Yellow Flag

by MurmursInTheNight

Summary:

As he rounded the next corner, into sector two, he caught sight of the crash. From the collapsed barriers and the dust of the kicked-up gravel, it was a bad one. Then he saw a flash of red, the briefest of glances at the livery.

A Ferrari.

“Who?”

“Repeat?"

“Who’s in the wall?”

“Focus. Gap to car ahead, 1.3 seconds.”

“Who is in the wall?”

“Leclerc.”

 

Witnessing the aftermath of Charles's crash, Max makes a choice he could come to regret. As the media swarms their relationship, there may be more demons to face than they ever expected.

Chapter 1: Gap 1.1

“Yellow flag, sector two, car in the wall.”

Max’s eyes flickered up to the screens as they flashed past, trying to catch a glimpse. It was always a moment he felt his whole body go cold, hearing those words. Whoever it was, or however bad the crash may be, just knowing it had happened again sent a shiver down his spine. Even if it wasn’t at particularly high speed, low speed in Formula 1 still meant at least seventy miles an hour. So every time there was an incident, Max would say a silent prayer everyone was safe.

And the yet the media still loved to portray him as the ruthless, heartless bastard of the grid. They never saw the other side.

Then again, the other side didn’t make good headlines.

As he rounded the next corner, into sector two, he caught sight of the crash. From the collapsed barriers and the dust of the kicked-up gravel, it was a bad one. Then he saw a flash of red, the briefest of glances at the livery.

A Ferrari.

“Who?”

“Repeat?"

“Who’s in the wall?”

“Focus. Gap to car ahead, 1.3 seconds.”

“Who is in the wall?”

“Leclerc.”

Nothing ever prepared him for that though, to hear that name.

In the stupid media they had to do, the hours they had to spend on interviews and photo shoots, and Netflix, they would get asked pathetic, arbitrary questions about pets and work out schedules and food. Sometimes they’d be even more idiotic questions, like ‘you must be pretty fearless to be an F1 driver. What’s your greatest fear?’

Max never knew what to say. Because the answer was that. Those words GP had just uttered to him over the radio, and the view of a car in pieces against the barriers. But not just any car. Charles’s car.

“Is he okay?”

“Focus Max. Russel 1.2 ahead.”

“Is he okay?”

The radio was silent for a beat, at least two corners, and Max wondered (hoped) if GP was giving him space to navigate the most technical part of the track.

The next words almost sent him into the wall himself.

“He isn’t out of the car yet.”

Feeling his grip tighten on the steering wheel, Max released his thumb from the radio button and tried to fucking /breathe/. This was what they had warned him about, the few that knew about him and Charles. This exact moment was the thing that everyone had cited as the only reason for it to be a terrible idea, the only reason they shouldn’t pursue it. The moment that, under any other circumstances, any other combination of people, would be scary enough. But if one of them wasn’t a driver, was in the garage watching the screens, at least their complete focus could be on them, could be on getting to them as fast as possible.

But no. Max was almost within DRS of George, about to fight him for a podium, with three laps to go.

A podium he now didn’t want.

And this was the other argument, the thing GP had sat him down for, with his serious face, and made him listen.

“If it comes to it, him or the win, what are you choosing?”

“I won’t have to choose,” Max assured him. “We’ve agreed. On the track, nothing has changed. If we’re battling each other, we’re doing it how we always would. No holding back.”

“And what if it’s not a fair battle?”

Max hadn’t really known what GP had meant then. He hadn’t pressed, hadn’t asked for clarity, had just brushed him off with irritation and got on with his day. But this is what he meant – what if it was a psychological battle?

Because now, if Max got 3rd, that’s post-race interviews, and the cool down room, and podium celebrations, and even more interviews after that.

If he got 4th, he could climb out of the car, ditch his kit, and find Charles straight away.

Suddenly, 4th had never looked so appealing.

“Okay Max, 0.9 we’re in DRS.” GP’s voice pulled him back to reality. Shit, almost nine corners had gone by and he was sure he hadn’t registered a single one of them. And yet somehow he’d still managed to close the gap to the Mercedes in front of him. “Two laps to go. Mode push. Mode push.”

“Is he out of the car?”

“Max, I won’t ask you again. Mode push. DRS zone coming up.”

Fuck.

Eyes fixed on the car ahead, Max tried to weigh up the options. Two laps, within DRS. Easy. He could take George in the next DRS zone in fact, he was sure. It would be obvious, so fucking obvious, if he didn’t. Not just to the pit wall, to the entire fucking grid. There was no reason for that not to be a simple pass down the start finish straight, right in the middle of the DRS zone, lock it off at turn one, and be done with it. There would have to be something seriously wrong, or a serious mistake to happen, for Max to not get that move done.

Coming into the second to last corner, he found himself hitting the brakes just a little too hard.

The car twitched, the front left locked up, flat spotted, smoke billowing from the tyre as it ground out against the tarmac. Subsequently, the car didn’t make the full turn, running and bouncing over the curb, sending him at an odd angle back onto the track ahead. Easily recoverable but…

Glancing down at the data, he felt a twinge of satisfaction sit in the pit of his stomach.

Gap – 1.1

Max could just imagine the commentary, the crowds, going on about how costly that was, how a mistake like that was unlike him, how that could have lost him the podium.

He fucking hoped it had.

“Okay Max, we can make that back across the next run. Take him on the final lap.”

Silence.

And he wasn’t even going to bother to respond. GP knew, he was sure of it. He had every single millisecond of data in front of him, every single throttle movement, break touch, live G-force calculations, even how much water was left in his drinks reservoir. He would’ve known the second it happened that the over-breaking wasn’t necessary, wasn’t in reaction to anything, wasn’t because he was coming into the corner too fast, or too deep.

He would’ve known that was a set up. And he would’ve known why.

Pacing himself behind George was harder than expected. Ultimately, for once, the car wanted to go faster, could’ve gone faster. And there was still that itch, in the back of his mind, the need to give it his absolute all every second of the lap. The need to keep it all on the edge, slick, faultless, the poetry of the car on the track. But the second time he passed the crash, and caught the merest of glimpses of Charles being /helped/ out of the car by the marshals, he was reminded why suddenly 1.1 was the most important figure he had ever seen flash up on the steering wheel.

It needed to say at 1.1, until the finish line.

The third time he passed the crash, Charles was gone, though he was sure it was via medical car. GP had been in his ear, every ten seconds, telling him to push, telling him he could do it, they still had time. He hadn’t responded once. Instead, as they crossed the line for the final time, under the chequered flag, Max put on his best disappointed voice and slowed to an acceptable pace for the cool down lap, still far faster than he would usually do it.

“Bad luck guys. We pushed hard, but that flat spot really messed me up.”

“Yeah… shame Max, but good race. We’ll discuss in debrief,” came GP’s clipped response.

All for show. Max wasn’t going to be in the fucking debrief, they both knew that.

Pulling the car into the pits, Max fumbled quickly to get the headrest unclipped, steering wheel out of the column, jumping out of the car and just about managing to reattach the steering wheel as they had to, before sprinting into the garage, pulling at his gloves, fingertips tugging at his helmet straps to get it off. He ignored everyone as he went past them, nothing particularly unusual there, and went straight up to GP. Thank god his Dad wasn't here.

“What the fuck was that?” his engineer hissed at him, glaring cold and hard.

“Where did they take him? Hospital?”

“No, he’s still in the medical room here.”

Max glanced around at the garage, watching for a moment as the team wheeled the car in, distracted. “Get me there.”

“Fucking hell, Max, are you seriously…?”

“Get me there, now.”

The resigned look GP gave him told him he’d won this battle. The dressing down he was going to get would be horrific, but that wasn’t a now problem. The only now problem was getting to Charles as fast as possible.

“What do you know?” Max asked as he followed GP through the back of the garage, unzipping his race suit and tying it around his hips.

“It was really high impact. He’s got bruised ribs and they’re worried about concussion.”

Max nodded stoically, because around them were hundreds of people milling with phones and cameras and social media. But inside, he wanted to scream and shout and cry. And panic. He hadn’t thought through how they were going to get away with this at all. Charles was going to be surrounded by people, it was going to be super weird him just turning up to check on him. Why? Why would he do that? But then he supposed the track doctors were employed to keep silent. They had the medical knowledge of that driver in their hands. Surely they had signed some form of NDA to prevent them from talking about any injuries that may happen, that they may see?

Maybe that could extend to who came in and out of the medical room.

Thankfully, there was only one doctor still with Charles when they arrived, and he was stood making notes on a form. Max had hung back whilst GP had knocked and stepped inside, and Max saw Charles’s flicker of worry and recognition across his face has he watched Max’s engineer enter the room. Hovering in the doorway, Max tried to make his presence known whilst GP negotiated some kind of fucking silence deal with the doctor. It seemed to work anyway, whatever it was, because seconds later GP was stepping out with the doctor, brushing past Max.

“You have five minutes. Then he’s being taken to the hotel and your arse will be in that garage. And you better have a good fucking story,” GP muttered, his gaze stern before he was walking off again. Max took a millisecond to take a deep breath, before he was pushing into the room, carefully shutting the door behind him.

The pressure marks from his helmet still sat on Charles’s face, deeper and redder than usual where the impact had thrown him around. Max could see a bruise forming on the top of his hand, presumably from where the steering wheel had snapped back, or a piece of barrier had fallen on him. Otherwise, there were no other visible injuries at the moment, and Max found himself thanking every single piece of safety equipment that surrounded them in the cockpit that Charles could throw the car into the wall at whatever stupid speed it was and come out with injuries as small as this.

Wasn’t any nicer to see though, especially not how distant and glassy his eyes looked.

“You shouldn’t be here, someone’s going to see,” Charles said quietly.

“We can cover it up, it’ll be fine,” Max reassured gently, stepping towards Charles, weak smile on his lips. “You only had four laps to go.”

“Wasn’t in the points anyway,” Charles muttered in return, watching Max come towards him. “Where did you finish?”

“Fourth,” Max replied, near-flippantly, like it was the most unimportant thing in the world. He was almost at Charles’s side now, where he was sat up on the bed, hand resting on his side. Slowly, Max extended his arm out, hand coming to settle over the top of Charles’s, face falling into a frown. “It hurts?”

“Yeah, it hurts,” Charles affirmed. “Nothing broken. Just bruised this side. And they’re pretty sure I don’t have concussion, but they want me to stay awake for another five hours, six if I can.”

With a nod, Max was stepping even closer, pushing into Charles’s space. “We can watch a movie in the hotel,” he said quietly, stupidly, like that was something that was going to /help/. Charles laughed weakly, shrugging a little before wincing at the movement. Max soothed a thumb over the back of his hand. “You scared the shit out of me,” he breathed. “When GP said you hadn’t got out of the car…”

“I couldn’t move,” Charles whispered in return. “My whole body just seized. It /hurt/, my ribs, I just…” He turned his head then, resting his forehead against Max’s shoulder, the closest piece of him he could reach. “Thought I’d really fucked myself for a bit.” He raised his head again, meeting his eyes. “But it wore off, managed to get myself standing.”

“I saw. But it took you almost a whole lap?”

Charles nodded, forehead resting back on Max’s shoulder, sighing softly as Max’s hand came up to the back of his head, threading his fingers into the brunette hair. “Think I just stunned myself.”

“The impact would’ve been over 30G, liefde.” Max kept caressing his fingers through his hair, down the nape of his neck, before bowing his head to press a kiss to the crown of his head. “I need to get back to the garage. GP is ready to kill me.”

“Why?” Charles laughed softly. “What did you do now?” He pulled his head back, looking up at Max, eyebrow raised in question. He took in his far too serious expression, and knew it wasn’t just because of his injuries. “Chéri, what did you do?”

Notes:

There actually isn't an inch of me that believes Max would throw any chance at any form of victory for anything in this universe. But hey, that's what fiction is for, right?

Chapter 2: On Purpose

Notes:

I realise GP comes off a little mean in this, and I honestly didn't intend that! I think GP is great... but he's angry, roll with it!

(I was also mean about George. I don't mean that either... like genuinely I don't. Mr Consistency being consistent.)

Max had made some kind of excuse, some kind of bad joke, about a mess up in turn 17 and a bad recovery. Which wasn’t entirely untrue. He just left out the part about the fact it was completely purposeful and actually… what had it done to the Constructor’s Championship? He couldn’t be sure without looking. Still, it was done now. And Charles didn’t need to know the whys or the reasons. He didn’t need the worry, he needed to rest.

So they parted with a soft kiss, chaste and quick in case someone walked back into the room, and Max reluctantly let his hands fall from Charles. He had been holding back the entire time he’d been stood next to him. Underneath, his entire body was crawling with the need to inspect every inch of Charles’s skin, to see he was okay. To kiss every strained muscle that was sore.

Later. Later. Right now, the focus was to not get murdered by GP.

The debrief with the rest of the team was relatively short. Ultimately, the pace wasn’t in the car until the end of the race, the final laps, and that was the focus more than anything else. If they had found the pace earlier, it wouldn’t have all come down to the end. They simply couldn’t rely on a bedded in track, nicely degraded tyres and the teams ahead struggling in dirty air. /That/ was the issue, not Max’s mistake on lap 54.

If only GP believed that.

Everyone stood to leave, Max included, but there was a hand on his arm, pulling him back in, keeping him in there. The room emptied, the door clicked shut behind them, and Max turned slowly to GP.

“Does Charles know what you did?”

“No,” Max replied flatly, crossing his arms over his chest. “He knows I made a mistake. He knows it cost me the overtake.”

“But he doesn’t know that ‘mistake’ was orchestrated for his benefit?” Max just glared back at him, unmoving, unblinking. “He wouldn’t thank you for it, Max.”

“Don’t think that’s any of your business,” Max muttered back, his voice still monotone.

GP’s eyes turned absolutely furious then. “You make it my business when you sacrifice the whole team for it!” he hissed in return. “If you’re not careful, you’ll make it /everyone’s/ business.” It was a threat, that was obvious, layered in the anger and the clear hurt was an absolute threat.

“You wouldn’t…” Max’s eyes were fixed onto GP, onto his expression, daring him to push one step further.

“Pull a stunt like that again and I just might.” He was gone from the room before Max could even respond any further, leaving him stood alone, seething. But deep down, he knew GP was right to threaten him. He wasn’t just harming his own race, his own championship. He did have to think about the team.

And he did think about them, all the way back to the hotel, in the elevator up to the hotel room, as he walked along the corridor, tapping the key card Charles had slipped him on Thursday just before a press conference against his thigh as he went. He kept thinking as he unlocked the door, dumped his bags down, started searching for Charles. He was still thinking about them as he stepped into the bathroom, into the cloud of steam cascading out of the shower.

He stopped thinking about them as soon as his eyes landed on Charles.

Hearing him enter the bathroom over the noise of the cascading water, Charles turned, leaning back against the tiled wall. He looked exhausted, and definitely in pain, though there seemed to be nothing visible on his body yet. Even so, the heaviness of his eyes, the slight frown on his face, his slumped posture, told Max all he needed to know.

And suddenly he was absolutely /not/ thinking about the team anymore.

Without hesitation, he pulled off his hat, t-shirt, jeans and underwear quickly following, being unceremoniously kicked out of the way. He was stepping into the shower seconds after he’d entered the room, eyes fixed on Charles as he oh so carefully wound his arms around him, pulling him carefully off the wall into a soft, slow kiss. Charles melted against him, hands resting loosely on his sides. Max could feel how low energy he was by how little he was pressing back into the kiss, how weakly his lips dragged back against Max’s. So he didn’t push, instead threading one hand into his wet hair as he broke the kiss, guiding him closer. Being shorter, though only just (a point he reminded Max of frequently) Charles could tuck his head under Max’s chin without leaning too far. That way, Max could guide them both back under the spray, letting the hot water run over aching joints and overworked muscles.

“Don’t do that to me again,” Max muttered after what felt like hours of silence just stood under the hot water.

“Didn’t do it on purpose, chéri,” Charles muttered back, voice slightly muffed against Max’s neck.

A strange amount of guilt rushed through Max’s core at those words, and he felt himself internally wince. No, of course he hadn’t.

But Max had done what he did on purpose…

Shaking it off, his dropped a kiss to Charles’s wet hair. “Ready to get out, schatje?” He got a vague, uncommitted noise in response, making him half smile and half worry even further. He hated Charles quiet. Charles was eloquent, talkative, usually very good at communicating his needs. His slumped form against Max had him worried. “They were sure you didn’t have concussion?” Max prompted as he turned off the water, leading him out of the shower, unbothered about being stood dripping wet in the slightly chilly room in favour of wrapping a towel around Charles’s shoulders.

“Oui,” he replied quietly. “Or… maybe mild?”

“Charles, schatje, there’s a difference between mild and none…”

With a shrug, Charles pulled the towel from Max’s grip to begin drying himself. “None then,” he replied quietly, though Max was entirely unsure he believed him. But he didn’t want to push, he didn’t want to argue. So he carefully took the towel back from Charles and crouched, drying down his legs so Charles didn’t have to bend down.

Settling on his knees, he rubbed the towel carefully over his hip, up his side, wondering if he could see a slight haze of bruising over the surprisingly pale skin. Clearly Charles wasn’t spending enough time in the sun, but then Max wasn’t exactly one to talk. Instead, he pressed kisses above his hip, onto his stomach, then up to his ribs, over where he imagined it hurt the most. With a gentle sigh, Charles was threading a hand into his wet hair, neither pushing him away nor holding him against his skin, but just feeling.

When Max stood again, he pressed a tender kiss to Charles’s forehead. “How’s the pain?”

“Better with your lips,” Charles replied quietly, offering Max that signature soft smile that would have him melting fifty yards across the paddock if he caught sight of it. It made him smile back, completely involuntarily, but an eyeroll followed it.

“Come on, let’s get you comfy,” he replied, wrapping the towel around Charles’s waist and grabbing one himself.

Max /hated/, with every fibre of himself, the wincing that came along with helping Charles get into underwear and a t-shirt. Though part of that was placated slightly by Charles requesting that he wore Max’s old RB t-shirt, slightly too big on him, settling back against the stack of hotel pillows Max had propped for him. “You’d cause so much scandal if you were ever seen wearing that,” Max teased as he pulled on his own underwear, handing Charles his glasses and climbing onto the bed next to him.

“It would be funny, no?” Charles chuckled as he pushed his glasses on. “And I think this being the reason would be the last guess.”

“Not for some of the fans, it wouldn’t,” Max shot back, resting back on a couple of pillows he’d saved for himself. With a smile, Charles was gently pulling Max in, dropping a kiss to his cheek.

“True.” He carded a hand back through his damp hair, pouting slightly. “I can’t lean in to cuddle,” he mumbled, fingers trailing down Max’s jaw, a smile flickering across his face. “I know, lay with your head in my lap. I don’t have to move then.”

With a laugh, and maybe a muttered ‘your wish is my command’, Max did as instructed, curling up next to Charles, head in his lap, facing towards him so he could see his face if he tipped his head back. Sighing happily as Charles began to card his fingers through his hair again, he traced gentle patterns on his stomach, pressing enough that it wouldn’t tickle, feeling the toned abs move under his touch.

“So what mistake did you make?” Charles asked after a moment of silence.

“Hmm?” Max asked, gaze flickering up to Charles.

“Unlike you to make a mistake when fighting George, he usually fights pretty clean.”

“He fucking doesn’t. When he isn’t riding off other people’s misfortune, that is,” Max muttered under his breath, and the fingers stilled in his hair.

“Don’t be mean,” Charles scolded gently, making Max look up at him again. “I know you don’t mean that.”

Max shrugged, eyes back on where his fingers were making shapes against the dark blue RB fabric. Whether he meant it or not, it had deflected from Charles’s question. A question he really didn’t want to have to answer.

They shouldn’t lie to one another. They both knew that. Except they did it all the time. Yes, that pass was legitimate, no you shouldn’t have been penalised. Yes, you had the racing line, no you shouldn’t have been made to give the place back. Of course your team is supporting you, and not making decisions that favour your teammate more than you.

No, our gazes didn’t linger on the podium just a little too long.

But secretly, deep down, they both knew the truth behind all of those comments. They both knew when they lying to the other about those things, because they were lying to themselves too. This… this was different.

“So what did you do?”

Trying to keep his tone casual and body language loose, he kept his gaze down. “Missed the braking zone, locked up. Tried for it too late and misjudged.” And that’s exactly how it would look on the footage, what it would’ve looked like on the telemetry, to everyone other than GP.

“That’s a shame,” Charles murmured back softly, supportively, fingers back to carding slowly, scratching gently at his scalp. Max just hummed in agreement and went quiet, hoping that was the end of it. “Do you think you would’ve had him otherwise?”

“Eh, probably.” Definitely. And maybe Lando too; George was within his DRS when Max was suppose to pass him. Shit. He could’ve got second.

“I would’ve missed you on the podium though,” Charles sighed, and Max could hear in his voice the strain of tiredness, the weight of the crash pressing down on him. “But still a shame you didn’t make it.” Stop. Please stop. “Would’ve been great for the Constructors. And all of that shit the press keep saying about you losing your magic touch, another podium would’ve really…”

Max was sitting up fast, Charles’s hands falling from him in shock, jolting a little and wincing at the tension that shot through his body, watching as Max swung his legs off the side of the bed, leaning forward, burying his face in his hands.

“Max…?” Charles ventured quietly, not daring to touching him again, eyes running over his tense form. “Chéri, I’m sorry, what did I say?”

Scrubbing his hands over his face, Max was on his feet, walking away before stopping at the foot of the bed and turning back to Charles. He looked like he was going to say something, before he stopped himself again, and he was turning away once more and pacing the short distance of the width of the bed, back and forth, Charles’s eyes tracing him as he moved.

“Max, what’s wrong?”

He stilled, stood at the foot of the bed, eyes casting up to Charles, taking in his worried expression, the frown on his face, the way he’d automatically placed a hand on his bruised side to soothe it, support it. He looked tired, he looked /exhausted/. He looked his usual exhausted, the look that came from his years of dedication to Ferrari, something Max would never dare to say to him but had been thinking for some time now. But that added layer, the layer the crash had given him, of his sore muscles and his abused body, being thrown around the cockpit at over 30G, just a passenger to the horrific ride, slamming into the wall with absolutely no ability to stop himself or control any part of it.

They did it to win. They risked all that to win. Hazard of the job. They pushed that hard, all of the time, to make it as high up the field as they possibly could on any given day.

And Max had abused that privilege, handed it away. Because he /knew/ Charles was going to look like /that/. And he couldn't handle the thought of not being there with him.

“I did it on purpose,” he breathed, voice low, eyes cast down to the floor, arms hanging limply at his side.

“Did what?” Charles frowned, completely none the wiser, not for a second even considering what Max was actually saying.

“Fucking up into turn 17… I did it on purpose.”

Chapter 3: Get Out

Notes:

Yeah, hi, I'm back. Didn't know if I'd write more of this, didn't know where to go with it. So I'm just feeling this out, giving it a go, wondering what might happen. It's a musing, an experiment. Enjoy.

