Work Text:
He’s kind of looking forward to just going home, really. It’s not some big, emotional thing. He feels…content. There’s a massive party brewing in front of the McLaren garages and Max finds it fondly amusing more than anything. Those guys are in for an absolutely endless night. When he readjusts his grip on the shiny silver and gold trophy, bright flood lights bounce off it, making it look like it could be sparkling. It’s not a Championship, but there’s a sweet, familiar satisfaction to taking the win. It’s enough to snatch this for the team and for himself, he thinks. At least he knows there was nothing more he could have gotten out of the night, not by his own performance.
Post-race and he aches all over. Climbing out of the car felt a bit like coming up from underwater for fresh air and it’s a relief to leave the RB21 behind for good. He’s not even staying for post-season testing, so it really is…done.
Between and after interviews, he finds quiet(ish) moments with the team. They’re all taking it hard. Harder than they should. GP especially, which he understands, but damn, there are better places to put their energy. Ending the season with long faces and despondence is not the way to go, not how he wants them to frame the last twenty four grand prixs. They should be proud. Second? After everything? Max is sleeping easy for the off-season, no doubt about it.
They gather the team for pictures and a bit of celebration, spraying Red Bull rather than a bunch of champagne. It’s fitting and sticky and Max runs from his mechanics when they try to douse him. He’s half-successful at staying clear.
There are more interviews, more people that want to hear him reflect on not winning. He can’t give them the soundbites they’re looking for. He’s not angry or sad or any of these harsh emotions that would cut deeply and the more he repeats himself, the more people slowly begin to believe it.
It’s very late by the time he makes it back to his room in hospitality to change and gather his things. He closes the door, flicks on the light, turns and then freezes when he’s met with the sight of Charles waiting for him on his couch. “What are you doing—were you waiting in the dark?” Max asks, tilting his head curiously. The Monegasque is dressed in casual dressy clothes and enough sparkly jewelry that Max can put together that this is club attire. His hopes of a quiet evening in inch toward the gutter. How long has he been here?
“You did not think to try and, I don’t know, adjust your pace?” Charles drawls, twisting a ring around his middle finger.
Max sighs, reassessing his gauge of the general mood he’s walked into. He glances over his bags and shifts that direction, making sure not to turn his back on the other driver. “Hi,” he says. Maybe a fresh start will fix this.
Cunning, beautiful eyes scan him over. “There was nothing at the start and I am thinking to myself, okay, keep up the speed and it will come back to you in the later laps, but I am pushing like crazy and where is Max? He is driving off into the night!” Charles throws up a hand before letting it drop against his thigh.
“No ‘hi’ back, then?”
Charles leans forward suddenly and glowers at him. “Tell me why I am congratulating you on second place, Max.”
His brow quirks at that and he glances away before saying, “actually, you haven’t congratulated me yet and I did win the race, you realize?”
Ah, bad call. Very bad call. Charles’ face goes stormy and his jaw strains with how aggressively he’s clenching it. “What is wrong with you?” the brunette throws out, furious and Max is stunned to see real hurt there.
“There is nothing wrong with me, but I am becoming increasingly worried that something has happened; are you okay?” he asks, abandoning his bag in favor of stepping close to the couch, crouching down to be in front of Charles so he can set a hand on his shin over his pants. “What’s this coming from? Did someone say something to you? Do something?” Maybe someone at Ferrari opened their mouth when they should not have… It wouldn’t be the first time.
Charles scoffs, but he sounds marginally more himself when he replies, “please, I am perfectly fine. Of course, I could have had a podium, and you could have won the championship! But instead it is like you did not really try!”
A frown tugs his mouth downward at the corners, makes him tap a finger against where he’s got a hand on the Monegasque’s leg. He’s quick to brush off other people’s comments about him, but this is Charles. “You really think I didn’t try?” he murmurs.
A flutter of regret crosses Charles’ features and Max waits with patience.
“I—no,” the other driver answers in a low tone.
“I am sorry that you did not make the podium, Charles. I was rooting for you the whole time. I watched you—what does this really have to do with?” he asks again and he’s getting nervous now. He’s never heard Charles say these kinds of things, never heard him question Max’s effort or dedication. It stings. It stings a lot.
