Charles hates the rain. Ever since he was little he has hated rain. When he was little, rain meant he couldn’t play outside anymore. He can almost hear his maman’s voice, “Charlot, come inside you will catch a cold!” He remembers how he would begrudgingly pick up his toys (usually his favorite red RC car), and would drag Arthur inside behind him. He wishes he could go back to the time where rain was only an obstacle keeping him from childish mischief. Life had been a lot simpler back then.
The thing about rain is it takes. It’s unforgiving, uncontrollable, it doesn’t stop just because you want it to. Much like time. In 2014, the rain takes one of Charles’ favorite people away from him, and ends his lifelong love of a sport he thought would one day be his career. In 2017, it’s a rainy day when his father is taken from him, and Charles remembers that when he leaves the hospital it’s pouring. Tears are indistinguishable from the droplets falling from the sky, and Charles screams. The sound swallowed by the relentless pouring of the rain, he screams at the sky, cursing it as he falls to his knees. Cursing the universe for all it has taken from him.
And like it always does, the universe doesn’t answer. Charles sits on his knees and lets the rain pelt him for what feels like hours before like it always does, it just stops. And the sky begins to clear, the sun begins to shine again, people start to walk around again, smiling and laughing, like Charles’ life hasn’t just ended. Life goes on. People move on.
Charles doesn’t.
But he had, he’d finally started to think maybe he’d be ok, that his life wasn’t defined solely by what he’s lost. And then Arthur tells him to apply for this job, that he thinks it’s right up his alley, and Charles is still holed up in his shoebox apartment in Monaco, in between jobs and won’t be able to make rent if he doesn’t find one soon so here he is now. In rainy England, where thankfully he won’t be much, his new job requires frequent traveling, but sitting in this dive-bar in Milton Keynes, he can’t help but feel like the rain drizzling outside is a bad omen.
“Well, you look f*cking miserable,” he hears a voice say, and Charles turns, ready to tell whoever’s bothering him to f*ck off, but the eyes he’s met with are kind, and oddly familiar..
Perfectly pink plump lips are curved in a playful smile, and his eyes are immediately drawn to the mole on the stranger’s top lip. Blue eyes meet Charles’ green ones, and there’s a mischievous glimmer in them that somehow manages to lift Charles’ spirits a miniscule amount. He supposes he does look miserable, his damp brown hair starting to curl, a few locks sticking to his forehead, damn rain, and he hasn’t shaved in days so he’s sure he looks worse for wear. He’s been nursing the same drink for thirty minutes while he’s moping at the bar, ice melted a long time ago.
“And here I thought I was giving ruggedly handsome,” Charles says dryly, turning to face the attractive stranger.
“I never said you weren’t,” he retorts, a smirk on his face as he flags down the bartender.
The casualness of it all has a soft blush crossing Charles’ face, going to look back down as his old drink before a new one is being placed in front of him. Charles looks up again to see the stranger’s hand retreating, now making himself comfortable on the stool next to Charles’.
“I’m Max,” he introduces himself, and if Charles has one word to describe Max he’s smooth. He has this air of confidence about him, this self assuredness that Charles automatically admires and this natural kind of charisma that immediately makes Charles want to get to know him more.
“Charles,” he finds himself offering, a shy smile on his face as Max smiles back at him.
Talking to Max is easy. Between the gin and tonic in his system and Max’s kind eyes staring into his own, Charles feels his stomach loosening up. It’s no particularly riveting conversation, Charles tells Max he’s in England for his new job. Max says he travels a lot for work but that he’s based in Monaco. Charles eagerly butts in to tell Max that he’s from Monaco. It’s easy. Almost too good to be true. This same time tomorrow Charles will look back and kick himself for not seeing it sooner.
Max orders them a second round of drinks and Charles is starting to feel the effects of the alcohol, he feels warm, more bold, bold enough that he finds himself leaning in, he feels his foot brush against Max’s, the toes of their shoes touching, elbows brushing against one another. Max’s breath feels hot against his own and Charles feels his mouth moving before his brain can catch up.
“Come back to my hotel with me,” he hears himself saying, practically demanding.
The way Max’s eyebrows fly up to his hairline has Charles’ face flushing even more red, ok maybe that was too forward.
“Y-You know… just for a drink!” Charles quickly sputters, worried he had misread the situation entirely until he sees an amused smirk on Max’s lips, his fingers brushing Charles’ own. His skin feels like it’s on fire when Max begins to toy with the one of the rings on Charles’s fingers.
“I would like that, I think,” Max responds and Charles shivers at the low, sultry tone of Max’s voice, and he swoons at the way Max can’t pronounce the th sound, so it sounds more like tink. Charles doesn’t think he’s ever met a more perfect man in his life.
“Charlie? Hello?” Max says with a chuckle, waving a hand in front of his face, shaking Charles from his thoughts.
“Sorry– what did you say?” Charles laughs, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth.
“I said I would like to come back for just a drink, of course,” he smiles, hopping off of his barstool and holding a hand out to Charles that he takes, hoping his palms aren’t as sweaty as Charles thinks they are.
Max offers to drive them back to Charles’ hotel when Charles suggests an Uber, and Charles goes to say no until he sees the Aston Martin sitting in the parking lot of this dingy dive bar. Coming from Monaco, Charles is used to fancy cars, and he guesses he should’ve expected it when Max said he lived in Monaco.
“What is it you say you did again?” Charles asks, trying to pick his jaw up off the floor as he gets in the passenger seat of the car.
“Oh uh, you really don’t know?” Max asks, he looks almost nervous, like he’s someone Charles should know which confuses him. Charles likes to think he’s pretty good with faces, Max does have a familiar face, like he should know who Max is. Maybe they’d met in passing, since they both live in Monaco. It is a pretty small place.
“No… should I?” Charles says slowly, fiddling nervously with the ring on his middle finger.
Max eyes him for a moment before shaking his head and starting the car.
“No I guess not.”
The ride to the hotel is mostly uneventful, just Charles tapping eagerly on his thigh as he stares out the window, because he fears that if he looks at Max he might do something drastic like force him to pull over so he can go down on him right there. Luckily, it doesn’t take too long before Max is pulling into the parking lot.
The elevator ride up to Charles’ room is something he can only describe as electric. Max keeps a respectful distance between them, over an arms length, and it’s taking everything in Charles not to push him up against the wall of the elevator. He doesn’t know what it is between them, an almost magnetic feeling, something in the air that’s bigger than themselves, somehow.
Charles had every intention of being a gentleman, when he told Max they could come back to his room for drinks, he’d meant it. Maybe that’s all Max wanted, just a friend, maybe he wasn’t interested in a one night stand. Maybe Charles had read the signals all wrong, maybe Max didn’t even like men.
When Charles lets them into his hotel room he immediately goes to approach the minibar to pour them drinks when suddenly he’s being grabbed by his elbow, being pulled backwards and shoved against the door of his room, and all of Charles’ fears from earlier are eased.
Max has a hand on Charles’ waist, the other cupping his cheek as he searches Charles’ sparkling eyes, Charles needs Max to kiss him.
“Is this alright?” Max asks tentatively, Charles leaning into his touch as Max strokes his cheek with his thumb. Words fail Charles, and all he can do is nod a little too enthusiastically.
That’s enough for Max because the next thing Charles knows Max’s lips are against his. It’s hungry, Max kisses with a fervor Charles is unused to and he desperately tries to catch up, but his brain is still in the elevator. Max helps him out though, taking Charles’ hands from his sides and wrapping them around him, and Charles takes the hint from there, entangling his fingers in Max’s hair.
Things move fast after that, Charles matching Max’s enthusiasm, pushing Max back towards the bedroom, he captures Max’s bottom lip between his teeth, nipping out it gently and relishing in the groan that escapes his lips.
Clothes are discarded quickly, tossed aside as they grab at each other, desperate to keep one another close. All Charles can think is Max, Max, Max as he kisses down Charles’ body, and when Max pushes Charles’ knees up to his chest and nestles his head in between his cheeks, Charles’ eyes roll into the back of his head. He doesn’t think he’s ever been so turned on in his life.
Max manages to coax an org*sm out of Charles easily as he f*cks his fingers and tongue inside of him, lube discarded on the quilt. Charles grips at the sheets desperately, thinking that if he lets go he’ll somehow ascend to a different dimension with the way Max eats him out.. He knows he’s definitely ruined for future men.
When Max goes to jerk himself off on Charles’ chest, Charles insists that Max f*cks him, practically begs.
“Are you sure? You’re not too… sensitive?” he asks, and Charles practically melts at the concerned look in his eyes.
“Please… I need it, you’ve already prepped me, it’d be a waste not to. I have condoms in my bag,” Charles practically begs, rolling off of the bed to grab condoms out of his toiletry bag, he feels like he’ll die if he doesn’t get Max inside him. He hopes Max doesn’t think he’s too slu*tty, or… maybe he does.
When Max finally pushes inside of Charles his back arches off of the bed, legs wrapping around Max’s waist, fingers digging into his shoulders.
It’s hard and fast, Charles letting Max use him as he pleases, and he’s happy to be used. Max thrusts into him relentlessly, stretching Charles to the point where he feels impossibly full, and it’s not long before Max is spilling into the condom inside of Charles, pressing soft affectionate kisses to Charles’ neck.
After they come down from their highs, Max cleans Charles up, and when Charles asks Max if he wants to stay, he does.
Charles doesn’t quite believe it when Max wraps his arms around him from behind and pulls Charles against his chest, nestling his chin in the crook of his next. Max is perfect, almost too good to be true.