The silence that held in the room was tenable. Neither of them moved, Max still stood at the foot of the bed, hands on hips, breathing slightly elevated as he waited for a reaction, a response. Charles was simply staring back at him, complete disbelief on his face. But Max was stoic, holding his gaze, worried but defiant, eyes fixed back on Charles to convey that yes, he meant it. And yes, he had fucked up.

His heart dropped at Charles’s next words.

“Get out.”

“Charles, I…”

“Get out!” His voice was raised now, enough to make Max take a step back, flinch, his eyes flicker from serious and apologetic to outright scared. “I mean it, Max. Get. Out.”

A shaky breath left Max, but he was turning away, taking a step from the bed, the absolute dread, the weight, of Charles’s words sinking into his stomach, churning, making him feel sick again. As he turned, the images of the red wreck flashed behind his eyes, the crumple of the car in the wall, the way Charles had been extracted from the ruins, how in pain and tired he looked sat on that doctor’s bed.

Slowly, he turned back.

“No.”

“I don’t think you’re in a position to argue with me right now.” Charles’s voice, always so emotionally expressive, always conveying how he felt under the media-trained bravado, whether he intended it to or not, was dark now. Deep. Dangerous.

“You hadn’t got out of the car!” If Max was trying to keep any level of composure in his voice, it was crumbling fast, shaking, his fists clenching slowly at his sides, blinking against the mist of tears that threatened to form. “You hadn’t got out! I didn’t know what had happened! If I’d kept pushing, kept going, I…” He trailed off, eyes falling back to Charles, meeting his gaze which was just burning with anger.

“You what, Max?! You’ve would’ve taken George! You’ve would’ve got third, for yourself. For the team. You would’ve been on the podium!”

“Exactly!” Max’s volume had raised now, ringing out through the room, taking Charles somewhat by surprise who stilled, who’s face fell, looking back at Max. “Exactly…” He almost whispered then, eyes casting down to the floor. “And it would’ve been hours. Cool down room, presentation ceremony, interviews. It would’ve been hours not knowing, until I got to you.”

“They would’ve told you what was going on, no?” The anger had dropped slightly now, replaced with simmering irritation, low resentment, brief disbelief. “They could have told you how I was? Could they not?”

“Oh come on Charles,” Max muttered, his tense posture dropping just a little, exhausted from the stress. So fuck knows how Charles was feeling. “There would’ve been a limit on how many times I could ask before they were wondering why.”

“You could’ve asked GP.” Charles went to cross his arms over his chest in a defiant, point proving move, but winced and dropped them again, and Max’s worry surged once more.

“Red Bull don’t talk to Ferrari. GP and Bryan can’t just start chatting about you. Isn’t that as obvious as us kissing in the middle of the fucking paddock?!”

“It would cause less problems than you purposefully not making a pass.” Charles’s gaze was harsh again now, like just mentioning it again was making all the anger resurface.

With a groan, Max Max turned away, running a hand through his hair. “Come on, Charles!” He turned back, meeting his eyes. “We agreed that protecting this, keeping us secret, was important.”

A flicker of surprise ran over Charles’s face, the frown settling deeper. “What has that got to do with it?”

Max couldn’t help the disbelief that ran over his expression, something that probably only pushed Charles’s anger. But he didn’t understand how Charles wasn’t getting it. “Doing what I did was the only option, the only way I could check on you in secret,” he explained matter-of-factly.

“The only option?!” Charles responded in equal disbelief, watching Max’s neutral expression, his near-unemotional nod. “Don’t use your fucking media face on me, Max,” Charles almost growled, unable to help his fists clenching slowly against the bed sheets.

“I don’t understand what you’re not getting about this, Charles!” He was gesturing now, throwing his hands out in the air. “That was my only option!”

“No, Max, the other option was to not check on me and finish on the podium!”

Max actually laughed then, bitterly, shaking his head and casting his eyes to the floor. “There’s no way that was an option.”

Charles shifted against the pillows he was leaning against, anger bubbling, but unable to disperse it like Max was with the fidgeting, shifting, practically /vibrating/ with the emotions of it. “Why not?!”

Piercing blue eyes flew up to meet Charles’s furious gaze. “Because how can I ignore the car wreckage of the man I love?!”

Silence fell. The air in the room stilled. All of Max’s fidgeting stopped, his hands dropping slowly to his sides, eyes fixed on Charles, chest rising and falling a little too quickly. Charles was staring back, frozen against the pillows, his own breathing a little raised but Max could tell he was consciously fighting to keep it down. He imagined it would hurt too much otherwise, and he hated that. /Hated/ it.

Hated it even more than he hated the argument they were having. Hated it even more than the poor decisions he’d made that day. But, and this was the thing that was making the tears prick in his eyes, the thing he hated the most was that they hadn’t said those words before. And /this/ was how it came out.

This. In some hotel room in some country (and Max wasn’t even sure he could remember what country they were in right now), with Charles’s expression laced with pain, but his eyes glinting with something else. There was disbelief, and the anger was still glistening, but there was something else there. Something gentle, something… hopeful.

“What?” Charles’s voice was almost a whisper, a breath into the frozen and tense air around them, released like it was suppose to be trapped. And Max just stood there, not even daring to blink at first, waiting for something more than total incomprehension to creep across Charles’s face. “What did you say?”

Shifting back from one foot to the other, the fidgeting starting again, Max diverted his eyes away again, landing on their suitcases on the floor, the bright red that tumbled from Charles’s almost harsh against the deep blue from Max’s. He always noticed it now, after someone had pointed it out, the contrast whenever they were stood next to each other. He saw it in every photo, every piece of footage, when they finally had a break to be at home long enough to actually unpack and share drawer space. It screamed at him, the disparity, the difference, like Charles belonged to one religion and he belonged to another. And in a way, that was true.

“I said I couldn’t ignore it,” Max mumbled, voice quiet, still staring at the messy suitcases. At least that was one thing they had in common; on race weekends they never bothered to organise.

“Max…” Charles’s voice was low, carrying a warning, and Max could feel his eyes were still fixed on him, piercing through the darkness.

Pushing a hand back through his hair, Max slowly made his way down the side of the bed towards Charles, still not meeting his eyes. Even as he sat down on the edge of the bed, at Charles’s hip, he didn’t look up, his feet clad in dark socks suddenly incredibly interesting to him.

“Max,” Charles tried again, voice a little steadier now he was in proximity. Though Charles didn’t reach out and touch him, and Max wondered if it was because the situation felt too fragile or if it was because he was just too angry still. Either way, the air was cold in the gap between them, the void between their bodies, the void that Max felt every single time they were next to each other on the driver’s parade, the podium, in the paddock. Every time they were close enough to touch and just… /couldn’t/.

The world could fuck off, they had no right to know anything about their private lives, and Max would stand up for his right to silence on the subject all the time the world seemed to give a shit about him.

But it would be nice to drop a kiss to his cheek when they parted to go to the garage, rather than the innocuous head nod, or at best fist bump, they were stuck with.

So now they were behind closed doors, in the privacy of Charles’s hotel room, and there was still this distance between them… well, Max felt physically sick again. Had done since he’d seen the crash, really, but it was worse now. So much worse. Not placated in any way by that hopeful glimmer he’d caught in Charles’s eyes after he’d uttered those stupid words. Too soon. Too fucking soon. At least, he assumed it was too soon. In reality, he couldn’t even really pinpoint how long this had been going on for. They never really attributed a date to anything at all. And even if they did, would it be from the day they first kissed, because that was /years/ ago. The first time they slept together? Also years ago. When it became more than occasionally, more than after an unexpected win, or an atrocious pointless result? Max wasn’t sure now. But it /had/ become more, that he knew. More than sex. More than stress relief. More than adrenaline. When it started becoming ‘good morning, how did you sleep?’ texts and ‘what movie should we watch tonight? I’ll buy popcorn on the way over’ and ‘have you taken my favourite socks again? Just because it’s cute you like to wear them for media day doesn’t mean you can get away with it every race week’.

They hadn’t named, dated, when it had become that. When Charles had effectively moved in to Max’s apartment in Monaco, on the rare moments they were even there. When they effectively started a relationship, if that was even what it was.

Apparently, for Max it was. If he was dropping that phrase like they’d been saying it for years.

All of these thoughts must’ve tumbled through Max’s brain in the blink of an eye though, because barely a beat had passed between them before Charles was finally landing a hand on his arm, making him draw his eyes up meet Charles’s gaze. And there it was, that slight play of hopefulness in his eyes, enough to make Max exhale slowly, force himself to hold eye contact. “I thought it a while ago,” he admitted quietly, very quietly, like he was afraid of jolting Charles. Maybe he was.

“But you didn’t say it?” Charles prompted, hand still sat on Max’s arm, thumb making little caresses over his skin.

“Well, we… we hadn’t…” Max shrugged, dropping his gaze again. He wasn’t bothered about a label for whatever they were, he really wasn’t. But how could he throw ‘I love you’ out into the universe if he wasn’t even sure they were in a committed relationship? Especially when they were hiding it from the entire world, whilst the entire world watched their every move.

There was more to say, Max knew that. Charles knew that. And now /was/ the time, even if the emotions were running high and fresh and raw, because otherwise they’d push it aside and pack it away and suddenly it would be summer break and they’d be back at home with Leo and the cats curled up on the sofa, specifically avoiding the subject.

But such was life. Such was /their/ lives. Because before any more words could be uttered into the dimly lit room, Max’s phone, abandoned at the foot of the bed nestled in the sheets, began ringing. He was ignoring it, but moments later, Charles’s phone started too, the vibration sending it towards the edge of the bedside table he’d left it on. They shared a look, a concerned look, before reaching for their respective phones. Max stood with his, wandering to the other side of the room as he answered.

“GP? Now isn’t a good time.”

“No, I imagine it isn’t Max,” GP sighed in response, but it wasn’t angry or bitter like his tone had been before, in the debrief. It was worryingly defeated. “We have a PR problem, I’m getting to you before Anna does. Because she’s going to want answers when she calls. Wanted to give you time to decide how to play this.”

There was a pause whilst Max processed the words, what GP could possibly mean. “Play what?”

“You’ve been seen, Max.”

Seen? He was always /seen/. “Seen doing what?” he muttered.

“Going into Charles’s hotel room.”

Max let out a slow exhale, gripping the phone a little harder, his pulse spiking. But no, that was fine. That could be perfectly innocent. So he took another deep breath, let it out in a controlled way, and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. “So? We’re mates. That doesn’t mean anything,” he replied as he turned slowly to look at Charles again, still sat up against the pillows, now holding his own phone to his ear, his face an equal mixture of disbelief and concern as Max imagined his expression was now too.

“It wouldn’t mate, if it wasn’t very obvious you had your own keycard, and just let yourself in.”

Despite the comfortable temperature of the room, Max felt the cold run down his spine, engulf his bones, make him shudder, his heart hammering in his chest, his hands suddenly clammy. And from Charles’s expression, he was hearing exactly the same words in that moment.

Their eyes met across the distance between them, knowing they had approximately two minutes before their PR managers were about to come down on them with the full force of Red Bull and Ferrari branding behind them. And all Max could think in that moment was how he wished he’d said it properly before, not in some rushed, uneven breath in the middle of an argument. Even if the first time he’d say ‘I love you’ to Charles was going to be the last. He wished he'd said it properly.

Notes:

Do we like this potential plot line? Max and Charles attempt to navigate the media exposing their relationship with absolutely no say in it, all the while wondering what they actually are to each other? Sounds messy to me... sounds fun! Let me know.

Chapter 4: Romeo and Juliet

Notes:

I kept going, kept playing with it... I think I like it.

Also it was with some googling that I found that I THINK Charles's PR manager is Mia and Max's is Anna, but can't be 100%. But it doesn't matter, it's fiction!

Anna had been more than a little annoyed when Max had answered the phone to her. Something in between her rantings about ‘you should’ve told me’ and ‘I needed to know this’ and a million other things Max just knew she was going to say before she’d even said it. And when she’d finished ranting, when the silence finally hung between them, she’d settled on the breath of “why didn’t you tell me, Max?”

“Because I just wanted something, Anna, one thing that was just ours.”

And that was half the truth. But only half.

Charles had got the same phone call from Mia minutes after Max had answered his. Max had shut himself in the bathroom, but he figured he should probably leave. Charles had wanted him to leave before anyway, before he’d ignored him, before those words had tumbled out his mouth.

But as he stepped out of the bathroom, Anna fair calmer and understanding now, but still demanding his presence in his room anyway, it felt like the entire world of Ferrari had already descended on Charles's room. He froze in the doorway, a mumbled ‘I’ll be there in five’ to Anna on the phone before he hung up, eyes casting around the room at the people in red. He recognised most of them, of course, though he only knew Mia’s name. And there Max stood, plain as day, realising only too late now that both he and Charles were in only t-shirts and underwear, Charles in Max’s old RB t-shirt, Max in a plain white t-shirt, which for some reason felt more out of place than anything else. He found himself glaring at the four other people in the room, diving back into the bathroom to grab his jeans where he’d left them earlier when he joined Charles in the shower. When he stepped back out again, he felt slightly less on the back foot being fully dressed. He glanced to Charles, then reached down into the bag next to him for Charles’s jeans.

The weary look Charles shot him said ‘I can’t be bothered, it doesn’t matter’. And the look Max sent back to him said ‘I will help you’. And instantly Charles’s gaze softened, somewhat defeated, somewhat hopeful, and Max moved to his side to offer his hands and help him to his feet. He placed a steadying and careful hand on his side, not risking anything more intimate in front of everyone else, though he wanted to press kiss after kiss to his abused muscles until Charles fell asleep against him. Instead, he crouched, helped Charles step into the jeans, let him steady himself with his hands on Max’s shoulders, pulled the jeans up his legs, and offered him a weak smile after Charles fumbled to do them up. He would’ve kissed his forehead then, but he held back. They were under such scrutiny, all eyes on them, he wasn’t going to fuel the fire.

When he turned back, he realised it wasn’t just his paranoia. All eyes /were/ on them, openly watching the interaction, in a way that made Max want to scream at them. Instead, he set a cold, hard glare on them, pale eyes ablaze with anger as he stepped up next to Mia. “I’ll be coming back to this room in thirty minutes,” he began, voice low, barely above a whisper. “You all need to be gone by then, so we can talk.” It wasn’t a threat, he wouldn’t do that to her. But it was an instruction, one he felt he was more than valid to give. And judging by her reaction, a gentle nod, her gaze darting up to meet his for a second and offering him the weakest of smiles, she understood. Not fully, Max didn’t feel anyone who didn’t live it could understand how jarring it was to have absolutely nothing in life private, Nothing. But something as intimate as this? That special hell was reserved for just them as drivers, he knew that. But Mia was like Anna, she was nice, she was human. She had ‘normal’ reactions to things. She’d understand why Max wanted them out, so he and Charles could talk. And she’d been with Charles long enough, cared about him long enough, to make it happen.

Max allowed himself one last look at Charles, sitting himself slowly back on the edge of the bed with a wince. Just that filled him with too many emotions to unpack in that moment. So instead he walked out, just as maybe he should’ve done when Charles had first told him to, clutching both the key cards for both his and Charles’s room in his hand.

Even if apparently simply holding a key card had become a loaded act.

Anna was already waiting outside his room when he arrived, once he’d taken the two flights of stairs up to the next floor, where most of the RB team were staying. Her eyes were glued down onto her phone, as usual, but also as usual, she was completely aware of her surroundings. “How is he?” she asked without looking up at first, until Max was almost next to her, then she locked her phone and met his eyes attentively. That was the weird and brilliant juxtaposition of Anna; she was aware of everything, and always wanted to listen carefully. If Max had to have a PR person practically glued to his side 24/7, and he knew he did, she was a pretty brilliant person to have.

“Sore, bruised,” he replied, knowing his own shoulders were slouched with his own exhaustion. “Angry…”

With a raised eyebrow, Anna left a beat of silence for him to elaborate. When he didn’t offer any more explanation, she simply gave him a weak smile. “I’m glad the injuries weren’t worse.” It could’ve been a throw away comment, something that was naturally said and felt by everyone when a driver was injured, but without too much personal meaning. But Anna’s tone held something different now, given the information she would’ve learnt in the last thirty minutes. Because now it wasn’t just another driver getting injured. It wasn’t even Max’s childhood rival and adulthood friend.

Now it was so much more.

“Yeah.” Max felt the lump grow in his throat again, so he reached out behind her and bleeped his key card against the door, pushing it open for her to step inside, following her in and letting it click shut behind them.

Going to the fridge, he pulled out two bottles of water, handing her one as she sat herself down in one of the chairs in the corner by the window. She murmured a soft thank you to him, checking her phone again as Max sunk down in the chair next to her. When he was sat, she raised her gaze to him, sympathetic, but serious.

“I don’t know where to start really,” Anna admitted, pulling a weak and almost humourless chuckle from Max. “I’ll just give you what’s out in public first?” He nodded silently, leaving the space for her to just begin. “About an hour ago, a video was posted of you going into Charles’s room using a key card. Obviously, initially, no one thought anything of it. Someone just captured a video of Max Verstappen going into a hotel room. So what?” Max gave another nod of agreement. He was used to that, people taking photos and videos of him doing random, mundane, meaningless every day things that every single other person on the planet would be allowed to do without being watched by half the internet. At first, that must’ve been what that the video was; just someone who happened to have been on that hotel floor in that moment. It was a public space, it happened. “But then someone from within the hotel staff pointed out that room 334 was on the Ferrari floor, that they’d seen the bookings.” Max’s expression remained neutral, though the anger was rising. “And then once that dam was broken…” She hesitated, but Max held the silence. “Someone else within the staff made a fake account to comment that 334 was Charles’s room. Others’ confirmed.” More silence, but his jaw clenched harder. “Within twenty minutes it was reposted thousands of times, across the biggest fan accounts, content creators on Instagram, X, YouTube. You catch the drift.”

He had held her gaze the whole time she had been talking. Now, he had to look away, casting his eyes down to the floor, body stiff and tense, expression on the harsh side of neutral. He could feel the anger bubbling, low in the pit of his stomach, rising up into his chest, clenching tight, his hands slowly closing into fists at the same time.

He just wanted to fucking drive. He had always said that. He just wanted to get in the car, drive, and win. The fame, the celebrity, the sponsors, the interviews, he didn’t want any of it. His hatred of it had only grown once they had to sneak around. Two people, the eyes of the sporting world on their every move, just trying to live their life. Trying to be together.

Nothing was fucking sacred. Nothing could be just theirs.

“But Max…”

His eyes shot up to Anna then, blazing again with the same rage they held before, when he’d watched Charles surrounded by red with no power or right to protect him. Anna had seen this look before, so many times, but never quite like this.

“Max, not a single comment is negative. Well, you know, there’s the usual idiots. But every single fan, journalist, they’re all in support. The fans, they’re really happy for you.”

His gaze had softened, he knew that. He was no longer trying to personally combust Anna with just the look of his ice-blue eyes. Because none of it was her fault. And if there was one thing he did know, the fans were loyal. So loyal.

“A lot of them are of course following the line of ‘I always knew there was something going on’, which I suppose now…” Anna trailed off, like she was only just thinking of the fact that was actually somehow true. “But anyway… there isn’t any negativity out there, Max. Not from them.”

“It’s not them I’m worried about,” he replied quietly, keeping her steady gaze. A knowing look passed across her expression, and she gave a brief nod, an unsaid understanding.

“I think we should put out a statement. On your Instagram, on Charles’s Instagram.”

Raising an eyebrow, Max shifted in his chair a little, crackling the lid off the bottle of water and taking a sip. “I think that needs to be a decision made by us,” he replied.

“The wording, of course. As much or as little as you want. In fact, I won’t even ask to see if before you post, as it’s so personal. But I do think you need to say something.”

Taking another sip, Max’s eyes glazed a little harsher again. “And have you spoken to Charles’s team?” he asked, tone suggesting he knew the answer already.

“Well, no… but I…”

“Don’t you think there needs to be a cohesive response?” Max cut in, screwing the lid back on the water, fingers gripping it just a little too hard, making indents in the plastic. Because this was his problem with the whole fucking circus. No way were they going to talk, his team and Charles’s team. No way were Mia and Anna going to sit in a room and work this out.

That was going to be his and Charles’s problem. And he did not want that.

He wasn’t making he and Charles a fucking business transaction. Not this time.

“Max, I don’t think…”

“I’m serious,” he muttered, cutting her off again. “If you want to run this as PR, you need to have a cohesive message, no?” His tone was harsh, stoic, angry.

“I don’t,” Anna replied, her tone kicking in harsh now too, the way she knew she had to when Max went off on one. “I don’t want to make it PR. I want them to leave you alone as much as you do.”

“Then why the fuck - …”

“Let me finish!” He closed his mouth quickly, glaring at her. But he knew when he was beaten. “If you both make a statement, saying yes you are in a relationship…” She watched Max go to open his mouth, and held up a hand to stop him. “Or whatever term you want to use! And that you would appreciate everyone respecting your privacy. If you confirm it, they’ll stop chasing it.”

“No they won’t! The journalists won’t! They’ll never ask about racing again.”

A knowing smirk came over Anna’s face and she slowly sat forward, still clutching her phone in her hand. Always. “Since when have you ever had an issue sidestepping journalist’s question?” she asked, voice lower now, less urgent, reading his expression and knowing, slowly, she was winning.

Sinking back lower into the chair again, Max too another sip of water, directing his gaze out of the window onto the streets below, not willing to meet her eyes now. Now she was getting through to him.

“If we did that,” he began, eyes falling back to her, watching her hopeful expression grow. “/If/,” he repeated, with heavy emphasis. “It needs to be a joint decision. Jointly written. By only me and Charles, but with both you and Mia on the same page and talking to each other about it too. So that there is a standard response, the same thing from Ferrari and Red Bull. I’m not having them release something we haven’t agreed and vice versa.”

Leaning back in her seat again, she rested her phone on her thigh, narrowing her eyes at him for a second before letting her expression relax again. “It’s logical, sure,” she replied. “I think we would need to have some conversations about how that would work…”

“Fine, that’s your problem. You can talk about that whilst I talk to Charles.” He let the silence hang over that statement, waiting for her to argue. She didn’t. He knew he was talking some sense, no matter how angry he was with the situation. He tipped his wrist, checking his watch. He’d only been gone for twenty minutes, he knew he needed to give them longer. He tried to release some of the tension in his shoulders, slumping even further into his seat. He could feel Anna’s eyes on him again, so he slowly looked back at her to meet her gaze, eyebrow raised in question.

“How long?” she asked quietly, not accusatory, not angry, but genuinely curious, and a little familiar. Max wouldn’t choose to have someone like Anna in his life, personally or professionally. Of course he wouldn’t. But she’d been with him a few years now, no where near as long as Charles and Mia, but across all four of his World Championship years. She’d seen him through a lot, /a lot/, and she knew a lot about his personal life. More than he’d care to think about.

But she hadn’t noticed this. And he felt stupidly proud of that, that they’d managed to hide it from her, side step it, that she didn’t notice when it was literally her job to curate his public imagine within an inch of his life.

