carlos is already pissed; he always is when the game doesn't go his way.
“And who the fuck are you?” Without skipping a beat, Max echoes in return. He doesn't leave any space for his opponent to breathe, to regroup, and to think. He attacks with the same killer precision as he moves on the track.
Charles is…
Just a minute. He mentally gives himself a clap on the back and a firm handshake for making the correct choice last night. If his drunk-induced reasoning can be called that.
“Is Leclerc there? Is he with you?” There are notes of rising anger and hysteria in Carlos’ voice.
Max grimaces. “Of course he is,” he says softly, pulling the radiating adoration out of nowhere. “Tell him, baby.”
Charles is flaggerbasted. Dumbstruck. Shot and dead. You can't describe this feeling otherwise. He glares at Max. Max nods and holds out the phone, absolutely unfazed. There is no other option on the table but to follow the script.
“Ahhh, yes,” Charles replies breathlessly, hoping his stare will produce a laser and carve out a hole in Max’s stupid head. “What do you want? I'm, ugh, b-busy.”
Max laughs. Motherfucker.
“Told you.” He slaps his knee and adds quickly, “Yes, baby, just like that.”
Charles wants to strangle him.
Carlos gasps, hanging up.
“He won't call you back after this, I guarantee you.” Max returns the phone, stoically calm and unbothered.
Charles is speechless.
Then, he is out for blood.
“Max! Emilian! Verstappen!”
The look on Max’s face, full of awe and excitement, almost seals the deal.
“You know my full name.”
He must be kidding, right? Charles feels weak in his knees—thank god he is in the seating position, so it doesn't incriminate him at all.
“You are insane,” he mutters in utter disbelief. “Do you understand what you have done? Carlos didn't recognize you, but he will now think that I am fucking with someone!”
“And why do you care?”
This question—this does it for Charles. It makes him pause and reevaluate. Because as much as he hates to admit it, Max is right. There is no reason he should care. And, frankly speaking, he does not.
Satisfied with what he sees, Max nods encouragingly. “And also. You, indeed, fucked with someone. I just shifted the timeline a bit. So.”
Forget about it. Max Verstappen is always wrong and deserves to rot in the deepest pits of hell.
Charles wishes he could say their sex was bad, but he cannot. Firstly, he is a bad liar. Secondly, he doesn't remember enough to falsely accuse someone with this level of enthusiasm. Thirdly and lastly, even his scattered memories testify that Max did well. Unfortunately. Fortunately. Whatever.
There is a loud ring, again, which nearly makes Charles jump on the spot. It’s the doorbell this time, thank fuck.
“Oh, pizza!” Max stands up, no further explanations, and leaves the room.
Okay, that’s it. Charles has lost the plot. Entirely. He gives up. Officially.
“When?” he wonders rhetorically, looking at the ceiling.
“As soon as I came in,” Max replies regardless, blunt and unapologetic. “I saw your shoes and thought that I had nothing in my fridge, so—”
Charles holds his hand up, demanding silence for a second. Actually, he needs much more than this, because the pizza choice is margherita. A margherita with prosciutto.
It’s a very specific choice. His favorite one.
Let's have a moment of silence for those who hoped that they were done with surprising revelations for today. Then, let's have another one for Charles, who is experiencing whiplash in real time.
“I'm deeply concerned, but also very impressed,” he informs coolly, trying his best to act chill. He doesn't know how to feel about this. At this point, he doesn't know anything.
“This is public information,” Max mumbles, his ears turning pink.
“You are extremely attentive, especially for the guy who doesn't care about his own surroundings.”
“You just don't know me.”
Now it's Charles’ turn to laugh. Oh yes, he doesn't know. Ugh-huh.
“When is Oscar’s birthday?”
Max pouts. “No idea.”
“He is your teammate, by the way.” Charles takes a bite. Fuck, it is a good pizza. “When is mine?”
Max groans. “Okay-okay, you have a point.”
A demanding lift of a brow. “So you know.”
There is no response. He wins this round.
They eat unhurriedly, falling into the comforting silence. Charles chews thoughtlessly, the muted TV flickering with bright, colorful shots of crying, heartbroken people. He should be one of them, suffering and grieving the person he tried so hard for. Instead, he munchies his favorite pizza after spending the night with Max Verstappen. Can this be counted as coping?
Gosh, he is so hungry. No wonder—two boiled eggs, a spoonful of yogurt, and a sugar-free Red Bull were never a good option for breakfast. For any meal, to be honest.
“Do you wanna keep watching this?”
He shakes his head. It’s a no.
“We can play a video game. I have a Mario Kart.”
Another shake of the head. Another no.
“You like FIFA better.”
“What? How do you know?”
“I did my homework, too, you know,” Charles says proudly, sticking out his tongue. He could've said that he knows it all because Max sort of lives rent-free in everyone’s heads who works in the paddock, but it would be only a partial truth. The real one is that Charles found Max… interesting waaaay before. He did; there is no point in denying it.
Max always talks like he means it, backing up his words with actions. His expertise and professionalism are proven, solid facts. Charles is neither blind nor stupid. But he is a decent man and not a cheater either, so despite the silent acknowledgement of Max’s attractiveness, he stayed loyal and never let himself go there, even in his thoughts. He loved Carlos, and he was determined to keep their relationship afloat. But he noticed.