When Charles finally drifts off, feeling Max’s heart beat against his back, he forgets about the rain outside. The anxious feeling in the pit of his gut that he’s had since he landed in England has subsided, for the first time since he’s accepted this new job he feels content, relaxed.
Had he known what was waiting for him, he would’ve reveled in him and Max’s perfect bubble for a bit longer.
When Charles wakes up the next morning with a pair of muscular arms wrapped around him, memories from the night before come flooding back, a soft blush crossing his face. He rolls over and is faced with Max’s sleeping figure. Charles takes a moment to look over his sleeping frame as Max lightly snores, the way his long blonde eyelashes brush his cheeks, the freckles on his shoulder, the mole on his upper lip that Charles could spend hours kissing. In fact, he starts to lean in to kiss him when his phone vibrating on his nightstand shakes him out of it.
He tries not to groan before rolling over, blindly grabbing at his phone as his eyes adjust to the blurry screen.
Arthur (8:40): good luck today!
Charles squints slightly, wondering what’s so special about today when it hits him. It’s his first day at his new job, and he has to be there in twenty minutes. sh*t. f*ck! Charles carefully wiggles out of bed, trying not to wake Max before scrambling to his suitcase, throwing on a pair of navy blue slacks and a white button up that he had ironed before he’d gone to the bar last night. He wanted to do well. For Arthur, he promised he’d make a good impression.
It’s only when Charles is almost halfway out the door, shoving his wallet in his back pocket that he realizes he still has a very naked man sleeping in his bed. He looks over Max’s sleeping form for a few moments, the way his bare leg is sticking out from under the sheets, the way his arms are sprawled out, the steady rise and fall of his chest. Charles supposes it would be rude to wake him… but is it exactly smart to leave a complete stranger behind in a hotel room with all of your belongings? Probably not, but Charles has never made good decisions, and he’s already running late.
He sighs before walking back to the bed, grabbing a sheet of paper off the hotel stationary in the nightstand drawer and quickly scrawls his number down on it. Maybe he should write something else? But Charles hasn’t had that many one night stands in the past, he’s not sure what the proper etiquette is. Thank you for the sex! Feels a bit too casual, too impersonal.
After an embarrassing amount of time he spends overthinking, he finally settles on, ‘Had a lot of fun last night :)’, that’s not too bad right? Now Max knows he had a nice time, that he would like to see him again, but not too much pressure. It’s fine, good, a perfectly normal response.
Everything is good. Until Charles looks at his phone again and realizes it’s now 8:55 and he has to be at the factory in five minutes. f*ck.
He all but scrambles out of the hotel room, Max long forgotten at this point. Luck is on Charles’ side today, the sun is actually out and shining, and it doesn’t take practically any time for him to order an Uber and arrive. He all but dives into the back seat of the car, telling the driver he’ll tip him 50% if he drives as fast as he can.
Charles never thought he’d be back in the world of Formula One. Not after Jules. He vowed he would never watch another race again. It was too painful. Knowing what could have been, he couldn’t actively support an organization that had taken everything from him. When the grand prix would come to Monaco he locked himself in his apartment, refusing to acknowledge the circus of everything outside. It had been almost ten years since Jules scored his first points in Monaco.
Charles had lost Jules, but he didn’t know losing Jules would cost his relationship with Arthur. While Charles had stopped his dream of becoming an F1 driver, Arthur had persevered. And he’d made it. He was now a driver for Ferrari, had made his way up through their driver academy and snagged himself a spot on the grid. He was picking up where Jules had left off, and Charles couldn’t bear to watch.
He knew it was wrong. He knew when he saw the disappointed look on Arthur’s face when Charles couldn’t tell him the results of his last race. He, of course, googled the results, read summaries of the race. He just couldn’t watch it. He couldn’t afford to watch something awful happen to Arthur. Life had already taken so much from him, he couldn’t lose Arthur too.
Except he was losing Arthur. “Racing is a part of me Charles, and if you cannot accept that… then I do not know if I can have you in my life,” Arthur had said, and Charles had felt like the earth was going to collapse out from under him. He couldn’t lose his little brother, so Charles decided he was going to try. For Arthur.
“Arthur… I’ll do anything to fix this, I promise. I will make this right,” Charles had pleaded, and Arthur had been skeptical but he’d given Charles another chance, and that was all he needed.
After Charles quit racing he really buckled down in school, if he wasn’t going to be racing he really had no reason to not buckle down in school. He’d graduated highschool with honors, gone to the best college he could find, and he’d become a physiotherapist, as well as gotten a personal trainer license.
So far, Charles had only worked with a couple of the top footballers in Europe, but then Arthur had sent Charles an opportunity he couldn’t pass up. It was a position to be a performance coach for the current Formula One world champion. It was a position that would force Charles to be back into the paddock every race weekend, would force him to be face to face with everything he’d been avoiding for years. But he promised Arthur he’d try. That he would support him.
He’d gotten hired pretty fast, the team trying to rush him in before the season started. It was currently the beginning of January, and the team was hoping for Charles to perform miracles before the first race at the beginning of March. He definitely has his work cut out for him.
He’s halfway to the factory, lost in thought when his phone vibrates. He winces as it picks it up, wondering if he’s being fired already, but almost throws his phone out of his hand when he sees the text.
Unknown Number (9:10): hope to see you again sometime :) this is Max btw
Charles can’t help the small smile that makes its way onto his lips. He doesn’t want to reply too fast, making himself seem too eager. He’ll reply after he’s finished with his orientation.
Soon after, the car is pulling in front of the factory. It’s time for Charles to meet his new client.
The first thing Charles sees as he enters the Red Bull Technology Campus is a wall full of trophies. The case goes all the way up to the ceiling, it practically takes Charles’ breath away. His first thought is that he wonders how long it takes to clean the fingerprints off that humongous glass case. The second thing that catches Charles’ eye is the unmistakable gold of a track he knows like the back of his hand.
Monaco. The trophy practically taunts him, the memories flooding back to him all at once. The days where he lived for racing. When he, Jules, and all of his brothers would watch the cars from their friends’ apartment at turn one, where he could feel the roar of the engine inside of him, his eardrums shaking as they zoomed past. Those were the happiest days of his life, a feeling he’s found himself chasing ever since he lost his father.
“Excuse me? I’m so sorry but we are not offering tours of the factory today, we’ll be reopening to the public tomorrow at 10am,” he hears a voice say, tearing him from his thoughts. The woman who was sitting at the front desk when Charles walked him is now standing in front of him.
“Oh no- uh my name is Charles Leclerc? Christian and everyone should be expecting me? I am sorry I’m late,” he says nervously, fiddling with the rings on his finger again, the skin underneath the metal red and irritated.
It takes the receptionist a few minutes that Charles isn’t some crazy fan before she’s telling him to follow her, as they walk towards the back, Charles tries his best to avoid looking at all the pictures of Red Bull’s glory, past and present, he had always been a Ferrari fan anyway.
“Charles! Good to see you,” he hears a voice say before he comes face to face with Christian Horner.
“Nice to see you as well, Christian. I’m sorry I’m late, it will not happen again,” he holds a hand out for Christian to shake, which he takes, using the other hand to pat his shoulder.
“That’s perfectly alright, Max called and he’s running a bit over as well, he should be here any minute. We’ll go ahead and get started without him,” he says before motioning over to a conference room that’s now filled with a handful of people Charles can only assume is ‘Max’s’ entourage.
Charles takes the time to shake everyone’s hand, introducing himself before taking his seat. He listens as he’s told everyone’s expectations of him. The whole reason Charles was hired in the first place was because he was basically a 3-in-1 deal. Charles is a licensed dietician, personal trainer, and physiotherapist. So instead of hiring three different people, they just need Charles. Charles can provide meal plans, if his client were to get injured, instead of having to outsource, Charles can handle the physical therapy himself. He’s worked hard to get to where he has in his career, he deserves this, and that’s what he’d said in his interview. He’s young, but he’s one of the best.
He’s sitting at the head of the conference table, flipping through one of the many packets he’s been given. Max’s plans with his previous trainer, how he’ll have his own custom Red Bull kit, where he’ll pick up his paddock passes. The idea of being back in the paddock has bile rising up in the back of his throat that Charles desperately tries to swallow down, but it threatens to rise again at what happens next.
Suddenly the door to the conference room is swung open, and Charles’ breath catches in his throat at the person who walks through the door.
“Sorry I am late everyone, I overslept. What have I m-” Max stops when he sees Charles, and Charles’ stomach drops when his pale blue eyes meet his own.
Charles has never felt more stupid or naive. His name is Max, he travels for work, he lives in Monaco, they both happened to be in Milton Keynes for work. Max isn’t just “Max”. He’s Max Verstappen. Three time Formula One world champion. That’s why he looked so familiar.
His legs move on autopilot as he stands and crosses the room to meet Max, he tries to keep his face as neutral as possible as he holds his hand out to Max, hoping he’ll take out.
“Nice to meet you, I am Charles Leclerc, your new performance coach,” he forces out, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible. Max only looks at him quizzically, and for a second Charles thinks he sees a flash of hurt.
Max stares at him for a moment longer, studying his face before he grabs Charles’ hand, and he tries to forget how this hand was inside of him less than twenty-four hours prior. Tries to forget the way Max’s lips felt against his, how his stubble felt rubbing against his neck.
“Max Verstappen, I look forward to working with you,” he finally says, a strictly professional tone in his voice.
Max avoids his gaze as he takes a seat at the conference table, Charles returning to his seat. As the meeting reconvenes Charles can feel Max’s eyes on him from across the room, he’s sure there’s a flush on his face. He can barely pay attention to what anyone is saying around him, there’s nothing but buzzing in his ears.
