you could call me babe for the weekend

by actparci

Summary:

Now it's Max's turn to grin, wide and teasing and maybe a little too earnest.

"Well, somebody just told me that I’m going to be a world champion one day, and there's only one driver around here good enough to beat me, so I'd like to think he'll be there too."

It's silly, and hopeful, but Charles is beaming at him and it feels like a promise.

"Preferably in second place, of course."

 

Or: There are lots of ways to love Charles Leclerc, Max maybe learns all of them through the years.

Featuring: puddles, stargazing, unsolicited driving lessons, and the overwhelming fear of growing up.

Chapter 1

 

He and Charles don't get on, at first. 

Even years later, when they play it up for the cameras and bicker about who was holding grudges against who, one thing remains clear. 

They didn't like each other. At the start. 

Charles arrives onto the international karting circuit, fresh off winning just about everything there is to win in France, and Max simply thinks; ah, here comes a threat.  

He learns pretty quickly that Charles is deeply, deeply annoying, and possibly put on this earth for the sole purpose of testing Max’s patience. He's quick and he's confident and he's pretty and - above all - he’s absolutely insane. 

Not much of that has changed, really, over the years. But maybe they have. 

Every win Charles steals from him bothers him more than he cares to admit. The way Charles winks at him, afterwards, rattles him even more. He gets under Max’s skin, too easily, but Max gets the last laugh because all that does is label him as Someone Worth Beating, and from there it’s game on. 

It feels, at times, like a game of cat and mouse, like a tinderbox held close to a flint - never quite striking but oh so close, just waiting. 

 

 

The spark ignites, ironically, on an absolutely sodden track in rural France, deep in the Loire Valley. It should by all rights be far too wet for anything to catch fire here, but the rain - a mere inconvenience at best - is no match for the two of them. 

Max crosses the chequered flag first, and this one feels particularly sweet, after Charles had tried to take him out halfway through. He’d retaliated in kind, sent him tumbling back down the order. But Charles, as always, clawed his way back, like a very persistent invasive species of weed. 

Max glances across at the other boy, who had crossed the line just after him, and is taken aback at the fire in his eyes. Charles is gesturing angrily at him, both hands fully off the steering wheel and Max is shocked, so utterly stunned by this moment of lunacy, that he doesn’t see him coming until it’s too late. 

Charles barges into him, because he’s absolutely fucking insane, apparently, and suddenly Max is pushed onto the wet part of the track, off the racing line. And well, it’s all downhill from there, quite literally. 

Max wonders, idly, as he drags himself out of his partially submerged kart and wades through the puddle Charles pushed him into, what he did in his past life to deserve to have ever met this unhinged Monegasque. What cruel god decided; sorry Max, he’s yours to deal with now, good luck. 

It’s childish, and maybe a little petulant, but he’s fucking soaked up to his armpits and he can still picture the evil glint in Charles’ eyes as he came barging over and so sue him, he’s pissed. 

Max is gunning for a fight, and his dad must see it too, because he pulls him away once he’s out of the kart, heading straight for the van. That doesn’t stop him from slinking away the minute he’s distracted, blood still fizzing beneath his skin and itching for confrontation.

Charles, because he has some freaky supersonic powers of perception that he seems to use exclusively to antagonise Max, finds him almost immediately. There’s fire in his eyes and he’s twitching on the balls of his feet and oh, this is going to be good . 

“What on earth,” Max demands, striding towards him, “goes through that deranged little brain of yours?”

Charles steps towards him, juts his chin out in an attempt to look taller. 

“You pushed me first,” he argues, pointing a finger at Max’s chest.

Max bats his hand away. “I absolutely did not, and you know it too.”

Charles rolls his eyes at that, doesn’t back away, and he’s so- Max can’t find the words. He’s the most infuriating person Max has ever met. 

“Don’t play dumb Charles, it doesn’t suit you.”

Charles grins at that, sharklike, and Max is reminded of how all the mothers at the track coo and aww at Charles, as if he’s some sort of angelic little prince, and not - in fact - a living terror. 

Max’s living terror, for clarity, because no one else seems to get this side of him. 

In hindsight, Max really should’ve taken that expression as a warning, because one minute Charles is grinning at him, eyes glinting with mischief, and the next he’s got both hands on the sides of Max’s face and he’s kissing him. 

Max’s brain short circuits at that point, because- what the fuck?  

Charles is kissing him, and he smells of sweat and motor oil, and his lips are softer than they have any right to be, and it’s Charles , and he’s kissing him, less than an hour after trying to murder him on track. 

Murder is maybe a strong word, but whatever.

Charles pulls away then, and before Max can say anything he darts off, disappearing back into whatever strange dimension he hides out in. And Max is left there clutching at nothing, wondering what the hell just happened. 

It's so surprising, so utterly out of the blue, that he forgets his anger entirely. 

 

Later, when his lips have stopped tingling and he’s recovered from the shock, he wonders if maybe that’s why Charles did it.

 

 

The next day, Charles sidles up to him when they’re waiting around between sessions. He looks nervous, and a little shy, and that in and of itself is weird enough that Max is paying attention.

“Sorry I kissed you,” Charles says, scuffing his shoes on the ground. 

“It's okay.” Max shrugs, because it's better than saying; don't be, I maybe kind of liked it .

It seems to reassure Charles though, who grins at him, momentary shyness all but forgotten. 

"You want to come play football?" The devious smile is back, spelling trouble, except now it kind of feels like an olive branch. 

Max can take or leave football, but he enjoys any form of activity that brings with it the possibility of beating Charles. 

“Sure,” he says, and Charles beams at him, face lighting up. 

When he smiles - Max has noticed - it sometimes looks like his mouth is a little bit too big for his face. It really should detract from the overall prettiness he has going on, but it doesn’t, unfortunately.

“Great! You can be on my team, come on, we’ll go get the others.”

Max just looks at him, horrified. “If we’re on the same team how will we know which one of us wins?”

That stops Charles in his tracks. He turns to look at him, equally horrified. “You’re right, how didn’t I think of that? You’ll have to be on Ben’s team, sorry.”

Balance restored to the universe, they meander towards the grassy fields at the edge of the track. Charles is humming, under his breath. He’s never quiet, never still, Max has noticed that as well. 

Max has maybe noticed a lot of things about Charles, not that it means anything.

It should be annoying, the constant noise, and most of the time it is, but well- it’s Charles, and Max finds that sometimes he doesn’t really mind his particular brand of annoying. 

 

 

Summer gives way to Autumn and Max suddenly finds himself looking forward to the down time between races almost as much as the races themselves. 

He blames it on Charles, of course, who possesses a rare talent for finding new and increasingly creative ways to get them into trouble. 

"Come on, Max." 

Charles' voice calls out to him from where he's dangling precariously from the fire escape. Max can't even remember why Charles wanted to climb onto the roof in the first place, other than because he is a deeply unhinged individual who has no concept of consequences or self-preservation. 

Max supposes it says something about him, too, because he's following him. He just happens to be doing it a bit more carefully, as he doesn't actually fancy dying young. 

He tells Charles as much.

"The faster you do it the easier it is," Charles shouts back at him. He's made it to the top of the roof already. "Just close your eyes and don't think about it." 

If he's being fair, driving karts on the limit might be more dangerous than scaling a two storey building, but it's the principle of the thing that matters. There's a risk reward ratio to be considered. Whereas for Charles, he suspects, the risk may in fact be the reward. 

"Ah, nice of you to make it." Charles leans down and offers Max a hand, pulling him onto the flat rooftop. 

Max glares at him. "Remind me again why we are up here?"

"Because-" Charles tugs him forward, pointing to the horizon- "you can see the sea, look!"

