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Charles’ brothers cry when he presents.
Arthur was always a crybaby so it isn't that out of the ordinary, and Charles found it quite funny how snot got all over his face.
But it’s Lorenzo who leaves him unsettled. His brother, who is bigger than everything, stronger than anyone, smarter than most – except maybe his parents and Jules. The body shaking with sobs in their mom’s arms looks like a foreign one. As if someone had taken control of his brother, like the scary mushroom that they watched a documentary about a few weeks earlier when everything was still normal.
So, his brothers are crying.
Because of him.
For him?
Charles looks back at the open letter on the kitchen table. If he had known that a simple paper would have had this effect, he would have hidden it underneath his mattress, with his paper with bad results.
It sure feels like a failed test, anyway. A big O in red ink. He’s an omega. What is he going to do with that?
Lorenzo has stopped crying but her mom is still playing with his hair and he hasn’t looked Charles in the eyes for the whole time. They celebrated his eighteenth birthday not long ago. Officially an adult and an alpha. Charles had been only jealous of one of these things, not long ago.
Despite his best efforts, Charles feels his lips start trembling and the lump in his throat starts swelling and his eyes start burning and suddenly, his dad is hugging him.
Charles can be nine, very fast in karting, and regularly called little shit (always affectionate but with a hint of truth) by Jules and Lorenzo but he is nothing but a small child as his dad’s arms and smell wrapped around him. He’s never been very tall — he knows what to blame now — but his dad feels immense around him.
Charles buries his head in his chest, right where he can hear his heartbeat.
“It’s great,” says his dad and it’s the first thing he said since they opened the letter. “It’s great, I’m proud of you, my son.”
“Yeah?” Charles’ voice is thin, barely more than a whisper.
“Of course. Your brothers are being idiots right now but I promise you, this is great.”
And Lorenzo can be strong and all-conquering but his dad… There’s no other truth that matters except for what his dad thinks, says, and does. Flowers would bloom where he looked, clouds would fade away where he stood. Wins would come when he cheered for him in the stands.
Charles is nine and he believes it will be okay because his dad says so.
Arthur sniffles particularly loudly and wetly, startling everyone and the lead weight that they didn’t realize had fallen in the room gets lifted in a burst of laughter.
The letter gets put in a drawer, in the kitchen, under the induction plates. Because his mom insists, they bake a cake. Charles is too involved in the process so it ends up with eggshells inside and undercooked, but they all eat it anyway.
Lorenzo makes a joke about omega and cooking which gets him a scolding look from both his parents.
The lump inside his throat didn't go away, Charles realizes, it’s as if it had traveled to his stomach with the gooey cake and made a nest there. Or maybe it was the eggshell. His dad peels them an orange they share.
Racing as a topic can never stay away too long and it inevitably comes to them wondering. There’s no way Charles would quit. In his life, there’s breathing, eating, drinking, and racing.
But what would an omega do in a Formula 1 monoplace?
Charles wants to stand on the table and tell them that he won’t give up. That he can’t, he would rather die or eat worms from the playground. That he will run away from home and live in the garage. Sleep in his kart. Eat metal and drink oil. Whatever it takes.
There’s no need, of course, because his dad starts talking about his next race and how they would get there and if Jules can come and the breath of relief that runs through his body is holy.
“Are there any Omega that won a championship?” Arthur asks, curious but resigned.
His mom throws away the rest of the cake and smiles severely at his brother, hands on her hips. “Charles can be the first Omega World Champion.”
“First Omega Ferrari World Champion!” Charles protests, because what is the point if he’s not wearing red when brandishing the cup toward the sky?
“Actually, I’ve heard some rumor about Michael Schumacher that–”
“Lorenzo, not the time.”
For Charles, it very much is. He’s an omega and he’s going to be a Formula 1 world champion. Ferrari World Champion.
Formula 1, Charles has learned quickly, is an alpha sport. Betas are rare. Omegas are near nowhere to see.
Motorsport in general does not leave much room for anything other than your usual broad-shouldered, hormone-smelling alpha big guy but at least other categories have the decency of giving a chance once in a blue moon to a promising young omega.
Daniel Ricciardo is the second omega to ever slide inside an F1 monoplace. It causes quite a stir in the media, not only because of the exclusive nature of the thing but more particularly, the very un-omega air of Daniel.
He’s bright, extroverted, and ruthless. The last adjective is the most damning in the court of public opinion.
Everything about him is observed, critiqued, broken into little pieces, chewed, and spat on a blank piece of paper about how Daniel should be ashamed of his very existence, of the example he gives to young omega, of being too much, too loud, too big.
Charles is fourteen and breaks into cold sweat the moment the topic is brought to the table.
Early on, he decided that his second gender was for no one to know but him. Shame or privacy, he can’t tell himself. His family and close friends are aware of his situation, of course, but the cabinet in his bathroom fattens with all kinds of suppressants and blockers.
In the morning, Charles opens it and looks at the row of bottles that form its teeth, a misshapen mouth that smirks at him, hungry. He lunges his hand into it and gets surprised it doesn't take a bite out of him.
The side effects are not even that bad. A kart doesn't care if he has undeveloped scenting glands for his age, at least. Fake fuzzy champagne even tastes kind of good on the first step of the podium.
At school, his friends don’t care about Formula 1, even if they brag to everyone when Charles wins something. However, they get really defensive when omega in sports becomes a popular topic during the break.
For a while, it’s like everyone thinks they should have an opinion on it and are dying to share it with the world. Bruised knuckles are not worth it, Charles finds out, as it hurts when he grips the steering wheel. No such reservations are made for the rest of his friends but the threat of suspension from school calms them down.
They do a sleepover one night after Hugo gets punched in the face, like small children. Build-up caban collapses on them and too many sweets undo a knot in Charles’ stomach with his friends’ name on it he didn’t know existed until it’s gone.
In the depths of the night, after stealing a vodka bottle from the ceiling, they watch a race.
Daniel Ricciardo is not bad. He’s pretty good, even. Somehow, it makes Charles more jealous and a petty part of him wants to agree with the most trash-talking articles. He wants to be the first Omega world champion, not some obscure dude with a thick accent and big grins.
The catharsis of blowing up at dinner one evening only lasts so long.
His dad says it’s an angsty age. His mom just looks worried. Charles breaks the mirror of the bathroom after slamming the cabinet’s door too hard.
But Charles doesn't like to see his mom worried so he tries to act as a better son. To his mom and to his dad, who stands in the bleachers through thick and thin, rain and heat waves, loss and win.
More wins than losses, thankfully. The shelves run out of place at some point, overflowing with pride and trophies. Maman wants to dedicate a room to it, sure that more will come in the next decade or so but Lorenzo puts his foot down on it. Even if he’s not living with them anymore, he still needs to sleep somewhere.
Charles kind of agrees even if the thought was nice. He will always like his brother more than a trophy — even if trophies don’t leave him waiting on a karting circuit alone for five hours to go party with Jules.
Arthur presents as a beta and it’s quite underwhelming compared to Charles’ presentation. He likes it a lot better too, even if Arthur throws a small tantrum – the cake is nice and the β on top of it is in white chocolate. Also, no one cried this time.
There’s something solemn in Lorenzo’s eyes when their maman jokes about him being officially the only alpha of the house. It’s stupid and Charles wishes to take the obvious burden that suddenly falls on his big brother’s shoulder but he can only watch him smile and ruffle Arthur’s hair.
So, if he can’t do anything outright, he will do it slowly and subtly. None of these qualifiers have been used to describe Charles before but there’s a first to everything and it starts now.
He’s going to be slow, subtle, and the first omega world champion. Fuck you, Daniel Ricciardo.
Charles doesn’t hate anyone, but if he had to choose someone, it would definitely be Max Verstappen.
There's loads of reason for it, as he explains his logic to Jules when they’re both elbows-deep in petrol, pieces of his kart all around them. Brignoles is nice this time of the year and Jules is so happy about the potential contract that he agreed to ditch Lorenzo to spend some time on Charles’ kart.
On the first lap they do together, Charles almost crashes out of excitement.
Now, they’re looking over at his most prized possession just after the poorly done Senna helmet Arthur had made for him in pottery class. Making a car is not unlike making art, Charles had found out. All in all, it’s more magic than anything; to assemble pieces and watch this collection of scrap metal speeding on a track faster than a cheetah.
And cheetahs were super fast. Pierre and he had watched a documentary about it when they got bored between the race and the podium the other day.
Jules is a cheetah; Charles watches him every weekend fly across the asphalt and there’s something animal-like about the shape of the car when Jules is in it. It’s exhilarating, to know it’s Jules and to be able to call him after the race, hear the laughter and the pride in his voice.
Yeah, a cheetah. That sounds pretty cool.
Charles, on the other hand, is regularly compared to a mouse by Lorenzo. Sometimes a kitten when his maman is in a good mood. But mouse seems to be universally winning for his entourage.
But it’s okay, mice can win championships, even if nobody believes in them. It only makes it more satisfying. Or at least, they can badly annoy every one of its competitors.
Charles doesn't know what he would compare Max to, but it should be something that gets annoyed by small rodents.
Jules snorts at this which makes Charles scowl. It’s a serious matter, even if he doesn't think so.
“Don’t laugh! He’s so aggressive, it’s crazy. Plus, of course, he’s an alpha.”
Jules knows because he’s Jules and Lorenzo can’t keep a secret from him to save his life. And because it’s Jules, he doesn’t care and the first time they see each other face to face since the cat (omega?) was out of the bag, he only started ranting about his data from his last race.
Sometimes, Charles wants to be small enough for Jules to keep him in his pocket and to carry him around with him for the rest of the year. Then he reasoned himself that there’s probably no Ferrari tiny enough for someone this size.
Fuck, he hopes Max doesn’t get to be in a Ferrari. He probably won’t, he would be in an obnoxious team like Red Bull or McLaren. Ferrari was destined for people like Jules and him. People who bled Rosso Corsa since they were tall enough to get into a car and weren’t afraid to have a hemorrhage all over the track, a bloody train leading to a golden trophy.
One day, Jules and he will be wearing red and spray each other with champagne. Hopefully, Max won’t be there. But it doesn’t sound completely right either, so maybe he can be on the grid too just… Underneath them.
“He’s arrogant,” Charles rants and he can feel Jules growing more and more amused next to him, encouraging him to prove his point. “He’s aggressive and mean and he pushes me too hard and– and– he doesn’t even try to talk to any of us like he’s too good to talk to us, poor losers.”
“That sounds fun,” says Jules, screwing something that splashes even more gas on Charles.
“What?”
“To race with him, it sounds fun.”
“No, it’s not! You didn’t listen to me!”
Jules looks up at him, and his stomping of feet. Gives him an indulging smile. There are crinkles at the corner of his eyes that makes Charles feels like a child.
“Hmm, you should listen to yourself more, I think.”
The next time Charles made Max go too wide in the curve and eventually stand on the highest step of the podium, next to Max’s thunderous expression, he thinks of Jules. Maybe it is a little bit of fun.
Max is in Formula 1 and Charles almost dies from jealousy.
It’s obsessive, the way he watches every race, goes on Dutch channels so they have a focus on him, and creates a fake Twitter account to follow Max’s fans. Not that he thinks he’s famous enough to need a fake Twitter account, but at least it makes him feel like an FBI agent. Or a big fucking loser.
In any case, it’s done and the only thing stopping him from putting notifications on is that he still lives with his parents and it would make for an awkward conversation – especially since his dad likes and knows Max well enough.
There’s only so much puberty can explain and Charles is not sure his little creepy account for one of his alpha acquaintances is socially acceptable.
He’s friends with Max and Victoria on Facebook, which he knows is ironic and only makes him feel bad about stalking him there. The disapproving stare on Victoria’s profile picture is deterrent enough. She was always nice to him back in their karting days too, less belligerent than her brother — they could have been good friends in another life.
Instagram gets the same treatment as Twitter but the only-picture format makes Charles uncomfortable. Especially since they all post the same flattering pictures of Max — his strong profile and awkward limbs highlighted into a sex symbol Charles knows very well he’s not.
Still, he lingers on the one where his eyes look like steel, under his helmet or his stupid caps. A small video on Twitter with a few well-times clips on beat with the music makes him blush so hard he deletes the app.
The hospital smells like death but he regularly goes anyway. He doesn’t think about it on track.
Charles tries to put himself back together — a late-night conversation where he ends up crying to Lorenzo and a few meetings with wealthy sponsors put him back in the game. He’s here to win, no matter the category.
Of course, it’s the money that holds him back. Realistically, he knows that. But Charles can’t help but blame the little curved sign on his birth certificate. It’s hard to not think of what it would have been like, to be an alpha. How easy, how smooth, how effortless.
The fantasy is useless. He looks at himself in the mirror and pinches at his soft curves, sighs at the lack of muscles even though he works out, and snaps at his brothers when they stop roughhousing with him but not with each other.
It seems like everyone who knows doesn't notice that they act differently, as time goes by he looks less and less like the other alphas. It makes things worse, somehow. That it seems natural for everyone to adapt to him without meaning to.
At least his rivals on track only see the side of him that’s brutal on the circuit and treat him accordingly. The day he almost gets into a fight with a bad loser of an alpha may be the most satisfying one in a long time.
He’s not quite at the legal drinking age but he’s been going out with his friends for a while now, as all good European youth do, and after a race where Max scores points, he only feels the urge to get absolutely demolished.
Charles is young, hot, and desperate. There are plenty of people into that, apparently.
He’s not known enough for his hook-ups to care about him being an omega in hiding and if they did, he gave blowjobs good enough for them to shut their mouth.
“You’re making yourself sick,” says Joris one day, and Charles just scoffs at him.
He vomits in his bathroom when Max DNF the same afternoon. They don’t talk about it.
They don’t talk about a lot of things.
Charles is not sure he ever wants to talk again, after a while.
The first time Charles steps into the paddock, officially having a seat in Formula 1, he feels ten feet tall and hollow.
It’s like the moment was crafted for him to always remember not to take things for granted, a cautionary tale he’s forced to be the protagonist of. But Charles had learned his lesson. He had learned it a long time ago. So he tries to not feel the emptiness in the paddock next to his brothers and mother and waves at them from across the garage.
Ghosts can also have a beating heart, as Charles finds out. They wear chunky helmets and Red Bull blue and they scowl as if you offended them when you see each other in the paddock.
Or maybe Max didn’t see him and talking to Helmut Marko regularly did put a perpetual frown on one’s face.
At least, Charles didn’t see the gloomy presence of Jos Verstappen on the paddock – the man had always given Charles the creeps, and he could remember vividly his anger back in the karting days. Hiding behind his dad and Jules, he had watched Jos yell and become redder and redder, next to his silent son who was becoming paler and paler.
There was no pity between them at this age, too young and competitive, but Charles had wanted to hold Max’s hand all the same.
Now, they were facing each other in the fastest car in the world (on paper, at least), and being paid for it. Taller and older but not particularly wiser.
Even the few tests he had made for Ferrari didn’t prepare him for the overwhelming feeling of the first lap he made in a car that was his. It has his number, his seat, and his tests which made his car. Well, the ownership is temporary, as most things are, but it still feels as exhilarating as watching his kart start after spending so many hours building it.
By the third day, the engineers must be sick of having Charles hovering behind them in between sessions because he’s sent away with a vague mission of getting coffee for someone he has never seen or heard of.
Australia is hot and unforgiving. It doesn’t take long for Charles to get lost, distracted by the people and drowning in his sweat, and he must look the part too because Sebastian Vettel himself comes to his rescue.
There’s something unreal in having your childhood hero look at you, concerned, as he asks you questions like you’re about to pass out at any moment. He’s not far off, probably, because Charles is pretty sure he’s dehydrated as there are little black dots that keep appearing around Sebastian’s face.
Starstruck, Charles is not sure he even speaks English as he follows Sebastian across the paddock. World champions didn’t bother with blockers apparently, and Seb’s sandalwood scent is strong enough to make him blush a little when he smiles at him.
Turns out, Sebastian is as charming as he is on TV, and despite Charles’ awkwardness, he manages to extract some small talk out of him. Charles even catches himself sharing more than he usually would — and even in the heat, a cold chill runs on his back. He needs to be careful. He’s a rookie in Formula 1 but not at this.
He can’t be.
When they stop in front of what appears to be a café, Charles almost runs into Seb, too distracted by the way his curls bounce as he walks.
“Here you go,” Sebastian beams, opening the door for him.
Fuck, Charles did not have the time for a crush on a fellow driver.
Inside, the white noise of A/C drowns out the conversation and the smell of sweat and alphas makes Charles gag. The non-use of blockers is probably the result of the no-omega environment but at least in F2, they had pretended to care.
A hand brushes the small of his back and hip, bringing back Charles in reality and the fact that he’s with Sebastian Vettel (did he already mention how crazy that was?). If he bats his lashes a bit too much, it’s no one’s business but his.
He’s laughing too loud at one of Seb’s biting jokes when the older man stops in his tracks and smiles at someone. Charles can feel himself straighten immediately as he meets the icy blue eyes boring into him.
Of course, it would be Max Verstappen he would meet while unashamedly flirting with a four-time world champion. It’s like Max is designed to torture him, even in paradise.
At least, Max looks as uncomfortable as Charles feels, but it might just be his default state.
“Hello, Max,” Sebastian says. “This is–”
Charles cuts him out before they both suffer the humiliation of Seb not knowing his name. “Charles Leclerc. But we already know each other.”
“Really? That’s nice,” Sebastian says but he’s distracted by a loud noise on his phone. He doesn’t look at them as he texts back. “Oh, I must go, have fun, kids.”
What? Charles wants to ask as if he has any right to take more of Sebastian’s time. Unfortunately, he has always been greedy. Give him a hand and he’ll take the arm. He tries not to look too disappointed as Seb pockets his phone and gives him a firm hit on the shoulder.
“Bye Seb,” Max says, at last, and they both watch Seb wave at them before disappearing behind a motorhome.
And just like that, and for the first time in a long time, Max and Charles are left alone in the same room. Not truly alone, as some various team members are drinking and eating, but it still feels very much like they were two kids shoved together and being told to play with each other.
“It’s been a while,” Charles blurts out. He’s going to be the bigger person. His mom better be proud of him.
“Right. Congrats, by the way.”
“Thank you, you too,” says Charles automatically and feels his ears get hot as he realizes what he said. Max has already been in Red Bull for some time now, there’s not really anything to congratulate him for.