He slept with his client. He’s f*cked everything up before the job has even started. He should’ve known better. Charles chews on his lip nervously, leg jumping relentlessly under the table. Before he knows it, Christian his drawing the meeting to a close, congratulating Charles and welcoming him to the team. Everyone pats his back, they smile at him, it’s been so long since Charles has felt like a part of a team. Maybe he can still fix this.
Gathering all his papers together, he goes to leave the conference room that’s emptying out when he feels a hand wrapping around his wrist.
Charles freezes, eyes closing. He doesn’t even have to turn around to know that it’s Max holding on to him. If he was smart he’d shake free and leave, but he doesn’t. This is his chance, he can set boundaries, this can still be salvaged.
“Hello Max…” Charles says slowly, turning around to face Max, closing the conference room door behind him.
“Charles! Mate, what a coincidence!” Max teases, a mischievous grin on his face that sends butterflies fluttering through his stomach.
“Why didn’t you tell me you’re a Formula 1 driver?” Charles asks pointedly, yanking his wrist from Max’s grasp, hoping his cheeks aren’t too flushed.
Max only raises his eyebrows in response, that stupid amused smirk back on his face.
“Charles, you are from Monaco, of course I assumed that you would know who I am? There are ads of me, almost everywhere,” to anyone else it would sound extremely arrogant, and Charles knows he’s only met Max the night before but he doesn’t think he’s that kind of guy. Which makes it even harder for him to be annoyed with Max, and yet he still is.. Even though he knows it’s irrational.
“I told you last night I didn’t, I don’t follow Formula 1,” he grumbles, eyes avoiding Max’s, annoyance bubbling in his chest.
“Even if you did not know… that does not change anything, yes? You are my performance coach but I would still like to take you out, I meant what I said in my text,” and Charles knows he does. He can tell in the earnestness he sees on Max’s face.
But it was just a one night stand, and no matter how good Max is in bed and no matter how his heart flutters every time he’s laid eyes on him, it’s better things stop here. He can’t risk this. Not when Arthur stuck his neck out for him, not when things are as fragile as they are. So Charles can’t let himself have Max, even if he may want him.
“I think it would be best if we kept things strictly professional. I need this job Max, it of course is easier for you, this organization is built around you. I am disposable, which is why I can never be anything but your trainer,” he looks at Max pleadingly as he firmly sets boundaries, hoping he’ll understand, hoping he won’t make this any harder than it has to.
“Charles you are not disposable, you are just as a member of the team as I am,” Max scoffs, and Charles has to clench his fist.
“If you truly believe that, then you have truly lost touch,” Charles shakes his head, looking down at his feet.
Max is silent for a few moments, lips pursed together as he studies Charles. Suddenly the distance between them feels like miles.
“Is that what you want?” he asks finally, and Charles feels pinned by his intense gaze. The eye contact is so intense he has Charles questioning his own thoughts. Is this what he really wants? Of course it is. He needs this job.
But wouldn’t it be easier to just go to the paddock? Arthur could surely get him passes. He could, but grief isn’t logical. With grief– with trauma, sometimes the most convoluted paths are the ones that end up getting taken. So right now, yes– this is the only option for Charles.
It is quiet for a while, the two staring at one another in a palpable silence, tension thick between them.
“Yes. Anything else would be inappropriate,” Charles says with finality, trying to mask his emotions by keeping a straight face.
“Alright then. I will see you next week in Monaco?” Max asks, shuffling past Charles and resting a hand on the handle.
“For what?” Charles inquires, furrowing his eyebrows.
“For our first session, you were paying attention, of course?” he teases, a sh*t-eating grin on his lips that has Charles’ cheeks heating up, a blush surely on face, his stomach doing somersaults.
“Right. Yes, I will see you then. Ciao,” Charles says, swiftly moving past Max.
Ciao? Since when is that how he ends a conversation?
He’s so caught up in his own thoughts that he fails to see the clear PULL sign on the door, and he struggles to get it opened. He wiggles the handle, leveraging his body so he is leaning against the door, but still, it does not move.
“It is stuck, I think,” Charles huffs, an embarrassed flush on his face.
Max purses his lips, clearly trying not to laugh as he approaches Charles, reaching out for the handle.
“May I?” he asks, an amused look on his face.
Charles only stares in response, and Max chuckles to himself as Charles backs off the door. All it takes is Max pushing on the handle, pulling the door open, holding it for Charles and looking at him expectantly. Charles wishes he was dead.
“Not a word,” Charles warns, shooting daggers at Max.
“I would never,” he responds, and he doesn’t have to say anything, Charles can read it all on his face.
“I will see you in Monaco,” he blurts awkwardly, rushing out the door past Max.
Charles is so embarrassed, the blood rushing through his ears that he fails to hear the, “Cute,” that escapes Max’s lips as he leaves.
How is he going to get through this season?
Working with Max is not as bad as Charles thought, but it’s also a nightmare. Max takes the boundaries that Charles set seriously, which is good for Charles, Max is serious about his training. As he should be, he does have a championship to defend and Charles is serious about getting him ready to do so. But the problem with that is that Max has started to get even more fit, and it’s noticeable.
It’s noticeable when Max is dripping with sweat, lifting his shirt to wipe his face and Charles gets a peak of his tight abdomen, a noticeable six pack peaking through. He notices Max’s prominent pectoral muscles peaking through a particularly tight shirt that hugs his broad chest perfectly, or the way the gym shorts Max was wearing when they first started working together now hug Max’s ass and thighs in a completely different way.
The good news is Charles is good at his job, the bad news is Charles is so good at his job that he’s now having trouble with the boundaries he himself has created. He notices when he’s spotting Max, hands hovering around Max’s now perfectly chiseled biceps when he finds himself yearning to run his hands along them. He’s sitting on his workout bench, working on his shoulder presses as Charles stands behind him, watching him to make sure Max keeps proper form.
“Good,” he had said softly, as Max made his way through his third set of fifteen, when before he could stop himself, he’s trailing his fingers softly up Max’s arms, feeling the muscles tightly engaged underneath, Max’s skin damp with sweat.
“Yeah?” Max pants, his arms starting to come back down and Charles tries to ignore the way his co*ck twitches in his briefs, and he’s never been more glad he can’t see Max’s face. The way he looks when he’s biting down on his lip, face flushed with exertion, Charles is disgusted with how many times he’s wanted to taste the beads of sweat that roll down his face. He needs to clear his head.
As Max finishes the reps of his arm workout, Charles chokes out to Max that they should take five, making a beeline inside Max’s penthouse apartment so he no longer has to look at the Dutch driver.
Charles feels as if his hands are shaking as he grabs one of Max’s electrolyte blends out of his refrigerator, ignoring how he jumps when Sassy (or at least he thinks it’s Sassy, he’s still learning how to tell them apart), brushes against his leg.
“Mate, you are kicking my ass out there with the weights,” Max laughs as he walks inside, cooling cloth around his neck as he closes the sliding door.
Over the course of the last couple weeks, Charles has learned what Max likes and dislikes, which is good for any trainer and client relationship. Max hates to work out, (as does most of the population because they’re not gluttons for punishment like Charles), but Charles has learned what aspects he hates more than others. While Max may not love weightlifting, he despises cardio even more.
He knows this because of the way Max cutely scrunched his nose up when Charles first told him he’d be running on the treadmill, putting him through a “hellweek” of conditioning in order to rebuild his endurance. From there, Charles learns how to motivate Max. He had tried to ignore the flutter in his chest at the way Max’s eyes had crinkled when Charles told him if he could hold a seven minute plank (Max also hates planking), he could skip their daily run.
Charles also learns what Max likes and dislikes in general, which is much much worse. Because the more Charles learns, he learns that Max is perfect and perhaps the most endearing person on this planet.. He learns that Max’s favorite food is kebab, that he and Charles are sixteen days apart (Max loves to hang the fact that he’s Charles’ ‘elder’ over his head), he loves comedies and thinks horror movies are stupid (“Why would I want to make myself scared on purpose?”), and he learns that Max lives and breathes racing. More than half the time he lets himself into the penthouse, Max is on his sim rig. When Charles asks if he ever gets tired of racing or if he needs a break Max just looks at Charles like he’s crazy, like even the suggestion itself is ridiculous.
The stars in his eyes that Max gets when he talks about racing, the sheer passion in his voice, Charles can’t help but wonder what it would be like to be loved by Max.
Charles tries to push those thoughts as far as possible from his head but he can’t because while Charles has gotten to know Max and has tried to keep him at arm’s length, Max wants to know about him. He’s worked with many athletes in the past that are strictly business, sure they were polite but they didn’t really care to know anything about Charles. But Max does.
It starts small, Max asking Charles if he’s a cat or a dog person (dogs, but he loves most animals), Max finds out that Charles is embarrassingly obsessed with Harry Potter when Charles comes in while Max is watching the Goblet of Fire and he has the nerve to insinuate Charles would be a gryffindor (he’s a ravenclaw, obviously), they each start to gather little tidbits about the other.
Charles begins to let Max in, but still manages to keep Max at arm’s length. Max knows that Charles is from Monaco, that he has brothers, that his father died seven years ago, and Charles knows that Max’s parents are divorced, that his dad is a harsh bastard, that he has a sister and is an uncle to two little boys with a niece on the way. Max even shows him pictures, and did he mention Max’s nephews look like little Max clones?
He wants to offer up information about his family, and wants to brag about them. The way Lorenzo is a successful investment banker, the way his mom has cut his hair his entire life, and he wants to boast about Arthur. The pride of their family. Continuing on his father and Jules’ dream, Charles’ old dream, an F1 driver for Ferrari. But he can’t. He doesn’t want to pop the bubble he’s so carefully curated between him and Max, he wants to keep up the illusion, for as long as he can.
