Chapter Text
Max did not fully realize how much he missed the motorhome club until he’s woken up at 7 a.m. by the brash crescendo of some party anthem his sleep-addled brain does not recognize, blaring from the motorhome next door.
He gets out of bed, sending muttered curses to whoever went to the trouble of shipping their mobile homes to Australia, and cracks open the plexiglass window above his kitchen sink. He can see Daniel prowling around in his purple motorhome, parked barely two meters away.
“Oi! Turn that thing off!” he yells at the top of his lungs. “Some people here have a championship to win today and need to sleep.”
Daniel’s head peeks out the window of his own motorhome, all tousled-curls and a smile too bright for the early hour.
“Oh? Is Lewis here, then?” asks Daniel with raised eyebrows, in that way he thinks it’s so bloody funny.
“Fuck off,” Max says, giving him the middle finger. He shuts the window to cut off the sound of Daniel’s delighted laughter.
The morning rolls in slowly and inevitably, and the sun rises higher in the sky, soon blazing with the relentless heat of summer. Daniel’s music eventually stops as the usual race-day edginess takes over the motorhome lot, and each of its residents gets lost in their own pre-race rituals.
Max finds its familiarity comforting.
He gets ready quickly, but he’s in no hurry to leave. He sits in front of his motorhome, drinking in the last quiet moments of the day. Anticipation crackles in the air, charged with an impending sense that something great is about to happen. Max can feel the electric tingle settling in his bones, but it doesn’t make him nervous as he had been in Japan and Singapore, where he’d been counting the minutes until the races cooped up in stuffy hotel rooms.
Here, he can see the full expanse of the cloudless sky, stretching limitlessly above him. He can see the sun, brighter than usual. Closer than ever before.
Here, he feels calm.
“You coming or what?” asks Daniel when he passes him on the way to the paddock.
“In a minute,” Max says.
He doesn’t move for a long time, watching the motorhomes slowly empty until eventually everyone is gone. In the distance, Max can hear the indistinct rumble of the fans beginning to fill the grandstands, growing louder by the minute.
He inhales sharply, sucking all the energy surrounding him in one breath. He holds it in for a heartbeat—the heat, the cheers, the years of mounting expectations, the wave of excitement that makes every atom in his body jiggle in place. He holds it in until his lungs scream, full to the brim, and then he exhales and it all washes away, disappearing into the back of his mind.
When Max finally goes to the paddock, he moves on autopilot. He climbs into the drivers’ parade truck and waves to the noiseless crowd. He is interviewed by a faceless reporter and spews out platitudes that his brain conjures up on the spot without fully registering them. He drives through the installation lap as if he were sitting on the sim with his eyes closed. He stands on the grid under a giant umbrella, but the heat cannot enter the bubble his world has become, nor can the frenzy of the mechanics making the final adjustments to the car.
His gaze crosses Charles’ as they line up for the national anthem. He gives Max a reassuring smile and his bubble trembles, threatening to burst, but just barely.
When he slips into his helmet and the car comes alive beneath his body, and the deafening roar of the engine is the only sound that can overpower his own steady heartbeat—then, Max knows.
He is a man on a mission, and he’s never been more certain.
He is going to win this championship today.
And then the lights go out, and he does just that.
-
When Max was four years old, his parents took him to a rental circuit in Genk.
His mother kissed him on the forehead and told him to be careful.
His father pushed him into a go-kart and told him to be a champion.
When Max was eight years old, he finally understood what that would take. On Wednesdays, school finished at noon. His father would take him to the track, and Max would drive for hours, running lap after lap to test the new engines and chassis his father had built, chasing every millimetre of the racing line, every tenth of a second he could shave off his lap time. In the winter, the sun set at 4 p.m., and the icy wind stiffened his muscles as Max struggled to see the track in the darkness.
“I’m cold,” he had once complained, when he could not take it anymore. He begged his father to stop.
“One more lap,” his father barked in response.
And so Max did one more lap. And then another. And another. He kept driving until he could no longer move his fingers, frozen around the steering wheel. Until he felt nothing but exhaustion and the searing pain that spread from his hands to his entire body.
When he had finally gotten out of the kart, Max had cried.
“Pull yourself together, boy,” his father sneered in contempt at the sight of his tears. “Champions don’t cry.”
