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The silence that washes over him as he passes the finish line is louder than any sound ever could’ve been. It feels like his heart is beating in his ears. The chequered flag gets waved by an actress whose name he can’t remember even though he’d been told several times. For a moment, it feels like his heart has stopped beating. Has he met her before? His hands are shaking on the steering wheel as he continues the lap, two left corners and then a right; the crowds in the stands blur into an amalgamation of red and blue and orange. He can hear them, he knows they’re all yelling, whether cheering him on or in frustration, in the end it doesn’t matter, because he won.
Tears brim his eyes, catching onto his lashes under the helmet’s visor and he is grateful nobody can see them. GP and maybe even Mekies are saying something on the radio, yelling, cheering, but he can’t hear it past the ringing in his ears. The hairpin is much wider than Monaco, he laps both the Alpines and the Racing Bulls. He should slow down, he should say something back to his team.
His finger shakes as he pushes the RADIO button. He clears his throat.
“Uhm, guys, you have all done an amazing job as a team… This second half of the season has been incredible and we can all be really, really, proud of that. I’m really proud of you all for never giving up… Let’s keep pushing. Today was a success even though it was very, very difficult. Thank you everyone, for all these years together, for everything we’ve done and achieved. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Thank you.”
He pushes the RADIO button again, the call cuts with a crackle.
He hasn’t felt like this in years, since the fight with Lewis, he thinks. It’s always here, in this cruel country, at this cursed circuit. Yas Marina blurs as he looks down the final corners; it has always been kind to him, maybe that makes him cursed too.
He has half a mind to wave at the fans as he takes that last corner, parking the car behind the numbering board. A golden number one with a bold “CHAMPION OF THE WORLD 2025” on it. He sits in the car for a moment, unmoving. And what a monster of a car RB21 has been. They’d fought a lot in the first half, but just like all the cars that came before him, Max managed to tame him to his liking. Cars pull up to either side of him; red and orange. He glances to his left, and there, in that ugly red of his Ferrari behind the plate number three, the Monegasque is already looking at him. He can’t see him under the helmet, but his head is pointedly turned. With shaky hands, he pushes himself out of the car and runs to his team. Mechanics, engineers and friends swarm him, lifting him up to the sky. He is unsure how his legs even carried him over, it feels like he has no control of them. There are hands everywhere on him as his team chants and he finally breaks himself free of the bubble wrap he’s been under and starts cheering with them. When he finally returns to solid ground, he high fives and hugs them all one by one, warmly accepting all their helmet taps and shoulder squeezes. His family didn’t come tonight, at the time he thought it was for the better. Jos was busy with rallying anyway.
An FIA official pulls him away to get weighed. As he waits in the little queue, drivers approach him, congratulating. Yuki seems apologetic even in his kudos, Alonso kisses his cheeks and hugs him tightly. It is only when Oscar offers him a tight-lipped smile and a nod of his head, that the realization washes over him. Turning around, he looks for a flash of black and neon green, but he doesn’t find him. Further down parc fermé, McLaren’s mechanics are sullenly rolling the car number 4 back into the garage. Maybe it’s better like this, he doubts Lando would be open to a conversation right now.
A corner of his eye tracks the red around parc fermé, there is so much he wants to say that he probably shouldn't. It feels like there are ants under his skin, just itching for him to reach out and grab onto the man’s shoulder; squeeze his shoulder twice, like only ever he does. Every opportunity to do so gets whisked away from him; Charles leaves for an interview just as Max walks up to the scale. It’s not a championship, but a podium deserves a celebration too, especially with the season Ferrari’s had. Whether it was their own fault or not is a completely different conversation. The scale official pushes the little ticket into his hands and he promptly gets escorted back over to the track, where David Coulthard is waiting for him under the floodlights of the Yas Marina. He mindlessly accepts the microphone and smiles at the Brit.
As soon as the interview is over, he can’t remember a word he’s said. He only hopes that Coulthard’s encouraging nods were a good sign.
He is very late to the winner’s lounge and pointedly looks away from the screen as a video of his radio message plays. “Is Charles catching him or not?” He feels eyes burn into his back as he fiddles with the helmet and its stand; the air in the room is thick with sweat and tension. He watches Lando cross the finish line half a car length behind Charles’ Ferrari on the screen as he chugs down his entire water bottle. It spills down his chin. He can still feel eyes on him.
“Congratulations on making history! Max Verstappen, Oscar Piastri, Charles Leclerc”
The podium heals something in him that has been rubbed raw over the last year. It all began with a string of races during the 2024 season where something that had never happened before, began happening to him regularly: he started doubting himself. He knows he never showed it on cameras because he would’ve been ripped to shreds by the British media; his name stretched thin to appease the beast: “Rosberg claims Verstappen ‘scared of’ Norris”. But the thoughts were there, issues falling asleep, indirectly stated opinions in debriefs. It took a toll, and when the gap dropped to 52 measly points, he found the strength to push through it. Brazil changed everything; the rain brought with it a generational win and a life-warping break up. Kelly said she was confused, that she didn’t see it coming, but deep down they both knew better. He ended the year with a new star on his racing gear, but it didn’t grant him his confidence back. A brief, miserable winter and then a new season started. He was a championship richer, but a friend poorer. Nobody seemed surprised. It fit the portrait they painted of him, single-minded and cutthroat. Sometimes he wondered whether their portrait was a mirror. The gravity of the relief he feels on that top step in Abu Dhabi shouldn’t come as a surprise to anybody.
He stands there, overlooking the hundreds of people below, his team, the fans, the entire world, and feels like he can finally breathe in fully again. There is a light breeze weaving through the hot desert air, and he feels like himself at last. He’s done something nobody else has been able to; a 104 point gap overturned to take home his fifth title. He broke Seb’s record and became the most successful Red Bull champion. He is home.
The trophy is pretty, looks pretty much like it always does here, handed over to him by a sheik whose hand he’s shaken before yet whose name escapes him. No place for such men in his mind. Anthems play one after another, and he stands on the podium, cap in hand, just drinking the feeling in. He’s himself again, no space for doubt under his skin anymore.