But Max makes it hard to keep him at arm’s length. The ends of sessions with Max always tends to become too intimate for Charles. Sometimes Max will ask Charles if he wants to stay and play FIFA, if he maybe wants to watch a movie, or even stay for dinner. And every single time Max asks, Charles almost does. Every session his resolve weakens.
“Hey Charlie… did you want to stay for a bit? We can order that pizza from that place you said you like. You pick, of course,” Max asks, and he almost seems nervous, the way his eyes shoot all over the room before landing back on Charles.
Charles wishes in that moment the ceiling would collapse and take him out so he doesn’t have to reject Max. Max remembered when Charles was rambling about how much he likes the prosciutto margherita pizza this one place in Monaco makes. It was an off-handed comment and Max listened and remembered. He wants to say yes, but if he says yes he’ll probably do something stupid, like wipe sauce off of Max’s face after a particularly messy bite, which will lead to him inevitably kissing Max because Charles has enough trouble keeping his hands to himself as it is.
No. He can’t stay tonight, and he tells him as much. He tries to ignore the flash of disappointment in his eyes, the way his smile falls slightly before he forces it back on. It’s almost unnatural, Max pretending. He usually always says what he thinks.
Maybe Max will find a nice man (or woman), and he’ll forget about his interest in Charles. He’ll move on, and so will Charles.
He hopes.
That fragile bubble Charles had mentioned earlier? It bursts during preseason testing. Charles doesn’t know why he thought he could keep it up the charade for so long. That he’s completely ignorant to the world of Formula 1. He remembers when Max asks him how he’s lived in Monaco his whole life without becoming swept up in the expensive cars and spectacle of the grand prix. Charles had simply shaken off the question, saying he just had never felt the allure of motorsports. Which was so untrue, the words tasted bitter on Charles’ tongue. There was a time where racing was all Charles thought about.
Entering the paddock in Bahrain, Charles feels jetlagged. He tries to ignore how his hands tremble when he scans his paddock pass, and when he crosses the threshold he feels like he’s been transported back in time. He remembers when Jules somehow managed to get him a paddock pass back in Monaco, when he managed to score his first points. He remembers how proud his father and Philip had been, how his Papa had clapped him on the shoulder and told Charles that that would be him one day. That he would win the Monaco grand prix in red one day.
If only his Papa knew that he had misplaced all of his faith in the wrong son.
He’s an imposter. The navy blue polyester blend of his freshly washed Red Bull kit fits like a glove, yet Charles feels as if it swallows him whole. He thought if he ever entered the paddock it would be in red.
Max is kind, as always.
“Stay close to me, of course it will be fine,” and Charles trusts him.
He trails closely behind Max, ignoring the crowd of photographers waiting for them as they enter the paddock. Max has a whole entourage of people that follow his every movement: his PR officer, several body guards, a media admin, and now Charles. Being with Max makes Charles feel important, makes him feel like he matters. When Max looks at him, he feels like he’s the only person in the world that matters. And he supposes that’s why the employees at Red Bull are so loyal to Max, that they feel this inherent need to protect him. Charles understands, because those like Max, those who have reached the pinnacle of success and have climbed to the top of the mountain and manage to remain so down to earth… those people are once in a lifetime.
Charles is currently in the middle of ogling Max, walking back to Red Bull hospitality together from the Red Bull garage when he hears an all too familiar voice call out to him.
“Charlot!” Arthur calls out excitedly, running up to Charles and clapping him on his shoulders. Charles can feel his heart thumping in his ears as his green eyes stare into Arthur’s blue/grey ones.
It’s been a long time since Arthur has smiled at him like this, and Charles lets out a shaky breath of relief. But then he sees Max, who’s staring at him with eyebrows raised as Arthur greets him as well, clapping their hands together. Right. They’re coworkers.
“How are you enjoying the paddock?” Arthur asks, and if Charles analyzes Arthur close enough he can see a tinge of anxiety and worry in Arthur’s expression, underneath the giddiness in his smile.
“It is fi-” he starts to say before Max interrupts him.
“Hold on, you guys know each other?” Max asks, genuine curiosity in his eyes and Charles cannot help the dry laugh that escapes his left. His last name is Leclerc, how many Leclercs from Monaco are out there, he wonders.
“He did not tell you?” Arthur asks, furrowing his eyebrows together, eyes flickering back to Charles and he pretends he does not see the disappointment that flashes through.
Charles feels stripped bare under Max’s gaze, the Dutch driver awaiting an answer, and he nervously pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, fiddling with the ring on his middle finger.
“He is my– he is my younger brother,” Charles says quietly, avoiding the gaze of either of the two. He doesn’t want to see their judgment.
“Really? He failed to mention that,” Max says, a slight smirk on his lips that Charles cannot quite decipher, and Max doesn’t tear his eyes from Charles, Arthur’s eyes flicking between the two.
“Wh-” Arthur goes to speak, his puzzlement evident before he’s being interrupted by Arthur’s own performance coach chasing after him. Charles avoids looking at the famous prancing horse logo on both of their kits at all cost.
“I have to go. We will talk later,” Arthur says, and Charles knows it is a command, not a question.
The walk to Max’s driver’s room is silent. Charles goes to allow Max space to let him change from his race suit back into his team kit, but suddenly Max is waving him in, beckoning him to follow.
His stomach in knots, Charles follows. Charles closes the door to the driver’s room behind him, a place he and Max will spend a lot of time he’s sure. Max has already informed him of his and Brad’s pre-race rituals. Reaction time training, neck strength training, massages when Max is sore (the real part he’s worried about). He’s sure the flush already apparent on his face has spread to his neck when Max shrugs his race suit around his shoulders, pulling the hem of his fireproof top over his head.
It’s not until Max goes to remove his legging that Charles swiftly turns away, taking immediate interest in… well anything else than Max’s practically nude form behind him.
“Nothing you haven’t seen before,” Max says, and Charles can hear the smirk on his lips. He is not going to indulge him.
“Max I was going to tell you, about Ar-” he chokes out, the room continuing to get stuffier.
Max cuts him off, straight to the point as always.
“Charles, you don’t owe me anything. I do not know why you would not just tell me Arhur is your brother of course, but I trust that you have your reasons,” he states in his matter of fact tone, and Charles feels his heart swell as he turns around to face him.
He has just buttoned his skinny jeans (that Charles has held his tongue about, he is in no position to judge anyone’s personal style) and tries to avoid looking at his shirtless frame. All of his previous clients have been very attractive male athletes, but he hasn’t slept with his previous clients. They don’t know how Max’s upper chest gets red and blotchy when he’s in the throes of passion, which is so not the point. Oh wait, Max is still talking, pay attention Charles.
“I guess I just think it’s strange you would not mention it. I asked you about your family, you could have just said. It’s even stranger you did not know who I was when we… you know. Did you know?” And for the first time Max actually looks bashful, insecure, as he sits down on the massage bench.
And when Charles realizes he all but exclaims “No!” He would never want Max to think that he would lie about not knowing who he was in order to get into bed with him. He’s just an extremely f*cked up individual, not a predator.
“I swear I did not know. I mean when I saw you at the factory yes, it clicked I did think you looked familiar but… Max I swear, I would have never done with you what I did if I knew. I mean I guess a part of me did know but I ignored it because…. I liked you,” he finishes quietly, giving Max a small smile, which Max returns.
“I believe you Charles, I just… how could you not know? Surely you know who Arthur is racing against,” Max says kindly, yet a bit incredulous. Charles doesn’t blame him, he knows he beats logical sense.
“I… it is complicated,” Charles says finally, and when Max looks into Charles’ eyes he knows the Dutchman can see how much he is struggling.
Sighing, Max tugs on his team polo and pats the bench next to him. When Charles does not move he playfully rolls his eyes, reaching forward and tugging Charles to him, the Monegasque settling in between his legs. If Max’s hands somehow find Charles’ waist, well Charles doesn’t say a thing
“We have time,” Max says quietly, looking up at Charles, eyes filled with earnestness.
And Charles does. He tells him about Jules, his godfather. He tells him about how his Papa let him skip school one day and took him to the track where he first sat in a gokart. He’d immediately fallen in love. He’s sure he talked Jules’ ear off from that day forward, talking about how he would be a Formula 1 driver one day, that they would be on the grid together. How the both of them would drive for Scuderia Ferrari and they’d win in Monaco, and they’d each get their turn winning the WDC. In 2009, Charles became the youngest winner of Frances’ cadet karting championship.
His career had been promising, and when Jules’ had moved up to Formula 1 it felt as if his dreams were finally coming true. Until his accident. Charles had been in Formula Renault by that point, he had been in Spain for a race where he secured 2nd in the championship when he had gotten the news. One rainy day in Suzuka had taken his favorite person from him. Those were the longest nine months of Charles’ life, spent waiting for Jules to wake up.
Originally, the Leclerc family had decided Arthur would take a step back from racing so Charles could continue to move up the ranks. But after the accident Charles had just shut down. He’d withdrawn his name from the Formula 3 championship, and had allowed Arthur to continue. He couldn’t continue to race. He couldn’t continue to race knowing he would never get to compete against Jules. He began to resent the sport he’d once loved. He began to resent Lorenzo, Arthur, his Papa for continuing on while Charles became consumed by his grief.
Those were the darkest years of Charles’ life, cutting himself off from all the friends he’d made along the way, friends that were now on the current F1 grid. Pierre, George, Esteban… he wasn’t sure they even remembered him now. Instead, Charles had assimilated back into a normal mundane life. What he wanted.
