Work Text:
2019
“What the fuck is his problem?”
Pierre frowns, brows knitting together. “What?”
Charles huffs. He slurps the rest of his drink until only air comes up from the straw, ice clinking at the bottom of his glass. He sneaks another glance at the other side of the room, anger starting to creep up his spine when he sees that nothing has changed.
Through gritted teeth, he explains, “Max keeps staring at me.”
It’s bad enough that Pierre convinced Charles to tag along to the Red Bull afterparty. But ever since he walked in, Max hasn’t stopped looking at him. He doesn’t even have the decency to dart his eyes away when Charles meets his eyes. He just keeps staring. Like a fucking creep. Like he didn’t just hours ago push Charles off the track in a dirty, illegal, unfair move and steal his first win.
“Maybe he just wants to talk to you,” Pierre suggests, leaning forward. They got bottle service, so he grabs the Don Julio from the table and mixes Charles another drink.
Charles fixes him with a glare, but he takes the drink Pierre made for him, stabs his straw into it, and finishes it in one go. Pierre rolls his eyes. Charles lost count of his drinks about three drinks ago.
“What could we possibly have to talk about?”
Pierre sinks into his seat, looking bored. “Maybe he wants to apologize?”
Charles kicks Pierre under the table.
“Oh, come on. Today wasn’t your last chance at a win, and it’s not the first win he’s taken from you.”
“Thanks,” Charles says, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “I really needed that reminder.”
“Just go and talk to him,” Pierre sighs, exasperated, “see what he wants.”
“No way.”
“Please consider it?”
Charles blinks, coming to a realization. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”
Pierre looks caught. He opens his mouth, then his eyes wander. “Oh, would you look at that?”
Charles follows his gaze. His blood goes cold but adrenaline pumps through him. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up straight. His eyes bulge. He whips his head back to Pierre, hisses, “Pierre—”
But Pierre is already gone, and Max is already sliding into his seat, right next to Charles. Much too close to Charles. He and Pierre stole a half-circle booth in the corner of the club, far enough from the rest of the party that they wouldn’t be disturbed. The point was to be antisocial, Charles thinks, but then he spots Pierre by the bar, already chatting up a girl in a black dress, looking happier than he has all night.
“Hi,” Max says, loud enough to be heard over the booming music of the club.
Charles doesn’t respond, doesn’t make eye contact either. Instead, he grabs the bottle of tequila and mixes himself a new drink, half-liquor and half-club soda, only spilling a little bit.
“You’re drinking tequila?” Max asks, not deterred.
Charles huffs out a sigh, then sips from his drink. He finally turns his head to look at Max. “What do you want?”
“I just—” Max is pouting, eyes wide and innocent. It’s infuriating. “I wanted to say hi.”
Glowering, Charles clenches his teeth and greets, “Hello, Max.”
And Max—
Smiles. Grins, more like it. Effervescent. Incandescent. His perfect white teeth all in a row. His cheeks are flushed, his hair is loose, falling over his brow. His white shirt is oversized; the collar dips just low enough that Charles can see his clavicle, sweat glistening. Lower: his jeans are tight over his thighs, so tight that Charles can see the outline of his wallet, his phone, and his—
Charles’ belly feels hot. He lifts his gaze.
“Hi, Charles,” he says happily, and Charles watches the way his mouth curls over his name. He bites his lip, pink and plump. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Charles tears his eyes away from Max’s mouth. How embarrassing. Cheeks burning, he looks to the side then slurps more of his drink. “I’m not.”
“Why not?” Max asks, and Charles only now realizes how close Max is. Closer than he was when he first invaded Charles’ booth. Their thighs are touching, and so are their arms. And Max—smells nice, Charles realizes. Under the sour sweaty aroma of the club is a faint woody undercurrent. Sandalwood, amber. God, Charles must be drunker than he thought. He wants to scoot away and recover whatever dregs of personal space, and probably dignity too, that he can, but he doesn’t.
“Are you serious?” Charles asks.
Max tilts his head to the side, still pouting. Charles hates how—cute he looks. He looks, Charles realizes with horror, like a baby cat.
“The—the race,” Charles says, embarrassed at how whiny his voice comes out. “The win you stole from me.”
Max frowns. “I didn’t steal anything. It was racing. I would have overtaken you later, if I hadn’t done it there. I was—”
“If you say faster,” Charles spits, “I will leave right now. It was illegal and you know it.”
Max’s jaw drops, his cheeks pink, and Charles can’t help but revel in catching him off guard. The lights overhead are dim, and fake smoke fills the dance floor, bodies cutting through the haze, but neon laser lights flash all throughout the club—even to the VIP section, where they’re seated. For a moment, they happen to shine right over their booth, an ultraviolet blaze illuminating Max’s face, the warm sheen of him, the ridge of his nose, the butterfly blue of his eyes. Charles hadn’t noticed Max had a mole on his upper lip.