It’s not until Max turns the last corner of the final lap of the most important race of his career, that his senses start coming back to him. The thunderous cheers explode in the grandstands once more, a wave of orange rising up in his peripheral vision as he nears the finish line. The Australian sun shines with renewed vigour, blinding him as it hits his visor. His blood lights up underneath his skin.
He can feel his leg cramping, and the triviality of it makes him laugh. He’s on the verge of world glory, his life’s goal is finally at the reach of his fingertips, and his leg is fucking cramping.
He feels delirious when he sees the wave of the chequered flag. He throws his head back as far as the neck support will let him, and he laughs, and laughs, and laughs.
“Oh my Lord, Max!!! Oh my God!! YESSSS!”
His laughter comes out in sobs, soaring wet from the depths of his chest.
“Max Verstappen,” Christian screams through the radio static, “You are the world champion! The world champion!”
Hot tears spring from his eyes and run down his face. They don’t stop coming as he drives blindly through the cool-down lap; as he jumps out of the car with his fist raised high in jubilation; as his knees give out under the weight of his achievement and he falls to his knees next to his car. He buries his face on the rear-left tyre in quiet reverence and he drowns in the tears that flood the inside of his helmet.
Eight-year-old Max could not have known it, at the time.
(And his father would not have known it, ever.)
But world champions do cry.
-
It’s Lewis who picks him up, with a strong hand clasping his shoulder and pulling him into a congratulatory hug. For a moment, Max shudders at the contact, wondering what to say to the man he just beat. He tries to speak, but all he gets out is a stream of incoherent words. Lewis’ eyes crinkle in amusement, no trace of hard feelings hiding behind his tired smile.
“Congratulations, man,” Lewis says, squeezing his shoulder. “Don’t forget to enjoy it. There’s no feeling like the first one.”
One by one, the other drivers start pulling up in parc fermé. Max sees his team standing behind the barriers, which almost topple over under their frantic swaying. He runs over to them and throws himself into their waiting arms, his chest swelling to the sound of their cheers. He finds his mother in their midst and holds her tight, just as she used to hold him when he was a little boy who could only dream that this day would come. His sister hits his arm lightly, demanding her share of his attention, and he twirls her in the air, making her giggle in delight. When he lets her go, a pair of hands grab his shoulders from behind, spinning him around.
For a moment, he is rooted to the floor, standing face to face with Charles, with all the lengths of his longing standing between them. His sister gives his back a little push and he falls into Charles’ arms. Relief floods his chest as Charles pulls him into a hug, and his whole body sways with the rush of emotions, all the post-race adrenaline still making his head spin.
Charles pulls back, lifting the visor of Max’s helmet with trembling fingers.
“You did it,” he says, making Max’s heartbeat flutter.
Charles’ hands cradle the sides of Max’s helmet, and he pulls him towards him until their helmets bump against each other. Max wonders what he looks like to Charles through the slits of their lifted visors; if his eyes show the bewilderment he feels, the exhilaration that swells in his heart. Charles’ eyes crumple at the edges with a smile that Max cannot fully see. They’re a little wet too, and shiny with pride.
Instinctively, Max closes his eyes and his mouth touches the inside of his helmet, the lining of the balaclava damp and prickly against his lips. He wishes he could feel Charles’ lips on his own instead, but he settles for this—the fleeting ghost of a kiss through many layers of carbon-fibre and foam and Nomex.
“You did it,” Charles whispers again.
Max nods, too choked for words, and their helmets clash together with the movement.
It finally sinks in, fully and undeniable.
He’s done it.
-
He’s swept by the navy wave that takes the paddock by storm, carried on the shoulders of his crew and passed around in the arms of his engineers, from the podium to the media pen to the celebrations that erupt in the pit lane.
People demand his attention, pulling him into hugs and patting him on the back of his champagne-soaked racing suit. They shake his hand, and shout congratulations in his ear, and follow him around with microphones, asking for declarations his brain still can’t quite make up yet.