Despite all of that though, despite the fact that if someone tomorrow told him he didn’t need to have Anna on his team any more, he really wouldn’t be that sad about it, he did respect how good she was at her job. And how she was only ever looking out for him, really. So he’d allow her this, this question, even if it was a personal question rather than professional.

“Years,” he replied, the volume of his voice echoing hers. “Since Charles joined Ferrari.”

He watched her eyes widen a little in surprise. “Six years?”

With a nod, Max’s gaze was suddenly finding the water bottle in his hand very interesting again. “On and off at first. We didn’t know how to sneak around as well then. When we got more used to it, more into a routine, with bigger teams around us, that was when it… became more.” He sighed softly, a weak smile tugging his lips just a little as he remembered it. In reality, they had been 'casual' for five out of those six years. It had really only been since the end of last season, early in winter break, that they had properly started… dating? Could he even call it that? They had never been on a fucking date, they couldn’t. But they had effectively lived together over the winter break, acted like a couple. That was the moment they had started a relationship, Max thought, if he could use that term. But in the beginning, those snatched moments following lingering gazes, hiding behind the motorhomes between practice sessions. In hindsight, it was an absolute miracle they were never caught actively making out, still in their race suits and fireproofs. They thought they were being so sneaky, but he was sure really they weren't. Maybe they had just been lucky. Maybe they had just been lucky this whole time, when teenage fumbles in their drivers rooms had turned into sleek, highly choreographed room meets in hotels, and their apartments back in Monaco.

And today their luck had finally run out.

“Does anyone in the team know?”

The look Max shot her with then made her smile, laugh softly, and nod. The raised eyebrow, the narrowed eyes, the glint that read ‘you’re pushing it now’. “Fine, we won’t talk about that right now.”

“We won’t talk about that ever,” he muttered in response, moving to stand, still clutching the water bottle in his hand. He wasn’t going to reveal to her that GP had known since the start. That was absolutely none of her business. “I’m going back to Charles. You can stay in here, if you like, I’ll let you know when we’ve made a decision.”

“Fine,” Anna replied, slightly exasperated but mostly willing to play along. “Don’t be too long though. The longer this swirls on the internet without you commenting the more - …”

“I know, I know.” He gave her a final nod before turning and heading for the door.

“Max…” He stopped. He stopped because she was using that tone again, the kind one, the one that was Anna, the woman who knew more about his life than he would ever want anyone knowing, other than Charles, not as Anna his PR manager. So he turned back to look at her. “I’m also really happy for you,” she said quietly, sincerely, a genuine smile on her face.

With a sigh, one that he was sure he pulled directly from his soul, he smiled back at her weakly and nodded. “Thanks,” was all he managed, quiet and measured, before walking out of the room.

The Ferrari team were filtering out of Charles’s room as Max arrived back, Mia holding open the door for him, allowing him to step inside and take the weight of it from her. “I’ll let Charles explain what we discussed,” she said to him, all business, not hint of emotion on the subject. Max could see right through it though, the mixture of stress, worry, curiosity, and possibly the same happiness Anna was feeling for him. But he didn’t know Mia well enough to be sure. So he nodded in response, watching them disappear down the corridor and into another room before stepping inside, letting the door close gently behind him.

Charles was sat back up on the bed, against the pile of pillows again, supporting the aches. He looked exhausted now. The light in the room had dimmed even further, now the sun was setting properly, Charles illuminated by the bedside lamp, the soft, warm glow doing absolute wonders for his cheekbones, his dimples. Max felt the last slither of harshness he had been addressing Anna with melt away, though he didn’t rush over to Charles like he wanted to. He thought maybe he’d lost the right, just for a while. Just until this was sorted. Because them being found out wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t either of their faults. But the rest of it, the race, the purposeful mess up, the words uttered into the stale hotel room air, in a way Max never would’ve wanted them to be… that all /was/ his fault. So he held back, stood at the end of the bed, arms hanging limply, uselessly, at his side, rather than being wrapped around Charles. Rather than being where they should be.

“Mia thinks we should make a statement,” Charles began, the tiredness clear in his voice. Weary. Just done.

“Anna thinks the same,” Max replied, eyes fixed on to Charles.

“The only thing Red Bull and Ferrari have ever agreed on.” It was suppose to be a joke, a tease, but Max felt the tension in the statement. The further acknowledgement of just how fragile this was, now they were trying to combine PR forces in opposing, duelling teams. In fact, in some stupid way, it felt a bit like…

Max found himself chuckling at his own thought before he could stop himself, eyes falling to the floor.

“What?” Charles questioned.

Shaking his head, Max didn’t look up. “Nothing,” he replied, but the laugh was still clear on his lips.

“Max, what?” Charles asked again, the irritation growing in his voice.

“No just…” Max looked up then, still laughing. “It’s like Romeo and Juliet.”

Confusion clear on his face, the irritation still sat there as Charles frowned at him. “What? What is?”

“This,” Max replied, gesturing between them. “Us. You know, two opposing forces, never meant to be together. Forbidden…” Now really wasn’t the time for a joke, he knew that, but it had popped into his head and he just couldn’t help himself.

But then, mercifully, Charles’s confused, annoyed expression broke, that smile that had seen Max through podiums and wins and titles and tears and breakdowns and screaming matches pulling across his face, dimples prominent, the light in his eyes glowing, just a little. “Who’s who?” Charles asked, voice teasing, open, enough to allow Max to think he could risk stepping closer, now walking down the side of the bed towards Charles.

“I’m Romeo, obviously,” he replied, tone playful.

“What makes you so sure?” Charles bounced back immediately.

“Because I’m the rugged type of handsome,” Max explained, cocky, self-assured, coming to stand next to where Charles sat on the bed. “The type the beautiful, perfect ones fall for.” His eyes danced across Charles’s face, still smirking, but his eyes were filled with more hope than he’d ever dare admit.

Charles stared back at him, expression bemused, but he was playing along just as much, eyes following Max’s as they tracked along his face. “You think I’m beautiful? Perfect?” Charles breathed, and it was suppose to be teasing, suppose to be part of the game, but to Max it sounded far too much like a desperation question in search of the truth.

And wasn’t that just too close for comfort? Because now they were back here again, back to the moment before their phones rang, before the security and comfort of their little bubble, just the two of them, locked away behind closed doors and drawn curtains, the two of them just for them, had been burst. Back to before they lost all of that.

Now Max had a choice. And this was possibly the hardest part. Harder than the PR shit, the online media storm. Harder than facing those demons head on.

Now, he had to be honest to Charles.

And that terrified him.

Notes:

I so enjoyed writing this kind of Max, the pissed off Max vs the soft gentle Max. Tbh this is exactly how I imagine he is. How short and sharp he is with the media is not his real state, but he gets like that when they pry. Anyways, it was fun.

Chapter 5: Voicemail

Notes:

Okay long note coming, but it's all important. Sorry.

1. TW for implied abuse, I guess? So I read up on Jos Verstappen, all the law suits, the suspended prison sentences, the arrest for attempted murder, all the accusations of abuse. Holy shit this man is a piece of work. And I'm sure we've all seen at least one interview where Max talks about how he was treated as a child. I feel like I need to caveat by saying that THIS IS FICTION. No, there is no evidence that Jos has ever hit Max. But Google him and make your own assumptions...

2. Pierre and Charles interact quite a bit in this chapter, and naturally I imagine they communication in French to one another when alone. I felt that there was absolutely no need to butcher the French language using Google Translate, and also they talk quite a bit so for those that don't speak French (like myself), it would've just been nonsensical to read. So it's all in English, and please just assume that anything that is said between Charles and Pierre when Max isn't in the room is in French.

3. Cute, fluffy thing - Pierre calls Charles 'my chick'. There was an interview quite a few years ago where he said it on camera and a very embarrassed Charles tells the interviewer 'unfortunately he does call me that'. So sweet. So that's in here.

Okay, I think that's it! Sorry for the waffle. Enjoy!

“Yes, I’m leaving a voicemail even though I know you hate them and won’t listen to it. Call me back.” A pause. “I’ve seen. Let me help.”

With a sigh, Pierre hung up the phone again, slumping back onto the sofa, pinching the bridge of his nose. This had been a long time coming, he knew that. He and Charles had been friends for almost as long as he could remember. Charles had had a crush on Max for about that length of time too.

Charles and Max had been dancing around each other for only a slighter shorter time still.

The dancing had become more… combative, Pierre had to admit. And by combative, he meant an absolute collision souls, spinning out into the darkness together, only the other to hold on to. The night they had first (finally) kissed, Pierre had been on the verge of screaming with relief, though he imagined that would’ve totally ruined the mood.

Because, yes, he had witnessed it. Hell, he’d practically instigated it. And then he encouraged it. The more it became, the more he pushed Charles. Because Max made him /happy/. Max gave him a level of comfort, of understanding, of care, that Pierre just knew was right for him.

The fact they still hadn’t got their shit together and were still dancing around each other almost seven years later wasn’t the fucking point. The moments they were together, Charles visibly relaxed, became /him/ again. The him he had started to lose when his father died. Though very soon Pierre was going to have to grab Max by the collar and shake him to ask what the fuck he was thinking still playing around this, not actually telling him he loved him. Charles hadn’t said it either, but once again, that wasn’t the point. Pierre was his best friend, he’d support his side every damn time.

Pierre was the only driver who knew. At least, he thought he was. Charles was very close with Carlos, but he still suspected the Spaniard didn’t know. Carlos hated getting involved in paddock drama; Charles would’ve wanted to keep him away from it. He also knew Max had told GP. After his initial shock, when Charles had told him, he actually figured that it tracked. Max was probably closer with GP then he was with any of the drivers, any other member of his team. And if he needed a confidante, he supposed his race engineer who had seen him and every single facet of himself was a logical choice.

But no one else knew. And they’d managed that. For six years. Six years of an absolute whirlwind. Six years of the sport only getting bigger, more public. Every season the media interest seemed to kick up another notch, the teams seemed to place yet more emphasis on sponsorships, on branding, on their socials. Fucking Netflix, following them around more than their own PR managers did. Even into their homes. Nothing was personal anymore, nothing was safe.

Especially when you were Red Bull’s four-time World Champion, and Ferrari’s golden boy.

So how they had managed this, going this long hiding, Pierre just didn’t know. But now, it seemed, the dam had been broken. One single piece of wobbly, badly filmed footage. Max letting himself into Charles’s hotel room. One big mouth on the staff, that clearly valued their five seconds of fame over anything else (because obviously now they were going to lose their job), and that was it. Verstappen and Leclerc. Secret rendezvous.

The Formula 1 story of the century.

The way everyone was reacting would’ve been amusing, it really would’ve, if that wasn’t Pierre’s best friend right there, being overanalysed, his every move scrutinised, every single clip of every single interaction he had ever had with Max being slowed down, commented on. Not negatively, which was a pleasant surprise. But still. And this should be great, really, because no more sneaking around. No more false goodbyes, good lucks, no more having to hold back when they really didn’t want to – just how Pierre imagined Max had to hold back today, after Charles’s crash.

But life just wasn’t the kind. Never had been. Because if it was out there, it wasn’t just the media, the fans, the team.

It was something Pierre knew was far worse.

And that was why he wanted to help.

But after the fourth phone call went unanswered, he wasn’t sure what to do next. He found his thumb hovering over his contact list, over Max’s name, wondering if this was crossing a line. But then, his only job in this was to look after Charles. So, fuck it, lines were made for crossing.

Usurpingly, that call also went unanswered, but he knew his point had been made. It wouldn’t take long until Charles would be calling back, knowing if Pierre was calling Max, he really was insisting on speaking to him.

Both Max and Charles ignored their phones, of course. Charles’s eyes had darted to where it sat in front of him, seeing Pierre’s name, before he was locking his eyes with Max again. When Max’s phone starting vibrating in his hand, he held it up briefly to see the name, a slight smirk tugging on his lips as he saw it was also Pierre. “He’s keen,” he teased softly into the silence between them. A possibly poor joke.

“He’s protective,” Charles shot back in retaliation to the poor joke. Other than the brief glance to his phone, his eyes hadn’t left Max, not since he’d asked that question. That self-indulgent, stupid question, that held more meaning than he could ever outright say.

‘You think I’m beautiful? Perfect?’

If only that was what he was actually asking. He wished he had the bravery to actually ask.

‘Do you really love me?’

But he was a fucking coward.

The silence held again, their gazes still locked, neither of them hardly daring to even breathe. Max stood in front of Charles, within touching distance. But not touching. Purposefully /not/ touching. Charles wanted to melt into his arms, insist he curled up there to fall asleep, until the ache in his chest dulled and the spinning of his head finally stilled. How were they so useless at this? Was it just them? Or was it the years of being forced to articulate their feelings to a camera and never an actual human being that made them so stunted with each other?

Or was it simply that they’d been flying too close to each other for so long that words just didn’t feel like enough anymore? Even if they didn’t feel like enough, though, Charles still wanted to hear them. Needed to hear them. And he knew Max would feel the same.

“What are we going to do?” Max’s voice was hardly above a whisper. It didn’t need to be in the silent room. Only the low hum of the cool air being pumped in to the room could be heard otherwise, and the rush of Charles’s heartbeat in his own ears.

“I think we should make a statement,” Charles replied, voice a little louder and steadier than Max’s was. By some miracle. That was /not/ how he felt. He wasn’t sure his pulse had slowed down since he hit the wall, his head was pounding to the point in which he was sure that potential concussion was a definite, and every single inhale was slightly laboured and quite painful. But he didn’t know whether to be angry with Max or grab him by the shirt and pull him onto the bed with him. Both seemed like equally reasonable options in that moment, especially with the dumbfounded expression Max was setting on him.

“What?!”

“They’re going to be watching our every move now, Max, more than they were before.” If that was even possible. “We may as well at least attempt to control some of the story.”

Mouth agape, eyes wide, Max seemed to stutter through a couple of attempts to speak before he managed to settle on something Charles hoped he regretted saying, at least a little. “God, you must’ve been a dream to PR train.”

“Oh fuck off, Max,” Charles muttered and looked away again, shifting back against the pillows a little in an attempt to take some pressure off the most painful side of his chest.

“What exactly do you want to say, Charles?! ‘Yes, you were right all along, we’ve been fucking for six years. Well done, everyone that overanalysed every single interaction we’ve ever had.’ Do you realise how insane that is?!”

“Do you realise how insane all of this is?!” Charles shot back, a sarcastic laugh following. “I mean, it isn’t just this, Max. The media, the fans, it getting out to the world. It’s all of it. It’s this whole thing!” Max just blinked back at Charles like he’d spoken a completely new language. “Six years and we’ve never spoken about it, we just… keep doing it. And I can’t even say we just keep sleeping together, because it became more than that years ago when we started spending most of the winter breaks at each other’s apartments. But we just… keep going.” Meeting Max’s gaze again, Charles set an expectant look on him. “Have you never thought about it?”

Silence held for a moment before Max took half a step forward, closer to Charles. “Of course I have… I do,” he replied quietly. “Charles, I just said…”

“I know what you just said,” he replied quickly, somewhat harshly. “You didn’t actually say it though, did you?”

“You’ve never said it either.”

Fine, he had a point. That was true. And that was possibly the only way Max was going to manage to disarm Charles. Enough to feel he could sit slowly on the edge of the bed at Charles’s hip, reach for his hand and gently lift it from his lap, into his own, fingers tangling slowly. “If we made a statement, it would need to be simple, basic, asking everyone to respect our privacy.”

Nodding in agreement, Charles let his eyes settle on their entwined fingers. “Of course.” And of course Max was side-stepping the point, but Charles was somewhat grateful for it right now. This wasn’t the way he wanted it to be. If they had waited this long to finally have that conversation, this wasn’t the right time. And they could wait a little longer.

Not much though. Charles wouldn’t let it go on much longer.

“Should we write it together? Post the same thing?” Max asked quietly. Charles could tell from his expression he was still unable to believe he was even agreeing to the concept. But unfortunately, Charles knew he could see the logic, understand the reasoning. He wished it wasn’t the best way, but it probably was. He hated that. Charles was nodding in agreement, but his grimace was telling Max he was just as reluctant. It was logical, they could hold some of the power.

But certainly not all of it.

And there was something else Charles had been dancing around, something he hadn’t dared say yet. Something Max hadn’t dared to say either. But before they went public, dealing with the inside was more important. If worse.

“What about your dad?”

Max’s gaze turned a little harsh as he looked back at Charles. Not for him, Charles just happened to be in the way as his pale eyes turned to ice. “I’ll handle him.”

“I can be there if…”

“That’ll be worse.” Charles suspected as much. And was fucking relieved. He’d offer, of course he’d offer, but in truth he didn’t want to be anywhere near Jos Verstappen. Not ever, if he was honest. But certainly not today.

“Make sure GP is there,” Charles prompted quietly. With a grimaced smile, Max nodded. And that filled Charles with absolute dread – he didn’t argue, he didn’t tell Charles that was extreme, unnecessary, an overreaction. He just agreed.

Jos hadn’t been at the track for the race, Charles had known that. He was in the country, however, only an hour away at another track. He would be at the hotel very soon. Max seeking him out rather than him seeking Max out was probably the safest bet. “You can start writing the statement? I’ll go and find GP now, and then find Dad.” He didn’t stand though, kept hold of Charles’s hand, meeting his gaze. So Charles stared back, gripping his hand a little tighter than he possibly should’ve, feeling the ache in his joints from fighting the steering wheel.

“What?” Charles’s voice came out in a cracked whisper, eyes darting back and forth between Max’s, taking in the ripples of emotion that crossed each iris, every single complicated thought Max was having, not knowing what to settle on. Charles didn’t either. What he did know was the ache in his chest wasn’t just the bruising.

“I’ll get us home in a few hours. You’re coming to my apartment where I can look after you.” There was a slight quirk of Charles’s eyebrow, a gentle smirk pulling on his lips, as he listened to Max. “And we can talk. I promise, we will talk…” Max’s voice was the steadiest it had been in hours now, enough for Charles to trust he meant it. Knowing Charles was unable to lean forward, Max leant in instead, one hand still holding tight to his fingers, the other rising to settle carefully on Charles’s cheek. Thumb caressing his cheekbone, fingertips trailing across the stubble on his jaw, Charles watched Max allow himself one of those raw moments of calm, of quiet, of peace, eyes taking in every inch of Charles’s face, before leaning in to brush their lips softly, a breath of a kiss, just like their first. And, just like their first, Charles threaded his fingers into the hair at the back of Max’s head and pulled him closer, tipped his head, so their lips could connect properly. Unlike their first, Max didn’t let it linger, pulling back long before Charles was ready. “I’ll see you in a minute, schatje.”

Before Charles’s foggy brain could catch up, Max was gone from the room.

Letting out a shaky breath, Charles let his head fall back against the pillows with a groan. Maybe he should’ve pushed Max, forced him to keep talking then. He was the one that started it, after all. But Jos… well, there was a reason he and Charles didn’t talk about him often. He was Max’s mentor, coach, manager. His /father/. Charles had to keep any opinions to himself, even on the occasions Max had talked more openly about his dad’s nature. He had listened, sometimes in absolute horror. And he’d tell Max how awful it was, the things his father had said, done. He’d always be honest then. What he hated was watching Max then walk back into the paddock the next day, greet his dad like there was no bad blood at all, no bad history, and watch his dad take limelight for Max’s victories like they were his own. Like Max hadn’t been laid in bed with Charles the previous night, tears in his eyes, as he confessed all the things his dad had done to him over the years. Like that hadn’t scarred him. Like that wasn’t the bitterest pill to swallow now.

Charles hated that man, if he was honest with himself. He’d never be honest with Max about it though. Not until the day Max decided he was done with having a relationship with Jos.

Something told Charles that day wasn’t coming.

Maybe Jos would break with Max himself, now this was out. He would’ve had no idea, or at least Charles didn’t think he did. Maybe this would be the tipping point for him; a relationship with a rival. Or maybe it wouldn’t be that simple.

Finally, Charles picked up his phone and rang Pierre back, instantly getting a string of insults about not answering his calls. It had made Charles smile, just a little, and once Pierre had finished ranting, Charles asked him to come to the hotel room and start writing the statement. He was there in minutes, dressed as plainly as possible, no team kit, in jeans and a t-shirt, grey baseball cap pulled low over his eyes.

“Press are fucking everywhere,” he muttered as Charles pulled open the door to him, slipping inside quickly and pushing the door shut behind him. “I don’t know how you’re going to get out of the hotel.”

“Mia said they’re working on security. We’ll go straight to Max’s plane.” He’d leant back against the wall when Pierre walked in, an arm slung loosely around his middle. “Are they in the hotel?”

“I think a couple are. But the hotel are… well, they’re going above and beyond after this fuck up, put it that way.” Pierre ran his gaze over Charles with a frown, stepping away from the door and pulling Charles into a gentle hug. “You okay?”

“No,” Charles muttered, arms wrapped weakly around Pierre. With a hand on his arm, Charles let Pierre lead him back to the bed, back to the stack of pillows Max had carefully laid out for him, offering a hand as Charles climbed back onto the mattress and sat back.

“Comfy, my chick? Need anything?”

“Don’t call me that, how many times,” Charles muttered affectionately, his eyes down on the sheets but his smile weak across his lips.

“You love that I call you that. You love that everyone knows,” he teased, going to the fridge and picking out two bottles of water before climbing back onto the bed, handing Charles one of the bottles, sat cross legged in front of him. “Come on then, start at the beginning. Start with the crash.”

Eyes fixed intently on Charles, Pierre willingly listened as he told him everything. The crash, Max coming to find him in medical, coming to the hotel, taking care of him (though Pierre less than politely asked him to omit the details of the shower), the argument, Max’s words. ‘How can I ignore the car wreckage of the man I love?’.

Pierre’s jaw had dropped at that. Charles had laughed, until it turned into a wince.

“But he didn’t actually say…?”

“No, we got interrupted by this shit show,” Charles replied, gesturing vaguely in the air. “We did try again, but… he needs to speak to his dad. And we need to write this statement. And we need to be home, not in some fucking hotel room surrounded by press. I don’t want it to be like this, the first time we say it.”

“Soppy romantic,” Pierre teased softly, but in that tone that was loving and familiar, the tone only a best friend could use. And it was purposeful, skirting around the fact Max was currently with his father, and that would be scaring the shit out of Charles. So with a chuckle and then a shrug, Charles just nodded in agreement. “Let’s get this statement done then, then you can go home with lover boy and maybe he will finally have this act together.”

The gentle jibing just made Charles smile wider, picking up his phone and opening a note to start typing. They went back and forth for a while, Pierre standing and pacing across the room enough for the both of them, where Charles couldn’t, words going down on the screen before being deleted again, then rewritten. They must’ve repeated themselves twenty times before they settled on something reasonable, something Charles was happy to use as a starter to talk to Max about.

