Chapter Text
Max’s eyes are half-closed but he’s far from asleep when the door to his hotel room swings open. The lights are on the dimmest setting, but he can clearly make out Charles’s silhouette as the Ferrari driver kicks off his shoes and starts to undress.
He sits up in bed, and the movement catches Charles’s attention.
“You’re awake,” remarks Charles, and while his voice is soft, his tone is still tinged with the jubilation of victory.
Max feels a twang of annoyance in his chest. “You stink of champagne,” he says by way of greeting.
He receives a mildly arched eyebrow in response. Charles, now divested of his shirt and pants, plops down on the bed opposite of him. At this proximity, the scents of triumph and celebration are even more offensive to Max’s nostrils. He sniffs disdainfully.
“Honestly, Charles, can you please take a shower?”
Infuriatingly, the other man crawls a little closer until one hand is resting on Max’s knee. There’s a slight pout drawn across his features.
“You’re mad at me,” he says flatly.
Max doesn’t respond and turns away when Charles leans in, but the younger man presses on and lands a few feathery soft kisses on his temple. Like an involuntary reflex, Max’s hand instinctively goes to Charles’s hip, drawing the Monegasque a little closer. Exhaling a small sigh, he closes his eyes and tries not to be as affected as his traitorous body seems to illustrate.
“You’re right,” he hisses against the other man’s ear. “I’m fucking pissed.” The hand on Charles’s hip grips almost tight enough to bruise. “After ten years, you still haven’t learned to drive a clean race.”
That isn’t fair coming from him, and he knows it, but their on-track clash from earlier still stings. He isn’t ready to forgive the transgression.
Charles wrenches himself out of Max’s grasp and directs a fierce glare at him. “I see…” His jaw is stubbornly set, without a single line of concession. “Thought I’d give you a few hours, but it looks like you’re still sore about losing.”
He pulls the Monegasque back towards him with a harsh tug. “My front wing is sore from your late breaking.”
Charles fights against him, enough that his hand will end up leaving a bruise. “I had track position,” he defends.
Max laughs at that, which incenses the Ferrari driver even more. He pushes back against Max, shoving him roughly onto the mattress, and then he lunges forward to press his weight on top of the Dutchman. Straddling each leg against Max’s hips, he leans down and thread his fingers through the thick blond hair. Automatically, without thinking, Max reaches up and slides his hand to cup the sharp cheekbones; without waiting for permission, he draws Charles in for a bruising kiss.
Their lips battle for domination, and there’s more desperation than affection in their harsh caresses. By the time they part, they are both gasping for air. For two men who are drowning in each other, neither wants to reach for the life raft.
“You didn’t -” breathes Max. “- have track position.” He strokes the soft skin and light stubble of the familiar and beautiful face, enjoying how the moonlight through the curtains brings out the gold specks in Charles’s bright green eyes. At the same time, his other hand keeps a bruising grip on Charles’s exposed ribs. “Check the footage, sweetheart.”
“Mm-hmm.” Charles lands a teasing kiss on Max’s nose. “Keep telling yourself that, darling.”
The mocking voice incenses him, but the rest of his body wants more, more, more. And with every breath he takes, his nostrils are filled with Charles. He wants to punish him so badly, but he wants to disappear into his embrace even more. Max emits a groan of unfiltered frustration - of frenetic lust - and pushes himself up on his elbows until he’s sitting. This sudden movement throws Charles off of him, causing the other man to land clumsily on the other side of the mattress with a startled yelp. The Monegasque lifts his head to glare at him in indignation, but Max doesn’t have time to waste on apologies.
A second later, he pounces and presses his full weight against Charles’s sprawled body. There’s a light groan from the other man, but then Max feels a delightful shiver rippling against him and something rather firm nudges against his thigh; he can’t help the smirk that slides across his face. When it comes to him, Charles is just as defenceless.
“You’re fucking impossible,” he growls, as Charles practically tears his shirt off. There’s a delicious friction of their bare chests sliding together when he nips at the exposed neck; Charles flinches slightly as his teeth dig into the delicate skin. “Sometimes you make me so angry.”