The view is actually pretty nice, not that Max would ever admit it. 

"If you wanted to see the sea we could've just gone to the beach, you know, like normal people?"

Now it's Charles' turn to glare at him. "That's not the point Max."

Max knows it's not the point, but Charles looks kind of cute when he's angry, and Max maybe likes to tease him just because. 

"Oh look," he points down at where the track is visible spread out beneath them. "If we're spotting things, there's turn 6 where you tried to run me onto the grass earlier."

"It was my corner," Charles says, but he's smirking, like he knows damn well it wasn't and doesn't care, either way. 

 

They spend the rest of the afternoon up there. Charles, to his credit, must have put more thought into this haphazard plan than Max first assumed, because he produces a rucksack filled with snacks and card games and a speaker. 

“We have to have music, Max.” Charles rolls his eyes, as if it’s obvious. “Otherwise we’re just sitting on a roof.”

Max has to admit that it’s nice, really. Spending time with Charles in general is kind of nice. 

Sometimes, when he isn't cursing the Monegasque's very existence, he thinks that he might be very lucky to have found someone who sees the world the same way he does. Someone who doesn't look at him strangely when he wants to talk endlessly about the race they just finished, someone who joins in, equally enthusiastic, and helps him dissect every move. 

He glances at the boy beside him. The early winter sun is casting Charles’ face into pale gold as he stares at the horizon. He gets this look in his eyes, sometimes, when his cheeky demeanour drops away and his gaze hardens into something fierce and unyielding, serious beyond his years. In many ways Max likes that look best, it makes him feel less alone in his own startling intensity.

He remembers Charles telling him a story once - laughing - of the time his brother left him overnight on a karting track. Telling him of how he’d just kept driving, through the night and into the early hours of the morning. How his fingers blistered and his limbs shook but he had laughed at the telling of it, how they’d won so it was worth it, how he’d loved every minute of it. 

Insane, sure, but the twin healed blisters on Max’s hands had ached in sympathy, and some small and unnamed part of him had rejoiced and thought - oh, I've been looking for you . 

He’s staring now, it’s probably rude. Charles squints at him, nose scrunching up and it’s adorable. 

“What?”

Max shrugs, can’t curl his mouth around any words for this feeling in his stomach. 

“Your nose is a little sunburnt.” 

 

 

It happens on a cold and wet morning in early spring, unremarkable in many ways. Charles has been chasing him lap after lap, and it’s exhilarating and beautiful and Max feels like his blood is on fire with it. He’s exhausted, but he feels like he could do this forever, like he never wants to stop. 

Two corners from the finish he sees Charles in his mirrors, catches a glimpse of the fire under his visor, his eyes glinting gunmetal in the cold morning air, and he knows he’s caught. 

The move is audacious, so good he can’t even bring himself to be annoyed at the lost victory.

Charles is grinning when he takes his helmet off, obnoxiously pleased with himself, and nothing has changed since they first met, not really. Charles is still annoying, still breathtakingly quick and frustratingly pretty, and he kissed Max once, but hasn't done anything about it since and- 

Fuck it , he thinks. 

So after, he pulls Charles aside, presses him against the wall of an abandoned storage building, and kisses him. 

It’s a little like their first kiss, born of frustration and adrenaline, but it’s also nothing like it at all, because Charles is kissing him back and one of his hands is threading through his hair, the other finding its way to his waist, pulling him closer. 

Ah , Max thinks, this is what all the fuss is about . 

When he opens his eyes Charles is smiling at him, soft and a little bit shy. There’s a light blush on his cheekbones and he’s flushed and beautiful and Max really wants to kiss him again. Maybe a lot more times than that. 

"There's a party tonight," Charles blurts out, still blushing. "Will you be there?" 

Max nods, still grinning, and presses a kiss to Charles’ cheek, delights in the way it makes the blush on his face deepen. “See you later Charles.”

 

And so somehow, later that night, after a few sips of stolen beer and a questionable game of truth or dare, they find themselves sneaking onto the now locked up karting track. 

They're giggling uncontrollably, flushed with excitement and lingering adrenaline, the moonlight casting the world into pale shadow.

Charles flops down dramatically on the track surface, patting the ground next to him. Max lays down beside him, so they’re stretched out side by side on the track, gazing up at the stars. 

“This is my favourite place in the whole world,” he murmurs. Max thinks he agrees. The air is warm, earlier rain long forgotten, leaving only the faintest trace of its scent on the track. 

The night sky feels full of promise and infinite possibilities, feels maybe a little magical. 

And so he leans over and presses Charles into the asphalt, kisses him until they're both gasping for air. Kisses him under the moonlight until all he can smell or taste is the tinge of burnt rubber and Charles, Charles, Charles.

 

 

The season passes in a blur of on track battles and stolen kisses and whispered late night conversations. It's kind of perfect, in the way only something with a finite end point can be. 

 

 

"If you could wish for one thing, what would it be?" Charles asks him, one night. They're sitting in the boot of his brother's car, curled under a picnic blanket. 

For this season to never end, he thinks. Out loud, he says;

"To be a formula one world champion." 

Charles rolls his eyes. "That's such a waste of a wish."

"Why?"

Charles looks at him then, all earnest and deadly serious. 

"Because you don't need a wish for that, you're going to do it anyway." 

He does this sometimes, believes in Max so fiercely that it makes his head spin and he’s not quite sure what to do with it all. It feels too big, so instead he asks;

“What about you?”

Charles doesn’t miss a beat.

"I would like to drive for Ferrari," Charles says, because he’s predictable like that. 

"Jules took me to see it, you know, Maranello? I had to wait in the car but it didn't matter, it was amazing just to be there"

"He's with the academy, isn't he?" Max asks. He’s seen him with Charles, around the track sometimes. He’s older and close enough to the big leagues to be a little intimidating, but he laughs a lot and has kind eyes, and Charles loves him, so that counts for a lot in Max’s opinion.

Charles nods, eager. "He's so good. He'll be driving for them soon I’m sure. He doesn’t need wishes for that."

Max nudges him in the ribs. "Neither do you, stupid." 

"And why's that?"

Now it's Max's turn to grin, wide and teasing and maybe a little too earnest.

"Well, somebody just told me that I’m going to be a world champion one day, and there's only one driver around here good enough to beat me, so I'd like to think he'll be there too." 

It's silly, and hopeful, but Charles is beaming at him and it feels like a promise. 

"Preferably in second place, of course." 

Charles laughs at that, tackles him from the side and they’re rolling around grappling for purchase until Max brings it to an effective halt by kissing him, flipping them over. Charles kisses him back and slips a hand under his shirt, eager and clumsy, and Max wishes they could just stay like this forever. 

 

 

But it ends, like all good things have to. Charles kisses him, shivering slightly in the cold September air, and Max pretends it doesn’t feel like a goodbye. 

Wishing is futile, because the world of motorsport doesn’t slow down for anyone or anything. The new year comes and suddenly Max finds himself on the other side of the world and Charles just - isn’t. Florida’s too hot, for this time of year. He’s racing single seaters now, against kids much older than him. 

It’s not as much fun really, winning without Charles. 

He’s not sure what’s supposed to happen next, exactly. Feels the absence of the annoying brunette like a phantom limb. Catches himself turning to his left, looking over his shoulder, too often- despite knowing he’s not going to be there. 

He supposes that’s what happens sometimes, people grow up, move on, it’s normal. Except he can’t stop thinking about how Charles’ eyes lit up when he looked at the night sky, or how he sang along - giggling and obnoxious - when they snuck into his dad’s RV because the speakers were louder than anything they had on track. How he’d held his hand out, laughing, and said; “dance with me” and really, how could Max ever say no.