Some of the bravado and anger gets replaced with a saddened slump and Charles leans farther forward, stretches out a hand to touch his cheek before getting close and then almost tentatively tilting his head to kiss Max’s lips.
He responds in an instant, has never not reciprocated one of his kisses, but he can tell that it’s off. Charles is holding himself back while simultaneously kissing like…like it’s some kind of ending.
Max gets his hand to Charles’ chin and holds there so he can give a firmer press of their lips before leaning away. His heart is thudding at the walls of his chest and he doesn’t understand where this is coming from. “Will you talk to me? What’s going on? Schat, c’mon, you’re freaking me out now.” He doesn’t usually use the pet names outside of bed or the bounds of the home they’re in at the time, certainly not at the track, but this isn’t normal behavior and Charles can’t actually be so upset as to break up with him over coming second in the championship. It doesn’t make any sense. The season has been grueling, of course, but he can’t imagine what he’s done to warrant the other man finding him…unwantable all of a sudden. Just last weekend they were reviewing their off-season vacation plans. And next week they’re meant to hop in the plane to the French Alps for several days of skiing (Max), snowboarding (Charles), and nights in an overlarge bed with their phones turned off. Max has been falling asleep thinking of Christmas shopping before the holidays and how to keep Charles from some of the more extreme sports or activities he always seems to find; paragliding, spelunking, ice climbing…the man is relentless and sort of insane. He does all of these things no matter how high Max’s blood pressure gets over it.
Charles is shaking his head silently and something about it so reluctant, like he’s about to give bad news, that Max feels emotion gathering to meet this and he can’t hold back the urge to get there first, to jump ahead of what he fears is barreling toward him.
“Are you breaking up with me?” he asks, his voice tight, bracing for the worst.
In the same moment, Charles mumbles despondently, “I didn’t even win a race this year.”
Oh, fuck. That makes so much more sense, his brain thinks with frantic relief. It doesn’t have to do with him at all.
The Monegasque’s expression morphs to jaw-dropping shock. “What? Why would you think I’m breaking up with you?” Charles asks, looking him over with offense and completely snapped out of the melodrama.
Max wilts over the brunette’s lap and hugs what he can get of his middle before lifting his head enough to talk. “Charles. You were sitting here in the dark for I don’t know how long and you kissed me like—” he can’t finish the thought. “Please never do that shit again,” he mumbles, glancing up and then away. His chest fucking hurts.
“Max,” Charles says, his voice in his normal timbre. “Mon chéri.” A hand with four rings on it threads into the hairs at the back of his head, tugs lightly to get him to make eye contact which he does reluctantly. “Hello,” his boyfriend says and ridiculously, the answered greeting from before helps a lot to calm him down. “I did not mean to scare you.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. He knows that. Now.
Charles’ lips press into an unhappy line and he squeezes the back of his neck before making it known that he wants Max up on the couch with him. Once he complies, he’s expecting the other driver to lean into his side maybe, but instead, the Monegasque straddles his hips in a move that is usually reserved for when they are not…you know, at work. Max’s Red Bull jacket crinkles between them and he fears Charles is going to make this into a thing.
“Have I been neglecting you?” Charles murmurs, sinking his weight down heavily in a way that stretches his baggy styled pants over his thighs in a distracting manner. There’s a single, tempting grind over Max’s lap. The long-sleeved shirt he’s wearing is white and at certain angles, with the right lighting, is almost see through. There are more buttons unbuttoned than seems appropriate, even if he is going out to celebrate the end of the season. He looks fucking incredible.
“Charles.”
“I must have done something to make you go so quick to something as ridiculous as me breaking up with you,” the other driver argues more serious. “I want to know what it is.”
“You didn’t do anything.” He sighs and shakes his head. More than ever, he wants to go home. This has been a long night on top of a long season.
Two hands slide up his arms over the jacket and dig in right at his biceps. “Your eyes say different.”
He works his tongue around his mouth, would rather not get into it, but Charles will actually sit on him until he talks. It’s an infuriatingly simple tactic that he’s taken advantage of more than once to get Max to open up. “You were angry at me for not winning.”