When did he get so close?
“You know, it’s not— If you’d watched the replay, you would see that the move was legal. I got to the corner first, braked later, and you stayed wide. You saw me coming. Classic late-apex, full-lock. It is not my fault that—”
Max keeps going, hand motions and all, but Charles tunes him out.
Really, Max hasn’t changed at all, since they were kids. He’s stubborn, annoying, and utterly unlikable. He can never admit he was in the wrong. He thinks he’s like a fucking god or something. Thinks he can just—swoop into Charles’ booth and ruin his already shitty night. Thinks he can just—push Charles off the track and get away with it unpunished. And he was unpunished, which is the worst part of it. He’s everyone’s fucking favorite, everyone’s future world champion. He hasn’t changed at all. He still has that unwavering confidence in him—not completely unfounded, but completely over the top.
He’s still talking, even now, and Charles thinks, absurdly, back that time when they were little, in karting, and they both got pulled to the side by the steward before the race, because in the last three races, they got into incidents. Max just kept going on and on, seemingly to no end, about how it was all Charles’ fault. Back then, Max’s hair was cropped so short it looked almost shaved, his cheeks were so chubby, and he had braces. Now, though, Max’s hair is this lovely shade of brown, dirty blond, in a certain light, and his face has finally grown into his nose, and his teeth are frighteningly straight. He’s lean like all F1 drivers are, but his biceps—Charles can see strength in them. He still has a blotchy complexion, as well as acne, irritated pimples dotting his neck. And his neck: the way the ridges of his throat bob when he swallows, when he speaks. And when he speaks: the way his mouth curves, his tongue pressing against the backs of his teeth. He lisps, still. He hasn’t changed at all.
“Oh, will you just—”
Shut up, Charles means to say, but instead, he plummets forward, and frankly attacks Max’s mouth with his own. A bloom of pain rings through his own mouth when their teeth clash and their noses bump.
Charles recoils.
He just—
Max looked—awed. His lips stay parted. He’s wide-eyed. He’s gorgeous.
Oh god.
Charles just—
“Ineedtogo,” he blurts, feeling a little like he’s going to throw up. Without an ounce of grace, he slides and stumbles out of the booth, tripping over air, slamming into multiple bodies, and almost slipping on a spilled drink as he flees over to the bar.
“Pierre,” Charles hisses, tugging on Pierre’s shirt, violent enough that he might rip the fabric. Pierre’s head whips to the side and he bats Charles’ hand away. The girl he was talking to glares at the two of them. Pierre looks furious. “Pierre. We have to go.”
Pierre blinks, then looks over at their old booth. At Max, who’s looking at them. Jaw still hanging open, face still flushed. Nausea rises up Charles’ chest.
“Oh, Charles. What the hell did you do?”
Something I’m never going to do again, Charles thinks, before he bends forward and throws up all over Pierre’s shoes.
2020
“Where—where is everyone?”
From what little Charles can see of Max’s apartment—there’s, like, no one here. Literally no one here.
“Um,” Max says, looking just as shocked as Charles feels. He doesn’t have a mask on, not like Charles does—because it’s his home, Charles reminds himself—so Charles can see every inch of surprise on his face. He keeps one hand on the doorknob. “I canceled the party. Er. Too many people had COVID or were exposed. Did you—did you not get my text?”
“I—” Charles quickly fishes his phone out from his back pocket, quickly scrolling through his notifs, and there it is, Max’s text in the WhatsApp group chat. It’s from this morning, nestled between all his other missed texts, and succinctly says that the end-of-year-2020-grid-party’s been cancelled. “Shit, sorry. I wasn’t checking my phone,” he says, face hot, biting his lip. He pockets his phone, then readjusts his mask, not knowing what to do with his hands. “I should have.”
“Yeah,” Max says, awkwardly clearing his throat. He’s wearing a gray PUMA workout shirt and running shorts that fall to just above his knees. Charles, in his distressed grey skinny jeans and flower-printed shirt, feels overdressed.
“I will go,” Charles says, but he makes no effort to move. He runs a sweaty palm along his jeans.
“I mean—” Max blurts, hurried. He cracks the door open a little wider. “If you don’t have anything to do. I have alcohol. And FIFA.” A beat too late, he adds, “Since you’re already here.”
For some reason, Charles nods, then steps into the apartment.
Max sits him down on the couch, tells him he can take off his mask. I really don’t care, he says. It’s probably the best time of the year to get COVID. Charles doesn’t really care either, but when he takes his mask off and lets it sit on the coffee table, he feels oddly naked. He plays with his hands in his lap, unsure if this was the right decision. It’s not like he and Max are friends. They only ever see each other or talk during race weekends, but it’s not like those conversations go any further than great race, mate or nice weather! He doesn’t know how to talk to Max. Doesn’t know how to be around him, especially not in a one-on-one situation like this.
Coming out from the kitchen with two beers, Max asks, “You really didn’t see my text?”