The crowd cheers, the faux-champagne pops and he sprays the Red Bull’s head of racing, chasing him down only for a moment, before the man retaliates. They laugh as the sparkling rose water douses their clothes. He turns away to wipe it from his eyes, but is met with a strong spray or someone intending to drown him in it. He manages to fight it off, and when he opens his eyes, the world stops for a moment. Charles is grinning widely, dimples on display, a playful twist in his eyebrows. The sparkling water eventually fizzles out and he takes a sip, pulling Oscar into a brief side hug, officially congratulating him on McLaren’s WCC. The Australian claps his shoulder in congratulations too, his smile not quite as genuine as it once was. He promises himself he’ll try to find his way back to all that he’s lost to his doubt.
The fireworks ring out, painting the navy blue sky in red and gold. His eyes find the green ones through the flurry of confetti and streamers, but as he takes a step forward, Charles side steps his hug in favour of pouring the rest of his drink down over his team. The move leaves him briefly startled, but thankfully, the photographer ushers them all to the top step for group photos.
His hands twitch as the Ferrari driver urges the Red Bull team member to the middle, ending up on the further side of him, but nothing can truly shake him up anymore, not now. He smiles for the pictures and walks off the podium, ready to face the rest of his life.
By the time he returns to his hotel room, he’s had two half-assed showers, but there is still Red Bull and rose water matting his hair. The room spins just slightly from all the alcohol he’s sneakily drank, but the night is only starting for him. His phone hasn’t stopped buzzing. Max easily deletes all notifications before navigating through his contacts and calling his mom. She answers almost instantly, cheering on the other end of the line with Victoria and the kids at her side. They talk to him like they always do, and a part of him thinks he’s never been any other version of himself but who he is when he hears his mom’s voice.
“Is it alright now?” She asks him before they hang up, when Victoria has already left to tuck the kids in. He thinks of her home in Belgium as he dials his dad’s number. He’ll have to visit once he’s back in Europe and let her feed him until she’s sick of cooking. It takes Jos a few extra rings to pick up. Max has seen it before; his dad watching the phone ring before he finally answers to leave the other person just ever so slightly on edge and anticipating. He doesn’t question what makes him deserve such treatment too. The call is as good as it can be. Jos is always on his best behaviour in moments like these.
The room is too big and too empty when they hang up, city lights and high rises shining in through the window to paint faint shadows over the furniture and Max’s unmoving form with it. He watches the piles of PR on the chair in the corner, gifts meant for Kelly. He could’ve used the company today. Never has a championship victory felt so lonely before. The itch returns and he is determined to scratch it tonight.
Walking into the club, he can already picture tomorrow’s headlines. They really should’ve announced the break up at some point. All the questions he’s dodged, leaning on his persona non grata to steer the interviews back to racing. Kelly didn’t want to announce it, holding out hope that they’ll reunite. If the idea that she was his girlfriend brought her more work, all the better. He wasn’t a fucking asshole, he wanted her and P well taken care of. In the end, it was inevitable. One can only pretend to be someone else for so long, he would know.
The lights are flashing, green and blue and pink, creating almost macabre shapes in the crowd. Everyone is smiling at him, offering high-fives and fist bumps as he pushes through the crowd to the VIP section up in the gallery. He feels good, wearing loose jeans and a black shirt that is just a bit too tight around the shoulders. Upstairs, half the paddock is spread out over half a dozen booths. Red Bull higher ups with random brand representatives, influencers pretending to be nonchalant, drivers and their girlfriends. He ends up slotted by Martijn’s side with a gin and tonic in his hand, chatting to him in Dutch. On the other side of him, there is an ever-present rotating cast of characters. Drivers and sponsors come to say hi and congratulate him, but the more drinks that he sinks, the more time his eyes spend glued to the booth across from theirs, on the little group up of the French and the French-adjacent.
“He's only downstairs, you know, you could always go talk to him.” Martijn says, leaning over, his breath hot on Max’s neck and smelling like vodka and fruit juice. Downstairs? What is he talking about? Charles is right there. He turns to look at his friend, a confused pout on his lips.
“I said Lando’s downstairs, you can go talk to him!” He repeats, louder this time. Oh, Lando. Max looks off the balcony to the packed general area, but doesn’t even pretend to consider it. Lando wouldn’t talk to him, not tonight, not after everything, not again. The last two years ruptured the veins of their friendship, and he wasn’t sure if the bleeding out could be stopped. He at least knows better than to interrupt the Brit’s self-indulgent drinking. He turns back to the DJ at his side.
“Yeah, maybe later.”
On the other side, Charles is laughing at something Pierre is saying. The movement exposes the line of his throat. Max’s mouth dries and he downs the rest of his drink. Martijn claps his shoulder. “That’s good. It’s been awful with you two like this. Now, move out of my way, I am ready to start dancing!”
Not long after his departure, a pretty blonde takes his place, a gin and tonic in her manicured hand; an offering. He accepts it with a smile and lets her talk at him, still stealing glances across the space. She’s a model, he thinks she says, as he looks at the French bend in half, laughing at something Charles is saying as he gestures wildly. He has that effect on the people; Max has seen people online questioning how funny the Ferrari driver actually is and how much of it is people charmed by his good looks. It isn’t fair, he thinks, to make such inferences. Charles is actually quite funny and quick with his words, and how is one meant to resist his beauty anyway?
The now-empty glass is sweating in his hand, and the air smells like air conditioning and that specific artificial freshener high end clubs disperse to cover the overall musk so many drunk, sweaty people in one place inevitably produce. The blonde puts a hand on his thigh, looking up at him through her lashes. There’s a distant part of him that considers it, but like with most things, he knows what he actually wants and it isn’t this. He wants a few more drinks and to sing and yell with the team until his voice gives out or he can’t stand upright anymore. Whichever comes first. An instinctual glance over finds the green eyes narrowed and observing him, moving down to the hand disappearing under the table and then back up at the girl next to him. God, Charles will think he’s a piece of shit, nobody knows about Kelly yet. He excuses himself and heads for the bathroom, in desperate need of a reset.
The bathroom looks like they always do; polished sandstone tiles, warm lighting and fake plants. He leans down, splashing his face with water when the door opens and closes. The man doesn’t walk further into the space, lingering by the door instead. Confused, Max reaches over for the paper towels to wipe his face, and when he finally looks over, Charles is standing there, leaning against the door with a serious look on his face. Christ, the things he would do. The alcohol is loud and hot in his bloodstream; he scrunches up the wet paper towels in his hand.
“Congrats on the podium.” He says, playing the role of a normal guy, a colleague maybe even.