Max doesn’t have a second to spare, except when he does, it feels like an eternity. In those brief moments when everyone’s attention is diverted elsewhere, Max doesn’t know what to do with himself. He feels like an island, barely afloat in the overwhelming euphoria of the buzzing paddock, and he catches himself staring around the pit lane, looking for something to hold on to. Whenever he does, Charles always seems to be nearby, talking to one person or another, hovering at the sidelines of the Red Bull parade. Their eyes meet over the sea of people and Max’s restless heart settles back inside his ribcage. It only lasts a moment, before he’s swept away again.
“Max Verstappen, the 2021 World Champion,” Nico greets him, with his camera-ready smile and a microphone shoved in Max’s face. “Many congratulations. How does that feel?”
He shakes his head, trying to focus on the interview and not on the man in the striking-red racing suit in his field of vision.
“Ah. It’s unbelievable, I mean-” he exhales. “All season we’ve been fighting for this and now it’s finally here. It’s insane. I don’t know what to say.”
“I know the feeling,” Nico chuckles. “Any plans on what you are going to do next?”
Max lets out a small laugh, verging on hysterical. He’s not even sure what he’s supposed to do now.
“I don’t know,” he says, and his lips twist into a sly grin. “Maybe I should retire?”
Nico’s smile flags a little, and Max almost laughs at how easy it is to rile him up.
“Such a low effort, Verstappen,” Nico grumbles when the cameras are off. He’s still pretending to be annoyed, but something softer takes over his expression. “I know you’re joking. But seriously though, don’t do it.”
Max wasn’t really considering retirement. At least, he doesn’t think so. But his curiosity is piqued and he follows Nico’s gaze to where Charles is talking to Lewis across the pit lane.
“You might think things will be easier if you step out of the spotlight,” Nico says with uncharacteristic candour, “but until he doesn’t, you’ll just keep finding reasons to come back.”
-
The paddock drains slowly, much slower than on an average race day. But then again, it is no average Sunday. The post-race conference seems to fly by much faster in comparison, but it gives Max a chance to breathe, sitting in the red chair he’s grown accustomed to. By the time he’s finished, the party has already moved to the Red Bull hospitality. He’s on his way there when the sound of a familiar voice makes him stop in his tracks.
“Of course, this is the dream of a lifetime, but I never doubted we would see this day come. This is what we set out to do, it’s what I’ve been preparing him for, all his life.”
He turns abruptly to see his father giving an interview to the Dutch TV channel. The reporter notices Max and stops his line of questioning to wave him over.
His father turns to him with a grin.
“There he is,” Jos puts his arm around his shoulder, pulling him closer. Max flinches under the unexpected weight. “My son, the world champion.”
“Dad,” he staggers, taken by surprise. He bites his tongue, managing to keep himself from asking something stupid along the lines of—What are you doing here? He hasn’t seen his father in so long that Jos’ once staple presence in the paddock now seems almost out of place.
“Max,” the reporter addresses him, oblivious to the tension settling around them. “We were just talking to your father about how much this title means to your family, how tirelessly you’ve all worked for it. This hasn’t been perhaps the easiest season for you. You’ve faced many challenges, both on and off track, but you’ve shown incredible perseverance the whole year. To come out of it with the first world title to your name must feel like a relief, maybe a little like vindication. Is there anyone you’d wish to dedicate this victory to?”
His father stares at him expectantly, waiting for his answer.
Max has often wondered what kind of racing driver he would have been if not for his father and his tough love. He wonders if he would be less aggressive, less driven. Whether he would have been able to stand where he is today.
He wonders if he would have been happier growing up.
He might never know for sure.
But he thinks of eight-year-old Max, sobbing in the rain. He thinks of Charles, confiding his doubts on a beach on the other side of the world, asking him if he ever wished things could have been different.
“Yeah, actually, there is. I have many people to thank for, without whom I wouldn’t be here today—my family, who have done many sacrifices for this; my team, who have always had my back; the friends who supported me all the way.”
He forces himself to face the camera, and his heart threatens to leap out of his throat with the weight of what he’s about to say. All his life, Max has made a point to never be this open in front of the camera. He still doesn’t want to be now, not to the same media who have callously dragged him under the bus for a few shocking headlines. But he owes this to Charles. And he owes it to himself.
“But I want to dedicate this to every kid who dreams of being a Formula One driver but is told they don’t have what it takes. I want to dedicate it to the ones who feel like they don’t fit the mold. To those who feel like they must choose between being who they are and doing what they love. I promise you, you can have it all. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise.”