As if on cue, Max was walking back into the room. Over an hour and a half had passed. Pierre was laid back on the bed, head at Charles’s feet, his own up on the headboard, Charles’s glasses perched on top of his head as he read out the draft of the statement for what felt like the fiftieth time. He stopped when Max walked in though, pulling his glasses down back onto his nose, tired but concerned gaze falling onto him. His eyes ran over Max quickly, and though he’d never say it aloud to anyone, he was looking for bruises. He hated that more than anything else that had happened between them, to them, in the years they’d known each other. He’d found himself doing it a couple of times now, after Max had gone to have a conversation with his father Charles knew Jos wouldn’t like. That was why he had told him to have GP there.

That was why Max had agreed.

But there was no evidence, no sign of anything, and Charles felt himself sag against the pillows in relief. Pierre sat up slowly as Charles had trailed off, turning to look at Max, offering him a smile. Turning back to Charles, he offered him a different kind of smile, one he tried to make reassuring and settling. “My flight home leaves in a couple of hours, if you need anything before I go, just call me. I can help get you out of the hotel if you want.” He patted Charles's arm as he stood, flashing him one more grin before walked up to Max. He didn’t say anything, just placed a hand on his shoulder, an offer of comfort as much as it was a warning to not mess this up, before he was leaving them alone in the room.

“How was it?” Charles asked immediately, shifting forward from the pillows, frown on his face.

Max’s face crossed various levels of emotions and answers, but he didn’t actually speak. Instead, he walked over to the suitcases, starting to shove the clothes inside and zipping it up. “We need to get out of the hotel. Our teams were actually talking to each other,” he muttered, the mocking shock obvious in his voice. “They’ve got a set of security to get us out of the back doors into a car. The jet is on standby. There’s security the other end to get us in the car and to my apartment. They’ll stay outside as long as we need them.” He hadn’t looked up as he spoke, standing and starting to move around the room to shove any things into the suitcase.

“Max, are you okay?” Charles asked, shifting towards the edge of the bed.

“We can’t wait much longer, it just gives them more time to get more cameras here. We need to get home.” Disappearing into the bathroom, Max grabbed all of their toiletries and threw them into one suitcase, zipping it up.

“Max, chéri, stop and look at me.” Freezing where he crouched, he glanced back at Charles where he had stood from the bed, before standing himself and slowly waking over to him. Charles reached out a hand, placing it gently on his jaw. “What happened?”

Shaking his head, Max pressed into the warm hand, resting his gently over Charles’s bruised side. “Let’s not talk about it now. We need to just get out.” He was almost whispering, his eyes sad and exhausted, and Charles could only imagine what awful things his father had flung at him this time.

“Okay… okay,” Charles breathed in response, and as soon as he agreed, Max was stepping away, continuing his rush around the room to pack everything up. “What about the things in your room?”

“Hardly anything, it’s all here. Anna is sorting it.” There was a knock at the door then, and Max was handing Charles one of his hoodies, a plain back Puma branded one, no team logo or colours. “Put that on.” He moved to answer the door then, opening it a crack and checking, before letting Anna into the room.

“Ready to move? We’ve got five of the best guys from security to walk you out. They’ll follow your car the airport, but you’ll be able to drive right up to the plane. There’s another team the other end, they’ll get you back to your apartment.” She glanced over at Charles, offering him a brief smile, before looking back at Max. “Everything is cancelled for the next two days. I’ll stay in touch with you, Mia with Charles, but no one else will disturb you.”

“Thanks Anna… really,” Max replied genuinely, turning to Charles who was running his fingers through his hair after he mussed it with the jumper, pushing his glasses back on, looking at Max with a slightly terrified expression. They struggled with this at the best of times, the both of them. Struggled with the noise, the flashing lights, the sheer volume of people. But Charles felt right now like he didn’t even have a drop of core strength, his head swimming, and they were going to have to dive through crowds of journalists just to get to the car.

But Max was sliding a secure arm around his waist, leading him towards the door, eyes following two members of the team that passed them to come and get the suitcases, the bags. The way Max’s hands were on him now was shameless, not even remotely hesitant, and Charles wasn’t sure he could keep up. Four hours ago the world didn’t have a clue what was happening between them. Now, suddenly, Max was able to be so brazen about his protectiveness towards Charles, the way he didn’t want the rest of the world touching him, hurting him, it made him slightly weak at the knees.

Or maybe that was just the 30G crash.

They were surrounded by members of the team from the moment they stepped out of the room, and led to the elevator. There were at least four members of security around them already. “Two of us will go first, two either side of you, the rest of the team will be behind. Just keep your heads down and keep walking.” Whoever was talking had a calm yet authoritative voice, and Charles found it reassuring. As reassuring as it could be in that moment.

The noise hit Charles’s ears like a train as the doors opened. Why they thought going out the back doors would be any better – obviously they had all anticipated that. The car was surrounded. There was a sea of people between them and it, cameras flashing, shouting, their names being yelled into the cool evening air. Max’s hands were suddenly falling from Charles, enough to make him let out a noise of panic, and try to grab at him. But then Max was immediately the other side of him, his injured side, winding an arm around his middle again, tucking Charles against him, protecting the worst of the bruises with his own body. Charles gripped the back of his jumper and held on for dear life as they moved as a unit through the crowd, the two security guys parting them, shoving some of them out of the way, making space for Max and Charles to move to the car. The two men either side of them were acting as shields, so no cameras were shoved too hard in their faces. But they were still shoved, and whilst Charles was keeping his head down, the flashes of the cameras were reflecting off his glasses, making him flinch, and he kept tuning in on certain shouts, certain phrases, fist growing tighter in Max’s jumper.

Never had more boundaries been crossed by the media than right now.

It felt like the longest walk in the world, but finally they reached the car door. Max was carefully helping Charles into the car, seemingly not minding that he was exposed to the photography longer than him, making sure he could move as painlessly as possible, before following him in, the door slamming behind them.

The ride to the airport was short, and silent. Instead, they gripped each other’s hand on the middle seat, and didn’t dare meet each other’s eyes. Charles knew he’d just break if he did, and he suspected Max felt the same. So their fingers stayed entwined, Charles’s rings pressing into Max’s skin, the metal warming to Max’s body heat.

Fortunately, the car could pull right up to the plane, and there seemed to be no photographers in sight. So the ascent onto the plane was far less frantic, though still surrounded by security. And Max’s hand never left him, his hand on the small of his back, guiding him up the stairs. He really didn’t care who saw them, hadn’t the whole time. Like all of that PR training, all of the hatred of the press, and them seeing into his personal life, was overridden by his need to make sure Charles wasn’t hurt any further by this situation.

Their bags were bought onto the plane, a quick briefing given to them about the team that was going to meet them at the airport, the cars that were going to take them into Monaco, and the security that was going to be posted at Max’s apartment, just until it all calmed down. Then they were gone as fast as they arrived, leaving Max and Charles alone in the plane whilst the pilots got ready.

Finally, for the first time since the hotel room, they turned to look at each other, both exhausted, both on the verge of cracking. They stepped forward together, Max winding his arms around Charles’s shoulders, Charles dropping his forehead to Max’s collarbone, letting him press kiss after kiss into his hair. “We’re okay,” he was whispering softly, for the benefit of them both. “We’re okay. We’ll be home soon.”

With a polite clearing of the throat, one of the pilots was asking if they could take their seats so they could take off. Charles’s eyes darted over, concerned, pulling away from Max quickly to see the pilot retreat to the flight deck. “It’s okay, they’re on very strict NDAs,” Max told him softly, hand on his arm. “Not that it matters now,” he sighed, running the other hand over his face, before leading Charles to two seats towards the back of the plane; bigger seats without a table in front of them, so they could sit with Max’s arm wound around Charles’s shoulders, holding him as close as he could manage so he was still comfortable, and so he could nose into Max’s neck and settle there, eyelids heavy, body tense, exhaustion setting in.

“This is a fucking mess,” Charles mumbled against his skin, voice distant.

Pressing another kiss to his head, Max nodded against his hair. “I know,” he replied gently. “But… we’re going to be okay. Once we get home, shut ourselves away for a bit, we can just… take some time. Think.”

All Charles could do was nod against him in response, pressing into him and holding onto his jumper with an almost death grip. It was only ten minutes after they took off that he was falling asleep against him. Max stayed awake though, the whole flight, arms protectively around Charles, soothing his every move with a kiss to his hair and gentle murmurings of Dutch in his ear. Conscious choices, conscious breaths, every move a polar opposite to the interactions he’d had not an hour before with his father.

Because it was a fucking mess. And he wasn’t sure how to solve it this time.

Chapter 6: Do Not Disturb

It was after only about five minutes that Max suddenly remembered Charles shouldn’t be sleeping, not yet. He remembered, somewhat stupidly and with a jolt, as he slipped his fingers under Charles’s hoodie, t-shirt, brushing the skin on his side, hotter than it should’ve been. Hot from the bruises. With a soft swear under his breath, he pushed a hand into Charles’s hair gently, caressing.

“Schat… lieveling, Charles, mijn liefste, je moet wakker worden…”

With a soft groan, Charles lifted his head against the words, frowning deeply. Max reached out, smoothing a thumb between his brows, ridding his expression of the lines of confusion and pain. “I’m sorry, schat, but you need stay awake.” Sighing, Charles sat up a little more and tucked back against Max’s side, nodding now the confusion had subsided. “Once we get home, you’ve had a bath, we’ve eaten, enough time will have passed,” he promised quietly, pressing a kiss to his hair again and settling in with his phone in his hand, angling the screen so Charles could see too, just scrolling mindlessly through random content to distract them both.

The airport wasn’t so bad. In fact, Max was sure his mind was just playing tricks on him when he saw a group of people that he thought were staring and trying to take photos. They weren’t. they were innocent bystanders. So they could climb into the car without further incident, fingers tangled on the middle seat again. Charles needed to have slept on the plane, realisitically. He desperately needed the rest. The exhaustion sat heavy on his face, a combination of the come down from the adrenaline and the pain from his injuries. Max was just itching to get inside the apartment, run Charles a hot bath, let him soak whilst he worked out if it was safe enough to go to the shops to get food.

But what met them at the apartment was /not/ Max’s paranoia, but an absolute slam of reality. Enough to make Charles’s hand clamp harder around Max’s.

The front of the building was swarmed. Even though the building security were trying their best, and Max had to give credit to them, because they were usually very good at keeping the press away, they were no match this time for the sheer volume of people. As the car pulled up, the member of security in the front turned to them. “Same as before. Just keep walking, head down. We’ll call the police to move them on, and there will be at least two of us outside at all times.” Max nodded as he listened. “Someone else will be outside your front door. Hopefully our presence will scare them off.” The other members of the security team had surrounded the car from where they were following, and they were given the nod to move.

“Stay there, don’t get out until I open your door,” Max said softly into Charles’s ear, pressing a kiss to his temple before climbing out of the car. Immediately the camera flashes started, the yelling. Max just pulled his cap further down over his eyes and moved fast around the car, opening the door for Charles and helping him out of the car. As before, he tucked him protectively against his side, bruises shielded by his body, moving along with the security through the waves of press.

Their heads were down, trying to tune out the shouts, but Max could hear every word. Every. Fucking. Word.

“How is this going to affect your races?!”

“How long have you been hiding this from your teams?! Your family?!”

Some stung more than others though.

“Max, what does your father think?!”

Max was glad he was gripping onto Charles, that his most important task in that moment was getting Charles into the building, because otherwise he may have turned and swung at one of them. All of them. But instead, they were practically falling into the building, two of the security staying on the doors, another two accompanying them in the lift to Max’s apartment. He wasn’t sure he even registered pulling out his keys, unlocking the door, leaving the two security outside as he shoved it shut, arm still around Charles.

Like his own feet were carrying him, like they hadn’t got the message it was safe to stop, Charles kept walking into the apartment, into the living room, finally halting stood in the middle of the room as the cats came running at the sound of them arriving home. “Hello mijn lieverds,” Max cooed softly, crouching to greet them, stroking each one of them in turn before standing again as they wound around his legs. “We’ll get Leo over here soon,” Max promised softly, placing a hand on the small of Charles’s back. “I’m going to run you bath.”

“Max…” Charles near-breathed, turning his head to look at him. “Just… stop for a second. You’re being…” He trailed off, watching the frown flicker over Max’s face. “You’re fussing. Let’s do this statement first, before we do anything else.”

Taking a step back, hands falling from Charles, Max was still frowning. “Am I not allowed to fuss? You…”

“I crashed, Max. Just like all of us have before. We’ve all crashed like that, we’ve all crashed worse. Your crash at Silverstone was much worse,” he muttered, running his fingers through his hair, ruffling it out from where he’d had his hood up walking into the apartment. “We need to deal with what’s going on out there first.” He gestured to the window, to the street below, far enough away that they thankfully couldn’t hear the hum of the shouting journalists.

“You need to rest. I want…” Max faltered, but Charles was looking at him so expectantly, he had to continue. “I want to look after you.”

A slight wash of exasperation ran over Charles’s face, and he quirked a challenging eyebrow. “A year ago, you would’ve just been whining because we couldn’t have sex for a week. What’s this now?”

Anger flooded Max’s face, and he took a step back from Charles in almost-disgust. “Don’t you dare say it like it was only ever just sex,” he muttered darkly. “Don’t you dare. It might have been, right at the start. But it hasn’t been for years, and you know it. You feel the same!”

The look Charles gave back was instantly guilty, as he instantly conceded, his step towards Max following his step backwards. “I’m sorry, that was…”

“Yeah, it was,” Max replied lowly, eyes cast to the floor. The silence spread between them for a moment, the sunrise slowly beginning to creep through the windows, reflecting off the water of the bay and bouncing onto the walls behind the sofa, across the photos hung proudly there. Five of them. Four of them for each World Championship Max had won, with his team, covered in champagne, sincere smiles on the face of every single person pictured.

The fifth was of he and Charles, after Charles’s Monaco win.

“We can’t start fighting between us now, that’s what they want.” Max slowly looked back up to Charles as he spoke, quiet, trying not to sound too defeated.

Charles raised an eyebrow, slowly shaking his head. “No, chéri, they want the opposite. They want to see us… together,” he countered.

“Some of them want to see us fight.”

And the way Max met his gaze, reverent, /sad/, Charles realised he wasn’t talking about the media. Not this time.

Reaching for Max’s hand, Charles ran a thumb back and forth over his knuckles. “Statement first. Get it done. Then we can ignore our phones and… focus.” Focus? Focus on what exactly? On them? On decoding what the hell they were, and what they were going to do now?

The pattern they had fallen in to, soft and familiar, was one akin to a long-term relationship, without ever saying they were. It was true, it was simply physical intimacy in the beginning. Now, they automatically ended up together in one hotel room or the other at least one night of a race weekend. Outside of brand engagements, and maybe a few days of actually having some alone time in their own apartments, they spent the three-week summer break together. Winter break was a little different; Max would go home to his family, spend some weeks with them. They’d never spent a Christmas together, and rarely a New Year. But January, right up until pre-season testing in February? The five weeks they had together then was… perfection.

But unsaid. Always unsaid.

Today, it needed to be said.

Whilst Charles fussed the cats, sat on the sofa with them sat on him in various places on his body, Max was clutching his phone, reading what he and Pierre had written a few hours before in the hotel room. “Well, it’s…”

“What?” Charles prompted absentmindedly, running his hand down Sassy’s back as Jimmy curled up in his lap and Donatella attempted to settle there too.

“It’s short.”

Charles scoffed, looking over at him with a raised eyebrow. “What did you want? War and Peace?”

“No… I dunno… I…” Running a hand through his hair, he slowly sat down next to Charles, letting Sassy climb into his lap, all three of them desperate for attention after they’d been away. Always were. “I suppose it doesn’t need to explain anything.”

“Doesn’t need to. Absolutely shouldn’t,” Charles retorted. “I’m surprised you were thinking it should be more?”

With a shrug, Max sat back slowly, crossing his ankle over his knee, placing the phone down between them like it was a ticking bomb. “I don’t think it should be, I was just wondering if… the more we give them, the longer they leave us alone.”

For a moment, Charles considered the proposition, but it wasn’t long before his face was falling into a grimace. “I don’t think it would work like that,” he replied quietly. “I think just asking everyone to leave us alone is the best way.”

Nodding again, Max’s eyes followed his own hand as he caressed down Sassy’s back, clearly pondering the words himself again. The silence hung, the faint vibration of Charles’s phone between them as he got a message from Pierre, asking if they were okay, if they were home. Charles’s eyes darted down to the phone, then back to Max. “So…?”

Looking back over at Charles, a twitch of a smile ran over Max’s face. “Well, if we’re going from the minimalist approach…” He reached between them and picked up the phone again, typing something fast before handing the phone back to Charles. He raised an eyebrow, curious, taking the phone from him. Max watched his eyes run over the screen, over the words written, and then watched as a slow smile drew across Charles’s lips. He looked back up, gazes meeting, holding, a silent and unspoken acknowledgement between them. Mutual respect, on the surface. Absolute and complete trust just underneath that.

So Charles took a screen shot of the words, cropped out the top of the image so it was simply white text on a black screen, and sent it to Max. Silently they both opened Instagram, selected the photo, and then looked over at each other again.

“Ready?” Charles asked, voice shaking a little.

“No,” Max replied, flashing Charles a weak grin, breaking some of the tension that was held in the room. With a small laugh, Charles just nodded in return, and hit upload. Max followed seconds later, immediately going over to his messages to tell Anna.

‘It’s done, we’ve both posted the same message. This is all we want our teams saying also. Our phones are going off now, until at least tomorrow.’

And with that, he put on ‘do not disturb’ and placed his phone down on the coffee table, sinking back into the sofa. After messaging Pierre they were home, safe, and he was turning off his phone, Charles did the same, handing Max his phone to put down beside it, head falling back with a groan. “Fuck…”

“Agreed,” Max chuckled weakly, looking over at him again. “What now?”

Reaching out for his hand, Max closed the distance so Charles didn’t have to stretch, entwining their fingers slowly, squeezing. “Now you can run me that bath,” Charles replied, cheeky on the surface, but underneath… quiet, near-apologetic, hopeful.

It must’ve worked, the tone he used, because twenty minutes later Max was carefully lowering Charles into the hot water, Charles gripping his arm tightly to try and put the least amount of strain on his chest, groaning softly in satisfaction as the hot water surrounded his bruises. Max knelt beside the bath, fingers running through the hot water, splashing it carefully over Charles’s stomach. “Good?”

“Perfect,” Charles sighed, reaching out a damp hand and cupping Max’s jaw. “Thank you.”

“Wet,” Max grimaced, pulling away with a chuckle and grabbing a towel, wiping his face quickly and then capturing Charles’s hand too before he could pull that back, wiping it dry.

“My god, you really are your cats,” Charles teased, letting Max dry his hand with an affectionate eye roll. There was a gentle chuckle leaving Max, settling back from where he was kneeling, playing gently with Charles’s fingers before tucking them into his palm and kissing the back of his hand.

“You’ll be okay for a minute whilst I sort out some food?” he asked.

“I’ll be fine,” Charles replied with a weak smile, a little disappointed when Max pressed one more kiss to his hand and stood. He wanted him to stay. He could’ve asked, he knew that. But now there was something genuinely fragile about this. Now it was out in the world.

It felt like the world understood it better than they did.

“Max…?”

He looked back from the doorway, eyebrow raised. “Yeah schat?”

“We… this… how much have you thought about this? Us? Because… I’m not sure I’ve thought about it enough…”

A quirk of a smile ran over Max’s lips and he turned back to Charles, still stood in the doorway, leaning slowly against the doorframe. “You saying you don’t think about me?” he teased softly, making Charles roll his eyes, maybe even blush a little, sinking down a little further into the water.

“Don’t be difficult,” he mumbled softly, averting his gaze for a second before plucking up the courage to look back at him again, maintain eye contact. “You know what I mean. Diving in to this, not really considering what it is, just doing it…”

Max conceded then, slowly walking back into the room and kneeling back down next to the bath where he was before. “It’s in our nature, right? Split second risk analysis and then we just… send it.”

With a smirk, Charles found himself fondly rolling his eyes again as Max referenced his old teammate. He had to admit though, he had a point. Neither of them were one to ponder on a decision for long. The gut instinct of a driver. If you think there’s a gap, you can’t hesitate. The gap will close.

And it felt like them both of them had treated whatever this was before them like a rapidly closing gap.

“And that’s fine in the car, for sure, but I don’t think we should apply the same logic to this,” Charles offered in return, slightly teasing, mostly serious. “Max, you… you said ‘the car wreckage of the man I love’…”

Watching the way his ice eyes turned, softened, melted somewhat as he looked back at him, Charles couldn’t help himself, reaching for his hand again, his own skin warm from the hot water. “I wasn’t just saying it,” Max replied quietly. “It came out wrong. Wrong time, wrong place, wrong everything. But I wasn’t just saying it for dramatic effect.”

“First time ever,” Charles quipped back quickly, faster than he expected his foggy brain to handle, laughing softly when Max dived a hand into the hot water and splashed it at his face, muttering something in Dutch that Charles definitely couldn’t understand and was making no attempt to. He grabbed at the hand again, sitting up a little more, wincing at the strain. Immediately, Max stopped teasing, gentle hand on his back, soothing softly, eyes fixed onto his face to watch for any further discomfort. When Charles settled again, he drew back, just a little, hand still sitting on his lower spine.

“I think… because we were hiding, because we had to hide, I just didn’t see it for what it is. Like um… what’s that phrase? Something about wood and trees?” Max grappled with his words for a second, before he took in Charles’s blank expression and laughed softly. It was of course a running joke Charles regularly lost his English, it was no good asking him. “Not able to see the bigger picture, is what I mean. So focussed on sneaking around, making it to the next time we could be alone together without someone watching, that we couldn’t see what was building up around us. What all that time spent together was creating.”

Nodding along, it was starting to click for Charles. Max had explained it perfectly in fact. It wasn’t so much that they were ignoring the point, but more they were simply in survival mode, moving from one interaction to the next and not daring to plan further ahead. How could they, when their lives were planned out so meticulously by a team of people with hardly any space to breathe, but all completely out of their control? How could they even consider trying to throw this into the mix? They couldn’t even touch in public without it being commented on. Of course they weren’t going to consider what it was for them in those brief, private moments of calm.

Because they simply had to enjoy any snatched moment they could get.

And suddenly it all made sense, and Charles was starting to feel a lot calmer about it. Because it wasn’t that they didn’t want to discuss it, that they weren’t ready, that one was more committed than the other. It was none of these things.

It was because they /couldn’t/.

The realisation washed over Charles as he listened, agreed, the way he slowly nodded as the understanding slipped in, the way he traced Max’s expression with his eyes, and then the contours of his palm with his fingertips. He was pondering. And Max, knowing him as well as he did, knew he needed time to ponder. “I’m going to go and get us something to eat.” Somehow. There was of course nothing in the apartment, he couldn’t exactly leave the apartment now, and he was sure he would have to very heavily tip whatever poor delivery driver had the misfortune of having to come to this building if he ordered something. But he would sort it. “Don’t try and get out alone. Shout for me.”