Charles nods, offering a tight-lipped smile in return. “Ah yes, thank you, Max. Congratulations on your fifth.” The brunette’s tone is off, and maybe Max is reading into it too much, but it almost seems like Charles is mad at him. Maybe he can’t read him anymore like he once could. It’s been a while since he’s been on the receiving end of the Monegasque’s anger. Of his anything, really. Over his time at Ferrari, the man has adopted a polished, ever-media ready persona that has become hard to see through. It irks him, sometimes he feels like he’s the only one who still remembers who Charles was. Who he still knows Charles is, somewhere underneath all the PR training. Ferrari may have a muzzle on him, but Max still remembers his bark.
“Thank you, it was a long shot, I still feel like it hasn’t set in properly, but the team did a really great job in the second half of the season.” He’s said those words a dozen times already tonight. They come out automatically.
Charles hums, the eyes still narrowed at him, eyebrows furrowed slightly. Maybe he’s had a lot to drink, Max considers. “The team did well, yes.” And if Max was reading into his tone, which he isn’t, he’d say that the man is perhaps a bit bitter. One can’t blame him really, after everything Ferrari has put him through in this season alone.
“And I didn’t?” The words come out, meant to be a joke, to break the unusual tension filling the space between them, but Charles doesn’t smile, tutting in disapproval instead, leaning his head slightly to the side as he speaks. Looking at the Dutchman like he sees through him. The paper towel in Max’s hands is shredded to bits by now.
“Oh come on, Max, are you really wanting me to compliment you?” His accent is thick like it always is when he drinks, and Max realizes that he is in danger, unwanted heat pooling in him. His throat goes dry again.
Someone tries to open the bathroom door, but Charles leans heavily on it, pushing back. The person seemingly gives up immediately, probably mortified, but as the silence stretches, with Max uncertain how to respond to the question like a normal person, his eyes keep glancing at the door behind Charles.
“Are you in a rush? Is she waiting for you?” Charles asks then, once he catches the glances.
Max blinks, confused. “Who?"
“The blonde you were about to cheat on Kelly with. I heard that about you, you know, that you get drunk and go home with whoever has your interest for the night.” And ouch, Max didn’t see that one coming. He’s known about the rumors circulating across the paddock following him across the continents, and even if they weren’t based on nothing, the implication still stings. It’s not just the cheating, the rumor in the motorsport circles has been that more often than not, a man ends up in his sheets. It’s followed him around like a shadow he’s been trying to get rid of since he was a teenager. Everyone tried to shield him from it; his dad, Horner, Helmut. A part of him always wondered why people cared. The team pushed the traditional motorsports family gimmick. Him seeming cold and uninterested in anything but racing helped, too. Again, rumors not necessarily untrue, but therefore all the more dangerous. Max is almost impressed with Charles’ audacity to bring it up like this, especially in the fucking Emirates.
“You don’t have to be a bitch about it, Charles. Not that it is any of your business, but Kelly and I have broken up.” He says, completely refusing to acknowledge the elephant in the room. Charles’ expression changes quickly at that, appearing almost sobered up by the words. The air in the bathroom changes. The brunette’s face betrays a complicated mix of emotions Max doesn’t care to even start interpreting; surprise, relief, maybe something akin to wistfulness. Rolling his eyes, Max moves forward, determined to leave before the argument escalates.
“When?” Charles’ voice comes out softer now, genuine curiosity on his face. It pisses Max off that it even matters to the man. He always has been such a gossip. Must be those southern genes.
“It’s been a while. What does it even matter, Charles?” He says, annoyed. “I’m not going to fuck the blonde, if that’s what you’re asking. I haven’t seen Alexandra around so maybe you can have her, join the club and see how you like the rumors spreading when they’re about you. Isn’t that why all your other girlfriends dumped you, anyway?”
He regrets the words quickly; the Monegasque looks like someone’s slapped him as he glares at Max. “If this is how you talked to Kelly, no wonder why she left you.” There is genuine hurt in those green eyes. Ah, there he is, a part of him thinks.
Max raises an amused eyebrow, so angry he hears his heartbeat in his ears, in disbelief this is where the conversation ended up when all he wanted was to freshen up and get to the dancefloor. “For your information, she didn’t dump me, but I see now what all of this is about. You want me to talk to you like I talked to her, Charles?” The words are mean, the delivery even more so. He’s learned a long time ago that there are no words more effective against homophobia than the implication that it’s internalized. And Charles? He looks so distraught and disgusted at the statement that Max instinctively takes a step back, almost bracing to be punched. It wouldn’t be the first time. “What? Cat got your tongue, now?” Max asks, almost asking for it. Even now, it’s the most riveting thing in the world to have Charles’ full attention on him.
Charles stays silent, unmoving like a statue. Max catches a glance of himself in the huge mirror above the sink and realizes just how hungry he looks. Mortified, he decides enough is enough. He has to get out of here before he does something even dumber. He moves to leave, but the brunette is still blocking the door. “Move.” He orders sharply, and then pushes him to try to get him out of the way. His hand meets the firm muscle of Charles’ arm and the man immediately grabs his wrist. His hold is firm, almost painful as Max tries to pull his hand free. In response, Charles does the opposite, tugging him closer. For a moment they are closer than they’ve ever been. Close enough that he can count the brunette’s eyelashes; close enough that a tilt of a head would brush their lips together. He exhales shakily as time seems to stop. Their eyes lock onto each other and the thought forms in his mind so clearly. He could kiss him. He should kiss him and then let it all crash and burn. Five heartbeats pass before Charles’ grip on his wrist loosens. He can feel his breath on his skin, the sweet and citrusy smell of Charles’ cologne in his nostrils. He could kiss him, he thinks that maybe Charles would even let him right now.
The moment of weakness passes and he comes out on the other end, alive. He rips his arm free of the Monegasque’s grip and storms out, trying to walk normally and not let his boner show. Thank God he let Red Bull’s stylist talk him out of his love for skinny jeans. Heading straight to the bar, he orders two gin and tonics, ignoring the people trying to get his attention. He downs the first in one go, and then sips on the other one as he heads for the dance floor. There, a crowd forms around him quickly, and the DJ starts accepting their requests. Max starts accepting shots and distantly considers how easy of a target he would be for an assassination. Everyone is familiar with his vices, only GT’s appearing in his hands out of thin air like he is performing magic tricks. There are constantly hands on him, his own in the air as he screams out the lyrics to pop and rock anthems that start bleeding into each other. The lights are flashing, he can see them even with his eyes closed. The bass is resonating through his bones and he almost feels like he is out of his own body. Yelling at the top of his lungs but unable to hear himself, so many hands on him that he isn’t sure where he ends and the people around him start. Someone’s fingers tangle into his hair, it’s gotten longer than he likes again, and a shiver ripples down his back. A part of him wishes it would never end, part of him wants to disappear and never be seen again. He yells and jumps and gets lost in the moment for hours, until his feet hurt and his throat is dried up and sore. Nothing another drink can’t fix.