Still, Max smiles and nods, and it’s almost more humiliating to Charles. Someone coughs behind them and they both turn to see a waiter giving them a pointed look.
“Are you ready to order?”
“Uh… Yes?” Charles stutters and unconsciously looks at Max for confirmation. He gets a shrug and a nod at the same time, leaving him more confused than anything. The waiter is still staring at them, waiting for an answer.
If Charles wants to back out, it’s way too late now because Max pulls out a seat at the nearest table and gestures at Charles to do the same. The day is weird enough for Charles to agree to it.
“What are you having? Coffee?”
Instinctively, Charles makes a disgusted face, scrunching his nose at the thought of the bitter taste. Somewhere, one of his Italian employers is probably having heartache. By the time he scans the menu to find another alternative, Max has got his wallet out and is spinning his credit card around his fingers in some fancy trick. They’re not close enough for Charles to tease him about it, but he wishes he was.
“I’ll take an iced tea, but I can pay–”
“No, it’s on me,” Max’s tone is too firm for Charles to try to fight him on it.
“Thank you.”
“Of course.”
Their attempt at catching up fizzles out quickly and when the drinks arrive, they have stopped trying to find something to talk about.
They sip their respective drink quietly, watching the ecosystem of a race weekend unfold in front of them like a movie montage. The music of the café is bad but neither of them asks to change it. Most movie montages had bad music anyway — but they’re one of Charles’ guilty pleasures, encouraged by one of his ex-girlfriends who insisted on watching every 2000s romcom together. He got out of this relationship with heartbreak and expertise on the Devil Wears Prada.
There’s nothing fashionable here however, jeans, t-shirts, and teamwear are not exactly meant for runaways. Charles steals a glance at Max’s Red Bull polo and jeans. If he dressed better, there was no doubt in his mind he could have a little Andy-in-Chanel moment.
Not that Max needs to get more attractive. Not that Charles thinks that Max is attractive! Or not attractive. In fact, he didn’t think about Max at all.
Getting riled up by himself, Charles takes a deep breath to calm down and gets surprised by the lack of Max’s scent. It was a surprising change from karting days, where they were all too young to care about those things, but Max’s scent had always stood out to Charles by his overwhelming quality.
The track smelled like a tulip field when he won and rainy days when he lost.
At his side, real-grown-up Max must have had enough of their silent not-coffee not-date because he clears his throat as he stands up. Charles looks up at him, the sun behind making his hair look golden.
“It was nice to see you.”
Charles is not even sure if he’s lying or not.
He doesn’t get lost in the paddock this time.
Once back at the garage, Charles realizes he’s forgotten about the coffee but no one asks him about it. But there’s no time to dwell on it, as Lorenzo puts him in a headlock and there’s a disapproving Sauber employee with a binder of data to analyze.
Charles wears tragedy like a beaten-down coat, slips in it easily, and tries to look regal and not like he’s drowning in its oversized shoulders. So it’s strange to be this happy. He thinks he likes it.
Most of all, he hopes it stays.
(He knows it won’t.)
His friends are insistent that Jimmy’z is the best thing that ever happened to Monaco.
Charles had tried to argue they had a whole historic Grand Prix going on each year but most of them didn’t care about Formula 1 enough to fully appreciate this influx of tourists and disturbance.
At least, they had someone to cheer on for the past few years — even if Lady Luck seems to have a grudge against him in Monaco. Charles had pretended not to see the giant banner with his name on it on Facetime at Hugo two weeks ago. Admittedly, it made him emo enough to agree to go out for the third day in a row even with a race the next day.
So, Jimmy’z.
Everything is overpriced and half the club didn’t bother with blockers. As the honorary omega of their friend group, Charles found himself with one of his friends constantly at his side, either with premeditation or pure instinct. The familiarity of their scent – like childhood and shared classroom boredom – made at least the club experience tolerable for Charles.
Until someone spilled their entire beer on him.
He hadn’t been doing anything either, bopping to the deep bass, tucked under Hugo’s arm when someone decided it was their song oh my god, and threw their cup in the air and the liquid on Charles’. The yelp he let out made him thankful for the no-phone policy.
After taking it upon himself to not destroy them verbally or physically and with a very fake smile, Charles made his way to the bathroom – ignoring his friends’ call to wait for them.
Being a public figure sucks. Maybe it’s just Charles who doomed himself by wanting to be too nice and is now unable to be anything but it; still, he resented the fact he couldn’t just have a normal and human reaction without fearing an eventual scandal in a cover magazine or articles.
He simply couldn’t afford to bring attention to himself like this.
So he had made a joke about being used to being sprayed alcohol on, even though his linen shirt lacked the quality of fireproof and he now feels sticky and gross and overwhelmed.
The club, like all the new-gen’s ones, is one of those whose toilet is separated by first genders but Charles is too pissed to care. If an alpha tried to talk to him in the next twenty minutes, he might rip his throat out though.
Thankfully, it’s empty and Charles immediately goes for the sinks.
Unconsciously, Charles realized he had chosen the toilets that were hidden next to the exit, the one you needed to know the bar to place it. Like all the bathrooms in Jimmy’z, however, it has neon lights and mirrors too big and slightly distorting.
It freaked him out the first time he went there, and he’s pretty sure he had a panic attack at this exact spot, now that he thought about it. Or maybe he got fucked. Both of these things were eerily similar at some point in his life.
Sometimes, it felt like there wasn’t a place in Monaco that got touched by Charles where he didn’t leave a piece of himself in. Every corner, every turn, and Carrefour has a hand-size stain that wears his rings and bears his name.
If Monaco ever got sick of him, and maybe she already has, he knew it would cut deep. But Charles had learned a long time ago how to live without. To live despite.
Fuck, the pink cocktail definitely had more alcohol than anticipated.
The bright red of the room gives him a headache, but it’s clear by now that none of Charles’ friends actually came after him – which he was both bitter and grateful for. Bittersweet, if you will. Most things these days have that taste anyway.
At least the red-rimmed eyes were kind of a look. In front of the terrifying mirror, Charles strikes a pose, like the girls on Instagram, with pursed lips and a V with his fingers and he looks stupid enough that it makes him giggle.
What a pathetic loser he is. The thought is more comforting than he anticipated.
He’s Charles Leclerc, he’s crying alone in a Monaco’s club and striking little poses in the mirror and he’s pathetic. Plus, his shirt is starting to stick to his skin in a very uncomfortable way.
The added five shots to the pink cocktail must have had more of an effect than he thought because, in any other circumstances, Charles would have rather died than strip off in public. Unbuttoning his shirt only takes a minute, his eye-hand coordination is almost intact and the fabric makes a loud splash when thrown in the sink.
For a second, Charles thinks about looking on Google for this specific type of situation but he meets his own eyes in the mirror and straightens himself. He can deal with this on his own. Without his phone.
As to prove himself, Charles reaches for his phone in his back pocket and gets confused for a second about the lack of anything in his back pocket. Fuck, no-phone policy. Not that he was planning to use it but the fact he’s alone in a bathroom, shirtless and without any means to contact his friends is starting to dawn on him.
The scheduled next mental meltdown gets pushed back, however, as the door opens behind him. Charles’ first reaction is to hide his scent glands but the secure fabric of the tape on his neck reassures him immediately. Even in Monaco, he’s not stupid enough to go out without precaution.
Outside, someone is screaming the lyrics of a French song Charles had never heard before, and as they hit a particularly high note, he meets the eyes of the person who just entered the room and had not moved since then.
He didn’t expect to drown tonight but Monaco was full of surprises.
“Max?”
His voice cracks like a teenager and he winces at the sound. Tomorrow was going to be tough if he didn’t get it back together right now. Somehow, Max doesn't even smirk and he’s a better man than Charles for that because if the situation was reversed, he would have had a field day with it.
But Charles has started to come to terms with Max being better than him some time ago.
“Charles,” Max says, and his eyes are so fixed on Charles’ face it’s starting to make him uneasy.
“What are you doing here?”
Max frowns. “Pissing, of course, it’s a toilet. What are you doing?”
“Someone mistook my shirt for their mouth,” Charles laughs nervously and feels cold sweat run down his neck when Max looks even more confused. “Beer accident.”
“Ew.”
“Yeah.”
And Charles desperately wants to leave the conversation at that, wants Max to nod and turn back to do his business but as he goes to try and clean his shirt, hands slightly shaking, he can see his figure not moving in the mirror. It takes a lot for him to not start yelling at the top of his lungs.
The smell of beer somehow fills up the room even more as Charles rubs the fabric together. Now a weird yellow color, either due to the soap or the lightning, it was hard to tell if the shirt was still salvageable at all now. It looks now more like a rag found on a dirty street than a 100 euro shirt.
“You’re doing it wrong.”
“Obviously,” Charles snaps at Max who had crossed the room to lean on the sink next to him, arms crossed and supervising the massacre of his shirt like a Williams’ race.
“What fabric is it?”
“Do I look– it’s linen. Does that help?” Charles gives up, drying his hands on his pants, and looks at Max in such a manner it makes him snort.
“Let me try,” Max gently hip-bumps him out of the way to take the shirt. “Aren’t you cold?”
“No. Whatever.”
Now that he mentions it, being away from the heat pool that was the dancefloor to the empty toilets was a temperature change Charles wasn’t sure his body liked. As a last attempt to keep his dignity, he crosses his arms against his chest, protecting his nipples against the cold, and stares at Max’s hands in the water.
They are very nice hands. Objectively.
Clinical and methodical, Max proves himself to be way more efficient than Charles in a short amount of time. It would be infuriating if not for the absurdity of the situation and Charles can’t help but be fascinated by this Max. Broad and delicate. He takes all the room without even trying to.
This time, Max didn’t wear blockers, but it’s not overwhelming like it could be. Instead, it’s some shade of comforting, citrusy, and with some hint of tulip, making Charles unconsciously lean toward him.
There’s a glimpse of his gland scent underneath his white shirt and while he wants to reach to tug the fabric, Max glances at him at the exact same time he’s staring intently at this spot.
Discretion, despite his best effort, never is his strong point.
Embarrassed by being caught, Charles averts his eyes and racks his brain in the hope of finding something to distract him.
“You’re good at this.”
“Well, you know… My nephews are babies and messy and they spit everywhere. Including my clothes.”
“Gross,” Charles says, scrunching his nose and Max laughs. Charles narrowly misses the water that’s being splashed at him.
“I guess, I don’t mind it. They’re too cute.”
“How old are they?”
Max beams like Charles announced he already won the championship this year. What follows is a very detailed list of everything Max is convinced his nephews are early on, from being able to stand to eat without needing (much) help.
It unlocks something between them too because hearing Max gush about his nephews in such a ridiculous fashion while cleaning Charles’ shirt in the toilets of a stupid club makes it hard for Charles to remember why he found him unpleasant in the first place.
Plus, while neither Lorenzo nor Arthur had any children (as he knew it at least), his friends did have a baby recently and it was the most surreal experience he had in a while. And he drives really fast cars for a living.
Sharing those things, little facts about himself and his life, feels easy under Max’s attention, not too intense but still engaging.
Some stuff he finds out he already knows about Max too. He somehow remembers those tiny bits of information like how Victoria hated carrots or the names of some of his best friends and cats – maybe from his stalker phase but probably more because they have been around each others’ vicinity for so long.
It’s nostalgic, to think about their younger selves and Charles wishes he could tell the little kids angrily ranting to Jules about this moment.
Charles is in the middle of saying something about new tires and a funny observation Andrea told him the other day when Max suddenly freezes.
The door only starts trembling under the weight of someone that Max had already crossed the room to push back. Steady and unshakeable in the strength he puts to stop the person from entering, there’s something reverent that blooms into Charles’ chest as he watches Max give him a grimace with his back against the door.
A whiff of a scent outside the door reaches him and the smell of a drunk alpha that Max had obviously caught before him makes him want to vomit.
“It’s busy,” Max grits out but the pushing doesn’t stop.
Behind the door, a few French curses get loud enough for both of them to hear and Charles clears his throat from where he’s standing before yelling: “Il a dit que c’était occupé, connard!”
“Putain mais aller baiser ailleurs, y’en a qui veulent pisser!”
And oh. Oh, yeah. This is what it looks like, doesn’t it?
There must be something funny in Charles’ scent or expression because, even if he clearly didn’t understand a word, Max makes a noise close to a warning growl and the person stops pushing.
The silence is as deafening as a thousand cheers on a race day.
“What an asshole,” Max finally groans, but it’s tainted by a timid cough that doesn’t suit him.
“Yeah… I should probably go. I’m pretty sure the shirt is like, not salvageable,” Charles trips on the word and bites his tongue.
“What? So you’re not going to wear anything?”
“Well, my friends are in the club, I just need to find them.”
“You can’t go out like this,” Max sounds so stressed out it makes Charles laugh. So many people looked like they were close to having a heart attack while trying to talk down Charles that he is starting to believe he truly is the problem.
“I think I’ll hardly be the only shirtless guy in the club.” He honestly dreads the idea, but spending more time with Max might end up fucking up with his head even more.
“You– Just take this.”
In a swift move, Max grabs his hoodie by the back and slips out of it in no time, the shirt he wears underneath going out with it. Something is fascinating about the rippling of muscles on his stomach, solid and pale, which forces Charles to stay concentrated on the particularly ugly graphic on the shirt instead.
Before he has the time to comment on it, he gets hit with a load of heavy fabric and smells in the face. Charles is pretty sure he has actual cotton in his mouth by the time he manages to untangle the thing enough to make any sense of it.
It’s a stupid hoodie. Good quality but a massive Red Bull logo ornates the back of it. And, again, in other circumstances, Charles wouldn’t be caught dead wearing something like this. But he’s tired, hungry, kind of drunk and it smells unbelievably good.
He slips into it easily and the urge to nuzzle the collar of it gets too strong for him to resist it. Soft fabric tickles his sensitive skin, cloud-like and comforting.
There’s a paper in the pocket when Charles puts his hands on it and he caresses it gently, feeling the paper between his fingers. Pleated and full of secrets, Charles vows to never read it. Whether it’s a receipt or a love letter, written in red ink or drawn in green pastel, it is Max’s and a part of his life Charles is not allowed to see; he’s only allowed to borrow some part of it for a limited time.
He cuts himself a little with the sharp border of the paper but doesn’t flinch. Max stays silent, watching him with an unreadable twist on his mouth. Charles backs away slowly near the exit, but can’t bring himself to turn his back on Max, worried the fragile equilibrium between them would fall and shatter on the floor of the neon-red toilets.
“Thanks, Max,” Charles says softly and he touches the sticky plastic of the door behind him but doesn’t push it, waits for Max who’s having a hard time getting whatever he wants to say out of his chest.
It’s a lengthy and difficult process for him, Charles can see the thread of the words coming together and undone in his throat, like Penelope’s shroud made of love and regrets.
“Of course. Take care.”
“You too, have a fun piss.”
When he gets to his friends, nobody says anything about his disappearance or the hoodie but Thomas kisses his cheek. Charles loves all of them more than life itself.
The heat of a tongue on his hip bone makes him shiver.
A strong nose and hands open his thighs. There’s a moan stuck in his throat with his breath. It’s too much, it’s not enough, Charles wants more more more.
Wet kisses mixing with his slick stain the sheets underneath him.
He tries to close his legs, soft hair tickling his sensitive skin, without any success. Calloused hands grab him tighter and if he falls apart, he knows he’s going to get picked up. There’s freedom in letting himself melt away.
Fingers deep into him.
Deep ocean eyes, rimmed red.
Plump pink lips, traveling up his legs, waist, nipples, shoulder, neck and—
He bites.
“Max,” Charles gasps as his eyes open.
Carlos flicks Charles on the nose.
It doesn’t make him flinch but he still slaps Carlos’ hand away like an annoying fly. Admittedly, he has been zoning out pretty hard while Carlos was having a monologue but his nose is probably now a bit red from the hit.
Carlos pretends to have a deadly wound where Charles has struck back. While it would have definitely made him laugh, there’s too much on Charles’ mind to give him more than a half-smile.
It makes Carlos frown. “Why are you acting so weird today?”
Oh, you know. Had a wet dream about another driver. Nothing too special.
“Nothing. I didn’t sleep too good,” Charles settles for instead.
“Still ok for dinner?”
“Dinner?”
“Oh come on, you said yes like twenty minutes ago!”
Twenty minutes ago, Charles was most definitely not listening. Neither at any point of the day, really. But it’s not like Charles has anything planned tonight except moping and perhaps masturbating if he can shut up his guilty conscience for enough time.
Going out with other drivers is not something he does a lot, both by a matter of scheduling and self-preservation, but he supposes getting out once in a while couldn’t hurt him.
He did stupider things in his time.
A quick text to Pierre who assures him he will be there and Charles finds himself in front of a restaurant with Carlos’ arms around his shoulder, grip strong enough that he can’t decide to now run away.
Of course, Charles is happy to see Lando, George, and Alex, who he hasn’t been able to stream with recently, and Daniel is always good company but to say Max is the last person he wants to see right now wouldn’t be that much of a hyperbole.
Even without the whole wet dream situation, Charles knows it would be awkward. There’s a tentative friendship lingering between the two of them, but neither truly knows how to handle it. Trying too hard would make it awkward and not enough make it go nowhere.
They greet, Charles expertly avoids saying more than a ‘hey’ to Max and instead pretends to be engrossed in whatever Lando is saying about his engineers. His enthusiasm for the birthday of someone he never even met must be slightly overreacted because Pierre gives him a weird look.
Still, it works, and there are three people between them when they go sit down at the table, even if it suffer from not being on the same side. Better than nothing. Charles will take any small victories at this point.
Sandwiched between Alex and Pierre, the menu doesn’t look very appetizing to Charles so he decides to go for a salad. Even when Pierre relentlessly teases him for this decision when he tells it to the Beta waiter in his weird apron.
The waiter says something in rapid-fire Spanish. All the table turns to Carlos.
Carlos laughs awkwardly before explaining. “He said they’ll put some gasoil on the salad to fuel us.”
“That sounds disgusting,” Max grumbles, and Charles nods.
“Yeah, I’m not eating that. And it’s very unsanitary.”
Alex gives them a long-suffering look. “Guys, it’s a joke.”
“Oh.”
Charles is not sure who says it but the feeling is the same. They share an abashed glance, under Pierre and George’s mocking laugh.