“I will,” Charles replied sincerely, eyelids fluttering closed for a moment as Max pressed a kiss to his temple before he stood. They held gaze, just for a moment longer, a silent agreement they could pick up the conversation again soon, before Max left the room.

Sinking back down into the water once more, Charles rested his head back against the bath and let out a slow, solid breath. Maybe they could sort this out. Maybe it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility.

Passing through the living room, Max automatically leant down to tap his phone and check for messages, being met with a screen empty of new notifications. He smiled a little as he remembered why that was, a smile that may have been a slight grimace as he thought about what was going on right now in the depths of the internet.

And thank god they had put their phones on ‘do not disturb’. Within minutes of posting, tens of thousands of comments, shares, reposts. Content creators posting their own videos. Fans making edits of their interactions, touches, interviews about one another. And for them both, countless calls from friends and family, unable to connect, met with answerphone right away.

All for just two sentences:

‘Thank you for your love and support. All we ask is you respect our privacy. – Max and Charles’

Chapter 7: Us

Eventually, after standing a little hopeless in the kitchen for five minutes, Max decided, fuck it, he was going to use and abuse the fact he had an entire team of people around him to help. So he pulled open the front door slowly, leaning against the doorframe as the two guys turned to look at him, expressions serious but listening.

He went down the casual chat route at first, asking them their names, who actually employed them (turned out it was Red Bull, not Ferrari, and he purposefully held his tongue on that one), and how long they were on shift before swapping. After a few minutes of getting a little familiar with them, he proposed the question of one of them going to get them some food. It wasn’t just tonight, they were going to be held up in the apartment for a few days. They couldn’t both rely on takeaways. They may have a two-week break, but they couldn’t ditch the diet entirely.

Happily, they were more than willing, so Max quickly typed out a rushed and rubbish shopping list on one of their phones, telling him to just put it on whatever work card he had and charge it back to Red Bull.

Because again, fuck it. They could argue about it later.

Max had arrived back to the apartment earlier than expected, so the cleaners hadn’t been in. The place was still immaculate, but there were no sheets on the bed, and a few things were out of place, unhomely. So whilst he waited, Max quickly threw bedding onto the bed, finding the extra pillows and stacking them on Charles side in case he needed them to get comfy.

On Charles’s side. Charles had a side of the bed. In Max’s apartment. He had a side in every single bed they slept in together, across the world. Max hadn’t noticed when that had happened, he just knew it had.

Fingers trailing away from the bedding, Max headed back into the bathroom to check on Charles, walking a little quicker into the room as he saw Charles fighting his heavy eyes. “Don’t fall asleep there,” he murmured softly, trying to keep the worry out of his voice.

“’m not,” Charles muttered in return, lifting a hand from the water and rubbing his eye.

With a gentle chuckle, Max crouched next to the bath again. “If you say so, schatje. Ready to get out?” Nodding, Charles shifted forward with a frown. Wordlessly, Max was standing and offering his hands, helping him to his feet, hand resting gently on his abdomen to steady him. “How is the pain?”

“Not as bad as it was,” he replied. “I’ll live.” Smiling fondly, Max took his hands again to help him step out, wrapping a towel around him, head turning towards the noise of the door knocking.

“Back in a minute.” He left a kiss to Charles’s temple before going to answer the door, taking the food from them with a genuine thank you, offering the bathroom and hot drinks to them whenever they wanted, before taking the bags into the kitchen. Charles was shuffling in to the kitchen minutes later, in Max’s sweatpants and RB hoodie, pushing his glasses on and ruffling his damp hair.

Looking back at him, Max couldn’t help the grin that ran across his face. “You’re cute when you’re tired,” he teased softly.

Narrowing his eyes at him, Charles tried to feign annoyance, but Max knew it was simply impossible to manage when he looked that soft. So a smile broke slowly over Charles’s lips as he reached Max in the kitchen, looking at the bags on the worktop. “You didn’t go out, did you?” he asked, eyes wide and worried.

“No, I asked the guys outside to go. They’re really nice.” He slid an arm around Charles’s shoulders and pulled him into his side gently, pressing a kiss to his hair. “Does it hurt less now?”

Nodding, Charles rested his head on his shoulder for a moment, before reaching out to look in the bags. “Trying to keep us healthy?” he quipped quietly, but it was fond, thankful. If nothing else, they couldn’t let that fall apart. No matter what else was coming, they were drivers. If the only thing they could control was getting in the car in two weeks time, they would make damn sure that was what happened. And they’d be at their best for it.

“I’m thinking eggs?” Max pointed, then glanced at Charles. “Neither of us are exactly good at cooking. I think we should keep it basic.” With a soft laugh, Charles was nodding in agreement, fingers playing with the hem of Max’s t-shirt. “Sit, if you want. I’ll do it.” But Charles stayed at his side, leaning back against the counter, purposefully bringing up any topic that they could casually talk about without settling on the various things that were like fifty elephants in the room.

But if there was one thing Charles did know, it was how to make Max yap. The new rear wing regulations seemed to do it. Within a few minutes, Max had tumbled into one of his rants as he scrambled eggs and had a brief argument with the hob he so rarely used. Charles watched and listened, occasionally moving next to him to clear something away, or wipe a spillage.

Max was still on the wing regulations, even as he plated the food. “And the thing is, even if…” He paused a second and glanced around the room, searching for the second plate he had got out of the cupboard, pulling it closer. “Even if we don’t have to run the cars lower for the same downforce, I don’t think…” He trailed off again as Charles placed a hand on his arm, turning him gently to face him as Max put the pan down on the worktop.

The question of ‘what is it?’ never made it from Max’s lips, because then Charles’s lips were pressed there instead, a careful but insistent kiss, the hand that had been on Max’s arm sliding to his back, pulling him in, the other resting on his waist. Despite the slight stumble, Max was careful to not knock in to Charles, steadying them with a hand on the worktop, threading the other into his brunette, damp hair. Resting back against the workshop, Max took Charles’s weight against him, so his free hand could push under the hoodie, feel skin, wrap his fingers carefully around his bruised side and hold him as close as he dared.

They broke the kiss with a laugh as Charles tried to tilt his head and knocked his glasses into Max’s cheekbone, sending them askew. Very gently, almost hesitantly, giving Charles time to react if he wanted, Max reached up and carefully pulled the offending article off his face, setting them down on the counter next to the plates. He cupped his jaw, thumb brushing across his cheek gently, up towards his temple, following the line of where the pressure marks from their helmets always sat for a good half hour after they got out of the car, before he was drawing him back in for a kiss again, same speed as before, coaxing him close.

And Charles just… melted into Max. Slowly, then completely, pressing in to him, fisting his t-shirt as tight as he could manage, Max’s hands in contrast gentle and soothing on his sides, protectively holding him close. Knowing it had to stop somewhere, Charles drew back again, just enough to break the connection of their lips, foreheads pressing together.

“You need to eat something,” Max whispered against his lips, one hand caressing down his side.

“So do you,” Charles replied, almost a challenge. Don’t put me above yourself, when I can look after you too.

And then it hit him all at once. The realisation. /That/ was the love. That was everything that had been unsaid for the years they had been doing this.

Go to sleep, it’s late.

Tell me when you’ve landed.

I bought your favourite chocolate.

The blanket smelt of you so I took it with me.

All of those things, the tiny things. The everyday things. The things no one else got to see. Things for just them.

Maybe Max was thinking the same thing. Maybe he was thinking nothing like that at all. Either way he was dropping a kiss to Charles’s forehead and stepping back, reaching past him to hand him a plate, taking the other himself.

Taking the plate, and picking up his glasses, Charles watched him for a moment with a weak smile, before following him into the living room. Max glanced at the clock, narrowing his eyes at it and frowning a little. “It’s Monday, right? Monday morning.”

“Probably,” Charles replied with a laugh, sinking onto the sofa. “Must be. It was dark when we got on the plane. Sun was coming up when we landed.”

“Right…” He shook his head with a similar laugh, coming to sit next to him. “Struggle with it as the best of times, but today…” He turned on the TV, finding the replay of the F2 race and putting it on, low volume, settling back to watch. They ate in silence, eyes on the screen, making the occasional quiet comment to each other about a particularly good pass, or an especially bad fuck up. It was nice. It was just them, and racing, and nothing else. As it should be.

It felt wrong to be so tired with the midday sunlight streaming in to the apartment. When Max got up to take the plates to the kitchen, Charles stood too, closing the blinds in an attempt to darken the room. Or shut out the world. Or maybe both. He could hear Max loading the dishwasher in the kitchen, the mewling of the cats around him as they thought maybe they were going to be fed. Charles stepped into the doorway, watching him move around the kitchen, clearly lost in thought. In between stacking pans and plates into the dishwasher, he scratched Sassy’s head, murmuring softly to her what a good girl she was, how he was home for a bit now, how as long as she didn’t walk over Charles, she could sleep at the end of the bed. Unable to help the smile on his face, Charles stepped into the room. “She would never agree to not walk over me.”

Looking up with a grin, Max shrugged. “I can try.”

Charles let the warmth and familiarity of Max’s genuine smile wash through him, coming to stand in front of him, hand brushing down his arm to take his hand. An instant calm washed over Max, as soon as Charles was close, and he was tipping his head forward to rest his forehead on Charles’s again, just as they were stood before. His hand came back to rest on his side again, and Charles’s fisted into his t-shirt once more, holding onto each other whilst the world around them lost their minds thinking about them doing exactly what they were doing in that moment.

“Tell me what happened with your dad,” Charles whispered, eyes closed, feeling the warmth radiating off Max. But he shook his head slowly, his eyes open to watch Charles’s expression.

“Not now, not today,” he replied, voice only slightly louder than Charles’s.

“Why not?”

“You come first.”

Eyes fluttering open, Charles met his gaze, pulling back with just enough distance between them so he could look at him properly, read his expression, watch the sincerity behind his ice-blue eyes. Despite that though, he was still holding something back, Charles could tell.

Defiantly, Max held his gaze, hand still protectively caressing over his side, moving to his back, pulling him closer so their bodies were pressed together, but they could still meet each other’s gaze.

“Did he touch you?”

“No.” Max’s reply was instantaneous, and Charles believed him. Believed the eye contact. Believed the way his breathing didn’t falter. “GP stepped in front of me when he tried to come near me.”

The fist Charles had around Max’s t-shirt only got tighter, feeling his knuckles crack against the pressure. But he didn’t move. And neither did Max. Locked together, stood in the middle of the kitchen, the Monaco sun blazing into the window, the exhaustion heavy in their eyes, weighting down their bodies like they were covered in lead.

Not knowing what to reply, Charles moved one hand from Max’s side and lifted it to slide to the back of his head, fingers tangling slowly in the hair there. Max needed a haircut. It always got like this after a triple header. Charles loved it. Max hated it. Charles loved that Max hated it. Loved to run his fingers through it, in any context. But especially when Max laid with his head in Charles’s lap, half asleep after a satisfying qualifying, and Charles could tangle his fingers in the dirty blond strands, always darker at the back of his head, and caress until Max was practically purring.

It was simpler before. It was harder, somehow, and yet simpler. He supposed before they knew where they stood. Sneak around, no more than anything that was just ‘normal, friendly touch’ between them, and only trust GP within the teams to keep their secret. It was shit. It was hard. The number of times they almost slipped up, in the moment, a moment of victory or despair, was numerous. Charles’s Monaco win was the hardest. But at least Max hadn’t been next to him on the podium celebrating. Holding that back might have been next to impossible.

But maybe Charles had oversimplified it. He shouldn’t have tried to make it so black and white in his head. It wasn’t as simple as ‘we’ve never said ‘I love you’, so it can’t be love’. It never could be between them.

“I think you should sleep, schat,” Max murmured softly, almost startling in the silence. “I know it’s the middle of the day, but rest a bit at least.”

Blinking slowly at him, Charles let the frown settle onto his face slowly. “Shouldn’t we talk?”

Max’s expression was a complicated mix of worried, a little bemused, and exhausted. “I don’t think either of us have clear enough heads for that.” Charles had to agree, he supposed.

“My English might not keep up,” he confessed with a tired smile, one that Max just had to kiss gently from his lips, soft and calm.

“Heat or cool for your ribs?” he asked softly against his lips, and neither of them even questioned it. Even without a crash, sometimes a strenuous race just put a little too much pressure on ribs, especially after three in a row. Warm and cool packs were a staple in their apartments.

“Heat,” Charles replied with a grimace. “I don’t want to be cold.”

Nodding, Max left a kiss on his temple and pulled away. “I’ll bring it to you.”

Charles lingered for a moment longer in the kitchen, hesitant. Was Max just trying to avoid this? Would he find some kind of excuse every time Charles tried? Or was that a totally unfair thought?

Deciding Max was right, now wasn’t the time, he took himself off to the bedroom, smiling weakly at the pile of pillows Max had left for him. Okay, he’d concede. Unfair thought.

Five minutes later, Max was gently pulling back the covers and tucking a warmed heat pack against Charles’s chest. The Monégasque had already started to drop off, almost the second his head hit the pillow, but his eyes fluttered open slowly as Max came to stand at his side. “How’s that?” Charles only nodded in response, shifting against the pillow he was laid against and readjusting the heat pack. Silently, Max kissed his forehead and left the room.

It was dark again when Charles woke. Imagining he’d slept a few hours into the evening, he slowly turned over with a soft groan to look at the bedside clock. “Merde…” he breathed aloud when he saw the time.

Just after midnight. He’d slept almost twelve hours already. And now it was the middle of the night. His sleep pattern was screwed.

But then the time made it even more odd that Max wasn’t beside him, wasn’t curled up against him where he should be. In fact, his side was totally undisturbed. He hadn’t come to bed at all.

Pulling himself to his feet with a slight groan, Charles pulled back on the hoodie he’d been wearing and slipped his glasses on again, following the low sounds he could hear from somewhere in the apartment, and the beams of light coming from…

The sim room. Of course. Of course he was.

Max had the sound of the sim low, without his headphones, no music playing, of course not streaming. Just pure concentration on the screen in front of him. With a glance, Charles could see it was Spa. One of Max’s favourite tracks. Almost like his comfort track. When he needed to think, or maybe actually /not/ think, he threw on Spa and drove it with the same precision and accuracy he’d tackle the track in real life.

It was difficult to not be impressed by it.

Padding into the room, Charles didn’t want to startle him from his concentration, or mess up the lap for him. But Max heard him coming, taking the last two corners and crossing the line before easing off the throttle and letting the car come to a halt. He looked back, twisting in his seat.

“It’s midnight, cheri. Come to bed.” Though why he was saying that, he didn’t know. He wasn’t sure he could sleep any more himself right now. Maybe in a few hours, to try and wake again at a reasonable time in the morning and trying to reset his sleep schedule.

With a shrug, he rested back against the back of the seat. “Brain is…” He raised his hand in the air, a vague gesture, and Charles just nodded in agreement. Because yes, exactly that. “How do you feel?”

Smirking a little, Charles pulled over another seat and sunk into it next to Max. “Like I put a car into a wall at 180kph,” he replied. Chuckling, Max just nodded. Fair response. “Keep going. I like watching you.” There was an insane calm to the room when Max was on the sim alone, not streaming, not with friends. Just concentrating on his own technique. A level of calm Charles felt they both needed right about now.

And he watched that calm wash over Max, as he turned his eyes back to the screen, his expression immediately locked in, feet back over the pedals, fingers deftly selecting gears on the steering wheel, and beginning his next lap. Charles settled in to watch, tucking a cushion behind his back to get comfier, hugging another to his chest.

After a few laps, Sassy joined them in the room, jumping into Charles’s lap. “We can’t have Leo here, not while it’s like this,” Charles sighed softly. “He’ll hate it if I can’t take him for a walk. So will the cats.” Max nodded, eyes still fixed onto the screen, but voice as low and casual as if he were giving a boring press conference.

“Mm, probably. They might be gone by tomorrow.”

“Gone where though? Just round the corner, waiting. And the second we step outside they'll fucking…” He trailed off as Max let me the car slide into the wall, letting go of the wheel, feet coming off the pedals so he could turn in his seat to face Charles.

“There is no one that hates them more than me, you know this. But we can’t…” He sighed, reaching out over Sassy and taking Charles’s hand. “I’m not letting them ruin us.”

Blinking slowly at him, eyes darting to the screen of the sim for a second as the data screamed at Max about the ‘error’ he had just made, Charles allowed his brain a moment to catch up with that statement.

‘I’m not letting them ruin us’.

Us.

“You’ve never called this ‘us’ before,” Charles found himself whispering, eyes slowly back to Max, watching the flicker of uncertainty run across his face as Charles pointed that out. It was obvious Max was trying to work out if Charles was counting this as a positive of a negative, and Charles knew he was giving nothing away with his expression. Petulant, really. He had shouted at Max the previous day for using his media face to stay measured. Now he was doing the same.

“Well, that’s what this is, right?” he asked quietly, though his tone was a little clipped, eyebrow raised, slightly defensive. Charles was the same, so he couldn’t be annoyed with the reaction this time.

“Is it?” Charles pushed, and watched Max’s eyes haze into that locked in, intense look he got when he was about to climb in the car. Four-time world champion, coming to get you.

“Isn’t it?”

It was in that moment that Charles realised how much their media training affected /everything/ now. Everything. Could they just have a normal conversation without holding every single emotion so close to their chest that the other couldn’t penetrate it? Was it so impossible to just feel this, trust that they could and should feel this, that they couldn’t even be honest about one thing.

Charles knew he had to turn it off in his own head first. Max would never cave if Charles didn’t. Exactly the way they raced, daring the other to be the first to let go. Eyes running over Max’s expression slowly, he tried to work out his next move. Calculating. Measured. The split-second moments before he’d lunge his car into a corner to take Max for a podium.

Gently, he eased Sassy out of his lap, and she jumped down to the floor with a sightly irritated mewl, padding away again. Charles stood, following her to head out of the room, hearing Max stand behind him, knowing he was following.

“Charles…?” There was a brutal uncertainty in his voice, and moments later Charles felt a hand land on his arm, making him turn. That was exactly the reaction he wanted.

Turning back to face him, Charles stepped close, clearly closer than Max had expected him to move, almost chest to chest, his hand sliding down his arm to grip his wrist gently, just a grounding, weighted pressure. Max had messed up his entire race because Charles had crashed. And yet he still had the audacity to try and hide all of this behind a classic Verstappen neutral ‘no comment’. Charles wasn’t falling for it. His moves had caught Max out. Their eyes locked, that brutal level of uncertainty that he rarely saw from Max still held in his expression, a rabbit caught in a trap.

For once, Max was the hunted, not the hunter.

“If we’re having this conversation, we’re having it as Max and Charles. Not Verstappen and Leclerc. Not 33 and 16. Not Red Bull and Ferrari. Everything else is nothing now, Max. I don’t give a shit about anything else. No media, no PR, not politics. No family. If you’re calling it ‘us’, then it’s just us.”

Something switched in Max then, within seconds, a flicker of respectful deference tumbling across his eyes, before his lips were on Charles, the kiss all-consuming, a careful press to move Charles back against the wall, not slamming him, never with a risk to hurt him, but ever so meaningful, melting Charles into the wall, allowing Max to unlock the emotions he had been keeping inside for… months? Years? He couldn’t be sure.

And Charles let it all wash over him, eyes closed, head back against the wall, Max’s hands everywhere on his body before settling on his sides, his own hand in his hair, gripping his hip, holding him there near desperately, just daring him to move away and knowing now he wouldn’t. He was tumbling into that wall again, 180kph, 30G, hands off the wheel, letting it carry him with no way of stopping it.

Max stopped it this time.

Breaking the kiss, Charles’s glasses slighted misted, his eyes in the same way, Max planted one hand next to his head on the wall, pressing him in, gaze locked again now with the level of certainty he had when he was making a rouge strategy call he knew he could pull off.

“It’s us. It’s always been us.” He pressed even closer, if that was possible, one hand still on the wall, the other hand fisting in the RB hoodie Charles had been wearing since they got back, the jarring blue against his skin where the scarlet red would normally be. “I love you, Charles. I always have.”

Notes:

I was going to keep writing but I made myself stop on a semi-cliff hanger. Sorry.

Chapter 8: Just Because It's You

Notes:

Shorter chapter but um... yeah. It's shorter because I used a lot of brain and emotion for it and then had to step away.

The hammering inside his head had started again. Or was that just the banging on the front door? Wait… the banging on the front door.

Max dropped his head to Charles’s shoulder, huffing out a sigh. “Fuck sake…” he muttered, lifting his head again to look back up at him, meet his eyes, a strange level of apology sat there.

“Leave it,” Charles breathed, their lips still inches away.

“We don’t have our phones on. The only way anyone is reaching us is…” He trailed off as Charles shook his head.

“Just leave it.” Because fucking hell, what a moment to be interrupted. What a fucking moment for them to have to break eye contact, to have to cut the tension between them with the metaphorical knife everyone always seemed so insistent on mentioning the existence of.

“It’s the middle of the night. What if it’s an emergency?”

This was an emergency. /This/. This between them. The hanging words that Charles now absolutely needed to say, and yet now… had the moment passed? But then… Max was right. Horribly, he was right. They could shut off from the rest of the world, but they still had people who might need them.

So his hands dropped slowly, and Charles sagged into the wall as Max stepped away, letting his head rest back (carefully) against the wall with a frown. Max was seeping seething energy, clearly just as angry as Charles, vibrating with it. Charles was just tired, exhausted, with all of it.

Storming off to the front door, Charles heard him pull it open, an almost growled ‘what?’ shot at them. There was an exchange, muffled, far enough away that he couldn’t hear what was said, but it was short. And then Max was back in the room, head ducked, clearly deep in thought, only meeting Charles’s eyes when he ended up stood in front of him again.

“What was it?”

“Message from my dad,” Max replied, low, monotone. Treacherous.

When Max didn’t continue, Charles prompted. “Saying…?”

“He wanted to talk. He wants me to go back home, speak to him.”

Instinctively, Charles was raising his hands, sliding them back to the fabric of Max’s t-shirt, grabbing it again, pulling him closer. “You can’t.”

“I’m not,” Max replied instantly, without a breath of hesitation, leaning in to brush their lips again gently, like he was sealing the promise.

“Tell me what happened. Please.” Charles’s voice was on the edge of begging, his eyes wide and searching. Because this was more than an argument, and he knew it. It was Jos Verstappen, of course it was more than just an argument. And now he was demanding that after Max flew half way across the world, through a media shit storm, to get home, that he flies to the Netherlands again at the click of his fingers.

Whatever was going on there, Charles needed to know. It was suddenly so much more important now.

And clearly Max, finally, agreed, because he was gently plucking Charles’s hand from his t-shirt and clasping it in his own, leading him back towards the bedroom. Max leant to switch on the bedside lamp on his side, letting go of Charles’s hand as he climbed back onto the bed and stacked the pillows behind himself, leaning into them, looking at Max expectantly as he continued to just stand there. “Chéri?” Charles prompted softly, frown on his face, holding his hand out to Max.