Until his father died, and where he should’ve realized his grief was destroying him, he let it consume him even more. He had been so angry at himself. He had spent so much time being angry at his father and alienating himself from him and his brothers that he had missed crucial time he could have been spending with him. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t go back to the track.
He had tried. The first time Arthur had raced in Monaco for Formula 2, Charles was determined to watch. He’d walked out onto his friend’s balcony at turn one, excited to see his little brother race. But the sound of the engines might as well have been a crack of thunder, igniting a feeling of panic inside of Charles’ chest. He had spent the entirety of the race inside with his head between his knees.
He describes how his relationship with Arthur had only deteriorated after this, Arthur had won, and Charles hadn’t even been there to watch the podium. It’s Arthur’s second season in Formula 1 this year, and Charles hadn’t seen a single race from his rookie season. If he doesn’t get over himself now, he fears he’ll lose Arthur for good.
Charles doesn’t realize he’s crying until Max is brushing tears away with the pads of his thumbs.
“Surely you do not have to do all this? Of course Arthur will understand,” Max says, a concerned look on Max’s face as he searches Charles’ eyes.
Charles can only shake his head, his lips trembling as he tries to choke back sobs, he is mortified. He has never confessed any of this to anyone, not even his Maman.
“I cannot, y-you do not understand. I have been awful, Max. I have been an awful son, an awful brother… you do not know me. I am a horrible horrible person,” Charles all but whines, years of grief flowing out.
“Schat, of course this is not true. I know I do not… know you as well as I well as I would like but. It is hard. It’s f*cking awful, what you have been through. But you are trying, that is what matters. I’m sure Arthur sees that.”
“But what if it’s not enough? What if it’s too late?” Charles all but whispers, his chest tightening at the idea.
“If that were true, I do not think he would have bothered today,” he gives him a comforting smile, squeezing Charles’ hand affectionately.
It hits Charles then the intimacy of the situation. Max’s hands on him, comforting Charles, wiping his tears. The tenderness is almost overwhelming, but Charles would be lying if he said Max hadn’t been helping. But he is not ready to face those feelings yet, not with everything else going on.
“I should… I should probably go. Let you rest before the debrief,” Charles says bashfully, tearing his hands from Max’s.
“Of course, I will see you later? Maybe you could swing by my room tonight? Only to make sure I have been following my meal plan, wouldn’t want you to think I have been stuffing myself with room service,” Max says hopefully, offering Charles a kind smile.
And for the first time, Charles says yes.
“Fine. Only for a little bit. We have to be up early tomorrow for our track run, remember?” Charles says, sending a mischievous smile Max’s way and he laughs when he is met by Max chucking his signature cap towards him as Charles goes to leave.
“Oh f*ck off!” Max explains, and Charles is sure he can be heard cackling throughout Red Bull hospitality.
The F1 season is in full swing, and race by race, it has gotten easier for Charles. The first couple of races are the hardest, Charles feeling overstimulated the entire race weekend. He’s unable to remain in the garage during the actual sessions, but on the bright side he doesn’t throw up even though he’s nauseous hearing the cars roar. Max wins the Bahrain GP and Charles is there waiting for him with his watch and cap.
The only thoughts in his head when Max pulls into parc fermé is how Max takes his breath away, the way he looks standing on top of his car, pumping his fist in the air before jumping off and jogging over to the team. He’s lifted the visor of his helmet so Charles can see his eyes slanted into crescents, and Charles can almost see the smile underneath. As he goes down the line clapping hands and hugging every mechanic, Charles holds out Max’s things, only for a gasp to escape his lips when Max grabs him, pulling him into a tight embrace, sending his heart into a frenzy as Charles tucks his face into the crook of his very sweaty neck, breathing him in.
He’s sure that it doesn’t mean anything, but as Max fists the sides of his Red Bull polo, Charles likes to think he holds on a few seconds longer than he has with anyone else.
That first race is the hardest. But it’s so worth it when he gets to watch Max stand on that top step, spraying Carlos and Checo with champagne. Charles even swears Max smiled at him during the national anthem, he’s sure his expression was awestruck. Max looks almost godlike standing up there, broad shouldered, head held high. He doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of the sight.
Things with Max have been better than they’ve ever been. The same can be said of Charles’ relationship with Arthur. He looks forward to the nights after sessions, where he’ll join Arthur for dinner with his team, if Charles isn’t already dining with Max. They spend more time together now than they have in the past five years, and Charles, for the first time in a long time, is happy.
Charles tells Arthur about Max, and he watches as Arthur’s face goes from shocked to even more shocked, before he bursts into hysterical laughter at Charles’ expense.
“It is not funny,” he had grumbled, picking at his nails as Arthur had doubled over.
“It really is, you got f*cked by your boss who you didn’t know was your boss and then you found out he was your boss,” he choked out between laughs, and Charles can’t help it if a few chuckles escape his own lips.
“It was a mistake,” Charles says finally, but the words taste wrong on his tongue.
That seems to sober Arthur up, who lays a comforting hand on Charles’ shoulder, rubbing it affectionately..
“I think… it was exactly what was supposed to happen. I think you like him, and I think you do not see the way he looks at you,” he says quietly, and Charles doesn’t know what the f*ck that means and when his little brother got so damn philosophical.
He leaves Arthur’s hotel room that night feeling lighter than he has in months. He sleeps easier than he has in a long time, and if he falls asleep thinking of Max well… that’s between him and god.
The week of the Dutch GP, Max takes Charles with him to play padel with Daniel and his performance coach, Michael. Charles jumps at the opportunity (even if Max is horrid at padel), he hadn’t been able to see much of Max the previous race week outside of the paddock due to it being Spa. Max had wanted to spend the majority of the time with his family, and while he had invited Charles along, he hadn’t wanted to intrude, even though Max had insisted.
This isn’t the first time Charles and Max have played padel together. Charles felt like every single place they traveled to for a race weekend, Max was googling local gyms where they could play padel. Most of the time Charles would win, which would bring out the extreme side of Max’s competitive streak, and they wouldn’t leave the gym til Max had won at least one Max. Usually by that point even Charles felt like he was about to pass out. But whatever made Max happy, getting to spend time with the Dutch driver wasn’t exactly a punishment.
“Oi Verstappen!” Daniel shouts as he and Max enter the court, his signature long grin on his face.
Charles didn’t like the way Daniel looked at Max, especially after Max had told them they used to sleep together. When Max had first told him, Charles had choked on his breakfast bagel, and Max had almost had to give him the heimlich. Max was insistent it was ancient history, and Charles wasn’t exactly in any position to be feeling jealous, but Charles just wishes he was the one who could make Max laugh as easily as Daniel does.
If only Charles could realize that whenever Max cracked a joke, he always looks to Charles first to make sure he’s laughing, that Max always does that nervous little hairtuck whenever he and Charles converse.
Padel goes pretty good at first, they all are laughing, having fun. Him and Max make a good team, even if Charles is running their entire side of the court (almost hitting the wall at one point), while Max is seemingly almost distracted. In their current round of doubles Charles decided to take the front, while Max is watching him from behind. The score is currently 45-15, and Charles’ own competitive streak is starting to manifest, frustration burning in his chest.
“Max come on we are losing!” Charles groans, running a hand through his hair frustratedly, turning around to look at Max whose eyes are shooting up to look at him, like he just remembered where they were.
“Max, you are not even paying attention! Putain, we are f*cked!” Charles laughs incredulously, facepalming as Max guffaws at him.
“That’s because Maxie’s too busy looking somewhere else,” Daniel chimes in, a loud and boisterous laugh echoing around the court.
If Charles didn’t know any better, he’d think Max was blushing. He quickly looks down and kicks the ground, mumbling something
“I was too busy looking at your ugly mug!” he quickly recovers, eyes flickering to Charles before saying they should switch positions.
Charles nods and goes to the back of the court, Max clapping his hand as they switch, and Charles almost thinks he’s imagining things when he feels Max’s fingers lightly wrap around his wrist, stroking the skin lightly.
It sets Charles’ nerves on fire, as it always does, and Charles has a hard time focusing on anything else. His eyes can’t stay away from Max’s perfectly toned legs, his thick muscular thighs, the way he can see his back muscles through his shirt, how the shorts he’s wearing look almost impossibly short, hugging his ass perfectly. He feels almost dizzy as he watches him.
He realizes too late that he should’ve been paying attention, because too late he hears Max calling his name, eyes snapping up across the net to see a ball hurtling right towards him. Charles scrambles, throwing his racket up and pivoting his body, when he hears a sickening crack followed by an “oh f*ck”.
Charles watches in horror as he turns to the side, seeing Max drop his racket and clutches his eye, wincing in pain as he falls to his knees. He had been too busy lusting after Max to notice the ball, and subsequently Max coming to rescue him, that when he swung his racket, he hit Max in the eye.
“Max! Merde, are you alright? Of course you are not, oh god. Oh god, I am so fired. Not that I’m worried about my job, you are more important but oh my god. Your eye. Let me see,” Charles almost squeals, falling to his knees next to Max and reaching to pry the hand covering his eye away.
“I am fine Charles, just— I need a minute” He groans, falling off his knees onto his ass, lying on the ground as Michael and Daniel run over.
“sh*t– Maxie are you good?” Daniel asks and Charles immediately tenses up, biting the insides of his cheek.
“Do I look like I’m good? Daniel?” Max says through gritted teeth, the frustrated tone sending shivers down Charles’ spine.
