Work Text:
Charles knew that Max, as a famous and successful Formula 1 driver, had his obligations. Attending various sponsor events, meetings, photo shoots, team briefings, and a whole bunch of other nonsense that Verstappen hated with all his soul. Of course Charles knew – he had the same obligations himself. But that knowledge didn't stop him from feeling hurt that his partner wasn't paying him enough attention. And a new Instagram post just poured salt on an open wound.
**
It had seemed like an ordinary evening in Monaco. The sun was slowly setting below the horizon, flooding their shared apartment with a bright orange light. Max was busy at yet another important event, having left Charles alone on the other side of the principality hours ago. The room was completely silent. It wasn't oppressive, but Leclerc could feel deep down that something was off. To calm his nerves, he called his best friend – Pierre Gasly. They had known each other since childhood, and he was one of the few people Charles trusted one hundred percent, without fear of betrayal.
"Calamar, busy?" the Ferrari driver asked immediately, as soon as his friend's blurry image appeared on the screen.
"What could I possibly be busy with on such a fine evening?" the man grinned, answering the question with a question, propping his phone in a comfortable position. From the background behind him, Charles could tell he was busy doing something in the kitchen. He could faintly hear the sound of water heating up and someone bustling around nearby: the quiet clink of a spoon against a pot, lids opening, and other kitchen routines.
"Mmm..." Leclerc drawled, tilting his head back. He was sitting on the living room couch opposite the large window with a view of the beautiful city; Sassy was comfortably settled on his lap, Leo was sleeping in his bed in the corner of the room, while Jimmy and Donatello were sprawled out on the opposite side. "Je ne sais pas... cooking with Yuki? Or rather, bothering him while he's busy working?" Charles cooed, a smug smile on his face as he watched for Gasly's reaction.
"As if I would...! I never...!" Pierre started to defend himself playfully, looking at the screen in mock surprise and waving a spatula.
"He's absolutely right, Charles, hi!" A happy-looking Tsunoda appeared in the frame, slightly messy from cooking. "Is Max away on business again?"
The question was logical, direct, and a bit blunt – classic Yuki. Leclerc snorted, a polite smile on his face, but his eyes weren't crinkling; they seemed to dim. He nodded silently. The guys on the other side of the screen understood everything without words and immediately started distracting him with various conversations: plans for the year, everyday stuff, childhood memories, and more. An hour passed by unnoticed. As the pair was plating their finished dish, Charles decided to check Instagram. His biggest mistake of the evening. He scrolled through his feed absentmindedly, listening to the clinking of cutlery from his phone's speaker.
Laughing at his friends' multilingual bickering, Leclerc liked Lando's new post, scrolled down a bit further, and froze. His mouth fell open, and his eyes went wide with shock. Ignoring the pleasant atmosphere at Pierre and Yuki's, Sassy on his lap, and his other furry friends, Charles swore loudly in French: "C'est quoi ce bordel?!"
Gasly, who had been laughing just a second ago, looked at the camera in surprise, watching his friend holding the tablet.
"Charles? What's wrong?" Pierre knew his precious friend loved to overdramatize and make a mountain out of a molehill, but this reaction still worried him. Whatever it was, Gasly knew one thing – he would help his friend with anything.
"You... fuck, just look," Leclerc said without further ado, turning the tablet screen towards his phone's camera. As the image focused, Pierre and Yuki saw a new post with a cute caption. That would have been fine, but the photo showed Max standing very close to another woman, with the sweet smile on his face that Charles loved so much. He was clearly engaged in some fascinating conversation in his typical style: hands frozen mid-gesture, mouth slightly open, eyes bright with interest, looking directly at the lady opposite him. She looked like a model from a fashion magazine (maybe she was one; Charles was too consumed by anger and hurt to think straight): wavy dark hair falling past her shoulder blades, a stunning red dress that hugged every curve and had plenty of cutouts, high stilettos matching the outfit, natural-looking makeup, a beautiful smile with dimples in her cheeks. In the photo, she was laughing, head thrown back, one hand delicately covering her mouth, while the other carefully held a glass of champagne.
When Pierre found his voice and tried to defend his former teammate, Charles shushed him, muttering "plus loin, plus putain" threateningly, and swiped to the next photo. Now the pair was looking at the camera, smiling, with Max's arm around the woman's waist, while she rested her head gently on his strong shoulder.
That shoulder was where Charles leaned. This arm had held him in bed just this morning. These lips he had kissed earlier today before Max left. These eyes had caressed him with their gaze. This same back Leclerc clawed at with all his strength every night they shared.
This man was getting the silent treatment for the whole week.
"I don't think he had to hold her like that..." Pierre grumbled quietly, blinking confusedly at the screen. Yuki muttered something like "I'm definitely not needed here" and discreetly slipped out of the frame, leaving the friends alone with this... situation.
"Exactly!" Charles threw the tablet face-down onto the couch cushion beside him in a huff. He pouted comically for a few seconds, then, catching himself, bit his lower lip almost hard enough to draw blood. Taking a few deep breaths like his trainer had taught him, he mustered his strength and said in a choked voice, "Lately, he's always working. And I get it: the season's starting soon, sponsors, we already had a break, the championship... but I'm here, and he..."
