Chapter Text
The summer shutdown is, as always, a nightmare to Max Vestappen. He can't explain it without sounding like an obsessed workaholic, but the FIA-mandated two-week factory closure feels like pure torture, not like vacation. Switching-off from racing is nearly impossible when his body is full of adrenaline and pent-up frustration from his shit performance at SPA. Fourth place, so close and simultaneously not close enough from the podium, but Max couldn't find it in his heart to be upset, not when he got to see Charles in third. His only regret was not being on the podium with him.
Sometimes it's all the Dutchman can think about: Charles’ skin glistening from the champagne shower, the view of his beautiful pink lips and gorgeous smile, the crinkles around his green eyes from happiness, the Ferrari racing suit glued to his wide shoulders, strong chest and muscular thighs. Max feels like a fucking teenager all over again and the irony is Charles was also responsible for all his sexual fantasies all throughout puberty.
Before Max's thoughts have the opportunity to wander off, a notification pops up on his phone.
Lando
hope you're not freaking the fuck out
Even after a few years of friendship, Max still hasn't grown used to Lando's drama queen tendencies and he regrets the day he added the McLaren driver's number to his WhatsApp. If he's honest, he's still considering just blocking Lando, for his peace of mind.
Max
…why would i be?
Lando
oh
so i'm guessing you haven't seen it yet
carry on then
don't mind me
Max
LANDO.
That seems to do the trick, because Lando's next message is simply a link to a tweet. Max fucking hates to admit it, but he's curious, even if only a little. Just knowing Lando thinks the content was enough to make Max freak the fuck out is more than enough to make him click it.
Max regrets it. Immediately.
Of course it's a video of Charles Leclerc. Dancing.
Whoever tweeted this clearly did their best to capture as Charles moves across Jimmy’z, wearing an all-black attire as he interacts with someone off-camera. The Monegasque has never been a good dancer, but it's perfection in Max's eyes. All he can think about is how much he wished to be pressed up against Charles, hands on his ridiculously small waist as he grinds against Charles’ ass, whispering against his ear.
It might be an absurd scenario (they're both incredibly famous and recognizable in public, especially in Monaco, where it's difficult to miss a celebrity between all the familiar faces), but Max can dream of an universe they've gone public with their non-existent relationship, a world where he can claim Charles.
Max
fuck you
It's Max's only response to Lando before he blocks the contact (he'll unblock it later, when he remembers, but Max Verstappen is nothing in his heart if not petty). After all, the Red Bull driver feels like his head might explode the next time he sees Charles Leclerc enjoying his vacation.
It doesn't matter if he's on a yacht or if he's shirtless on a beach, with his swimming trunks doing nothing to hide the significant bulge (that makes Max want to drop to his knees and worship) or the curve of his perfect ass (that makes Max want to sink his teeth enough to leave a mark). He's known Charles for most of his life and most people misunderstand his personality, but not Max. No, Max Verstappen has always seen Charles Leclerc for what he truly is: a menace. Whether it's the Monegasque boy who made Max's life hell during karting or the Ferrari driver thirst-trapping on Instagram, all versions of Charles make Max go absolutely insane.
It really doesn't matter if they live in the same neighborhood and have each other's phone numbers, Max's too stubborn to let Charles know he's going through abstinence. All he needs to do is focus on the Dutch GP. It should be easy enough, it's his home race. All he needs to do is think of happy memories of Zandvoort.
He's fine.
Scratch that, he's actually never been better. At least that's what Max tells himself as he incessantly paces around the apartment with Jimmy and Sassy walking around his legs, both very bothered and most likely wondering if Max's finally gone crazy. Donatello's laying on the couch, not at all concerned, looking like he could not give less fucks about Max's crisis. So rude.
When it comes to Charles, Max isn't the three-time world champion, he becomes painfully self-conscious, insecure and obsessive. The Dutchman is used to being seen as unlovable, as a bloodthirsty creature, it's all part of his performance as a champion. He terrorized the lives of grown men when he joined F1, he broke records, he dominated seasons and it all came with consequences. Max Verstappen did not care whether the world liked him, he was indifferent to everyone's opinions, except for Charles.
Max remembers perfectly how it broke his heart when Charles never truly forgave him for 2023 Las Vegas, how upset the Ferrari driver was at Max for pushing him off the track. The five-second penalty meant next to nothing, but Charles’ disappointment?
Ouch.