“I was only angry because of my own season, you know that,” is the reply which Charles gives so easy and obvious, waving his hand through the air before resettling it on his body once more.
Well, it wasn’t so obvious to him. Max finds it more intriguing to look at a nearby outlet than have to watch Charles realize in the quiet.
It takes an awkward number of seconds passing before the brunette touches the corner of his jaw and physically directs his gaze toward him. “You did not…you didn’t know that, did you?”
He fucking hates seeing Charles’ eyes get all huge and sad. “We don’t need to talk about it,” he mutters.
“Max,” the other driver gasps. He touches at his face again, cups his cheeks between warm, roughened palms. “You thought I would break up with you because you didn’t win the championship?”
“You did say you didn’t think I even tried. So. Sounded pretty disappointed to me.” Dammit. He wasn’t supposed to let that word get out there. Disappointed.
Charles latches onto it immediately too. “Disappointed?” he echoes in confusion. “I have never thought this. And I regret very much saying what I did about you not really trying, that is obviously not true. I—you surprised me today. I was expecting—no, non! Max, please, mon amour. I am so sorry, but please listen to me.” He holds him firm, refusing to let Max wiggle away from this.
“I was expecting you to do something bold tonight, but you were so calm. You cannot blame me for being surprised by that at least. But never, not once, did you disappoint me. I am disappointed in a thousand things that have to do with this season; the car, the development, the pace, but you are not on the list. You have never been on that list.”
He gives a weak go at not looking at Charles directly, but the other man’s got very strong hands and Max has always struggled to not gravitate toward him, having eyes on him is second nature by this point. His eyes itch when he succumbs, throat working around a swallow that requires way too much effort.
Charles looks so…openly concerned. It’s a much stronger emotion than they typically display with each other and maybe that’s part of this. They’ve been a thing for almost three years now and Max has never not been champion in the time they’ve shared. It’s mostly Max cheering up Charles about Ferrari or trying to tempt him to make a change with no luck or offering a type of distraction. Sure, there are bad race days and nothing is perfect, but Max is the steady one. It’s Charles that usually deals with the dark moods or quiet, contemplative slumps. He’s just never heard the other man talk like that before. About him.
“It’s not ridiculous,” is what drops off his tongue and the aftertaste of it burns. God, he thought he left this fear far behind like two years ago.
“What’s not?”
“You said you must have done something to make me go so quickly to something as ridiculous as you breaking up with me,” Max recites. “It’s not ridiculous.”
Charles blinks, takes a moment to process that before shaking his head. “I don’t understand this. Of course it is.”
Max has never been able to truly wrap his head around Charles’ perception of them, around what the other man thinks they look like together, but for him it’s always been very clear. Charles is a shining, golden hued star that draws people to him like a moth to a glittering flame. And Max is…himself. Self-contained, blunt, simplistic in his wants and desires and doggedly determined with his goals. Charles has hobbies beyond his career, makes new friends and admirers everywhere he goes while Max continues to do what he has always done; practice, race, win. They have certain areas of overlap, of course, and Max has leaned on those, but he’s never gotten confused about who the lucky one is in this relationship. Most days he’s still in awe that Charles wants him in his bed and in his home, that he’s who Charles has chosen to bestow affection upon.
Some part of those thoughts must cross over his face because he sees when the brunette’s expression changes in response. “Max, no,” the other driver says around an exhale. “Baby,” he murmurs with emphasis, tilting his head in concern and it makes the stupid irritation in his eyes worse.
Max can count on both hands how many times Charles has called him that when they’ve had clothes on, but suddenly he’s pulling it out now? Fuck.
“You’re, a-ah, going out tonight?” Max attempts to say, has to clear his throat around the clunky words.
Their roles are reversed and it’s Charles leaning in, sliding grounding hands up from his arms to his shoulders. One continues up to the collar of his RB kit and the Monegasque tucks two fingers over the hem. “Of course it is ridiculous,” Charles says again, hushed and serious, again and again coaxing Max to face him. “I thought we addressed this long ago,” he whispers. “It was better, I thought? No?”