Charles still can’t quite look Max in the eyes so he’s the one who gives up first. He tries not to notice the slight disappointment in Max’s frown.
Most of the dinner is boring. Catching up with the Brits is great until they’re talking amongst themselves too fast and with too much slang for him to completely get it so he loses interest.
Even Pierre ends up being a poor conversation partner, as he tries to explain some business and stock things to Charles that he couldn’t care less about.
With his limited knowledge of art and craft, he has started to make origami with the napkins when a shout at his left takes his attention. Max and George, despite being two or three seats apart, are glaring at each other. Even without the loud noise, the angry smell of Alphas would have ticked Charles off.
It’s putrid and overwhelming. The untaken blockers in his bag sound particularly appetizing.
“C’mon guys, no argument at dinner,” Daniel tries and fails to calm the situation down, even his big smile unable to conceal his panic.
“It’s not an argument, I’m just saying that the corner was mine and Max should watch out.”
“There was a gap, I’m racing. I’m not going to apologize for it,” Max says and stabs the meat on his plate with his fork. He looks more tired than mad.
“Well, you should.”
“Why?” Charles asks and he ignores Pierre’s warning kick on his shin. The conversation has quieted and even the noise of the restaurant is muffled as he stares at George.
“I was having a freaking good lap, and it was dangerous. I could have crashed,” George grits his teeth, annoyed.
“Yes. And you could have won if Max didn’t pass you, and if you got pole, and if Lewis did a lesser lap. Are we playing ‘what if’?”
Someone made a wounded noise. George looks like his steak has grown spikes inside his stomach.
“This is not what I’m saying.”
“Isn’t it? I’m good at this game, though. I could have won a championship if my car hadn’t been shit for years.” I could have been an alpha, I could have looked at you and smelled like your equal.
“Charles, stop. He just needs to be more careful.”
“You just need to drive better,” concludes Charles. “ Pierre, passe-moi l’eau. ”
Pierre looks pained as he gives Charles the bottle of water in complete silence. Something in his frown says stop getting in trouble. It’s easy enough to ignore. George is all bark no bites, except maybe on track, so it’s not like Charles is going to get assaulted.
(Also, Charles is pretty sure he can get George in a fight. Bloody knuckles on a rainy schoolyard had prepared him for this.)
A small glance at Max leaves him to immediately go back to trace his napkins’ logo. The dark blue of his eyes reminds him a bit too much of some dream.
They all move on quickly, as they usually do, and the rest of the dinner is spent without much racing talk, despite Max’s best attempts. Once or twice, Charles indulges him, even from the opposite side of the table, and it helps break the ice.
He doesn’t even think about dreaming of Max between his legs not even 24 hours ago. He doesn’t.
The eternal question of who takes the bill gets resolved in a quick game of rock-paper-scissors which Lando loses miserably. At his round with Max, Charles does a paper against Max’s rock.
“I’ll go pay,” Lando sighs, his chair scratching against the floor. Charles destroys his pyramid of origami-cranes-napkins as he tries to stop him.
“Wait, can’t I get a gin tonic?”
Pierre glares at him. “ Non .”
“I want one too,” Max intervenes and Charles beams.
“Oh my fucking god.”
The restaurant is closing so the matter of gin tonics is sealed pretty quickly. Being a Formula 1 driver is not that impressive of a thing in the eyes of the owner apparently, and Charles and Max, despite their best sweet-talk, get kicked out efficiently.
No sympathy is found from their friends, who are already far ahead. Grumbling, and in the case of Charles, very sober, they follow their steps dragging their feet.
Max seems deep in thought. Night sky, devoid of stars and too-clean streets, the moment feels fragile.
“What are you thinking about?” Charles asks. He’s not sure if that’s by wanting to fill the silence or genuine curiosity. He’s not particularly keen on finding out tonight.
Max looks at him. Somehow, Charles finds the same confusion on his face that he feels in his stomach.
“What color are your eyes?”
“What?” Charles laughs and Max waits for him to finish, silent and severe. It makes Charles stop in the middle of the street. “Oh, you’re not joking. Well, I don’t know, you tell me.”
“I wouldn’t be asking if I knew. They’re always different, it’s frustrating me,” Max explains, and it sounds like the world's most intricate math problem for him.
Hyperaware of his body, Charles clenches and unclenches his fists at his side, unsure how to answer this. There’s acknowledging that Max and he might have grown past their 15-year-old-self’s grudge and there’s Max taking time out of his day to think about the color of Charles’ eyes.
It’s green.
In his bathroom, under artificial lights, at his most stripped form, exposed for no one but himself and the disgusting enormity of his desire, it’s mostly green. Some days, there’s some red too but there are some patterns in his life he doesn’t like to look into.
Max is still waiting. There’s not much Charles can tell him, after all.
“You’re weird.”
“ You’re weird.”
Maybe not so over the 15-year-old tiff then.
It’s fine because it’s known ground for both of them, but it doesn’t have the same malicious fire. Turning back to teenagers around each other had been a mix of bad and neutral for the past few years, but somehow Charles doesn’t mind it now.
Max’s phone makes a ding and he runs to look at it, almost dropping it. A genuine smile blooms on his face at what he sees. He doesn’t wait for Charles to ask to shove his phone in his face.
“Mom sent me a picture of Victoria and the kids. They’re really cute, I told you about them.”
Victoria looks very pretty, but her piercing gaze reminds Charles a bit too much of her once-facebook profile picture. Dark times. At least, Max’s nephews steal the show enough to focus on them and Charles can’t help but coo at their fat heads and angry scowls.
Mini-Maxes in the making. He isn’t sure the world is ready for it.
(Charles tries not to think about the possibility of the mini-Maxes coming from Max himself.)
Without waiting for more of Charles’ reaction — and acting like the weirdest conversation they ever had didn’t happen — Max shows him the albums entirely dedicated to his nephews, hundreds of thousands of pictures at any stage of their life. Sometimes joined by Victoria, a man Charles presumes is her husband, and Sophie, it feels a bit too intimate for him to see.
It’s also the second time one of their conversations is saved by the topic of Max’s family. What is the internet saying? Two nickels, not a lot, but weird it happened twice.
Well, not that weird, perhaps. There are not many subjects Max is passionate about apart from racing and his family is definitely up there.
“You really love your family, don’t you?”
He cringes at his own question. Who would say no to that? Still, Max frowns like he considers the weight of his potential answer.
“Of course but it’s something more than love. You must know about that.”
“I do,” Charles says without hesitating, and he means it. In between ribs, someone carved his family’s name in childlike handwriting before he even took his first breath. “It’s hard to be away from them for so long, isn’t it?”
“Of course. But I think I missed them so much for so long that it became just another part of who I am. And it just makes me very happy to see them again,” Max explains and there’s something infinitely tender in the way he looks back at the picture on his phone, Victoria laughing with one of the kids trying to pull her hair.
“That’s a bit sad.”
“I don’t think so. At least, I know they’re always with me.”
Charles nods but he doesn't really understand. He supposes everything is not made for him to get. But Max always seems to be as disconcerting as possible, especially when Charles feels close to knowing him.
He never is.
“You’re very philosophical tonight.”
“I think I’m a bit drunk,” Max confesses, pensive.
Charles has seen pictures and videos of Max drunk, he even assisted at some parties with him, and while it’s really funny to see Max lose his mind behind a DJ set he was most probably not invited into, this new side of Max is horribly endearing. And, if possible, he has even less of a filter than usual.
The neon lights are different from those of Jimmy’z but it’s the same kind of intimacy they share. On the streets of some city they’ve visited more than their childhood house for the past few years, the world seems endless and microscopic in the same breath.
Far ahead, everyone has stopped and by the time they finally join them, Charles has learned a lot about Victoria’s current diet and the smile wrinkles at the side of Max’s eyes.
Immediately, Lando grabs Max to tell him something and Alex has something of an emergency that he’s making everyone’s problems.
After solving the (non-)emergency of Alex having forgotten to send a post-race message to his girlfriend, the night is definitely over for Charles as the weariness of the day starts to make his limbs and eyes heavy.
A couple of puppy looks at Carlos and he finally takes the hint, coming to rescue Charles from the Alpha’s conversation he’s been caught in. There’s not much Charles can’t hear, but the size of his friends’ knot is at the top of the list now.
After a small fight (no, Pierre, they are not going to the club), Carlos is calling a cab for them and Charles still isn’t sure where they stand with Max, but it would be rude to leave without saying goodbye.
Taking advantage of the rest of the group being distracted, Charles turns to Max who’s already carefully watching him.
“It was nice.”
“Yeah. We’re still awkward, though,” Max says casually, and Charles is speechless for a couple of seconds.
“We’re not supposed to acknowledge it!”
“Why not? It’s funny.”
“Ok, yeah, it’s funny. Two idiots that only know how to drive,” Charles teases back, lightly punching Max’s arm. As his hand lingers, Max grabs his elbow and they’re, for a moment, intertwined in something resembling companionship.
“Talk about yourself, I’m really fucking good at video games.”
Charles rolls his eyes and is about to say something about racing video games that didn’t count when Carlos yells at him that the cab is coming. And just like that, it’s done.
They smile at each other (awkwardly, perhaps, but it’s out there in the open now) before letting each other go – but he’s not sure who did it first.
Max’s last squeeze on his arm as he let him go burn Charles’ skin underneath his shirt for the whole journey home.
Post-race media press duty sucks.
Charles usually doesn't mind it too much, it’s the same questions over and over again and he already has his answers all ready for him, already printed out by the PR team. It’s more boring than anything else. But boring is predictable, and predictable is safe.
In front of a panel of bloodthirsty reporters, aching for a breaking news story and comments, Charles didn’t feel so safe.
It all started in the morning, in the middle of yet another engineers’ meeting when a notification had popped on his phone. Then another. And another. And another and suddenly Silvia had burst in, panicked and Charles thought oh fuck it’s over.
It was, in fact, not over. Someone (he didn’t even bother to remember who, he was too relieved at this point to care) had said something fucked up about omegas in motorsports and it had blown up on Reddit and Twitter.
Bad but not too unusual, Formula 1 is not exactly the headquarters for omega activists.
For a stupid, stupid second, Charles had thought everything would be alright. Then, he got put in an uncomfortable seat and told to entertain journalists whose fingers burned to have a good quote. On the side of the room, he could see Silvia biting her nails and shaking her head at something Mia was whispering in her ear. When he meets her eyes, she gives him a grimace.
So, it was bad.
Until now, Charles had successfully avoided any questions about his second gender, vague while direct enough to not make anyone suspicious. Early on, he did intense media training with his mom and dad, but from make-shift interviews ending up in laughter to the real world, where a mistake means immediate game over, the step had been rough.
Max and George, who had shared the podium with him, were at least stuck with him.
One thing about Max though, is that he doesn’t care. Brutal honesty mixed with genuine annoyance to talk about anything other than racing made an interesting cocktail. Paired with a side of controversy and uncomfortable coworkers, Max could be downright indigestible.
The race in itself is nothing to write home about, at least for Charles who got third on a stroke of luck, but he’s rarely seen the frenzy in the media room that’s currently happening. He almost wishes he had crashed to get out of it.
His blockers must have worn out during the race, because Max is stealing glances at him, looking slightly concerned. Charles ignores him pointedly. They’re not close enough for Charles to show him how badly he wants to escape at this very moment.
A distressed (hidden) omega and two obnoxious and uncomfortable alphas. Surely nothing could go wrong.
Ten minutes in, Charles’ fears are confirmed. Barely trying to keep the questions about the actual race, the whole thing resembles more a conference about second genders than Formula 1 interviews. To the best of his ability, Charles keeps quiet and lets Max and George deal with the worst of it – more George than Max, as the Mercedes driver cuts Max more than once when it seems like a particularly worldly-strong response is going to escape him.
More than he thought it would, it hurt. Hearing thin-veiled remarks about how omegas don’t belong in the sport, subtle enough that they don’t get kicked out but sharp enough to make a dent in Charles’ heart and ego.
Like when he was a child, he had wanted to stand on the table and scream to the world. He’s here. He’s proving them wrong. He’s an omega and he’s fucking good at what he does and it’s racing.
I’m here.
His short answers are not being appreciated and the focus slowly but surely shifts to him. His name is called out more than once and he finally gives a tense smile at the man who was given the mic and stares directly into his soul.
“Charles, can you tell us how it is to be in an all-alpha environment? Does having only one omega change things around here?”
“No comment. Daniel has been really good today, however,” Charles says, and he has a flash of his disdainful younger self hearing him say that. Gosh, he was a little shit back then, wasn’t he?
“Do you feel you tend to be easier on him because of his second gender?”
Charles grits his teeth and tries to form a corporate-appropriate answer that still conveys a very big fuck off but he doesn’t even have the time to lean into his microphone that Max’s raspy voice echoes in the room.
“If any of you ask one more question about this, you will have to be kicked out of this conference.”
Heavy silence falls on the room. Hands sweaty, Charles can’t bring himself to look at Max and stares instead at his mic, the blurry flabbergasted faces of the journalists behind.
Someone from the staff coughs and miraculously, time speeds up and the whole thing gets wrapped up in a nice little red ribbon with a bow on top.
Charles is seething.
Anger is an old friend he doesn't deal with a lot anymore but he feels it burns his stomach all the same as if he was ten, fifteen, eighteen, and crawled back from hell with a vengeance.
George laughs at something Max says and Charles almost explodes on the spot. It’s not his fault but George’s lingering salty scent suddenly smells rotten and unbearable. It scratches at his nose like a sneeze that doesn’t want to come out. Max is—
He doesn’t want to think about him. He can’t stop thinking about him.
Because they could pretend all they want, eventually there’s nothing more natural to them than rage. The all-consuming kind, the one that had pushed them in go-karts and is now the fuel in their hyper-fast cars, putting them on the edge of life and allowing them to look death in the eyes and spit in its face.
Max and Charles are cut from the same cloth. It’s a rough one and while one is red and the other blue, the pattern is pretty much the same.
The moment they step outside, and George is talking to whomever-the-fuck inside, Charles slams into Max hard enough for him to hit the wall.
“What the fuck, Verstappen?” Charles spits out, his cheeks hot.
Max looks lost for a second but gathers himself quickly and stands up from all his height, taller than Charles, taller than the motorhome and the sky. Endless and imposing; Charles wants to scratch into his reddening cheeks and swallow the fire he hides inside.
“What’s wrong with you?” Max snarls but doesn’t move. It makes Charles even more angry. He wants to see Max snaps, needs him to revert to the angry kid who ranted about him on camera, just so they could see eye to eye.
They have unresolved business. They will always have.
But Max is composed and Charles is fraying at the edge. Somehow, Max is always a step ahead.
“You fucking– Why did you do that?”
“What do you mean? I didn’t do anything,” and Max looks like he believes that. Like he didn’t humiliate Charles and painted a target on him in wet, red paint. Charles could feel it run on his back. Words fail him – the only ones coming being in sharp Italian and nasty French – so he gestures back to where they come from, towards the circus they just got out of. Max frowns. “I can’t believe you’re pissed about that.”
“I don’t need– I don’t want you to take my questions for me. You didn’t do it to George, don’t you dare do it to me again.”
“Unb-fucking-lievable, I’m not taking your questions from you, you egocentric prick,” Max says and his clenched jaws make a click as he takes a deep breath. “They were being assholes about Daniel and I told them what will happen if they continue to do so.”
“They were talking to me .”
Max has the eyes of a clear summer sky and the profile of a long-conquering Roman emperor, knowing everything he touches will become his. Charles hates and envies it more than he likes to admit.
“I’m not going to apologize for this, get over yourself. I’ll do it again and be even harsher if I could.”
Charles shakes his head. “I don’t understand you.”
This time, it’s Max who looks incredulous.
“You don’t– Charles, you’re a fucking matryoshka. Or… I don’t know what’s something that’s constantly changing?”
“The weather?” offers Charles quietly, and it scratches at his throat, catching his breath because he’s still angry. He’s not quiet, he doesn’t want to be. But Max’s severe frown pins him into place like a butterfly on a glass box.
“Yeah, the weather. You’re like the weather, I wake up and I never know if you’re going to be the sunniest person in the room or a thunderstorm. What are you, Charles Leclerc?”
He pronounces it with the typical French pronunciation, the final s and c silent. Charles can’t tell if it’s mocking or not. There’s a metallic flavor in his mouth.
“I don’t know.”
Max raises his hands to the sky, exasperated, and it makes Charles flinch. It’s more instinctive than anything — not in a million years does Charles think Max could hurt him, even in the middle of a bad argument. Still, Max catches his reaction and they both look at each other, frozen and eyes widened.
Charles flees the scene, invisible blood dripping from his hands.
At the end of the day, here’s the thing: Charles is built in grief. He was not born with it, he likes to think so at least. It’s more that he has grown in it, and everything he does, everything he says and thinks gets filtered by its inevitability.
Grief had shown up in his life one day and rearranged all his features, shaping his face to make him unrecognizable in the mirror of his marbled blue bathroom. Suddenly, he had an extra eye, his nose in the middle of the cheek, the heart in his throat. That’s not how it’s supposed to be, but this is how this is going to be, now.
She never truly left too, like an overdone visitor he didn’t know how to send away. She doesn’t do anything bad, she’s just there. So she stays in Charles’ house, like a ghost, sipping tea in a corner and knitting near the fire.
Phantom stitches of crosses beneath his sponsors’ logo scratch at his skin in between the two walls of his car.
Some days, Charles wakes up and finds his kitchen trashed, mugs shattered, knives all over the floor, and grief standing in the middle of it. I thought we were friends, Charles says.
Oh, Charles, grief answers. This is not about that.
This was never about that.
The day is not over but Charles is desperate for it to be.
Another meeting that felt that pointless and he might skip it altogether next time, no matter the scolding he was sure to get after. At least when Seb was there, he could have something to focus on other than the ball of complaints that this has turned into. Now it felt like someone had stretched the time to make a second into hours.
As usual, Pierre is waiting for Charles near the Alpine motorhome – a good middle meeting point for them– scrolling mindlessly on his phone. What’s not usual is how Pierre snaps his neck looking at him as Charles bumps into him, shoulder to shoulder.
If they hadn’t known each other for so long, if Pierre didn't already know all his shame and secrets; Charles would have snarled at him for the way he immediately went to grab the back of his neck to get a good sniff at his hair.
