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never strangers at all

Summary:

It's just because Max had to go and bring it up. He knows it's not coming from the stupid video, his shoddy grasp on English as a kid who barely went to school. It's the memory of it all, of the times he and Max have collided over and over throughout their lives. What if Max wasn't there, keeping his world on its axis, and—

"You are acting fucking weird again," Max informs him.

or: it’s the 12th anniversary of the inchident. charles still can’t tell max he loves him.

Notes:

quick warning for recreational alcohol use.

title from nietzsche’s letters: “but what i would like to know is whether you feel just as i do — that we have never been strangers at all, not even for a moment.”

what happened at the race if you didn’t follow it: friday fp1, charles got his car stranded and had to quit early. saturday quali & sprint, max was first & charles second. sunday, lando got his first win, max second & charles third. :-)

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

“Hi,” Max says, unceremoniously, as he slips into Charles’s driver’s room. He has his suit folded down, hair speaking of coming straight from the car.

“Hi?” Charles frowns at him. He’s not wearing a shirt. Max is terrible at knocking.

“I wanted to see you,” Max says, slowly shutting the door. He looks down at where Charles is sitting on the floor like he expected him to be there. (He’s been down here probably thirty minutes, now, tracing the outline of the track on his pant leg, half-dissociated.)

Charles doesn’t want to ask how Max practice was. He doesn’t want anyone coming and being nice to him, when he’s been such a fucking idiot.

This should be good.

“You are not supposed to be here,” he says, grabbing the shirt he’d discarded when he gave up on getting dressed and just sank down. It’s so fucking humid, and everything is sticking to him. He’s tired of lying about liking Miami. “You’re going to get us in trouble. They’ll say I’m giving you secrets.”

“I don’t think it works like that. Andrea won’t tell, anyway.” So that’s who he conspired with. “Can I sit on the floor with you?”

Charles nods, and Max settles down next to him, so close their arms are brushing.

He hasn’t changed out of his fireproofs, and he smells disgusting, but it loosens up the fist in Charles’s chest. “I wanted to tell you that I’ll kill you if you let this ruin your weekend,” Max says.

He says the stupidest shit sometimes. Charles can’t help a startled laugh. “I’m not worried about it.”

“You were having a war flashback when I came in here,” Max says. It’s so easy to tell when he’s rolling his eyes.

Charles huffs. It’s easier not to look at him, so he looks at his knees. “I was practicing,” he says, even though it sounds stupid. It’s the truth. “In my head.”

“Right.” Max brushes his knuckles over Charles's arm, like he's testing if Charles will let him. “Did you watch the rest?”

“No.” It comes out petulant. He tweaked his neck during the spin, and he had to have Andrea work on it, and then he came in here to breathe and not be embarrassed or angry.

“Well. I spun out, too. So don’t feel special.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Max says, rubbing a little circle on Charles’s knee cap. It’s too tender for the flippant conversation, like he knows that Charles needs it underneath. “Fucked my whole lap.”

“Oh, no, not a lap.” Charles scrubs his hand over his eyes. “It does help a little.” He’s not proud of it.

“Testing the limit, hmm?” Max curls his hand around Charles’s neck, knocking their foreheads together. He can be so– tactile, gentle and sweet and– and irritating, and not supposed to be here. Irritating, and probably lept right out of his car and came here to comfort Charles in a way he’ll accept. “Okay?” he says, thumb tracing his nape. It feels really, really nice.

“Okay,” Charles says back, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He’s still reciting nineteen turns in his head, but the anxiety is simmering. “Are you really sure you’re allowed to be here?”

“It is probably not encouraged, but I’m not getting a grid penalty for it.” Max stands up, offering Charles a hand. “Come here?”

Charles lets Max pull him up, and he’s gathered in for a real hug, even if it’s a sweaty one. Charles hates how it takes him a moment to slide his own arms around Max, squeezing tight, letting him know not to let go. This whole nine months, he’s been letting Max lead the way with physical contact, but sometimes he gets too stiff and doesn’t reach back out, and he wants Max to know that he likes him being close.

It would be a good time to say it. Love you, thank you for this. But he can’t, because Max deserves for it to be special, after he’s waited so long. He’s been saying it since month three. For Charles, the words always stick in his mouth like honey.

“How’s the jet lag?” Max asks, fingers stroking over Charles's spine.

“You are pushing it. And it’s fine.” He grumbles it into Max’s chest, wishing he could climb inside. It isn’t fine. They made a mistake flying overnight. Charles couldn’t sleep, then slept all day Wednesday. It’s Friday, and he still hasn’t set himself right. He’s never felt this lethargic in the car before.