“Mais tu m’adores toujours,” murmurs Charles, leaning into his embrace. He turns his head so that he can pepper light kisses along Max’s forehead, who doesn’t refute his statement.
“Sans toi, le monde ne suffit pas,” he whispers the confession into the soft skin that he just abused. “But it doesn’t mean I forgive your petty tactics,” he adds with an irritated grunt, before sucking another bruise into the pliable flesh. “The team will be filing an appeal.”
Charles releases a gentle moan and moves his hands to tug on the band of Max’s underwear. “The FIA will rule in my favour,” he purrs, eyes still closed with a blissful tinge of arousal colouring his cheeks. “And in two races, the title of World Champion will be mine again.”
He’s so infuriating and so arrogant - and yet as alluring as the first time they fell into bed together - that Max wants nothing more than to wreck him on this mattress, to show him how much he deserves every single punishing bruise, every sting of retribution, but also every prayer of adoration.
“I think that’s enough talking.” Max’s words are infused with a threat and a promise. He looks down at Charles, and the pupils that stare back at him are blown so wide with lust that he can barely make out the surrounding halos of emerald. He gets a nod in response, barely perceptible, but he takes that as permission.
And in that moment, the rest of the world - the argument and the transpired events - all fade into insignificance. They can only see each other, feel each other, and nothing else matters.
Sometimes, he enjoys the calm afterglow more than the wild passion that precedes it. There’s a quiet intimacy in the way they recover in each other’s arms, and in those peaceful minutes - all he can sense is fulfillment and trust. Where he and Charles are nothing less than two imperfect halves of a magnificent whole.
When he turns to look at Charles, he can see that the other man is still catching his breath. Max’s smile fades a little when he sees the slight pallor in his complexion, and how it takes a few more heartbeats for Charles’s eyes to refocus again.
He senses Max staring at him. He always does.
He fixes his gaze back on Max, lips upturned in a lazy smile.
Max, still disquieted, touches the pale cheek with his fingertips. Charles feels a little cool and clammy under his touch, unusual for him, as sleeping next to him for all these years has taught Max that the experience is usually akin to embracing a little furnace.
“Are you feeling okay, schatje?”
Charles takes a few deep breaths before answering him. “I’m fine.” His voice is still a little hoarse. “I might be a bit dehydrated from the race, I guess. I don’t think the champagne helped.”
Guilt seeps into Max’s chest at those words. He had forgotten.
At the end of the race, only a few hours earlier, Charles had looked close to fainting. The heat had been oppressive for the entire afternoon; Max, too, was exhausted by the end, even if anger and resentment dominated after Charles pushed him off the track with two laps to go. Then concern won out after he slotted his car into the number two spot in parc fermé, when he saw how the Ferrari mechanics rushed over to hand Charles a water bottle and steadied him as he climbed out of the winning car. Max had fussed over him too.
But by the time they made it to the interviews and the podium, Charles seemed to have fully recovered, and he had celebrated as exuberantly as one could expect. At that point, Max’s frustration won out over his earlier concern.
Now, with all of the adrenaline diffused, he berates himself for forgetting.
Against Charles’s protests, he leaves the warmth of their bed. He marches to the mini-fridge and pulls out a large bottle of mineral water.
He pulls Charles into a semi-sitting position. He props both of them up against a sea of pillows next to the headboard. Then Max hands him the bottle solemnly.
“Thank you,” whispers Charles, taking the bottle and wrapping Max’s arm around him. He leans back into the Dutchman’s chest with a tired sigh.
Max observes him carefully as he drinks half of the bottle. The pallor is still present, he notes with a frown, accentuated by the dim lighting of the room.
His concern is too apparent, because Charles gives him an affectionate eye roll and pulls both of them down so that they are lying side by side again. He places the bottle of water on the nightstand and curls up against Max’s chest. Max wraps his arms around the lithe frame, soothed by the familiar weight that sinks against his body.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he whispers. He looks down at the man in his arms, and there is a little more colour that has returned to the Ferrari driver’s face.