“O-okay,” Max, caught off guard, breathes out. He clearly didn't expect that. “Cool. Good to know.”
He doesn't add anything else, and Charles doesn't know if there is more to say, even though the air between them is a bit awkward. So he does his best to get invested in the hundredth episode of the muted reality show. Or at least pretends to be occupied with that. Max doesn't bother him anymore, just staying by his side. There are no new notifications on his phone, either, and Charles feels suddenly settled, as if he has reached the finish line after running a marathon.
The calmness wraps around him like a nice, soft blanket. The buzzing sounds of the street creep through the open window, lulling him. He dozes off, drained both emotionally and physically. What a fucking day.
He wakes up a couple of hours later, afternoon sunrays stretching out on the floor like splashes of honey. Max is still sitting on the couch, but he has showered and changed. His hair hasn’t dried up yet, the strands sticking up to his temples and his neck. The fresh, musky smell makes Charles thirsty.
Ridiculous.
He yawns; his puffed eyes are still heavy from sleep. His head, though—so much better; the nasty migraine faded away. His hangover is almost gone as well.
“Good morning,” he croaks out, trying to focus on something other than Max, which is a challenge. He has one of his crazy cats lying behind him, purring loudly. “They hate me.”
“Jimmy and Sassy are quite the characters, yes.” Max chuckles, petting the creature in between the ears. Charles feels a sudden tug in his chest. Is it normal to feel jealous of the cat?
Huh?! Where is this coming from? Did Max spike him in his sleep or something?
“Their love has to be earned, so that it may take some time,” Max goes on, oblivious to Charles’ inner struggle. “But they will grow on you, I promise.”
That sounds… Intriguing. As if they are planning to see each other after today. And not only see, but—
“That's Sassy. She is a very opinionated girl,” Max coos lovingly, swiping his fingers behind kitty’s ears, and gives her chin scratches. The cat meows in approval. “Is that right, baby?”
Charles almost whimpers in protest. Biting his tongue is not enough.
Max slowly turns his head, letting Sassy go.
Uh-oh. Charles opens his mouth to explain himself immediately, but then he notices something that completely knocks the breath out of his lungs.
There is a bite on the inner side of Max’s bicep. And another one at the junction where the neck meets the shoulder. Now that Max wears a t-shirt, the marks are clearly visible.
What. The. Fuck.
Charles cannot move. He cannot take his eyes off those bites. He is pretty sure it is the traces of his teeth.
Max catches him staring and smirks. Joy splatters across his face. “What?”
“Was it…” His cheeks are burning. “Me, by chance?”
“Yeah.” A quick, easy answer, as if it’s nothing out of the ordinary. “Apparently, you like to bite.”
“Apparently?” Charles is about to pass out. He feels shaky—his hands are trembling, and his voice is, too. His lips twitch.
“Apparently,” Max confirms with a nod. “Why are you so surprised?”
“Well, it’s not like I remember a lot from last night,” Charles huffs. It's so annoying that he doesn't.
Probably one of the biggest FOMOs in his life.
Max snorts, clearly entertained. That is annoying, too. “Do you want me to remind you?”
And just like that, Charles is gaping straight into his beautiful, insolent eyes. Because fuck. Max has no business being this hot. He sucks in a sharp breath.
“Yeah.”
Max gives him an incredulous look and shakes his head. “Don’t tempt me.”
Charles, lightheaded and insanely turned on, manages a weak, miserable laugh.
“And if I do?”
Spare him! Sedate him! Make it stop!
ASAP!!!
Was it the bite? Was it a peaceful nap? Was it comfort, which was provided unprompted? Was it their conversation? Was it his favorite pizza? Was it attentive and genuine concern? Was it Max? Just Max?
Objectively, he shouldn’t press this any further. That’s the line where their exchange of light pleasantries ends. They barely know each other. They talked only for a couple of hours. Which is nothing. He dated Carlos for two years and still couldn’t figure out the man.
Subjectively, though, why the fuck not?
Max is suddenly serious, brows furrowed. “Don’t joke like that.”
It is a final suggestion to get out of it, an easy one. Probably clever, too—Charles is freshly out of the relationship; he should process, rest, heal, and whatever else has to be done to let go and move on. The problem is, he has always had a hard time following the advice.
“I am not joking.”
Max glares at him, silent.
“We have done it once, might as well do it twice, you know,” Charles babbles innocently, a treacherous spark igniting in his eyes. “Just saying.”
What is he saying? What is he doing?
“And you won’t regret it?”
“Regret what? That we haven’t done it earlier?” He says this lightly, but his stomach swoops uncomfortably, and his ears ring. There is an invisible pressure on his temples, which causes his head a terrible ache, but it’s not the hangover, no. The reason is different this time.
In fact, it is way worse.
Charles is nervous as hell, suddenly fearing rejection. Rejection. How funny is that?