Instead, he lets himself get manhandled like a pup and relishes in the smell and warmth of Pierre’s too-expensive cologne. For years now, Charles suspected Lorenzo and Pierre shared the same brand because of him. It was easier to pretend not to notice.
Pierre winces.
“Wow, Charlito, you smell. ”
“Wow, fuck you too.”
“No, I mean it, you smell like…” Pierre starts to make a lewd gesture but stops himself quickly. “You know.”
The world stops for a second. When it comes back, it’s with a rush of blood in Charles’ body and he blanches, his heart going just slightly too fast. Quickly, Charles looks around before pushing Pierre into a small alley between two garages.
Caught off-guard, Pierre lets himself get pushed against a wall a bit too strongly and watches Charles panic with big eyes.
“Don’t joke about this.”
“I’m not, I swear, you know I wouldn’t.”
He definitely would but Pierre was doing this thing with his eyebrow that he couldn’t replicate whenever he lied. Charles rubs his face hard enough for it to hurt, as to scrub the heat off his skin. A fucking heat. Just what he needs.
“Fuck, it’s supposed to hit during the break not now.”
There’s a beat of nothing before Pierre coughs, uncomfortable.
“Do you— Will you need help?”
“Never ask me that again, I’m going to vomit.”
“Damn, okay,” Pierre pretends to be offended but Charles can see the relief seeping into his shoulders.
Most omegas would probably jump on the opportunity of spending their heat with Pierre he’s— well he’s an alpha, for one. Not a bad-looking one, he showers every day and smells warm and clean. From his own stories, Pierre even sounds more than decent in bed (but again, Charles had never tried it for him to tell) but it’s just…
Yeah, no. They have known each other for too long to even consider it.
Charles trusts him with his life, but there are things you shouldn’t mix in life. Most notably your almost-brother with your sex life.
“You should probably take something if you can. I think you have some time before it fully hits, I could tell because I know you but for anyone else…”
“Ok, thanks,” Charles takes a big breath, trying to calm himself down. Pierre’s scent hits his nose too hard however and he stops himself before his body can have an even worse reaction than feeling hot. “I should go.”
Pierre doesn't argue to go with him and Charles is immensely thankful for that. He’s not sure he could withstand the embarrassment of an explanation without exploding right now.
A ticking bomb without a timer living between his ribs, Charles scrambles away to get to his motorhome. It’s not too far but the paddock crawls with acquaintances and fans who are all dying to have a chat with him, so he resigns himself to take the long but hidden route.
Heats usually make his life difficult but they also usually have the decency to hit when he had planned them to.
Since he was a teenager, he only had a handful of them, even if his first wish was to not have any at all. After a visit to the doctor and a teary mother in his arms after the lists of the secondary effects some heat suppressant could have, Charles had been forced to admit that three heats a year was a small price to pay to keep his health.
It had been one of these times he had thought about coming clean to Daniel, just so he could have some advice, some reassurance that everything in his biology was not out to destroy him and his dream. There had been some rumors, amongst the paddock, about Daniel’s solution and most of it had the name Max in the middle.
Charles had tried not to think about it and the ugly feeling inside his chest.
For all his seasons in motorsport, it is a miracle that his first real problem is happening only now. He should consider himself lucky, in fact, but it was hard when Charles could already feel some slick running down his legs inside his pants and his hands were itching to make some form of nest.
How fucking embarrassing.
The road he has taken is mostly empty and the few engineers he meets are too busy to stop and chat. Charles can taste freedom, turning around a corner when a hard surface bumps into him.
And, oh, of course.
Under the usual flat-brimmed cap screwed on his head, Max looks as pleased to see Charles as he feels himself.
Their previous argument is leaving a poisonous stickiness in the air between them that they couldn’t seem to shake off. Still, Charles gives him his best smile, though, albeit probably a tense one, hoping to get out of the interaction fast.
“Hi, Max.”
“You reek,” Max blurts out, the words seeming to come out before he could think about it.
Well, lovely as always.
If people could stop telling Charles that he smelt bad, he would appreciate it. Even if Max looks genuinely embarrassed for a moment, the flush on his cheeks and down his neck had more to do with the uncomfortable fireproof than shame.
“Well, excuse me,” Charles hisses, not bothering to hide his annoyance this time. If Max weren’t willing to make some kind of effort, he wouldn’t either.
Taking the high road always gives him vertigo anyway.
He tries to get by Max, intending to push him with his shoulder but a strong hand grabs his arm before he can get away with it. At this point, there’s no doubt Charles’ face is as red as his team color but it doesn’t stop him from whipping his head to glare at Max, their faces now only a few inches away from each other.
Max’s warm breath crashes on his cheek like sea foam on a beach. It smells like toothpaste and citrus and so, so much like Max. It takes everything in Charles to not melt and stretch his neck for Max to scent him.
Instead, he clenches his fist and leaves crescent-moon marks on his palm.
“Charles,” Max’s voice is almost a whisper, raspy and coming from deep inside his chest. Charles wants to claw into it. “You— You probably shouldn’t— You know. Fuck an omega just before a race.”
Cold rage explodes in Charles’ throat.
“Get your hands off me now or I’ll rip your throat out with my bare teeth.”
Max drops his arm as if it has burned him. Maybe it did, as Charles’ body temperature went slowly but surely up during the precious moments he had been wasting to get to his pills.
He wants to feel ashamed, for snapping like this, for the half-feral way he’s behaving but he can’t bring himself to.
If he can’t do it with Max, who can he be ugly with? Who else had let him be the worse version of himself and had not looked away, had stared at him dead in the eyes as to ask ‘That’s it?’ ?
He doesn’t stick around to see his reaction this time.
The growing fever makes his vision blurry. Fortunately, the obnoxious red of his motorhome is hard to miss and he barges into it, hyperventilating.
Hands shaking, the pills almost spill on the floor as he gets them out of his bag and stuff it in his mouth. The full effect of his heat should at least get pushed back by a few hours to a day, and Charles was ready to take the risk.
Everything goes quickly on a race day, anyway. One moment Charles is close to throwing up in the bathroom and the next thing he knows, his helmet is squishing his cheeks and he gets in position to wait for the lights out.
He’s not in pole but he’s confident as if he was – inside his car, there’s not much else that matters but winning. If he doesn’t start as if he’s going to be on the podium, there’s not any use in even putting on his fireproof.
Lights out, and away he goes.
Lap 1 is ruthless and doesn’t take half of the grid but it’s a near thing. Carlos is out, he gets informed. He doesn’t care nearly as much as he should.
Max, Checo, and Lewis are in front of him, George is barely a problem from the way he got caught in the McLaren of Lando. No game nights with the Brits for at least two weeks then.
Checo is ridiculously easy to overtake and even if he puts up more of a fight, Charles gets Lewis at Lap 24 and lets out a predatory grin inside of his helmet. Water tastes disgusting and warm, it’s the best thing Charles has ever drank.
As usual, Max is a pain in the ass. He’s quick and unbearable, escaping in the corner, hitting every apex perfectly like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
But Max is human and Charles is out for blood, shark-like nose smelling the smallest drop in the ocean. It takes Lap 37, they’ve been fighting DRS to DRS for the last 10 laps and Max runs wide. Stupid, barely a mistake.
Charles hits the brake at the last moment in the corner and leaves Max in the dust.
The whole second-gender thing had caused way more headache for Charles than real joy. If he thought about it, he could even say that he never had a moment where he had liked being an omega — it always meant being weaker, secretive, and most of all, dream-threatening.
But here, with the road empty in front of him and Max so fucking near he could hear him breathe if not for the deafening motors, something primal blooms inside his chest. He’s being chased. He’s the prey, not the predator and he’s been here before, don’t get him wrong, but it all seems to dawn on him at this very moment.
He can taste the aftertaste of the temporary heat suppressant, he’s bone-deep tired, he’s running hot, and Max brings feelings in him he’s not sure he wants to acknowledge now, so it snaps.
The rest of the race is a blur more than anything, he’s pretty sure Xavi is still talking to him but not so sure he says anything back.
Checkered flag, proud litany in his ears, sweat obscuring his vision for a moment.
He yells.
When he parks in front of the 1 in the Parc Fermé, Charles takes a minute before getting out of the car. First, because his heartbeat is so fast he might immediately pass out as soon as he tries to stand but also because he’s kind of soaked. He’s very much sitting in a puddle of his own slick, sticky when he touches it even with his gloves.
Slowly, he unzips his race suit and stands up, getting out of the top part and tying it at his waist, hopefully hiding the damning part of the whole ordeal. He must be a sight. Helmet on but unzipped race suit, his team still waiting at the side, howling and catcalling.
The outstretched arms reach for him and Charles feels redemption at each tap on his helmet and back.
There’s unconditional love and there’s Ferrari. There’s losing and winning, there’s forgiveness and punishment, there’s life and death and Charles is everything and nothing. But at least, here, now, gross and sweaty, he has a purpose.
Does anyone need anything more?
Before going on the podium, he sneaks out to put on a different racing suit.
Because Charles is on the podium, he’s in the first step of the podium and he feels fucking incredible. Both anthems play and he feels at home in each melody. When he opens it, the champagne tastes sweet and makes him lightheaded even if barely any of it makes it to his mouth.
There’s nothing funny but a laugh bubbles in his throat and he lets it out before it goes away. Pierre is waving at him from underneath, in the middle of the Ferrari engineers and he would look great in red, maybe.
At some point, Max sprays him in the face and Lewis decides to join him so Charles opens his arms, closes his eyes, and drowns himself in victory.
When all is said and done, and the podium reeks of alcohol and happiness, Max is still talking to Charles, ranting about the race. Despite their earlier altercation, it seems he had already moved on and Charles envies him for that but happily takes the conversation about the third corner rather than an awkward silence.
And Max has a lot to say. He always had, probably, but he looks so free and happy to be able to debrief with Charles specifically, that it feels new and fragile. It’s fun to talk about racing with someone who understands it as deeply as Max does, as intuitively and analytically.
If he could and didn’t feel the boiling warmth of his heat creep in, Charles would listen to him for hours. Unfortunately, it shall wait another day. But Charles isn’t too worried about it.
“It was nice. Thank you for the fun drive,” Charles says, stopping not too far from the garage.
“You were amazing,” concludes Max and he looks immediately embarrassed by his own eagerness. “But you look better from above. Don’t get used to it.”
“Funny, I was thinking the same. I like seeing you under me.”
Max’s eyes are dark from adrenaline and something more.
At the peak of his heat, alone in the hotel room they had booked for him, it’s the only thing Charles can think about.
“Wow. I wish I fucked half as much as they make it out to be.”
“Charles, be serious.”
“I am being serious!”
Silvia’s glare made him slump into his seat, the iPad getting a close save by Frederica next to him as he let it fall. That’s bad. That’s so bad he wished he didn’t wake up this morning and he had just won a fucking race two hours ago.
Charles Leclerc: Little Red Racing Omega.
The title was boring. Something life-destroying should at least have some spunk in Charles’ opinion.
But what they lacked in poetry, they certainly had in content – five interviews of Charles’ so-called conquests and photo evidence including pics of his scent suppressants in his bags and other medical records he didn’t think were legal to share. He’s pretty sure he can sue over this.
Not that he had much left to do except grind his teeth and accept his fate.
At least he sounded like a good fuck from the interviews. It was humiliating from start to finish, not one intimate detail was left out and Charles almost felt worse knowing that his mom was going to read this than for the rest of the world to discover his most well-kept secret.
They plan to release it in the next month or so, Silvia explains and Charles couldn’t give it less of a fuck even if he tries. It doesn’t matter when, the threat of his secret being revealed isn’t one anymore. It’s real and it’s coming and Charles is ashamed to feel somehow relieved.
There was never a doubt in his mind that he was going to be exposed at some point – and he had accepted that any kind of privacy is illusionary the moment he stepped into a Ferrari. Still, if he had to choose, it would have involved fewer details about his slick — all of the interviewees better have been handsomely paid for it.
Silvia is fretting about the schedule and damage control but Charles had stopped listening around the time when she got worried about how Carlos and he looked during the unreleased Ferrari challenge. Behind him, Mia is gently massaging his shoulders, releasing soothing pheromones and it’s probably the only reason Charles isn’t having a full-blown panic attack.
The PR crew knew about him already, he got clocked embarrassingly quickly at the start of his time at Ferrari, but there’s no doubt the rest of the team will have more of a shock. Fuck, he has to tell the other drivers too.
He must look particularly grim because Silvia stops talking to pat his shoulder. “OK, let’s take a break. It’s going to be fine, we’ll deal with it.”
“Grazie,” Charles whispers but the word dies in his throat before it can see the world.
Taking comfort where he can, Charles is unbelievably thankful for the support. It’s probably all Silvia’s doing, she’s downright terrifying on her best days, but he’s well aware he would have been dropped for less than that in other teams.
It’s good publicity. He’s young, successful (eh), charming, and on top of that, increasing diversity in the paddock. Charles hates that with a passion. He doesn’t want to be the ‘omega racer’, he wants to be a world champion.
Ferrari World Champion.
Sometimes, Charles wishes he was religious. Life seemed less lonely when you knew someone watched over you, made you, and wanted you to live.
It’s been too long since he called his mom.
The thought hits him at the same time as the wind, as he steps outside on the balcony of the motorhome. Everyone had lied to him about being a grown-up. In times of crisis, he can only think about going home and the sweet cadence of his mom’s voice.
A hundred and some notifications pop up when Charles unlocks his phone and he ignores them all.
Instead, he goes immediately to his contacts where his third cousin he hasn’t talked to in years and the King of Monaco cohabit. His finger hovers over Lorenzo’s name for a beat before he scrolls down in a swift move to find where his mother’s contact is.
Maman ❤️ stares at him.
The name didn’t change since his first phone, the one that he had to slide open to get the keyboard. Maybe it’s stupid, to hold on to this like he is the same person he was when he first typed the words in his little phone, chose the emoji, and laughed at Lorenzo who got scolded by their mom for not doing the same.
The picture is one his mom hates, however. She’s mid-talk, looking at something the viewer can’t see but only imagine, glasses askew and hair tucked over her ear. She looks young. Charles can’t remember when it was taken, if it was him or his dad or Arthur, if he was born yet or not, if it was before or if it was after.
Charles tries not to think about his mom young. There’s heartbreak in things that are and will never be.
Before he gets too into his head, he clicks on the number. It only rings three times before a soft silence follows the irritating sound. A whisper about going outside not meant for him and hills on marbles resonate in the small receiver.
Finally, a door closes and the singing voice of his mother is heard. “Hello, my son. Is everything okay?”
It’s a shame that Charles calls so little his mom that she automatically assumes there’s something wrong when he calls her. Or maybe she just knows because it’s his mom and it’s the late middle of the day and Charles never calls in the middle of the day, especially after a race, and there’s probably something in the pattern of his breath and it must be written all over his face and, and, and—
“They know. Maman, they know.”
And it’s here, it’s real, and Charles starts crying. It’s not dramatic, just small sobs that are more hiccups than anything, but it burns his throat and eyes. He’s not even aware that his mom is speaking until he slows down and the flow of reassurance and love falls on him like summer rain.
“Maman,” Charles says and fails to not feel like a child at his mother’s soft sigh.
“I’m proud of you, Cha.”
“You don’t have to lie,” Charles sniffles, wiping messily his snot with his sleeve.
“Why would I? You’ve come so far, you’ve proven them all wrong, and they don’t even realize it. My brave son, my forever baby, I love you.”
“I thought Arthur was your baby.”
“Of course he is. Lorenzo is also my baby but I’ll tell you a secret,” Maman whispers and Charles presses the phone even closer to his ear. “I’m mad I have to share you with the world. It doesn't deserve any of you.” She sighs. “I guess it makes me a bad mother.”
“No, no, it doesn’t. I love you, mama.”
Maman laughs, a clear sound distorted by the phone and the distance. The rest of the call is spent by his mom sharing the latest gossip and stories of the salon, and Charles lets himself relax, the sun hitting him in the face and the wind messing up his hair.
As soon as the call ends, he books his tickets to Monaco. Well, Nice really, but it makes him sigh of relief all the same, leaving his head to fall back against the bumpy wall behind him.
Even at the top of the world, he is better at home.
to : F1 drivers chat
Charles Leclerc
Hello everyone.
I am using this conversation for something
unusual today, and I am sorry about that.
The press is going to release some information
about me without my consent but I wanted
to get control of at least one part of the process.
So, here we go. I am an omega.
Maybe it isn’t shocking to most of you (at least not my teammates)
but it felt important to me that I was the one announcing it.
Thank you and sorry about the mediatic mess.
I will see you all in Italy.
- Charles L.
As soon as Charles sends the message, he turns off his phone. He doesn't know why he signed his message, but the formality of it made him feel a bit more in control.
His shaky breathing echoes in his empty apartment.
It’s not that he thinks they are complete bigots – everyone likes Daniel well enough. But it’s also the thing, isn’t it? Everyone likes Daniel. He’s funny and extroverted and not afraid to be himself.
Charles never lied about not being an alpha, but he didn’t do anything to make people think he wasn’t either. It’s the thing with liars, isn’t it? At least the good ones. They lie so much they convince themselves.
Most of all, it’s unfair. He feels it deep inside his chest and stomach, this bitter feeling that he shouldn’t have to justify himself, to have to send a stupid message in a stupid group chat and apologize about his very existence.
What he needs is a hug from his dad and an obscene amount of ice cream. So ice cream, it is.
The carrefour in his street does not have the ice cream he wants — he had enough deceitful midnight trips there to know — but the one near the docks does. He gives half a thought to Seb before starting his car.
Radio off and the roaring motor as his only background noise, Monaco is as calm as ever at night, sparkling and breezy. Living near water is always something Charles misses when he’s abroad – stuck in a hotel room with A/C on, artificial air never quite getting right the sensation of a cooling wind at the sea.
If he hadn't gotten into motorsport, Charles likes to think he would have done something with the ocean. Fish and waves surely didn’t care about second genders. Cars either, in a sense, and it’s probably illusory, and ‘grass is greener on the other side’ to think he would have been better somewhere else but even then, Charles can’t bring himself to regret it.
He lives for Formula 1, it’s the reason and the choice in everything, and it’s one of the things he’s sure he will never lose. Breathing, eating, drinking, and racing.
The parking lot is almost empty when he arrives, so Charles parks in two spots. It’s going to be a quick trip anyway, get in, get ice cream, and go home.