Charles slowly urges Max to sit up, prying his eye from his ear. It’s very red, as to be expected, so they won’t know the extent of the damage until tomorrow most likely. Charles can see the padel hit the corner of Max’s eye, and he can see a tiny little cut, a small droplet of blood smeared on Max’s face.
Daniel goes to touch Max and Charles practically hisses, holding his arm out to keep Daniel back. Charles feels bad, Daniel’s a nice guy and this is nowhere near his fault but this is Charles’ mess. He will fix it. Daniel seemingly gets the message and backs off, shooting Michael a look.
“Do you need to go to the hospital? We can take you– if you want,” Daniel says nervously, shooting Charles a look, Charles shooting an icy one back.
“I don’t think that’s necessary, Charles can take me once he checks me out, he is the doctor of course. Right Charles?” Max says, turning to Charles and smirking at him. Charles wants to bash him over the head now with the padel racket. Here he is wanting to throw up at the thought of hurting Max and he’s over here making jokes?
“You are stupid, but we will have a look. Let’s go to the locker room and put some ice on it,” Charles holds his hand out to Max, which he takes.
“You are not getting out of this though Ricciardo, we would have won if not for this. You owe us a rematch,” Charles smiles at Daniel, a peace offering of sorts. They absolutely would not have won, but Charles is trying to preserve whatever dignity he has left.
Daniel smiles warmly back at Charles and his stomach flips, okay… yeah Charles gets it now.
Once they make their way to the locker room, Charles demands Max stay put on one of the benches as he goes and fetches ice for his eye.
When he gets back he sits on the bench next to Max, positioning him so Max is facing him, straddling the bench as Charles sits in front of him, legs on either side of the bench as well.
Max hisses as Charles first presses the ice pack to Max’s face, and Charles winces in return, mumbling out multiple apologies.
“If you hated me, all you had to do was say, of course,” Max half-teases, his one good eye boring into Charles.
“You are stupid,” Charles repeats, holding the ice pack in place.
“You did not deny it,” he says, an almost bitter smile on his lips.
“You are not serious…” Charles says, taking a hand and cupping Max’s chin to keep himself steady.
When Max doesn’t say anything Charles gapes. Surely Max does not think that? How could he?
“Max… why would you think this?” Charles asks desperately, searching the Dutch driver’s face.
“It is stupid but, everything between us feels surface level? If that makes sense. I know you said you wanted to keep things professional, and of course I respect that, I understand. I just, after Bahrain I thought maybe perhaps we have been getting closer. But I still feel like I don’t know you. And I feel like you avoid me, I wanted you to spend time with me and my family last week and you said no. Half the times I invite you out you make excuses. If you do not like me, that is fine, I am used to it. But I would rather you just tell me. I can take it,” Max says painfully soft, and Charles feels his heart breaking.
“Max… it is not… I do not hate you. It is how I feel about you, that is the reason why I cannot spend time with you,” Charles blushes, slowly taking the ice pack away from Max’s eye, the cold of the ice causing Max’s skin to flush red even more.
“And how do you feel about me?” he asks. There’s a pit in Charles’ stomach.
“Of course you know,” Charles breathes, eyes softening as he looks at Max.
“I want to hear you say it.”
Charles takes a breath. He could lie, he could tell Max that he means nothing to him. That they are just friends, that he is just a client. But Max Verstappen has never been ‘just’ anyone. And he deserves more than Charles’ lies.
“You are all I think about,” he says simply, hesitantly reaching a hand out before he can stop himself and running a hand through Max’s dark blonde hair.
“I thought, I thought it would be easy. Distancing myself from you. I thought we would be able to work together, and that I would move on, it had been just sex. It was one night. I could forget about it. You could forget about it. But now I am getting to know you and it has been so hard. Staying away. When all I can think about is you. Touching you. Having you. Being with you–” Charles is interrupted with the feeling of warm lips against his own.
It takes a minute for Charles to catch up to the fact that Max is kissing him, and when he does he practically groans with relief. He reaches his arms up to wrap around Max, one hand trailing up his neck and into Max’s hair, tugging gently.
It feels like waking up to the first snow of winter, when you walk outside and all you see is the beautiful white powder, the chill of the cold and the wind nipping your face. But you’ve never felt more awake, more alive. Your maman calls you back inside, that you need to put on your snow gear or you will get sick, but you run outside, unafraid, uncaring. It’s bliss.
Before he knows it Charles is practically on Max’s lap, Max’s arms lazily wrapped around his waist. Max pushes his tongue into his mouth with little resistance from Charles, both of them moaning. He can’t believe it’s been seven months since he last got to have Max like this. He doesn’t know why he waited so long.
He gets so caught up in what they’re doing, so caught up in Max’s kiss that when their crotches brush and that zing of electricity goes through him and Max lets out a whimper, his eyes shoot open, suddenly remembering who they are, why this is wrong.
Charles promptly pulls away wiping his lips, he almost moans again when he sees Max’s puzzled face, freshly shaved and now red around his lips from where Charles’ stubble was rubbing against his mouth.
“What’s wrong?” Max asks, going to cup Charles’ face, a hand Charles quickly grabs gently, pushing it back towards Max.
“I– I have to go,” Charles says almost in a daze, standing up.
“Charles?” Max says, clearly confused and Charles has to blink back tears as he goes and grabs his bag out of his locker.
“Charles, talk to me, did I do something?” Max pleads, scrambling after Charles and grabbing his wrist.
Charles doesn’t want to hurt him. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with himself. Why he’s panicking he just, he knows he has to leave, now.
“No, no you did not do anything. You are perfect. I just, I just can’t. Not right now,” he begs that Max understands, that he lets him go. He just needs time. He needs to think.
Max stares at him for a long moment, and Charles can tell he is fighting his better instinct, to face it all head on. But Max knows Charles well enough at this point to know if he does he will just lash out, like a caged animal. So he simply nods, letting go of Charles’ wrist, and Charles lets out a breath of relief.
“Do not shut me out, Charles,” Max warns, his gaze so intense Charles has to tear his eyes away.
“I won’t I just… I need time, I think, I promise” he whispers, reaching back out again to grab Max’s hand and squeeze, hoping to convey his sincerity.
At that Max smiles small, and Charles can tell he doesn’t exactly believe him but he turns and leaves anyway.
Like he always does when things get hard, he runs away.
Charles ran away that day and he wishes he hadn’t. He wishes he had been a braver man, but he’s not, and he can barely face Max. He sees the disappointment in Max’s eyes, the way he is still so kind to Charles, but now he is keeping Charles at an arm’s length, and Charles has never felt more cold. Charles hates the polite smiles, the way Max only speaks to Charles when he absolutely has to, it’s not his Max. But he did it to himself.
It’s been a week since they kissed, and Charles has not been able to stop thinking about it. He goes to sleep thinking of the way Max’s lips felt against his, how his hand had trailed down his spine to grip his ass firmly… frankly it’s embarrassing the amount of cold showers Charles has been taking after his workouts with Max, and when he wakes up in the morning… and when he goes to sleep at night.
He feels like a horny teenager all over again, which makes facing Max even all the more mortifying. He’s ruined the carefully crafted relationship they’ve created over this past half of the year, he let his own emotions get the better of him. He knows he needs to tell Max how he feels. He just doesn’t know what he’s afraid of. Not to be arrogant but Charles is almost positive that Max feels the same, so what’s the problem? His relationship with Arthur is better than it’s been in years, the team at Red Bull love Charles. Max is leading the championship by a large margin, and on track to win his fourth World Championship. So where is the hesitation?
That’s what Charles has been trying to figure out. Every time he has gone to have that conversation with Max this past week, his throat has begun to close up, like there’s some curse that’s been inflicted upon him, preventing him from trying to make things right. He’s starting to think it’s all hopeless.
When Charles wakes up the morning of the race in Monza, he can’t shake the awful feeling in his gut.
It’s raining.
It’s been looming over his head the entire weekend. The possibility of a wet race. FP1 had been cloudy, a bit of drizzle in fp2, overcast for fp3 and quali, but Charles hadn’t thought it’d actually rain for the race. In Monza. A wet race in Monza. Charles groans as he rolls over, pulling his pillow over his head. It’s not like there haven’t been wet races this season. Montreal had been a wet race, Spa had been a wet race (to be fair Charles had watched those through his fingers), but something about today just feels different.
He drags himself out of bed with a stone in his stomach, begrudgingly putting on his team kit and paddock pass. Normally he and Max would meet and have breakfast before heading to the track together. Before Charles ruined (sabotaged) it all. In reality, Charles had texted Max saying he’d meet him at the track, to which Max had responded with a simple “ok”. He deserves that.
Charles forces a smile on his face as he enters the Red Bull garage, Max already there, chatting with his engineers. His racesuit is tied around his waist, Red Bull cap glued to his head, and those damned white fireproofs that hug his biceps perfectly… He tries not to stare too hard, but it’s almost impossible to tear his eyes away from the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, or how he commands the attention of everyone in the room. Max was a prime example of someone who lights up a room whenever he enters it.
When Max and Charles finally make eye contact, Max offers him a weak smile and Charles’ stupid heart seizes in his chest. He doesn’t know if it’s the rain, or if it’s because of the way Max looks with his hair still damp, eyelashes still lightly clumped together due to the rain, but he can’t let Max get in that car without telling him how he feels. Without fixing this.
When Max finally crosses the room to get his electrolyte drink from Charles, that’s when he takes his chance.
“Max–”
“What is it, Charles,” Max says shortly, taking off his watch and giving it to Charles to keep until after the race.
The clipped tone of his voice takes him off his guard, immediately recoiling.
“I was hoping… we could talk,” he says quietly, almost inaudibly over the sounds of Max’s car being prepped.