-
“What the fuck was that?” Jos asks through clenched teeth once they are out of earshot.
“What?” Max shrugs.
“That piss-poor Hamilton imitation,” Jos spits out. He stops, grabbing Max by the elbow to make him face him. “What, you think you are better than me now?”
He can hear the contempt in his father’s words, and he stares back, dumbfounded.
“Don’t you give me that look, boy.”
“What look?” asks Max, his confusion quickly turning into annoyance.
“Like I am not supposed to be here. I have every right to be here. This is my championship too. Everything you have it’s because I gave it to you. I made you. Don’t you forget that.”
Growing up, Max always thought his father was larger than life. He was tall and commanding, and people either loved him or hated him, but would always do his bidding whether out of fear or devotion. His thunderous voice could instantly fill every room he entered and that had always impressed Max the most. It was how Max believed a man should sound like. Looking at Jos now, he feels the urge to laugh, as one would at a child throwing a tantrum. His father has never looked so small.
“You know what, dad? I am glad you are here. It was really nice to see you,” he says with a wry laugh. But strangely, he means it. “Maybe we can catch up later. Or not, I don’t give a shit. But, really, thank you for everything.”
He turns to leave, and his gut still churns not knowing if he will see his father again. But he’s lived up to his end of the deal, he has won the title Jos had so coveted, and he’s found his peace with it.
He pauses and looks over his shoulder to see Jos still standing in the same spot, stunned. He gives his father one last genuine smile.
“I hope you’re happy now, dad.”
-
The festivities last well into the night. The team drags him into a small nightclub in the heart of Melbourne, the dancefloor filled to the brim with the entire Red Bull staff and quite a significant number of party-crashers from every other team on the grid.
Daniel sticks by Max’s side at the bar, ranting about all the other places he knows in Melbourne Which Are Definitely Better Than This Pretentious Shithole and buying him green shots that glow under the black lights.
It’s not that Max doesn’t want to partake in the celebrations going on on the dancefloor, and he’s definitely guilty of joining the occasional butchering of We Are The Champions that takes over the club every fifteen minutes or so. But, all elation aside, Max is not yet sufficiently drunk that he’s not a little self-conscious about being in the centre of attention, and if he must be completely honest, he’d rather sit at the bar and laugh at the baffling sight of Christian crowd-surfing the throng of mechanics while a shitfaced Checo tries to take over the DJ booth.
Sitting at the bar is exactly what Max is doing when he spots Charles and Pierre standing by the entrance of the club. He downs his shot, nodding distractedly at the story Daniel is telling him, which surprisingly seems to involve an actual honey badger. It takes Max exactly seventeen minutes of remarkable self-control before he makes up some half-assed excuse to ditch Daniel and makes a beeline towards Charles across the dancefloor.
“Hey, come with me?” he pleads softly, before he disappears in the direction of the club’s bathroom. He doesn’t have to look over his shoulder to be hyperaware of the fact that Charles is following him, a cautious distance behind.
The second Charles locks the bathroom door behind them, Max is all over him. He kisses him hard, pressing his body against the closed door. Charles whimpers into the kiss, melting against him and parting his lips to lick into his mouth. His hands travel underneath Charles’ shirt, wanting to touch as much of him as he can, revelling in the quiet moan that escapes Charles’ lips at the touch of his hands. Max has been waiting for this all day, plagued by the constant presence of Charles in his peripheral vision, so close yet always out of reach.
“Fuck, I’ve missed you,” he confesses when they slow down briefly, parting for air. His voice sounds hoarse with unsuppressed want.
Charles chuckles against his lips.
“Well, hello to you too.”
He can’t suppress the greedy stuttering of his hips at the closeness of the body trapped against the door. He wants more of Charles, he wants to eradicate any distance between them. He can’t have enough.
Charles arches his back, body grinding against Max as his head falls back against the door, dodging Max’s attempt to resume the kiss. He grins.
“Behave, now,” he teases, and Max pulls back with a groan, breathing hard.
“I thought you wanted to fuck the champion,” he teases.
Charles trails his hand down the side of his face, eyes alight with affection.