“He hates this,” Max near-whispered, but in the silent apartment that was all he needed to do. “Hates it. I don’t think he could think of anything worse than this.” The words tumbled now, volume raising, now he was letting them out into the world, letting himself admit it. “And I don’t know… I don’t fucking know if it’s because you’re another driver or because you’re man or if it’s just because…” Charles quirked an eyebrow at the hesitation. The silence held.

“Because what?” Charles pushed. Max averted his eyes to the floor, and Charles leant closer. “Max… just because what?” He shook his head, eyes still trained to the carpet, the tiny mottles of darker grey in the lighter pile. So Charles pushed himself closer again, eyes a little sterner, knowing that sometimes the only way to get through to Max was the GP method – strict. “Max.” His icy eyes shot up to Charles then, bluer in the low light, worried, a strange amount of sympathy in them given it was him that was under the mental pressure in that moment. It made Charles wonder what was coming.

“Or if it’s just because it’s you.” His words were brief, and clipped, but his eyes were begging for an apology in a way that Charles absolutely hated, with every fibre of himself.

The expressions that passed Charles’s face were complicated, numerous, and for a while he simply blinked at Max, lips parting for a moment like he was going to say something, before clamping shut again. His eyes narrowed, then he relaxed the muscles in his face again, before repeating the motion. Max watched it all happen, eyes dancing across his face, taking in the moments of confusion, of anger, of resentment, before he was meeting Max’s gaze properly.

“Why?”

The short breath of a laugh that ghosted of Max’s lips, humourless, bitter, caught Charles by surprised, and his frown deepened. “You’ve always been a distraction.” The complicated expressions was back, but it was mostly disbelief sat on Charles’s face. “Ever since we were kids. From the moment we started racing each other. From the moment I realised you were the only one as good as me.” Charles’s eyes faltered then, head tilting ever so slightly at the sheer weight of the words Max had just uttered, at the emotion, the familiarity that washed over him. “He realised at the same time. I think he thought it great, at first, someone to keep me on my toes, when winning got easy.” Charles quirked an eyebrow, the unsaid ‘cocky’ tumbling between them. But they both knew it was true. “But I liked you. I wanted to be your friend. And he…” The sad, bitter smile pulled across his face again, and then he was sinking down to sit on the edge of the bed. With a wince, and a muttered groan of pain, Charles crawled over, sitting himself next to Max, shoulders brushing.

“You weren’t allowed to have friends.” It was a statement, not a question. Charles had heard the stories. Charles had been fucking asked about the stories in interviews countless times at the beginning, in his Haas days, early Ferrari days, when they were still just kids, really, dancing around each other on the track again like they always used to. Max slowly shook his head, turning to look at Charles again.

“When you made it in to F1, I think he thought I was already far enough ahead, successful enough, that it wouldn’t be a problem.” A grin spread over his face then, genuine, still holding the sadness from before, behind his eyes, but the smile was one that was reserved for the people in his life he truly respected. “He didn’t realise how good you were… didn’t see you coming.” Charles couldn’t help his own coy smile, almost embarrassed, except it was true and he knew it, so it wasn’t that modest. “I did though. I saw it from the start.”

‘I always thought that, if I will make it into F1, Charles would also make it.'

“He’d lecture me, all the fucking time, that I couldn’t fight on track with someone I was friends with. I couldn’t be ruthless enough, I’d be too soft towards you if I did that. Like you were soft on Pierre…”

Charles seemed physically taken aback by that comment. “I’m not soft on Pierre on track,” he muttered, brain trying to find a moment to relate it to that Jos could’ve been referring to.

“No, I know that. I don’t think he even thought that was true, really. He was just making a point.” Max’s shoulders sagged as he sighed, head bowing lower, stretching out the tension at the base of his neck. “He’d say I’d let you be my weakness, if I wasn’t careful. Couple of years ago he made me sit through footage of my fights with Lewis, beside my fights with you. He’d yell at me that I gave you more space.” Hesitating for a moment, Charles wondered if he should utter the first, immediate thing that came into his mouth. Max got there first. “I do give you more space.” Charles’s eyes shot to Max’s as he raised his head again to look back at him. “Because I know you’d rather send us both straight into the wall, than let me past.”

The grin that Charles felt creep over his face was completely against the tone of the conversation, but he just couldn’t help himself. It was true. It had been said, by coaches, engineers, team principles and the media alike, that Charles was one of the only matches for Max’s style on track. Max Verstappen was known for not giving an inch, so most of the time the person he was fighting had to compensate for that. Charles never did. Never would. He made Max compensate for it instead.

Max had dropped his head again, so Charles brushed a hand up his spine, sending his fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, scratching gently with his nails, a grounding, methodical, calming touch. “Maybe it’s all of it. It’s because I’m a rival, because I’ve always been a rival, made worse by the fact we grew up together, that I’ve always been there. He probably thinks he should’ve seen it coming.” Max just shrugged, almost passively, but Charles could see the tension dropping in his shoulders as his fingertips soothed over the back of his head. “Does he know you’ve been with men before?”

The sad smile that pulled over Max’s face made Charles’s heart ache. “Of course he doesn’t. I’ve only ever taken girlfriends home. Had no idea how he’d react to that.” Maybe it was a good thing Max couldn’t attribute his dad’s anger to a cause or reason. Maybe they didn’t want to unpack that right now. So he was dropping that subject as fast as he’d picked it up, hand dropping slowly to the back of Max’s neck and squeezing gently, fingers massaging just a little into the tense muscles.

With a soft groan, Max ran his hands over his face, before raising his head again to look at Charles. “If I could just get him to understand. This changes nothing. It’s not…” He faltered though, because of Charles’s expression, he was sure. He couldn’t hide it, no matter how hard he tried. He just knew it was written all over his face.

Because it had changed something. It had, fundamentally. Max had thrown a podium because of Charles.

To watch that realisation creep over Max’s face had to be one of the worst things Charles had ever witness.

“Oh my god he’s right,” Max breathed, and Charles’s eyes widened in fear as Max stood from the bed like Charles’s fingers were burning him.

“Max…” This was not the way this should go. Max’s guilt at being a fucking human being with emotions, drilled out of him year after year by a father that could never make it in the sport himself, so decided that his only way for glory was his son. And for that, his son had to not feel, not take what he needed, not love or be loved. Max had fought so hard through that, been hounded by the media for his cold, hard centre and then been paraded through the streets and celebrated for his wins in the next moment. Of course there was a story there. Of course everyone would say there was a connection. Every single person Max worked with new different. There was no fucking connection. It was pure skill, versus an unbelievable ability to remain stoic at 200kph when your friends are trying to fight you for an inch of tarmac.

But Jos saw different. He saw the monster he had created. The thing he had been so proud to call his own. And when /he/ had paraded Max around, everyone bowed down in deference to the great Verstappen family. The ones that made Formula 1 what it was.

In a fleeting moment, Max had made a decision. To step outside of that. To prove them wrong. To show everyone that sometimes, often in fact, life was more important. People were more important. Love was more important. And the world didn’t know. The world couldn’t know. His father couldn’t know.

Max was now interpreting that was weakness.

Charles thought that was the biggest display of internal strength he had ever seen. Breaking the shackles of his father, of the media, and stepping out on his own to declare something Charles should’ve been sure of since the start, but because he too had fallen for the propaganda, had been blind and closed off to himself.

Max chose love over racing. Because he was human.

“He’s right.” He pushed a hand through his hair, almost shaky, in a way Charles had never seen before. “I did exactly what he said I’d do. Give up the game. Get distracted.” Charles was on his feet then, unsteady himself, reaching for Max.

“Max, listen…”

“He knew I’d do this. He’d try to beat it out of me, whenever I slipped, but now…”

“Max!” Charles’s hands were insistent as he grabbed at his side, the other cupping his jaw, forcing Max’s gaze to his, to meet his eyes, holding on with everything he had left. Which, in that moment, really wasn’t much now. “Listen to me,” he breathed, frowning as Max squirmed a little, try to step back. Charles’s grip remained firm, fisting into his hoodie, thumb pressing in to his jaw, steadying him close. When his wild eyes finally settled on Charles’s, some of the anxiety held tight in his body seeped away. But only some. “You are not what he made you. You are nothing like what he thinks you are, what they think you.”

“But I did… what I did. That’s what he meant.”

“No, Max, it isn’t.” Max squirmed again but his grip remained tight. Yes, he was holding him close, stopping his movements. Yes, in a way that felt… wrong. But it was all he knew to do in that moment. “What he meant, what he did… he wanted to squeeze every bit of human out of you.”

“I did it on purpose…”

“Max.” All Charles could think to do then was slowly push him back, press him into the wall next to the wardrobe, hold him there, pushing his body flush against Max so that he could feel the grounding weight, focus only on the heat, the rise and fall of Charles’s aching chest, his hands soft and insistent as he held Max into the wall. “One decision. One race. One split second moment. Because I was hurt. That doesn’t define who you are, chéri. It doesn’t tell the world anything. It doesn’t mean anything to him, because he’ll never understand.” Max was sagging slowly in his grip, feeling his knees grow weaker, hands having to fall onto Charles’s sides just to hold himself up. Until he remembered, quickly, and he was grabbing onto his arms instead as Charles’s hands gripped him back. “He’ll never understand this Max. He wouldn’t ever understand.” Tipping his head, Charles let their lips brush, enough for Max’s eyelids to flutter softly, and the strain in his muscles melt a little more into the wall. “You are nothing, /nothing/, like what you think he made you. You can’t be…”

Throat bobbing against the tears, Max swallowed hard, eyes darting between the green ocean of Charles’s. “I…”

“No, Max, you can’t be. Because I love you.”

Chapter 9: Sunrise

“Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”

Max’s whispered statement almost had Charles’s knees give out from underneath him. Because how the hell could Max even question it? How could he even think there was a slither of doubt in his words, in his feelings? Did he not understand the sheer weight, the hold, that Max had over him?

Seventeen years old, Max had just got the call that he was signed with Torro Rosso after his debut race earlier that year. Charles had just been signed into Formula 3. They’d heard within two days of each other. They hadn’t expected that their paths would cross again for a while. Charles had missed Max’s stint in F3, and he knew deep down that he wasn’t destined for F1 as fast as Max had been pulled in. But it was one of those stupid showcases, the things they were made to do for the sponsors. The media circus had already started, even then. And their gazes fell onto each other across the paddock as they were being herded towards the cameras.

The feeling was like a magnetic pull, the way their smiles dragged slowly across their faces, mirroring the other in seconds, and they instantly began moving towards each other, like a tide was washing them closer. Charles watched Max’s father glare as he turned towards him, but he had been naïve enough back then to not really know why. Their arms were wrapping around each other seconds later, hug tight, laughs genuine as they swayed together for a second before pulling back.

“Congratulations,” Max had said, almost right into his ear, voice gentle. Charles could remember every syllable. His accent sat deeper back then, far stronger, not yet mashed and changed by a life around the world. And Charles had laughed as they pulled away, meeting his gaze, grin lopsided, dimples on show.

“Congratulations yourself!” he smirked, with a tone that said ‘seriously? You’re in F1 and you’re saying well done to /me/?’ “It’s going to be insane, mate.”

Max was grinning, nodding, about to say something else to Charles, his blue eyes glinting, and Charles just knew it was going to be something supportive, about the fact it would only be a matter of time for Charles, or something similar. But then Jos was curling a hand around the base of Max’s neck, muttering something in Dutch Charles of course didn’t understand, and he was steering Max away in the opposite direction. The look Max sent him as they walked away was apologetic, with what Charles knew now was a low level of pleading. He didn’t see that then, as a kid.

How they’d slipped away from their parent and teams later on that day, neither of them knew. But they had, by some sort of engrained instinct that just drew their eyes together across the room and pulled them out down the back of the pitlane. They were laughing as they looked back into the room, realising they’d got away with it, secreting themselves behind the back of one of the trailer units.

“Isn’t this usually the moment where one of us pulls out a packet of cigarettes or something?” Max teased, back hitting the metal side of the trailer as he slouched against it. With a chuckle, Charles followed his movements, shoulders brushing as he leant back too.

“If we were normal teenagers, maybe,” he shot back, resting his head back and turning his gaze towards Max.

“But this isn’t normal, no?” Max replied, eyes falling onto Charles, a ghost of a cheeky grin pulling across his face.

“Nothing about this is normal.” There was something in Charles’s tone then, strangely whimsical for how pragmatic he usually was, strangely knowing for his age, and in hindsight far wiser beyond his years.

With a slow head shake, Max’s eyes were fixed on Charles, their shoulders brushing again as he leant ever so slightly towards him. “What do you think we would be doing? If we were normal.”

There was a small breath of a laugh leaving Charles’s lips, but his eyes didn’t falter from Max. “I don’t know, whatever teenagers usually do.” Voice light, quiet, slow. “Drinking. Smoking. Partying.” There was a pause, enough of a pause that Charles felt Max shift ever so slightly closer again, waiting. “Sleeping with girls…”

Their eyes were locked, hardly any space between them now, Charles’s left arm hung limply between them, almost flush against Max’s right arm, and for a second Max’s fingers twitched and tapped against Charles’s. “Yeah… girls…” Max breathed in response, and Charles knew that he definitely wasn’t making up the way Max’s sky-blue eyes darted down to his lips for a second, and then back up to meet Charles’s wide eyes again.

The magnetic pull was encircling them again, and before Charles could even register his movements, he was leaning in, closing the remaining inches of distance, and Max was meeting him in return. The hands that were brushing were slowly tangling fingers, and Charles felt himself tilt his head and press even closer without any conscious thought, the drag of Max’s lips against his own absolutely delicious, a sensation he had not experienced before. Never as good as that anyway.

If Charles closed his eyes now, with the way he had Max pressed into the wall, body tense against him, Max staring back at him like Charles was about to disappear before him, he could still feel that kiss. Even with the thousands of kisses, and more, that they’d shared since. He would never forget their first. Their actual first. Pierre, still to this day, was convinced that their first was two years later, half way through Charles’s first F1 season, the night of summer break beginning, in a club in Belgium. That was what he’d seen, that was what Charles let him believe.

He hadn’t told anyone about their real first kiss. Not a soul. That was just for he and Max.

Ten years. How could Max ever question if he meant it? Ever?

“You think I don’t mean it?” He didn’t know how long he’d been silent. How many breaths, blinks, had passed between them in the time he had spent inside his own head, reminiscing, thinking about the simpler time.

Simpler? Was it simpler? Because right now he was stood staring into the eyes of a four-time world champion, and he just had to question where this had all come from. It might have seemed simpler, back then, but if he’d stopped viewing it all with rose tinted glasses, it was worse. So much worse. At least now they had some element of free will, of time to themselves. Back then, if it wasn’t their parents controlling their every move, it was their teams.

Charles wondered now if he needed to rethink just how much control Max’s father had.

Maybe that was fuelling Max’s thoughts now, his worried words. The subject was purposefully left quiet, had been for some time, but if Max had grown up in a household where the kind words were never meant, and the insults were the only words that stuck, it would make more sense than Charles ever wanted to believe that Max was questioning this.

Watching Max’s lips part as he went to speak, the air swirling in the inches between them, all Charles could do was grip tighter onto Max’s t-shirt, press his hands in to his sides, ground them both, and give him the space to try and articulate everything that was going on in his head.

“I don’t… I don’t know,” Max confessed quietly, except now his hands were landing back on Charles again, arms encircling him slowly, pulling him closer so he was flush against him, consciously careful.

“Did you mean it?” Charles prompted, willingly letting his body move closer, pressing into Max, hoping it was grounding him somewhat.

“Of course I did,” Max replied without hesitation. An eyebrow raising slowly, Charles shot him a look that conveyed just how unreasonable that then made Max’s question. And clearly it worked. The tension was slowly seeping from Max’s tired muscles, melting into the wall as Charles melted into him.

Dipping his head, Charles pressed the softest of kisses to Max’s jaw before tucking his face against his neck. “Of course I meant it as well.” He sighed softly as Max sent a hand to the back of his neck, squeezing gently, fingertips kneading the muscles slowly. “Shall we stop standing here now?” Charles mumbled into his neck, feeling the hum of a laugh from Max’s chest, and the nod that followed.

“Mm, maybe,” he confessed, moving his hand so Charles could raise his head again. Their eyes met once more, and Charles couldn’t help the smile that pulled across his lips as they looked back at each other once more.

“We have to sleep,” he mumbled softly. “I don’t think we should say any more words before we sleep.”

With another soft laugh, Max was nodding in agreement, tipping his head forward to press a kiss to his forehead. “Okay, agreed.” Then tomorrow, maybe Charles could find the correct words to say to Max. Properly. Explain to him in a way he should have years ago just how much he meant to him, just how much he did actually love him. Reassure those questioning eyes that he wasn’t going anywhere, no matter if the world was trying to tear them apart.

Wordlessly, as agreed, they were pulling apart, and were stripping of the clothes they weren’t comfortable sleeping in, and slipping under the covers. As Charles shuffled closer, Max leant to turn off the lamp again, encircling his arms around Charles, letting him get comfy propped half on his chest and half on the pile of pillows. Exhausted to their bones, they were both asleep in seconds, and despite Charles’s previous twelve hours of sleep, he was passed out until the sun began coming up again the following morning.

Charles was the first one awake though, peeling himself off Max around 6am, unreasonably early for him. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he saw the sunrise in Monaco. To that end, and with the significant ache of Sunday’s crash sat deep in his muscles, he padded into the kitchen to get a drink and watch said sunrise. With a knowing smile, he pulled the orange juice from fridge. He shouldn’t have been surprised Max had remembered to get that for him, and yet he just had to take a second to appreciate that with everything going on, he still managed to add it to the hastily written shopping list yesterday.

Pouring himself a glass, he pushed open the sliding door to the balcony and stepped out. It was colder than he expected, the breeze whipping around his bare legs, and he was very glad to have thought to throw on Max’s RB hoodie. As Charles leant against the railing, he sincerely hoped that there was no one in another apartment building with a telescopic lens, because him stood there early in the morning, on the balcony of Max Verstappen’s apartment, in Max Verstappen’s hoodie (and maybe underwear, he couldn’t remember now), with everything going, would’ve been the photo of the century.

Then again, it wasn’t like anyone could be shocked anymore. This would’ve literally been what was expected now.

Still, the sunrise was stunning. In fact, he found himself staring in awe at the blend of oranges, pinks and reds on the horizon, the smudges of white from the wispy early clouds, the moon just coming off shift to make way for the sun to sing it’s morning statement. The patterns and shapes the dance of the sunrise had made was captivating. Charles had seen many Monaco sunrises as a kid. Many. From the endless days they’d get up before dawn to drive hours to a track, to the mornings he’d wake, anxious, overthinking, wondering if he was ever going to make it. The weeks his father was ill, waking as early as possible to spend as many seconds with him as he could manage.

But since then? Since then, he only woke in Monaco a few weeks in the year, and certainly never before daylight. This was a rare and unexpected privilege.

The smile pulled across his lips again as he heard feet on the concrete behind him, and arms slowly wrapping around his middle, lips on his neck, hot breath on his skin. “It’s early, come back to bed…”

“I’ve slept for almost eighteen hours, chéri, I’m fine,” Charles replied softly, free hand sliding down Max’s arm. “Besides, look at the view…”

Stepping to his side, arms still wrapped around him, Max fixed his gaze on Charles’s face, a soft, familiar smile on his lips. “I am looking, schat.”

For one peaceful moment, Charles let himself get completely lost in Max’s eyes, the cool, reflective blue a complete contrast to the warmth and heat of the sunrise. The storm that was held behind those eyes, contained when he wasn’t in the cockpit of the car, still rumbled in the background even now. Even when they were away from everything, and it was just the two of them stood on a balcony in Monaco at six in the morning. Even then, when Max had nothing to fight for, he was poised, ready to strike, never settling for long. And Charles tumbled into the abyss as he looked back at him, hand fisting into his clothing, as it permanently had been for two days now, holding on in case the world once again tried to tear them apart.

How true that was, in that moment.

But then he came to his sense. This wasn’t a fucking fairytale, this wasn’t the ending he had always wanted. He wasn’t even sure what ending he wanted anymore, other than to win a world championship. That had been the only ending that had mattered for so long, this wasn’t something he had ever considered. Not something he would ever consider for himself.

So with a smile, coy but knowing, he was pulling back a little, an affectionate and somewhat forced eyeroll being thrown Max’s way, and he was nodding out towards the horizon. “I meant that, you idiot.”

“I know,” Max retorted, smug, grin plastered across his face, not catching the way Charles forced him to end the interaction.

“Go back to sleep if you want,” Charles murmured as he turned back to lean forward against the railing again.

“How are the bruises?” Max asked quietly, as if he hadn’t heard what Charles had said, his hand caressing gently over his lower back, like he could feel any pain he was in if he was careful enough with his touch.

Nodding, along with a shrug, Charles kept his eyes on the sunrise. “Better. Not so bad at all really.” He knew if he kept his gaze forward, Max would be fooled by his tone. It was his eyes that gave it all away, he knew that, that was the thing that conveyed more emotion than his words ever could. No amount of media training could take that away. And he was right, it worked. Max was nodding, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek.

“I’m going for a shower, won’t be long.” He paused, hand still on his back. “Join me, if you want?”

With a soft smile, Charles glanced at him and nodded. “In a minute. I just want to see the rest of the sunrise.”

Max left his side then with a small laugh, like he didn’t really get Charles’s fascination with watching the sun come up. Perhaps he didn’t, and that was okay. Charles could take a breath and enjoy the moment alone. In fact, he’d almost rather that.

By the time that sun had fully awoken for the day, Charles had forced his brain to stop turning over and over about fifty things simultaneously. The team, the press, his family, Max’s family, the next race, the fans, the thought of even leaving the apartment, because they had to do that at some point. Honestly, what good was it all going to do? Everything was out of his control. Literally, everything. The only thing he could do now was… well, he supposed sort things out with Max.

Whatever they were sorting out. But it had to be something.

So eventually, he did head inside, into the bedroom, pulling off the hoodie and underwear, pushing open the bathroom door with a sigh as the steam poured out. He allowed himself a moment to drag his eyes over Max’s naked form, allowed himself to enjoy it. It had been a very long time since he’d enjoyed it fully. Weeks, in fact. And that was more than obvious as he stepped into the shower, and immediately Max’s hands were on him, carefully pulling him in, connecting their lips as he slid his hands down his sides. It was only the hiss of pain slipping from Charles’s lips that made them pull away, and Max was looking down quickly at his torso, frown crossing his expression immediately.

“Bruises are coming out,” Max sighed, thumb brushing over his ribs, over the patch of colour that was appearing on his skin. “You said it was better?” His tone wasn’t accusing, but worried, and it made Charles sigh, sending a hand into Max’s hair and pulling him closer.

“It’s fine,” he promised. “We’ve had worse.”

“Doesn’t mean…”

“Max.” Charles cut him off by pressing in, lips only a breath apart. “It’s fine. Just kiss me.”

It was a cheap shot, Charles knew what Max wouldn’t be able to resist. But he was right. Moments later Max was melting against him with a kiss, harder than they’d kissed in days, more urgent, more needy, insistent hands far lighter and more careful than they would normally be as they roamed Charles’s body.