He doesn’t remember himself being this agitated for many months. For years, actually. It’s the type of anxiousness you’d get before walking for the first time for a big brand—for him it was Armani. It’s the type of anxiousness you’d get when you’re being invited to lead Paris Fashion Week. It’s the type of anxiousness you’d get before signing a multiyear and shaking hands with Donatella Versace. It’s the type of anxiousness you’d get when it hits that you made it, really made it, and now you need to figure out how to work with it so it sticks and stays.
Just when he is about to spiral more, Max is here.
He is here—his lips are on him, his hands are on him, his whole body is on him. Max kisses him, his tongue pressing into Charles’ mouth with stubborn demand; Max kisses him, his hard cock pressing into the crease of Charles’ hip with clear determination.
It is… Something. It is everything.
Charles sighs, melting into the kiss, relief washing over him. He nibbles on Max’s lips a bit, to hear him grunting, grip on his waist getting harder.
His dancing fingers find Max’s hard-on and gently run over it, mapping the outline through the jeans. His stupid, ugly skinny jeans.
Max dives in to nuzzle his neck. Charles tilts his head to the side, encouraging with the soft, quiet moan.
“You are a menace,” he hears muffled muttering, a tongue earnestly licking his skin.
“I am,” he agrees, eager, and hooks his legs around Max’s hips in search of something firm enough to grind on. “Care to do something about it?”
There is a lot of nonsensical, angry gibberish in Dutch. Charles is pretty sure Max is swearing. He laughs; something light and bubbly consumes an empty space in his chest.
Is it what being with Max feels like?
“For that, you’ll have to stay longer.”
It is silly, but he can’t stop smiling. Not even when Max bites him—a sharp flash of pain makes him weirdly excited, craving more.
Well. If Charles didn’t remember the first time, this one he certainly would. And the one after. And another one.
///
Zandvoort is the first race after summer break. When Charles kissed Max goodbye early in the morning and stayed in bed to sleep a couple of hours more, he was very confident that he could do it by himself. Max asked him multiple times, on multiple occasions, and on multiple days—he just wanted to confirm that Charles would be okay. But Charles was okay, truly. And he is okay now, just—not so confident anymore.
He walks into the paddock with a light smile on his face—his favorite sunglasses are on, dark hickeys are plastered in clusters on his tanned neck (they had an amazing time in Santorini; Max made sure to steal the sunkisses from his skin daily—Charles couldn’t be happier).
Fuck, he liked this man so, so much.
He managed to make around seven steps unnoticed—the bet was he wouldn’t make even five, so Max owes him big time now. Not that he ever refused; he never refuses him. This one, though, was fully Max’s initiative. After all the experience Charles had, he wouldn’t even dare to ask for something like that.
But Max started it all by himself, completely unprompted.
“I wouldn’t mind you in my box,” he blurted out, sipping his gin and tonic and making Charles nearly choke on Chardonnay.
Pause. What?
“If you don’t want it, it’s fine. I completely understand,” he rushed to add quickly, trying to wave it off.
Charles needed a breath. Or two. Or three. But instead of carefully considering and thoughtfully deciding, he said: “Okay. I will.”
That night, Max went down on him. First, he sucked him off, swallowing till the last drop. Such a good, diligent boy. Then, he ate him out until Charles turned into a whining, pliant mess. His brain was completely gone.
Max called it worshipping. Charles called it one of the best nights of his life.
The rest is history.
Don't ask him how it progressed from “just come over to the Red Bull hospitality” to “let’s occupy the headlines of all possible motorsport outlets for weeks,” because he doesn’t remember it either.
But today was their two-month anniversary. His first appearance in the paddock after breaking up with Carlos, too. Big date, needless to say.
Charles gets rounded up almost immediately: running cameras, flashy phones, unknown faces. They look like hungry seagulls, ready to jump into the waters to catch the largest fish in the sea. This type of attention isn’t new to him; the reason, though, is entirely different from everything he has ever experienced before.
The mic practically gets shoved into his face.
“Charles, it is a pleasure to see you at the first race after the summer break!”
“Yeah, thanks. I missed it.”
His body automatically tenses up, and, recoiling, Charles makes a conscious effort to unclench his gritted teeth, to straighten his back, and relax his shoulders. It eases him up a bit.
“We missed you too! Any particular reason for your choice of the outfit you are wearing today?”
“Not quite my style, right?” Charles smirks, masking his nervousness with a wide, blinding smile. Fake as fuck, but the media is here not for the genuine interviews either. He sees the Red Bull staff approaching; the girl’s open, determined face is aimed at him, and he discreetly breathes out. In the end, Max took care of it. Of course he did.
Everyone quiets, waiting for him to go on.
“What can I say? I made a new friend, I guess.” He winks, making sure the camera captures his glare—purposeful, unapologetic, proud. His hand casually taps the bold red number one on his—Max’s—team kit. Fingers trace the outline.
Charles can’t hide a shy, dopey smile. It’s everything that he could ask for. Actually, so much more than that. He’d be okay if he were recognized by family and friends: the former was already covered over summer break, the latter… Well… It is sorta happening right now.
In a stunned silence, he hears the first loud gasp. Just as the outbreak is about to burst, the staff barges in with a firm “No more questions, please!” and a dismissing wave of a hand.