“So now you want to talk?” Max says suddenly, blue eyes snapping to look at his own, patience wearing thin. Charles wants to fold in on himself.
It reminds him of all those arguments he’s had with Arthur. Charles’ constant promises that he was going to be better, that he was going to fix things. He promised Max he wouldn’t run, and yet he had. But he had fixed things with Arthur, maybe this wasn’t completely lost.
He tries again.
“I told you I needed time but, I am ready I want to–” he starts before he is interrupted.
“I cannot do this right now, we will talk after the race,” he says again, handing Max his cap. If Max does not leave now he’ll be late for the national anthem.
“Max wait–” Charles pleads, grabbing the Dutch driver’s wrist, the idea of this being their last interaction before Max gets in the car causing his chest to constrict.
“Yes?” Max asks, eyes going back and forth between his wrist and Charles’ face. But he doesn’t pull away. Charles considers this a win.
“Just… be careful, okay?” Charles says softly, stroking the inside of Max’s wrist with his thumb, where the camera’s can’t see.
Max somehow must be able to sense the underlying panic in Charles’ voice because his eyes soften, slowly retreating from Charles’ grasp.
“I will see you after the race,” he says finally, giving Charles a nod and then he’s gone, and Charles is left alone with his thoughts.
For some reason this race Charles is determined to stay in the garage. He holds his breath as the cars move through the formation lap. The race will have to start under a safety car, every driver starting the race on full wets, except for the Mclarens and a few midfield teams trying to take risks to put them ahead.
He prays for Arthur and for Max, that they both will get through this race safely, that they will come back to Charles. That this is just some stupid superstition manifested from Charles’ trauma, that the rain doesn’t mean anything. Just because it rains doesn’t mean something bad has to happen. He has just created self fulfilling prophecy after self fulfilling prophecy, the past being filled with many sad coincidences.
Max is starting on pole, as he has for the most of the season, despite a few outliers. Arthur had managed to snag a pole in Monaco, but a power unit issue had deprived him of his home win. He’d been devastated, and Charles had been devastated for him. But Arthur is determined to win in Monza, starting next to Max in p2. Charles has the utmost faith in his brother, the most worrying part for him though is who starts behind Max and Arthur. Lando and Oscar.
The Mclaren’s have been fast this season. Unprecedentedly fast. The Red Bull is now the second fastest car on the grid, the Ferrari following closely behind. Lando managed to get his first win in Miami, and thanks to Max’s generational skill has prevented him from getting a second. But that still doesn’t stop Charles from worrying.
Charles watches nervously from the garage, the first 5 laps of the race happen under the safety car, the cars spraying loads of standing water off the track. By lap 5 the drivers are begging race control to let them start the race, that the track is more than safe enough for racing conditions. Charles selfishly wishes for ten more laps under safety car conditions.
On lap 6 the safety car comes in, and then it’s up to Max to take everyone back to racing conditions and Charles holds his breath. As per usual, it’s another flawless restart, almost every single time Max restarts a race he does so flawlessly, all the cars behind him scrambling to catch up to him. But Max is already a few tenths ahead before the rest of the cars know what’s happening.
Max develops a comfortable lead, and on lap 15 he deems the track dry enough to pit for inters, there’s a light drizzle outside, but the radar doesn’t foresee heavy patches of rain coming. With Max going into the pits, Arthur following his lead soon after, Lando takes the lead of the grand prix.
It’s a gamble Mclaren has taken. Lando has been so focused on trying to catch up to Max instead of conserving his tyres, that his 15 lap old intermediates are almost entirely worn out, and Charles can tell in the way he’s starting to slip, the traction simply not there anymore.
The pitstop goes flawlessly, Max coming out on his brand new inters in fifth behind George and Lewis, coming out right ahead of Oscar, Arthur coming out behind him. It doesn’t take incredibly long for him to climb all the way back up to second, only about four laps.
Lap 20 is when everything goes wrong. Max has gained on Lando exponentially, Lando who still has not pitted for new inters. He’s gaining tenths on him, and by lap 20, Max overtaking Lando is imminent. They go wheel to wheel through turns one and two, before Lando takes off again through turn three. It’s only buying him time though.
Turn four is when Max makes his lunge, he’s inevitable. Max gets the inside line through turn four, and Charles holds his breath, but then he sees it. Lando tries to stay ahead into the turn, but he oversteers, his old inters finally giving out as he’s pushed out of the dry line and onto a wet patch. He desperately tries to correct his error but by then it’s too late.
Charles watches in horror from the garage as Lando’s front left tears through Max’s sidepod, clipping Max’s back right. It sends Max spinning with an incredible amount of speed across the track and into the metal barriers. He’s almost thankful he’s in the garage so he can’t hear the crunch of the metal into the barriers. He feels almost out of his body at this point, completely numb.
His eyes scatter frantically around the Red Bull garage, looking as Max’s mechanics watch on in horror, hand resting on top of their heads. Through his headphones, Charles can hear GP asking Max if he’s alright. A safety car is deployed almost immediately. His heart is beating in his ears, blood rushing throughout his head, Max’s grunts of pain forcing bile to rise up his throat. He hears Max curses quietly, insisting to GP that he’s fine as the medical car pulls up first.
He feels frozen. Max hasn’t lifted himself out of the car yet. He told GP he was fine, why isn’t he getting out of the car? The marshal’s scramble onto the track to get to Max, and Charles holds his breath as Max tries to get out of the car, he’s conscious, but wobbly, the marshalls helping to lift him as he swings his legs over the halo. Once he’s on the ground his legs almost give out. Charles feels tears filling his eyes, panic seizing in his chest. The marshal’s stand and talk with Max. Charles can see Max going to try to walk it off, everyone going to stop him. He curses him in his head, begging him to stop, to just sit down.
The race is inevitably red flagged, the ambulance making its way onto the track as the marshal’s sit Max down in a lawn chair they grabbed from behind the barriers, handing him a bottle of water. Charles can see from the camera’s how greatly Max’s hands are shaking.
Luckily a stretcher is not required, and the marshalls are able to walk Max into the ambulance. After that, Charles doesn’t need to see anymore. Next thing he knows he’s ripping his headphones off and rushing out of the garage. He needs to meet Max at the hospital, before he knows it, he’s running. Where to? He doesn’t know. It’s a red flag so he’s able to get behind the barriers to turn four. He must’ve ran faster than he knew because before he knows it he’s at turn four, where the ambulance still is. He doesn’t even think. He just does. He’s Max’s trainer. He has to go with Max. Max’s well being is his job. No one stops him as he climbs into the back of the ambulance with two of the marshals that he saw checking Max out on the TV. Before Charles’ mind can catch up the doors to the ambulance are shutting behind him, and Charles is being shoved into a seat next to one of the doctors and Max, lying on a stretcher as a paramedic straps him in. They must see the frazzled look on Charles’ face because soon Charles is being assured it’s a formality.
As the ambulance takes off, Max groans, looking at Charles. He’s pretty out of it, Charles notes. Which isn’t shocking, the G’s he took hitting the barrier is enough to disorient anyone, or worse. Charles is just glad Max is still conscious.
“Charles…” Max grumbles, and Charles automatically shakes his head, grabbing Max’s hand.
“It’s okay, you’re okay. We’re just going to the hospital and they’re going to check you out. You’re fine,” his voice cracks, his own adrenaline crashing as the reality of the situation hits him.
Max only nods, eyes fluttering shut as his head lulls to the side, the paramedic becomes alert, urging Max to stay awake in case he may have a concussion.
The ride to the hospital feels like it takes hours, when in reality it probably took about fifteen minutes. Once they arrive Charles scrambles out of the ambulance with the marshals. He has every intent of going with Max as they enter the hospital, walking beside Max as he’s pushed on the stretcher when he feels a hand being pressed against his chest.
The marshals inform him he cannot go in with Max. They tell him he can sit in the waiting room while Max gets examined and gets several scans done, and as much as Charles wants to protest he knows it’s for the best.
Charles all but collapses in a chair in the waiting room, heart rate struggling to come down as he tries to comprehend the events of the last hour.
He watches the rest of the race on the TV in the waiting room, with Max and Lando out of the race, Arthur becomes the newest race leader. Oscar puts up a fight, attempting to catch Arthur, but he simply doesn’t have the tyre management skills to catch him. Oscar has the faster car, but Arthur is smarter.
It’s in this small waiting room in Italy that Charles watches his little brother win his first race. At Monza. He watches a sea of red flood underneath the podium, the giant prancing horse flag waving. He watches as Arthur stands on top of his car, pumping his fists in the air before he jumps off, throwing himself into the arms of his mechanics, his second family. He’s so loved by the tifosi, Charles can see from the tiny TV.
Charles doesn’t even realize he’s crying until he feels tears drop onto his hands that are balled up on his jeans. He watched his baby brother stand on that top step, between Oscar and George, as the Monegasque national anthem plays, followed by the Italian, a beautiful combination if Charles says so himself.
It’s perfect. Except Charles missed it. He missed his brother’s first win.
He hates himself for not being there for Arthur, but he doesn’t regret following Max into that ambulance. He couldn’t imagine himself anywhere else. He has to be here.
The race coverage ends and Charles is frozen, in complete awe when he feels his phone vibrating in his back pocket. He takes it out to be met with Arthur’s contact picture, Arthur is calling him. He answers without hesitation.
“Charlot? Charlot! Did you see? I did it! I f*cking did it!” he hears his brother scream euphorically into the phone, and Charles has tears welling up in his eyes all over again.
“How could I miss it? You were f*cking incredible,” he breathes.