Max sucks in a struggling inhale and swipes a palm over his right eye. “Y-yeah. B-but you—” Shit. He’s fucking losing it. “You’ve never said things like that before,” he rushes out, figuring it’s better to get it out quick. “I know you didn’t, like uh, mean it o-or—”
“Yeah, but that does not mean I didn’t hurt you with my fuck up,” Charles murmurs, sitting back with realization. “I’m so sorry, mon coeur. I came here in my own head, I was only thinking about my race; my season,” he says, shaking his head. “I would never think you are a disappointment. What you have done this year is nothing short of incredible. I swear, Max,” he vows, looking all over him for signs that he’s being believed. “Of course you tried. I’ve seen you working all season, baby. I’ve seen more than most. You are the gauge I use on myself most of the time. Disappointment,” he mutters in disbelief. Charles shifts closer, moves to touch his face again. “Can you ever forgive me?”
He clears his throat again around too many feelings and nods. “Y-yeah. Course I do.”
Charles rubs fingers through the hair behind his ears, spends a quiet minute looking him over. “Can I give you a kiss?”
“You don’t need to—”
“I made you cry, Max, I definitely have to ask.” It’s no-nonsense in a familiar way that makes his heart return to a much more normal rhythm.
“Yes, you can—you can kiss me.”
He gets a soft, acknowledging hum before Charles presses close into his space and kisses him, cradling his face, thumbing at his cheeks all the while.
It takes a moment, but he lifts his own arms to wrap the other driver in a hug, tugging until their stomachs touch and he’s got the scent of him—pleasant cleanliness from a recent shower with a little spice—filling his lungs.
Charles is specific with their contact, thorough in a way he usually only gets on the occasions when they switch things up and Max is underneath. It already has him way too raw. Has he mentioned how badly he wants to go home?
The lips on his request more with a delicate swipe of tongue and he acquiesces, softening for this one. Charles is the only person he’s been with that has managed to repeatedly make, deep, owning kisses somehow sweet. His hand curls into the other driver’s shirt, wrinkling the fabric as his body calms and regulates into the trust they’ve built.
“You taste like Red Bull,” Charles murmurs, pulling back a moment later but just to brush their noses together and trace over his jaw with one finger.
“Celebrated with the team,” he replies in a faint tone, glancing down at his forever obsession, the red shape of Charles’ lips.
“It’s very deserving. I think this must be your best season.” Those lips descend on his cheek and work their way back to his ear where he says again, “baby,” with a cooed, praising inflection. “Congratulations on the win,” he whispers.
“Charles,” Max huffs, flexing his grip and taking a deeper breath. “What are you doing?”
“I am congratulating my very talented boyfriend on winning the race and an absolutely insane comeback,” Charles replies and he’s using his teeth at that point to tease at his ear, then lower over his neck. “Speaking of…maybe you should come on my back. Get it?”
Max’s cheeks, his whole chest really, flush with heat and he looks to the ceiling. Did he just make a sex pun? A sex pun based in English? Where did he hear that?? He laughs, but it ends up cut off around a deep moan when Charles sucks over his pulse. “Y-You’re in nice clothes,” he mumbles.
“Does that not just make it more satisfying when you ruin them?” the Monegasque wonders before licking a long path up the side of his neck and biting his jaw.
“We’re not in our hotel room,” he manages to say, but his hand is at the other man’s thigh, kneading the pads of his fingers into the thick muscles there. How many more excuses are there? He’s not sure because they’ve never done this—no one would believe him if he told them that, but it’s true. Neither of them have ever had a desire to get caught in the middle at work and the paddock is not nearly as sexy as the rest of the world wants to believe. Plus, it’s better having a whole bed with Charles, he likes laying him out and having the space and privacy to hear him swear in multiple languages.
Charles brushes off his concern, “everyone is outside and getting drunk.” Ringed fingers travel to his jacket and start on the zipper, dragging it downward and then open. Warm hands get under his shirt and grab at the front of his belt, giving a strong pull at the whole buckle. Max grunts, his head getting fuzzy with interest because Charles is always into his belts, it’s a strange kind of obsession he has.
“T-this is a very small couch, Charlie.”