“So sorry, guys! Ciao!”
Charles is not sorry. He is relieved to follow the blue shirt that fearlessly makes the way for both of them through the protesting crowd.
“Perfect timing,” Charles whispers inaudibly.
The girl nods. “Props to Max.”
He is not surprised, but still flattered. Every. Single. Time.
Just when he thinks he is used to it, Max manages to amuse him, turning him inside out again and again.
Charles is sooo casual and normal about it. About Max. About them.
From that moment on, everything goes well. Suspiciously so. Red Bull hospitality isn’t any different from Ferrari, but—the exact opposite in its own way.
People are very friendly and welcoming, and it doesn’t feel forced. They acknowledge him and eagerly shake hands, all greeting with warm smiles.
At first, Charles is very skeptical about this. By the late afternoon, he knows almost everyone; Max’s side of the garage by their names. And they know him. No one has side-eyed him even once. No cold shoulders, no discontent, no pressuring silence. Crazyyy.
“You are their golden boy, indeed,” he muses in awe when Max joins him for an hour break, temporarily free from his media duties. “How much do they make off you? What is your revenue?”
“Two hundred fifty million annually.” An immediate response without skipping a beat. “Minimum.”
He can’t be serious. Charles looks at Max in pure disbelief and realizes that he is. He is serious.
“Damn. That's the power of three championships.”
“And I’m getting them my fourth.”
“I should’ve done racing instead of modeling. Damn.”
“You should have,” Max approves, with no hint of irony in his voice. “Are you gonna ask about my net worth next?”
Charles huffs, shaking his head. “To make you even more insufferable? Uh-ugh. Nope, thanks. I’ll pass.”
“I thought you were with me for the money.” Max sighs, pretending to be heartbroken.
“Yeah, sure,” Charles agrees sarcastically. “And your big dick.”
He understands his mistake a second later. But the damage has already been done. Max looks at him with unleashed craving in his eyes.
He is starving.
“Okay, n-no, no,” Charles backs away, mildly panicked. “We are not doing this. Not here, here is insane!”
Max frowns. “Are you saying you never fucked in the paddock?”
“No, of course not!” Charles hisses, ashamed for them both. “Ferrari will get you beheaded for this.”
“For what, for being gay?”
“Max Emilian! There are people around!”
“Some of them are gay, too.”
Charles is at a loss for words. It's better to pretend that he is having sound hallucinations. No, really. But then—
Hold on a second.
“Did you?”
“Did I do what?”
He hopes Max will turn into a pile of ashes under his glare.
“You know what.”
This asshole laughs, careless. “Yeah. I did.”
Shocked, Charles covers his open mouth. “No way. Wait, with who?”
Max looks everywhere except him.
“Who was that?”
“I’m not telling you.”
Yeah, that's it. Charles’ patience has reached its limit.
RIP, Max Verstappen, you were a good boyfriend, too brave to walk on this earth without getting humbled.
His fist clenches around the collar. An identical team kit that came from the same closet. He tugs on it, forcing Max to take a step closer.
Max smirks, cocky, because of fucking course he is. He just won, satisfaction clear on his face.
Charles didn't stand a chance. They both know it.
“My driver’s room is all the way down to the left. Wanna check it out?” Max almost purrs, like one of his wild, cute cats.
“You know how it’s hard for me to be quiet,” Charles whispers, trying to appeal to logic and common sense.
Max’s smug smile is brighter than the fucking sun.
“I have my ways, you know. Of keeping you still.”
“Bring it on, then. Impress me,” he dares, clicking his tongue. “Well?”
It’s a trap. Max, a hunter by nature, looks almost delirious.
“It’s kinda hard to be loud when your mouth is full of my cock, no?”
Charles wonders who is more obsessed, him or Max. He can't let him win this war.
“Take me to bed or lose me forever. Or whatever they say,” he murmurs this practically into his mouth, their lips almost touching. Max leans in for the kiss, unable to resist it anymore, but Charles yanks him away, abruptly letting go of the collar of his shirt.
A grumpy whimper at the loss. “Now, this is just unfair.”
“Oh, my poor baby,” Charles coos teasingly, baring his neck. Max’s palm ghosts over the back of it. His skin creeps from the proximity alone, from the promise of the touch. He can’t suppress a contented, dreamy sigh. “You can still get it, you know. If you ask nicely.”
Max lets out a low laugh, grinning. His hand runs through Charles’ hair, slightly tugging and pulling.
“What happened to “we can’t do this, there are people around”, huh?”
Forced to tilt his head and look at Max, Charles pouts and closes his eyes. The gesture is simple—the explosive mix of gentleness and power—and it feels so, so good. His loss in this round was obvious from the start, but he will never admit it. Max already has too much control over them—over him. Sometimes Charles thinks he will lose his mind.
“You look so handsome when you are flushed like this. Red suits you, but only when you are wearing it with blue.”
“Max!” Charles gasps. The audacity!
It does little to stop him—he is too long gone already; you can easily tell it by the look on his face. Max is so deep in his yearning, it’s almost disgusting.