Charles shakes his head, embarrassed. “I was out all day. I didn’t have time to check my phone.” And it’s not that much of a lie. He spent the morning playing tennis with his brothers, then he got a haircut from his mom, and then he fucked around on a Twitch stream with George, Alex, and Lando, whom he thought were all going to be here tonight. The whole grid was invited but it was clear that only a small fraction of them would attend, likely the ones around their age. George and Alex had been the ones to plan it, Charles remembers, but Max’s place was the biggest, so they got him to agree to host.
Max hands Charles a beer. It’s ice-cold to the touch, but their knuckles brush, and Max’s hand is warm. “And yet you made time to come here,” Max observes.
“Well,” Charles says. He runs his thumb along the lip of the can, holds it in his lap. “I thought it would be nice to see everyone.”
Max’s face splits with a gentle smile. He sounds sincere when he says, “I’m happy you’re here. It’s very lonely now that the season is over.”
“We’re in a pandemic,” Charles laughs, uselessly, then he feels self-conscious at bringing it up. COVID is a bit of a mood killer. The fourth wall you’re never supposed to address.
Max snorts, clinks his beer can with Charles’, and says, “That we are.”
And it’s awkward, for sure. Max boots up his XBox, and they try to make some small talk. How have you been? How are your brothers? How is your sister? But each topic falls flat after a few back-and-forths.
It gets less awkward once they’re both at least three beers in.
They give up after one game of FIFA. Charles gives up, in reality. Max is way, way too good, and Charles is a little afraid to ask how many hours he’s invested into this game. They switch to Rocket League, and it’s a bit more evenly matched, except Max still has the upper edge. They play again, again, and again, until they’re both drunk and loose-limbed, and it becomes less about winning in-game, and more about distracting each other in real life. Shoving at each other whenever an important play is to be made and trying to knock the controllers out of each other’s hands.
Max wins the tenth round. Six-four, in his favor. He throws his controller to the other side of the sofa, pumps his fist up, and cheers. Charles—looks at him.
He looks at the stubble on Max’s jaw that wasn’t there last year. Looks at the pink sheen on his cheeks, the blue-green of his irises, and how his lashes are clumped and long. At the way his thighs are spread, at the protruding veins running up his arm, at the bulge of his biceps.
The mole on his upper lip that Charles hadn’t noticed in all the years they’d known each other, until—
Until—
Charles swallows.
Back then, they had been just like they are now: a little drunk, and much too close. The difference is, back then, they were in a club. They were in public. And Charles was furious. He is not so furious now, anymore. His two race wins have nothing on Max’s ten, but still, they help.
Max notices he’s been staring. He quiets down and asks, “What is it?”
Charles licks his lips. He shakes his head. “I was just—thinking.”
Max’s brows furrow curiously. “About?”
That time I kissed you to shut you up, then ran away and threw on Pierre’s shoes. We didn’t talk about it. We haven’t talked about it. Probably, we should never talk about it. You don’t need to know about how I didn’t know I liked men until that night. You don’t need to know that, apparently, you’re exactly my type, when it comes to men. You don’t need to know any of that because it doesn’t mean anything. It’s all physical. I find you attractive, yes, but that’s as far as it goes. Sure, you aren’t as bad as I once thought you were. You’re nicer than I thought you were. Kinder. You’re still annoying, and you still act like you think you’re better than everyone else, but you’re not completely unbearable. And I’m having fun. You’re fun, and that has nothing to do with this—physical attraction. Your personality has nothing to do with how I find you hot.
And you probably don’t even—
You’re straight. I know you are. You’ve had girlfriends. So of course you don’t. Of course you wouldn’t.
Oh god. Charles stops that train of thought right in his tracks.
He throws his face into his hands and lets out a little noise. “Nothing, he moans into his palms, shaking his head.
But then Max’s hands are circling around Charles’ wrists, prying them away from his face. He laughs but doesn’t say anything. He keeps holding Charles’ wrists, a thumb pressed to each of his pulse points, trapping his heart, and looks at him. Only looks.
Charles swallows, feeling flayed alive. Exposed. The thing about Max is that— When he looks at you, he really looks. He looks closely, pays attention, and it’s like—he’s seeing past every wall and every facade and every persona you try to put up to mask whatever’s underneath. You try to hide, but it won’t work. He’ll find things about you that you don’t even know about yourself. What do you see? Charles thinks. I want to know. I want to know what you think about me. I want to know everything.
Max’s hands are hot around Charles’ wrists. The stupid Rocket League music keeps playing from the TV. The lights in Max’s living room are dim. His windows face the sea. Monaco is quiet tonight. Max smells like beer, but so does Charles, probably.
“What are you thinking about?” Charles wonders. It takes him a long time to realize he said it out loud.
Max has this look on his face. His lips are slightly parted and his eyes, they keep wandering. It’s almost like he’s looking at Charles’ mouth, but Charles knows better.