 

 

Then suddenly he’s thrust into the world of Formula 1 and he has no idea what he’s doing and he misses Charles so much he feels like he can’t breathe with it, sometimes. Wishes he was here too, wishes he could sneak out under the stars and talk to him, about the pressure and the fear and their hopes and dreams. Charles would understand. 

He thinks of Charles when he sits into a formula one car for the first time, excitement undimmed despite the gloomy Japanese weather, despite the rain clouds closing in. He wishes he could tell him how incredible it felt, giddy and intoxicated with the speed of it. 

He wishes he could stop thinking of Charles, then, when the weekend is over and everything has changed forever. Texts him with shaking fingers and clammy hands, feeling far too small and far too young for any of this. 

I hope he’s okay. Childish, hopeful, naive. 

But life isn’t fair sometimes, and Max has to send a second text, the one he wishes he’d never had to send, the following July. 

I’m so sorry Charles.

Standing in a silent circle before the race in Hungary, Max has to close his eyes and swallow past the lump in his throat because all he can think of is Charles' bright smiling face and the silence doesn't feel like enough, not nearly enough, to encompass it all.  

The thought comes to him then, unbidden and brutal, that maybe sitting in that car boot under the stars, talking about their dreams and glittering future careers, that they should've saved some wishes for Jules, after all.  

Charles doesn't respond to his texts, not that Max had expected him to, given everything. 

 

 

Yet the world keeps turning, relentless, and at times Max finds himself tripping over his feet trying to keep up. In a moment of impulsion - or a decades premature mid-life crisis - he turns eighteen, survives his first season in Formula One, and moves to Monaco. 

He's not entirely sure why he does it. 

Plenty of drivers live in Monaco, sure, but they're all much older than him and it's not like they're his friends. 

It's as good a place as any, he rationalises, and the city feels intimately connected to racing in a way nowhere else ever really will. It’s a perfectly legitimate choice. 

It's just that, well. Charles also happens to be there. 

It's absolutely not why he does it. It's just a fact. Two entirely unrelated facts. Max moves to Monaco. Charles lives in Monaco. There's no connection but it- it's a nice idea, in his head. 

The thing he doesn’t anticipate though, is how weird it feels, knowing Charles is here in the same city. He’s on edge constantly, swears he sees Charles everywhere, in the line at the grocery store, on his morning run, waiting in the queue at the bar. It’s never him, but it drives Max insane nonetheless. 

He knows he should probably text him or something, because Monaco is a small place and he’s going to bump into him eventually and then it will just be awkward. 

He doesn’t though, Charles was always the braver of the two of them. 

 

 

The winter break comes and finds him exhausted, like the reality of the past year is only just hitting him now. He sleeps for three straight days when the season ends, barely managing to drag himself out of bed to eat before climbing back in. The season doesn’t feel that crazy when you’re in it, but now it’s done Max feels like he’s been running on empty for months. 

A week into the holidays Max drags himself out of the house because he can’t avoid his responsibilities forever. His fridge is empty, he has a list of presents to buy that’s two pages long and he hasn’t been to the gym in two weeks. 

Christmas in Monaco is nice, not as cold as it should be - Max thinks - but cold enough to feel real. The lights go up and the markets spill out onto the harbour and the whole place feels even more like a fairytale than usual. The breeze outside is chilly enough that he finds himself wishing he’d brought a scarf, tucks his chin a little deeper into the fabric of his hoodie. 

He pauses at a jewellery shop window, idly thinking of something grown up and impressive to buy for Victoria, and then - because Max’s life is some sort of badly scripted rom com - he turns around and runs straight into Charles.  

“Max?”

Shit.

Charles is just standing there, right in front of him with his hands in his pockets and- he looks so good, it’s unfair really. He’s changed his hair and, well, he’s always been pretty but his features are sharper now, more defined. He’s taller too, though not as tall as Max. 

Max catalogues all the little changes, feels them fill the space of two years until he feels like he can’t quite get his voice out of his chest.

“Hey.”

Charles is still looking at him, like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing, and oh- yeah . He’s in Monaco. 

He never did get around to telling Charles that.

“What are you doing here?” Charles asks, and Max is suddenly nervous, unsure how he’s going to react.

“I- uh live here? Now.” Surprise , he thinks. 

Charles’ eyebrows shoot up, uncertain, like he’s not sure if Max is joking or not.

“You moved here? Like, for good?”

“Yeah.”

“ Oh .” Charles' tone is soft, surprised. He stares at Max for a minute, like he’s thinking hard about something, before seemingly making up his mind. 

“Come on.” Charles gestures towards the harbour. “Let’s go for a walk.”

 

“So, how have you been?” Max asks. It’s awkward, this space between them, even more awkward is acting like they don’t know.

“Good and bad,” Charles makes a face. “You know how it is.” 

He takes a deep breath, looks over at Max. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t text.” 

“Don’t be,” Max says, immediately. “It wasn’t about me, I just wanted you to… know that I was thinking of you, I guess.”

Charles smiles at that, but it doesn't quite meet his eyes and Max hates it.

“So what about you?” Charles asks instead, and Max can see him compartmentalising in real time. Like there’s ‘The Bad Stuff’ and then there’s ‘Everything Else’. It’s strange to watch, but then again, Charles has always been a little strange.

Max shrugs because well, what’s there to say, really. 

“I’ve been busy.” 

Charles raises his eyebrows at that and, yeah - fair enough.

“I hear you still can’t drive,” he says, in lieu of the obvious. 

Max nearly laughs because well, it’s very Charles , to still find a way to humble him.

“I’m getting my licence over the winter break, actually.”

Charles squints at him, cocks his head to the side, like a dog catching a scent. It’s hilarious, Max thinks, that even after two years apart Charles can spot a half-truth in an instant. 

“You turned eighteen in September.” He can see Charles piecing it together. “Why wait, unless-”

There it is.

“Oh my god. You failed, didn't you?” Charles’ cackle is gleeful, and Max feels the need to retain some semblance of his honour here. 

“I hate driving stick! And it wasn’t my fault anyway, he told me to turn right and I thought he said left and, well.”

There are tears streaming down Charles’ face now, and he’s laughing so hard Max thinks for a brief and horrifying moment that he might actually make himself vomit, clutching his stomach and whooping with glee. 

“That is the funniest thing I’ve ever heard, how did you keep that quiet?”

Max shrugs. “Well I didn’t exactly go around shouting it from the rooftops.” 

He narrows his eyes at Charles. “Which, by the way, don’t you dare.”

Charles heaves in a deep breath, calming himself, and he’s still laughing, but like a normal person now not a fucking hyena on speed. 

“Don’t worry Max, your deepest darkest secret is safe with me.”

He’s still the most annoying person Max has ever met, and yet, he can’t bring himself to care. Because just like that all of the awkward space of the last two years is just - gone, evaporated, and he feels like he can breathe again. 

“You know,” Charles’ eyes are glinting with trouble. “I can always show you around if you like, make sure you don’t turn left at the wrong place the next time.”

It sounds a little bit like a threat.

 

 

Sure enough, Charles texts him a week later. 

> want to go for that drive? 

Max could blame it on the fact that he’s alone, in a new city where he doesn’t really know anyone, but that would be a lie. It's just Charles, and he’s suddenly here again in Max’s orbit, and he was never any good at saying no to him in the first place.

< yeah, sure

 

Charles waits until they start driving to unleash his evil plan. Probably so that Max is trapped, reckons he won’t jump out of a moving car. Fucking watch me , he thinks. 

“So this is first gear, you see? And this thing right here is called a clutch, I don’t know if you’ve heard about it."