“I do,” Charles says, leaning in for a soft peck. “But not here,” he grimaces. The club bathroom is lavish enough to make it not entirely off-putting. The dim lights are just enough that he can catch the obscene reflection of their intertwined bodies in the mirrored wall, but not bright enough that he can assess the general state of cleanliness of their surroundings. Which probably makes Charles the most sensible one between them.
They stare at each other for a moment, still close enough to breathe the same air. Charles’ fingers draw circles on the back of Max’s neck, playing with the tips of his hair.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
Max has lost count of all the times he’s been asked that today. He has still to come up with an answer that fully encompasses the feeling that threatens to burst inside of him—like he can’t contain all the happiness inside himself.
“Is it weird if I say I don’t know?”
Charles shakes his head, and a fond smile plays on his lips.
“I’ve seen what you said in the interview,” he says. He doesn’t need to tell Max which one. By now his words have blown up all over social media, sometimes juxtaposed over the image of him kneeling by his car like the tacky motivational posters that used to line up the karting facilities when he was a kid. “I am really proud of you.”
Charles’ words are barely a whisper, but they resonate in the empty bathroom, bouncing off the red-tiled walls and on the inside of Max’s ribcage. He knows this is not just about any interview, and it’s not just about his title either. For the first time in a long while, Max feels he really has something to be proud of.
He laces his arms around Charles’ waist, pulling him closer, and he lets his forehead settle in his shoulder, dissolving into the warmth of their embrace. It still feels almost unbelievable to finally be able to hold him so unreservedly.
“I really fucking missed you today,” he whispers, closing his eyes for a second.
“I have missed you too,” Charles says, the longing clear in his voice. "When I saw you after the race I just- I almost forgot where we were. I wanted to kiss you so bad.”
The same longing burns within Max’s veins. He can still feel the unfulfilling press of the tear-drenched balaclava against his lips, the tentative squeeze of Charles’ arms around him through the layers of his race suit, all the barriers that still stand between them.
Max has lost count of how many times he’s snuck into club bathrooms like this one—worse than this one—dragging faceless boys with him just so he could feel another human’s touch.
But this isn’t an anonymous fling. This is Charles, who has always been there for him, pushing him to do better, be braver, not asking for anything in return. Charles, who has brought him to meet his family. Charles, who is proud of him, and hopelessly romantic, and wants to hold hands in the paddock and kisses after a win.
Max has hidden this part of himself all his life, but he doesn’t want to anymore.
“I want that,” Max says. “I want it all.”
He sees Charles holding his breath and he can feel his ribcage expand, pushing into Max’s own.
“I am not asking for anything,” Max rushes to say. “We don’t have to- Not until you’re ready, not unless you want it too. All I’m saying is—”
Maybe one day, he had told Charles back in New York, when all of this seemed like an impossible mirage. If the right person is worth it.
“All I’m saying is you are my right person.”
He feels frighteningly open, like this. The rush of Charles’ exhale grazes his neck, making him shiver.
“Okay,” Charles says. He smiles, wider than Max has ever seen. “Okay, Max. I think- I think that would be nice. I want it too.”
The feeling that squeezes his lungs grows immeasurably at Charles’ words, at the sight of his giddy smile. Max can’t help but lean in again. He feels like he can’t breathe, as if his chest might actually burst if he doesn’t share the oxygen Charles breathes.
The kiss is heated from the start, and their teeth collide somewhat painfully in their haste to taste the inside of each other’s mouths. Charles’ tongue curls eagerly into his, begging to take control of the kiss. Max’s hands cup the sides of his face, angling him just right, his thumbs drawing gentle circles on his cheeks to counterpoint the roughness of the kiss.
Charles’ nose digs into his cheekbone, and Max can feel his long exhale before Charles breaks off the kiss, head tipped back and panting hard. He burrows his face in Charles’ neck, pushing the collar of his shirt aside to press wet kisses to the sliver of exposed skin on his shoulder.
Max realizes he’s getting hard just from the feeling of Charles’ skin under his lips, of Charles’ hands roaming up his back, under his shirt. He knows that Charles can feel it too, that he is getting hard too, but before Max can give in to the urge to grind against him, Charles draws back unexpectedly, pulling gently on Max’s hair to peel his face from his neck.
“I am still not going to fuck you in a bathroom,” he says, with a smug grin.