“Can I have your face? You’ll be so good to me, your perfect mouth...” His gaze, attentive and adoring, fixes on Charles, who suddenly feels exposed. Exposed, sensitive, but protected, covered from the cruelty of the outside world. “Or maybe, you’ll let me fuck you, hmmm? Please, baby,” Max whimpers—again—pleading shamelessly. “I’ll be the happiest man if you let me come into your pretty hole, fuck.”
Sometimes, Charles doesn’t have the liberty to think. He just loses his mind. That’s all.
“I want you so bad, schatje. I think about you all the time. It’s not even funny.”
He feels the heat radiating from them both in waves. They are going to crash and burn.
“Do you have enough time for all this?” Charles asks carefully but suggestively. “Your hickeys need a touch-up, too.”
It’s the truth, though. Max left those on Monday. Today is Thursday. They are four days old. Four. Terrible time-management skills.
Max’s hand crawls under his own kit and gives Charles’ waist a firm squeeze. He still feels a bit crazy about it, about wearing his boyfriend’s clothes in public. It’s an official statement. Almost like a claim. Charles winces, desperately wanting the touch to linger. It’s a special one, reaffirming and confident. He feels secure wrapped in Max’s arms.
“Down the hall to the left, baby, let’s go. The condom is in my back pocket,” Max murmurs, lightly nudging him in the right direction. “For you, I have all the time of my life.”
Charles knew this was planned. He fucking knew this.
It’s funny how the tables have turned. When he was with Ferrari, he was constantly so stressed, sick to his stomach. The fear of being exposed, of exposing Carlos, was eating him alive. Every race weekend felt like torture. Right now, the only thing Charles is worried about is the lock. There is a high chance of them being walked on by some unfortunate Red Bull employee, so the lock better be there.
By the end of the day, they have done it twice. Charles should feel dirty and embarrassed, but all he feels is falling. Hungry and addicted, he falls, and falls, and falls for Max. The bottom line doesn’t exist. It’s an abyss.
///
The door closes with a loud bang.
“So that’s how it is now. You found a new friend.”
Charles wouldn’t say he was surprised. Carlos always took everything personally, so it was kind of expected. He thought it would happen a bit later, though, but oh well. Patience never was his ex’s strong suit.
“Oi, bonjour. Max is more of a boyfriend. A real one, you know. But yeah,” Charles responds easily, even though his brain is still sorting out remnants of a slight fright—he was waiting for Max, not Carlos.
“Out of all options, it just had to be him.”
“And what’s wrong?”
“It is Max Verstappen,” says Carlos, baffled, as if it's enough reason to step back, changing the decision. As if it's the reason for fucking anything.
“Yes, I’m aware. He is quite cute, non?”
Carlos’ eyes are comically large. “Do you hear yourself? Charles! He’ll make you his trophy!”
“And I’d fucking love that!” He sneers, matching the attitude.
Carlos blinks, confused. “What?”
Charles laughs, the bitterness flaring in his veins. After two fucking years spent together, that man has no idea. After their breakup, which happened for the same reason, that man still doesn't know shit. Phenomenal levels of comprehension.
“I love to show off. And I love to be shown off. He can scream about having me from the rooftops for all I care. It will only make me happier.”
There is no resentment anymore, just a jab of curiosity. Is there something wrong with Charles or is it really hard to understand?
“I’d choose to be treated like I’m a fucking prize every time over being hidden and ignored for years.”
“So that’s what you wanted all the time. Publicity.”
There is contempt with the side of slight disgust edging in Carlos’ voice.
Yeah, no, what the fuck.
“Wrong. I told you what I wanted! I told you that so many times,” he sighs, exasperated. “I want to be seen, recognized, and acknowledged by the person whom I fucking love! Cherishing is optional, but Max seems to be happy to provide, so.”
God forbid a man expresses his feelings freely. Jesus Christ.
“Oh, so you love him,” in a shocked, pressed accusation.
Charles bites his cheek. Fuck. He hasn’t told Max yet. He hasn’t told anyone, obviously, and it’s a shame that Carlos is the first to know.
“Yeah, I do.”
“And you’ve been dating for how long, a couple of weeks?” Carlos scoffs, clearly mocking.
Charles laughs again, a naive assumption it is.
“We’ve been dating for two months.”
“What? When—”
“Don’t bother counting,” he waves it off. “Before Spain. When you came over to pick up your stuff and tried to call me for whatever reason, remember? He said we were busy.”
“So it was him!” A crisp snap of fingers. “No wonder I thought I recognized the voice.”
Charles nods enthusiastically. “He didn’t lie, though. We were busy. Mainly, he was.”
Carlos rolls his eyes. It’s almost endearing how he fails to take this seriously..
“Sure, whatever you say.”
“He was busy doing me.”
Hook, line, and sinker. Carlos gasps, scowling.
“You didn’t just say that.”
“But I did.”
Carlos gives him a long, disappointed look. “So that’s your way of grieving.”
Charles scrunches his nose. Ah, here it is. And he was wondering when this guilt-tripping journey would be attempted.
“Please, don’t even start.”
“Why not?” Carlos throws up his hands, angry and provoking. “You always accused me of not being serious about us, and look at you, sleeping around not even two weeks past the breakup! Did you even care?”