Almost an hour passes from the moment he decides he needs fresh air to the moment he finally fights his way out of the crowd and onto the balcony. Along the way, a blurry figure with a voice he recognizes from the garage pushes a chilled bottle of water into his hands.
Outside, the desert air is cold and refreshing, sobering him up slightly on impact. He sips his water, looking out over the Abu Dhabi skyline. In the distance, the circuit is visible, the floodlights still on. He looks around, trying to orient himself. He doesn’t see his hotel from here, but he knows it isn’t far. His shirt is sticking to his skin, his phone is missing. He hopes it’s somewhere upstairs. The water burns slightly on its way down, stomach churning slightly. God, don’t let him throw up. The sliding door hisses open behind him and he instinctively turns to look at the arrival. Jesus Christ.
“You again?” Charles Leclerc silently walks up to him, leaning on the glass railing beside him.
“I don’t want to fight with you, Max.” He says eventually.
“Well good, then don’t.” Max says, brattier than necessary. It causes the other man to huff, a shadow of a smile on his lips as he looks out into the distance. Unfortunately for them both, with the brunette beside him, the view from the balcony just does not compare. Max can’t peel his eyes away. Charles is wearing a linen button up, the sleeves rolled up to show off his strong forearms, the lights from inside casting shadows over his pronounced veins. He’s wearing some ridiculously wide slacks too and a bunch of silver jewelry, he has a sponsor, Max thinks. Maybe he just doesn’t understand fashion, but it doesn’t matter anyway because the brunette always looks good. After a moment, because he just can’t help himself, he talks again. “Are you following me around, Charles?”
The man doesn’t spare him more than a glance, now actually smiling. Like the notion alone is funny. It really isn’t.
“I just wanted to say that I didn’t… mean to say that… earlier?”
The man looks further than he actually is, the gin coming back to mess with Max’s head. “That’s not an apology, Charles.” And if he was less drunk, and if it wasn’t one of the best days of his life, and maybe, maybe, if Charles wasn’t who he is, the anger from before would’ve lingered. He never was one to forget a grudge. But it is Charles, and between the two of them, he was always the one stubborn and unforgiving. Racing incidents, compliments to the press or even friendly bickering- it always felt like the Monegasque simply couldn’t move on. Even when years passed, and Max knew Charles was over it, he kept bringing up the incidents casually, jokingly, some part of him always holding on. Max couldn’t even bring himself to mind, at least this way there was something tethering them to each other. He wasn’t above reminiscing either; everybody teased him for weeks after he showed up to the paddock excited, with a picture of him and Charles in hand, tiny in their racing suits at a karting event over a decade ago. So no, Charles wasn’t apologising and no, Max couldn’t stay mad at him.
“No, what I said wasn't a nice thing to say, but you were not nice either, Max.”
Max laughs. “You started it!”
Finally, finally, Charles turns to look at him, huffing. “You can understand what it looked like, oui?”
Max snorts in response. “Even so, it wouldn’t have been any of your business.” He says and Charles’ jaw tightens. “You’re the pot calling the kettle black.” He adds smugly.
The tension in the brunette’s face disappears and he tilts his head, swaying slightly from the alcohol. “I do not understand this. What is the meaning of it? The kettle is black?”
“Oh.” Max blinks, plush lips pouting. “It’s like they are the same, but one doesn’t admit it.”
Charles’ eyebrows furrow. “But we are not the same.”
“So your exes didn’t leave you for cheating? I heard you slept your way through half of Monaco back in the day.” Max’s blue eyes narrow at Charles suspiciously. The man sputters, not directly denying the claims, clearly frazzled. It amuses the blond to no end, he watches him gesture with a smile.
“That was a long time ago. I was young and stupid.” He ends up saying.
“Are you no longer young? You are certainly still dumb.” Max teases, eyes crinkling from the smile stretching his lips.
“Ahhh! You are so frustrating, Max. It is just not the same, you are not being fair! I thought you were going to cheat on Kelly tonight and I do know better, now, for the record.”
“I’m not being fair?” Max laughs in disbelief. “You accused me of cheating not even knowing I was single!”
“That is also your fault!” The brunette huffs. “Why did you not tell anyone?”
Max blinks at him. “Some people know.”
“Oh.” Charles looks embarrassed, like he overestimated his place. Max never wants to be the cause of that.
“I just didn’t want the media to tear into our lives. It was easier like this, I guess. I think she still has hope we’ll end up together.” He says, immediately feeling like he betrayed her.
Charles nods thoughtfully, turning back to look at the city skyline. “You said it ended a while ago?”
Max hums, nodding, eyes glued to the man’s profile. Strong jaw littered by a stubble, high cheekbones, a straight nose. The high rises around them cast an oddly blue hue over him that makes him look like a painting. “Since Brazil last year.”
Charles’ body visibly tenses up. “That’s… a long time to keep a secret, Max.”
The Dutchman snorts, wishing he had another drink in his hand. “Some secrets last a lifetime.”
The silence that spills between them isn’t necessarily tense, but there's a charge there, like lightning is about to strike. Charles still isn’t looking at him. Max wonders if he crossed the line of what the man can ignore. They never talked about it really, F1 has become a politically silent sport under Ben Sulayem’s rule. A steady decline over a decade. It wasn’t like Max necessarily minded, at the end of the day, they were there to race. Gay marriage still wasn’t legal in Monaco, and Charles did love the royal family; Max has learned better than to assume people were sympathetic.
“Do other drivers know?” Charles asks instead, for some reason still stuck on that, completely ignoring Max’s sort-of-confession.
“Uhm, the Bulls all know, Kimi and Nico too.”
Charles looks at him again. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Max shrugs, not even knowing where to begin with that. ¸He never purposefully spoke to the other drivers about it. It just kind of came up in conversations.