“You were up all night again.”

“You can fret about one thing only.” Charles pokes him in the hip, and Max makes an overdramatic noise.

“You can’t be mean to me on our anniversary.”

“The anniversary of me trying to kill you,” Charles points out. Some joke about maybe I should do it again dies on his lips, because Max doesn’t deserve it. Because he can’t say the other thing after it.

“It’s still ours,” Max says, making it worse. He doesn’t even know what he’s talking about when he says shit like that. He isn’t even trying. Charles loves him.

“I’ll beat you to celebrate,” he says instead. He lets himself sag against Max, just a little.

He can hear a smile in Max’s voice. “See that you do, Leclerc.”

He doesn’t say that he’d hoped Max wouldn’t remember. That he sort of doesn’t think it’s funny anymore. It’s still ours, Max had said.

**

He doesn’t beat Max in the sprint quali, or the sprint itself, but it’s still good.

The lack of practice doesn’t touch him. He didn’t ever really think it would. P2 is enough for a sprint. He can build on it for the race, and beat Max then.

When Daniel cruises in just two positions behind them, Max is radiant with joy. Charles has always thought he probably should be jealous of Dan, of the way Max loves him, looks at him like the sun. But when he looks back at everything Daniel gave Max, everything he made Max, it stops mattering. He wishes Daniel could be up there with them.

When he watches Max hug Daniel and make an awful attempt at spinning him around, he sees Max from twelve years ago. You are going to be so loved, he thinks, wishing he could transmute it back in time. Because Max didn’t know, and Charles had hated him instead.

The thing is, he knows why Max was so upset that day 12 years ago, and after every racing incident after that, why he stayed angry and lethal for years. He didn’t have anything else.

Charles is just– having funny thoughts, is all. The date is making their younger selves feel so close. When they’re sharing the podium, it feels like he’s both there and not there. Like he’s watching them, grown up, together. He wants to grab that 14-year-old Max’s face and say You have absolutely no idea what is about to happen. You’re going to be happy, I swear.

Max grips his elbow as they step off the podium, helping him down. Charles is thankful — he’s so distracted, he might have stumbled off the step.

“You would have had me, if you had a better start,” Max says. He’s smiling, because he likes competing with Charles. Likes seeing him succeed. He’s so good, at his core. “I am guessing practice is just for fun for you?”

Charles tries not to let his own smile seem tight, tries to let Max’s words penetrate the fog around his head. He squeezes Max’s hip, saying in his ear, “Guess so. I’ll see you in quali.”

He’s off Max by .14, right on his tail like he has been all weekend. It feels right, them almost side-by-side. It’s just– he chose the wrong weekend to fuck up his sleep schedule, because the sprint format is eating him for fucking breakfast. Max must notice it, too, because he’s made his usual whinging about the sprints twice as loud all day.

Charles is so tired he only just manages the post-race interviews and pictures, only giving Max a half-hug before he ducks back into the motorhome.

He dozes off in the car back to the hotel, tucked up against Max’s side. Max is reluctant and apologetic when he has to wake him up. He wants Charles to sleep and skip their dinner plans, but for some reason, Charles feels like it would be impossible without Max there. Like he needs to be near him.

“I’ll be fine,” he says, nipping Max’s palm where it’s stroking over his cheek, a last ditch attempt to charm Charles into acquiescing. He tries for honesty. “I don’t want you to go without me.”

Max doesn’t even quip about him being clingy, just smiles, a genuine one with his eyes crinkling up. “Alright, fine, but you’re not picking out my outfit.”

 

They take Daniel with them, and Charles mostly watches him and Max banter. It’s soothing, watching Max’s face as he nicks a fry off Daniel’s plate and tells some stupid joke.

Now that he’s sitting idle, Charles is uncomfortable in his skin, like it’s too tight. His eyes feel dry and he feels like the time since he got out of the car has passed too quickly. He needs to eat, so he focuses on that.

Max picks up on his quiet mood after a while, reaching under the table to link their fingers and squeezing. He raises an eyebrow, mouthing “Okay?”

Charles squeezes back, giving him a tiny nod, but he holds on an extra second. It helps more than it maybe should. When he lets go, he slips his phone out, texting Max under the table: just listening. you look nice.

Max reads it, failing to be discreet as he bites down a smile. Luckily Daniel pushes on with his story without noticing, or at least caring.

Max texts back: so that’s why u have been staring at me. blink sometimes?