And finally, that switched Charles’s brain off completely. His hands. His lips. Him.

Not risking anything else in the shower with Charles’s injuries, hands had to do. But it was enough, when it had been weeks since they’d touched each other so intimately. Neither of them lasted long, but neither could exactly be embarrassed when they were both panting, moaning against the other’s lips, Max’s back finding the cold tiled wall and holding Charles’s body close against him. Charles came with his face tucked against Max’s neck, and Max followed seconds after with his face pressed to Charles’s wet hair, consciously not gripping him hard like he wanted to.

They had to get out sooner rather than later though. They couldn’t avoid the inevitable difficult conversations they knew they needed to have eventually, no matter how hard they tried to stall. Just as they were walked back into the bedroom, towels wrapped around their waists, the door knocking started again.

“Fuck sake, I thought we were suppose to be left alone,” Charles muttered, wincing as he crouched to rifle through his suitcase for underwear.

“They won’t like it when I tell them that,” Max muttered as he dumped the towel on the floor and tugged on his underwear, hopping across the room to get his jeans on quickly, any t-shirt he could find following, as he walked out of the room.

Charles quickly threw on clothes himself, soft comfy shorts and… he hesitated for a moment as his hand hovered over one of Max’s RB t-shirts. It was instinct, to throw that on, engrained instinct. One, for a moment, he felt he should fight. There was that overthinking again, tapping at his consciousness. Why Charles? What does that mean? Should you really be peddling that narrative right now, with him and yourself?

He needed to get a grip.

Apparently, that meant succumbing to said instinct, because he found himself pulling the t-shirt on and following in Max’s footsteps out of the room to join him at the front door. Right in the middle, it seemed, of a fairly heated discussion.

“They said two days. We’d have two days. We’ve had one.”

“I understand, I’m simply conveying a message.”

As Charles stepped up next to Max, he had to consciously remember to not lean into his side, or take his hand, not in front of people. The man Max was speaking to he recognised from the hotel. One of the leads of the security team.

“Who exactly gave the message?” Max prompted, crossing his arms over his chest with a level of sass Charles wanted to smirk at, but resisted.

“Anna. She did express it was important.”

“It better be,” Max muttered, but was giving a nod that somewhat conveyed he understood it wasn’t specifically his fault, and Charles was offering a gentle smile to back up the sentiment as Max was pushing the door shut.

“What does she want? To talk?”

Max nodded, turning to stalk back into the living room where they’d left their phones yesterday. “One of us needs to turn our phones on. Don’t look at social media. But call her.”

With an eyeroll, Charles was following, sinking down onto the sofa and looking between the phones. “Who then?”

“I’ll do it,” Max replied quickly, picking up his phone. “You use social media more. All of mine is on silent.” He had a point. Max despised it all. In fact, Charles wasn’t sure he was even logged in to anything on his personal phone. One issue…

“Your dad’s messages,” Charles almost whispered, eyes tracking Max as he came to sit next to him.

“I’ll ignore them.” His tone was steady, but Charles sensed the hesitation layered under the bravado, and it made his heart ache a little. He rested a hand on Max’s thigh, shuffling closer as he turned off airplane mode. His phone glitched out for a second as the notifications tumbled in. Luckily there were so many, in the end his phone had given up on specifics and simply said ‘20+ messages’, and other worrying numbers of phone calls and alerts. Ignoring it all, Max went straight to his recent contacts and called Anna, hand falling slowly onto Charles’s that still sat on his leg.

She answered after only two rings. “Max, hello. Are you both there?”

“Yes, we are,” Max replied, shooting a look at Charles. “You promised we’d be left alone, for at least two days.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” And she did genuinely sound sorry. “But I thought you should know. This picture is circulating now.” With a concerned frown, Max was opening his messages, ignoring the plethora of unread WhatsApps and opening what Anna had just sent him.

Charles felt his heart drop into his stomach, eyes widening, as he stared at the screen. “Fuck… I literally…” His words were laughed out, a breath of a sarcastic chuckle, because he had to. If he didn’t, he was going to cry. Because there, on the screen, in far more clarity and pixels than Charles would ever want for an unauthorised photograph, were pictures of he and Max, out on the balcony, less than an hour ago. The first, Charles alone, looking out at the sunrise, probably seconds after the thought of someone seeing him had crossed his mind. The second was Max standing behind him, arms wrapped around him. The third was the same, except for the very obvious tilt of Max’s head, the pressing of his lips to Charles’s neck, the way Charles was giving him the space to do so.

Just as he thought. Photo of the century.

“Where the fuck were they to take those?!” Max muttered, a low growl of anger in his voice, pulling his hand away from Charles to zoom in on the pictures.

“We’re finding out who it was, don’t worry. But I wanted to tell you, because I think…”

“Yeah, yeah, we need to be more careful. In my own fucking apartment.” He flopped back against the sofa, running a hand over his face. “It’s never been this bad before.”

“This story is bigger than just F1 media now, Max. It’s broken into mainstream. There’s going to be twice as much attention on it.”

Charles had to stand and walk away, pushing a hand through his wet hair, trying to compose his thoughts. There was no denying it now. Not that they were trying to deny it before, they absolutely weren’t. Their statement made that obvious. But this was so… blatant. So strangely out of place in the world of a sport that relied on the stories of rivalries.

And to make it all worse, they’d only said ‘I love you’ to each other for the first time the previous night. Now the entire world had a visual of their intimacy.

The silence had sat in the room for a while now, Anna giving them to space to think. Seemingly though, Max had given up trying to communicate, so Charles stepped in. “Anna, we’ll call you back in a few hours. We need to talk about how to…” Well, he didn’t know. Not tackle it, there was nothing to be done. Process it, maybe. Either way, she understood.

“Absolutely. Whenever you’re ready.” Without pushing anything else, she was hanging up, leaving the silence to hang in the room. Charles stood there, staring back at Max, who had his eyes fixed on his phone, at the picture, disbelief and anger plastered across his expression.

Slowly, Charles stepped back to him, sitting where he was before, removing his phone from his hand and placing it back down on the coffee table. “Max…?”

There was a chuckle falling from Max, a bitter one, a humourless one, putting Charles on edge. He looked back at him, eyes wide, a little unsure, waiting. When Max finally did speak, the words felt like a punch to the gut.

“He’s going to see… Dad’s going to see them.”

Chapter 10: Loud

Notes:

Just a note on timelines that I'm sure no one really cares about, but in case you do...
I make reference to Laurent here, because Red Bull needs to be coming across as somewhat competent and helpful, and caring, and with Horner at the helm I wouldn't have used any of those three words to describe the team. So I guess that this timeline is, for this fic, the 2025 season with canon divergency because I'm taking some real things (like Laurent becoming team principle) but then not actually following races and real results. I dunno, it's fiction, we all know this. I just wanted to make a caveat!
(Also by referencing Laurent I can do some Horner bashing and we all love that, I know we do.)
((Also some Ferrari bashing has started. There will be more. I will update the tags.))

The tv hummed low in the background, a constant companion of noise. Charles was sure he had seen corners of Max’s apartment he had never seen before, as he paced around, phone glued to his ear, conversation low and serious. He and Max were the same, with the anxious pacing, and after the third glare they’d shot each other as they almost collided, or drowned the other out with their own conversation, they silently agreed to pace in opposite directions. Half way through that, though, Charles had been reminded that pacing wasn’t resting, and he’d sat back down on the sofa with a clear sulk on his face.

Max would’ve found it both equally amusing and adorable if he hadn’t agreed with the sentiment.

Finding out who they could trust in this circus was something they’d both thought they’d nailed, spent long enough honing, understanding, work already done. It seemed that, for some, that level of trust and loyalty only went so far before the pull of larger offerings of money was far more appealing than supporting someone they’d worked with for years. Suddenly, and more jarringly than Max would like to admit, the inner circle had shrunk significantly.

Because the location of Max's apartment, and a place to get a clear shot of it, could've only come from within.

“You could get on the boat?”

“No, that’s worse. They could follow them easily. At least with the apartment there are laws.”

“Laws that they don’t care about breaking.”

“Unfortunately, no laws were broken with those photographs.”

“I’d beg to differ.”

Max pinched the bridge of his nose as he listened to the back and forth. He knew getting GP involved was a long shot. He was methodical, pragmatic, calm, all the qualities he needed in a race engineer. A PR person, however, he was not. But with that shrinking inner circle, Max trusted GP more than he trusted his own…

He had to stop that train of thought before it ended up crashing into something solid and unforgiving. Like the truth.

“Can I just…?” They fell silent as he cut in. There was only four of them, including Max, on the call. Anna, GP, and Laurent of all people, who was already taking a far more active interest in the wellbeing of his drivers in the few races he’d been principal than Horner did in twenty years. But Max didn’t want to get into that mentally right now either. “We’re fine in the apartment. For now. What we need is proper security. These guys have only been assigned for a few days, no? We’re going to need longer term.”

“Yes,” Laurent agreed quickly. “We still need you in Milton Keynes at the end of the week for the sim testing. I’m sure Ferrari will want Charles in Maranello as planned also. They’ll need to arrange security with him for that.”

“Can’t we do that?” The words tumbled out of Max’s mouth before he caught them. The silence sat on the other end of the phone for a moment, the unspoken ‘why? That isn’t our responsibility.’ “I don’t trust Ferrari to get decent people.” That was half the truth. And it was true. He wouldn’t trust Ferrari with anything as important, given their recent showing of poor… well, everything. But the other half of it was simple. Max was a control freak. And he knew when he had decent people around him. If a team of security /his/ team had approved was around Charles, he knew he’d be safe. But the silence the other end of the phone held, and Max felt the anger bubbling slowly. “Why not?” He thought at least GP would speak up in his defence, but even he was holding the silence. “Because he isn’t part of our team?! If I was in a relationship with someone not in the sport, and we needed protection, it would come from within the team!”

“So we’re calling it a relationship now?”

“Don’t fucking start, GP!”

There was a soft chuckle, soft enough for Max to know that GP was gently teasing, breaking the tension, giving Laurent time to rethink his position. Maybe Laurent didn’t know well enough yet what happens when Max Verstappen doesn’t get what he wants. GP knew full well. It was in his best interest to steer the new principal in the right direction. For everyone’s sake.

“You make a good point, Max. But do you really think Ferrari would let anyone employed by Red Bull into the factory in Maranello?” Laurent reminded, voice a little coaxing. He must be reading the situation correctly, reading how emotional Max was about it.

“They can accompany him to the doors though, can’t they? And be there again when he leaves. Be with him at the apartment.” Slowly, Max was standing from the bed, moving to the doorway of the bedroom, leaning against the frame so he could watch Charles. He was still sat on the sofa, expression serious, concentrating as he listened to what Mia and whoever else his inner circle had become were saying. With a sigh, Max rested his head against the frame, imagining trailing his fingers up his back, his neck, into his hair, caressing carefully, seeping the tension from Charles, relaxing his tense muscles, removing the worry from his bones and tucking him safe behind closed doors where no one could get to him. “Please. Whilst we figure out what to do. By the time we get to the next race, we’ll know how to play it.”

“We will organise something,” Laurent was saying, a little tired, a little like he was giving in against his will, but Max didn’t care. He’d got what he wanted. There was quiet muttering in the background, and then Laurent saying he was leaving the call to get some plans made. Max waited until he knew he was gone, eyes still fixed on Charles. “I don’t trust Ferrari, GP. I don’t trust them to look after him.”

“I know, mate,” GP replied gently, in that tone that he did when he was sympathising with Max, but they both knew there was nothing he could do about the situation. “Let’s see what Laurent can do, okay?”

“Mm…”

“Max, I need to know what Charles’s team is saying to do next. I need to know if they’re pushing for another statement,” Anna said after a moment.

“Can’t you find that out yourself?” Max sighed, irritated.

“They’ve gone quiet on me. There’s only so much…”

“Yes, yes, fine,” Max cut her off, running a hand over his face with another sigh. “We haven’t spoken about next steps, not really.” It was only minutes after they’d hung up from Anna, after seeing the pictures, that Max had called back. Charles had shut down, if he was honest. Didn’t have much to articulate. Instead, he was moving to his own phone, calling his team, tumbling into Italian with them, and Max had just decided it was best to follow suit. They hadn’t spoken about what they wanted to do next. Them. As a… couple? Could he say couple? He supposed now he could. “We’ll talk. Call you back.”

“Speak to you soon.”

He heard Anna hang up, and waited a beat. “GP? You still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here Max.”

“About what happened, during the race. What I did. I’m…”

“There’s no need mate,” GP cut in before he could finish. “It’s… it doesn’t matter now. It happened. Let’s focus on this.”

He could’ve let it go then, he really could’ve. Taken GP’s words at face value and used it to duck out. But he wanted to be the bigger person in this, he really did. “I’m sorry for what I did, GP. I shouldn’t have compromised the team like that.”

There was silence for a moment, and Max could tell GP was processing. He didn’t exactly apologise often, so it really meant something when he did. “I know. I…” It seemed for a second like GP was struggling with his words, and Max wished he could see his face, read his expression. “I don’t condone what you did, and you won’t ever do it again. That is a warning.” There was a tease in his tone, but Max knew he meant the threat. And he heard, loud and clear. “But I get why you did it. If I’m honest, I don’t think I fully understood your feelings for Charles.”

“Yeah, well… I never said it, did I? Why would you?”

A slight scoff was tumbling through the phone, and it made Max grin. “Because I know you better than you know yourself sometimes?” GP offered with a chuckle. “When you get to the factory, when we’ve had the team meeting, dealt with all the shit, we’ll sit down and go through it. Discuss how you’d want to play it in the future. But I suppose not sneaking around now, it’ll be easier?”

“Guess so,” Max agreed, but with no enthusiasm. He couldn’t even consider that right now.

“We’ll find a way to make it all work, Max. You know we will.”

“I know /we/ will. It’s not really us I’m worried about.”

With a sigh, and that same sympathetic tone as before, GP was repeating his words, the only words he probably could think to say right now, when nothing was going to help. “I know, mate. I know.”

They said their goodbyes after that, hanging up, and Max slowly walked back into the living room, to Charles still tumbling a mixture of French and Italian phrases down the phone, a far more urgent and pressing feel to it all than Max’s conversation had been.

His eyes, darker now despite the sunlight cascading in through the windows, were darting to Max as he came into his periphery. Offering him a weak smile, Max trailed a hand over his shoulder as he passed, heading into the kitchen and going to the fridge. Of course, there was his usual stock of Red Bull lined up in there, so he grabbed a can and opened it. He couldn’t help but take a moment to stare at it, sat in his hand. It was an iconic image now. Max Verstappen was rarely seen without a Red Bull in his hand. But the irony was, he wasn’t even sure when he started liking it, but he certainly didn’t in the beginning when he joined the team. The flavour was strange to him, far too sweet, far too artificial. Not quite fruity, but not the molasses undertones of cola. But his trainer at the time had drilled in to him that coffee should be a no go, realistically, and Red Bull was the next best caffeine hit.

What a PR stunt. It worked though. Max was pretty sure he was addicted. He’d have to cold turkey if he wanted to stop drinking it. Maybe he should try that?

He was dragged from his thoughts by Charles’s slightly raising voice, definitely Italian this time. That was something Max had noticed in recent years. Charles rarely shouted in French, only in joking moments with Pierre, or on team challenge videos for Sky, or YouTube. When he was angry, he shouted in Italian.

Probably because it was usually directed at his Italian team…

Still, it shook Max back into the present, and he was casting his eyes over the fridge again. Charles wouldn’t drink Red Bull, wouldn’t ever. He didn’t drink coffee either. So he poured him another glass of orange juice and cautiously stepped back into the living room, placing the glass down in front of him on the coffee table. There was a flicker of recognition, of a smile, an unspoken ‘thank you’, but he didn’t touch it. Max suspected he probably wouldn’t. He sat in the chair opposite the sofa, eyes glancing up at the now muted tv, the news rolling slowly across the bottom of the screen. It was the sport section of the morning programme, with football results, something about golf. And then there it was, like it was waiting for the perfect moment they were both back in the room.

Their photographs flashed on screen. Individually at first. Official team photos, the ones that were wheeled out for every damn occasion. The ones that they hardly even thought about at the start of the season and then were forced to stare at for the rest of the year. And then, just as Max was reaching for the remote, the pictures from this morning were shown. God, they were even better quality than Max had realised, more than obvious when splashed across his huge, expensive, high-end flatscreen tv. Fucking hell.

Charles’s gaze was fixed on the screen, eyes narrowed, glaring like it would make a difference. Max watched it happen, the way he was taking in every single pixel, analysing every single part of it. His bare thighs, a peak of underwear showing underneath the hoodie that sat over his hips. The RB hoodie, the dark blue harsh against his tanned skin. And more than that, it was Max’s own team kit hoodie, with his name and number and signature as the design. Because of course it was. Because the universe was that spiteful.

So spiteful in fact, that despite the way Max had been stood behind him, he was clearly just enough to one side of him that his entire side profile was so clearly on show, in nothing but underwear, the curve of his arse in the tight fabric, the light definition of his abs melting into Charles’s form as he pressed into his side, arms wrapped around Charles’s middle, sinching in the oversized hoodie.

And then there was their expressions. That was probably the hardest part of the photos for Max, in reality. Because Charles looked so /soft/, so /happy/, for just that one moment to be wrapped in the arms of his lover. No matter what else was going on in the world, it was just the two of them there in that moment, sharing it together, in the cool morning of the Monaco sunrise, like they were just normal people enjoying a lazy rise on a day off.

But they weren’t, were they? Because photos had been taken of them sharing that moment. If they had just been normal people, they would’ve been allowed that in peace.

Max’s own expression wasn’t visible, with his face being pressed to Charles’s neck as he’d delivered kisses to his hot skin. But he could remember it. He could remember the way his lips had softly curved, the way they brushed down slightly raised, bumpy skin, a combination of the cool breeze and the stubble growing just under his jaw. He could remember the content sigh that had left him, ghosting from Charles’s skin back to his own lips. He could remember how quiet and settled it had felt, just for that one moment.

A moment he didn’t want to view as a mistake, he really didn’t, but…

His thumb was stabbing at the button of the remote before his brain had caught up, and the screen went black in an instant, so Charles was now glaring at his own reflection staring back at him, accusatory, mocking. Max watched him look away, back down to the coffee table, to the glass of orange juice in front of him. It seemed to spur on a reaction, because within the next thirty seconds Charles was saying his goodbyes (Max could catch and understand a few words of Italian, he had been paying some attention over the last few years) and was hanging up the phone, dropping it down onto the sofa next to him and leaning back with a groan that Max knew wasn’t just frustration. The tension in his body was aching. Yet another reason this all needed to fucking stop.

Running his hands over his face, Charles pushed his glasses back on to look over at Max. “Mia wants to know…”

“Yeah, I know,” Max muttered, leaning back, resting his ankle over his knee. “Anna wants to know as well.” He couldn’t help for a moment as a grin clawed it’s way across his face. His cheeky grin. His ‘I know I’m probably going to get into trouble for this’ grin. “Fuck ‘em, leave them squirming for a few hours.”

For a moment Charles’s expression held serious, unfaltering, and Max wondered if he’d read the situation a little wrong. But then, much to his relief, a smirk broke across his face, and Max had to resist the urge to just climb into his lap and run his thumbs over his cheeks, into the dimples his grin made. He did resist. Just. “Interesting approach, Verstappen,” Charles teased, and the tone that dripped from his words made Max’s fingers grip the arm of the chair a little to continue to resist. “What do we do in the meantime?”

Oh, Max wanted to flirt. He really did. He wanted to flirt back, make suggestions, use the look he knew Charles just couldn’t resist, and lead him into the bedroom to show him exactly how they could spend the next few hours. And maybe later… maybe. But right now, there were things to discuss. Difficult things. Things they shouldn’t ignore anymore.

So with a final grin that he knew Charles would read as an acknowledgement he truly enjoyed that interaction, he was standing again, moving over to the sofa and sinking down next to Charles, taking a sip of Red Bull before placing the can down on the coffee table next to the glass of orange juice. Charles, notably, chose not to comment.

“So, I guess…” Charles began.

“So, do we…” Max started at the same time, both bursting out into laughter as they faltered, cut each other off, sharing grins between them. It wasn’t awkward though, it could never be awkward between them. Instead, Charles reached out, taking Max’s hand from his lap, tangling their fingers slowly, watching the digits slot together as the silence hung for a moment and they gathered their thoughts.

“I was thinking…” Charles began again, holding the space for a second like he was expecting that moment for Max to start trying to speak again too. He caught his gaze, and grinned again, before settling to carry on. “What you said before, about not seeing this for what it is, because we weren’t allowed to just… be in it.” He paused, Max left the space. “I felt that maybe we’d been… well, while we’d been hiding it…” Max tried to keep his expression neutral, but he wanted to smile. Gently, fondly. Because Charles struggling to articulate something like this was probably the most adorable thing he’d ever seen. He loved it. “Do you think the reason we hadn’t named this, us, anything was because we were hiding it? So it felt like we just… couldn’t. Because we couldn’t be a normal couple, do normal things like holding hands out in the street, kissing each other goodbye. You know, normal stuff.” He kept using that word. Normal. Max felt it, every time he said it, like a punch in the gut. And with each use of the word, his grip tightened on Charles’s fingers. He couldn’t be angry at how much it hurt though, it wasn’t Charles’s fault. He was worryingly right. “So now…” There was that pause again, like Charles was waiting for Max to jump in and rescue. Or maybe disagree. He didn’t know. “Now, if we don’t have to hide it, maybe we could…” He looked up at Max, his expression so hopeful it made Max want to crawl away into a corner and shut the world out.

How the hell was he supposed to cradle that fragile hope in his hands and not break it?

The gap of silence held again whilst Max thought of a way to respond. Because yes, absolutely, in an ideal and less cruel world, that would be how simple it was. They weren’t hiding it anymore, so now they could just be. They could be a couple, so they could call themselves a couple. Affirm it. Make it a solid thing. Be 'official'. Label. But there so much more to it than that. Charles knew that of course, it was obvious he knew that. But his hopefulness was bleeding in to it, pushing, his idealistic romance that this suddenly had an obvious and easy solution clouding his words.

“There’s still a lot to deal with though, liefde. They’re going to make it hell for us.” They. Max wasn’t really sure himself who he was referencing there. Probably everyone, all of it. “It isn’t just going to be easy. It’s not going to be like the other’s get, with their girlfriends.” And the intrusions they got were bad enough. Cameras on them during breaks, taking photos of them in swimwear on their boats, following them through the streets in their home towns, judging every dress they wore for every red carpet event, shoving the camera in their faces every time they were stood in the garage with the team. It was all of that, but spun a million times worse.