Picking up the phone, he considers typing a quick text to the Monegasque. Fuck, even talking about the weather with Charles would be an improvement. They're a few days away from Zandvoort and Max isn't looking forward to Media Day, but he never is, he's sick and tired of being asked nonsensical questions.
Maybe that's why he's spoken about an early retirement. Max Verstappen has never known a life without racing and he sometimes wonders if he's worthy of more. It's childish, he's well-aware, but Max feels like a child sometimes. Being screamed at by his own father, publicly humiliated, keeping his helmet on to hide the tears and to protect his head for Jos’ hands.
Max snaps out of it, nearly throwing his phone across the room as Charles's name pops up, summoned by magic.
“Fucking Charles, seriously! Almost gave me a heart attack.” That's all Max said before reading the notification.
Charlie
hey maxie, when are u flying to the netherlands? would you like some company? 😋
Max can't believe what he's reading. He's thrilled, he's running around the room like he's won the lottery, he's over the fucking moon about it, he's overwhelmed by a fucking emoji.
Something about Charles calling him Maxie gives the Red Bull driver a mind-blowing thrill, it makes Max's heart skip several beats. Somehow, that's not even the best part: Charles is offering his company as if Max Verstappen wouldn't trade his championships for Charles’ undivided attention.
Now, Max's exhilarated by a new sense of purpose, a goal. It's pathetic, it's embarrassing, it's ridiculous, but he's downright obsessed and there's very little he wouldn't do to be within reach of Charles again. It's been too long and pretending not to care is exhausting.
Max
i'm flying on Thursday
you should ride me
fuck
*with me
sorry
It's too late when Max notices the indecent double entendre, he can feel an ashamed blush creeping up on his neck and Jimmy's unimpressed stare isn't helping. If Max pays close attention, even Sassy looks kind of… well, sassy. This exchange with Charles is a clear reminder of why Max doesn't do relationships, why he isn't fucking good at anything involving feelings. Sure, he's had hook-ups here and there, he's famous and somewhat attractive, so it's not difficult, but he's also secretly very insecure. Unrequited love sucks, it's a blow to his self-confidence, especially when the subject of his affections is the most handsome man Max has ever seen in his life. Forget that, Charles is the most beautiful person in the entire world, regardless of gender, Max's sure of it.
Charlie
on your jet?
yeah, sure, i'd like that
it's a date 😇
Like… what the actual fuck?
“A date. Sure. Yeah, I can be casual about that. Totally.” Max whispers to himself, staring dreamingly into the horizon. Charles can be so effortlessly smooth, it'd be insufferable if Max wasn't so in love. The angel emoji feels like a sucker-punch. The Lion (Max, naturally) does not concern himself with social media etiquette or with whatever the fuck an angel emoji means in this scenario.
Max
👍
That's an appropriate response, right? Is there even an appropriate way to react when the love of your life expresses the desire to spend time with you? Maybe a marriage proposal, the next best thing is a thumbs-up. Max will have to unblock Lando later to fact-check it.
Should he be more affectionate? Should he let Charles know he's been waiting all summer shutdown to see him? Should he tell the Monegasque how gorgeous he looks on that video? Is that coming off too strong?
Max and Charles have been friendly lately. They still don't follow each other on Instagram, they'd never break that tradition, because it's actually the funniest thing ever, but they're friends, right? Sometimes, Charles will even send him fan's reactions to them interacting and (Max would rather drop dead than to admit) it's Max's guilty pleasure to browse #lestappen on all social medias, just to see how delusional people can be. The Red Bull driver fucking wishes it was all true, but it's nice to imagine a reality where Charles reciprocates.
His phone rings again and (unsurprisingly, Max adds, but equally heartbreaking) it's Daniel, not Charles. The Dutchman answers it, already huffing. “What?”
“Unblock me, you asshole!” It's all Max hears before he checks that yeah, Daniel really was calling him, then why the fuck was he listening to Lando's voice? “Seriously, mate, you'll block your best friend?”
“Not my best friend. And why are you together? I thought Daniel was spending the summer shutdown in Perth.”
“I am, Lando decided to pay me a visit.” Daniel interjected, his voice sounding oddly distant, as if Lando's holding his phone hostage.
“Because not all of us spend our vacations like hermits. I was already in Australia anyway, Osc introduced me to his family, how cool is that?! And, for the tenth time, stop calling it summer shutdown, you sound crazy. C'mon, mate, it's summer break, it's supposed to be fun!”
