Chapter Text
Summary:
missing
/ˈmɪsɪŋ/
The word missing mainly functions as an adjective meaning not present, lost, or unable to be found in its expected place. It can describe a misplaced object, an absent person, or a needed piece of a whole.
Max is rushing towards his driver's room in the hospitality when he first catches two green eyes watching him.
His steps falter for a moment, knees buckling- it can't be. Charles is supposed to be on a runway in Milano right now. (not that Max occasionally checks his stories or whatever) But he's been posting from Milano the whole week. There's a fashion week happening, so why would he be here in the paddock instead?
But again, this high-pitched laughter is unique. Way too unique for Max to be able to ignore. He inhales shakily, fingers squeezing his redbull, then turns around.
There it is. Charles in a fancy black blazer with a sheer black crop top in it, and matching trousers. He has a bit of blush and gloss on his face.
When they first started, it was only for the sake of PR. Max was getting backlash for an interview; everything has become too much, and maybe one day he partied too hard.
He remembers how his PR team kept screaming in his ear while running up and down the room. The video of Max drinking champagne from a woman's breast had gone viral, no filter. Rumors about him being a playboy, disgusting and a lot more Max can't remember right now.
The PR team's solution was simple. A man who had lost all his connections in the modelling world after a livestream. One wrong sentence and one year of being abolished from the industry.
Charles Leclerc, the runway model, a supermodel at that.
Max didn't like the idea at first. To date a man that lived for the flashlights, to date a man- and his PR team scolded him about how he would not see a woman for a long time after the club incident.
On the contrary to Max, Charles has been more than happy to accept. The façade he always carries, the polite, PR trained smile, too polished, too pretty.
Though it started as PR, Max has never been someone who could leash his emotions. He got obsessed quickly. With a man that pretty, it was impossible not to get jealous.
And the reason they broke up- something about Max not letting Charles do his job anymore because he didn't let a rich bastard with connections flirt with Charles at a gala they attended together.
The nerve the man had.
And fuck it- now seeing him back again in the paddock after everything they shared stings. They broke up a long time ago, and Charles hasn't been seen in Red Bull territory since their breakup. Why is he here talking to Max's team boss? If he's in the paddock, why the Red Bull garage specifically?
His grip tightens more around his redbull can, crushing it slightly as he glares at them across the garage.
He pushes off the engine, cutting through mechanics and engineers until he reaches Charles.
The problem is, the closer he gets, the louder Charles’ presence becomes, even though people instinctively part for him.
Christian notices him first and puts on a diplomatic smile, which pulls the trigger for Charles too. He blinks, turning around, and his wide grin falters when they make eye contact with Max. His first instinct after seeing Max for the first time in three months is to straighten up his spine slightly.
Of course, a supermodel is still a model at the end of the day, even though he is an ex in the core.
"Oh Max- we were just talking about your championship. Charles is here too... Yeah?"
"I see that," Max nods pointedly, brows raised. "Makes me wonder. Why this race when I'm in the spotlight and not the any other one?"
No one says anything for three long seconds, then Christian excuses himself with a polite ‘I'll leave you two,’ before getting lost further towards the garage.
Now it's just them, as the paddock noise fades into a faint dull ache in his ears. It's only Charles pulsating in his ears. In his heart. He doesn’t smile or speak initially.
Instead, his eyes scan Charles, from his tailored blazer to his polished shoes. His' name is a poison in Max's veins, travelling up to his tongue as he speaks. "Charles, Charles... What a surprise you are, mmh?”
And Charles has the nerve to still blink innocently. Maybe he's caught off guard by how cold Max sounds- and good for him. He deserves it, after months of ignorance. Maybe he thought the single word was delivered as an accusation- and it is. It is an accusation.
"Surprise?" Charles swallows, those red cupid bows curling slightly, then manages a small nod. "Yeah... wanted to... come here and um...” His voice is softer than usual. Like he’s walking on thin ice. Like a guilty man knowing his crime and that he'll have to do his time. "Are you doing okay?”
At that, Max’s eyes narrow into suspicious slits. Charles is asking stupid questions as if they’re casual acquaintances.
As if Charles didn’t spend the last three months pretending not to care about Max, as if he hadn’t been the reason Max missed three parties this season because seeing him with someone else hurt too much.
Momentarily, they make eye contact with Christian from a distance, and why is he still watching? Why does he care so much about Charles?