As he enters, Charles dips his cap on his face and avoids the other customers’ gaze, and rushes to the ice cream aisle. Taking the 488 Pista Spider was not his best move to stay discreet.
Allegedly.
Somehow, the whole store had changed since he last went there and instead of the ice cream, zucchinis were facing him in all their green splendor. Sometimes, the universe had a way to tell you to fuck yourself that Charles didn’t particularly like.
Max is choosing a particularly bad-looking orange when Charles bumps into him. Not literally, but close enough, and even if Max didn’t yet notice him, there’s no way he wouldn’t if Charles moves even a finger.
Charles bites his tongue, observing from afar the way artificial lights hit Max’s nose, how his stubble climbs on his cheeks and neck. His hair, longer than usual, falls on his face.
And he’s going to get food poisoning if he eats this fruit.
Charles takes a big breath. Here he goes.
“Hi, Max.”
“Charles,” Max gasps, dropping his horrendous fruit like he just committed a crime. For a moment, he can only look at Charles like he’s an apparition like they didn’t live in the same city. When he snaps out of it, he frantically messes up his hair, as if trying to get himself together. Incredulous, Charles watches Max try to lean against the fruit display but his hand slips and he almost falls. It’s a trainwreck Charles can’t seem to look away from. At last, Max coughs, the tips of his ear and the bridge of his nose red. “How are you?”
Charles wonders for a second if he can ask for the CCTV to replay this moment forever. He’ll send an email to the carrefour after this.
“As well as expected, I guess,” Charles settles for, wonderfully neutral. Or so he thought because Max gets this frown on his face that only appears on very bad race days
He looks around before leaning towards Charles, whispering, looking all the part of a concerned friend. “What? Why? Something happened? With Ferrari?”
Not everything is about Ferrari, almost snaps Charles and he gets stunned for a minute by his knee-jerk reaction. Everything is about Ferrari. Always was, always be.
Max isn’t cruel – blunt in a way that hurts, sometimes, but even then he’s not as mean as Charles can be. There are no thorns on the roses he offers, no subtext to analyze, no kindness that didn’t come from a genuine place.
Max walks around with a transparent chest, letting his heart out for everyone to see but not tear up.
So Charles doesn’t know what he’s playing at.
“Don’t do that, that’s… It’s mean,” finally says Charles, as Max is clearly waiting for an answer, and the words hurt his throat.
“You’re not making any sense.”
“Ok, you’re being an ass, I’m leaving now.”
Groveling isn’t on today’s program. Neither on the monthly, yearly, or decade ones. He just came here for ice cream not to play some kind of fucked up mind game.
He tries to get past Max but gets stopped by an arm in front of him. Max doesn’t touch him, and the words from weeks ago echo between us. Charles was serious then and he is now too.
“Charles, what’s happening?”
Charles grits his teeth. “Come on. The message in the drivers’ group chat is pretty explanatory.”
“I left my phone at Lando last night. Tell me.”
Charles searches for something on Max’s face, a hint of maliciousness, of wanting to see him admit and beg and cry but he doesn't find anything but genuine eagerness and worry.
He sighs.
“Not here.”
But just because Max is a pain in the ass, doesn’t mean that Charles will give up on his ice cream.
Like a silent, orange-carrying shadow, Max follows him in the aisles, cruising through the biscuits and the drinks in search of ice cream buckets. It feels like the time he went out with his friend to get his dog out, an enormous animal who still thought it was a puppy, and nobody would even try to look at them.
He tries to discard the image of Max on a leash quickly. Not cute, not hot, not anything.
Thankfully, the store still has the brand that he’s looking for and he glares at Max to stop him from saying a word at the clear breach of his diet. However, Max is too busy with his grocery to give a fuck about his and the checkout is as quiet as the rest of their trip.
Most of the time, people assumed that to keep Charles entertained, they should not stop talking. And, horribly, Charles had been taught by his mother to please people, so he usually indulged them right back. To be with another human and not talk had become a foreign concept in his life by this point but he didn’t mind it.
It’s quite nice, even. If not for the whole unwanted coming out hovering over them, sword of Damocles style. But it’s not Max’s fault so he’ll suck it up, do it and move on – Charles’ motto in life.
Anxiously, he touches the patch over his scent gland at the base of his neck as they exit the store together and it’s becoming more and more real that he’s going to do it, he’s going to say it out loud, be honest and it’s terrifying. Way more than going in a car that goes at 300 km/h, where there’s a comforting weight holding his head, where the car holds him like his mom did when he was small.
There’s no one to hold him here but himself.
After putting his groceries in his stupidly small truck, Charles finally faces Max, hugging himself. The sea breeze has become colder in the short time he had spent in the carrefour but Max seems unbothered, in his t-shirt and jeans. At least it’s not Red Bull branded. Charles is not sure he could have done it if Max was wearing Red Bull stuff.
But Max is stripped to his bare essentials. No cap in sight hiding his face, just some overgrown stubble and droopy ocean eyes staring right into his soul. Charles wonders if Max knew him better than himself, some days.
Probably not today, however.
Charles coughs and fidgets awkwardly for a few more minutes while Max is so patient and still as if he’s worrying about scaring a wounded animal.
Right. Bandage, rip it, do it, move on.
“So, um, this is awkward– I didn’t plan to say it out loud to anyone so be nice to me so, here we go,” Charles feels himself start to get lost in his ramble and watches desperately as Max's expression gets more and more confused. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Max, I am not an alpha. Not a beta either I am, well, you know–”
“You’re an omega,” Max sounds dazzled.
It’s a relief that Charles doesn't have to say it. He nods.
A leaf almost slaps him in the face, there’s some dust in his eyes. The world didn’t change, no building had crumbled around him, and the sky is still holding up above his head.
Max passes a hand through his hair. “Wow. I mean, I had some doubt but it’s— you don’t fuck omega, you are an omega.”
“I can fuck omegas and be an omega,” Charles bristles and oh my god, he’s saying it. “Well, I did but I’m mostly with alphas now, and– why am I telling you this? Fuck you, Max.”
“No, that’s not what I meant! Sorry. Thank you for telling me.”
With a tongue click, Charles decides to stare at a stain on the asphalt instead of Max’s horribly open face. It’s stupid, he’s too defensive and he knows Max. He just has a big mouth and no filter.
Still, he kicks on a little bit of tarmac that’s getting off on the ground.
By the time he had successfully destroyed a little more of Monaco’s street, Max had taken one of his horrible oranges and peeled it.
Max gives him a quarter of the fruit, white fibers sticking out on the bright color. Cautiously, Charles takes it and lets it pop under his teeth. It’s been a while since he ate one, the citrusy taste surprisingly prickly on his tongue.
It’s a good orange.
“Well, you were going to know at some point anyway,” Charles admits, and he hopes it sounds like forgiveness.
“In any case, I’ll be careful. With your secret, I won’t tell anyone.”
“Thank you, Max,” Charles says and he’s embarrassingly shy at Max’s sincerity. “That’s a bit too late, though, it’s– it’s going to hit the press. There’s an article about it that’s going to be released soon so I just wanted to tell you before they did.”
“You didn’t want it?”
“Not really, no. But, it’s like this, I can’t do anything to stop it.”
The rest of the orange in Max’s hand explodes under his grip. Some get on his white shoes and shirt but he doesn’t seem to care, blazing ice eyes boring into Charles’.
“The fuck? Fucking assholes, you should sue them!”
Max’s righteous anger is as funny as endearing. Reverting into the little kid next to a fuming car, Max looks the same as he did then — blotchy and awfully cute. Charles wants to squeeze his cheeks and feel the warmth of his skin, wants to dig his fingers in his mouth, and pull out his fangs to put it on a necklace.
Like some kind of trophy, to expose next to his karting cups and Grand Prix bottles, he wants to put this moment under a glass bell for everyone to see.
Look, he cares about me, me, me. Can you say the same? Can you? I can.
“I’m planning on it, don’t worry. And it’s kind of embarrassing but if you could just… not read the article, it would mean a lot to me. It’s, uh, graphic.”
Pornographic, really. There’s no way whoever wrote the article didn’t have a side erotica writer job.
Max’s face twists a bit more. “I won’t. Even if you didn’t ask, I never would have read it if you didn’t want it to be published.”
“That’s nice of you, thanks.”
“Of course but stop thanking me, it’s weird,” Max grumbles, and he rubs a spot on his shoulder that looks sore. At his feet, his grocery bag almost spills when he moves.
“Ok, asshole,” Charles says, but there’s not any bite in it. He looks around the parking lot, but the rest of the cars are plain ones. Somehow, Charles can’t imagine Max in a Citroen C3. “Where’s your car?”
“I walked.”
Max Verstappen walking instead of driving. Maybe the world ended a little, after all.
The night is weird so Charles asks: “You want a ride?”
“Sure.”
And just like that, Max is inside his car. He barely waits for Charles to open it; he’s already tucking his grocery bags at his feet on the passenger side (putting dirt on the carpet and fruit on the seat).
“I thought I would have to fight you more to get you inside a Ferrari,” Charles says, teasing but not without surprise. He barely can look at a can of Red Bull on a good day.
“I’m fighting with you for a title, I’m not a complete idiot,” Max looks almost offended. “I can tell it's objectively a good car.”
“Ooh, using complicated words, sorry, sir.”
“I thought car would be in your vocabulary, my bad.”
“Fuck you,” Charles laughs and drifts a little to show off when leaving the parking.
They don’t put on the radio. The glass bell traps them once again.
Everyone is so busy thinking he doesn’t notice that Charles almost wants to indulge them.
It starts with Pierre, as things usually do when it’s about to be a weird day. Or more precisely, it starts with a text.
From: Calamar 🦑
I’m going to get you at 8 so be ready
It’s not too unusual for them to share a car, but for some reason, Charles has a weird feeling about this. Still, he sends a thumbs-up emoji and finishes drying his hair, dressing up at the same time. The task proves itself to be near impossible and it takes almost falling forward with the toothbrush in his mouth for him to accept it’s not going to work.
A quick look in the mirror reassures him he didn’t cut himself shaving and doesn’t look completely dead to the world and he’s out to join Pierre who’s already waiting for him in front of the hotel, leaning against his car with pretentious glasses on.
Charles kicks him in the nose before going in the car, driver's side.
“P’tit con,” Pierre mutters but doesn’t do anything more.
So, Charles was right to be worried. Because in no world does he make Pierre’s glasses fall and there’s no immediate repercussion except a small insult. Not any protests for Charles being the driver, not for the glasses, and not for the purposefully loud music he decides to play. Did the world end while he slept?
At Charles’ subtle questioning, Pierre dodges to answer like it’s a sport, laughing it off and distracting him with well-placed jokes. It’s infuriating and Charles let himself fall for it way too many times for someone aware of what his friend is doing.
He’s not immune to race talk and gushing about the mechanics of the cars and before he knows it, he’s parking the Alpine between two Mercedes. There are not many people in the paddock, being the very start of the weekend and everything, but Charles can’t shake down the eerie feeling still.
Pierre is successful at distracting him, but now it’s slightly too much and it just sounds fake and forced as they make their way through the parking lot. Everyone they meet is being blocked away from Charles in some sort of way and it’s getting genuinely ridiculous when a little girl almost gets pushed out of the way by Pierre.
When they meet Carlos, Charles suspects it’s not a relief for him only. Carlos is leaning against the wall at the entry of the paddock, looking at his phone which he slips in his pocket to smile at Charles when he calls for him.
Being in Formula 1 together is very much like being coworkers with an extra step for most drivers’ relationships and it’s very much the same for Pierre and Carlos – at least from Charles’ understanding. They’re not friends but not strangers.
So it’s a bit weird when they fall into a friendly embrace.
Caught off-guard, Charles observes the whole interaction, speechless, and stays that way when the two Alphas strike a discussion he doesn’t understand. It’s not that Charles is jealous, he likes it when his friends get along — but usually, he’s involved too.
Now, he could do a tap-dance number in the Monaco anthem and they wouldn’t notice.
Knowing when he isn’t wanted and it’s time to leave, he lightly taps Pierre’s arm to get his attention.
“Well, I’m going to the garage, see you later?”
“Oh, I’m coming with you,” Carlos immediately says, already picking up his bag from the floor.
“No, no, it’s fine, don’t worry.”
“I have to get back too,” Pierre interrupts, slapping Carlos’ shoulder hard enough to make him wince. Thankfully, he only ruffles Charles’ hair (it still makes him protest) before leaving. “Bye Calamar.”
And he’s gone, leaving Charles with a version of Carlos he’s not sure how to act with.
Having a teammate feels sometimes like having a sibling. You know him better than anyone, you only see a version of him, you can’t stand each other, they’re the only ones that really understand what you’re experiencing.
Charles misses his brothers like a lost limb. It’s like he tries to find them everywhere, so it’s no wonder his teammates become collateral damage in the slow-motion crash of his loneliness.
The journey to the garage is a tedious one, Carlos trying to fill the silence with even more small talk and other tedious social obligations. In other circumstances, Charles would feel bad for leaving him hanging.
“Well, I need to go see my engineers,” Charles says, once in front of the garage. It’s not true, he doesn’t know why he said that but the thought of spending one more minute with Carlos made him break into hives. Carlos nods expectantly and it turns out Charles needs to be more direct. “Alone,” he adds and Carlos’ mouth made a little surprised ‘o’.
“No problem, I’ll wait for you here! Lando is supposed to come too.”
It’s better than nothing so Charles doesn't fight him on it.
Carlos waves at him when Charles looks behind, still standing in front of the garage like a bodyguard with a fucked up, bright red uniform. He tentatively returns the wave and the feeling that he’s missing something only persists as he makes his way through the garage. It’s quiet in a way that an F1 paddock rarely is and the few people he crosses paths with can’t quite look at him without flinching.
Mia stops him on the stairs, between the kitchen and the second level.
“You ok?” she asks dark circles under her eyes that made Charles want to return the question.
But she looks so stressed that bringing it up might make it worse so he bites his tongue and huffs. “Of course, I’m fine. What’s up with everyone, today?”
Mia’s face, if possible, crumples even more.
“Charles, the article came out last night.”
“Oh.”
On race weekends, Charles had a very specific set of notifications on, showing only his close circle and family. The group chat with his friends from Monaco and family group chat had been suspiciously silent now that he thinks about it – only some encouraging texts and emojis.
They all knew that it was coming. He knew that it was coming.
So it’s here, it’s out there in the world, or more specifically, in the little ecosystem that is the Formula 1 paddock. Charles is officially an omega in F1.
Mia says something about a meeting and rambles more about the weather before she stops herself, almost in tears, and apologizes softly to Charles like any of it is her fault. They’ve been working together for some years now and even if they’re never going to be best friends, Charles feels a certain fondness for her that’s not unlike what Arthur inspires him.
For the first time, maybe ever with someone other than his family, when he hugs her, Charles releases soothing pheromones.
It’s weird, like an unused muscle that aches painfully in a good way. Being a big brother to an unruly sibling had made him use it more than once when they were still little, but it’s been a while since he allowed himself to indulge in the pure instinct of the thing.
To protect, to reassure, to love.
There’s a lot more to an omega than the stereotypes, but it feels good to lean into it sometimes. Especially since Charles spent his whole life running (driving?) away from everything resembling omega in any shape or form.
Redemption, as always, starts in the arms of somebody else.
Some of Mia’s long strand of hair gets caught in his mouth. Salt from tears makes his nose prick. Scraps from moving the motorhome around steal his attention on the wall.
A child yells outside, probably red from anger or excitement.
When Mia leaves him, she taps his cheek as if he is a kid. They’re the same age, he thinks so at least, but he feels as if she sees right through him and she feels wise beyond her years.
There’s nothing for him to do in the garage, so he goes to wash up in the bathroom, making sure his patch is still there. A beige thing, barely matching his skin tone. Grotesque attempt at hiding something in plain sight.
After his reflection in the mirror glares at him, he removes it.
Wind has picked up by the time he gets outside, making Carlos’ perfect hair look silly yet artistic. Lando just looks silly. They greet, and a lock of Lando’s hair stays up in the air like a little antenna. Charles tries not to stare at it.
“So, where are w– you going next?” Lando asks, a bit too enthusiastically and it earns him an elbow on the ribs from Carlos.
Oh for fuck sake.
Whatever he says, Charles knows that Lando will miraculously need to go too. Because, somehow, someway, he’s got an Alpha assigned to him for the entire day.
The drivers’ group chat had not said much after his message, just some encouraging and rather sweet messages but Charles had simply assumed they had all moved on. He hadn’t considered the alternative which is: they’re all absolutely insane.
It’s probably Pierre’s fault but somehow, he suspects Max is not innocent in all of this.
Feeling like a Barbie doll being passed on from one child to another, Charles observes the Alpha circus around him, jaded. The transition between them, at some point, gets sloppy and they’re not even hiding anymore by the middle of the afternoon.
It’s almost sweet if not uncomfortable for everybody involved.
It’s honestly hell.
It’s Lando, George, somehow Lance, Seb (who looks like he’s enjoying himself a bit too much), Guanyu, Lewis, George again, and Alex.
Alex, bless his heart, is somehow very bad at it. That’s also Charles’ saving grace, as he only needs to pretend to have a stomach ache and go to the bathroom urgently to run away, leaving behind a stunned, and stressed Alex.
He’ll send him an apology text later but he needs to take a breath or he’ll do something he’ll regret.
Everything he said about wanting to accept to be a sweet omega got annihilated with Lance making him awkwardly wait for Seb to arrive. Again, Seb looking very entertained did not help.
An open door that didn’t seem to lead to any garage is convincing enough for him to slip inside. There’s not much inside and it’s exactly what he’s looking for. Industrial-looking building, with gray walls and washed-up rugs, some sofas here and there. High windows let the outside in, shyly.
Rays of lights shift on the ground, Rorschach test-like. Here’s a car, here’s a house, here’s a hard-earned freedom and truth, here’s–
“Daniel?”
“Hiya Charles,” Daniel smiles and then goes back to sipping his water and looking at his phone. Casual is exactly what Charles needs at the moment so he sits next to him, their shoulders two inches apart and closes his eyes, willing for his growing headache to go away. “How are you holding on?”
Charles cracks open an eye to look at Daniel. He looks tired, but he usually does these days.
“Great. Would be even more fine if I didn’t have a babysitter sticking at my boots all the time,” Charles admits. He assumes Daniel isn’t involved in the project, and it annoys him even more.