“He's lovesick, leave him alone.” Daniel giggled mischievously, Max can hear his happy-go-lucky energy through the phone. Again, Max's regretting his decision of confessing to his friends about his… crush on the Ferrari driver. Not like it was his choice.
“Really, mate, you need to be less obvious about it.” Lando murmured, seemingly trying to be discreet, even though it was impossible for him to keep a secret. Max hadn't even realized Lando was there, too busy staring at Charles from across the room. “You look like a wounded puppy, man, get your shit together.”
Max just sipped his drink, raising an eyebrow. They were celebrating the beginning of a new season, it was their last chance to get blackout drunk before Bahrein, always at Jimmy’z. More than half of Formula 1 drivers reside in Monaco, so they're always bumping into each other, whether they like it or not. So, Max might not have come to the party with Charles, but he's forced to watch as the Monegasque has fun with Pierre and Carlos.
With the buzz of alcohol clouding Max's judgment, he's drooling with how delicious Charles looks, so carefree and seductive. Actually, Max can see every and every time someone eyes the Ferrari driver up and down, whenever someone offers him a drink (as if Charles isn't filthy rich and besties with the owner, please), whenever someone gets too touchy-feely around him. Max fucking hates it.
Then, he's suddenly being shaken by his shoulders with enough strength to spill his drink. Luckily, it's all over the floor and not on Max's plain white button-up shirt. Lando's also wearing a button-up, but Max isn't sure if it counts because approximately only two buttons are actually buttoned. Might as well be shirtless, in Max's opinion, it's more honest.
“See? That's what I'm talking about!” Lando whined. Max thinks it's ridiculous, the McLaren driver is a grown man pouting.
“Lando's actually right, Max.” Oscar says. For someone who's often considered heartless, a robot, cold-blooded, he looks infatuated by his teammate. Max feels oddly proud of Oscar, he sees himself on how driven, focused and single-minded the McLaren driver is. Even their vulnerabilities are similar and Max sees untouched potential in Oscar. Sure, he feels a little sour that Oscar manages to excel where Max fails, having a successful love life. With another F1 driver, no less.
Max isn't jealous. Not at all.
He just wishes it was him instead.
“Like you guys weren't the same. Lando was inconsolable for weeks.” Max scoffed, rolling his eyes at the memory. How Lando acted like Oscar was his husband that died in a distant war, mourning a relationship that hadn't even happened yet, crying and drowning his sorrows in infinite drinks.
All for nothing. As soon as Lando confessed, Oscar opened the biggest smile Max had ever seen in the Australian's face and threw himself in his teammate's arms, kissing Lando like no one was watching.
Except everyone was watching. Lando loved grand gestures and being in the spotlight, of course he'd find a way to make his love confession be as public as possible. And Oscar, always so private, indulged Lando.
Max still remembers the look on Charles' face, how his tear-filled eyes looked like emeralds and his blushing cheeks were wonderfully endearing. He blinked at Max, completely dazed and opened his lips, but no words came out. All he managed was a lopsided, almost bittersweet, smile and, before Max could ask what happened, the Monegasque left.
A few days later, Max cornered Charles in Ferrari's hospitality (he was desperate, okay?) after being ignored and avoided, to ask what the fuck was happening between them. Max had never seen Charles this anguished and the Red Bull driver was experiencing an all-consuming urge to take away all his pain.
“It's just… Bordel de merde, Max! I've every right to be upset, I don't owe you an explanation, do I?” He exclaimed, but it was all bark, no bite. Max wasn't a particularly patient man, but he'd waited for Charles for all his life and he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. So all he did was stare Charles down, knowing he'd eventually crack.
“Be good for me, schatje, will you?”
Max watches as Charles' restraint instantly melts.
“Ugh, you're unbelievable, really. I felt jealous, okay?! I don't wish any harm to Lando and Oscar, I'm glad they've found happiness, but you've no idea what it's like to want someone you'll never have!” Charles said before he stormed off, missing the devastation written across Max's face.
If there was someone who understood that feeling, it was Max Verstappen.
The Dutchman blinks the memory away before he starts crying at the fucking club and kills the mood for everyone.
“Sure. We were oblivious for a while, but we eventually got our shit together. How long has it been for you? Two decades?” Lando laughed wholeheartedly.