“Why are you here?” Max finally snaps. His muscles are rigid under his fingers where he's hugging himself, he can feel it.
Charles halts with a timid scoff. A few more innocent blinks and Max can count his mascara-coated lashes. “I'm watching the Grand Prix.” He shrugs, hands slipping into the pockets of his tailored jacket. It's so effortlessly chic and fuck him. Fuck Charles, genuinely. “I've been invited.”
“You've been?”
At first, Charles doesn’t elaborate. As if being a guest to watch an F1 race is normal when your ex is the sport itself. Then he adds. “Christian reached out to me last week. Said I could come see qualifying and Sunday’s race… as a VIP.”
After the word VIP, he raises his chin in an almost intimidating manner. Max's heart stops before exploding into an erratic rhythm. This is wrong, and it is right when Charles pouts cutely- and it is so fucking wrong because who the fuck is Christian to put his nose into Max's business?
But again, Charles is a superstar, a model who brings lots of attention to the sport.
A muscle jumps in Max’s cheek as his eyes travel between Charles’ daring face, to Christian's underhanded eyes, back to Charles, then to the camera that's literally recording them-
What. The. Fuck?
Max's pupils widen despite the dim lighting. When he glances at the big screen in the garage, it's sweeping over the Red Bull garage before zooming in on them.
Them.
As if they're still a thing.
The Max Verstappen and The Charles Leclerc. Standing face-to-face.
Exes. PR relationship. Coming out.
Max feels the bile rise up his throat as he remembers all the stupid headlines.
On screen, Max hasn't moved, but his posture stiffens instantly. It's a reflex. Millions of people are now seeing this live, and when Charles also notices the camera, he puts on a big smile, the seductive supermodel one. "Aww, look! They're recording us. I look way hotter on these cameras, you know. My photo campaign last week was a disaster."
Max hates how he can look at Charles straight in the eye and differentiate between a genuine and fake smile. They were supposed to be a PR thing. Max shouldn't have known the depths of Charles’ soul. "We don't look hot together."
"We do." Charles hisses through his teeth, big smile still on. "But I'm much hotter, obviously. Watch this."
Blink and you'll miss it, Charles puts his hand on Max's shoulder, and so quickly, before Max can realize what's happening- puts on a big fat kiss on his cheek. Just a single second.
He pulls in just in time before Max can flinch, he's still frozen. But Charles is already giggling. "Mmph.. got my gloss on you." He wipes away the smudged kiss with his fingers from Max's flushed cheeks.
There are minutes until the Free Practice starts, and this is wrong. This looks like a man supporting his partner, not kissing his ex out of the blue.
What's wrong with Charles?
All of Max's hesitancy where the camera does a terrible job, so it misses every micro-expression. Now it almost looks like they're a real couple. The cameras love Charles Leclerc, and love the idea of a man who loves Max so perfectly. This is real love. It sells at the end of the day.
But they're not back together, and this is not one of the endless nights Max wakes up from a dream breathlessly just to find out the empty space on the bed next to him.
The reality crashes in, the mornings come by before dawn, and Charles is gone.
He is supposed to be.
But now?
Now is dangerous.
Now is Charles looking at him like he hung the moon and now the camera travels over to Christian instead. Yes, the exes, and the man who reunited the exes. How funny is that?
"What the- what did you do?"
"Good luck kiss." Charles explains, licking over his cupid bows seductively in slow motion. Then adds with a wink. "There's more where that came from."
Casually, the lens pans to mechanics adjusting tires. As if everything is back to normal. The world is back on his axis. Where is Max's world though? Looking up at him with big fuck-me eyes.
Want is a dangerous thing. Max wants to scream about how many times he threw up because of Charles. Max wants to throw up about how many nightmares Charles caused and even then, he wasn't next to Max to console him after he woke up.
Want is dangerous, and now Charles wants him back.
Or Max forgot so much about Charles that he also forgot to feel his soul. His real intentions beneath the façade. Is this a game too?
"You like that?" Charles asks, and pouts when Max glares at him instead. "So rude. I'm your guest. VIP guess, at that."
But Charles is not a cute puppy as his words paint him to be. Charles is a feral dog, and when the camera zooms in on them again, he attacks.
The kiss land straight on Max's lips this time. No take backs.
It's not even a proper kiss- it's a peck. He can feel Charles’ sticky gloss right on his plump lips.