“Despite your huge ego,” teases Charles, wriggling gently in his embrace, “you haven’t actually screwed my brains out.”
Max groans and grants him a mock glare. “Why do I still put up with you?”
The radiant smile he gets in return is the one that never fails to make his heart skip a beat. Even in the pale moonlight, he can still make out all the individual freckles on Charles’s nose. A few times, he actually counted them - each tiny speck of soft brown splattered against pale skin. Sometimes they darkened when he spent more time in the sun.
“Are you still angry with me?” Charles asks him after a few seconds.
The Ferrari driver is absently tracing patterns on Max’s chest; the Dutchman covers the wandering hand with his own. Their fingers intertwine together like a well-rehearsed dance.
“A little bit.” He doesn’t need to lie to Charles, who would see through it anyway. After all these years, they’ve learned to skip the charade.
Charles studies him; the air between them hangs thickly. His eyes are a little too bright as he lightly bites his bottom lip. “You raced so well, and I’m proud of you.” He squeezes Max’s hand. “I really am.”
Max knows he means every word; he always does. Sometimes, he doesn’t know how someone like Charles is possible.
“I know, baby,” he mumbles, suppressing the wave of emotion in his throat. “I’m proud of you too.”
Charles brings their joined hands to his chest. Max can feel the gentle thumping heartbeat against his palm. If it seems a little quicker than usual, a little more erratic, Max puts it down to this evening’s shared exertions. After a few minutes, the rhythm calms and his eyelids begin to feel heavy.
They’re both comfortably silent for a while, and Max wonders whether the younger man has finally drifted off to sleep.
But then he hears Charles’s voice, whisper-soft and tired. “I love you.”
He’s heard these words before. And every time - there were many, far too many to remember each one in the span of ten years - it feels like the first time. He feels the same heady thrill, the same weightlessness, the same burst of reciprocal affection.
I love you too, he doesn’t say this time.
He’s said it plenty of times, thought it even more times.
But he doesn’t say it this time, even though he would mean every single word. Not because he’s still mad about the race, not because he wants to hurt Charles. Although he does not miss the way Charles’s brow furrows lightly when those three words are met with silence.
In lieu of words, he holds Charles a little tighter in his arms and presses a warm kiss to the soft brown hair. It’s inadequate compensation, he knows.
He’s being silly. Unreasonable. He is holding those words back because he never wants their song and dance to end. He tries to save those words, like a buried treasure meant to be discovered on another day.
Next time, he thinks, next time I will say those words first.
With Charles, he knows there will always be a next time.
He smiles involuntarily when the melody changes. He puts down his pen and stretches his fingers, which are slightly cramped from signing the enormous stacks of cards, caps, and other memorabilia. He doesn’t get downtime at Milton Keynes; if he isn’t on the simulator or working with the engineers, then he’s on media duty or autograph signing duty. Currently, his only consolation is being able to video conference home while doing it.
He glances at his computer screen to briefly admire Charles’s silhouette as his fingers move deftly across the piano keys. The camera is partly obscured by their overgrown fiddle leaf fig tree that towers over the piano, but he can still catch a glimpse of the Ferrari driver, whose untamed hair is held back by a white bandana, coupled with a pair of tortoise shell glasses (Max’s favourite).
He recognizes the new tune easily. Charles composed this song for him during the summer break. There was a little bit of Baroque with some influence of modern rock.
“Does it have a name?”
“A name?”
“The song.”
Charles contemplated it for half a minute. “Austria 2019 in G major. The bridge of the song is when you pushed me off the track.”
“Babe, I’m flattered and it might be your best work yet, but I also want to tell you politely to fuck off.”
He snorts at the memory with a mild shake of his head. On the other end of his video call, he can see a wry little smile on Charles’s face as he plays the bridge to perfection.
“Demon,” he mutters under his breath, picking up the pen again to work through the rest of the unsigned cards. Without thinking, he hums along to the rest of the song as his pen blazes across the stack.
He nearly jumps out of his skin when there’s a loud crashing noise from his computer and the music abruptly stops.