Oscar's grip on Lando's waist visibly tightened, giving him a stern look and a raised eyebrow that read ‘don't be mean, babe’. Lando astonishingly held his tongue, appearing almost apologetic. Max widened his eyes, always surprised by the tight leash Oscar had on his boyfriend. It was fun watching their dynamic, Max had never pictured Lando as behaved, much less obedient to someone.
“It hasn't been that long.” Max sounded defeated, even to his own ears.
When had he realized he was in love with Charles? Max isn't really sure, it's difficult to pinpoint one moment, Charles was always fantastic. On track, even on their karting days, he was ruthless. In real life, he was trustworthy and charismatic. The Ferrari driver was always there, an ever-present existence in Max's life.
“It's been long enough!”
Max tried to stop Lando, but the McLaren was a man on a mission as he waved desperately until the movement caught Charles' eye. He briefly appeared confused, before his eyes fell on Max and he lit up like a Christmas tree. The Red Bull driver tuned everything out, the entire world surrounding Charles becoming a dull shade of gray. Somewhere in Max's hollow chest, where his heart is supposed to be, fireworks exploded and Charles approached, screaming “Max, chéri, there you are!”.
The Red Bull driver has no time to prepare before powerfully built, yet graceful, arms wrapped around his neck. Charles’ inhibitions were low and it was delightful. Up close, Max could dream about crumpled-up white sheets and disheveled, soft hair, could taste the salt of Charles' skin as he'd suck beautiful bruises along his neck, finding all his favorite spots, could smell breakfast in bed and a familiar cologne. It was all a perfect fantasy, scarily vivid.
“Ready for a new season?” Now, Charles’ accent was thicker, but Max understood it flawlessly. After all, they were made for each other, born only a few days away, as if God knew there wasn't a world where they weren't together. Max Verstappen could not and would not exist in a universe without Charles Leclerc, there was no greater truth.
“Always. Is your car competitive this year?” Max genuinely asked, not a drop of malice in his question.
2023 wasn't exactly kind to Charles and Max knew Ferrari was holding Charles back from winning. There wasn't another driver that Max would rather compete for a championship than the Ferrari driver. He was hoping the team's strategy wouldn't fuck Charles over this year.
“I don't appreciate the sentiment.” Charles huffed, turning his head away petulantly. There was a glint of amusement in his eyes, replaced by surprise and amazement as Max powerfully held his waist. Charles’ t-shirt was slightly raised and his skin was hot underneath, it felt amazing to Max's cold touch. Max could stay there forever.
Out of the corner of his eye, Max catches Lando snapping a picture of them, grinning like a maniac. Even Oscar looks entertained, both pleased with third-wheeling and watching as Max crashes and burns. Later, he'll have to bribe Lando to delete that fucking picture. Well, not before sending it to Max's phone, so he'll cherish it forever.
Charles and Max's height difference is minimal, but it's enough that Max stares at the Monegasque from above as he feels Charles’ breath hitting against his lips, a hint of bourbon and mint. It's intoxicating.
“You'd be a happier man at Red Bull, y'know…” Max trailed off, not trusting himself to even finish that sentence. You'd be happier with me, I'd make you happier, that's what he'd love to say. Oscar and Lando's presence is barely an afterthought for Max, all he can see is the naughty smirk Charles’ giving him.
“Yeah, right. As if anyone's ever been happy at Red Bull's second seat. That's my worst nightmare.” Charles deadpanned, clearly unimpressed. “Besides, blue isn't my color, it's yours.”
Max simply hummed in response and, maybe it was wishful thinking, felt when Charles shivered. Even better, it was undeniable the goosebumps all over his exposed skin. It probably meant nothing, but Max felt unexpectedly proud of knowing he could cause a physical reaction from Charles.
One day, the Ferrari driver would eventually settle down, get married and maybe even have a couple of kids, but Max Verstappen would always have a place in his life. As long as they had racing, they'd have each other and there was nothing they loved more than racing.
“Je ziet er in ieder geval goed uit in rood, Charlie.” Max isn't sure why his brain chose to switch languages, but some compliments were far more beautiful in Dutch and Charles was worthy of praise in multiple ways.
Charles chewed on his bottom lip, expressive brows knitted. Eyes locked onto Max's, Charles moved forward and, as he shifted, his t-shirt exposed the sun-kissed skin of his collarbones. Max jumped on the opportunity, cheeks only mildly flushed, eager to touch and explore.