Max wants to bang his head against the window, because apparently missing Charles means seeing him through rose tinted glasses and god he's forgotten just how insufferable- 

"Now these are very important and I know for a fact you don’t know what they are.” Charles presses his right foot down, hard, and the car jerks to a halt. “These are called brakes , you might want to get to know them.”

Max rolls his eyes, tries to school his features into something cool and unimpressed, but Charles is laughing and he feels himself smirk, unable to help it. 

“Just drive the fucking car, Charles.” And he does.

 

Charles spares him the rest of the driving lesson. Instead they drive around the edge of the city, radio playing faintly in the background and it’s just- it’s so easy. Max had forgotten just how loud Charles is, how he never shuts up, but he’s grateful for it now. Feels like he can finally relax for the first time in months. He doesn't have to pretend to be anything he’s not, around Charles.

The season has been exhausting and he's not entirely sure who people expect him to be, what version of him they want to see, what parts of him they find acceptable. 

Charles just sees him, always has, there's no point hiding.

He wonders if maybe some part of Charles needed this too. Inside the car with the heater blasting and the radio on, it feels safe here, from the rest of the world. Like they can pretend nothing has changed. 

 

And it’s fine, it’s normal even, Max feels like he has everything under control. That is until Charles stops at a red light and - before Max can even register what’s happening - he’s leaning over and kissing him, hard and fast and pulling away before Max has a chance to react. 

The light turns green and Charles drives on, almost as if nothing happened, except for the faint blush painting his cheeks. 

Max tries, really, but he never stood a chance. Not when the city lights are bright and illuminating Charles’ face, and his eyes are sparkling and Max has missed him, god he’s missed him so much. 

He clears his throat.

“At the next junction,” his voice cracks and he feels completely exposed, “pull over.” 

Charles just smirks at him, knowing and smug and Max wants to kiss it right off his face. 

So the minute Charles parks up and cuts the headlights he reaches over, pulls him onto his lap and does exactly that. Charles lets him, almost as if this was his plan all along, and he’s warm and pliant under his hands, the taste of him somehow even more intoxicating than before, and Max never, ever wants to stop. Charles’ hands are in his hair and he’s melting into Max’s touch, opening his mouth with a soft gasp when Max pulls him closer. 

The car windows are fogging up and it's freezing outside but Charles is like a furnace in his lap and the whole thing feels surreal. Like the outside world can't penetrate this little bubble they've created, like time has slowed down and pressed pause and nothing else matters for a moment.

Maybe it’s reckless, maybe it’s not quite dark enough for them to be getting away with this, but really - Max thinks - what’s the point in being young and stupid if you can’t make out with your childhood crush, under the Christmas lights, in a car park on the outskirts of Monaco.

 

Notes:

I have no excuse for this

Other notes:
- I am not accusing max verstappen of having failed his driving test, however, he did say that he hates driving manual, that he refused to practice for it, and offhand mentioned that if he had failed his test, he definitely wouldn't have told anyone
- I am posting this in two parts to keep myself accountable to actually edit the second half, which is already written but just needs some TLC
- idk about anyone else but when I was a fifteen I did in fact spend a lot of time bringing speakers onto rooftops so, who knows
- yes I blame all of this on 'tis the damn season' by taylor swift
- in case it wasn't obvious from, you know, the general insanity of this whole thing, this was written over a series of 4am meltdowns fuelled by too much caffeine when I could neither study nor sleep - hence this mess of a thing
- this is not proof read because I am sleep deprived, ignore the mess

Chapter 2

 

Barcelona is insane. 

He should’ve known something was going on, when Helmut called him up and asked him to go for lunch the week before, but the idea was just so unthinkable at the time.

Sitting across the table at an overpriced restaurant in Austria, Max never felt more like a child playing grown up. The stark white of the linen tablecloths feels stifling, the soft jazz in the background unnerving, and Max has absolutely no idea why he’s here. 

They’re nearing the end of the meal, sipping coffee and still making small talk which is offering no clue as to what this is all about, when Helmut’s phone rings. He excuses himself for a moment to take the call, and when he returns to the table he has a glint in his eye. 

“We want you to take Kvyat’s seat.”

Max is speechless for a moment. 

He knows he’s been driving well, but it still feels like so much faith, so soon. It feels big and scary and exciting and utterly unexpected. He wants it, of course he does, but that doesn’t mean it’s not a little bit terrifying. 

“For 2017?”

Helmut just laughs, shaking his head. 

“No, starting next week.”

 

It’s an absolute whirlwind from that moment on. He flies out to the factory straight after lunch, Helmut telling him they’ll send someone to Monaco to get anything he needs. It’s entirely surreal, completely overwhelming, and Max just lets himself get swept up in the madness of it all. 

It’s surprisingly easy to just not think about it. About what it means, about how big it is, about what will happen if he fails. He just puts his head down, does what he does best, and races.

 

It doesn’t hit him when he crosses the finish line, despite the team screaming in his ears. 

It doesn’t sink in on the cool down lap, either, even when he can see the crowd going wild, knowing they’ve witnessed history under the hot Spanish sun. 

The enormity of it only, finally, registers, when he pulls up in parc ferme and Sebastian Vettel is hugging him, congratulating him without a trace of bitterness and he realises- Oh, shit .

Sebastian Vettel is hugging him and he’s just won a Formula One grand prix and he’s the youngest ever to do it by a wide margin and he’s broken Sebastian Vettel ’s record and-

He’s just Max. 

But in that moment, standing on the podium under the glistening sunshine, standing on the shoulders of legends who went before him, he thinks maybe there’s a chance he might get to be Max Verstappen , in the future. 

 

 

Charles texts him, after. It’s a little embarrassing, how his heart skips a beat when he sees the notification. 

> congrats on the record
> and the win 

It might sound a little bitter, if Max didn’t know Charles. If he didn’t remember those late nights spent talking about all the records they hoped they’d be lucky enough to try and break. How they’d watched and re-watched Monza 2008 in awe, speaking in reverent whispers about what they would do to be him .

So yeah, congratulating him on the record seems pretty on brand 

You have sixteen days to beat me , he thinks, but doesn’t text. He’s not sure if Charles would find it funny or condescending. He’s not completely sure about a lot of things anymore, when it comes to Charles. It’s an unfamiliar feeling. 

< thanks, heard you won as well 

Casual, as if he hadn’t been keeping an eye on the GP3 timing screens when he should’ve been going over data. As if he hadn’t watched the highlights when he got back to his hotel room. 

Charles doesn’t reply until a little later.

> you looked good out there
> it was pretty hot, watching you drive that car

Max feels his body flush with heat at the message. Trust Charles to pull the rug out from under him with just a simple text.

< you’re drunk

> of course I am
> it’s true though

Max shifts on the bed, and god, this is really too fucking cliche. This absolutely shouldn’t be doing anything for him, but the idea of Charles watching him drive, eyes sharp and critical, attentive to every move, and finding it hot , is just so- 

This is a terrible idea, in so many different ways.

< go to sleep charles

He absolutely does not think about it, after.

 

 

Max learns pretty quickly that not every day can be Barcelona. That you won’t always be met with praise and adoration, even if you’re doing well. 

It's a fickle thing, he learns. Be good, but not too good, not too soon. Don't be too aggressive, too dangerous, but don't be boring either - you're here for entertainment after all.

He doesn't know how to please them. Being bland and polite doesn't seem to work, he knows he needs to hold their attention. So he tries brash and unapologetic, it fits him a little better but it's still false, overblown. That delights them for a while (so refreshing, so honest), but they turn quickly (arrogant, rude, dangerous). 

The endless scrutiny is maddening. He can’t just have a good day, or a bad day. Everything is amplified, sensationalised because of his youth. 

After Brazil he’s Senna, he’s Schumacher, he’s going to be the greatest of all time. After Spa he’s a villain, immature, dangerous, he never should have been allowed in in the first place. 