“Not so small that I cannot ride you,” is the response he gets and fuck, okay. “Do you have lube in your bag still?” A hungry, promising mouth catches his again and for a minute they’re caught up in each other. “Max?” Charles asks again between heated kisses a few moments later.
It’s his travel backpack and he keeps a bit of everything in there, so… “Y-yeah, in the shorter pocket.”
A whirl of cooler air gets under his shirt when the Monegasque climbs off him and makes it the few steps to his blue bag, rummages around and comes away with a half-empty tube. Max shifts his hips against the couch, reaches a hand down to squeeze over where his jeans are no longer accommodating him in this state. As he’s sitting there, Charlie gets his own pants undone and shucks them off, tossing them carelessly off to the side. It’s so fucking hot every time when he gives up caring about his appearance at all. There’s a tipping point always where it switches and looking beautiful gets in the way of what he wants more. Which for the last few wonderful years has been Max. He’s still amazed by it.
“Come here,” he says, parched and craving, holding out a hand for the taking.
Charles grins with satisfaction and works his boxers off too. His shirt is so long that he’s covered to the tops of his thighs and it’s a tantalizing tease. When he accepts Max’s help and re-seats himself over his lap, that’s when Max gets a better look at him, at exactly how badly he wants him. Tanned muscles poised overtop and he touches Charles’ legs, brushing the fabric of his shirt up as he paves the way for his eyes to drink it all in. Just a couple hours ago, this body was racing and working and fighting. More than once GP has teased that they should try sticking Charles at the finish line and see how much faster it makes him and he’s not sure the team would appreciate that data because it would be resolute.
The other driver grabs one of his hands so he can press the bottle into it. “You want to?”
He nods eagerly and hooks an arm around Charles’ middle, urges him up onto his knees so he can kiss at his stomach through the shirt while he makes more than a few fingers slick. Max goes for Charles’ cock first, grins against his abs when it earns him a low gasping moan. He makes a tight circle of his hand and strokes, exploring where he’s warm to the touch and interested. When he gets his fingers slick again and parts Charles’ cheeks, rubs across where he’s tight, a breathless groan is his reward. Charles will pretend he likes it quick and dirty, with minimal prep or foreplay, but it’s a lie. This is why a bed is preferred. Every opportunity he can take to prime this man the way he deserves, no skimping on kisses or heated touches, makes it better for both of them.
“M-Max, please,” Charles murmurs, holding on to his shoulders and sometimes carding through his hair.
Even without a mattress, he gets by. Max uses an over abundance of lube because this step always makes him nervous when he hasn’t spent tens of minutes working him up, getting him pliant and loose limbed all over. One digit slips in easily enough and it helps calm the fretting in his mind. He nudges aside Charles’ shirt properly so he can kiss down across his hips and get his mouth around the length of him.
Sucking him simultaneously gets them through fingers two and three with ease and he spends maybe an exorbitant amount of time enjoying the clench of Charles’ body around where Max is stuffing him full and trying to stretch him wider.
Above him, Charles whimpers and shakes in his hold, clenches his fist into Max’s hair and tugs. “I-I’m too close—y-you have to—s”
Slowly, so as not to trigger anything unexpected, Max eases off with a quiet pop and looks up again. There’s a healthy, arousing splotchy redness to Charles’ neck and cheeks and Max has to stop himself from fucking three fingers up into him with intent. This orgasm could be his now.
“N-now, come on, you are spoiling me when it should be the other way around,” Charles mumbles.
“You are my spoils, Charlie,” Max says. “Mijn schat,” he mumbles, breathless with the depth of his affections. This is where he has always wound up, moreso in the last few months especially—showering Charles in words he can’t understand, pretending like he has not had a shiny ring hidden in his sock drawer for two years. They get close like this and Max wants to declare his intentions, wants to give him something glittering and gold, warm-toned to match his tan in the summer, so that even when he’s on the boat in nothing but shorts, there will still be a marker that shows who he’s tied to. He has not been telling anyone explicitly (Daniel, GP, his family; all the important people already know), but there’s a simple explanation why this season hasn’t phased him. It’s hard to be that upset when he already has championships to spare and his sights are not just on the track—they land on this pretty man all the time too. Max has things he wants beyond racing and they keep getting bigger in his mind, taking up more space, getting more difficult to contain.