Charles wants to say that he didn’t just for the love of the game, but it’s too outrageous even for him. Despite all the hurt, he respects Carlos and their relationship. They had plenty of good moments together, and it would be mean to dismiss them like this.
“Listen,” he pauses, trying to find some appropriate wording, but there is none. It’s his last attempt to keep it civil, and he is about to fail miserably because Carlos is blind, deaf, and stubborn. He will never admit that he messed up.
“Listen,” Charles picks it up one more time, feeling much more decisive than he was before. “I grieved us, when we were still dating; it was me who tried to make it work for months. If you cared, though, you would’ve done something about it. At least fucking tried, instead of hiding behind Ferrari policies all the time.”
“I—”
Nope, absolutely not. He hasn’t finished speaking yet.
“You never met my parents. Not a single dinner—you declined them all. I’ve never seen yours as well.”
The air is thick. Charles swallows heavily, mustering the courage. He has to let it out, to get his closure once and for all.
“You never wanted to be with me, Carlos. Not seriously, at least.” He stays patient, even though struggling with his language. It feels almost like teaching a child. “It’s okay to admit this. That you never saw the future with me.”
Carlos is silent. Charles doesn’t blame him. There is nothing you can say to justify the past. What is done is done.
“What is not okay is you trying to twist my intentions and disrespecting me. Max, too. You are shaming the man for actions that you’d never have the nerve to do yourself.”
Carlos shakes his head in denial. “It’s not true. I’d do anything to get you back.”
“Oh, save it,” Charles huffs, torn between irritation and disbelief. “And what is there for me? Years of internal shame? It’s not like you will change. You had so many chances and missed them all.”
“Charles, cariño—”
“It's more of an ego thing than anything else. You and I, we both know how obsessed you are with him. With his success. With his talent.”
Now, Carlos is enraged. He can see the switch in his eyes. When the prey is cornered, it becomes desperate. It will attempt an attack, even if it means self-inflicting a wound.
“So much confidence for someone who dated Verstappen for two mere months. What makes you think that this time will be different?”
Charles closed his eyes, slowly counting to three in his head. Hand to the heart, he really, really wants to preserve decency for them both. Carlos is just being difficult as fuck, and it never fails to piss him off.
There is a place and time for everything. He had plenty. Now, it’s not his anymore; Charles is not his anymore.
He had enough.
“You are so fucking lucky that Max is not here. Get out.”
“Yeah, see, I doubt—”
“Leave, Carlos. I’m serious.”
“And yet, you haven’t answered my question.”
“Because there is nothing to say,” Charles waves towards the exit insistently. Max should be here very soon. He doesn't want this drama to have a bonus episode—an absolutely undeserved one. “There is a reason why they call Max many different names but never a coward.”
A coward. It works like magic. Carlos looks absolutely crushed.
“Please reconsider.”
“Yeah, no. Merci beaucoup. Bye.”
Carlos slams the door shut. Charles punches the bridge of his nose. What a cruel joke.
Max appears less than five minutes afterwards: his hair is a mess, the balaclava lines are still freshly pressed into the skin, sweat glistening at the sides of his face. He is about to hug him, but then—pauses, noticing. His expression changes, from light excitement to deep concern.
Charles lets out a shaky breath, feeling the strong hands confidently landing on his shoulders.
“Okay, baby, what happened? Tell me, please, so we can fix it together.”
“Promise me you won’t do anything.”
“I can’t promise you that.”
His vision blurs. He can’t look at Max. Can’t face his worried, honest eyes. He just—can’t.
“Carlos came by.”
“Motherfu—” Max forces himself to stop midway and inhale, trying his best to keep his cool. “Sorry. Are you hurt? Did he do something to you?”
“No, no, no. I’m fine, Max. We just talked.”
“Did he say something that upset you? That’s why you are crying?”
The tears start rolling down his face uncontrollably. It’s too much for what Charles feels right now. What he feels for Max.
“No.”
“Then why are you crying?”
He chews on his bottom lip. Max swipes his thumbs across Charles’ cheeks, gently wiping off his tears. It pains him how troubled his boyfriend looks.
What an idiot. He really doesn’t understand, does he?
Charles sniffles. “Because I can't believe how lucky I am.”
Tensing up, Max goes very still, almost freezing on the spot. He keeps holding Charles' face carefully in his hands.
“Sorry, what?”
“You’ve been so respectful and kind to me.” With a sheepish smile and a tremble in his voice, Charles lifts his gaze to meet Max—so, so confused and lost, slight traces of anger still looming over. He is ready to take action at any minute.
“I… I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”
Charles can’t help but laugh softly, putting his hands atop and grabbing Max by the wrists. It’s almost adorable how oblivious this stupid man can be sometimes.
“You always listen, okay? Since the very start. Even if it’s something ridiculous. You take care of me so well, and you never ask anything in return.” He swallows heavily, feeling the lump in his throat. Oh god, he is about to cry again. “You deal with my attitude all the time.”
Max hums. “And you deal with mine, no?”
“Yes, but—”
“That’s…” he muses, approaching the topic carefully. “That’s how it’s supposed to be.”