They never let him just be . 

 

He thinks sometimes, about how they changed the rules after he got in. As if they knew they'd made a mistake. As if they were admitting that this shouldn’t happen again. 

He wonders where exactly that leaves him, then, in all of this. 

Sometimes he watches Charles winning in GP3 and wonders if he’s jealous that he’s stuck there while Max is in the big leagues. Other times he wonders if maybe he might be a little jealous of Charles, for different reasons. Wonders what Charles would think of that, if he told him. 

You see, there’s something to be said for not growing up too fast. 

 

 

Charles texts him when he’s back in Monaco for the winter break, because he’s predictable, because they’re both stupid, and because neither of those things are a good enough reason not to. 

> I’m having a party for new years, if you’re around? 

It’s a bad idea, a terrible one, even, but-

< sure

 

So Max finds himself on Charles’ doorstep on New Years Eve, fidgeting a little after he knocks. He doesn’t have long enough to rethink, however, before the door swings open to reveal a beaming Charles. 

“Max! You made it.” 

Charles leads him inside, ushers him into the kitchen, past the rest of his guests. Max thinks he might recognise some of them from karting, but he can’t be sure, they’re all a lot older now. 

Charles is older now too, he supposes, taller and broader, with sharp cheekbones and a smile that could make you fall to your knees. It reminds Max, with a lurch, that there’s so much of Charles’ life he doesn’t know about, anymore. So many new parts of him that he doesn’t get to share. 

“What do you want to drink?” Charles asks, and Max gestures vaguely, accepts the beer that Charles thrusts at him in response. 

“How have you been?” he asks, instead of saying anything stupid. 

Charles shrugs, leaning back against the kitchen counter. 

“Good, won the title so can’t complain about that. F2 next year should be interesting.”

It’s nothing Max doesn’t already know, but he finds it funny that Charles doesn’t want to assume. He knows too, that there’d been rumours of Charles skipping F2 altogether, going straight into the Haas seat, but Ferrari seemed to decide waiting another year was the better option. 

He wonders if Charles was disappointed. Wonders if he knows that Max was a little disappointed, too. 

“What about you?” Charles asks, taking a sip of his beer. “It was an impressive season, even by your standards.”

“Yeah, I guess.” He’s not sure why he brings it up, really. Only that this is Charles and he’s always been able to talk to him better than anyone else. “There was some stupid stuff with the press, some of the drivers-”

“Saying you’re too aggressive? Yeah I saw that.”

“What do you think?” Max isn’t sure why he asks, but knows that Charles’ opinion matters to him. Always has.

“They don’t know how to race you.” The unspoken ‘ but I do ’ lingers for a moment. “And I think they are scared, and stupid, because they know how good you are and they don’t know what to do about it.”

Charles has always been like this, emphatic and passionate, when he believes in something. The fact that it’s Max that he believes in this time blows him away a little. 

Charles is still frowning, eyes fierce. “Don’t you dare change, not because of what they think.” 

And really, what the hell is he supposed to say to that.

“I wish you were there with me.” He could end the thought there, and it would be true, but he can’t resist teasing him, a little. “You’d make me look sane by comparison.” 

Charles barks out a laugh at that, mischief glinting in his eyes. 

“Oh but Max, look at me. I’m far too cute to be dangerous.”

He’s a demon, is what he is. But apparently Max is the only one who can really see him. He thinks back to Charles’ earlier comments, his avid defence of Max’s driving, and thinks maybe Charles is the only one who can really see him, too. 

 

Long after midnight and well into the early hours of the new year, Max is helping Charles tidy up the apartment. Tidying might be a stretch, really, but they’re trying.

He’s lingering, Charles is making excuses for him to linger, it’s all painfully apparent and very stupid.

So it’s nearly a relief when Charles turns and looks at him, with a coy smile and fluttering eyelashes.

“You know, I never got a New Year's kiss.” 

He’s completely insufferable and impossibly irresistible, and Max is so utterly utterly screwed, so he kisses him. 

It’s not like he was ever going to do anything else. 

He kisses him and Charles meets him halfway, eager, kisses him back with more than a tinge of desperation and Max gets it .

It’s electric and frantic and ill-advised but Charles is tugging at his hair, lips moving to kiss at his neck, his collarbone, and Max just wants him closer, closer, closer. 

So when Max tightens his grip on Charles’ waist, lifts him gently, Charles just wraps his legs around him, instinctive, and lets Max lower him onto the couch, pressing him into the fabric. 

He surrenders to the heat of it, chases the feeling of Charles’ mouth, the taste of stale champagne and mint chewing gum and something utterly unchanged and uniquely Charles. 

Max wakes up early with a crick in his neck and a face full of brown hair. Charles is still passed out, half on top of him, so he eases out carefully, extracting himself from the warmth. He bends down to grab his phone and his shirt, discarded on the floor and when he straightens up Charles is awake, blinking at him. 

“I have to go,” he says, helpless to do anything but state the obvious. He has a flight tomorrow, back to the factory and then on to training camp, and then on and on. All of it away from Charles. 

It’s not a surprise, they’re both aware of the reality of the situation. Max’s chest feels tight with it, regardless. 

Wait for me, he thinks, futile. He knows he could never say it. It wouldn’t be fair to either of them. 

Charles doesn’t ask him to stay, either. 

Perhaps a little selfishly, Max is glad. He knows he could sooner walk to England than leave if Charles asked him to stay. 

“See you next Christmas, I guess.” 

Charles tries it as a joke, but there’s far too much truth in it, and for a moment they just stand there looking at each other. 

What the hell are we doing?

There’s so much he could say but all of it feels pointless, it’s not like Charles doesn’t know. 

He clears his throat, tucks it all away for another time.

“Yeah, see you Charles.”

 

 

He nearly caves, one night.

He’s drinking with Daniel in a bar in Budapest, laughing and joking and telling stupid stories from their childhood. Daniel starts telling him, tears streaming out of the corners of his eyes, about the first time he tried to kiss someone, how she’d kept her eyes open the entire time and he’d been so freaked out he hadn’t tried it again for months. 

Max nearly spits out his drink laughing, and Daniel just pulls a face at him.

“Oh shut up, I’m sure your first kiss was so perfect then was it?”

He could blame it on being drunk, he could blame it on Daniel being so easy to talk to, he could blame it on any number of different things, but - whatever the reason - he finds himself telling him, unable to stop it all from spilling out. 

“Max,” Daniel is beaming, delighted, “That’s fucking adorable. This is like something out of those bad romance movies they show on long-haul flights.”

Max gives him the finger, because seriously, his life is not a Hallmark movie and it is definitely not adorable. 

Daniel, however, is undeterred. 

“You have to tell him how you feel, Maxy.” He’s using nicknames now, because he’s devious and determined to ruin Max’s life. “C’mon you have to, this is the cutest shit I’ve ever heard.”

In Max’s defence, it’s pretty hard to say no to Daniel, even when sober, especially when he refuses to let something go. 

And so that’s how he finds himself, hands shaking, heart pounding in his chest, dialling Charles’ number there and then, sitting in a bar in Budapest with Daniel beaming at him from across the table. 

Feeling reckless and hopeful and more than a little drunk, he listens to the ringing dial tone, waiting, the sound barely audible over his pulse thumping in his ears. 

The call rings through to voicemail, because it’s - Max looks at his watch - four in the morning and Charles is asleep, obviously, and this was a stupid plan in the first place. 

“Dammit,” Daniel says, “I thought this would get me nailed on as best man for the wedding.”

Max just rolls his eyes, unsure whether he feels relieved or disappointed. 

 

By morning he’s sobered up, and when Charles asks him about the missed call he fobs it off as an accident and doesn’t bring it up again. 