“Did you not want to or did you just forget?” The question is loaded. It feels like both paths lead down to ruin. And, to be fair to Max, it isn’t like they are exactly friends away from the paddock. They never do anything together even if they are technically neighbors.
“I guess it just never came up. I told you now.” God, another drink would do him wonders.
“Oui, after I accused you of being a terrible guy!” The brunette huffs, gesturing with his hands nonsensically. And Max looks at him, like he so often does. Truly looks at him.
“Surely you think better than that of me by now.” He watches Charles’ Adam’s apple bob as the man turns away from him again.
“I never know what to think of you, Max.” And Christ isn’t that something. “Everyone is always saying so many things about you.”
“You can’t believe paddock gossip, Charles.” He says, quickly becoming defensive again. A silent moment passes.
“Why not?” The Monegasque’s voice carries a lot of emotion suddenly. “What they say about me is true.”
For the first time, Max stays silent. Just watching the spread of his wide shoulders and tiny waist quietly; watching him breathe- in and out, in and out.
“And you?” He asks, still not looking at Max.
“What about me?”
“Are the rumours about you true, Max?” Their eyes meet again. The blond feels both more sober and more under the influence than he ever has. He wonders if the other man can hear just how loudly his heart is beating.
“Sometimes.”
“You know what I am asking, Max.”
His throat is so dry that swallowing hurts, and his heart is beating so hard that he almost feels dizzy from it. For a man who’s been driving an F1 car at 250 km/h for a decade, this feeling is unprecedented. In a way, he thinks this moment has always been inevitable. He nods, once.
Charles doesn’t say anything for a while. Max studies the empty water bottle in his hands, unwilling to watch the fallout of his admission. They do both know what he means. He wonders if he should just leave, but his feet feel like lead and his heart wants to stay there and take whatever comes next. Maybe seeing the disgust on the other man’s face will finally break him free of the hex he’s been under for a decade. He never thought Charles wanted him back; not in the way that Max wants him, but that distant part of him nurtured his one sided desires regardless. It never necessarily prevented him from pursuing others, instead, it was a little safe haven he could return to, to let his mind wander, to get lost in his daydreams. A constant in the exhilarating mess that is his life. A quiet obsession whose time has run out. Bravely, he looks up and finds Charles’ green eyes intensely looking at him. Not for the first time, it feels like the man knows him; sees right through him.
Neither of them speaks; the only sound is the dull pulse of the music filtering out through the glass doors. Charles takes a step closer and Max forgets how to breathe.
“You’re scared.” The brunette says.
Max laughs once, the sound comes out wrong; nervous and strained. “What am I supposed to think with you looking at me like that after what I just said?”
Charles’ expression twists into something wounded. Max thinks he might bite off his tongue.
“Do you think I followed you into the toilets because I was worried about Kelly?”
Max opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. “You are an idiot.” Charles huffs.The accusation is so familiar that it almost makes him smile, maybe it will all be fine.
“Charles, listen-”
The Monegasque shakes his head, interrupting. “No, it isn’t fair. You spend years looking at me like that and now you are acting surprised?”
The world seems to tilt and they just stare at each other. Max opens and closes his mouth, not knowing what to say. Has he been that obvious? Why hasn’t Charles said anything earlier? The idea is mortifying. Frantic thoughts fill his mind. “I don’t know what to say to that, Charles.”
“You looked like you were running away from her.”
Max laughs in disbelief, still nervous to no end. “I was never going to take her back to my hotel, Charles. Is that what you are asking?”
“Why not?”
Max looks at him like he is seeing him for the first time. Maybe someone did spike his drink. Maybe he is high and hallucinating the entire thing. Maybe he is dead and some higher force decided this is what heaven would look like for him. Maybe this is hell and Charles is about to call him pathetic. “I was never really into blondes.” He says instead.
The smile that spreads on Charles’ face then, makes him feel like he’s back on that podium with another Championship trophy in his hands. Even in the dark, lit only by distant lights of the city and flashes of color from the inside, he could swear that there is a blush on the brunette’s cheeks. What is going on?
A corner of his mouth twitches up, almost in disbelief of what he’s seeing.
“Don’t.” Charles says, a smile growing on his lips too.
“Don’t what? I’m not doing anything.” He insists, fully grinning now.
"You know exactly what." The brunette looks down for a moment, shaking his head. When he looks back up, there is something unbearably fond in his expression.
The music spills onto the balcony as somebody opens the door behind them before disappearing back inside. Max's heart is beating so hard he can feel it in his throat.
"You really are an idiot." Charles says softly, no bite to it.
“Never said I wasn’t.”
A small laugh escapes the brunette, and then, in a move that makes Max dizzy, he glances at his lips and steps forward. Max can feel his organs lock up, everything in him goes completely still. Charles moves again, reaching, but Max’s stomach drops and his instincts are faster. He grabs onto the other man’s wrist, looking at him wide eyed.
“No.” The word comes out far harsher than intended.
For a brief moment, he can see the panic in Charles, but it melts away as Max glances at the glass door, towards the party inside, hundreds of people there, anyone who means anything in their world only meters away. Reality seems to crash over him, and he takes a quick step back. Max reluctantly drops his hand.
"This is Abu Dhabi." Max says. The words are short but understanding settles over Charles' features. He doesn’t look quite hurt, but there is something ever sadder behind his eyes.
"I'm not saying no."
“Then what are you saying, Max?”
“I’m saying…” Max sighs. “What about Alexandra?”
Charles laughs and the blond looks at him somewhat annoyed. This whole thing started because of Kelly but now he’s laughing? The hypocrisy of it-
“She works for Ferrari.” Charles says, interrupting his thoughts. He might actually be dead. It feels like there are fireworks going off in his stomach. “To keep up appearances. They have very… specific ideas of who I should be… for the public, at least.”
“Charles.” Max says then, completely serious. “She works for Ferrari?”
“Well not on the record.”
“Charles.”
“What?” he suddenly looks embarrassed.
“Charles.” Max says again, trying to convey the feeling of holy shit you better not be messing with me right now.
“Oui? You are making me nervous, stop that.”
“Will you come with me?”
Charles nods without hesitation. Max’s hands are shaking as he nods, unable to even smile from the overwhelm of the reality in front of him. “Are you staying at the Island?”
Charles nods again. “Okay then, call a car and go back. I have to get my things and say bye to everyone but I will be there soon. I’ll text you my room number?”