Beside them, Lando and Oscar exchanged a knowing look, equally fond and exasperated. Max's pretty sure Lando whispered frustratedly something about how “it's like a fucking car crash, I really want to look away, but I can't”, but the Red Bull driver can't say he's interested in Lando's opinion right now.
“English, Verstappen.”
The music wasn't loud, they could hear each other perfectly fine, but Max leaned in anyway, never one to resist temptation. When you think about Max Verstappen, the first thing to come to mind definitely isn't impulse control.
Delayed gratification is a foreign concept to him. Why wait when he can have now?
Now, now, now, it echoes in Max's brain.
“Don't call me that, Leclerc.” Max's lips twitched as he watched Charles’ throat bob. It felt like an invitation.
“What am I supposed to call you?” Charles stepped forward, suffocatingly so. It was an indisputable fact that Max was eye-fucking the Ferrari driver before, but now? With Charles thigh pressed in-between Max's spread legs, rubbing against his half-hard cock, Max's going fucking mental.
Whatever dignity he had left, was out of the fucking metaphorical window of life.
“CALAMAR!” Pierre shouted, swinging his arms wildly and spilling his drink all over Charles, who's dazed and blinking in confusion. Gasly was a total lightweight, his alcohol tolerance was a joke. “Congratulations, huh! As-tu finalement avoué?”
Max couldn't comprehend the conversation (even after years living in Monaco, his French was fucking shit), but Carlos appeared to pull Pierre away, conspicuously apologetic. “I tried to stop him.”
Whatever spell Charles and Max were on fell away, leaving them to face the harsh reality and its consequences. The Ferrari driver, who historically was excellent at running away from uncomfortable conversations, just groaned a complaint about needing to quickly go to the bathroom to clean Pierre's mess, not bothering with saying goodbye.
It all hits Max like a ton of bricks, leaving him bewildered. Later, his recollection of the moment was fuzzy around the corners, like he was knocked unconscious afterwards or it had never happened at all. Max turns to his friends, if only to make sure this wasn't all a fever dream or hallucination.
Oscar only frowned sympathetically, allowing the silence to stretch out. Unsurprisingly, it was Lando who broke it.
“...Fucking French people.” He shrugged nonchalantly.
“That was months ago.” Max said dismissively. After that alcohol-fueled night, the Dutchman never gathered enough courage to try again. As far as he knew, Charles interpreted their interaction as strictly platonic, Max points that out.
“It was a fucking miracle you both weren't arrested for public indecency, I've seen less explicit pornography, mate.” Lando said, huffing out a laugh.
“I mean, Max, I wasn't even there… but I've been around you both long enough to know you're constantly on the brink of fucking each other. It's surprising you haven't exploded from pent-up sexual frustration.” Daniel interjected.
“Death by blue balls.” As Lando chimed in, Max could hear Daniel shushing in the background.
As they bickered, Max went through the millionth mental breakdown during summer shutdown, the vast majority of them created by Charles Leclerc.
“We're flying together to Zandvoort on Thursday.” Max blurted out.
“Oh, you're fucked. I mean, can you even be around Charles without finding a ridiculous excuse to touch h-”
“Oh, shit. Wait! Danny, you're officially a genius. You gave me the idea of a lifetime. We have to go, Max, buh-bye!” Then, Lando turns off the call, leaving Max alone with his thoughts.
He has no fucking clue of what just happened, but one thing's for sure: Lando's a menace and Max isn't in the mood to handle his bullshit.
Max can't prove it, but he knows it's summer shutdown's fault.
—
Charles Leclerc's horny.
All summer long, he felt hungry for a certain someone he could never had and it took all determination in the fucking world for him to simply carry on with his life instead of being miserably defeated.
At his yacht? Thinking of Max Verstappen's capable hands and the strength they had. Imagining all possibilities and scenarios where he'd finally feel their touch, each more filthy than the last.
At the club? Charles couldn't even look at other men, knowing they wouldn't satisfy his urge. There was a time of Charles’ life, and he wasn't proud of it by any means, when he'd take very specific men home. He'd chalk it off as his type, doing his best to ignore who was the blueprint. Pretty blue eyes and blond hair stopped being as attractive when the Ferrari driver realized they'd never be Max.
As he packed his infinite number of bags for Zandvoort? Even the mere prospect of being stuck in Max's private jet with him for approximately two hours made Charles delirious. He couldn't think of clothes to wear, nothing other than being butt-naked felt right.