Then, because life is like that sometimes, he hears a few weeks later that Charles has a new girlfriend.

It’s fine.

It really is.

He just wishes- 

Fuck .

It shouldn’t hurt this much anyway, he reckons. 

 

You’re supposed to move on from your childhood crush, that’s the thing. Sure, maybe Charles has always been more than that. Charles had been his first - well, everything. First real rival, first driver who really challenged him, first kiss, first of so many things, first love - maybe, if you can even be in love at that age. It sure felt like something, at the time. 

But either way, you’re supposed to get over it. The years pass and you’re supposed to let them move on, let them change their hair, stop letting their life affect yours. Except-

Except he remembers the cold winter air on New Year’s Eve, the feeling of Charles beneath him, fingertips tracing over his bare skin. Remembers the Christmas before that, and Charles’ lips on his, their breath mingling, fogging up the car windows. 

That’s the thing about old wounds, you see. To let them heal, first you have to stop reopening them. 

 

 

Charles texts him out of nowhere in the middle of June. He’s more than a little surprised, it’s been pretty much radio silence since the ill-fated phone call. 

> I think i've changed my mind

Max is completely lost. He sends off a quick ‘?’ when Charles doesn’t elaborate. 

> about what I would wish for

It makes Max's breath catch in his chest, the fact that Charles remembers. Max doesn't think he could ever forget any detail about Charles but he never thought, never assumed, that Charles might remember it all just as well. 

< what would you wish for now?

The answer doesn't come until much later, when Max is already asleep. He reads the message when he wakes up the next morning.

> more time

 

He hears the news two days later, just as he's leaving for Baku, and suddenly the text makes perfect, awful sense.

 

 

He watches the race on the big screens in the garage. There’s definitely something else he’s supposed to be doing but he couldn’t tear himself away even if he tried. 

Thankfully, everyone else seems equally compelled, gathering around to watch with a sort of hushed attention, and, well, who could blame them? Charles is absolutely glorious, in a heartbreaking sort of way. 

Max feels something fierce claw at his chest as he watches Charles tear through the pack like a man possessed. Charles on an ordinary day is a force to be reckoned with, but Charles on a mission is fucking terrifying. Max would know. 

He almost feels sorry for the others, mere sparks to Charles’ blazing inferno. But then again, they should’ve known that they never stood a chance. 

Afterwards, everyone is talking about it. How this kid who just lost his dad demolished the entire F2 grid. How composed he was. How crazy it was that he even raced this weekend. 

Max thinks, if they’re surprised about any of those things, then they really don’t know Charles at all. 

 

 

Charles wins F2, almost untouchable in his brilliance, and gets an F1 contract with Sauber. 

It’s good, it’s great even, he deserves it. It’s just that he’s here , now. 

It also reminds Max, with an urgency, that he’s not the new kid on the block anymore. It’s his third season in formula one and it’s hard not to feel like he hasn’t really done anything yet. 

He's just not sure what he is, when he stops being stupidly young to be here. That was kind of his whole selling point. 

Now he's just Max, and he feels the need to justify his presence somehow.

So he pushes, and he wrestles and wrangles with the RB14, takes unmeasured risks until he’s in the barrier and none of it is working. Every time he touches the steering wheel he feels like it’s slipping through his fingers, the control, the balance, but also the time . Feels like he’s suddenly up against the clock, hears the whispers and mutters, sees Daniel flying past him with ease after another mistake. 

In Bahrain he feels like he’s driving on oil, liquid, dangerous, pushing and pushing until the car slips away from him. It’s not elegant, it’s not natural, it’s none of the things he’s proud of. It’s brute force and ignorance, like he can bully the car around the track, if he’s stubborn enough about it. 

Perhaps unsurprisingly, it’s not a successful tactic. 

Baku, at least, isn’t entirely his fault. Not that you’d think it, from the way people talk about it. 

He just- he doesn’t need people to tell him. He knows this isn't good enough, he knows it’s not what they expect of him, it just feels really fucking heavy, right now. 

They expect him to win, expect him to win multiple world championships, expect him to break Seb's record. The weight of it is like a tangible thing, sitting on his chest, stifling him. 

23 years and 134 days . He could recite it in his sleep, wishes he never heard the damn number, wishes he didn’t see his own ticking clock imprinted on his eyelids when he closes his eyes at night.

It's like they've already written his biography and retired him before he's even found his footing, and he’s torn between dragging his feet and trying desperately to play catch-up.

Sometimes, on lonely nights when he can’t sleep and he’s drowning under it all, he wishes he'd never won that first race in Barcelona. Wishes he hadn't set the bar so unattainably high, right from the start.

 

 

Then, of course, there’s also Charles. 

Because all of a sudden Charles is here, and Max has to see him everywhere, and he’s acting like he doesn’t know Max, doesn’t remember, and it’s driving him a little bit insane. 

He understands it, because they’re different people now, and they have careers and other important things to worry about, and Charles has a girlfriend and he doesn’t belong to Max, he never has but- 

It just doesn’t make it hurt any less when Charles seems to leave the room as soon as Max arrives, when he glances away immediately - as if burned - any time Max tries to make eye contact with him. As if he can’t stand sharing the same space even for a moment.

It’s fine, really, it just stings a little.

 

Charles gets asked about him now, it’s inevitable in a way. Their karting records are there for the world to see, and it’s a story. Max kind of hates it, feels like that should be something that was just theirs. 

He tries not to listen, when Charles tells the media how they used to hate each other. It doesn’t hurt, exactly, but it’s just- there’s so much unsaid in the half-truth. 

 

 

The crash in Monaco is his fault, again. 

Something is just wrong, discordant, where it never was before. He knows he’s pushing too much, throwing the car around rather than coaxing it through the lap, but he can’t shake the feeling of desperation that seeps through his bones and into the steering wheel. His fingers tremble with it, his legs seize up and he pushes where he has no right to, too much, too fast, too soon. 

He can’t face the team after, can’t sit at home either, with Christian’s voice still ringing in his ears, the disappointment sitting heavier than any anger ever would. 

So he goes out, gets drunk, loses himself in crowds of faceless people until he feels dizzy with it, chest tight, and it’s not helping, not at all.

He stumbles out the back door of the club, sinks to the ground in the smoking area, head in his hands and just tries to breathe. 

The night air is cool and the pounding of the bassline has faded to a dull throb but his heart is still racing, chest still tight. He’s not sure what he’s hoping to achieve, feels like he hasn’t really managed to catch his breath since Australia, if he’s honest. 

Someone comes out the back door, and Max isn’t paying them much attention, until he catches the glint of familiar brown hair under the streetlight. 

He sees the exact moment Charles realises it’s him, the moment he does a double take, starts to turn away as if to walk back inside, and Max just can’t fucking stand it anymore. 

“So what, are you just going to keep ignoring me?”

It comes out snarling and bitter, but Max doesn’t care. He wants a fight, because anything is better than this, and his head is too loud and too full and Charles won't even look at him. 

He sees irritation flash across Charles’ face, rising to the bait and-

Go on , Max thinks, tell me you hate me, tell me anything but stop acting like you’ve forgotten . 

But then Charles softens, like he sees something in Max's expression, sits down beside him and lets his head fall back against the wall. 

"It's a bit shit, isn't it?"

Max isn’t sure what to say to that, because yes, it is a bit shit. It feels like an understatement. They sit there in the quiet for a moment, and Max really, really needs to learn to control his liquor better because he starts talking, unable to help it. 

"You told me," his voice comes out weak, strained, and he really shouldn't bring it up, not now. It's selfish and stupid but he just can't stop thinking about it. 23 years and 134 days .

"You told me once, that I'd win a championship."