Charles smiles, reaching for his hand and giving it a quick squeeze before they go back inside and lose each other in the crowd. The entire time they spend apart, Max’s heart feels like it will break his ribs and escape. He says bye to whoever he runs into, telling them all he’s drunk and exhausted, as he searches for his phone. Finding it snaps the band and not even fifteen minutes later he is in his hotel room at one of the top floors, pacing around and waiting for that knock on his door. He unlocks his phone, checking that he actually texted Charles. He locks it, then unlocks it again, checking that he actually sent him the correct room number. He stares at the screen for so long that it dims. He sits down at the bottom of the bed and then stands up. He doesn’t want to insinuate anything. He sits in the armchair in the corner for a moment and then stands up, continuing to pace again. He turns all the possible combinations of lighting on and off, starting to feel like a crazy person. He settles on bedside lamps and a taller one in the corner of the suite, that paint everything in a soothing, warm light. He checks his phone again, watching the two blue ticks by his message. How is it almost half past four in the morning already? He completely lost track of time at the club.
Enough time passes that he starts to wonder if Charles changed his mind. Maybe some sense has gotten into him and he realised what he is getting himself into.
Finally, there is a knock on the door. He takes a deep breath and opens it, and Charles pushes past him into the room immediately. He is wearing different clothes and he smells like he’s showered. The hood of his sweatshirt is pulled low over his face. Max raises an amused eyebrow. “What’s with the hoodie?”
“So the cameras don’t see me.” Charles says like it’s obvious.
Max laughs loudly and then stops when he sees the pout forming on the other man’s lips. “No, no, I’m sorry, it’s just that it’s a Ferrari hoodie with your number, Charles.”
“Oh.” Charles looks down with a frown. It reminds Max of just how drunk they both actually are. A fondness blooms in his chest.
“Do you want a drink?” He offers, tucking his hands away into his jeans’ pockets, suddenly aware of what they’re doing and how awkward this whole ordeal has been. Like two newborn deer stumbling around on new legs.
Charles shakes his head. “I think I have had enough, yes?” He starts walking around the suite, curiously looking around. Max smiles, nodding, and sits down on the edge of the bed, eyes tracking the man through the space.
“RedBull really treat their champion well.” The Monegasque says, a teasing lilt to his voice.
Max snorts. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Ferrari had you in an even nicer suite.”
Charles turns back to look at him from the corner of his eyes, a huge, knowing grin on his lips. He just shrugs in response and Max chuckles in disbelief. If any part of the man’s public persona is accurate, he has been living a very stylish, very pampered lifestyle.
The brunette walks up to a console under the unnecessarily giant TV and, maintaining eye contact, starts pushing things off it. Max’s Red Bull cap first, then his paddock pass, then an empty Red Bull can that held way too much vodka at one point last night. Max watches him, amused by this cat-like tantrum. He can’t wait to go home to Sassy, Jimmy and Donut.
The man picks up Max’s championship edition cap up next, pushing the hood of his sweatshirt off and replacing it with it. “It isn’t fair that you get everything.” He says. Max wants to eat him whole. Before he gets to say anything in return, Charles takes another step, fingers tracing Max’s trophy from the race tonight. A beautiful but ultimately unimportant model of a falcon cast in silver. With bated breath, Max watches him push the trophy off. It clatters to the ground with a dull thud, muffled by the carpeted floor.
“What has gotten into you tonight?” He asks.
Charles considers him seriously for a moment. “You have. You think you can just say anything and get away with it.”
“Me? What did I even say?”
Charles starts walking towards him then. Stopping just out of arm’s reach in front of him. It is positively tantalizing.
“Is Charles catching him or not?” Charles quotes and Max blushes. The other man doesn’t seem to be taking it lightly. “How could you say that, Max?”
The blond blinks, confused at the departure. “Are you mad at me?”
The man hesitates but then nods. “Yes, a bit.”
Max huffs in disbelief. “Why?”
“What if I didn’t catch him and you were counting on me like that?”
Oh. “Oh, Charles, I didn’t think you’d hear that. It wasn’t your championship to win or lose, I’m sorry if you felt like that.”
“Someone had to. You couldn’t do it by yourself tonight, and Yuki…” The brunette trails off, shaking his head disapprovingly.
“His car is actually-” Max starts up automatically, but Charles takes another step forward, cupping his cheek and effectively stopping him from launching into a car development spiel. The hand on his cheek makes him look up, and he does, reverently.
“If I didn’t catch him, I think I would’ve died, Max.” The Monegasque says, honest and vulnerable.
“You didn’t even look at me in parc fermé, or on the podium.”
“I couldn’t or I would’ve done something stupid.”
“Like follow me into the bathroom?” Max asks with a soft smile, heart filled with fondness.
“Oui, or I would’ve tried to kiss you like on that balcony.”
The hand on his cheek ushers him up and he goes willingly, legs shaky under him. Now, face to face, a sense of calmness fills his arteries. Charles offers him a small smile, a check in, and he smiles back. It’s okay.
Charles’ lips are soft and warm on his, the man’s stubble poking at his chin gently. He smiles into it, but Charles’ hand slips from his jaw into his hair and pulls him closer. He kisses him back, hungry and insatiable. They kiss for a while, pulling at each other, trying to occupy the same space. Charles nips his upper lip, the demon that he is, and Max gasps. The given opportunity doesn’t go to waste and Charles’ tongue barges into his mouth. He gets an overwhelming feeling of being putty in the other man’s hands. They fight, like they always do, licking behind each other’s teeth, until they physically have to pull apart for air. Max feels dizzy and he is so, so hard. The most he’s ever been, he thinks.
He goes to say something, but the thought dies on his swollen lips as Charles pushes him gently onto the bed and climbs over him. “Hey.” He says dumbly instead.
Charles chuckles. “Yes, hello Max.” He says, and then his lips are on him instantly. Charles licks at the mole on his upper lips and the Dutchman feels like he is about to combust. He pouts and it only seems to stir the other man up further, prying his lips open, their tongues clash again. As they kiss, Max’s fingers tangle in the bottom of Charles’ hoodie. He tugs on it, and begrudgingly, the man breaks the kiss pulling it over his head. The movement knocks Max’s championship cap off his brown curls and Max frowns, rolling over on the bed to retrieve it. When his eyes find Charles’ form again, the man’s skin is on full display, no undershirt, it would seem.