“I thought I almost lost the rear on lap 40, I don’t know if you saw. It was so slippery, I don’t know how I managed to save it but I did. It was incredible Charlot, you should have seen it, I have never seen so many people in my life. And they were all cheering for me,” and Charles lets him ramble, his heart has never felt larger.
“I am so sorry I was not there, I had to go with Max,” he whispers into the phone, voice breaking.
“Oh Charlot– of course you did, I saw the replay in the cooldown room. That was a bad one, is he alright?” Arthur asks, genuine concern in his voice.
“I–I don’t know, they are still doing tests. I have not heard anything yet,” he blinks back the tears again.
“I am sure he will be fine. He is strong, he still has a championship to win,” Charles can tell Arthur is trying to cheer him up.
“What about you?”
“What about me? I have only just won my first race. No, your boyfriend is running away with this one. Do not worry, next year will be mine,” Arthur chuckles into the phone.
“He is not my boyfriend,” Charles mumbles into the phone.
“But you would like him to be?”
“I– Arthur I have to go,” he says as he sees the marshals come back out into the waiting room, wheeling a very unamused Max out in a wheelchair.
“Tell him how you feel Charles, I love you” Arthur says finally before he hangs up, and Charles clutches the phone in his hand.
“How is he?” Charles asks as he stands up, rushing towards them.
“I am fine of course,” Max says, Charles ignoring him and looking at the marshals.
“He will be fine. He has bruised a couple ribs up pretty bad, his head CT came back clear but he might have some residual headaches from taking so many G’s. His right ankle took a hit and has some bruising as well, but nothing too major. He’ll just be very sore for the next week or so.”
“The most important thing is I am still able to race,” Max interjects, and Charles shoots him a look before ignoring him again.
“What about the wheelchair?” He asks.
“Just hospital policy. We have a driver waiting for him out front, he asks that you accompany him.”
“I can speak for myself,” Max grumbles, and Charles has to force down the fondness welling up in his chest.
The marshals walk them back down to the exit, and Charles thanks them for all their help before he gets in the car next to Max that will take them back to their hotel.
Charles doesn’t speak to Max the whole way to the hotel. Now that he knows Max is fine he feels like he can finally breathe, and he’s angry. He knows it’s irrational, that the accident had been completely out of his control.
But he had felt like he was losing Max. And Charles can’t afford to lose anyone else. Especially not Max.
When they arrive back at the hotel, Charles tells the driver to go to the back since there’s an absurd amount of fans waiting at the front to lay eyes on any of the drivers.
The elevator ride up to Max’s room is so silent you could hear a pin drop. Charles can tell Max wants to say something, but thinks better of it. Again, Charles knows he’s being unfair, and he goes to relent, but then he remembers the bag of painkillers from the hospital he’s holding, and he thinks about how badly this could’ve been. How lucky Max was to walk out of that accident with only bruises.
Charles silently lets them both into Max’s room.
“Come on, let’s get you changed and into bed,” Charles says clinically. Max is
“I am fine Charles, seriously,” he says, he’s still in his race suit and fireproofs.
Charles, in his panic, had forgotten to bring a change of clothes to the hospital. Like an idiot. Whatever.
“Get undressed Max, seriously,” he huffs, taking out an AlphaTauri t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants.
“Alright, alright, if you want to see me naked so bad,” Max teases, slipping his race suit off, raising his fireproof top up over his head, leaving him shirtless where Charles can now see the dark purple bruises spreading all over Max’s middle section. Charles feels a lump in his throat.
“You’re not funny,” Charles says coldly, blinking back tears as he pulls the covers back on Max’s bed, fluffing up his pillows for him.
“Oh come on Charlie, I am fine!”
“First of all, do not call me Charlie. Second of all, you are very much not fine! Look at your chest! How can you even joke right now?” he asks incredulously, shaking his head at him as Max pulls his t-shirt over his head, moving to put on the sweatshirt.
“I just do not understand why you have been such a dick to me since we left the hospital. You should be mad at Lando of course! He ruined my race!” Max huffs, sliding into bed as Charles goes to get his painkillers.
“It’s not about the f*cking race Max!” Charles finally explodes, angry tears spilling down his face as pills rattling inside the prescription bottle.
Max flinches, clearly not expecting this reaction, concern flooding his face.
“You could have died! Does that not matter to you? You could have died and I would have lost you, and I can’t— I can’t,” Charles hyperventilates, running a hand through his hair as he forgets about the pills all together, sitting on the bed where Max is now laying.
All the trauma comes crashing down around his shoulders, he feels as if he’s reliving the deaths of his father and Jules all over again. He couldn’t even enjoy his baby brother’s first win because he was worried to death about Max.
Charles hides his face as he sobs, tremors racking his body.
He doesn’t register Max’s soft touch at first, rubbing his back comfortingly until his prying his hands from his face.
“Hey… hey schat,” he says, sitting up on the bed, wincing at the pain in his ribs.
He hooks his finger underneath Charles’ chin, forcing Charles to look at him.
“You are not going to lose me Charles,” he whispers, leaning his forehead against Charles’.
“I-I love you Max,” he confesses. He hadn’t even realized it until it was coming out of his mouth but he loves him. It took an awful event occurring for him to realize but he loves Max. And the idea of losing him scares the hell out of him. He can’t take another loss like this.
A genuine smile blooms across Max’s stupidly perfect face, and Charles feels Max's lips against his. They’re gone before he can even react properly.
“I know. I love you too mijn schat,” he smiles, wrapping his arms around him.
“Really? Even though I am a wreck?” he sniffles, feeling embarrassed by his meltdown.
“Especially because you are a wreck,” he teases before he leans back in, kissing him softly again.
“You were not supposed to agree,” Charles teases, pulling away again, and giving Max a faux angry stare.
“I am nothing if not honest. ” he responds, cupping Charles’ cheek, connecting their lips for the last time.
It becomes heated, as most things between the two of them do. They move in perfect synchronization, Charles welcoming Max’s tongue as it pushes past his lips. It’s perfect, like Max was made for him.
Charles moves to get on Max’s lap, wrapping his arms around him but stops when he hears a hiss of pain out from under him. Charles pulls away, mortified. What the f*ck is he doing? Max is injured. This is not the time for this.
“Okay, this is not happening, we are not going to have sex,” Charles says, getting off the bed, much to Max’s disappointment.
“And why not?” Max all but whines, practically pouting.
“How can you even ask me that? I’m afraid I may actually break you,” Charles shakes his head, going to fetch a glass of water for Max to take his pain killers.
“I am clearly more durable than you think, I think I definitely proved that today of course,” he jokes, Charles handing him a pill for Max to take. He promptly shuts up once Charles shoots him one of his famous looks.
“Fine, but once I’m better, your ass is mine.”
“More like your ass is mine,” Charles retorts, shooting Max a look as he pull the covers off of Max, hooking his fingers under the waistband of his sweatpants, pulling down his sweatpants and underwear in one go.
“What’re you doing?” Max asks, not unwelcoming the contact, just slightly confused.
“We might not be able to do that, but there are things I can do… to make you feel better of course,” Charles says, carefully settling in between Max’s legs.
“Oh yeah?” Max asks, eyes darkening, arousal evident on his face, as well as otherplaces.
Charles responds by pressing a soft kiss to the inside of Max’s thigh, sending his best attempt of wink up to Max, before taking him into his mouth, reducing the Dutchman to a puddle of arousal, fisting at the sheets as he lets out soft whimpers, music to Charles’ ears.
A year later, Charles will reenter the paddock in Monza, this time though he is not wearing his Red Bull team kit, instead wearing a baggy pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. And instead of trailing behind Max, he will walk in with his brother, wishing him good luck before they separate.
Charles will find the hospitality he had become so familiar with the year before. His old coworkers will greet him, ask him how he’s been, like it hasn’t been only a couple weeks since they last saw him. They’ll ask him how his new practice in Monaco is doing that he opened, Charles’ own sports therapy practice he opened after he quit.
He of course finished out his contract with Red Bull, but as he told Max,
“I think it’s generally frowned upon to have sex with your boss.”
“It’s not ‘just sex’. We are dating Charles,” Max had said, lying in bed next to him, head on Charles’ chest.
“It is practically the same thing,” Charles had responded before he’d taken a pillow directly to the face.
He smiles fondly at the memory. That had been in Qatar, when Charles had told him he wouldn’t be coming back next year. Max had of course been sad to see Charles go, but now when Charles enters the paddock, he does so as Max’s boyfriend (or wag, as Max & Arthur insist on calling him, teasing him relentlessly).
They’re happy. Max travels the world, gunning for his fifth title, while Charles stays home with the cats and their new puppy, Leo, much to Max’s dismay (he actually is obsessed with Leo, but he would never tell Charles that).
Charles catches up with Max’s new performance coach, Rupert, when he feels a pair of arms wrapping around his waist, a soft kiss being placed to his neck.
“Making sure Rupert is keeping me fit?” Max teases, resting a chin on Charles’ shoulder.
“I am making sure you are behaving. You have a habit of seducing your trainers,” he responds, and Rupert gags as Charles turns in Max’s arms wrapping his arms around his neck.
“More like my trainers have a habit of seducing me, of course. Hello, schat,” he teases, smiling fondly at him.
“That is practically the same thing,” Charles responds, grabbing Max’s hand and leading him towards his driver’s room.
“You have twenty minutes until you are supposed to be in the garage for fp1, Max!” he hears Rupert call out to Max.
“Ok!” Max responds, shutting the door to his driver’s room, and Charles is sure Max wasn’t even listening but that’s okay.
When Max’s lips are pressed against his, nothing else matters.