“Sassy, no!” shrieks Charles on the other end, as the Monegasque is on his feet in a blur, wrestling with a ball of fur.
The video screen is now askew, but Max can vaguely make out their cat expertly dodging out of Charles’s reach with a high-pitched mewl, leaving behind a disgruntled human to pick a trophy off the floor, which -
“Wait a sec,” exclaims Max, indignant. “Is that… is that my French GP trophy from last month?”
A guilty pair of green eyes stare sheepishly back at him.
“It was on the piano!” replies Charles defensively. “You know how Sassy loves to climb on top and knock everything over.”
Max narrows his eyes suspiciously. “Which is why you keep my trophies on top of the piano, as opposed to… say, your latest trophy from Monza?”
Charles tries his best to look innocent, but he’s not fooling anyone. “Ma-aax…” he whines.
“I know how your evil brain works,” retorts Max, jabbing his pen accusingly at the camera.
“It’s an ugly trophy!” Which really is not a great defence on Charles’s part, and he realizes it pretty quickly. “Look, it’s just a small dent,” he tries a different approach. “You can’t even see it.” He waves the trophy in front of the camera. Contrary to his assertion, Max can see the impressive dent quite clearly.
“You better keep your Monza trophies locked up.”
“Max Emilian, you wouldn’t dare!”
“Says the trophy destroyer.”
Charles pouts - actually has the audacity to pout at him. “If you want to blame anyone, blame Sassy. She’s always trying to break us up.”
The Dutchman raises an eyebrow at him, unimpressed. “That was at least seven years ago, and it was your fault for ‘losing her’ on the balcony. She was cold and lonely! And Jimmy was traumatized.”
“She snuck out!” complains Charles, tossing up his arms and nearly dropping the trophy again. “How was I supposed to know? And I’ve been trying to tell you - she holds a grudge!”
“First, put down my trophy. And second, don’t be ridiculous.”
His French GP prize is placed back on top of the piano, between the coffee plant and a vase of freshly cut tulips, with a rather disgruntled thunk. “Well, hurry up and come home. She bullies me when you’re not around.” Charles pointedly ignores his sarcastic eye roll. “At least Jimmy will side with me in a divorce.”
“We’d have to get married to get divorced,” he points out. “And you know that both cats would choose me.”
“They would not!” refutes Charles hotly.
He looks so adorably miffed that Max breaks into a grin, far too distracted to continue their theoretical cat custody battle.
“Je bent zo schattig als je boos bent.”
“Don’t call me cute.” The fact that his scowl is far more adorable than threatening undermines his protest. Charles can’t quite disguise the light blush on his cheeks as he glares at the camera. “Just tell me I’ll see you soon.”
“That’s a promise.”
A few seconds later, the music resumes and Max blitzes through the rest of the autographs, counting down the minutes until his flight back to Monte Carlo.
Charles is already out of his car by the time Max pulls into the P1 slot at the end of qualifying. Setting his helmet and balaclava aside, Max turns around and is greeted by a dazzling smile. He barely remembers to slip on his sponsor’s watch before Charles envelops him in a tight hug.
“Well done, mon ange.” He’s a little too warm, sweat visible from the Singaporean heat, but Max doesn’t care at all.
“Your last run was too close,” he teases, enjoying how it draws a groan of lament from Charles.
“Ugh, the final turn,” grumbles the Ferrari driver, wiping his brow with the edge of his sleeve.
Max shoots him a smug grin. “This might just be the turning point of the season.”
Charles responds with an exaggerated sigh, and the look he bestows on Max is simultaneously flippant and tired. “Remind me again, who has more World Championship titles?” he snarks.
The Dutchman whacks him lightly with his towel; he vaguely notes all the flashing cameras. By tomorrow morning, the media will have another ‘cute’ photo to show the world. He would be amused if he wasn’t so indifferent. Their relationship was not a secret, but they were not known for flaunting public displays of affection. Yet somehow, the photographers never missed a shot of him glaring daggers at Charles (and vice versa); the gossip rags didn’t hesitate to splash those images all over the front page, paired with whatever commentary they chose to add.