“I like your shirt,” Max says, but he’s not looking at Charles’ shirt.
Charles’ heart is rabbiting in his chest, thumping in the back of his throat, sitting in his mouth. “Thank you,” he says.
“It looks good on you,” Max adds after a beat. And—there that look is again. Intensified. Charles can’t read it, still can’t understand what it means. But he thinks—it’s saying something, trying to communicate something that Max won’t.
When did their faces get so close?
Seconds pass. Too many of them. Charles feels like an idiot. He should say something, probably. But he can’t think of anything. What were they talking about? Charles’ shirt? He realizes that the moment has passed when Max drops his wrists, bites his bottom lip, then blurts, “Do you want snacks?”
Dismayed and disappointed, and confused—snacks?—Charles scratches the back of his neck and replies, “Sure.”
Max looks dismayed and disappointment as well, when he nods and stands. “Er, be right back,” he says, and as he trudges into the kitchen, Charles observes that the tips of ears are pink and so is the back of his neck.
Alone, he takes the moment to reflect.
He’s been at Max’s apartment for more than three hours now. Just him. Just the two of them. Charles thought tonight would be a party with all the drivers their age, but it wasn’t. Max was surprised when he saw him at the door, but invited him to stay.
Charles is having fun. And so is Max. They’ve been drinking.
Max has been making stupid jokes all night, trying to make Charles laugh. Charles—has been laughing. Not because the jokes were good or particularly funny, but because—he doesn’t know. Maybe it has to do with how happy Max gets, when people laugh at his jokes.
Max said he liked Charles’ shirt, but he wasn’t looking at Charles’ shirt.
He was—
He was looking at Charles’ lips. On second thought, Charles hadn’t been mistaken about that. He was. He definitely, definitely was. He looked disappointed, when Charles didn’t say anything and didn’t do anything.
That look he gave Charles—
Oh, he realizes. That—
That’s what that meant.
Max comes back from the kitchen soon enough, with a bag of tortilla chips and a bowl. He places the bag and the bowl down on the table, then sits down next to Charles, sinking into the little imprint he made on the sofa cushion.
Charles turns to look at him, and he thinks:
You wanted me to kiss you.
His heart thump-thump-thumps in his chest at the realization. I am here tonight. Only me, only you.
“So, another game—”
Charles dives forward and mashes his mouth with Max’s.
It can’t really be called a kiss, he thinks, because Max isn’t—he doesn’t move. Doesn’t kiss back. Only— Sits there. Frozen. Rooted to the couch. Charles pulls back, face on fire. Horror zings through his entire body when Max asks, his voice quiet and uncharacteristically uncertain:
“What did you do that for?”
“Um,” Charles says, wanting a little bit to cry, feeling like he might burst into flames any moment now. Why did he do that? What was he thinking? Max is—straight. Of course Max doesn’t, didn’t— Oh god. He needs to leave. Charles needs to— He needs to go.
“I just thought— I just thought you—” Charles shakes his head, puts his hands on the sofa and scrambles to his feet. “I’m sorry. I think I— I read this all wrong, I just—”
And then Max grabs him by the wrist, yanks him back down so that he’s sitting. Holds him there.
Charles opens his mouth to say something, another stuttered, incoherent, horrible apology, but then—
Max’s hand curls around his nape, bringing him closer. Their noses are almost brushing. Charles goes a little cross-eyed, looking at Max looking at him. Max is giving him that look. That same look. You want me to kiss you, Charles thinks. I didn’t get this wrong. You want me. You want this.
And so:
Heart pounding, he tries again. Softer, this time. Lets Max pull him in, until he is a single breath away from Max’s lips, and then he—
Kisses him, kisses him, kisses him. Until he’s laid on top of Max, hands finding Max’s ribs, knees around either side of Max’s thighs, his lovely thighs. Oh god. Oh god. Max is a good kisser, Charles is terrified to discover. His lips are soft and he’s so much gentler than Charles could’ve ever expected. Just a hint of teeth, a hint of tongue, beardburn on his chin.
Charles pulls back, because he’s forgotten how to breathe through his nose. He opens his eyes and sees Max smiling at him, feels Max’s hand stroking his hip, and—
“Oh,” Charles says, grinning also.
And Max is pushing him back down, and again—they’re kissing, kissing, kissing. Charles pulls away for another breath.
Max starts laughing, breathy and warm. His face is so pink, like roses. He is so beautiful. “Thank god,” Max mumbles, bringing a hand up to cup Charles’ cheek. His hand is so warm. He strokes Charles’ cheekbone. Charles’ breath stutters in his throat.
“What?” Charles asks, feeling wild and insane and—is this really happening? He can’t believe this. Can’t believe any of this.
“Nothing,” Max utters, his eyes so bright, his face so warm. His eye-crinkles, his smile-lines. All of him. “I am just very, very happy, right now.”