Charles begs for him again and he would give anything when he sounds this way. Taking his hands back is a necessary tragedy to get himself free of his own clothes; he sucks in a sharp breath when it rushes back to him how long he’s spent pressed against the line of his zipper. The bottle of lube is nearly empty when he’s done getting himself slick, but it’s entirely worth it when he can guide Charles down onto him and they slide together like a key into a lock, a perfect match that opens up. Sparking pleasure zings through his core as he’s enveloped by a tight, wet heat and his mouth parts around the shudder of his moan.
The man above him is biting his lip and trying to get settled, trying to get a grip good enough to start to move. He’s always so impatient, Max thinks with equal parts arousal and fondness.
He tugs Charles down onto him completely, holding just under his ass to do it, tipping his balance so he falls the last couple inches. They moan at the same time and Charles tries to swear him out, but it’s not convincing when his hips are twitching like he might come any minute.
They build up to a give and take and Charles puts his strength on display, loops his arms around Max’s neck so he can hold on as he rises up before dropping himself down. “F-fuck, your cock, baby,” Charles mumbles, brow furrowed in concentration as he dedicates himself to getting the angle just right so Max is nudging over his prostate.
“S’good, you’re unbelievable,” Max breathes, looking down to watch where Charles is rubbing against his stomach and some of his shirt when he rolls his hips forward. “Feel fucking perfect on me,” he mumbles before spreading his thighs apart a little more and reaching back to feel over his ass. He spreads his hands wide over each cheek and starts encouraging Charles’ movements on the way down to happen faster and harder. “Y-yeah, that feel good? Like that?”
Charles is panting for it by that point and digs his nails into his shoulders as he works his hips hurriedly, voice pitching higher and breaking apart. “A-ahuh! S-spank me,” he pleads after a special wave of want washes through him, ducking down for a sloppy kiss.
Max groans on his tongue and it’s all too easy to lift one hand off and smack it back down, hard enough that the sound of it is ill advised, but definitely a turn on. Charles is mostly delicate when it comes to pain, but sometimes a little extra sting and heat make everything feel like more.
The second the hit lands, Charles’ breathing turns choppier and he grinds down onto Max’s dick, can’t seem to have him deep enough.
He grins and folds Charles forward across him and over his shoulder to one side, pushing him low to his chest so he can see a little when he spanks him again. It pairs well with how he holds him so he can plant his feet on the floor and thrust up. Max turns those cheeks pink with an open palm, every carefully moderated hit blooming warmth under the skin and making Charles clench down on him.
“You get so tight like this,” Max grunts, readjusting his handle on Charles so he can hold him open for a beat before fucking inside and then following it with a well timed spank that leaves him clinching up. He hears a mewl in the shape of his name swiftly followed by a sudden increasing wet stickiness against his stomach and the resulting vice-like grip Charles’ body exerts on him has him gasping and rutting up, coming messily inside within a half-dozen thrusts.
Taking his time when he’s filled Charles like this isn’t just for him alone, the other driver gets off on it just as much, enjoys not being made to move immediately. They ride out the follow-up twitches and pangs of their orgasms together, catching their breaths at the same time. Max leads Charles to sit back a bit, return to a place where they can see each other face to face and he can touch and kiss and soothe. This gorgeous man is sweaty and sleepy, and wants to be stuck to him like glue.
“B-baby,” Charles whispers, melting against his chest and pressing needy kisses all up the front of his throat, forcing him to tip his head back. “I love when you come in me,” he murmurs, dragging his lips up over the ridge of Max’s chin and then getting to his mouth.
He moans over it, how could he not? This is the most attractive person he’s ever seen and Charles comes pre-loaded with a wicked tongue and a voracious eagerness for contact. It’s a miracle he ever manages to keep up with him.
“Love you so much,” the brunette continues, pressing kisses all over his face. “You could never be a disappointment.”
Max’s stomach swoops and he should have predicted that Charles would do this, would get him to this vulnerable space before really hammering the point home.
“Not breaking up with you ever,” Charles is mumbling as he softly presses his lips below Max’s right eye and up toward his temple.