As Charles made his way to Nice Côte d'Azur Airport? He couldn't even be trusted behind the fucking wheel, but that wasn't exactly new. Everyone and their mother knew the Ferrari driver was terrible at civilian driving. But this time, all his concerns had a name.
He could think of so many depraved things he wanted to do with Max Verstappen, his life lately felt like a fever dream.
And it was all so fucking wrong, Charles knew. Max, after everything, was his friend. Charles would not corrupt that, he could not lose the best person in his life on a whim. He was a man, not an animal, regardless of how feral his feelings were.
Or maybe it was easier to focus on his sexual urges as a convenient excuse to ignore all the nonsense his heart was screaming.
Max
are you there yet, charles?
Sometimes, Charles wonders why Max seems so formal around him, his phrases are stiff and cold, bordering on uninterested. He's tried to be cheeky and flirty with Max, to give him the eyes that usually work wonderfully, but that only earns him a puzzled look, as if Max's confused. Texting, the Red Bull driver's like an old man and Charles isn't sure if that phenomenon happens because of Max's aversion to technology or because of his aversion to Charles.
Charles
sure, i was worried you'd leave without me if i was late
Max
i'd never do that
Charles
you totally would
you're petty like that
Max
let me rephrase it
i'd never do that to you
i'd wait for you, i'm used to it already
The Monegasque blinks, picking up his jaw from the floor as he tries (and fails) to figure out what the fuck does that mean. Charles might be chronically late, has been all his life, but not around Max. Charles wouldn't waste a second of Max's time. Not exactly out of respect, at least that's not the only reason behind it, but mostly because every second around Max is treasured like a blessing to him. He wants to impress Max more than anything.
That's why Charles' half an hour early. That's why he's waiting patiently for Max to arrive. He spontaneously packed and left his house early, even considering traffic could be busy, all hoping, wishing, praying Max would praise him.
Charles is glad his brothers can't hear his thoughts, he'd be teased mercilessly for the rest of his life for being so pathetically in love.
Charles
what does that mean?
The Ferrari driver isn't good at hiding his feelings. Acting as if he doesn't care might be his biggest challenge when it comes to Max Verstappen and it has been since they were teenagers. He feels painfully transparent, enhanced by the fact he and Max are one and the same, opposite sides of the same coin. The Dutchman knows him better than most, which has always scared Charles to death.
Max
i waited for you to find me in f1
like i knew you would
Charles hates the fact he's in public and can't jump around in happiness like a fucking idiot. Max had expressed his thoughts about the Monegasque's potential before in interviews, but something about the intimacy of texting makes Charles gasp a little. This isn't for show, it's real, and he feels his hopeless heart nearly jumping out of his throat.
Charles
not my fault you're always ahead of me
After all the years of racing against each other, that sort of became a bittersweet joke between them: how Charles chased Max. Not far behind, but never winning, never ahead. His skills weren't the problem, Charles would repeat that mantra whenever his self-consciousness attacked him, not with Ferrari's strategy and car issues in his way.
Charles couldn't explain to Max that, outside of the little universe they've created for themselves on the track, he was also forever chasing Max. Loyal like a dog, desperate for the Red Bull to throw him a bone, something akin to a scrap of love. It wasn’t enough to satisfy the hunger, but at least Charles wasn't dying of starvation.
Max
it feels good to be on top
but i wouldn't want it if you weren't there
winning is better when it's against you
Whenever Charles thought he caught on to Max's rhythm, the Red Bull driver always found a crack on his armor to pierce a blade through his heart, craving his name on it. Charles hated how easily Max could sweep him off his feet, but allowed it just the same. It was a comfortable routine, something they had done a thousand times before.
Max's words might as well be a love confession, Charles understood his mentality well enough to see it as the biggest compliment the Red Bull driver could ever give.
Charles
don't get too cocky maxie
you've ran after me before
Max
and i'm sure i will again
for as long as you'll let me, charlie
Charles doesn't want to obsess over Max's every word, but his desire is far greater than his restraint, so he does. He thinks about winning at Monaco, bringing it home and making his people proud, the Tifosi cheering his name. Surprisingly, Max wasn't at the podium that day, as much as Charles had wished to share that moment with him.
Max found him afterwards, like he always did, and only then it felt like truly winning.
He really shouldn't hold Max's opinion on a pedestal.
He did anyway.