Charles’ heart feels too big for his body. It twists in his chest, thumps, throbs, stops, sings. Races.
“I am too,” he says, and then he swoops down for another kiss.
2021
“Congratulations, world champion.”
It’s almost 6 AM. The sun is starting to rise, but the celebrations aren’t ending—not even close. He and Max are on some boat that Red Bull chartered for the after-after-party. It’s the first time he’s seen Max all night, if you don’t count them greeting each other from different yachts across the marina a couple hours ago. He isn’t sure how he found himself on this yacht, but the moment he saw Max, in the center of the room, bodies on bodies as they all sang, we are the champions of the world, he shoved into the crowd and hugged Max tightly. They relocated away from the main floor, to a quieter space where they can actually hear each other without needing to scream over the music.
“Thank you,” Max says, sliding his hands around Charles’ waist.
Charles would be worried about people seeing them like this, all tucked into a corner of the superyacht deck, but everyone is so drunk, far drunker than either of them that he supposes it can’t be so bad.
“I was thinking,” he says. He’s been thinking about this, really, for a long time. Months, maybe. But it’s only now that he finally has the courage to say this. And maybe they shouldn’t have this talk now, not here and not when they’re both plastered, but Max looks less drunk than he did earlier in the night and Charles—if he doesn’t say this now, he isn’t sure if he’ll ever.
“Yes?” Max asks.
Charles takes a deep breath, then swallows. “I would—” Courage, Charles tells himself. It’s absurd, it’s stupid, it’s illogical, it’s unreasonable, but Max is probably the love of your love. Keep him. Have courage. He swallows again, then says, “I would like to date you.”
And Max’s face goes all open.
Charles bulldozes through. “I know—I know it will be hard, and I know—we will have to keep it a secret, but I—” His face feels so hot. He feels like he might combust. Everything he’s been holding in his chest is flammable, explosive. He feels like he’s hiding a supernova in his heart, ripe and blooming, in his sinew, in his marrow, in blood, in teeth, in flesh. All of him. Every part of him.
They’ve been sleeping together for almost a year now. Since that party that didn’t end up being a party last December. Since Charles kissed Max and Max kissed him back and then Charles spent the night, and they kissed each other hello in the morning and Max lent him clothes and made him breakfast. They are friends who sleep with each other, and before Max, Charles didn’t have experience with casual sex, but he knows that the number one rule is that you shouldn’t develop feelings for the friend you’re sleeping with. Yet, he did. He developed so many feelings. An embarrassing amount of feelings. And he tried; he tried so hard, to be casual, to get rid of these feelings, but—
He just couldn’t.
Fourteen year old Charles would be furious with him.
It’s just—Charles likes Max. Likes going over to his apartment and playing with his cats. Likes watching movies with him and waking up to him in the morning. Likes seeing him in the paddock and smirking to himself because they have a secret together, something that only the two of them share.
The morning after that first time, Max laughed at him, when Charles said he thought Max was straight. I thought—I mean, I have never kept it a secret. Besides, I thought you knew? Max said. Charles asked, Why did you think that? And Max looked bewildered and said, I mean, you kissed me?
“I haven’t been with anyone,” Charles reveals, “not since—not since last December, when we first, you know. And I— It is ridiculous, how much I like you.”
Max is so—
Charles has talked about it before, with Pierre, the only person he’s told about him and Max, and every time, Pierre makes a disgusted noise and tries to leave the room. It’s hard, keeping it inside.
It being: how cute Max is, when Charles says things like this.
Max looks younger than he has in years, looks struck, his eyes bug-wide and his lips parted, cheeks rosy. Charles likes him, wants him. He wants—
Max, in his stupid Red Bull polo and beige khakis. Max, who has just won a fucking world championship. Max, who has a vape between his fingers that’s poking at Charles’ hipbone.
Max, who Charles has known all his life.
“I want this to be a real thing.”
It will be hard. It will be so, so hard. But he thinks it might be worth it. He thinks—no, he knows—that he wants it. Something real.
After almost a minute, Charles thinks, he realizes that Max hasn’t said anything. He’s only been looking at Charles with that same shocked, open expression on his face. They’ve been jostled around by people dancing more times than Charles can count, but here they are. Here they still are, in the corner of the deck, in their own world.
“What do you think?” Charles asks, insecure. He just bared his heart out, and Max—
Hasn’t said a word.
“I think—” Max says, then he cuts off. He looks—upset, Charles is shocked to realize. He can’t even begin to wonder what he did wrong, because Max asks, “Haven’t we been dating this whole time?”
Charles—
Blinks. Heart stops. Blinks again, again, again. Rapid, like butterfly wings flapping.
What?
Charles manages not to ask what, but he doubts that the words that actually come out of his mouth are any better:
“Since… when?”
Max sputters out a noise, sounding like an old broken engine. He’s pouting and his face is wrinkled. “Since—my party, last year? The one that didn’t happen?”