The worst part is not the pin-drop silence that follows it.
The worst part is when Max hears an engineer drop his tool. These men are professional and fuck him- who does he think he is?
Just as Max's brows form a tight frown, as if on cue, Christian calls for his name. This is not Max's playground anymore. He's a puppet in the hands of a stupid cupid and an ex with a big plan.
Charles sends him a kiss in the air before teasing him one last time. "Good luck, Babe!"
If Max thought the media pen was a disaster after the incident with Charles was aired, social media is even worse.
On top of many phone calls he received from close friends, congratulating him on being back with Charles, he also had to have a last-minute meeting with his PR team.
Something along the lines of ‘play cool’ and ‘keep it light’ and ‘don't cause any dramas’ at Max, but never ‘why the fuck are you in your ex’s garage the weekend he might win the world championship’ at Charles.
Why is Max the only one that has been held accountable?
It's distracting, Charles’ presence. The way his lips curl softly when he's focused, watching Max on a flying lap on the big screen, waiting for him to finish and see if he improved his time. How he caressed Max's shoulder after he got out of the car once the session was done. Max can still feel Charles’ soft hands under his skin through the racing suit. It tingles where it hits.
Worst of all is the tweets he'd been scrolling through in bed for the last half an hour.
Fans loved it when they were together. They loved Charles’ Instagram thirst traps even more. At the end of the day, Charles is a pretty man, and everyone wants him- including Max.
Underneath every post, it's the same chants. Get back together. They look so good together. And the worst part is, the engagement grows only further with every passing hour.
Trending in your area
#1 Charles kissing Max on the lips
Memes. Slow-motion GIFs. Fan art already pouring in- even the official F1 account has posted the moment.
Everyone is screaming about their love, but it's a lie because the quietness of his hotel room is unbearable, and no, Charles is not next to him in the bed like everyone assumes. The left side of the bed is cold.
With a sigh, he closes Twitter and opens TikTok, scrolling through the videos mindlessly. His thumb hovers over an edit with a slow-mo replay to “Can’t Help Falling In Love.” He doesn’t watch the whole thing, but it is enough to get under his skin.
It is the same, more or less. The clip of Charles kissing his cheek, then his lips, the same clip edited with romantic music, then another one with slow-mo effects- and fuck it. He throws the phone on the bed with a tired groan. It's low and high-pitched in his throat. He can feel his Adam's apple rough with the vibration as he runs both hands down his hair, watching the dark ceiling.
Charles kissed him for one second, and it has been replaying in Max's head for 21600 seconds. It's unfair.
He grabs the phone back, the video still playing on the screen on loop. Hesitant, he clicks on one of the tags. There are loads of videos underneath, some of them dated from when they were still dating, and some more recent:
Where Max kisses him in parc ferme after a top three in the race. When they attended one of Charles’ red carpets together. In a sense, it was Max’s first time in Charles’ world, where Charles was always present at multiple races. It felt good to show everyone in the room: This man is mine now. Everyone else can cry.
They look good together, Charles is looking right into the camera. His smile is not formulated like every other time, it's genuine. In love. Max’s hand settles on the curve of Charles’ waist in the video, but in reality, he struggles to remember the feeling under his fingertips. It’s been so long.
He swipes down to another video. The camera angle is low, so it shows the way Charles melts into him as Max makes a joke clearly. His green eyes shine as he leans in to kiss Max.
This time, Max watches it over and over with absolute focus. He slows down the part where their lips touch, gulping. The video stays on loop as he throws the phone next to him on the duvet again. The song keeps repeating the same lines: Baby, you should model on my sheets then. I want to love you all night.
Ding.
Max frowns. This is not his notification sound. Did he install a new app that has a different notification sound? He snatches the phone once again, and the blood on the tip of his fingers drains. Drains down from his flushed, sweaty face to travel south, right on his cock.
No, this is not a new notification sound. This is the specific notification sound Max set for Charles while they were still dating.
Three months is not enough to forget a song you’ve memorized, but it is enough to forget the notification sound of the man you thought you’d grow old with.
What’s worse than sending a new text to your ex after months of radio silence is sending your ex a nude.
It’s not even set for one time only. It’s completely out on the chat. Charles’ back is arched against the full-length mirror. He’s sitting on his knees, but still bent over a bit, and from this angle, his ass looks luscious.