Max lets out a startled sound, part-laugh, part-groan.
“Do you wanna get out of here, then?” he whispers hotly, kissing Charles’ neck again.
Charles giggles when he licks at his ticklish spot, squirming under his arms. He shakes his head.
“I am not letting you ditch your own championship party either,” Charles says, attempting to pull on his most serious face. It’s stupidly endearing. “Enjoy yourself tonight. We’ll have plenty of time to celebrate later.”
Charles’ face contorts in what must be the world's most ridiculous attempt at a sexy wink, and Max’s heart skips a beat inside his chest.
“You better stock up on the Red Bull, Max Verstappen. I don’t intend to let you leave the bed until it’s time for the pressers on Thursday.”
-
They say goodbye to the Sunday night parties with a proper bang.
The motorhome park seems almost unrecognizable, as all the campers have been moved back to open a wide circle that slowly starts filling up to look like a dancefloor. There are rows of string lights hanging from the motorhomes, and a proper sound system complete with a mix table where Joe-the-McLaren-mechanic is proving his skills as an amateur DJ. The whole thing seems to be powered by a sketchy rigging of the public lighting cables, thanks to the combined efforts of the top engineers in the paddock. Max is surprised they haven’t sent half of Albert Park into blackout yet, but let it never be said again that F1 teams cannot work together towards a common goal.
Word of the party had spread quickly through the garages during the post-race festivities, so Max is not surprised that half the paddock showed up. (He might even swear he saw Christian get roped into helping Seb with the grill, but he had immediately fled in the opposite direction.)
Max and Daniel laugh at the matching expressions of incredulity in Lando and Alex’s faces as they take in the scene. George walks a few steps ahead of them, marching determinedly towards the rows of tables lined up with liquor bottles and plastic cups that make up the improvised bar.
“So, you’re telling me this has been going on all season and you never invited us?” asks Lando, half-stunned, half-resentful. “Great friends, you are.”
“Well, this is usually a motorhome-only event,” Daniel replies, though that’s not entirely true. “Some things have to be earned, little Lando.”
“Just admit you are dickheads and have been hiding this from us.”
“I think the term you are looking for is gatekeeping,” George inputs, craning his neck to join the conversation.
Out of the corner of his eye, Max can see Charles dragging Pierre through the premises, and if the Frenchman’s astonished expression is anything to go by, Max can bet that they’re having a very similar discussion right this moment.
He lifts his arm in a shy wave, unsure if Charles can even see him across the party. But Charles does see him and waves back, mouthing something Max can’t possibly understand from this distance. He grins anyway, and Charles seems sufficiently pleased by it before turning around and promptly crashing headfirst into a golf-cart someone stole from the paddock.
A sigh escapes Max’s lips. “What a dork,” he murmurs fondly.
Daniel snickers, startling Max out of his trance. He had forgotten the others were there.
“You two are so not subtle,” Daniel whispers between his teeth, and Max blushes, caught off guard.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, lowering his voice so none of the others can hear him. In retrospect, that doesn’t really help him sell his lie.
Charles has apparently recovered from the accident with no more injury than a slight dent in his dignity, and Max’s fondness increases tenfold as he watches him adjust his shirt with a confused look on his face. Daniel gives him a knowing grin.
“Don’t worry, Maxy. I don’t want to know the details,” Daniel says, his voice changing from joking to uncharacteristically earnest. “I am just glad to see you happy.”
Max smiles at the heartfelt moment, but he doesn’t get a chance to say anything back, because once they catch up with the others at the drinks tables, they’re immediately assaulted with questions.
“What is this?” asks George, holding an unopened bottle of the illegal-Finnish-drink.
“Is it true that Martin Garrix is performing here tonight?” asks Alex, his eyes comically large. It’s the same rumour Max has heard making rounds all evening, which he knows is not true, but he won’t be the one to tell Alex. He’s also pretty sure Daniel was the one who started the rumour to convince some girls he’d just met to come to the party.
George examines the label of the bottle with his brow furrowed in concentration, as if it contains the most important race data and not some indecipherable Finnish gibberish. “Is it any good?”
“Try it, man,” Max prompts him. “It’s just like gin.” Which is not really a lie, if only gin tasted like toothpaste and ethanol combined.