“You’d think so,” Charles says sarcastically, absentmindedly stroking Max’s forearms. “I’m so happy. Because of you. I just hope you know this.”
“Schatje…” Max whispers, pulling him into a hug—one hand still caresses his cheek, heavy and grounding, and the other is tightly wrapped around his waist.
They stay like this for a while, quietly holding each other. Charles closes his eyes, listening to Max’s steady breathing. Their pulses are beating in sync.
If someone told Charles two months ago that he’d break up with Carlos, hook up and fall madly in love with Max Verstappen, who is eager to stay by his side, stand his ground and date him publicly, he’d never believed that. Because what the fuck. Even now it sounds like a fever dream.
“I still really wanna punch him,” Max complains, his hot breath scratching Charles’ ear. He laughs, giddy with emotion.
“Orrr… How about instead we fuck before the second practice starts, hm?”
Max groans. “Don’t distract me with sex.”
“It’s working, though.”
“Of course it is.” A disbelieving chuckle. “It’s you, Charles.”
He hides his face in the crook of Max’s neck, shy but teasing.
“I’m glad.” A breathless sigh followed by a bite. “Because I want it quick and rough.”
Amused, Max sucks in a sharp breath. “Charles.”
Disregarding the warning, he finds his boyfriend’s hand on his back, gives it a firm squeeze, and guides it down.
“I already prepped myself.”
Charles stops when Max’s fingers slide in between his ass cheeks, making sure the fingertips slide in between and touch the outline of the plug he buried inside himself this morning. His little gift. A small token of gratitude for all the loyalty and devotion Max has shown him.
“Fuck, Charlie.”
“Wanted to be ready for you anytime you want it,” he pants, arching his back, and lines his ass right up with his boyfriend’s hand to grind into it. Instinctively, Max pushes his fingers against the plug, making Charles shiver and moan. Oh, how obscene he must look right now—like a desperate slut begging for a cock. But he doesn’t care.
There is no shame in wanting. Charles is just being honest about it.
“You’ll be a death to me, I swear.”
“C’mon, Maxie. We have thirty minutes. You can come inside me and plug me up. I know you like it like that.” He swipes his fingers across his jaw to call for attention. As if Max’s sole attention isn’t on him already. “And then, you’ll fuck me one more time after you are done with your practice, nice and slow. We’ll see if it spills. Yes?”
Max chuckles, but doesn't move anywhere, his intentions are clear. “You are insane.”
“What, already regretting that you introduced me to the paddock sex?” Charles teases, biting his bottom lip.
A laugh. His eyes are full of tenderness. “I might be an idiot sometimes, but I’m not stupid. I just think that you are mistaken.
“Is that so,” he murmurs, Max’s lips ghosting over his pulse point. Electrified with tension, this pull is inevitable.
“It’s me who is unbelievably lucky.”
Of course he won't leave alone like that. He wouldn’t be Max, if he did. Charles is so proud of his choice. Of himself. Of them.
“Let’s postpone all the poetry, chéri; we are running out of time. Down the hall to the left, am I correct?”
Max narrows his eyes, putting his hand on his heart. The gesture is theatrical. It's sweet, too.
“You are not going anywhere from me, you know this, right?”
Charles giggles, letting Max kiss his cheeks, temples, and forehead. Then, he reaches out for his lips.
“Yeah.” He exhales, breathless. His ribcage is about to be split apart. “Yeah, I know.”
///
Saturday is neither good nor bad. Just… Eh. Not the best result that Max had on this track, but the car feels manageable, so the race should be okay. The team is confident, too. They have other things to worry about.
As soon as Max sits down for the qualifying presser, he feels it.
The hunger, the bloodlust.
It’s nothing new. That’s what you get for swimming with sharks.
“How does the new… friendship with Charles Leclerc affect you?”
The air is charged, full of tensed stares. They all look at him; they wait for him. They want to skin him alive; they’ve been wanting to for many years. Their teeth are sharp.
Sharp, but not sturdy enough—they break them every time, trying to dive in for a bite. They ache to find his weaknesses, looking for the cracks in his perfectly constructed armor. He’s been building it for years.
It’s like chewing a bullet.
“Positively, of course. My team has always told me it’s good for my PR image to socialize with new people and show my other side to the fans.”
“So they don’t think it might be a huge distraction factor for your championship fight?”
Max throws out there the most crooked smile he has. They will eat it up.
“I’m 63 points ahead; it’s a very comfortable lead. Yes, I qualified only third, but the race is tomorrow. If anything, Charles brings in some extra motivation for me to do well. High risk, high reward, you know.”
“Max! Over here! Your teammate is p4, Lando is p2, and Carlos has the pole. Were you surprised by the results?”
It doesn’t really matter what he wants to say; they will make it sound like their agenda demands. Everything will be dissected, word after word, until the original meaning is lost and the new one is born. Max stopped caring about it a long time ago.
“Yes and no. Oscar has been strong over here last year, that’s true. At one point, I even thought he would outqualify me today.” He chuckles, his eyes lit with kindness; his posture is relaxed but unwavering. “Same goes for Lando; he did awesome. Carlos’ pole is a bit surprising, yes, but Ferrari has been consistent with their updates, so it indicates that the team did a really great job with the car over the summer break. That’s cool to throw different teams in the mix for the fight. The Constructors’ is still for grabs, no?”