Max
i'll be there in five
Charles chose not to respond, afraid he'd sound too eager, even if he really was. He isn’t a fashion icon like Lewis, but Charles made an effort to dress in flattering clothes, something tight-fitting, yet elegant. It’s silly, the Monegasque doesn’t even know Max’s sexuality, even though he’s seen quite a few speculations across the years and the Red Bull driver was incredibly supportive when Charles was practically forced to come out. Max had always been a private man, hadn’t openly dated someone in years.
Like a magnet, Charles swears he feels the Red Bull driver, so he looks up from his cellphone, all to be rewarded with the sight of Max in the distance. Whenever they’re together, Charles tries to steal a glance at Max without being too obvious, without looking too enamoured. Usually, it’s an impossible mission, Max’s out of a magazine and Charles’ been smitten since he’s known what being attracted to a man is.
Now, Max hasn’t spotted him yet, which is fucking wonderful. Charles can look all he wants without being embarrassed. It’s a secluded location around Max’s private jet, but he sees a few fans further away, Charles has even spoken with them, gave autographs, snapped quick selfies. He’s always flattered, never fully getting used to the feeling, the thrill of it all. Pierre has called the Ferrari driver an attention-whore before and Charles sort of agreed, since his friend hadn’t specified whose attention.
Yeah, Charles likes his fan’s regard and respect, all the care they have for him, and even reciprocates it. But there’s nothing like when Max’s cerulean-blue eyes fall on him. The Red Bull driver fullstops, instantly dropping the bag he was holding.
And, to Charles' amazement, runs.
Max fucking runs towards Charles.
The Monegasque barely has the time to laugh incredulously, to react as his wildest dreams somehow come true, before Max reaches him. It hits Charles like a hurricane when Max’s arms wrap around him, as if he never wants to let go. It shouldn’t flabbergast Charles so much, they’ve always been this way. Doesn’t matter how fast Charles runs, Max eventually finds him, never leaving the Ferrari driver alone. It’s a stark reminder that Charles Leclerc, a man that has lost so much, hasn’t known a life without Max Verstappen.
“Bonjour à toi aussi, Max chéri. Happy to see me, non?” Charles giggles, feeling his cheeks blushing furiously.
The Ferrari driver tries to pull away, too overwhelmed by the proximity to Max’s athletic body, in all its sculpted glory. It’s already a work of art to see, his beautifully defined physique, it’s maddening to touch. But the Red Bull driver, with all his strength, isn’t too keen on letting go. His hand snakes above, slender fingers enthusiastically intertwining around Charles’ hair as his other hand eagerly squeezes Charles’ waist.
“When have I not been happy to see you?” Max passionately laughed and the Ferrari driver could sense his smirk as Max’s full lips spread across Charles’ neck.
“I can think of at least one inchident or two.”
“Don’t be a brat, Charles. No one likes a smartass.” Then, remorsefully, Max stepped away and Charles struggled to hold back a whine.
Except that now Charles sees Max from a different perspective, allowed to appreciate from up-close all his beauty, which is equally a blessing.
“I mean, you clearly do, if you put up with me so much.” Charles shrugged, feigning tranquility. There aren’t many opportunities when the Ferrari driver gets to see Max dressed so casually.
It feels very… domestic, giving Charles crazy thoughts of morning sex on lazy sundays, of holidays spent together, of vacations across the world. Of a wedding ring and a family.
Charles’ wallet burned in his pocket, the weight of a secret hidden inside of it. A secret he wouldn’t dare to reveal, not to his family, not to his closest friends. A picture he took everywhere, a memory he carried around the world as a prized possession. Nothing Charles owned had more worth than a crumpled-up piece of paper, the ink of it slowly fading as the years went by. The Ferrari driver has been in many podiums across his career, professional and whatnot, and has been asked thousands times which one is his favorite. Charles has kept that answer to himself, usually diverting the subject or saying something vague.
It was the 2013 Kart World Championship, Charles coming in second at his first experience with geared karts. He remembers being unsure, attempting to appear confident. He was proud of his result, it was his first taste of winning. It was also the first podium he shared with Max Verstappen.