He is greedy, so he puts the cap back onto Charles’ head and then lets his hands explore the skin that has been presented to him so graciously. Firm muscles, soft skin and vanilla scented perfume… Max might come into his pants like a teenager. He guides his hands down Charles’ front, purposefully dragging over his nipples. The man shivers under his touch, and God, he shaves his torso. It’s nothing Max hasn’t seen on his Instagram before, Charles really isn’t a stranger to thirst-trapping, but seeing it in front of him like this? Abs and a happy trail disappearing into the band of his black boxers? His dick twitches in his, rapidly tighter, jeans.
“You are so, so pretty, Charles.” He says without stopping to think about it. “So perfect.”
The brunette grins down at him bashfully, still kneeling over him as he adjusts the navy cap on his head so the brim is facing back. Then, he dives back in, a knee slotting between Max’s thighs, punching a moan out of him. His grin widens even further, turning predatory. “Look at you.” He says, the French accent thick. Max whines, and Charles only puts more pressure to his crotch.
The feeling of the firm thigh muscle under him, rough through the material of his jeans, makes the blond’s head spin. He might not survive this.
There are lips tracing his jaw now, pressing into the sensitive skin under his ears and then down his neck. Meeting the fabric there, Charles’ lips move back up, teeth scraping the skin stretched thin over his jawline.
“Off.” He speaks into Max’s skin, fingers pushing the soft material of his shirt up, and then over his head. Once his shirt is off, Charles takes a moment to look at him properly before returning to the task at hand. He mouths at the column of his throat, biting into the junction between his neck and his shoulder. Max’s hips stutter instinctively, chasing friction against the man’s thigh. He whines and feels Charles smile against his skin, licking the bite mark and then moving further south. He leaves a few hickies on his chest, giving unprecedented amounts of attention to his nipples until Max is whining again, pushing him off.
“What is the problem, Max?” He chuckles as he pushes himself back up, kneeling over him. “You have such nice tits.” He teases, causing Max to roll his eyes, starting to move away from him.
Charles is instantly on him again, pressing his wrists into the mattress on either side of his head. Max’s pupils are blown wide, breathing irregular. His dick twitches in his pants again and Charles grins down at him. “Do you think you could get off on my thigh like that, Max?” He asks and the blond’s head spins. He nods dumbly, no actual words forming in his brain.
The Monegasque hums, satisfied. “Not tonight. Tonight, you deserve a proper congratulations for your championship, yes?”
Max nods again. Then, unexpectedly, Charles starts moving down his body again, a large, warm hand cupping the bulge through his jeans. He moans loudly, pushing up into the touch.
“God…” Charles stares down at him in disbelief. “I can’t believe you have a big dick too. Max, it is so unfair, do you understand what I am talking about?”
If it is at all possible, the blond flushes even further. The pink spills onto his chest.
“Is it okay?” Charles asks, causing Max to snap out of it a bit, looking down at him. He nods in answer to the hands on the button of his jeans, pushing himself up onto his elbows to look at Charles as he unzips him, standing up off the bed to tug his jeans off.
“I am glad your pants are becoming looser, this would’ve been an impossible task a year ago.” He teases, fingers now tucking into the waistband of Max’s boxers. The blond laughs, somewhat embarrassed, but Charles leans over and presses a kiss at his bulge through the cotton and then pulls them off. Free at last, his dick, hard and leaking, springs up and slaps against his stomach, leaving a dribble of precum there. Charles tosses his underwear away carelessly and then, maintaining eye contact like he did earlier, sinks to his knees at the foot of the bed, pulling the blond down the sheets until his calves are hanging off the bed on either side of Charles. In disbelief, feeling like he is in an alternate universe, he watches his lifelong rival and crush, kiss up his thighs, sucking a hickey into the sensitive skin there too. Possessive much? Max thinks, no part of him against the idea and utterly too obsessed with what is happening to comment on it.
Charles licks up his length, tongue flat, fingers spreading the precum to help the glide, and Max’s brain shortcircuits. “You’ve done this before.” He says breathlessly, trying not to buck up into his hand. The other man laughs. “You know what they say, I ran through half of Monaco, oui?”
God, don’t let him come too quickly, he might die if this gets cut short early.
“Such a nice dick, Max, will you fuck me later?”
He grunts, nodding feverishly. “God, please, Charles… You are unreal.”
The other man chuckles again, hands steadily moving over Max’s erection. The drag has gotten a bit dry, but he almost comes on spot when Charles spits into his hand and uses it in place of lube. A few strokes later, he finally takes him into his mouth. Pretty lips stretching around his dick, long eyelashes casting shadows under the warm lights. One of Max’s hands fists the silky sheets, the other flexing at his side before he brings it up to his mouth and bites into it. Charles’ head bobs on him, tongues pressing in all the right spots as he sucks to create pressure. He’s so good at it, so much better than the inexperienced version of him Max has always jerked off to in his shower after long days. It makes him wish all the other guys who have gotten to experience this would just die.
It doesn’t take long before he’s grabbing onto Charles’ shoulder, squeezing, letting him know he’s close. The man doesn’t relent, pushing himself further down the hard length until Max’s dick hits the back of his throat. A warm hand gently cups his balls and that’s it; he spills down Charles’ throat, his elbow giving out, the back of his head hitting the mattress.
After a few moments of unfiltered bliss, the man pulls off him, coughing slightly. Max immediately pulls him back onto the bed, kissing him. He can taste himself on Charles’ lips and it makes his dick twitch weakly again. He’ll be hard again in no time.
“That was so, so, so fucking good.” He says, making a point of each word by pressing a peck into Charles’ skin. “You are fucking incredible.”
The Monegasque chuckles bashfully, catching his lips into another bruising kiss.
“I’ve always wanted to do that.” He admits as they pull apart for air again, and yeah, Max is hard again.
“Always?”
“Well since I knew I wanted to suck dicks.” He laughs, cheeks flushed, bashful even in his embarrassment.
“And when was that?” Max asks. It feels like an important thing to talk about.
“Oh my goodness, Max, I don’t know. Maybe since we were seventeen?”
It suddenly feels like everything Max has ever known is a lie. Laws of physics don’t apply anymore; left is right and up is down.
“You can’t be serious.” He says in disbelief.
“Why would I lie? You think I am trying to impress you after I just gave you a blowjob?” Charles laughs, teasing, and leaning over to kiss him again.