"Doesn't notice..." Pierre finished for his friend, sighing tiredly and crossing his arms. The cheerful atmosphere was gone, replaced by oppressive silence. "Don..."
"I won't!" Charles cried out, not letting him finish. This time Sassy jumped off, startled, and scurried away from him. "I can't. I'll just look pathetic in his eyes. Better to just... stay quiet." Right now, Leclerc reminded Pierre of himself as a child. At least, that's what Gasly thought. He looked sad, lost, and angry all at once, just like in the distant past when Max had taken his position in karting.
"Mmm, throw a tantrum at him. You're a master at it, reine du drame," Gasly suggested with a weak smile.
"I... I don't know. I want to be alone. Thanks for the company, Calamar. Tell Yuki too!" Charles smiled tightly and, without waiting for a reply, hung up.
He exhaled, closing his eyes and leaning back against the couch. The city had been plunged into darkness; it was already night, which meant Max should be home soon. Charles was truly hurt, but he was also incredibly angry. He was torn between going to the bedroom to sleep alone and waiting to start a fight.
He was mindlessly biting his thumb, one leg bouncing slightly, when he heard the sound of the front door opening, keys jangling, and his beloved voice.
"Charli, I'm home." Without looking, Leclerc knew the man was smiling. Charles knew him by heart: his mannerisms, his smile, his speech, his tone, his eyes... everything. Shaking his head, he choked out something in reply, hoping Max would just go take a shower after such an evening. But instead, Max came towards him. He sat down opposite him, his brows furrowed in thought and seriousness. His blue eyes didn't shine like in that photo, and his lips weren't curved in a smile. "What?" A simple question, without anger or pressure – just ordinary concern, care. But Charles snorted. The scent of sweet, feminine perfume hit his nose, and his gaze fixed on Max's shoulder. The one the woman had leaned on. Now there was a mark there – a red, smeared, ridiculous lipstick stain. It was glaringly obvious. Max probably didn't know about it, since he'd taken off his jacket, which might have hidden it, and left it nearby. It seemed like this "kiss" had been left intentionally, but in a hurry: it was too smeared, like a watercolor blot on wet paper.
"Who is she?" His green eyes stayed fixed on that damned lipstick mark, his voice dripping with venom. Noticing the silence in response and feeling his boyfriend's questioning gaze on him, Charles exhaled irritably and repeated more clearly, now looking at Max's face. "The woman you were cuddling up to for the cameras, laughing and chatting with, like I'm not here waiting for you!" He wasn't holding back anymore. His patience was gone. "And off-camera, I guess her mouth was busy with something else," he gave a sad little snort, glancing at the red stain standing out against the expensive white shirt fabric.
"What?" Verstappen turned his head in the indicated direction, raising his eyebrows curiously. The angle was awkward, and he couldn't see anything, so, of course, he pulled his shirt off, first undoing a couple of top buttons. Max looked distrustfully at the red mark and ran his finger over it. "Fuck, I told them I didn't want to talk to her before I left..." he muttered quietly under his breath, but Charles heard it in the oppressive silence.
"So you did want to, huh? Fuck!" Without thinking, Leclerc jumped up from the couch, nostrils flaring with displeasure. Somewhere deep down, he knew there was no point in the fight that was clearly brewing: Max was tired after the event, and scenes like this might make him leave, slamming the door. But right now, the younger man's reason was clouded by old resentment, sadness, and fresh anger. "So, spending time with me? You're too busy! Of course! But with... with some slut, hugging her for the whole world to see? You're first in line! Fuck, you rushed right over, didn't you, champion?" He was gesticulating wildly, yelling, fuming. The animals had long since fled to other rooms, and Verstappen watched him with an unreadable expression. Though, if Charles had looked closely, he would have seen regret and love in those blue eyes, along with a determination to restore his beloved's trust and good mood. Max let him continue his tirade, paying no attention. Leclerc only fell silent when he heard his own quiet sob. "Damn it, fuck you, Verstappen. I'm done!" He glared aggressively down at the man, while Max obediently listened to his venomous words. He exhaled and started to turn away, but then Max stood up from the couch and stepped in front of him.
"But I'm not," he said, leaving the ruined shirt forgotten. He scooped up Charles, who was ready to run off and lock himself in the bedroom alone for the night, and threw him over his shoulder as if he weighed nothing. He'd never admit he mostly worked out just for moments like this. Leclerc now struggled, scratching at the skin of the man's back and bicep – basically anything he could reach. He hung there like a sack of potatoes, and it was incredibly lucky for him that no outsider was watching. "And now, now I'm going to explain myself and apologize, kleintje. Your turn to listen, watch, and enjoy."
Verstappen calmly headed towards their bedroom, wanting to show his partner the full extent of his feelings as soon as possible. And in the morning, he'd show him the texts with his manager, who had forced him to laugh on camera with that... what was her name again? That was the last thing on his mind. Right now, Max Verstappen's head was filled only with Charles Leclerc, a million and one compliments for him, a thousand ways to make him feel good, and a hundred beloved nicknames.
He only had one loved one, and he was carrying him to their bedroom right now.