They all help themselves to their drinks of choice (‘There’s No Milk I Am Afraid,’ Daniel apologizes to Lando, earning him an elbow jab in the ribs) and settle around one of the dozen picnic tables nearby, sliding into the long benches.
It’s still a little disconcerting to see so many different people in the setting that has become the off-track highlight of Max’s race weeks, but the joyous atmosphere provides a new sense of freedom, the pressure of the racing season finally gone.
“I want to get a motorhome next year,” Lando declares.
“I don’t think you’re gonna like it here,” Daniel says, visibly panicked. He waves his hands in the air emphatically, as if that will somehow help him make his point. “It’s, like, so cramped. You have no privacy, there are mosquitoes everywhere, and the Wi-Fi sucks.”
“I can live with that,” Lando says with narrowed eyes, seemingly undeterred. Max is pretty sure Lando enjoys riling his teammate up just as much as the other does.
“You’d have to put up with Daniel, like, twenty-four-seven,” Max points out in support of Daniel’s cause. Maybe he’s a little guilty of gatekeeping, too.
Lando grimaces in dismay. “Yeah, no. You know what, I think I’m good.”
Charles and Pierre join them soon after, and they jostle on the benches trying to squeeze everyone around the table. Alex leaves a gap open next to Max (a little too conspicuous, if you ask him) which Charles promptly takes.
“This has to be the best Sunday night party ever,” Charles declares gleefully. Max can feel his body thrumming with excitement, pressing hot against his side. His own interest in the party suddenly wanes, and he would gladly skip it altogether if only he could only persuade Charles to join him in his conveniently nearby motorhome.
“Wait, how does Charles know about the parties?” complains Lando. “He doesn’t have a motorhome either.”
They all laugh at Lando’s disgruntled mutterings, and the laughter never stops flowing as they sit together reminiscing about the racing season and slowly getting drunk on the post-season euphoria and cheap booze.
“I am going to get us another round,” Charles announces when all their glasses are empty and the world seems a little fuzzier than before. He gets up from the bench, and Max instantly misses his warmth. Charles leans over and leaves a small peck on his lips before disappearing towards the makeshift bar.
Max doesn’t even notice something’s wrong until Pierre’s drawn-out voice rings a little too loud in the sobering silence.
“Excuse me, what just happened?”
“No way.”
“Did Charles just kiss you?” Lando asks bluntly.
“Uh…” Max frowns at the sight of all the faces staring at him in disbelief, and panic starts quickly rising in his chest. The unthinking gesture had felt so simple, so familiar, that he didn’t even realize. Desperately, his gaze follows the path Charles has just disappeared into, only to see him staring back at him from a safe distance with the most devious grin. The sly little demon.
He lets out a startled laugh and relief floods in his chest. So this is it.
“Yeah,” he shrugs. “We- hum-” His heart pounds wildly in his chest as he tries to find the words to explain to his friends what Charles means to him without sounding like a complete lovesick fool. “We kiss sometimes.”
The music sounds too loud for a moment as the table falls deafeningly quiet. Then everyone speaks at the same time.
“You what?”
“Since when?”
“So you guys are like… dating?”
“Fucking finally, Maxy!” Daniel beams.
Alex is the only one who remains silent. He throws Max a knowing smile, confirming his suspicion that he’s been the one helping Charles sneak into the Red Bull premises all along.
“So does this mean we can stop pretending we do not see your motorhome shaking while you two are in there?” asks Daniel. Lando snorts and Pierre emits a pained grunt, covering his ears in distress.
“I- what?” Max sputters. He glares at the sight of Daniel’s trademark grin. “No, it doesn’t.”
“You gotta get one with better suspension, mate,” Daniel says, clearly all too happy to drag Max’s mortification out for a little longer. “It must be so bumpy in there. Like, last week I woke up to piss in the middle of the night and I swear I saw a sweaty palm sliding down the fogged window. It was kind of hot, actually. No iceberg would stand a chance against that, right?” he nudges Lando’s side with a wink.
Lando just stares back, unimpressed.
“You know, like in Titanic?” Daniel presses on, his grin faltering at the puzzled look on Lando’s face. “You’ve never seen Titanic?”
“Is that the one with the ship?”