“Oh, yeah, I noticed it too. They’re not good at it, aren’t they?”
“No, it’s nice of them but it feels…”
“Performative?” Daniel completes and for the first time in the day, a sympathetic smile doesn’t feel fabricated. “Yeah, I feel you.”
Misery loves company. And Charles feels like Daniel and he had been pretty fucking lonely for the past few years.
“How did you deal with it? When you first came in F1?”
“Oh, I didn’t. It was hell, but thankfully I had family and friends and wins that made it better. It does get better,” Daniel says, spinning his bottle of water on the floor.
“I heard that so much I’m starting to think it’s complete bullshit,” Charles groans and picks up a pillow on the couch to hug.
“Yeah, it mostly feels like it is too.”
How peculiar, to be in the room with someone who shares such similar life experiences. It could be uncomfortable but Charles had burned that bridge and the river together long ago.
Daniel is not that much older (not that much wiser too), yet Charles had always seen him in this unattainable bubble, flying above the childish concerns that made Charles so miserable. Kill your heroes, but what do you do with your childhood jealous obsession?
Spill your guts and hand it to them, apparently.
It’s easier to say everything without expecting a compassionate but empty nod, to be as dirty and vulgar without fearing to repel. It’s not splattered on the front page of a magazine, it stays between two dubious-looking pillows and boisterous laughs. It’s theirs, only.
There are few omegas in Charles’ life, and he’s not nearly close enough to any of them to talk about heat with them so it falls upon Daniel to answer him. The Internet is too scary of a place to dive into.
While Charles had not spent his heats with any alphas ever, it’s not the case for Dan who’s more than happy to share his stories.
A question still plagues his mind without getting answered though, and Charles hesitates before letting himself ask.
“Were the rumors true? That Max helped you during your heat?”
“Wow, straight to the point,” Daniel laughs. This time, it’s grating. “Did you ask him?”
“No!”
“Then I shan't tell.”
Charles is almost sure shan’t isn’t a word. But Daniel is Australian and knows better than him so he shuts up and picks up on a thread in the pillow he’s holding.
If they slept together, he didn’t care. Really. It’s none of his business, they do what they want, they’re responsible and consenting adults.
(Who is he kidding?)
The pillow tears up under his nails and some fluff escapes it. White cotton on bloody red fabric.
The door burst open, making both of them jump. Deep breathing echoes in the silent room. Max looks like he did Abu Dhabi and Singapore on the same night, with flushed cheeks and soaked hair under his cap.
When he sees the startled figures of Charles and Daniel, he straightens himself and walks in stride toward them.
Daniel tentatively hands him his water and Max doesn’t hesitate to gulp it down. Some of it spills and runs down his chin and neck. He wipes it down with his wrists and finally meets Charles’ eyes – making him feel caught.
“You’re here.”
“Yes I am– Are you ok?”
“Of course,” Max coughs, still out of breath. “Why did you leave?”
“Leave? I didn’t have anything to leave, Ferrari didn’t ask for me,” says Charles, batting innocent lashes at Max, making Daniel laugh at his side.
“You know what I mean,” Max frowns and then points an accusing finger at Daniel. “You should have texted me.”
“Nah, I’m not getting involved in that shit, man. Charles’ a big boy, he can take care of himself.”
They share a high five. Max looks put out. It’s great.
Admittedly, Charles is petty about the did-they-dont-they thing Daniel and Max have going on, but pissing off Max will never be not funny to him.
Snapping out of his shock, Max makes an expression close to a pout before fumbling to get his phone. On it, he shows a conversation with Carlos that includes a lot of exclamation points and crying emojis.
“Actually Ferrari did ask for you so get up.”
“Bossy,” Charles grumbles but still catches the hand that Max offers him to stand up.
Daniel gives him wiggly eyebrows as he leaves and he gives him the finger in return. Absolute menace. It feels great to have a new real friend.
Max is still pouty, but they fall into easy banter after a few minutes. A far cry from a few years, even months ago, for them to not hold a grudge against each other and be able to joke around.
From earlier, there’s still a heavy interrogation point sitting over Charles’ head.
The thing is Charles knows he won’t be able to stop to think about it. Knows that tonight, in his hotel room, he will lie in his too-clean bed and stare at the ceiling, wondering what was and could be.
There’s not much the world does not know about him, now, anyway.
“Did you fuck Daniel?”
Max’s face does a complicated thing before settling on shock. “Fucking hell, what did you two talk about?”
“I don’t know, I was just wondering and he wouldn’t answer me.”
“Uhm… No, we didn’t,” Max says, sheepish. “Back then if he asked me I think I– Doesn’t matter.”
“OK. Sorry, I’ve asked. Me neither, by the way. Not with anyone in the paddock.”
“Cool.”
An Aston Martin staff member passes near them and her sickly green bag skims against Charles’ arm. One of them makes a joke, he’s not quite sure who, but it makes the rest of the journey less uncomfortable.
Charles is the world’s leading cross-bearer of the most unfulfilling want, twenty-five years running. It’s a title he holds with pride, as it might be the only thing it’s still good for, after all these years, after it all came crashing down, after all is said and done and there’s not much left to do except to pick up the pieces.
Long ago he should have known. He’s never quite fast enough.
But he let himself wonder, in between two motorhomes and raspy racing ranting, what it might be. To want and be filled.
Charles has a tradition.
He doesn’t have a lot of those. He finds them kind of silly, in fact. But this one had made its way into his life without him noticing so it wasn’t like he chose to have a tradition. It just happened.
Probably a lot of people had this tradition too. They didn’t share it out loud but Charles could tell, when meeting someone, if they had this little thing in common, if they could, without saying it, have this unsaid bonding moment.
So, his free Tuesdays were tradition days.
Usually, it goes kind of like this:
Charles wakes up. It’s too late to take breakfast but too early to make lunch so he decides to do neither. He checks his phone but gives up halfway through his notifications and turns it off. The TV is on but doesn’t watch it. At some point, he gets hungry and tries to make pancakes. The batter is usually too watery or too thick — there’s no middle point — and to try to motivate himself, he puts on his ‘shame playlist’ (mostly Britney Spears and other songs Seb has made fun of).
Most of the time, the pancakes give him a bad stomach ache and he spends the rest of the day lying in his bed, ignoring his dead phone that Andrea is probably blowing up.
It’s the best. Charles wishes he had more free Tuesdays.
So there he is. At the pancake step. Heavy headphones and thick glasses on, shaking his ass to Ooh Ooh Baby while attempting to make a decent batter. It’s like being in the club, without all the sweaty bodies and dreadful feeling that he’s going to be filmed and posted on Twitter for everyone to laugh at him.
When he was little, between two races and crises, he caught his parents dancing together in the kitchen. Nothing like he’s doing now, uncoordinated and a poor attempt at sexy — it had been a slow embrace, barely a dance.
Honestly, it was probably his dad bothering his mom while she was cooking, as he was hugging her from the back, but it stuck with Charles.
There’s no use waiting for someone to come slow dancing in the kitchen with him, so Charles does it on his own and has a lot of fun.
Charles does a happy little spin that gets interrupted for him to scream bloody murder. Before he can even think about it, he throws with all his strength the phone in his hands to the person standing in the kitchen behind him.
“What the fuck?”
“Oh, putain de merde, Max,” Charles says with a shaky breath, taking off his headphones to put them on the counter. “Fuck, don’t do this to me, I’m pretty sure I had a heart attack.”
Max stands awkwardly near the fridge, Charles’ phone in his hand. Thank god for the drivers’ reaction time because the phone would have not survived a crash with the wall. Or if it has smashed Max in the face.
Disfiguring Red Bull’s golden boy would be a very bad start to the day.
“What are you wearing?” Max asks, looking like he has eaten something sour.
The thing is that, in his Tuesday morning routine, clothes didn’t have an integral part. At best, a second thought, but never a starring role — Charles did enough daily to not care at all when he was alone at home. Something is relieving in not giving a fuck.
Like every Tuesday morning, he didn’t think too much and just grabbed the first hoodie that was lying the nearest to his bed. Fortunately, it was very warm and comfortable. Unfortunately, it had to have a giant Red Bull Logo in the middle of the back.
Charles could lie. Say it’s Pierre who had put it in his bag to make a stupid joke. Or maybe confess to being an all-time Red Bull fan – avidly collecting merch and then reveal an entire room dedicated to it. Honestly, everything sounds better than admitting to having kept the hoodie the whole time since Jimmy’z and not making a single effort to give it back to Max.
At least his shorts are red. But it’s the only thing they got going for it, as it is a relic from his past (and tedious) tennis days and is now so washed-out and tight they’re unwearable anywhere else than his apartment.
“Shorts. And a hoodie. Look, I didn’t plan to go to the fashion week, I didn’t even know you were coming or I…”
The sentence goes nowhere, and Charles rubs his face, messing up with his glasses. His place is a mess, he’s not wearing blockers or anything decent, Max had seen him dance stupidly. It could hardly get worse.
“You’re the one who invited me, I can show you the texts?” Max says, already unlocking his phone to show the undeniable proof Charles had no doubt he had. “But I can leave if you want, I don’t mind.”
“No, no, please stay. I’m sorry about all this but you can stay, of course,” Charles says before he can think about it.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, yes, do you want anything? I think I want whiskey. Do you want whiskey? I’ve got this great whiskey from Italy, it’s like harsh and sort of spicy? I don’t know, I’m not great at whisky but it’s great! It was a gift, for my– well my coming out, I guess. From the team. Are you–”
“Charles. That sounds great. I would love some whiskey, thank you. Also, if you didn’t know I was coming, you should be more careful with locking your door.”
Charles is relieved to have been cut off, even if it’s to be scolded for his door safety. It’s not that he’s reckless, it’s just that sometimes he… forgets.
Whatever. There are mostly only rich fuckers in Monaco and little chance to get robbed.
He smiles at Max before turning back to bend over, reaching for the bottle in his small alcohol cabinet. Behind him, Max makes a weird noise but when he looks at him, he gives him a thumbs up, looking pained.
Reluctantly, he pauses to throw away his batter (too watery again), deciding he won’t let Max get food poisoning with him at risk of having both Christian Horner and Helmut Marko knocking at his door. Only one murder attempt per day was allowed, and he had already wasted it.
His whiskey glasses – because yes he had those, Lorenzo thought he was very funny to give those at his housewarming knowing how little he drank — are on the top shelves and it’s high, even for him. He doesn’t bother with ice cubes and pours a bit less than half of the glass and pretends he knows what he’s doing as he finally hands it to Max with a proud smile.
The smile on Max’s face is too tense to be real but he accepts the glass without a word.
Charles chugs his first glass of whiskey without a word. It burns his throat and eyes. He hasn’t done this since he was seventeen and thought problems disappeared in the haze of alcohol, but he also doesn’t immediately throw up so it’s not that bad.
Max sips on his drink, and if he had been in a suit and a tie, it would all be very Mad Men. There’s also the lack of smoking, but they’re both professional athletes and Andrea would be very mad at Charles.
Still, he has a pack of cigarettes for bad nights and emergencies. He doesn’t offer one to Max.
The sound of the glass against the counter makes Charles jump and he watches warily Max reach for the bag at his feet.
“I brought ice cream.”
“You didn’t have to,” Charles immediately says but he accepts the bucket gratefully. It’s the brand he bought the other day, at the Carrefour, when he had made his coming out to Max.
“No, but it made me think of you,” Max says as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. As if he didn’t go on about his day, saw a bucket of ice cream, one lost in a million, and there was Charles’ name on it. As if, there wasn’t a part of Charles, as mundane as his ice cream taste, that took some space in his mind, that he took time to remember for him. At Charles’ silence, Max smiles. “Also, my mom raised me well.”
Bad-looking orange tastes like Max for Charles these days.
Charles wants to kiss him.
It’s not new, maybe.
“Fifa?” Charles asks and Max nods.
After turning off the reality TV show he was not watching, thank you very much, Charles quickly starts his console and bites down on his competitive streak to let Max take his favorite controller.
As always, Charles chose AS Monaco, despite Max’s endless mocking. He doesn’t care, he knows his team is good and Max is simply a jealous, jealous man, as he explains it to a relaxed Max who simply snorts.
No ass gets kicked but his own.
“I know you’re cheating,” groans Charles, throwing his controller at his side. It bounces once before falling off the couch but he doesn’t bother checking if it’s broken or not. Instead, he slumps back on a pillow to look at Max’s smug expression. “I don’t know how, but I know you do.”
“You can’t cheat at Fifa, it’s just a matter of skill and not choosing a shit team.” You wouldn’t know about that, rings in Charles’ ears.
It rings like church bells in Maranello and roars at Monza.
Months ago, it would have ended in a fight, but there’s relief in laughing. They’ve been at it for hours, if his clock and the darkness outside are anything to go by, and Max is funny without being mean, he never is. Even when he can’t stop bringing back Charles scoring a goal against his own team.
Charles stretches, rolling his shoulders and neck. The waiting screen plays a small cinematic they’ve seen too many times.
During the day, Max had taken more and more space on the couch, and what started as a good two meters between them had shrunk so low he could feel the warmth of his skin.
There are few places Max doesn’t make look like his own. Charles' is no exception.
Dizziness from alcohol makes him too honest.
“Fuck, you’re so… hautain. ” The French slip more easily in his whiskey-tainted mouth than English. When he licks his lips, it tastes like oak and summer and he wonders if Max’s are the same.
He has enough restraint not to ask.
“I don’t know what that means but I think I disagree,” Max frowns and he clicks some stuff on his controller and then the remote, turning off the aggressive bright light of the screen.
There’s not much light in Charles’ apartment now that the TV is off. But, like in movies, it seems Max can’t be in the dark, always looking so clear and distinct in the middle of the void.
Day for night. Night for day?
Catching him watching him, Max smirks at Charles and there’s not much to do for him except roll his eyes.
“Cocky. That’s the word I was searching for, you’re cocky. So, Max Verstappen, what are your secrets?”
“Hard work and good people around me,” Max sounds bored, still with a lazy smile on his lips.
Later, Charles could always blame it on being drunk. Now, no puppeteer controls his movement as he rises and falls, letting one of his hands rest in the middle of Max’s chest as the other helps to support himself on the couch.
He’s using too much core strength to not fall on Max and he’s sitting weirdly on his foot. He stumbles and Max stabilizes him with a strong hand on his hip.
They’re approximately the same height but Charles’ perception is fucked and he feels big and small and everything in between.
“Nuh, uh. I don’t want to hear about this PR shit. Dis moi, what are your secrets, ” asks Charles again and he knows his pupils are blown wide, matching Max's.
Whiskey tastes nice but doesn’t always smell good. But even as his breath hits Max’s nose, he doesn’t react, only continues to look at him, an unreadable thing in his eyes.
“Hunger. I am always hungry.”
The words don't have a shameful shape between Max’s lips. There’s a freckle on the top one.
And Charles can see it. Max, all Kronos-like, insatiable, an endless buffet in front of him and eating, eating, eating. There’s pudding, potatoes, Austria 2019, Daniel, Pierre, Alex, a red, black, green, orange car, two or three corners, and a side of bean soup.
But it’s not enough, it never is.
It’s a hunger that eats you if you don’t satisfy it, cannibalizes you from inside ruthlessly, and leaves you to find another body to dig its fangs in once it's done.
Max swallows and Charles watches his Adam’s apple move up and down, fascinated. He doesn’t touch it.
At heart, he knows he’s voracious too. Hiding it had been just easier with training. Not now, however, Charles can physically feel the crack in his facade. His monstrous self showing up, baring his bloodied teeth and glowing eyes.
But Max had met him already. Over and over again and yet, he’s still there, on Charles’ couch, pinned up by his greedy hand. He’s staring at him like he won’t look away.
If Max asked to eat him, Charles would let him have a bite.
At the base of his neck, his scent glands tingle to remind him he has a body and it will betray him, without fail. Instead of reaching for it, Charles tentatively traces with his index the bridge of Max’s nose, bumpy and smooth, strong and fitting in his features naturally.
Charles has a bit of an obsession with Max’s nose. There’s shame and there’s acceptance – he’s starting to learn to let go of one of them and he can’t tell which yet.
The room smells like lust. They’re barely touching, barely even breathing. Charles has done races less exhausting than that.
Most of all, Charles is drunk. It’s so easy to find an excuse.
“Let’s watch a movie,” Charles whispers in heavy silence.
“Okay, yeah,” Max answers, and just like that, it’s done.
On his hip, there’s a hand shape branded in white-hot iron that isn’t going to go away for days.
Any kind of underlying tension disappears when the need to choose a movie comes. Because he’s drunk and French-adjacent, Charles wants to watch Asterix et Obélix: Mission Cléopâtre while Max insists on a Star Wars marathon.
Eventually, Charles wins because it’s his house and he threatens to kick Max out if he doesn't agree.
Dictatorship in his home? Absolutely.
With some struggle with Charles’ computer and an HDMI cable, the internet gives them a version with dubious English subtitles that he’ll take happily given the circumstances. Max doesn’t look convinced at Charles’ ‘best movie ever made’ speech but looks attentive nonetheless when it starts.
The truth is, it’s a stupid movie and Charles had seen it a hundred times and a half. It’s second nature to mouth the lines of the script but the sleepy-drunk part is starting to hit and before he knows it, he’s dozing off.
Max must notice he’s unusually quiet because he opens his legs more, as to offer his thigh as a pillow. Honestly, it’s probably all Charles’ brain interpretation but he jumps on it without hesitation. Strong muscles moving under his head are the only thing he focuses on when he closes his eyes.
A hand strokes his hair, but it doesn’t feel like his mom’s manicured one from when he was a pup. Rather, it’s a broad and reassuring thing, not crushing but weighty in a grounding way.
The smell of citrus and leather wraps around his curled-up body. Deep from inside his chest, where hunger and grief cohabit there’s also a firefly called hope.
Purring and safe, Charles falls asleep with the sounds of the television and Max whispering Dutch on the phone.
Charles wakes up in his bed, with a headache and a glass of water. Under the glass and the medicine box, a little paper stained by water and folded in two waits for him.
Hi Charles.
I brought you to your bed, I didn’t want you to throw your back but didn’t want to wake you up either. sorry i hope i didn’t overstep I closed the door behind me with the set of extra keys I put under the doormat.
you looked ver
Hope you slept well and see you soon.