Charles glares at him, and resists the urge to reply something about how he’s completely deranged for being with Max, who never lets him get away with anything. But he wants to make Max smile, not bicker with him, so he just sends a string of heart emojis and kissy faces. He could say it. It’s so close. Something like I just love you, stupid. If he was braver.

Max tucks his phone away, but he’s blushing. He reaches to squeeze Charles’s hand again.

When they get back to the hotel, Charles can’t dredge up the words he wanted to say earlier, but the dazed feeling persists. Like he’s one foot in the past. Like the invisible string he’s always known connects him to Max is palpable, like if he squinted, he could see it.

It’s just because Max had to go and bring it up. It’s still ours. He knows it’s not coming from the stupid video, his shoddy grasp on English as a kid who barely went to school. It’s the memory of it all, of the times he and Max have collided over and over throughout their lives. What if Max wasn’t there, keeping his world on its axis, and—

"You are acting fucking weird again,” Max informs him. Charles is suddenly aware that he’s been rifling through the closet, looking for absolutely nothing, for five minutes. His throat is tight.

“I– Yeah.” He turns back to face Max, empty handed. He is. He knows he is.

Max is sitting up in bed, looking up from his book to frown at Charles, reading glasses slipping down his nose. “Did you need something?”

He’s struggling to remember why he opened the closet in the first place. Only Max unpacks his clothes when they’re traveling. He rubs his thumb over the sleeve of a Red Bull hoodie he wouldn’t be caught dead in, inspecting it like he’s determining the thread count. “I wanted—” he rubs the back of his neck, feeling almost shy. “I am a bit cold.”

“There’s that black sweatshirt you like, to your right,” Max says carefully. He doesn’t ask why Charles can’t get his own, just watches him untangle the hoodie from the hanger and pull it on. It’s a bit better already, having a piece of Max, smelling like the weird lemon detergent he insists on using.

“Thank you,” he says belatedly, tugging the sleeves down.

“It looks good on you. Will you come and lay down with me?”

Charles slots in where he usually does while Max is reading, horizontally with his head on Max’s lap.

“You don’t have to talk to me about whatever it is,” Max says softly. “But I’m here. You can.”

“I think I am just– really, really tired.” He hates to brush it off when he has so much to say. But it’s all stupid, and doesn’t make sense. Sometimes he does this. Gets cyclical thoughts, gets too tired to stop them. It usually goes away. He wishes he could curl up in Max’s lap and stay there until he’s straightened out.

“Okay, baby. Tell me when you’re ready for bed.” Max goes back to reading, the two of them falling into an easy routine as Charles struggles at crosswords on his phone. “You know, they treated her very badly,” Max says after a few minutes.

“Hmm?” Charles cranes his neck to look at him.

Max holds up his book. Charles vaguely remembers it’s the same one he’d had on the plane, something with Greek mythology. “Medusa. It’s all very unfair. She wasn’t a monster,” he says.

“Tell me what happened to her.” Charles sets his phone aside, readjusting and closing his eyes.

Max cards his fingers through Charles’s hair as he talks. “Okay. Something— terrible happened to her. But instead of punish the god who did it, Athena cursed her, and then she became a monster, you know…”

Max tells him the whole story, reads him a couple lines. He’s a good storyteller, even when he struggles with an English word. It’s a sad story. It reminds him of something. He’s too tired to know what it is.

He’s a minute to sleep when Max bends to kiss the top of his head. “Come on, get under the covers,” he chides gently. Charles is so warm and heavy and he wants to stay here, but Max lifts up his knee, dislodging Charles from his lap.

Under the blankets, Max reaches out for him, pulling him in close by his waist.

“You’re okay,” he says, lips moving against Charles’s shoulder. Charles doesn’t know if he is, but. Max’s big hand is splayed over his stomach, and he’s so close. “If the jet lag is bad again, wake me up, yes? I don’t want you to be alone.”

“When I figure out how to get you to leave me alone, I will let you know,” he mumbles.

“I mean it. You were really out of it today. I want to help.” Max is talking too much, and Charles just wants to sleep, but he won’t let it go. “Charles.”

“Okay,” he says. “But if you punch me in your sleep, you are going to have to buy me something nice.”

It’s too easy to fall asleep right there. Charles is not that lucky.

It’s still dark outside when he wakes up with a stab of anxiety; he doesn’t want to check the time.

He’s rolled forward in his sleep, and Max is half on top of him now, pressing him down. It might be annoying, but it makes Charles feel— like someone really, really loves him. Enough that he’s tracking his movements even in his sleep, following him.