“Oh, you are right. Yes, of course.”
“You seem so unfazed about the pressure. Any expectations for tomorrow?”
“I have 63 points of leeway,” Max repeats calmly. “Currently, there is no pressure. But we’ll see what we can do tomorrow regardless; it’s always nice to win at home.”
“Max, one last question, please. You must’ve heard the rising criticism about your newfound… bond with Charles Leclerc. He seems very passionate about it, too, wearing your team kit and all.”
There is an awkward short laugh that births the impulse of agitated whispering, and then—silence. You can hear the pin drop.
It’s not the question, not a real one. It’s their final attempt to bait him. Max doesn’t bide his time, though; he is not the type to create unnecessary mysteries. It’s their job to dig and to scheme, not his.
“Ah, you noticed that? Yes, I feel very supported. I’m very happy we got to know each other better, and it brought our relationship closer than it ever was.” He scratches the back of his neck, his skin gradually turning pink. This part wasn’t planned, but it’s even better like this. “Honestly, I don’t see the reason for any further discussion here since it doesn’t correlate with my racing whatsoever. I think I have the right to choose my people. Charles is one of them.”
The room bursts into an indignant howl.
///
When the race starts, Charles forgets how to breathe.
Max easily gains one place on the opening lap and turns the rest into a slow, brutal hunt. Carlos, though, does so well during his first stint that for a second Charles starts hesitating if it is possible, despite the Red Bull’s ruthless pace.
But Max is Max. Soon to be a four-time world champion for a reason.
When they fight wheel to wheel, Charles prays to any gods who will listen. He can feel it, Max’s mad desire. But also—there is precision and patience. He doesn't rush; he waits, toying with his prey. Turn after turn, lap after lap, he inches his car closer and closer.
Max goes for it, diving into Carlos’ left side. Ferrari shifts. Their wheels bang lightly. Charles wants to squeeze his eyes shut, but squeezes his hands into fists instead. His knuckles become pale white. His nails leave half-moon indents on his skin. Future bruises. He doesn’t feel any pain.
Max swears on the radio. No puncture. The car is okay. No damage.
Five laps are left to race.
He does it again.
Charles doesn’t know how he ends up in parc fermé. Lost in the roaring chaos, he wants to hide at first. That's what he always did when he stayed in Ferrari’s boxes, because it was a team celebration, and he wasn't a part of it. No hard feelings. Obviously.
He should've guessed that with the Red Bull things would be different. Charles should've, but he was stressed as fuck, his heart thumping too loud and too fast that he almost thought that it would jump out of his chest.
A heavy hand on his shoulder stops him from leaving. It’s Max’s mechanic, Callum. He has a kind face and a wide smile.
“I thought you were Max’s, no?” he yells over the deafening, overpowering noise.
Max’s. Wow.
Charles nods weakly.
“As I thought! The whole team should be up there to celebrate him.”
Sure. So what does it havto with him? He doesn't get the point.
Callum sighs, his eyes glinting in the sunlight. “You are his team. Let’s go.”
Max jumps into the arms of his screaming crew. They chant his name. Charles chants and screams with them. He is crying a bit, too, but that’s not the point.
Handshakes, backclaps, shouts.
“Congrats, mate!”
“What a fire race!”
“Outstanding performance!”
“Good job, team!”
Charles’ cheeks almost hurt from smiling. He almost feels too small for the endless amounts of happiness that fill him.
Max stops dead on the tracks.
Through the open visor, Charles sees the eyes. They burn with triumph, with adrenaline, with hunger.
Summer skies, clear water, melting ice. All that and everything in between.
Victory suits him so well.
Gaze fixed, Max looks like he wants to eat him alive.
Charles’ breath hitches.
It's not what he thinks it is. It's not. Surely it isn’t.
GP pats Max on the back, making them break their insanely intense eye contact. Thank god.
“Take off your helmet and go get your man,” Charles hears him saying.
What?
He wants to protest immediately because there are so many other things that Max needs to do. This can wait. He can wait. It's fine.
Apparently, Max has other ideas because he does exactly what is suggested. The helmet is gone in less than a minute. Supersonic speed. There is no time for catching a breath.
The crowd whistles and makes way for him. Someone lightly pushes Charles in the back, nudging him towards the front, straight into Max’s arms.
“I won it for you.”
Ooo. Ooooo. What a perfect way to die, pressed into a sweaty, warm, trained body of the person who shines brighter than a thousand stars. He feels so safe like this. Hidden from the whole world. So cared, so cherished, so adored.
“Max, are you su—”
“I don’t give a fuck,” he dismisses, grabbing Charles by the waist—always staying loyal to one of his favorite spots. His grip is harder than ever. “I love you, Charlie.”
Well, damn. His heart might really explode.
“I love you too, mon chéri.”
Max kisses him like tomorrow doesn't matter. Like it doesn't exist.
If that’s what happiness feels like, Charles doesn’t want it to end.
With Max by his side, he thinks that there is a good chance of making it. This time, for real.