He’d chuckle at how he’s being smothered if it didn’t feel so…wonderful. “I—Charles,” he huffs in surprise when the other driver ducks down suddenly to bite at this jaw.
“Tell me you believe me.” More insistent kisses and fingers gripping him tight. He can’t remember the last time the Monegasque was this—desperate is the word, really. It has that kind of urgency.
Max pulls away, but just to catch Charles’ head in his grasp, to make him pause. “Ah, c’mon, schat.”
Voice thin and strained, Charles talks over him, “I am being serious, Max.”
He can see that. The other man’s eyes have shed that post-orgasm sleepiness and are looking at him with concern. When he thumbs over Charles’ cherry stained mouth and gets a tiny, restless nip it makes him smile. “I know you are.” He nods seriously and murmurs, “I believe you.”
That eases the anxiousness and Charles encourages them into a slow, lazy exchange of kisses.
“C’mon, we gotta clean up,” Max encourages after more than a couple minutes and feeling the weight over him get heavier and heavier. He’s going to have to carry the other driver toward the nearest sink at this rate.
It’s not until he’s setting Charles on the tiny sliver of counter space and wetting a cloth that he sees his own hands and pauses at the sight of a black ring that he definitely wasn’t wearing before. His eyes slant to the side, looking for Charles’ hands, counting the jewelry and staring at the bare index finger that he knows for a fact is the one Chalres always puts a ring on. “When did you do this, hm?” he murmurs.
Charles follows where Max is staring, but he doesn’t say anything at first, just inhales carefully. “Do you think it is strange if I do not like you losing to people besides me?” The tone is casual, but when he glances up, those green and hazel eyes are bright with a wealth of steadfast purpose.
A spilling intensity shivers through him and he shifts his weight from foot to foot, swallows around the rising emotion. He put it where a wedding band goes. “N-no,” he says after too long a pause and still his voice breaks.
“Mmm,” Charles replies, nodding thoughtfully. “That is probably a good thing.” His gaze falls to Max’s hand again, a hint of a dimple peeking free. “You can keep that for me, yeah? You know me, I am always losing—Mhm!”
Max presses him back into the cupboards, cuts him off to kiss whatever other words there are, suck them right off his tongue. He can’t stop smiling, but there’s a mirrored grin on Charles’ face and he’s pretty sure that’s the only thing that matters here. “Please let me take you home—Christ, Charlie, you can’t just pull this shit on me,” he says in a rush.
“I am staying for testing, you know that,” Charles laughs. “I’ll meet you at home, how is that?”
So not good enough. Not nearly good enough. He’s due back at the factory for a day to wrap up the season, so he can’t budge on that. Max groans over the frustration. “The awards—” he growls, stupid fucking awards. He dislikes them even when he wins.
“Righttt,” Charles recalls. “So the awards then? And then we go home.”
Max nods reluctantly and then takes a glance at the state of Charles’ shirt. “You’re not seriously going out tonight, are you?”
“I was only going to be out for a moment,” the other man explains. “One appearance—why don’t you come with me?” How he tilts his head and smiles is meant to be tempting. Those sneaky fucking fingers are creeping up under his shirt in the same moment.
He darts a look at the ring again, sticks his tongue into his cheek. “Do I get to keep it on?”
“Baby, it’s yours—you can wear it wherever you want,” Charles says, looking oh so proud to be able to tell Max that, to give him what he’s been holding close to his heart for years.
Well, fuck. They’re really—Max tries for a second to fight his smile, but lets it loose when it’s far too strong to hamper. “You’re going to need a new shirt,” he manages, tugging at the loose buttons and eyeing the stains.
“Ooh, did you pack two of yours? I’ll use one.”
He’d give over his whole suitcase if Charles wanted it. Whatever he wants, it’s his. Max clenches his hand and now that he’s aware of it, he can feel the metal band where it presses into his skin and he thinks he could get adjusted to the warmth of it very quickly, the light weight a breathtaking reminder. He already wants to know what it will feel like to race on the sim with it—maybe that will drive him crazy or even be uncomfortable against the wheel, but he’s not sure he cares. If he gets to glance down and see Charles’ band on him any time he wants, then…well, he never wants to take it off.