“But we can deal with that, no? It’ll be hard, for sure. Not simple. But… we deal with all of it anyway?” Max had to look away then, from that hopeful, pleading gaze, sending his eyes down to his lap where their hands were now rested, fingers still pressed together. It was rare to see Charles with no jewellery on. He slept in some bracelets, the ones that were leather or fabric. But he hadn’t yet put any rings on. His fingers without them looked so empty, even though Max was most likely the one that saw them like that most often. He used one of his fingers to caress down each digit slowly, feeling uninterrupted skin, then back up to the back of his hand where the bruise was continuing to form. He never did ask if it was the steering wheel snapping back or debris from the barrier. Not that it mattered. But that was exactly the type of thing he always asked, should’ve asked, and would’ve if this hadn’t have all happened.

“They will try to control it, Charles. They’ll control the story, the narrative. They’ll twist everything. They’ll make on track rivalry a problem, even if we come nowhere near each other for half the season. They’ll make team politics an issue. They’ll put on so much pressure that eventually our teams will snap, won’t want to support it.”

That was a lot of words and a lot of assumptions for a situation that neither of them, and actually no one ever, had experienced before. But once he started, Max couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop the tumble of worry, of letting out the inner demons, of all the things he had thought since the moment he had Charles had stopped being a quick fuck in a hotel room between a win and a team celebration, and started becoming making love just after sunrise in the comfort of a hidden hotel on a Monday morning after the fans had left and the press had gone, and they could’ve been the only two people in the world for all they cared.

Charles was on the words in an instant.

“Are we talking about the media now, Max, or are we talking about your father?”

The tension immediately sprung into Max’s shoulders. Charles’s words weren’t unkind, or bitten, or angry, but they were right on the money, and he felt the breath catch in his throat as he tried to come out with a normal sounding response.

Nothing came. So Charles pushed.

“He doesn’t have to be involved in this.”

“He’s my father.” That was response was simple. Instant.

“People have relationships with partners their families don’t like all the time.”

Slowly, Max pulled his gaze back up to Charles, and for a second he felt like that lost little boy, aged six, listening to his parents shout and scream, doors slamming, the house shaking with it, the bitten words and phrases floating through the walls and reaching the ears of two children that should never have heard such things. The breakdown of their relationship wasn’t because someone else didn’t agree with it, but it was because of Max. It was because Max was going to race, going to be a World Champion, and his Dad was going to make sure he got there. He’d seen what the world of Formula One, or rather the allure of it, had done to them.

“He’s my manager,” was the next thing out of Max’s mouth, because sometimes, and actually for a very long time now, that was far more what Jos had been to him than his father. He knew he didn’t have a ‘normal’ father-son relationship with him. He never had. And he’d never really spoken about it, hadn’t wanted to. But Charles understood. Charles understood far more than he ever should. That put Max on edge. But in that moment, what it boiled down to was simple. His father controlled his career, to a point, and on top of that had an emotional hold on him that only parents could.

That was an exceptionally dangerous place to be, when it teetered on the edge like this.

But Charles’s next phrase was uttered so casually, and yet held so much weight, that Max for a second felt like his brakes had failed in the tunnel at Monaco and he was heading straight for the wall at the chicane. It was sudden, it was unexpected. And somehow, he’d honestly never really thought of it before.

“He doesn’t have to be.”

Blinking back at Charles like he’d just said his words in a mixture of French, Italian, and whatever other languages Charles knew, Max felt utterly sideswiped. No words were coming. No reaction, even. He just stared, pale eyes questioning and unsure, hand still tangled with Charles’s but now limp rested on his thigh, blinks slow, brain processing.

No. He didn’t have to be.

He didn’t have to be.

“Is that what you’re most worried about? Him? And the media? Is that why you wouldn’t want…” Charles had trailed off, but Max was still trying to catch up, still trying to settle on the fact that just because his father had managed his whole career, didn't mean he didn't have options in the future.

“Wouldn’t want what?” he mumbled, almost absentmindedly, whilst he tried to understand the somersaults his logic was doing in that moment.

“Why you wouldn’t want a relationship with me.”

Wading through the words, making them register, took far longer than it should’ve, and Max only realised that to his horror after the silence between them had lasted long enough to make Charles begin to pull his hand back slowly, his body slump a little, that positive hopefulness begin to melt away from his expression, his beautiful eyes, and morph into something far too close to grief for Max to ever want to handle.

“What?” That was the only thing Max could think to whisper, initially. Because that was such an insane suggestion. Charles really thought Max would just walk away now? He really thought, after those pictures were out in the world, that he’d just declare it too hard, and step back? How could he go back on the last six, ten, years? No, no. Never.

But if he caught up with himself, which he’d now just about managed, he could definitely see how his hesitant ‘what ifs’ had been interpreted as such.

Shit.

“No, no, Charles…” Max was moving now, up onto his knees on the sofa for some reason, trying to get closer, gripping Charles’s hand tighter, until he remembered the bruise and he was loosening his grip again. “I wouldn’t… all of that, it wouldn’t…”

Breathe.

So, he took a deep inhale in, imagining for some stupid reason GP inside his helmet telling him to let it all go, get his head down and push through, find the balance, find the rhythm, effectively stop being a dick. It seemed to help. Something he didn’t wish to unpack right now, and something he certainly would never give the smug bastard the satisfaction of telling him.

“I want to be with you. That is never going to change. And yes, now the world has seen, we won’t have to sneak around anymore. But… I don’t want to be… public. We don’t need to be secretive, sure, but it still has to be private.” Very private.

Charles shifted how he was sat a little, having to look up at Max now he knelt above him. He was processing now too, Max could tell. “I think we’re… we’re crossing over separate issues here,” he said quietly, but he was still looking up at Max with a level of awe that the Dutchman wasn’t quite sure he deserved, and certainly wasn’t sure why. “Yes, we can be private. We should be. The media will spin stories about us. The team might struggle with the PR. Your Dad will hate it, might try to end it. There’s a lot of things to go wrong here.” Charles’s voice was distant, a little lost, but that layer of hope was back again.

Nodding along, Max was still holding one hand, but the other was rising gently to his cheek, resting so carefully he almost hardly added pressure, and his thumb was swiping back and forth across Charles’s cheekbone in a rhythmic movement, reassuring, grounding. “Yes. So why are you looking at me like that?” Max replied, his own tone light, quiet, a tiny element of that wonder that Charles was staring at him with creeping into his own words.

“Because you just said you want to be with me.”

Despite all that. Despite everything. Yes, he had said that. In fact, he’d listed a million and one reasons why actually them being together was a horrible idea, difficult, something that would just make their high pressured, stressful, fast-paced lives harder, and then gone and said ‘but actually, fuck all that, because it’s worth it’.

And it was. It was so worth it. It would be so worth it. They just had to accept the fight along the way. A fight neither of them wanted to have, but were now forced in to. A fight, really, of their own making, but they were outgunned and outmatched tenfold.

Still, in that moment, hold up in Max’s apartment with the world outside clawing at their door, desperate for the next piece of gossip to splash over every single Instagram, YouTube video, and news outlet, the only thing Max was seeing was Charles’s ocean green eyes looking back at him with that hopefulness that they had signed their rookie season contracts with all those years ago. His Dad’s putrid, acid words sat heavy in the back of his mind, Anna’s tired, resigned media speel ran fifty circles in his brain, GP’s haunting ‘him or the win, what are you choosing?’ bounced back and forth into his consciousness. And it was loud. It was all /so loud/. And he honestly didn’t know in that moment if love could possibly be louder than all that.

But he wanted to find out.

Chapter 11: You're Mine, Not Theirs

It was obvious how loud it was in Max’s head. It was that loud in Charles’s head too. But he’d learnt to tune it out, long ago. Grief did that to a person. Especially continuous, unrelenting grief. But Charles could see it behind Max’s eyes, behind the ice blue, the glinting grey. He held the same kind of grief, but just from different trauma. A different kind of loss. It caused the same desperate need to be loved though, to be held, to be looked after. The inner child screaming for something he didn’t get. Charles recognised the signs like he was looking in a mirror.

Reaching up, he cradled Max’s jaw gently, watching the way he melted into the touch slowly, leaning closer, still on his knees above Charles. Running his thumb over Max’s bottom lip carefully, a gentle pressure, he knew even then it was enough to make his eyelids flutter, his brain slow just a little, one step removed from the horrendous noise. So he swiped his thumb again, watching Max’s eyes drop closed completely at the touch, the hand that had been on Charles’s cheek bracing against the back of the sofa, the other hand coming to grab at Charles’s wrist carefully, hold him there, near enough desperately. And Charles would’ve reached up, pulled him in, he really would’ve, but he knew it would hurt. Max knew too. So he was doing the work for them both, wasting no time in hooking one knee over Charles, straddling his lap. Though his movements were so careful, so precise, not placing a single piece of strain on Charles’s body he knew he couldn’t take.

His weight settling on his lap was comforting though, and Charles rested his hands back on his hips, thumbs slipping underneath his t-shirt, caressing his hot skin. Leaning forward, but not pressing weight on his chest, Max rested his forehead against Charles’s, a perfect opportunity for Charles to send his hands up his arched back, pushing the fabric of t-shirt with the movement. He watched Max’s eyes drop closed again, saw the way he was fighting to shut off his mind, deaden the noise, focus in on Charles’s touch and try to let it carry him instead.

Charles had no idea how long they sat there for, just pressed together, the room silent enough that he was sure he could hear their heartbeats thrumming between them. However long it was, enough time had passed that when Max finally spoke, it jolted him a little.

“We should probably move,” he whispered, and Charles could feel his breath ghosting across his lips.

“Probably,” Charles returned, equally a whisper, hands still running up and down Max’s hot skin under his t-shirt. Neither of them wanted to, that much was obvious. Charles wondered, actually, if they both could’ve stayed there the whole day if no one else moved them.

There was an external force that had to move them, though. There were things they had to do.

“Four races until summer break,” Charles reminded softly, for both their benefit. “Then we can sit like this for days if we want.”

With a soft chuckle, Max was pulling back gently, enough that Charles had to drop his hands down his back, settling on his hips again. “I suppose now we can go on one of the boats and we don’t have to worry about being seen,” Max sighed but there was grimace in his tone, and on his face. Charles sympathised with the reaction. But he supposed it was no worse than a few years ago, when they were both with girlfriends and followed by the press. In fact, perhaps that had been worse, because they had to look at the photos of one another with someone else whilst…

He clipped that one before it went too far into a resentment spiral he’d spent many a day sat in before. That was before. This was now.

Max was carefully climbing from his lap, pressing a kiss to his head as he went. “What’s next?” Charles asked as he pushed himself to stand, raising his hands above his head to stretch, a wince following, but less than it had been. It didn’t feel as bad as it had the previous day. He hoped. Maybe he was just convincing himself it wasn’t. The physio said it would take a couple of days to stop aching, but he’d been fine to race the following week. Part of him wished it was this week they were racing.

“I suppose we need to figure out what we want to do when we travel to… Spielberg?” Max sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before looking back at Charles. “Is it the fucking Red Bull Ring next?” he muttered, the absolute disdain clear in his voice.

Despite the fact Charles knew why Max was despairing, he couldn’t help but grin, knowing, almost unsympathetic, the kind of jibing that they’d always done to one another since they were kids. “What’s the matter? Cringing at the fact that the next race is at the home of RB, and as the poster child, the media are going to be wanting you even more than…”

“Shut up,” Max muttered, loud, over the top of Charles’s smug words, but his smirk that followed assured Charles he wasn’t really angry. “Wait until you get to Monza,” he shot back.

“Zandvoort is first,” Charles immediately replied, smug, final, and Max had nothing to say to that one.

They both burst into laughter then, Charles pressing a hand into his side at the ache as they doubled over. Max was the first to find his composure, stepping up next to Charles and gently helping him to stand straight again. “Careful,” he murmured, barely audible, pressing a kiss to his temple. The laughter petered out after that, the air in the room settling serious again. They found themselves wandering into the kitchen, and Max began searching through the few things he’d put into the cupboards yesterday for something breakfast appropriate.

“I’m just going to… put it out there,” Charles began, and Max glanced around with a ‘hmm?’ before turning back to the cupboard. “I’ll just ask the obvious question. How do we want to… be? In front of everyone.” They had to start somewhere, and he figured realistically that was the most obvious option.

“Well,” Max started, hands occupied with getting things out of the cupboard, pouring granola into bowls. “We aren’t just going to be able to be ‘coupley’ instantly, are we? Apart from, you know…” He made a gesture towards the balcony, one Charles could only assume meant photographers, journalists. “We just aren’t used to being like that in the open. So it’s going to be weird.”

“That’s what I was thinking. But they’re going to read in to it if it seems off. If we don’t seem comfortable touching each other.”

“They’re going to read in to it no matter what we do, Charles,” Max sighed, placing a bowl in front of him, going to the fridge for milk.

“True,” Charles muttered in reply, taking the spoon Max had dumped in the bowl, poking at the granola. “But it would be nice to be able to kiss you good luck before we get in the car.”

Max turned from the fridge, eyebrow raised, holding the milk in his hand. “You’d be happy with people taking photos of that?”

For a moment, Charles’s face contorted into something complicated, layered, and his gaze dropped away from Max to the counter top, taking in the grain of the marble. Well, fuck. He didn’t… that wasn’t… he felt a frown drop onto his face as the realisation hit him, and he was dragging his eyes back to Max. “No… maybe I wouldn’t,” he admitted. “Would you?”

Shaking his head slowly, Max came to stand the other side of the kitchen island, placing the carton of milk down next to the bowls. “No.” His answer was more defiant, more sure, far more sure than Charles’s answer. Their eyes met again, Max’s hand rested on the milk carton, Charles’s hand reaching out for it. Fuck this. Absolutely fuck it.

“So what, we’re like we’ve always been. Just distant? Like we are with everyone, as if we're not together?” Charles felt the anger bubble as he thought about it. The only thing that was worse than having to hold back from each other in front of the cameras, was people commenting on the fact they were holding themselves back because they knew the truth.

“We don’t have to be distant, schat, we just…” Max sighed, shaking his head, gripping the milk carton himself and unscrewing the top, pouring some into the bowl. Charles held his breath. Because was he really leaving it there? Was he really not going to communicate now?

“What?” Charles pushed, finding himself glaring for a moment at Max. He didn’t mean to, he really didn’t. But the world outside was going mad at the thought of them having this very conversation. He wasn’t going to let it become nothing now.

With a shrug that only served to piss Charles off even further, Max was placing the milk carton back down just within his reach. Charles kept his gaze fixed on him, eyes narrowing, waiting. Pushing. “Not distant. Just… private.”

Unable to help the sigh of frustration that came out of his mouth, Charles took a step away from the counter. “What does that even mean?” he muttered, irritation clear.

“Fuck sake, Charles, it means that we’re drivers and when people talk about us, I want them to talk about our races, not about the way we kiss!” His voice raised enough for Charles’s eyes to widen, and though he didn’t flinch, he did feel himself backing off just a little more, away from the worktop. “And I want our kisses to be for us, not for the entire fucking world!”

His breathing had elevated a little, and it was aching. Subconsciously he pressed a hand into his side, forcing himself to take a deeper breath. But it wasn’t really working. “But we have a right to kiss whenever we want, Max! We should be able to!”

“We lost that right when we signed as F1 drivers, Charles. We knew what we were getting in to, we knew what it was like!”

Wrong. They knew what it would be like dating women outside the sport. Someone within the sport? Worse. Another driver? Unimaginable.

“And are we going to be like that for the rest of our lives?! We spend thirty-five weeks a year on track. If we were leaving wives at home, it would be bad enough. But we’re right next to each other, for the whole year. Right next to each other, and not touching. What kind of a relationship is that?!” Charles couldn’t help his raised voice, hand pressing harder into his side to try and stop the ache, try and brace, and much to his annoyance his eyes were welling with tears.

“It’s no different to how it has been, Charles.” Max had dropped calmer now, and it was only serving to make Charles angrier.

“But it is Max, because now they know!”

The Dutchman’s eyes shot up to Charles then, fixed on him, cold as ice and as pale as the winter mornings. “Yes, they know. Isn’t that enough, that they know?” His voice was so steady, so stoic, Charles felt the anxiety rise in his chest. “Isn’t it enough that they get to know? Why should they get to see it?”

Despite Max’s now dangerously calm demeanour, Charles was vibrating with the anger, unable to keep a lid on it like Max was, unable to keep his voice calm and steady. Instead, it was shaking, volume still raised. “Because I love you, and I want to be able to love you out loud, whenever I want!”

His distress clearly made Max snap, because his next words were now also shouted, also shaky, cutting through the otherwise silent apartment. “And I love you too, but you’re mine, not theirs!”

And the room stilled. The cats had made their retreat a few minutes ago, when the discussion had started to get heated. Now all Charles could hear was the distant scratch of one of them attacking one of the many cat trees scattered around the place. Otherwise, nothing. Well, not nothing. The faint tick of the clock in the living room, the closer, incessant drip of the tap into the sink. The distant wash of the water in the harbour through the open windows. And Max’s elevated breathing, rhythmic, fast, mirroring Charles’s own.

Only the second time they’d said that to each other, and it was shout across the kitchen. Not shouted in anger though, but in frustration. In pain. The thing that ebbed through the room in that moment was shared pain.

Granola going soggy slowly in the bowl, Max stepped around the island, moving towards Charles. He couldn’t help the frown that flickered over his face, and he also couldn’t help the way he moved backwards from Max’s motion either. He didn’t know why. They stared at each other again, Charles’s hesitation making Max still again. And Charles waited, knowing Max was going to say more. He could tell, that look in his eye, desperate to explain himself. It was the same expression he walked into the garage with after a fucked qualifying, the same look he approached GP with. An intrinsic, engrained need to make it all better with his words.

Charles knew where it came from. It came from his arsehole father. He hated it. But he was ashamed to admit that, right now, he was going to let it happen.

“Why should they get you? Any more of you? They get enough, the things they make us do. The things Ferrari make you do. The world gets enough.” He was hesitating, but he was taking a half step closer again. Charles didn’t back away this time. “They don’t get to have us. I don’t want them to have a single second of us. What they’ve got already is bad enough. Those pictures?” He pointed back to the tv in the living room. “The fact they have those pictures? I hate it, schat, I /hate/ it.” He moved closer again, and Charles held his nerve, eyes still fixed on his face, the tears welled and held there but not falling onto his cheeks. He wanted to fight it, he didn’t want to tears to fall. But if Max kept going, he feared he wouldn’t have much say in the matter. “Imagine what they’ll do when they don’t have to sneak around for it. When it’s where they’re allowed to be. When it’s all perfectly posed for them with fucking brand advertising and team colours and pre-arranged photo ops.” And then the tears fell from Charles's eyes, slowly at first, just a few. But Max kept going. “We are products. As people, we are fucking products. Alone, that’s bad enough. Together… together we’re a commodity that they will never want to put down.” He’d reached Charles now, stood in front of him, fingertips grazing slowly down his arm, but not really daring to touch more than that. Charles was still vibrating with the emotion, the desperation, trying to understand, and be understood. “They don’t get to have that. I don’t want them to have us like that…”

Slowly, Charles dragged a shaky inhale into his lungs, wincing at the way it pulled, stretched, burnt. And he couldn’t hold his gaze anymore. Instead, his head bowed, eyes falling to the floor, tears tumbling now properly. He watched a couple of tears land on the wooden floor, feeling utterly rung out. He thought maybe, finally, the adrenaline from the crash was properly leaving his body. He was exhausted, emotional, wrecked. He just wanted to sleep, and then get back in his car and send it 200mph down a straight.

Instead, he was stood in the middle of Max’s kitchen, wanting to just scream into a void of nothingness that it wasn’t fair. None of it was fair. Why should they have to hold back? Why should they have to think, consider, that the media would own every single facet of their relationship? Why should they have to fucking hide?

But Max was right. The alternative was so much worse. They hardly had any pictures together, for fear of them being leaked. Well, that was untrue. They had thousands of pictures together. Two seconds of searching the internet would throw up millions of results, in fact. But as a couple? Looking like they were a couple? Charles could think of only a few pictures on his phone that he held dearly, had saved in their own folder, where no one else would find them. One was the night of his Monza win last year, after they’d made it back to the hotel, and Max had made love to him in a way Charles was sure he never had before. He'd taken a photo of them after, laid with his head on Max’s chest, hair mussed, Max’s hand buried there, both of them happily exhausted. He wanted to remember that moment forever, and whilst the photo felt like a risk, he took it.

The other, though, was far more of a risk. Something that would be worth tens of thousands to a journalist, probably. Las Vegas, 2024. Max’s fourth World Championship win. Charles had held back. He’d held back for what felt like hours, though it wasn’t that long. He was being dramatic. But fairly so. Unable to congratulate Max properly had been torture. And then Pierre had appeared at his side, pulled him away from the conversation he was having, ignoring the incessant questioning Charles was giving him about where he was taking him. He was led back into the cooldown room, now without cameras, without other drivers. Corridors surrounding it empty, no one in sight, everyone else off on the grid or in the garages. But stood in the middle of the cooldown room was Max, race suit unzipped, like Charles’s, clutching his trophy, beaming at Charles. “Max wanted a photo with you, my chick. A photo the press couldn’t take.”
It made Charles’s heart ache, in the best way, and he’d thrown himself at Max, not caring Pierre was in the room (he’d seen them kiss before, it was nothing new), kissing him until Pierre was politely clearing his throat. He took three photos for them then. One stood with their arms around each other, innocuous, probably something they could get away with in general circulation. The next, Charles had pressed a kiss to Max’s cheek, and the smile on Max’s face was as wide and as genuine as anything he’d ever seen before. The third, Max had turned to face him, pressed forehead to forehead, eyes closed, grins plastered on both their faces, hand that wasn’t holding the trophy gripping Charles’s side, Charles gripping back.

That was one of Charles’s favourite photos. He didn’t dare have it as a phone background. He didn’t dare print it. It was simply held on his phone, and he’d look at it occasionally. Well, often. But he couldn’t do any more with it than that.

Couldn’t, because of what would happen if people saw them, if they were out in the world. Suddenly, those moments wouldn’t be special anymore, because they’d be everyone’s. Wouldn’t be just theirs anymore.

Charles couldn’t bear that thought.

As hard as it was to hear, Max was right.

“Schat…” Max’s finger gently slipped under his chin, tilted his head up slowly, making Charles meet his gaze again. “I look forward to hugging you properly after a race. I look forward to squeezing your hand for good luck before getting in the car. But kissing you? They don’t get to have that part of us, that part of you. Only I get that part of you.” Charles nodded. The tears had stopped, and Max swiped his thumb over his cheek to collect the remaining wetness. “We stay private, keep it for us.” He slipped his other hand to his side, over the top of Charles’s hand that was still sat on his aching torso.

“Yeah,” Charles agreed, voice cracking, other hand landing on Max and curling slowly in the fabric of his t-shirt. “Yeah, I get it.” It hurt, but he got it. Gently, Max tipped his head forward, nose brushing against Charles’s for a second before connecting their lips in a brief, gentle kiss.

“Let’s eat, yeah? Then we can call the team back, explain to them what we want.” He paused, and Charles felt the shift in the air a little, felt the hesitation, the stiffness Max’s body suddenly held. “Then I should speak to my dad.”