“I love you,” he murmurs, because Max can’t hear him. “I hope you know it. I think you know it.” He must. Max says sometimes that he makes him feel loved. That’s enough, right?

When they spent the last Christmas with Charles’s family, his mother said she’d never seen him this in love with anyone. If she can tell, Max can tell, surely. “I’ve never been in love with anyone before,” he told her. He didn’t know that before Max. Max, who was sleeping on the couch just a few feet away, in Charles’s childhood home.

Maman had watched Charles for a long moment after that, before saying, “Try not to protect your heart too much, baby. You are too young for that.”

His ex girlfriends had called him withholding. He had to look up the French word for it. It’s too accurate. He is trying so hard not to be withholding with Max. But he’s still coveting this one last thing.

“It’s good he is so comfortable here,” Maman had said, nodding at Max. “To fall asleep like that, hm?” She looked sad. “From what you told me, he doesn’t have a lot of love in his home. You must keep bringing him here.”

It made Charles sad, too. Max’s mother loves him, but being around her usually leaves Max quiet and drained. It's hard, the two of them referencing lives that had largely been lived apart. And then— they don’t talk about Jos often, but they don’t really have to, with his fingerprints all over Max’s habits and neuroses. God, Charles had seen him, after karting races. Sometimes, it had probably been his own fault, for pushing Max off or taking advantage of a mistake to take the win.

His fault. Fuck.

“Max.” It comes out unbidden. He can’t stop it. “Max? Max.” He reaches behind him, patting at Max’s back. He’d normally be more cautious, incase Max is having a nightmare and might want to bludgeon him, but. He’s probably been awake for awhile now. He was supposed to wake Max up if he couldn’t sleep.

“Mmff, what?” Max whines, batting at his hand. He rolls onto his back, so Charles can breathe. “Still can’t sleep?”

“No.” Charles sits up in bed, putting some space between him and Max. Max just follows, bumping their shoulders together.

“I’m awake,” he says, rubbing Charles’s thigh. There’s just enough moonlight coming in the window for Charles to see his concerned face. “Jet lag still?”

Charles doesn’t know how to properly transition. His thoughts are soupy.

“Did your dad hurt you that day?” he blurts out.

Face just a few inches from him, Max looks stricken. “What?”

“The– When I pushed you. In karting. You didn’t finish.” He can’t breathe, suddenly.

“Schatje,” Max says, sounding lost. He takes Charles’s wrist, like he can’t figure out where else to hold him. Rubs the bones, so gentle. “Where is this–”

Charles presses his forehead against Max’s shoulder, letting out a frustrated whine. “No, tell me.”

Max reaches up to stroke his hair, careful. “Okay, okay. No. He said you were an idiot and I was better than you anyway.”

“Oh.” Charles lets out a relieved puff of breath. He couldn’t stand it if everything started out with him hurting Max. If people were celebrating and remembering this stupid, funny moment that led to actual, awful consequences.

He’s always been fond of their past, the rivalry, the story. It’s their fabric. He can’t stand it becoming something rotten.

“I just. I’ve never thought about it before.”

“No. I was fine. Just angry and wet.” Max brushes his hair from his eyes, looking at him with all that Max Verstappen intensity. “And I didn’t think you were an idiot, either. I thought I’d have done the same thing.”

Charles laughs, even if it’s wet. “Okay.”

“I’m fine, yeah? I was fine then too.” Without asking, Max folds him into a hug. “Did you have a bad dream? Or what?” Charles shrugs against his chest. His sleep shirt is soft, and he’s so warm. “Can I say something?”

“I have never been able to stop you,” Charles mumbles.

Max answers by tucking his chin over Charles’s head, sighing deeply. “You can be very lost in the past sometimes,” he says simply.

“I know,” Charles says. He was stuck there, just a few minutes ago. Max is always pulling him back.

“It’s a good memory. I love it. Because you’re there. That’s it,” he says. It feels nice, the way Charles can feel his chest rumbling. “Are you alright?”

“I think so. I don’t know.” He swallows. “I think I feel crazy.”

“Okay, well. It’s fine if you’re crazy for a bit,” Max says, undeterred. “You’ve been awake for days. Are there more weird questions you want to ask?”

“No.” Charles is so tired and heavy. Maybe Max can hold him long enough to heal the hurt from their past. Maybe he can get some fucking sleep so he can stop being so melodramatic.

“Alright.” Max hums, like he does when he’s thinking. Charles feels it where he’s tucked up against his chest. “I could suck you off. It would probably help you sleep.” Only Max could shift gears that quickly, and sound so matter-of-fact about it.