He hates how desperate he sounds, but he remembers Charles’ youthful unwavering belief and he just needs- 

"You will," Charles says, like it's simple. "But not if you don't get your shit together."

Max laughs at that, soft, because really- god bless Charles and his brutal honesty.

"I'm serious Max, because this-" he spreads his hands in a way that seems to encompass the entire clusterfuck of the last few races- "this isn't you."

He says it so easily, so simply. This isn't you. 

How can you be so sure? He wants to ask. Because everyone else seems to think this is exactly who he is. 

Then again, Charles knows him better than any of them do, probably knows him better than he knows himself, at this stage.

This isn’t you . If Charles believes it then maybe he can too. 

He hadn't realised how much he'd needed to hear it until now. 

"I'm sorry about your race." He feels a bit shitty, because Charles crashed out at home, after being unable to finish the race here last year either, and he’s complaining about his own stupid problems instead.

Charles shrugs, but his gaze is trained at the ground. "I'll get over it."

They're silent for a few moments, he can feel Charles breathing beside him and he has to say something , has to ask. 

"I- we're still friends, right?"

Charles gives him a funny look.

"Max," he says, "you mean the world to me, that's never going to change." 

 

It's the closest they've ever come to actually talking about it, and yet he still gets the feeling that Charles didn't really answer his question. 

 

 

Charles shows up outside his hotel room a few weeks later, unannounced. Before Max has a chance to process that fact alone, Charles is barreling past him into the room. 

"I need to talk to you," he says, sounding a little deranged. 

“Okay,” Max says, cautiously, because whatever this is it can’t be good. He knows Charles well enough to be able to tell when there’s trouble brewing.

“What is-”

He never gets to finish the thought, because in a heartbeat Charles has closed the distance between them and he’s kissing him, frantic and urgent, like he might fall apart otherwise. 

Max is utterly lost to it, for a moment, because it feels like it’s been forever , and Charles’ hands are tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, and he can’t even think rationally, can’t breathe, can’t fathom anything that isn’t Charles.

Max reaches for his last shreds of sanity, like a drowning man for a life raft, uses every ounce of willpower he has to pull himself away. 

Except it's nearly worse, like this, because he has to look at Charles, lips kiss swollen, face flushed, breathing heavily and, god , Max has never wanted anything this much in his life. 

"You have a girlfriend," he says, helpless. 

But then Charles is shaking his head, and it would be funny, in any other circumstances, because he looks a little bit unhinged - eyes feverish and wild. As it is, it's not really funny at all.

“We broke up,” he says, tugging Max towards him. Says it so straightforwardly, like it’s nothing, like it’s not everything, and-

Oh , right. 

Max doesn't know what to do with that. 

Thinking is for another time though, because Charles is here now, and he’s looking at him like he’s desperate and Max’s hands are shaking with it, and it’s so easy, far too easy, to just give in and kiss him.

 

"I'm going to Ferrari," Charles announces, after. 

They're lying on his bed, spent and breathless, and Charles is soft and warm in his arms and Max feels like he’s in so deep he doesn't even know which way is up anymore. 

Max raises an eyebrow. "Isn't that confidential?"

Charles shrugs. "What are you going to do, tell the press?" 

Max rolls his eyes at that, tries to ignore the feeling blooming in his chest because Charles might appear nonchalant but he trusts him with this. It feels like it should count for something.

"Plus,” Charles continues, grinning, “If you do, I can always tell everyone that you failed your first driving test."

Max pinches the skin of his hip in protest, but it’s half hearted at best.

"Fuck off." 

There’s no heat behind it, couldn’t be, even if he tried.

“Aren't you going to congratulate me?” Charles smirks. 

He's so smug, so irritatingly alluring, even after Max has spent the last hour worshipping every inch of him, trying to convey with his touch everything that he can’t ever put into words. 

But Charles always wants more, and Max feels helpless in the face of it. Knows he would give him everything, if he asked. 

"Maybe now you can race me properly." He means it as a jab, it comes out far too fond instead. 

“Oh Max,” Charles grins, stretching lazily, “I cannot wait.”

 

 

Charles is back in his bed two weeks later, and it’s all just so fucking inevitable after that. 

Max loses himself in stolen moments and twisted bedsheets and he tries to memorise the feeling of Charles coming undone beneath him, lets it soak into his skin and meld with his bones until the memories are part of him. Because he’s greedy, and he wants every single part of Charles that he’s willing to share. 

It’s hurtling down the main straight at Monza at 350 kilometres an hour and knowing you need to stop, soon, or it’ll be too late, but the speed is too exhilarating and it’s like a drug and you just can’t. It’s all-consuming and terrifying and absolutely doomed but he doesn’t care. 

 

 

Charles brings it up one night, out of nowhere.  

“Did you sleep with Daniel?” 

Max has to reel his brain in rapidly, thrown off by the direction of conversation, because Charles is shirtless in his lap and it’s deeply distracting, making it very hard to think of anything else right now.

When he glances up at Charles there’s a slight frown on his face, like this is something that’s been bothering him for a while. It would be far too easy, Max thinks, to read too much into a question like that. In fact he’s kind of an expert in it.

He could tell him, honestly, that it wasn’t like that, not really - except- 

“I’m not really sure that’s any of your business,” he says, voice neutral. 

Partially because it’s true, but also because he feels the need to put up some semblance of boundaries here, he feels far too vulnerable as it is.

Something twisted and ugly flashes across Charles’ face, so quickly you’d miss it if you even blinked, if you didn’t know Charles like Max does. A second later it’s gone, replaced with his usual teasing grin and he’s leaning in, pressing their lips together and that, Max thinks, is the end of the matter. 

Except later, under cover of darkness - long after Max is sure he’s fallen asleep - he hears Charles’ voice, soft and a little hurt.

“I know it’s not my business but,” he pauses, as if uncertain, and Max hates every second of it. “You used to tell me everything.” 

 

 

Max goes to Belgium for Christmas, stays there for New Years. It's not a conscious thing, exactly, he just figures a little space wouldn't hurt, right now. 

It's just- he doesn't know what to do. This thing between them, with no buffer of distance or girlfriends or anything else to get in the way. It's a lot, and Christmas in Monaco maybe brings with it a few too many memories that he’s not exactly willing to deal with right now. 

Charles calls him on New Year’s Eve, close to midnight. 

Max isn’t really doing anything exciting that he needs to tear himself away from, his mom has some family friends over and it’s nice and all but it’s not like they’re going to miss him for a few minutes, so he excuses himself to take the call. 

“Hey,” Charles sounds a little breathless, there’s noise in the background and it sounds like there's a party going on. 

“Hey, what’s going on?” he asks, because he assumes Charles has some reason for calling, at this time. 

“Nothing-” the noise fades a little, like Charles is moving outside- “I just wanted to talk to you.”

Max feels something swell in his chest at that, ignores it very deliberately.

“Are you having a good night?” he asks, because apparently Charles wants to make small talk. 

“Yeah, it’s okay,” Charles sounds a little uncertain, until- “The funniest thing happened earlier, actually.” 

Charles’ voice is eager, excited, and Max smiles, in spite of himself.

“Tell me about it.”

He listens to Charles tell him a long winded story about someone getting stuck on a balcony, and it’s not very funny really, but he listens anyway because it’s Charles. He’s sitting on his mom's front porch, looking up at the night sky as Charles talks to him, and suddenly he's fifteen again, lying on a picnic blanket under the stars, talking about everything and nothing and so utterly head over heels for the boy beside him. 

Funny how so much has changed and yet some things never do. 

"You gonna kiss someone at midnight?" Charles asks, because he still has the maturity of a fifteen year old, apparently.