Though he’s not completely naked, the only piece of fabric covering his skin is a lacy black panty.
Red creeps high on Max’s cheekbones.
Imagine waking up to any normal day, dedicated to lock in and win your third world championship this weekend- and it goes on like: My ex is in my workplace. My ex kissed me in front of everyone. Social media is crazy, and all of a sudden I have an HD picture of a fat ass I imagined all these months. He might end up on Reddit with a long-ass thread, and they’d still call it an unrealistic fake story.
Yes, this is not Max’s first time seeing Charles’ naked ass after the breakup. It’s not his fault. Charles had a bad habit of recording every hot moment during sex. From one video where he’s sucking Max on his knees to another where it’s fully zoomed in on his hole as Max moves in and out. The sound of the oil is way too loud in that video, so Max always has to grab his AirPods while watching it.
His favorite, though, is where he squeezes Charles’ throat while jerking off right on the tip of his tongue. Charles drinks in every drop as he cums, and when he swallows, he smiles with dimples to the camera. He’s drunk on red wine and high on some pills- and Max’s cock.
Adrenaline withdrawal is a serious matter in Formula 1, and sometimes, when he tries to come down from a podium high, these videos help. Is it really his fault if Charles has a voyeurism kink? He’s just being a good boyfriend and lets Charles explore his kink.
Maybe they’re both guilty at the end of the day. Max never claimed to be innocent, but he already did his time by missing Charles all those months. It was a pain in the ass.
His pulse hammers once, twice before he types back a text. Just as he’s about to hit send, another message pops in.
And just like that, the photo vanishes from Max’s screen.
One moment, Charles is right there, gloriously naked and posed perfectly, and next? He’s gone. Erased like it never happened. As if it can. As if Max’s phone doesn’t automatically save every picture to the gallery. Hah. What a fucking loser.
But what gets under his skin more is the apology. Mis-sent it. His fingers fly across the screen before he can stop himself.
His mind races as his stomach churns in disgust. Who does Charles take nudes for? Another model? A new secret boyfriend? Or worse- someone from Redbull, who got him a VIP card for the weekend.
Max’s knee bounces impatiently, eyes glued to the screen. For a few seconds, there’s no read receipt, and random names start popping up in Max’s mind from sheer paranoia. Lando? Too young. Carlos? Too old. Not his type anyway.
And then it hits him.
The reply finally comes.
Short. Dismissive. Like Max isn’t important enough to be introduced- or Charles doesn’t care whether Max knows about his new shenanigans or not.
It’s harsh. Too petty. But Max isn’t in a state of thinking straight. Jealousy pumps instead of clean blood in his veins.
With a flick of his wrist, he opens his gallery. He switches the phone from his right hand to his left, then dips his right hand down his sweatpants as he clicks on the private folder. His breath catches as he stares at the image again. The little moles on Charles’ shoulder. The little dimples on his back. It doesn’t take him long before he cums, just a few minutes where he imagines Charles’ moans, and Charles is still yet to text him back after he’s finished, still high on his orgasm.
So Max does.
This isn’t romantic, but they’ve never been romantic. It’s claiming. It’s an acknowledgement: You sent me that photo on purpose, even if you refuse to say so, and now I reacted exactly how you hoped I would.
And he does- really. The tiny freckle near Charles’ hip bone, where Charles liked him coming on. The one by his shoulder blade that only shows up in summer. Even the faint scar from a bike accident on his thigh when he was a child.
Replacing sex might not be hard, but you can’t replace history, and Max is. He’s Charles’ history.
But Charles doesn’t text him back. At first, he waits. Waits for something that’ll never come. Then the weight of everything crashes down at once. He rolls onto his side, grabs a pillow, and hugs it tight to his chest. His shoulder shakes just slightly before quiet sobs escape.
He misses counting Charles’ lashes while Charles was still sleeping. Tries to remember how Charles would hum off-key while scrolling through Instagram.
Charles is a cunt who has no respect for nostalgia. Even his favorite artists in the 90’s have been stupid names, Max remembers. Because so what implies that none of it mattered to Charles. Not their memories or love or history, and fuck this bitch.
If Charles’ boyfriend isn’t jealous, then he doesn't care enough to fight for him. And if he isn’t fighting, how can he truly love him?
Jealousy is not always equivalent to love, but Charles is not a usual man.
It’s not a compliment, not really.