Well, Charles thinks as his entire world tilts on its axis. Up is down and left is right.
They—
Oh, Charles thinks. They did spend New Year’s Eve together. In Max’s apartment. Max invited him over, and Charles was delighted that he had an excuse not to go out with Joris and their other friends. Just before midnight, Charles asked why Max didn’t go out partying instead and Max had snorted, rolled his eyes, said, I’d rather be here with you, and then kissed Charles right on the mouth as the clock struck midnight.
Valentine’s Day. Charles had nothing to do, no one to be with, so he took a shot in the dark, asked Max if he’d want to come over for dinner and stay the night, and Max said yes. Charles called his mother in the morning and asked her for one of her recipes and he spent the entire afternoon fussing over it and preparing dinner. He went to the store and bought the most expensive wine bottles he could find. Max had arrived with a gigantic bouquet of roses and Charles thought it was weird but—it made him happy. Very happy. He didn’t question it, and kissed Max at the door. They had a lovely night.
Once the season had started and it became clear that Max was going to fight for the title, and once it became clear that the SF-21 was complete horseshit and Charles had to be at Maranello every other weekend to help develop it with Carlos and the test drivers—life got busier. They weren’t able to spend as much time together as they had in the off-season, but whenever they had at least two free weeks between races, they’d make time for each other.
Oh, Charles thinks again. That recontextualizes a lot of things.
“Um,” he says. “Happy one year anniversary? Almost?”
Max is pouting. Frowning. His eyes—they look watery. He looks so upset, and Charles—oh god, he’s got it all wrong, he’s messed this all up, hasn’t he?
But then:
Beneath all that misery, that agony, there’s that look.
Maybe, Charles thinks, as he leans forward to catch Max’s lips, he can still make this right.
2022
“Are you serious? Oh my god.”
Max crosses his arms over his chest. “I am just saying.”
Charles huffs, grits his teeth, and tries his hardest not to stomp his foot. “We had dinner. With his wife. And his children. Together. We went together.”
Max throws his hands up in the air. “Okay, and?”
“And I think that his wife and children being there is enough that you shouldn’t be mad!”
Max frowns and looks to the side. His body is tense, and knuckles are white. “I am not mad.”
Charles would beg to differ. However, instead of belaboring the point, he points out, “You are jealous, though.”
Max’s face goes tomato-red. “I am not jealous of Sebastian Vettel!”
About two hours ago, Charles got back from dinner with Sebastian, Hanna, and their kids. Seb announced his retirement one week ago, so Charles texted him this long, long message of gratitude, sadness, surprise, and well-wishes. Seb then called him, and they spoke for a long time. Max was there for most of it, as it had happened in Max’s apartment. Max was lounging around, feeding his cats, practicing on his home sim, as Charles strolled around the apartment, Seb’s voice tucked into his ear. They spoke for a couple hours, then they finished off the call by scheduling dinner at Seb’s house in Switzerland the next week. And Charles asked if he could invite Max.
They aren’t public with their relationship, but most of the grid know. It’s an open secret. If Seb’s wife would be there, Charles wanted Max to be there too.
“Then why are you so—” Charles struggles to find the right word in English. “I don’t know—weird?”
“I am not being weird!” Max shouts, his voice reverberating through the kitchen.
Yes, Charles wants to say, you are.
They drove back from dinner together, to their hotel. Charles kept on trying to talk during the ride, but Max would—all his responses were cold and terse and—it was clear that something was wrong. Thinking back, sure, maybe he and Seb spent the whole dinner talking to each other and no one else, and maybe Charles—fine, fine! Maybe he was a little giggly, a little over-the-top flirty, but that’s just what it’s like, being around Sebastian. He jokes and flirts and you flirt back, it’s what you do. It’s just what happens. Charles was teammates with him for two years, he’d know. Hanna hadn’t seemed to mind, had seemed used to it.
They got back to the hotel, changed out of their dress clothes, then Max broke open the mini-bar, went to the kitchen, and started pouring himself a drink.
This isn’t the first fight they’ve had, but it’s by far the silliest, Charles thinks.
So he crosses the distance over to Max, and Max pouts the whole time, staring at the floor, but doesn’t make to leave. Charles gets close enough that he can nudge a foot between Max’s, and Max finally looks up and meets his gaze.
“Max,” Charles says. “What is this about?”