Charles laughs, startled. “No, no, you need to rest.” But they’ve been too busy, and he’s been too tired, for anything like that since they got here. Even with his anxiety, it’s impossible not to react a little – his next breath is shaky.

Tentatively, Max slides a hand under the back of his shirt, tracing circles with his finger tips. His voice drops an octave. “I only need five minutes. Maybe less.”

Charles doesn’t say anything, but his breath hitches again, and Max is on him in a second.

He nudges Charles up. “Lay down.” His tone isn’t so much commanding as it is laser-focused. Far be it from Charles to interrupt Max Verstappen when he’s been given a task.

He lays back, and Max doesn’t hesitate, climbing down between his legs. He keeps perfect eye contact as he tugs Charles’s boxers off. He reaches up to link their fingers, squeezing. “I have you,” he murmurs. “You tell me if you’re feeling too weird or whatever, okay? I’ll stop.”

Charles squeezes back. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Max guides Charles’s hand to the back of his head. “I’ve got you. I’ll make you feel good.”

Like everything else, Max is ruthlessly efficient at this, and so good it’s insane. Figuring out how Charles likes everything has been a study for him, and he remembers every fucking detail.

When Charles squirms, Max wraps an arm around his thigh and holds him there, stronger than he looks. He’s not letting Charles get a second of relief, killing him and watching him with burning intensity the entire time. He’s not sure if the noises he’s making are human or what he’s saying.

It has to be less than five minutes. “Max, Max, merde,” he gasps, shoving at his shoulder.

Max pulls off, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “What, are you okay?”

“I’m just. I was gonna. I’m.” Charles can’t even think. His legs are trembling.

“Oh.” Max grins, relieved and then devilish. “In my mouth, then, come on.”

It takes all of two seconds for him to come down Max’s throat, digging his fingers into his shoulder so hard it must hurt. Max pries his hand off, linking their fingers instead. He pillows his head on Charles’s thigh, panting.

“Fuck. Oh my god.” Charles is pretty sure Max just sucked his brain out through his cock. He runs his fingers through Max’s hair, feeling almost dizzy. “You’re so good. Fuck, thank you.”

“Told you, didn’t I?” Max is smirking, but his eyes are soft.

“Yes. Yes, you did. You are so, so good.” He’s babbling again.

Max sighs happily. “You ready to sleep, then?”

“Do you need me to—” Charles cannot fathom finding the energy to return the favor, but he doesn’t like things being one sided.

Max shushes him. “No, no. We’re going to bed. Five minutes, I said.” He pulls Charles’s boxers back up, pressing a kiss to his hip bone.

Charles’s doesn’t have to be told twice. He’s vaguely aware of Max settling next to him, pulling him against his chest. There’s a kiss to the crown of his head, maybe a murmured pet name.

He sleeps through the night.

**

When Charles blinks awake in the morning, he’s still tucked up against Max’s chest. Max is never awake first, but he must be, because he’s petting Charles’s hair.

Charles doesn’t feel like his bones are being rubbed raw anymore, but one night’s rest isn’t enough to take all the weight off. He could stand to sleep for a solid 24 hours.

“‘s it time to get up?” he slurs. His eyes are already shutting again.

Max rolls onto his side, depositing Charles on the mattress. He lets out a tiny yelp, reaching out blindly to bat at Max.

“Sorry,” Max says, not sounding like he means it. Charles hears Max shuffling around and getting out of bed. “Go back to sleep, baby.”

He wants to ask Max where he’s going, but it’s far too easy to fall back asleep.

The next time he wakes up, he’s curled up around a pillow and Max is rubbing his back.

“You were talking about me in your sleep,” Max says, sounding smug about it.

“Mmm. I don’t remember what I was dreaming.” He rolls over, squinting up at Max. He’s sat on the edge of the bed, still in his boxers, but his hair is dripping like he just got out of the shower. “Did I sleep in?”

“A little. I filled up your stupid ice bath, so probably you should get up before it melts.”

Charles rolls so his head is on Max’s thigh. “Did you really? What’s the occasion?”

“You needed the sleep.” Max gives his hair a light tug. “Come on, up. There’s coffee too.”

Charles rolls onto his back and sits up, still groggy. He squeezes Max’s forearm, pulling him down for a quick kiss. “Thank you.”

Max presses back, squeezing the back of his neck. “I just want you to feel better.” He stands up, tugging Charles with him. “I need to get dressed, stop interrupting.”