“Is it the-?” Daniel stammers, dumbfounded. “Yes, it’s the one with the freaking ship! You seriously haven’t seen it?”
“To be fair, I don’t think any of us were even born when Titanic came out,” Max says with a shrug. Of course, he has seen the movie, but he’s mostly glad he’s no longer the focus of the conversation.
“I was!” Alex says. “But I was like, two years old.”
“You’re joking,” Daniel says slowly. His eyes bulge out of their sockets with a fairly belated realization. “Oh my God! You’re all kids!”
Charles returns at that moment with a tray full of Jäger shots and a grinning Sebastian Vettel in tow.
The table shakes with a chorus of ‘Hey, Seb!’ as Charles sets the tray on the table. He slides back into his seat next to Max, letting his arm linger around his shoulders. Pierre immediately downs one of the shots.
“Hi, guys. I come bearing gifts,” Seb says, placing a plate full of hot dogs on the table. “What did I miss?”
“Charles and Max are dating!” George announces.
“How come you never invite us to these parties?” Lando asks, accusingly.
“I just found out I’m surrounded by kids,” Daniel groans, sounding pained.
“Ah,” Seb laughs, ignoring the others and clamping one hand down on Daniel’s shoulder. “Welcome to my world. At least you’re still their mental age.”
Charles slips his hand under the table and squeezes Max’s palm. “All good?” he asks him in a lowered voice.
“Yeah,” Max whispers back with a grin. They shift their heads closer together, talking in hushed tones. “You are a real menace, did you know that?”
“I know,” Charles smiles coquettishly. “You tell me that a lot.” He pauses for a moment and bites his lower lip hesitantly. “You’re not mad, are you?”
Max shakes his head.
If he’s honest, he’d rather have it like this—no planned announcements or awkward tête-à-têtes; no grand gestures or tacky, coordinated posts on social media for the sake of the public. Max has already made enough public statements to last a lifetime.
“I’m not mad.” He leans closer to Charles, closing his eyes as he lets their foreheads rest together. “I’m really, really happy.”
Pierre throws a piece of bun in their direction, hitting Max in the head.
“Disgusting,” Lando wrinkles his nose with a fond grin, which unfortunately lets Max get a good look at the half-chewed hotdog in the Brit’s mouth. “We are eating here.”
Charles chuckles, his cheeks reddening in mild embarrassment, and the sight makes Max want to hold him in his arms and never let go.
So no, Max thinks, they don’t need any announcements. All he wants is this—to be able to kiss his boyfriend in front of their idiot friends, and endure all their boyish jokes and affectionate smiles, as they let themselves love without restraints.
“I think we should make a toast, no?” Seb interjects, passing around the remaining shot glasses.
Everyone raises their shots in the air, their enthusiastic movements causing a good portion of the alcohol to spill all over the table and their hands.
“Here is to the end of the season…” toasts Seb to the sound of approving cheers.
He winks at Max.
“…and to auspicious new beginnings.”
“Cheers to whatever that means,” Lando snorts, and they all down their shots.
The Jägermeister burns its way down Max’s throat, settling in his stomach with a pleasant warmth. He’d take it over the Finnish drink any day. He catches Charles grimace at the taste and turn to Seb with his mouth curled in disgust. “Mate, how can you like this?”
On the dancefloor, Joe-the-newly-appointed-McLaren-DJ announces a new song—an old favourite, he says—making all the members of the motorhome club jump to their feet at the sound of the first beats.
“What is going on?” asks George, confused.
“You’ve got to see this, mate,” Daniel tells him.
“You will never be the same afterwards,” Seb confirms.
“Come on, let’s go,” Charles shouts excitedly, already pulling Max towards the crowd.
“Wait, I know this song,” he hears Alex say, following close behind.
“Is that the Macarena?”
Max holds onto Charles’ hand, lacing their fingers together as he’s dragged onto the makeshift dancefloor. Charles’ palm is warm and sticky with spilt alcohol, but Max doesn’t mind it. In fact, he wishes he could freeze this moment in time and hold onto it forever.
Charles looks at him over his shoulder, laughing with his face wide open. His love wide open.
The moment may be fleeting, but some things do last forever. As for the rest, Max knows he can always return to this. At least, every other Sunday.