Max huffs out a laugh. "I don't think there's a single person at this party under the age of forty that I'm not related to."

Charles laughs. "Good."

That's- it could mean everything, it could mean nothing. 

"What about you?" He asks, because he has no sense of self-preservation.

Charles is quiet for a moment. 

"There’s no one here I want to kiss."

 

Victoria finds him sitting on the porch, after he’s hung up and sent Charles back to rejoin his festivities. 

“Who was that you were talking to?”

Max shrugs. “Just Charles.”

“Ah.” Victoria’s gaze is too knowing, she’s always been a little too perceptive for Max’s own good. 

“You know,” she continues, “when we were kids, you never used to shut up about him.”

“Vic-”

“It was always, Charles this, Charles that, all the time.”

“Vic, stop.” Max turns to her, perhaps a little pleading. “It’s nothing.”

“Max, you’re on the phone to him at midnight on new years eve, look me in the eye and tell me that’s nothing.”

Max doesn’t really have anything to say to that.

“Why do you care, anyway?” Try as he might, he's unable to keep the petulance out of his tone. 

“Because,” her voice is soft, “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Charles would never hurt me.” The words are more damning, in a way, than any midnight phone call could ever be. 

Victoria just looks at him, something soft and almost pitying in her gaze.

“Not on purpose.”

 

 

It’s inevitable really, but Charles drifts away from him a little, with the start of the new season. Then again, Max doesn’t really try to stop him. There is, he has to remind himself, a pair of them in it.

Either way, Max thinks, it’s probably for the best. He’s not sure he could handle losing Charles again, after this, so it’s best to just let him drift away to a safe distance. It’s not a terribly convincing argument, at times, but it’ll do. 

Ferrari is also all consuming and bears plenty of the blame for it. Charles barely seems to have time to catch his breath, let alone spare time to spend with Max. It’s fine, he thinks, because battling with Charles on the track, with the cars to do it, is the best feeling he’s ever felt in his life and if he can’t have everything then at least he can have this part.

 

It’s all going fine really, there’s not much time to stop and think, until Austria. 

Charles ignores him entirely in the cool-down room, and on the podium, but his jaw is ticking with barely restrained fury and Max finds himself waiting, waiting, for the other shoe to drop. 

True to form, Charles doesn’t disappoint, and when Max opens the door of his hotel room later that evening he’s almost bowled away by the fury written large across Charles’ face. 

Max doesn’t ever think he’s seen him this angry. It says a lot.

"You fucking prick."

Right, that's where he's at.

“It was completely out of line.” Charles is shaking with it, finger trembling as he points at Max, accusatory.

“Funny how the FIA don’t seem to agree with you,” he’s sneering, ugly. Feels himself rise to the bait, wishes he wouldn’t. 

“I can’t believe you, of all people, would do this to me,” Charles is shaking his head, pacing, “It was my win and you stole it from me.”

“It’s just racing Charles, it’s not personal .” It’s snarling and brutal, all caught in his chest like a wounded animal. “You should know that, you’re plenty happy to give it out but can’t take it when it’s turned back at you.”

“It felt personal. It felt mean .”

Trust Charles to know how to hit him where it hurts. 

“Fine. Think whatever you want. I could give a damn if you hate me or not.” Lies, lies, lies. His chest feels tight with it.

Charles stops pacing suddenly, painfully still. 

“I don’t hate you, that’s the problem. That’s the worst part of it.” 

Charles looks at him then, almost pleading. His hair is sticking up awkwardly where he's been tugging at it and his eyes are wild and he looks like he's on the verge of shaking apart. 

“I’m here, screaming at you because you drive me completely insane, but I don’t actually want to be anywhere else.”

“Charles," he says, careful, because arguing with Charles can give you whiplash at the best of times, but this has wandered far outside the scope of the fight he thought they were having. "What are you trying to say?”

“You’re really dense sometimes you know.” The fight seems to go out of him for a moment and he slumps against the wall, looks tired, and hurt.

When he speaks again his voice is soft. 

“I've been following you around since we were kids. I would've followed you anywhere . I followed you here, I never stopped.” 

Oh.

“I tried, I tried so many times to get over you and it’s just-” Charles runs a hand across his face, he’s shaking, Max notices - “it’s just hopeless because no one ends up with the person they fell in love with when they were fifteen.” 

There’s no air left in the room, he can’t fucking breathe . 

“I'm sorry, I know it's not fair but I have to tell you Max because I can't bear it.” 

He pauses, and Max thinks a bomb could have gone off in the next room for all he’d notice it.  

“I can’t bear the thought of you with anyone else. Of you moving on and falling in love with some faceless person, and I'll just have to stand there and watch .” 

His voice cracks on the last syllable, and he’s still looking at the ground, and Max feels hysterical with it all because if he’d just look at him he’d see- 

“As if they’d have any right to love you when they don’t, because they won’t know you, not like I do .”

Kissing Charles has always been the most effective method of shutting him up, so that’s what Max does.

"You're an idiot, oh my god.” 

He's grinning, smiling into the kiss like a fool because this is his Charles and god he loves him, he loves him so much and- 

"Charles, it's always been you. It's never not been you.”

Charles is looking at him, eyes still wide and a little uncertain and Max wants it all gone, gone, can't bear the doubt, not anymore.

"I think I've loved you from the very start. For so long I don't remember what it's like not to."

That seems to do the trick, because Charles kisses him then, and Max thinks this might be the best one yet.

After, when they’re lying on his bed, sleepy and content, Charles shifts in his arms, looks up at him. 

“I’m still mad at you, by the way.”

“About the race?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Yeah,” Max smiles. “I wouldn’t know what to do with you if you started forgiving me all of a sudden.”

Charles smiles at him, and Max can’t resist adding on, teasing;

“Plus, you’re hot when you’re angry.”

Charles laughs at that, bright and breathless and Max feels like his heart could burst with it all. 

“Why didn’t you say anything, any of the times before?” He asks Charles, curious, and because he can, now.

“I don’t know, I guess I was scared. And then you were off in Formula One doing exciting things with exciting people and I thought…”

“Thought what?”

“I don’t know, that you might be bored of me. That I might slow you down.”

“Charles,” Max says, deadly serious now. “Don’t ever say that again.”

“Say what, that I’d slow you down?”

Max nods, face grave. “You’ve never been slow, never will be.” He says it like an oath, means it too.

Charles bursts out laughing. “You’re so fucking predictable you know that? Everything I’ve said and the one thing that you take from it is that I doubted my speed for a second.”

Max shrugs, he’s never claimed to be entirely sane, especially when it comes to Charles.

“So,” Charles turns to him. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Funny story actually,” Max grins, because he can find this funny now, “I almost did.” 

And so he tells him, smiling, about the night in Budapest, and Daniel’s pestering, and the ill-fated phone call.

“You’re telling me we wasted all this time because you were too chicken to leave a voicemail? Or text me? I cannot believe you Max Verstappen.”

Max laughs at that, because yeah, when you put it that way it’s pretty stupid. 

“Oops?”

Charles rolls his eyes, presses his lips to the underside of Max’s jaw, teasing. “We could’ve been doing this for years.”

Max kisses him then, soft and full of promise. 

“Then it’s a good thing we’ve got all the time in the world.”

Charles smiles. “What was it you promised me, fifteen to twenty more years of racing together?”

“Something like that, yeah.” 

It’s a promise he can’t wait to keep. 

 

Notes:

Um, surprise?

Other notes:
- fun fact: the whole ringing someone to tell them how you feel and them not answering and then proceeding to get a girlfriend a few weeks later is in fact stolen from my own years of teenage drama, because I am deeply uncreative and honestly it's just incredibly funny
- you can find me on tumblr if you wish to scream at me about anything