And Max—blushes. Rosy-cheeked and stubborn. He looks embarrassed, avoids eye contact, a deep pout set on his cheeks. Charles blinks and—absurdly, for a moment, the world feels smaller, and Max appears like a small child again. Charles feels so, so, so fond. And it hurts, that fondness, it hurts, how much he likes Max, loves Max, how much he wants him happy. Every day, all of the time. The thing is: Max rarely gets upset about these sorts of things, relationship things. It was odd, at first. Max is the first man that Charles has been with, but Charles thinks that the difference is less of a gender difference, than a Max difference. Max is just as busy as him. For fuck’s sake, they have the same job. He and Max never fight over how much they see each other or how much time they both spend at work. They never fight over the usual things that Charles and all his ex-girlfriends fought about—the lack of time spent together, communication-style discrepancies, or differing levels of affection. He and Max—they’re always on the same page. When they do fight, when Max is upset over something Charles had done, he’ll be honest about it. He’ll be straight-forward. He’ll tell it like it is, they’ll talk about it, then they’ll fix it. It took Charles a while for him to—adapt. For him to see that—yeah, it works like that. To be honest and open about the things that hurt, no matter how awkward or embarrassing it is to say out loud.
Despite fighting for a championship, they work. Against all odds, they’re still together. They know how to keep things separate, how to keep their work lives and everything outside of it separate. They know how to be together. It’s insane, how they’ve done this, Charles thinks, how they’ve managed it.
The thing is, though, this seems to be different. Max never, ever gets jealous. Not when fans flirt with him, girls or guys. Doesn’t bat an eye. So, it’s odd, what is happening tonight. Charles would not have expected it from him.
“Remember—” Max starts, looking shy, looking insecure. He chews on his lip, before saying, “Remember a couple months ago, when we were in Greece?”
They spent a few days together in Folegandros together between Australia and Imola. They went during the off-season, and Folegandros isn’t a tourist-island, so it was peaceful and quiet and no one knew who they were. They swam in the ocean, drove around the island, and booked out a small room in a villa on the seaside. It was so lovely. It was so good.
“Yes?” Charles asks, not sure where Max is going with this.
“I don’t think you remember, but—” Max repies. “We were drinking by the beach. It was nighttime, and we were talking, and you said that you used to have a crush on Seb.”
“Oh!” Charles says, and then—he can’t help it. He starts laughing. Has to pull back from Max, clutches his stomach.
“It’s not funny!” Max says, petulant, face rosso corsa red.
“Oh,” Charles repeats, once he’s recovered. He still can’t stop smiling. Max is sword-hearted and lion-headed, bullish and prideful and stubborn. But kind and gentle. Shy about the strangest things. “It is,” he says, a grin splitting his whole face. He’s so happy that his face hurts. “You are so cute.”
Max glares, makes to move and storm away, but Charles stops him with a hand on his cheek, cupping it gently. Max stops, but looks at the ground.
“Hey,” Charles says, trying hard to stifle his laughter. He presses his lips together, then he takes a deep breath. He needs to be serious, as funny as this is, so that Max knows he’s serious. “I am with you. I am your boyfriend.”
That doesn’t help. Max scowls. “You didn’t even know we were dating until a year in,” he utters softly, still looking at the floor.
“Well—” Charles starts, flushing. “Okay, yes, that was my fault, and I am sorry about that. But Seb— Oh my god. You do not have to be worried about Sebastian. You and I weren’t even together when we were teammates.”
Max finally lifts his head. “But—”
“Max,” Charles says, firmly. “Do you remember that first time I kissed you?”
“Of course,” Max says.
Charles thumbs Max’s cheek, finds where the hollow of his dimple would be, if he were smiling. Charles likes it when Max smiles. Likes Max’s smile. Likes Max.
It’s about time that he comes out with it, Charles supposes. He reveals, “I didn’t know that I liked men, until that night.”
Max blinks, blinks, blinks. His face relaxes, his mouth parts, and his eyes widen. “Oh,” he says.
“So that was you,” Charles says. “Not Seb, not anyone else. It was you. Honestly, if I had a crush on anyone, back then, it was you. With Seb—I just thought he was cool. I had just started in Formula One, and he was my teammate. He was a world champion. Of course I liked him. Now—you would be stupid to think that I would want anyone but you. You’re my world champion now.”
And there it is: that look. Max always has the same look on his face when he wants Charles to kiss him.
“Of course, however,” Charles tacks on, after a stilted moment, “I will stop you from winning any more championships, but—”
“Charles,” Max says, sucking in a breath.
Charles laughs, feeling so fond and in love that his heart might burst. “Yeah, I know,” he says, then he kisses his stupid title rival of a boyfriend, square on the mouth.
2023
“Mmh. Good morning.”
It’s barely eight in the morning. Charles woke up before Max, as he usually does, then slinked off to the kitchen to cook them both breakfast. It’s not a big affair, in actuality. He’s just frying a few eggs and he boiled some water for oatmeal. They have to fly out to Las Vegas in a few hours, so they have to keep their weight in check for the weekend.
“Morning,” Max mumbles, nuzzling his cheek into the side of Charles’ neck. He hasn’t shaved yet, his beard rough against Charles’ skin. He’s so warm and sleepy, his hands slung around Charles’ waist, his chest to Charles’ back. He holds Charles so tight, and Charles tries his hardest to focus, to nudge the eggs in the pan, make sure they don’t burn. But Max smells so good. Like morning, like sun, like their linen sheets. Like home.