 

Charles watches the stupid Inchident Video ten times while he waits for the timer for his ice bath to go off.

He mutes it when Max comes in to brush his teeth, glancing between the video and Max in real life. That was you and me, and now this is you and me. It’s the simplest thought, but maybe he never fully digested it before.

Max spits into the sink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “How do you feel about today?”

“Good,” Charles says, tipping his head back against the wall. “Except you’re going to be in my way.”

“Go around me, then. Are you freezing to death yet?”

“A bit.” It’s always the worst right when he gets in, and again around the fourth minute. “Keep distracting me, I’m almost done.”

Max sits down on the toilet seat, elbows braced on his knees. “I don’t know why you like this.” He’s got his brow furrowed, just like little Max in the video. “What? Why are you giving me that look?”

“I’m not–” The alarm goes off, silencing both of them.

Max grabs a towel, gesturing come here. When Charles steps out of the bath, Max wraps the towel around him, keeping his arms tight around his waist, nuzzling his neck. “Hi.”

Charles pulls the towel up around his shoulders. “I wasn’t giving you a look,” he mumbles, mostly pacified by having Max close.

“You were.” Max catches Charles’s sharp inhale. “Hey. Stop.” Max kisses his neck, so gentle. “You were. It’s– It’s the look like— You’re happy to see me. You don’t want me to go anywhere.”

He’s seen it in pictures, the way they look at each other. He’s always been told you can see exactly how he feels in his eyes, and it’s true, the way they soften for Max. I was thinking about how it’s been forever, and maybe it should be—

Max catches him hesitate. “Tell me why?”

Charles goes for a gamble, extricating himself from the towel and pulling Max in to kiss him. He presses every inexplicable feeling into it, fingers digging into Max’s jaw. “Later, I promise.”

Max, mostly distracted by Charles naked against him, just says, “Okay.”

While he gets dressed, he catches Max watching him. Huh, Charles thinks. That’s what he must have looked like earlier.

**

Max beside him almost makes him forget another missed victory. It’s impossible not to be happy for Lando, besides.

They were planning on going home in the morning, but they get wrangled into staying an extra night to enjoy the celebrations. Max keeps saying it’s okay if they don’t go, but Charles knows it’s important to him.

Anyway, the first four shots are a mistake. Four mistakes. Whatever. He’s trying to make himself fun, shake the lingering moodiness.

He wanders away from the group, sitting down at the bar to consider ordering another.

From here, he can see Max properly, the way the red and blue lights are dancing on his face. He and Lando are making a poor attempt at some American dance, and he’s laughing all the way up to his eyes. God, Charles fucking loves him.

When Pierre finds him, he’s starting to drown in his thoughts again. He has a screenshot of Max from the stupid video up on his phone, tracing it with his thumb. It’s saved amongst a blurry photo of him and Max at a karting race when they were five, and a few of their podiums together as kids.

“What are you doing?” Pierre asks, right in his ear over the music, making him jump.

“I—” He wants to make an excuse, but it comes out on its own. “Why wasn’t I his friend?”

Pierre sits down, tugging a barstool up close. “What are you talking about?”

“Max.” He holds up his phone. “I didn’t even try. I just decided I didn’t like him. I could have been his friend.”

“I don’t understand.” Pierre frowns, glancing at Max across the room. “Did something happen?”

“No. No, he didn’t do anything.” Charles scrubs a hand over his face. His thoughts feel slippery. “I could have loved him sooner. I could’ve—” He swallows. He knows Max could’ve used a friend. “I could’ve had more time with him,” he finishes, hating the way his voice shrinks.

Pierre still looks like he doesn’t understand, or maybe he thinks Charles is being very stupid. “You have the rest of your life with him,” he says, very slowly, like Charles is a child.

“You don’t know that.” He reaches for Pierre’s drink, swiping it quickly and taking a sip. “That is a long time,” he adds. I’m terrified, he doesn’t add. If I lose him, I’m never going to get over missing all those years.

Pierre takes in his expression and simply sighs, too familiar with Charles and his moods. “Yeah. It is. I don’t know how you’re going to survive.” He softens. “Has anyone ever told you that you get stuck in the past too much?”

Charles can’t help a laugh. “Yes, actually.”

Pierre reaches for his phone — Charles is too drunk to react quickly enough to stop him — and holds down the power button until it turns off. He hands it back over. “It’s weird that you even have that photo. Does he know you have that photo?”

Charles doesn’t answer, taking a long sip of Pierre’s drink instead. It burns going down this time. “God, that’s awful.” He wipes his mouth, suppressing a gag and sliding it back across the bar. “I haven’t told him I love him yet.”