Max kisses him back, but then pulls away, studying his face, still in disbelief. “Just for the record, me too.”
The brunette snorts, kissing his cheek and then jaw softly. “I think everyone in the world already knows that, Max.”
The statement is mortifying and incredibly arousing. “Why did you never say anything?” He asks with a frown.
Charles sighs, pulling back slightly. “It will make everything so hard, Max. You know that.”
“I don’t want to think about that right now.” Max admits, the concept too sobering.
“Good.” Charles says, kissing him again. “Will you fuck me now?”
Max blinks at him, processing the request and then nods, snapping into action when the man raises his eyebrows at him expectantly.
He fishes lube and a condom out of his suitcase and then joins, now completely naked and stroking himself, Charles on the bed. His dick is just a bit shorter, but mouthwateringly thick. He stares for a moment before the brunette pushes him with his leg.
“Do you usually bottom?” Max asks as he strokes himself back to full hardness at the sight of Charles naked and jerking off on his bed. God, they have to do this again in Monaco, in his real bed. Charles reaches for the lube impatiently, starting to work himself open.
“Not often. It’s bad when your job is driving a car really fast, no?” He says, strained and slightly breathless. Max hums in agreement, lubing his fingers up too and then slapping Charles’ hands away. “Let me.”
The slide of his finger in is surprisingly easy, so after only a few passes he adds another without much struggle. Charles is laying on his back, legs spread for Max, bent at the knees, face tucked into his elbow.
“Have you done this today already?” Max asks, tone low and careful.
Charles whines in response and that is all it takes for Max to add the thirds fingers, pushing into him more firmly. He knows he brushes his prostate by the way Charles’ body twitches, another moan escaping from his lips.
“Did you think about me?” He asks then, fingers slowing down, purposefully dragging over the spot.
Charles whines, nodding, face still hidden away. Max slaps his ass with his free hand. “Hey, look at me.”
“Good boy.” He praises when the brunette listens to him. “Was it after the club? Is that why I had to wait for you? You were having fun by yourself?” He tuts, feigning disapproval.
To his surprise, Charles shakes his head, looking directly at him finally. “Non.”
“No? When then?” His hands are still moving in and out steadily.
Charles groans, looking away for a moment and then back at Max. “After we argued in the toilets.”
He freezes, much to the other man’s dismay. He frowns, pushing himself down Max’s fingers. Eventually, he banishes the scene from his mind and pulls his fingers out. He leans over, pushing Charles’ knees apart and kisses his hipbone and then down his pelvis. Nose itchy from the other man’s nicely trimmed pubes, he presses a single kiss into the side of his dick and then pulls away again.
He watches Charles watch him in some sort of trance as he rolls the condom on. He pulls him closer, always knowing the Monegasque would like being manhandled. He lines himself up and then pushes in, completely in awe at the way his length disappears into Charles' perfect ass.
“So pretty for me. God, so perfect for me, aren’t you Charles?”
He pulls out and then pushes roughly back in, pulling a moan out of the other man. Head thrown back, words lost between incoherent moaning and mumbling he sees the brunette agree, nodding rapidly. The cap is now completely askew on his curls, but he put it on so proudly, so Max reaches over and fixes it, its brim hiding part of Charles’ face from him.
“And you were so, so good for me today, weren’t you Charles? Pushed that red tractor of yours to its limit to make sure I get my championship, didn’t you?”
“Oui, oui, Max, please.” He grants him his wish, hooking his knee over his own shoulder, pushing deeper into him. “He didn’t deserve it. It was always yours.”
His hips snap sharply and they both moan. He doesn’t know how much more of this he can take. He slows down, purposefully pulling Charles closer to the edge, and only once his dick is leaking over his pretty little waist does he start moving quickly again.
“Fuck Charles, I don’t know- Fuck, I think I’m close…” The pleasure is so all-encompassing that his brain can even form sentences anymore, but Charles clearly gets the message regardless. “Me too, Max, fuck!”
He reaches down to take Charles’ dick into his hand to push him over the edge, but the man slaps his hand away, shaking his head. “Non, no, Max I think I can-”
And that is enough. It’s all it takes until he’s burying himself deep into the man, spilling into the condom with a grunt, Charles tightening around him. He continues fucking into him, like an animal rabid to breed its mate and finally, Charles is coming too, cum spurting over both of their stomachs, a piece of it shooting up to hit his stubbled chin. Max leans over and licks it clean before kissing him.
The kiss is different now, softer and more intimate after what has just unraveled between them. Charles kisses him back softly, his nails gently scratching down Max’s back. It makes him shiver. After a few moments of that, he slowly pushes back up to his knees and carefully pulls out. Despite his best efforts, it’s clearly uncomfortable for Charles and he frowns, quickly getting rid of the condom and coming back with a warm, wet towel to wipe the man off and help him back into his boxers. He then cleans himself in the bathroom, turning off the lamps as he makes his way back to the bed. Charles Leclerc, utterly blissed out from sex and sleepy in his sheets is truly a sight to behold. He slips under the covers next to him after putting on a fresh pair of boxers, and immediately, their legs are tangled together, Charles reaching for him unashamed.
He pulls him in close, and realizes that the Sun is already starting to rise. Through the massive floor to ceiling windows, he watches it paint the sky in yellow and teal, fighting off the darkness. Charles’ cheek is pressed onto his chest and he slides his hand up to his head, finally taking the navy blue “2025 CHAMPION” cap off him, tossing it into the room where his trophy is still lying on the ground. Charles grunts in sleepy disapproval and Max chuckles.
“When are you going back to Monaco?” He asks.
“Tomorrow.” Charles says and then yawns. “Today, I guess.”
“Is your flight early?”
Charles nods, cheek still pressed into Max’s skin. His curls tickle him.
“Would you maybe want to fly back with me?”
Charles stills for a moment and Max wonders if he overstepped. Maybe he’s gotten the wrong idea about what this changes between them. He starts rationalizing his offer in his head, drivers fly with him all the time, when Charles hums in agreement. “Yeah, okay.”
He exhales in relief, pressing a kiss into the top of the other man’s head. “That’s good.”
Charles chuckles, clearly getting pulled under with tiredness. “Are you worried about my sleep or are you just wishing to fuck me on your private jet?”
Max snorts, his hold on the brunette tightening as he pulls him closer. “Can’t it be both?”