And then:
Max is kissing at his neck, at the side of his throat. Feather-light, gentle, teasing.
Ugh.
Charles abandons the eggs and turns the stovetop off. The last time Max did this, they ended up—well, they ended up on the breakfast counter, and the eggs burned, and the stove erupted in bright flames, and the fire alarm went off for the entire building, and then Charles had to hide in Max’s closet as the firefighters checked the apartment.
He pushes Max away, and Max pouts.
Charles leans against the counter, and fixes Max with a glare. Max positions himself in front of Charles, his knee between Charles’ thighs, and smiles.
“Hi, Charles.”
“Hello, Max.”
When Max puts his hands on Charles’ hips and lifts him up onto the breakfast counter, Charles doesn’t even stir. Max does this all the time. He merely rolls his eyes, throws his arms around Max’s neck, and lets Max wrap his arms around his waist.
“The cats are awake,” Charles mentions. Sassy, earlier, was clawing at his ankle. Later, Jimmy climbed up onto the counter and nosed at their little basket of fruits.
“Early birds,” Max says. “Did you—”
“Yes, I refilled their bowls,” Charles finishes. He winds his legs around Max’s back, pulling him closer. Max grins, pleased.
Two years together. Three years? They always disagree over when their anniversary is. Either date is so close together. December 2020, December 2021—what does it matter? Charles has always thought. They have known each other since they were little kids. They have known each other for all of the years that matter, so what does the exact day, the exact year matter?
Well, Lando had once said, I think it does actually matter that for an entire year Max had thought you two were dating, while you—
And then Carlos had covered Lando’s mouth with his hand.
But right now:
Max is looking at him in awe, all loose and open, all sweet and sleepy. Charles is wearing Max’s t-shirt, right now, the one with Max’s cats plastered all over it, because it was at the top of Max’s shirt drawer. Was it really that big of a deal that Charles fed his cats? That Charles knows when to feed them, what to feed them? That Charles knows where everything is, in Max’s kitchen, that Charles knows Max’s flat, inside and out?
Well. Well. Regardless. Max is looking at him. Giving him that look. And Charles might burst. He thinks back to all the years that they’ve known each other. Thinks back to the first time when he mistakenly came to Max’s canceled party, and he kissed Max, on a whim. That look, Charles thinks, that look. Not one part of it has changed. Even today, Max still looks at him like that, whenever he wants a kiss.
And who would Charles be, if not the person who gives it to him?
He swoops down and kisses Max. Chaste, sweet, and laughing. The insides of his knees are cold against the kitchen counter, but every part of him that is touching Max is so warm. He dives again, to kiss Max, and Max meets him in the middle, hands gripping his waist, pulling him closer, closer, closer—
And then Max pulls back, kisses at his throat, lightly, not deep enough to leave bruises, until he settles down, resting his mouth on Charles’ collarbone. They stay there, like that, for a long, long moment, and Charles—it would be an exaggeration to say that he’s never been happier. He can think of plenty of moments where he’s been happier. Monza, Australia, Abu Dhabi. But this, maybe—this comes close.
“Move in with me,” Max says. Quiet. Hoarse. Gravelly.
Charles’ heart stops. He feels—fuck, he feels like he might cry. Instead, he thinks about all the drawers in Max’s bedroom that are already dedicated to his clothes, thinks about the Yamaha digital piano that Max bought him for his birthday that they keep in Max’s apartment, thinks about the parking space that Max bought for him, in his building’s garage—and he mutters, “Idiot. I already live here.”
SECRET SANTA
Honest to god, Max dreads it every single year. When he found out that Lewis got out of it this year, he instantly thought, Why didn’t I do that?
But then they’re in Abu Dhabi, Max is looking at the golden snowflake wrapping, tearing it apart, and—
“This must be something to play, for sure,” he says, confident. “Ah, it must be FIFA, or something— It’s F1! Hahahaha. That’s uh—”
Oh my god, Max thinks, how did he keep this from me?
Be subtle.
He shows three-times Charles off to the camera, grinning. “That’s a nice one,” he says, trying to keep his heart stable. “I definitely know from who it is. That’s a nice one, Charles, you did well.”
He plucks out the red card at the back of the game case, rolls his eyes at the golden Cavallino Rampante, and scans through Charles’ handwriting. “Sounds very official. Formula One edition. For my biggest fan. Hahahahaha,” he laughs. What were the odds, that Charles, his boyfriend, got him for Secret Santa?
But then—his heart stops as he reads the card.
Below for my biggest fan is:
Don’t show this to the camera please.
INFINITE KISS CARD.
SHOW THIS TO ME AND I WILL KISS YOU, NO QUESTIONS ASKED :)
Max laughs again, cheeks hurting from how he’s smiling. “Yeah,” he breathes out, trying not to tear up, “that’s good.”