How can you love someone like Charles and just… be calm about everyone wanting them?
Charles is too beautiful, and that means every man looks at him. On the runways, photographers chasing him down at premieres… even other drivers have checked him out during pit walks at first, until Max sent a strict text to the group chat.
He’s ready to fly higher for Charles, and this is Charles’ payback. Charles is not a dog, no. Dogs are loyal.
His fingers tremble as he sends the next text.
They used to fight over Max’s jealousy- then make up wildly in a bathroom at the party, in Max’s car- anywhere. Now? Charles acts like Max’s jealousy was abuse. As if he didn’t always point out how hot Max was when he clenched his jaw whenever Charles talked to another man so casually. As if Charles didn’t suck his cock in the back of a car- moaning about how he likes it when Max acts like a caveman. Max is not a caveman, but Charles is becoming a real handful. And now, Max can’t even fuck the brat attitude off him like the old times, when they’re only texting.
Max hesitates before answering. He can lie. But it’s Charles… and they’ve been brutally real all night.
Meaning what? That Charles is alone? In some hotel room right now, and open to Max pounding his ass?
For a moment, he stares at his screen. Then, without overthinking, he stands up and grabs his phone. Walks to the bathroom, flipping on the soft light. His hair is messy and skin hot in the mirror. Eyes red from crying earlier. Jawline sharp with tension.
First, he pulls off the tee. Then he pulls down the sweatpants. His fingers wrap around the head of his cock. Just a light touch at first, testing. It feels right. Intimate in a way that makes him feel closer to Charles despite everything they just argued about.
A few strokes, and his half-hard cock is already rigid under his hand. ‘I’ll do if I want to’ and Max does this because he wants it too, not because Charles asked him to do so.
Every stroke carries memory. The way Charles used to watch him with appreciative eyes from the garage. How he’d sometimes kiss down Max’s chest after sex like it was worship.
In silence, Max records the video. Short, no face, just his hand moving slowly on himself under dim lighting. Ten seconds and it’s sent.
The reply comes fast, as if Charles was waiting for his nude all this time, and it fucks with Max’s head.
It hits Max hard.
Not because it’s sexy (though it is) but because it’s the word choice. Miss. He dumbly searches the word's meaning on Google to make sure he’s not in a dream.
missing
/ˈmɪsɪŋ/
The word missing mainly functions as an adjective meaning not present, lost, or unable to be found in its expected place. It can describe a misplaced object, an absent person, or a needed piece of a whole.
Needed piece of a whole.
And suddenly… all their fighting feels pointless. Max types just one word.
Maybe they’re both just two people who still crave each other.
Max smirks, the first smile in hours since he saw Charles in the garage. 25200 seconds.
Now there’s no resentment left- it’s pure pulsating sexting. Charles sends a voice note, low, breathy: I remember how you used to fuck me against the wall.
Max replies with a picture- just his hand on his bare chest, low lighting.
Just raw sexual tension rebuilding between them through pixels and words. Over time, Charles’ messages start getting faster. Needier.
Then another voice note, breath heavier, almost slipping out like a moan towards the end. “God, I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.”
The next text Charles sends is a photo, a half-hidden bulge in his boxers, the camera angled down like he’s lying on the bed staring at it.
He’s not teasing anymore. This is real craving, the kind that makes your knees buckle. Charles is letting Max know exactly how much he wants him. He’s begging without saying ‘please’ and Max is rewinding the audio again, once, twice, the moan and the whine.
No one else makes noises like Charles. No one has that tone when they’re turned on- so sweet and needy at the same time.
Max’s hand moves faster now, matching his rising pulse. The tension in his body isn’t just physical. It’s emotional. This is them, the version of their relationship where words aren’t needed because desire speaks louder. And now? They’re speaking perfectly.
The phone feels heavy in Max's hand. Because he knows, if he walks into that room, he’ll fall right back. Harder than before. He was never able to be casual with Charles even when his PR team instructed him to keep his distance.
There’s no distance in their world. There are only two mouths and his mouth should be sucking off Charles’ bottom lip.
They can wait for two more days. One race weekend, qualifying tomorrow, Sunday full. It gives him time to breathe. To think and prepare himself for what happens if they’re alone in a room again.
The response is a single voice note. When Max plays it, he hears Charles’ whine. That soft, disappointed mmph sound, like a pouty sigh and nothing else.