Pierre’s eyes widen before he catches himself. “You are fucking weird sometimes. You know everyone can tell, right?”

“I hope they can. I hope he can.” Charles runs his hands back through his hair, frustrated. “I’m going to tell him soon.”

“You should. It’s not going to– cause whatever you’re worried about.” Pierre’s just drunk enough not to guess it. How Charles is afraid that he’s going to fucking curse Max or something. “Go be with him,” Pierre says. “He’s right there. None of that stuff fucking matters.”

“I—Thank you,” Charles says, pocketing his phone.

Max sees him as he climbs off his barstool, and his whole face lights up. He waves, and gestures come here. Charles’s heart does something strange.

Charles weaves through the crowd, mumbling a litany of “sorry, excuse me, sorry,” until he gets to Max.

“Where have you been?” Max yells over the music. He winds an arm around Charles’s waist, tugging him in close.

“Just with Pierre.” Max is sweating through his white T-shirt, and he looks like a million fucking dollars. Pounds. Euros. Whatever. Charles is struggling to remember to blink.

Max does a weird thing where he brushes his nose against the side of Charles’s. His breath smells like gin. “I missed you.”

“I’m right here, baby.” Charles draws him in for a kiss. It’s month two or three of showing affection in public. He likes it more than he thought he would. “Are you having fun?”

“Yeah. I am. I might have another.” Max nudges his hip. “Wanna buy it for me?”

Charles does, and another tequila shot for himself. Max looks dubious, but shrugs and toasts him. He hands Charles a lime to suck on when he makes a face.

Charles pulls the lime out of his mouth. Max, who is a fucking freak, nabs it and takes a bite. Charles, who is an even bigger freak, wants to knock their teeth together and ask Max to marry him.

He makes himself breathe. “Do you want to dance with me, Max Verstappen?”

 

By 2 a.m., he and Max have stumbled into their hotel lobby. Max is holding most of his weight. He’s trying to say something, but Max says, “Shh, hold on,” and turns his most dazzling smile on the woman at the front desk.

“Is the pool open?”

“I’m afraid not,” she says. Max slides what looks like a hundred dollar bill and his ID across the counter. She raises her eyes, pocketing the bill discreetly. “Actually, of course, Mr. Verstappen. Enjoy.”

He grins at Charles, shark-toothed.

 

Charles is sitting on the edge of the pool, legs dangling into the water while Max idly paddles around. It’s so nice, the heat muted at night, the water warm and kept perfectly blue. Max looks good, backlit by the pool lights. He’s maybe a tiny bit dizzy, everything slow and syrupy from the alcohol, but it’s almost pleasant. Not thinking so much.

Max catches him watching. “Have some more water,” he says, splashing Charles’ calves.

Max can do so many things at one time, and there’s always an idle part of his brain worrying after Charles. He’s not that drunk.

Charles decides not to bicker. He takes a few sips of the bottle of water Max forced him to bring out here with them, then tosses it to him.

“Thank you.” Max has a sip, then puts the bottle aside. He wraps his arms around his calves, tugging. “Come on. I won’t let you drown.”

Charles sighs, but he’s only putting it on. “Okay, catch me.”

Max rolls his eyes, but he holds his arms out. Charles makes a lame attempt at jumping in, tumbling into Max. He can feel Max’s laughter rumbling against him as he latches on, winding his arms and legs around his front like a monkey.

Max spins them around, humming some awful off-key melody. He stumbles a bit, almost dropping Charles. Charles squawks.

“You said you wouldn’t let me drown!” Charles squirms, but Max tightens his grip around his waist. “Let me go!”

“Mm, no, you’re mine now,” Max says, sing-song. He peppers kisses all over Charles’s collarbone and neck, while Charles splashes him and tries to dodge.

He finally gets the slip on Max, kicking off the wall and twisting to the side. “Try and catch me now,” he says over his shoulder, diving under the water.

They’ve been trying to catch each other their entire fucking lives. Like always, Max has him in a second, making a few failed attempts before he gets around the waist and hauls him into his arms.

Charles struggles; Max dunks him when he goes for a kick to his shin, then Charles gets away and jumps on his back, wrapping his arms around Max’s neck. Max tries to flip them over backwards, but Charles is too heavy.

“Uncle, uncle,” Charles gasps into Max’s shoulder. They’re both laughing so hard they can’t breathe.

Max sets him down, and Charles holds onto his arm for balance, heaving. He feigns like he’s going to kick Max, and Max grabs him, pushing him against the wall.