By now, they’ve both learned to laugh off the headlines. The Daily Mail was particularly fond of speculating about the state of their relationship, although Hello Magazine wasn’t too far behind in their absurd theories. News of their ‘breakup’ would pop up every few months, inevitably followed by another headline about their ‘reconciliation’ a few weeks later, usually accompanied by paparazzi shots of the two of them sharing ice cream or going for a grocery run in Monte Carlo.
Once in a while, he doesn’t mind throwing them a bone, so he draws Charles in for another hug.
“What’s the occasion, pole sitter?” laughs Charles, voice half muffled in his shoulder.
He pulls away with a wide smile. “Nothing, you just looked so cute.”
In response, Charles ruffles his hair before sliding the Red Bull cap on for him. “There, that’s better. Let’s save that gorgeous head of hair for me to admire only.”
He resists the urge to kiss him right there; he’s selfish and possessive, and as Charles said, some things are meant for his eyes only. There are a few tired wrinkles at the corners of Charles’s eyes, and he makes a note to kiss them away once they’re alone.
The season has been long, and their rivalry has never been more heated. They’ve spent the last few races exchanging the lead in the standings, keeping everyone on the edge of their seats. Max loves it - he wouldn’t change it for anything, but the stress and exhaustion drags on as the season careens towards its conclusion.
Charles looks a little more tired than usual, and he can understand why. Charles has a chance to draw ahead with a 5-3 lead, but if Max wins, then they’re tied at four a piece in the number of Drivers’ Championships. They both want this so badly, but there can only be one winner.
In a few weeks, Max reminds himself, it will all be over, and the weariness will fade. He will take Charles somewhere far away during the winter break. They can forget about racing for a few weeks and then come back next year, rejuvenated and hungry for more.
There’s a lightness in his steps as he follows Charles to the interview stage.
Under the waning afternoon sun, they float together amongst the cheers of their adoring supporters, and Max thinks to himself that maybe they can stay like this forever. Against this glorious backdrop, Charles is almost ethereal - far more blinding than all the rays of light. He doesn’t understand how it’s possible for anyone to shine so brightly.
They wave to the roaring crowd, but their eyes are only for each other. There’s an old song blasting through the speakers.
“All the kingdom lights shined just for me and you.”
Max would rate his second stint with Red Bull as a little smoother than his first stint with the team. But then Christian announced his plans to retire at the end of this season, severing that last steadfast connection to the team he joined as a teenager. Even if the team has now entered a transition period, their car was still competitive. He wants to win this one for Christian too, both the Drivers’ and Constructors’ titles. Then he can think about the next one.
His race engineer Ahmed was a relative newcomer, but he was also direct and precise, qualities that Max appreciated from their first day together. After a revolving door of race engineers following the departure of GP, he was just relieved to have someone who didn’t annoy him through the fast corners.
“Gap to Leclerc?” he inquires.
“26.7,” replies Ahmed in his crisp British accent. “SOC 9, Max, SOC 9.”
He makes the requested change on his steering wheel. Nearly 27 seconds, he reflects. “Fuck.”
“You’re on the superior strategy.” Ahmed’s voice is calm and confident. “His tires will start to drop off dramatically.”
“Lap times?”
“You are lapping 1.7 seconds quicker.”
He doesn’t reply as he pulls off an overtake on the inside of Pourchaire.
“Nicely done,” compliments Ahmed, the excitement evident in his voice. “That’s P2. Leclerc in striking distance in 15 laps.”
“Give me full power.” Max cannot afford to concede this one. He needs this win to stay in contention for the title.
“You got it. I’m going to say it -”
If Max wasn’t so focused, he would roll his eyes. “Don’t say it -”
“Unleash the lion.”
He groans but navigates the next corner with perfect precision, dodging the blue flagged cars. The team was trying too hard to make that phrase the new ‘Hammer Time,’ and he was just a little bit over it.
The next two laps follow in relative silence. Then suddenly, double waved yellows pop up on his steering wheel. A second later -
“Red flag, red flag.”