Liefs,
Max
Charles groans and puts his pillow over his head, hoping the feathers asphyxiate him.
This is a problem. And, he’s ravenous.
Somehow, Charles’ evening went from bad to worse.
It was already quite shitty when he realized he lost a bet he made against the PR team and they were now in full control of his outfit for the night but it had become straight-up hellish when he had discovered it lying on his bed.
Charles knows he isn’t a fashion person. He had tried, he had failed and he had given up and it’s fine! Really! Veni vidi vici. He leaves it happily to Pierre and Lewis to hit the red carpet and puts together a nice outfit.
Now, what he didn’t like was being dressed up like a doll by Loretta from management who had a personal vendetta against his pants. All of them. But even if he didn’t put it above her to put him in a skirt, it seemed as if she had been given some rules.
It didn’t stop the full result of making him want to go naked at the sponsor party rather than whatever he is wearing.
Pierre often got weird looks when he called Charles dramatic but most people never had to talk down a meltdown Charles from ending his F1 career over a pair of socks. At least he’s only laughing a little when he picks Charles up for the party.
“Shut up, you fucking prick,” Charles snaps at him as he slides to the passenger side.
“Oh, no, you look handsome! And no Ferrari logo, I’m impressed.”
Charles looks stupid. He sighs and pulls down the interior mirror to try to rub a bit of product on a pimple.
The white shirt is more suited for a medieval peasant than a sponsor party in his opinion, loose and cinched at the wrists. He had won the war against necklaces but is now starting to regret it, as he stares at his bare neck and collarbone in the small mirror. No patch on his glands (it itches when he puts it on now) and it looks almost obscene.
At least the pants are decent enough, more high-waisted than he usually liked and the belt is digging into his stomach by how tight it is but it’s going all the way down to his legs and is a nice soft fabric.
It’s going to be a long night. Charles glares at Pierre who’s fumbling with the radio. He had asked him to pick him up so they could spend more time together, somehow not taking into account that he was now stuck in the party until Pierre decided it was time.
And Pierre likes those parties.
“Whatever. You better drive faster than last Sunday because we’re late.”
“I wonder whose fault it is,” Pierre mumbles, obviously vexed, and starts the car abruptly before Charles has his seatbelt on.
Terrible pop songs cheer them both up and by the time they arrive, they have gossiped about everyone at the party and Charles is not sure he will be able to look some people in the eyes again.
Unfortunately, the giddiness doesn’t last and not even half an hour in, Pierre is lost somewhere, the buffet is mediocre at best, and a sponsor is talking to him, not even bothering to hide the way he checks him out, up and down.
Back when nobody had known he was an omega, those parties were already boring and an exercise Charles only got out alive and still with a seat by the sheer force of Ferrari media training but now that the cat is out of the bag… Alpha rich men truly are a different breed.
If he felt they were already looking down at him when he was a simple driver, being a literal piece of omega meat with legs is a whole other experience.
So, a Ferrari sponsor, hitting on him heavily. At least he wasn’t old and ugly, but any kind of potential attraction had been squashed by his sleazy smile and strong innuendo. Handsome in a boring way, at best.
A wandering hand brushes his hips and the urge to scratch the man’s face off is so strong Charles bites the inside of his mouth so hard it’s bleeding.
By now, he has finally located Pierre but he’s too busy flirting with a waitress to see Charles’ desperate attempts at eye contact. Everyone else that he trusts is simply impossible to find. And, fucking hell, his friend is a loser. The waitress looks interested at least.
The party is supposed to have at least half of the grid and yet Charles had never felt so alone.
Not wanting to be drunk around the sponsor, Charles has been sipping the prosecco little by little and he hopes nobody had seen he had the same glass for the entire night. Now, the urge to chug it out is only tamed by the fact he knows he will indulge his violent urges if tipsy. Smile, laugh, don’t drink.
Someone bumps into him from behind and pushes him closer to the sponsor.
“Careful, baby,” the man whispers in his ear and Charles shudders with revulsion.
Oh god, he’s going to throw up.
Vomit gets scheduled for another time, however, as there’s suddenly someone getting between them, pushing Charles away with a firm hand.
It’s not that Charles doesn’t appreciate the intervention but he’s still about to yell at the person. The familiar profile makes him lose all his words.
“Max?” Charles asks softly, but he gets ignored.
Instead, Max is looking straight at the sponsor, clenched jaw and almost bared teeth.
“Fuck off.”
“I’m sorry?” The sponsor looks between them, incredulous, his tie now askew. Max doesn’t look impressed.
Whoever dressed Max tonight has done a great job in ditching the jeans and putting him in a smart suit that hugged his broad shoulders and ass.
It’s an unfortunate place and time to be horny but it never stopped Charles before.
“I said: fuck off,” Max turns back to Charles. “Charles, can I talk to you for a second?”
“Oh my god,” Charles chokes up, and he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Ferrari is going to kill him. He catches the eyes of the sponsor and it doesn’t reassure him. At all. “I’m so sorry, he doesn’t-”
“Fine, come here,” the sponsor snarls and the inflection in his voice makes Charles freeze.
Being Alpha-voiced isn’t a new experience, there have been plenty of times Alphas did it around him when they didn’t know about his second gender. Uncomfortable, but not unbearable. Until it’s directed at him specifically, apparently.
Max grabs the sponsor’s extended arms before it reaches Charles.
“If I was you, I would think again before doing this.”
The light reflects on his eyes, and it glows red.
For a moment, the belligerent scent around them is so strong Charles thinks like he’s going to pass out. They’re not in the fucking ice age, fortunately, so both the Alphas break out of the staring contest, Max going on to rub a hand on Charles’ back. The weight of it is crushing.
The sponsor leaves, not without a last death glare at Max, and disappears into the crowd. Some people are looking at them as the new but ephemeral act of the circus.
Ferrari is going to kill him, cut him into little pieces, and send his remains in a boat that’ll crash into the ocean so that he’s never found again. Silvia is going to need a very good alibi. Max too, but they need to go to a less public space for Charles to rip him a new one.
The feeling seemed shared. Max, frowning as if he did a bad qualification lap, stares at him. Grabbing him by the arm, Charles drags him across the room. Neither of them speaks.
A woman let out a shrill laugh as the door shut down behind them. Flickering street lights aside, the place seems safe enough for them to speak.
“What the fuck was that?” Charles whispers angrily, and the parallel from months ago in the paddock is not lost on him. It leaves a bad feeling in his stomach.
“What! He was pissing you off!”
“I can handle it but you could get in trouble for that shit, you’re a public figure,” Charles hisses and it only makes Max more visibly pissed.
“I don’t care.”
“I do!”
“Stop doing that!”
“I’m not fucking doing anything, Charles, he was– it’s unbelievable, he had no right to touch or talk to you like that,” Max rubs his cheeks with his palm, and the flash of silver rings is blinding for a second.
Charles laughs and it sounds fake. It’s more like a bark. “He’s the director of a major Ferrari sponsor. I’m pretty sure he has every right.”
“You’re the one that needs to stop doing that,” Max snaps, and some angry blotch starts appearing on his neck too. “Talk about yourself like you’re an object.”
“Max, I’m an omega in Formula 1.”
“Exactly. And you’re also brilliant, reckless, completely mad, and a fucking idiot who’s going to be a World Champion one day. Ferrari or not.”
“Oh my god, you need to shut up.” And Charles kisses him.
It’s adrenaline, he tries to tell himself but the truth resides somewhere between the crash of lips together and a meeting in a karting track years ago.
Max kisses the way he drives, angry and confident, grabbing on Charles’ waist like he’s afraid he’s going to break away. Fortunately for him, there’s no place Charles would rather be than against a prickly wall that is probably ruining his silk shirt.
Like everything he does, Max is an overachiever at kissing, and soon, Charles is helpless at doing anything more than moaning as Max licks, bites, sucks at his lips, tasting like citrus and happiness. So many teeth is an acquired taste, but somehow Charles is really into it – but he’s starting to think he’s just really into Max more than anything else.
Charles grabs at the back of his hair and it’s just enough to give him a two-second break before Max is back on a mission to put his mouth on all of his body.
“You drive me crazy,” Max’s voice is low and raspy against his skin, making him shudder. Charles is pretty sure his brain is slowly melting underneath the heat of every kiss.
There’s not one brain cell left in his brain. At least, that currently works.
“Like Britney's song?”
“Yeah, like Britney’s song. You’re so hot, fuck,” Max nips at Charles’ jaws, making him whine.
If Max still wants him after saying the dumbest shit ever, there’s probably not much that can make him run away.
“Come on, ‘want you.” The sound of his desire, voice deep and sluggish, is lewd even to his own ears.
“Not here,” Max says, reluctantly.
“Yours?”
Charles has never been to Max’s home but the moment feels as good as any. There’s no hesitation in Max nodding at least and he brings him back in another bruising kiss.
Thankfully, Charles has been the only one piggybacking tonight, as Max proudly boasts about his new baby. Even if Charles desperately wants to make fun of him for calling his car baby, he oohs and ahh appropriately. He still wants to get fucked tonight.
In the parking lot, he tries to guess which one of the luxurious cars might be Max and fails repeatedly at the exercise. Eventually, Max stops in front of one with a smug smile. Speechless, Charles looks between him and the car several times.
Fuck, it seems like he’s serious.
“This is your car?”
Max doesn’t even look embarrassed as he opens his Ferrari with a click of keys. “Yeah. Remember, objectively a good car and not a complete idiot?”
“I need you to fuck me so bad.”
He doesn't think he's kidding, but Max snorts all the same. When Charles brushes past him, he can smell his lust, so strong it's dizzying.
“So I only needed to tell you about my Ferrari to get you in my bed? Should have done that years ago.”
“Pretty much, I think,” Charles admits, already distracted as he slips inside the car. The familiar smell of leather and expensive cologne is very welcomed in the whirlwind of his night. Reverently, Charles caresses the roof of it and coos, “Oh, she’s beautiful.”
“Stop trying to fuck my car,” Max whines playfully but doesn’t help his case by starting the car up and the roar of the motor makes Charles gasps happily.
At Charles pretending to make out with the window, Max only laughs and puts a hand between his thighs, high enough that his pinky brushes at Charles’ crotch. It’s like he doesn’t even think about it, while the weight and placement of it make Charles warm all over his body.
By his smirk, after Charles adjusts himself one too many times, Max is very aware of what he’s doing.
There’s not even time for Charles to get a good look inside Max’s apartment that he’s pressed against the door, large hands holding him tight enough it might bruise. It feels good to be desired so shamelessly. Of course, his lovers had never made him feel unwanted — Charles knows he’s attractive, but it’s different when it’s Max.
Everything feels different when it’s Max.
Like he’s burning from inside, not unlike a heat, but this time it’s where Max is the master and initiator of everything.
Every inch of Max available, Charles wants to consume and be consumed by. Their noses bump against each other, as they move slightly, and Charles’ hands trail down Max’s body to stroke the prominent bulge in his pants.
If Max couldn’t get more infuriating, he feels huge.
Before Charles can do something like sinking on his knees or palm the dick-shaped spot, Max grabs his wrist.
He’s panting heavily, flushed, and like the incarnation of all of Charles’ most shameful desires. Greedily, he inhales every one of Max's breaths. It’s hot on his lips, smells and tastes champagne-y.
Max clears his throat. It still sounds dangerously low when he says, “Wait, I have cats, let’s go to my room.”
Charles doesn’t totally follow the thought process but he nods enthusiastically nonetheless. Anything that would get Max out of his pants faster is good in his book.
The small problem of having to let go of each other to walk turns out to be a big one. Both of them are guilty of it but the death grip Charles has around Max’s shoulder doesn’t help.
Bumping from one wall to another, alternating who gets pressed into it, they painfully make their way through the apartment. Some books and figurines get knocked off and it’s only at the noise of something shattering on the ground they freeze.
They stare at each other, red lips and glassy eyes, before looking down at the beheaded figurine of a cat lying at their feet. Well, fuck. Charles observes Max’s reaction, worried and hoping it isn’t some family relic.
But Max barely gives it another glance and instead looks at Charles like he’s the one who’s broken. He’s very much fine but doesn't stop Max from touching his hips, as if looking for injuries.
Charles brushes Max’s face and relishes the way he immediately melts into his hand. “Hey, hey, I’m fine. Sorry about your cat, though.”
“We are being stupid,” Max giggles, almost hysterical. Charles knows the feeling. “Let’s go, c’mon.”
But Charles has already started to undress him. If the bedroom wasn’t happening, there were other options.
“Well, you can always fuck me against the wall,” Charles suggests, unbuckling Max’s belt with one hand and undoing his shirt at the same time. He licks a shiny strip of skin on Max’s chest as soon as it’s offered to him.
The salty taste is almost surprising but not unpleasant.
“Fucking hell.”
As soon as Max grabs his thighs, Charles wraps his legs around his waist. The rest of the journey is way faster than anticipated.
Only one painting almost falls. And it’s Max’s fault as he tries to open the door to his bedroom.
The mattress bounces under Charles’ back, the bed base whining under him. For a long second, it’s just him, the ceiling, and an endless cotton sheet under his fingers. But he’s never alone for too long, and Max with his disheveled hair pops back into his field of vision.
It’s a funny sight, really. Satisfying too. They didn’t do anything yet and Max already looks well-fucked. With his completely open shirt and zipper, but suit jacket on.
In other circumstances, Charles would have insisted for Max to fuck him fully clothed. But that’s not what he wants or needs right now. More than anything, he wishes for their skin to touch, to feel the warmth and pulse of Max against his.
Huffing, he urges Max to get rid of his clothes and apologize silently to the stylist for the way they just throw the clothes next to the bed.
His own outfit gets the same treatment and he’s not unhappy to finally get the stupid shirt off. Even if he had grown kind of attached to it by the end of the night. He’ll ask Loretta if he can keep it.
At last, they’re both naked. It’s a natural process of going to sleep with someone, obviously. Charles has been naked around loads of people.
But once again, it’s Max, and it’s the first time he’s seen all of him. Without hiding, without shame, without guilt, Charles is splayed on Max’s bed and there’s nothing else for him to do but wait.
Arms above his head, chest moving up and down, his heart pounding underneath, there’s a small and persistent voice that tells him to extend his neck. To show his Alpha the vulnerable hollowness at the base of his neck, to silently scream that he’s available to bite, to keep, only for him.
Treat me gently, Charles wants to ask.
He doesn’t have to.
Max’s body is strong and soft as if someone had carved him in marble before deciding to make it human. Like some Bernini sculpture where fingers sank into deadly white rock.
But Max is so, so alive, smelling and looking divine without needing any godhood.
Charles’ cock rests heavily on his thigh and Max’s fingertips skim against it as he traces the curve of his body. From the dip at his waist to the muscles of his shin, Max looks as if he’s discovering a new nebula in the middle of Charles’ freckles.
He caresses a spot under Charles’ groin that makes him draw a breath in sharply. The wonder becomes almost predatory in his smile. “Beautiful,” Max hums. The melody of the slight lisp makes Charles’ head fuzzy.
The kiss they share is gentler than it was in the hallways. Less frantic, less world-ending, and more like a beginning.
Gently, Max hikes up Charles’ legs at his side — he’s pliant in such ways he doesn't think he would even argue if Max took a knife and opened his chest. In the invisible line of his crime, Max presses his chest.
Charles almost misses the moment Max gets a hand between his legs and it’s at the first touch of his fingers on his rim that he gasps. It’s a choked-up sound that gets lost as it penetrates him, slow and steady.
Meeting no resistance, the second and third fingers join the party pretty quickly and soon, the lewd noise of wet back and forth mixing with Charles’ breathless moan.
“You’re so wet,” Max says reverently as he looks down at where his fingers drip from Charles’ slick. He gathers some before putting it back inside, curving his fingers expertly.
With his heel, Charles hit his back. It does nothing to deter Max, however, only encourages him and he’s twisting, turning, thrusting his fingers inside of Charles as if trying to find all the ways he can squirm.
There’s a lot.
Charles isn’t particularly sensitive down there, he had enough unsatisfying nights by himself and some people to know it. He likes to jerk off well enough, but there’s a feeling about being filled that he’s always chasing and rarely reaching.
If Max’s fingers only put him in the current mess he’s in, he’s in serious trouble.
Not that he minds. But he’s desperate for Max to be inside him, to feel his cock, heavy and pulsing. He wants to beg but no word seems strong enough and before he can make up his mind, Max has started a trail of kisses on his face and neck.
They haven’t talked about it but Max only brushes Charles’ scent glands as he goes down. And down, down, down, and suddenly, Charles’ legs are around Max’s shoulder and he can’t see what he’s looking at but Max’s eyes are rimmed red and hot.
A pillow gets put under his hips and the anticipation makes his stomach curl. From where he lies, Charles can see Max’s lashes flutter as he blows air over his hole.
Charles’ body spasms violently and he bites his tongue — every inch of his body seemingly connected and electrified.
“Max, please—” It’s more a whimper than anything.
All his unholy thoughts about Max’s nose only get confirmed when it gets pressed against him. He must be soaked too because Charles is pretty sure they could have filled a bucket with all the slick coming out of him; the tongue inside of him doing nothing but amplify the phenomena.
Even as Charles grips his hair to guide his movement, up and down, riding desperately as Max doesn’t stop and only licks even harder. No wet dreams had ever come close to depict the fervor of Max’s mouth on him and the building orgasm in his stomach threatens an early night.
The thought of finishing without Max’s dick in him sounds blasphemous at the moment.
There are beard burns on his thighs, pink and bumpy, as Max takes a small break and starts to suck bruises on his pelvis.
With the grip he still has on his hair, Charles forces Max to look at him. His desperation must be plain to see — and he could only imagine what he looks like, tears caught in his lashes he blinks to make fall and a flush that goes all the way down his chest— because Max doesn’t hesitate to slide back to rub his nose against his jaw.
There’s slick on Max’s chin and lips. He kisses Charles and he can taste himself on his tongue. Slimy, sweet, salty — crude and delicious. Charles opens his mouth wider and laps at Max’s tongue when it dares leave his skin.
As if sensing Charles’ whine about being empty coming, Max puts back his fingers in him but doesn't move them.
It's even worse, somehow.
Slowly, Charles rolls his hips, fucking himself on an unmoving Max, who continues to explore the rest of his body with his other hand, his mouth now toying with his nipple.