They’re grinning at each other like madmen, foreheads pressed together. Max looks so good, wet hair falling into his face. Charles kisses him.

“You’re giving me that look again,” Max says, smile softening. He’s got Charles caged in. It feels lovely. Safe.

Max seems happy where they are, resting his cheek on top of Charles’s head. Charles snakes his arms around Max’s waist, holding on tight, breathing in the chlorine on his skin.

There’s so much in Charles’s chest, right then. Max, Max, Max.

Max says, quietly, “Love you, you know.”

And. The murky veneer that’s been covering Charles’s thoughts all week, the wall he’d put up when Max reminded him they’ve been tangled up, inevitably crashing into each other, their entire lives — it evaporates. Like Max has turned the key on Pandora’s box.

It’s like he can see through Max; like he can see every past version of him. Every petulant and vitriolic and naive and gentle and kind and lonely and brave and wonderful version, all these things Max is and has been.

He’s twelve and he’s just hit Charles’s rear wheel and sent him spinning around the track. He’s fourteen and Charles hits him and he tells the cameras how it isn’t fair. He’s twenty and he’s just hit Daniel and he’s furious and Charles can tell underneath he’s so afraid to lose him. He’s twenty-two and he shows up at Charles’s door and says I am so tired of you thinking I hate you. Do you like FIFA? He’s twenty-four and they’re shitfaced after a race, sprawled out on a hotel roof, and the gravity of the two of them under the stars after a lifetime as magnetic poles hits Charles and he wants to kiss him.

He’s twenty-five and Charles is sulking outside of a club in Belgium because he lost from pole again, like always, and Max, who won by 22 seconds, knocks the cigarette he’s holding right out of his hand and says what are you doing? He’s twenty-five, and he’s right up in Charles’s face, and then he kisses him. He’s twenty-six and asleep on Charles’s mother’s couch on Christmas. And he’s— he’s here, right here, and he’s Charles’s boyfriend, they call each other that. In his head, Charles calls him my baby, my heart, my everything, my person, always thinking you’ll never know how much you mean to me. But he’s right here. And Charles could tell him.

“Charles,” Max says, startling him. “Are you crying?”

He’s breathing wetly into Max’s neck, he realizes. He doesn’t think there are any real tears. He rests his hand over Max’s heart, spreading out his fingers. “You know, don’t you?”

Max’s breath catches. He sets Charles down properly, running his thumb along his jawline. His eyes are so blue. “Tell me anyway?”

Charles laughs, sounding congested. It’s the kind of overwhelming emotion he’s only felt a few times. It’s hoisting up his F2 championship trophy. It’s winning in Spa. It’s better. “I love you,” he says, and it’s so easy it almost feels dumb. “I love you, fuck, I have loved you so long. I have pictures of you when you’re twelve in my phone. I wish you were my best friend then. I think about it all the time. How much I would have loved you.”

“Charles,” Max says, and he sounds like he wants to cry, too.

“I’m sorry I made you wait.” He’s still got his hand on Max’s heart. He can feel his pulse thumping. “I’m so scared all the time. My mom says I’m protecting my heart. I am so always afraid of losing people. I’m afraid if I love them too much something terrible will happen. But only good things happen with you. I’m sorry. Max, I love you.”

“Don’t apologize. You are so stupid. Of course I knew.” Max sniffles. His eyes are wet, but he looks so happy. “Say it again?”

Charles links their fingers, squeezing. “I love you. I loved you every time. Every– everything, I remember it all, all the times with us.” His English is failing. The tequila is not helping. “I loved you every day, Max. I wish I loved you even longer.”

“Love me longer now,” Max says. It shouldn’t make as much sense as it does.

There’s been a weight on Charles’s chest for so long. When he kisses Max, it finally goes away.

“I will,” he promises, catching the corner of Max’s mouth for another kiss. “I’m going to love you the rest of my life. I would even if– even if none of this happened. It’s what I’m supposed to do.”

“You are talking a big game, Charles Leclerc.” Max is the one to kiss him this time. “For the record, I love you. For a very long time, too.”

Charles traces a heart on Max’s chest. “Happy anniversary.”

Max hums. “It all worked out for those kids, didn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Charles says. Tomorrow, they’ll go back to Monaco. Charles will get to lay Max down and press a thousand I love you’s into his skin. Right now, though, Miami doesn’t seem so bad. He kisses Max again, thumb tracing his upper lip. “Yeah, I think they made out alright.”

Notes:

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