There is no carnage in sight, so the accident must have happened on another section of the track.
“Who is it?” he asks.
“Reduce speed and come into the pitlane now,” orders Ahmed, a terse edge to his voice as he ignores the question.
“Copy,” replies Max. He steers his Red Bull into pitlane, the first driver to make his way in as he had been the closest to the pitlane entrance when the red flag was called.
Pourchaire, who he had passed a few laps earlier, pulls in behind him, followed by Lando’s Mercedes, both McLarens, and the second Ferrari. Within minutes, the rest of the cars pile into pitlane. He can’t quite spot Charles’s Ferrari, but based on their track positions, Charles had already passed the pitlane entrance when the race was red flagged, meaning that he had to complete a full lap before coming in.
By the time Max releases his restraints and climbs out of his car, Ahmed, still wearing his headset, and several mechanics are already waiting for him.
They exchange anxious looks with each other, and Max doesn’t like it at all.
“What happened?” he asks, more insistently.
“An announcement has been made,” Ahmed informs him. There’s a high strung note in his voice, and he refuses to look Max in the eye. “The race won’t be restarted.”
A feeling of foreboding twinges inside his chest. “Why?”
He tries to remember another red flag where the decision not to restart the race was made so quickly. Other than the freak tornado of Canada 2026, he can only recall the F2 race in Spa 2019 after Hubert’s accident, and then before his time, there was Suzuka 2014 with Jules…
Suddenly, his heart is beating wildly and a weight of dread settles into his stomach. No.
“Who is it?” he demands again. “Tell me what happened. Now!”
“Max, don’t -”
He whirls around to look down the pitlane, to register the cars who made it back safely, to look for the missing one. He watches as Lando exchanges a hushed conversation with one of the Mercedes’ crew, no doubt asking the same questions that Max had just asked; he watches as Lando clasps both hands to his mouth and sits down shakily.
He needs to find Charles now.
Before he can take another step, a strong pair of arms are clenched tightly around his shoulders, shielding him from viewing down pitlane, blocking the cameras that have started to converge around him.
“Christian,” he chokes. Tears are stinging in his eyes, and he doesn’t even know why.
He blinks a few times, and Christian’s silhouette is blurry and grave. This is a man who has known him for half of his life, has been a surrogate father to him, and has shielded him through every criticism and controversy. Which is why he takes one look at Christian’s face, just one look, and everything crumbles within. Without a single word spoken, he knows then and there that nothing will ever be the same again.
“Tell me,” he says quietly, devoid of any emotion. “I need to hear you say it.”
“I’m so sorry, Max.” Christian’s voice is uncharacteristically gentle. “The doctors are still with Charles. When they extracted him from the car, they had to start CPR.”
CPR. His mind is numb, but that can only mean one thing. No pulse. No heartbeat. Charles’s heart, the same one he spent countless hours listening to as it lulled him to sleep, had stopped beating. His own heart seems to be mocking him as it continues to pound wildly beneath his ribs, so violently that his chest aches.
Christian isn’t an affectionate man by nature, and he has never coddled his star driver, but this time he doesn’t flinch or pull away when Max collapses against him; he holds onto the younger man as tightly as he would for any of his own kids.
There’s a loud rumble overhead as the medical helicopter soars over them.
“Stay strong, Max,” Christian whispers in his ear. “Charles doesn’t know how to give in. If anyone can pull through, it’s him.”
“I need to go to him,” he begs. His hands are shaking so badly; he’s still leaning on Christian to stay standing. He doesn’t understand why the sun is still shining, or why the sky is still blue when the world - his whole world - is collapsing around him.
“I’ll take you.”
Christian keeps a firm hold on him as they walk away from the crowd. When he sees the frantic blurs of Ferrari red in the corner of his vision, he recalls his last exchange with Charles just before they lined up on the grid.
“See you at the finish line.” He winked at Max; he got better at that over the years.
“Just remember to stay behind me.”
“Never.”
For the first time since they were kids, Charles feels beyond his reach.