But it’s not enough. It’s like Max avoids touching or doing anything that would make Charles come. Edging him close enough he’s ready to throw himself off the cliff before going back, disinterested in Charles’ pleas.
It’s driving Charles insane. There’s all but one spot Max avoids touching and it throbs at the lack of attention.
“You can scent me,” Charles says, and Max freezes. “Don’t bite but you— I want to smell like you.”
What sounds like a colorful Dutch curse escapes Max. Pressing his face against the pillow, Charles let Max attack his neck, feeling like a gazelle accepting its fate as the lion’s fangs sank into her. There’s no bite and Charles almost feels disappointed.
He knows it’s just the lust in him talking, and yet can’t help but feel it’s only a question of time until he can show to the world Max’s teeth. Forensic odontology at the trial of his sick yearning.
When his hand grabs Max’s dick, the groan echoes inside of him. Heavy and velvety, the angle is too awkward for Charles to do more than a few twitchy pumps that still make Max grind into it.
“Stop teasing,” Charles says, trying to make it sound threatening but it comes out more as begging.
“Needy,” Max laughs and Charles scratches his back as a warning. “You think you’re ready?”
“Yes, Alpha. I’ve had bigger, I can take it.” It’s not really true but Max doesn’t take offense anyway. Instead, he breaks into a fond smile, wrinkles forming around his eyes.
“Haven’t you heard it’s not the size that counts?”
“Oh my god, just fuck me,” and this time, Charles's whine gets answered by an affirmative hum as Max pulls away his fingers and wipes them on the sheets. It leaves a gooey stain from what Charles can see and he doesn’t want to imagine what the mattress looks like under his ass.
Charles’ hole flusters in the emptiness and Max presses an apology kiss on his forehead as he reaches for his drawer to take a condom. Embarrassingly, Charles had forgotten about that part and had been ready to be fucked raw without a care in the world.
No mini-Maxes for now.
Between his spread legs, he watches Max roll the condoms on his dick, and his own cock twitches at the sight. It’s long and girthy — not his biggest — but it curves in a nice way that he knows will feel good.
“Enjoying the show?” Max asks, smug, and Charles doesn’t bother to respond and brings him back in a crash of mouth.
The tip of Max’s cock brushes against his rim, almost catches in it, and instead slides all the way to his ballsack. Charles makes a pitiful sound.
“Ok, ok, I got you, baby.”
This time, Max takes his dick in his hand, milky white contrasting angry red, and guides it carefully to Charles’ hole. He’s slow in pushing it in, burning hot, Charles still tight despite the fingering. Max falls back, his forearms bracketing Charles under him — and the omega observes, fascinated, the tension on Max’s shoulder disappearing as he bottoms out.
Inside of him, Max’s cock is pulsating and hot. Filling in a way things rarely are.
Charles caresses the underside of Max’s jaw, appreciating the prickles of the beard under his fingers and the hard clench of his muscles.
There are beads of sweat rolling down his face, some dripping on Charles. If he wasn’t completely pinned down and had the strength, Charles would try to lick it — it’s gross and he never wanted anything more. Except for a championship, but Max wouldn’t be offended if he said it out loud.
Max groans, letting his forehead fall on Charles’. He still smells like orange. His voice is raspy and tight with desire when he speaks. “Knew you’d feel good, fuck.”
“Yeah?” Charles laughs, despite himself. The movement makes Max shift inside him. “Thought about it a lot?”
“So much.”
Picking himself up, Max starts slowly pulling out his dick, almost all the way, the mushroom head catching on Charles’ rim, before slamming it right back inside. The slap of skin against skin is dirty. Charles digs his nails into Max’s biceps and ass and he hopes it hurts.
There’s so much he wants to say, as Max puts on a rhythm, so much he wants to confess and be forgiven for, so much momentum that had built to it. Charles doesn’t know where to start so he rambles.
“Me too. Actually, I had a wet– hmm– dream about you, once. I was really– ah — embarrassed seeing you after this but–”
Max stops to look at Charles, bewildered. His sweaty hair sticks to his forehead and neck.
“Do you always talk so much during sex?”
Charles is speechless for a second before huffing. “Oh sorry, I’ll just shut my mouth and look pretty then.”
“Not what I meant. I love when you talk, I love when you do nothing and look pretty, I love just having you with me right now,” I love you, Charles finds he desperately wants to hear. Max doesn’t say it but makes a thrust that hits something particularly good in Charles. Unaware or uncaring of Charles letting out a loud moan, Max stares seriously at him. “You’re so unexpected. I’m still trying to figure you out.”
“I’m not that complicated,” Charles says, grinding his teeth. Max comes to kiss some of the blood on his bottom lip.
“Ok, now it’s definitely too much talking,” whispers Max against Charles’ lips. “It means I’m not doing something right.”
And it signs off the rest of Charles’ sanity.
Max’s thighs and balls slap against Charles’ ass, so hard it must leave red marks along with the beard burns, and the bed smashes against the wall, making sure all of the neighborhood knows what they’re up to.
Spine curving like a bowstring, all the words bubbling inside his chest disappear in his silent scream as what feels like a repetitive punch in the stomach. Over and over, Charles’ world is rocked and rearranged, as it feels his entire being mold itself to fit around Max’s cock, around his edges and veins.
Max mouths at his jaw and when Charles tries to kiss him, it’s only a clatter of teeth and tongue, without any real kissing going on. A spot, perhaps behind his ribs from how far Max is fucking him, gets hit and everything in his vision goes white from how hard he closes his eyes.
Hands going from the crack of his ass to his lower back, putting on bruises like some violent tramp stamp, Charles can feel Max’s heartbeat against his sternum.
Charles feels feverish with want as if his body is too small to contain all of him. He grabs at what he can, and it’s mostly Max. It’s sheet and its skin, it’s the leftover of his sanity and it’s his most primal instinct, it’s guilt and its emancipation.
It’s Max’s knot that grows into him and won’t spill. Even when he pushes, sits on his cock, and traps Max’s waist between his legs to make him reach for something, anything. Even his abandoned cock, which he ruts on Max’s soft stomach, is not enough to quite satisfy him.
He tightens his rim around his cock and Max growls, animalistic.
Tears spill down his cheeks, hot and wet, and even Max’s lips on his eyelids are not enough to make him stop.
He’s not above begging. He never was.
“Fuck– Max, Max, Alpha, knot me, c’mon, knot me, knot me, bite—”
“Charles, please,” Max pleads, looking pained even through Charles’ tears. He staggers, his hips no longer keeping up with his mind, thrusting into him without rhythm. He manages to hit Charles’ prostate one time out of two and it’s enough for him to trash around. “My Omega.”
And a string snaps in Charles’ chest when the swell traps him and Max together and explodes, spilling into him in hot squirts, only stopped by the condom. His own cock twitches and long white ribbons cover them both, catching in their pubes and covering their chests.
They stay like this for a while, intertwined and whispering nonsense in each other’s ears. Charles feels full and content and is pliant enough that Max can carefully pull out of him and rearrange his limbs on the mattress.
He disappears for a few seconds, before coming back with a wet towel and a glass of water. Charles traces the marks left on him and wishes for them to stay there forever. It won’t, but tomorrow will be enough for now.
The towel is gentle against his skin and his ass.
“You were perfect,” Max says, kissing him sweetly while throwing the dirty towel somewhere in the room. Charles is too tired to tell him how disgusting this is.
“You were not too bad yourself.”
“Even without it being the biggest you ever had?”
“Of course,” Charles lets himself be kissed and curls up against Max’s chest. It’s soft and comforting and Max wiggles only a little when Charles unintentionally tickles him. “Thank you, mon coeur. ”
Max says something stupid, probably, but Charles is already deep asleep.
He dreams of horses and the future.
Charles’ home usually doesn't smell this good in the morning.
But also, usually, Charles’ home looks like his home. The sheets are soft but the wrong color, the shutters are half open but Charles’ room has curtains. There’s an insistent sweet scent caught in his nose. A dip in the mattress at his side gets deeper as the body next to him moves.
Sore from the previous night, it takes Charles to wiggle a bit to notice that it’s not the blanket that stops him from getting up but more the arm around him that tenses up at his movement. There’s a groan and a forehead gets pressed behind his head.
Charles traces the veins on the arm that holds him down. He follows the flow of them, ending at the hand and he rubs the knuckles of it, white and strong. Max’s fingers tighten their grip on his sleep shirt and Charles watches, fascinated, the muscles moving. They’ve been inside of him, last night. A gush of slick threatens to spill out.
Oh, he’s going to be weird about that, isn’t he?
Thankfully, it seems like Max has woken up enough that he can distract Charles from his own mind, and kisses are being left in the back of his hair that he can’t get away from. Not that he tries to, except maybe as a joke, but the press of lips starts to go down and down, reaching a dangerous spot on his neck.
Biting down a moan, Charles starts wiggling more aggressively than before, and, at last, he’s strong enough to be able to turn around and face Max, in all his sleepy glory.
Max looks silly in the morning. Eyes barely open, his hair crunched by the pillow makes a weird shape around his head. He gives Charles a crooked smile.
“Good morning, schatje. ”
The word is unknown and comes from the back of Max’s throat — however, it might just be his morning voice. But it’s said in such deep affection, so obviously meant for moments between lovers, it transcends language to dive in between Charles’ ribs.
“ Bonjour, lover,” Charles murmurs, kissing Max’s scrunched-up nose.
Morning finds them both smell like night and sex, tangled up in sheets that should probably have been changed last evening. The pillows, previously only impregnated with Max’s strong Alpha scent were now mixed with a bit of Charles’. There’s a promise hidden somewhere.
Charles stretches, still in Max’s hold, and immediately regrets it as Max takes advantage of his vulnerability and pinches a sensitive spot over his waist. Yelping, Charles is too stuck to retaliate and Max is too strong to let himself be bitten by Charles’ vengeful teeth.
Fangs, claws, giggles.
They wrestle for a bit but despite Charles being a trained athlete, there’s only so much he can do against Alpha biology. Still, he puts on a good fight and the scratches on Max’s back don't all come from pleasure and last night after this.
Some blood makes its way under his fingernails, but it’s dried.
Puppy fights with his brothers have been denied from him for a while now, and while he had learned to redirect this energy on the track, it’s fun to find someone who isn’t afraid to break him.
Charles is not some glass doll. He’s prickly, rough, overcompetitive, and a hypocrite. But Max knows, he knows the soft part of his soul and the raging hot shame all the same.
There’s no winner to their little game, or if there’s one, they decide not to acknowledge it.
They must look like two idiots who lost a battle against the bed, heavy breathing in the silence. Somehow, they always come back to each other – like sunflowers without the sun.
Under Charles’ head, Max’s arm must have lost all feeling but he doesn’t complain.
Instead, Max nuzzles Charles’ cheek. It’s supposed to be an apology, he thinks, but Max is laughing too hard for him to take it seriously. Charles grunts, trying to look annoyed but the soft rub of Max’s beard against his skin burns in all the right way.
At last, he lets Max kiss the corner of his mouth and Charles parts his lips to let him in.
“You smell lovely,” Max says. “Is that an appropriate thing to say?”
“You had your dick in my ass, I think we’re past the point of being appropriate with each other,” Charles jokes but Max barely cracks a smile. “I think you smell good too.”
“No, Charles you don’t get it, you smell lovely. Like the best thing I’ve ever smelt like I want to drown in you. I almost lost my mind in your apartment, the first time, it was everywhere, and yet you were smelling like me, ” Max is earnest and honest and Charles remembers his transparent chest and untearable heart. He thinks if he wanted, he could be one to break it. He doesn’t want to.
“You’re weird,” Charles says but it’s contrasted by his enormous smile.
“Yeah. I think I might be weird about you.”
Charles says something like cute, before being flipped around and kissed to death on the mattress.
At some point, a hungry growl breaks the mood and Charles has to admit the sheets are dirty enough as it is to not discharge his bladder on it. It only takes three attempts – two aborted only by Max’s fault, let it be clear — for them to actually get up.
Grabbing a random shirt in Max’s wardrobe ( not Red Bull merch), Charles decides against putting any pants on as the number of underpants ruined is getting way too high.
Max pats him on the ass as he exits the room.
“I’ll be in the kitchen.”
Charles nods and runs to the bathroom to relieve himself.
It’s the first time he has had a good look at Max's apartment and it’s exceeding and letting down all of his expectations. He almost trips on a cat toy on his way out of the bedroom and he could follow their trip from last night by only looking at the ground.
The painting they knocked out is an ugly one. Charles doesn’t feel bad about it.
White marble aside, nothing is exciting about Max’s toilet but it seems to be a theme overall. Far from being a pro at interior design, the mismatched decor hurts Charles’ creative heart slightly.
Maybe, he can do something about it.
But first, he needs to find the kitchen. It’s in the living area, as it turns out, and the big American open kitchen looks too good for what Charles knows Max makes of it. Not that he’s any better but at least he’s trying. The amount of Uber Eats' bags on the floor is damning for Max.
He doesn’t seem to care, though, and he brightens up when he spots Charles from across the room. They were not apart for even 10 minutes and yet Max looks like he’s been waiting for their reunion for a decade.
A cat brushes Charles’ legs and he watches it make its way to Max, who has already put a bowl of some kind of meat. Still shirtless and in only gray pants, there’s a long-worn domesticity in the way Max kisses Charles’ forehead.
“I peeled you an orange.”
There’s something to be said about the capacity of Max to choose the worst-looking orange Charles has ever seen. The shape of it is weird, the color of it is not quite right and the texture feels a bit too soft to be edible.
“Thank you,” Charles says, strangely moved. Of course, the orange is delicious. Max must be a wizard. “I can make pancakes if you want.”
Max grimaces. “Please don’t.”
Rude but understandable. He didn’t have enough free Tuesdays to get better on his batter since Max came to his home. They definitely should try together next time.
Because there’s a next time. There’s a next Tuesday, free or not, there’s a next kiss, there’s a next fuck, there’s a next everything, Charles is convinced of it. How could he not, when Max tells him about how lovely his scent is as pillow talk?
Charles is tired of being pessimistic about life. He wants to believe and be believed in. It starts with Max, he thinks, with letting himself be offered oranges and accepting them.
There isn’t much in Max’s kitchen – the sad reality of a billionaire bachelor – but they’re still able to make breakfast with some leftover baguette and jam. Charles makes fun of the coming expiring date on most of the things in Max’s fridge. They make out against it, magnets digging into Charles’ back, and it tastes like marmalade.
The language of lovers and silent things. Charles could get used to it.
Eventually, the coffee machine beeps so they pour it into Toro Rosso mugs and sit at Max’s pretentious bar counter. There’s a lull in the conversation which they both bask in, the sun hitting the side of Charles’ face just enough to make it warm.
It’s a beautiful day in Monaco. Charles wants to embrace her, tight enough so she remembers that there’s no need for her to love him back. He has enough room in his heart for them both.
Because there’s a pile of used mugs in Max’s sink, they decide to tap into it and Charles assigns Max a rag to dry the dishes after he washes them.
Max insists his dishwasher is broken. Charles suspects he hadn’t even tried to make it work.
“What do you want to say about us? To the others?” Charles knows he isn’t talking about the press.
He finishes washing with hot water the plate he’s holding — a horrible thing with I <3 MELBOURN splattered on it — before putting it down to look at Max.
There’s no judgment, only some worry in his eyes.
“I don’t know, I never had a– relationship with anyone so directly involved in the sport,” Charles admits.
“You could have. Seb wanted to fuck you.”
Charles scoffs and the plate clatters in the sink. “Don’t be ridiculous, he could barely stand me at first.”
“I think we just established that those two things aren’t mutually exclusive,” Max gives him a smug smile and Charles suddenly feels very hot and very aware he’s half naked. He grabs the rag Max has left on the countertop to slap him with it. Max makes a wounded noise.
“But I can stand you,” protests Charles and Max has caught the cloth and uses it to pull Charles toward him. He doesn’t falter, even as Charles puts his still-wet hands on his naked shoulder. Charles looks at him and feels his heart traveling up his throat and threatening to spill out of his mouth. He lets it out. “I like you quite a lot, even.”
It’s not the point but Max is pleased all the same. Under his gentle hold, Charles let himself get manhandled to be pressed against the counter.
“I know,” Max says, kissing a spot under Charles’ ear that makes him melt and extend his neck to give Max access to the rest of it.
A little lightbulb lights up above his head which makes Charles frown.
“Wait, did you just quote Star Wars?” asked Charles, horrified, pushing Max’s face off his neck. At his contrite expression, he groans. “Oh my god, I slept with a loser who is quoting Star Wars after we had sex.”
“You understood the reference, so you’re not any better. And you just slept with a world champion.”
“Well, apparently I could have slept with a four-time world champion. Maybe it’s not too late, actually,” Charles pretends to think, almost slipping away from Max, but he’s caught at the waist before he can’t get away. It makes him giggle as Max lifts him off the ground.
“Don’t you dare,” says Max, growling playfully but with a hint of warning.
They’re too tired to wrestle again, so soon Charles is back on the floor, Max’s nose buried in his neck.
Once upon a karting track, Max has looked at Charles, and Charles has looked at Max, and some mischievous weavers have decided to sew their life together.
Invisible threads aside, all the constants in Charles’ life always seemed to come back to Max, grief and joy alike. His life making endless circles — some parody of a Greek tragedy where the author pushed back the hero’s death for so long, so far he had rebelled against them. Where the protagonist raised his sword and looked at the all-powerful being that was pulling his strings, soaked from head to toe with blood and defiance, and yelled, making birds and words scatter above him.
I’m here.
Max looked at Charles last night like he discovered him for the first time. They met many times, he thinks. For once, he wants to stay.
“I don’t think I’m unexpected,” Charles confesses suddenly and it feels like he ripped his vocal cords and made a violin with it. While he feels Max shift in his neck, he can’t bear to meet his eyes so he instead stares at the drying piles of dishes. “I don’t want to be, at least. I want to be simple, I want— You know.”
Carefully, Max makes him turn around, so they can face each other. The curve of his lips writes a story Charles already learned. In the ocean in Max’s eyes, there’s the horizon and some green seafoam.
“I know. You’re just Charles. I see you now, I see you,” whispers Max. It rings like a prayer.
Charles is not religious and he does not particularly wish to be. There’s solace, there’s Ferrari and there are Max’s arms around him.
Things will be fine. For a moment in time, in Max’s kitchen, he believes it.
That’s all that matters, in the end.