The Monegasque was lovestruck as he stared above. The sunshine hitting Max’s face made him look golden. Often, his face was at best unapproachable and withdrawn, at worst completely unsympathetic and full of anger, but that day Max’s smile was passionate and determined. His hands, holding the trophy Charles fought for and lost, looked powerful. His body, in Charles' childish perspective, had a youth of remarkable beauty, like the myth of Adonis coming to life. His eyes were gorgeous and Charles was suddenly aware that, even though he had looked at Max Verstappen many times, he had never noticed how blue they were. The world had no colors before he saw Max’s eyes, he was sure of it.
And although he was still fucking jealous, watching his biggest rival win wasn’t so bad, after all. That’s when he knew.
He just knew.
A man can dream, okay? Fuck off.
“It’s good to see you without all the Red Bull merch.” Charles chooses to say that, keeping his cards to himself, even if his heart is always on his sleeve. Max has an endearingly soft smile on his face, making his eyes look small.
“Enjoy it while you can, everything else I packed is Red Bull merch.” Max says, somehow managing to sound equally mischievous and earnest as they both walk towards the small bag he dropped.
Before Charles can protest (he wouldn’t, but it'd be nice to have the choice), Max’s grabbing his extravagant number of suitcases out of Charles’ hands, their fingers briefly touching and sending a spark through the Monegasque. If the Red Bull driver thinks Charles exaggerated, he never mentions it. Max wouldn't dare to make Charles embarrassed and it’s definitely appreciated. The Ferrari driver felt seen.
“Zandvoort is what, a three-hour drive to Belgium? You could pay Sophie a visit, I’m sure she must keep some of your old clothes. Even that would be an improvement.” Charles giggled as they went through the motions of getting on the private jet. It had been a while since he last saw Max’s mom, but, from everything Charles remembered, Sophie had a kind soul and a gentle heart. All the beautiful traits he loved in Max.
“I had a growth spurt since I last lived with my mom, Charles.”
As the doors closed and they were finally alone, Charles felt relieved, the sensation of being constantly observed slowly fading away. Now, he only felt the familiarity and comfort of being in Max’s company. The mundane intimacy of feeling at home around the Dutchman wasn’t lost on Charles, but he couldn’t deny how safe his heart felt, as if all his worries melted away.
“Never noticed, you look pretty much the same to me.” The Monegasque teased, wanting to lighten the mood before he was caught on a rabbit-hole of hopelessly earning, playfully slapping Max’s arm.
In a flash, Max’s fingers, the very same Charles had obsessed over endlessly, closed around his wrist, wrapping around it completely. Max didn’t move, simply staring into Charles’ eyes, searching for something.
“Is that so, Charles?” The Dutchman’s accent was sharply thick, hugging Charles’ name with elegance and making him shiver. “I think I’ve changed a lot, I’m not a little boy anymore. Neither are you.”
Max couldn’t possibly know of the picture Charles kept on his wallet, but right now, Charles couldn’t be more conscious of it and of the ten years that went by ever since. They certainly weren’t little boys anymore, but one thing remained: they were still in each other’s lives.
“Grâce à Dieu, some of us were late bloomers.” Charles laughed awkwardly.
“You were always pretty.” Max interjected, calm and collected, as if he didn’t turn the Monegasque’s world completely upside-down, before letting go of Charles and sitting down. The Ferrari driver, for lack of something better to do, repeats Max’s movements, sitting across from him, still confused.
He must’ve heard it wrong. Maybe he got lost in translation, it happened often. There was no fucking way Max Verstappen just called him pretty, as if it was nothing but a fact. As if he was stating the truth.
The sky is blue, the earth is round and Max Verstappen thinks Charles Leclerc is pretty.
“Are you hoping for a podium in Zandvoort?” Max genuinely asks, looking at Charles in curiosity. They're both Formula One drivers, so, realistically speaking, they’re always hoping for a podium, regardless of the weather, the car, the team’s strategy or the starting grid. Nothing better than beating the odds, nothing worse than easy wins.
“I’m optimistic about it, I was satisfied with my results before summer break and I’m hoping to keep up the pace.” It was comfortable to talk about racing, it was common ground, it was safe. If all the journey to Zandvoort was exactly like that, Charles would survive just fine. “Maybe I’ll even see you on the podium. It’d be our… twenty-second together, right?”
The Ferrari driver regrets the words the second they leave his mouth.
Stupid, so fucking stupid to admit he knows by heart all the podium he’s shared with Max since 2019. He desperately searches for an excuse, fumbling for words, but they never come. Charles’ looking at his own shoes, wanting to disappear, as Max speaks up.
“No, that’s wrong. It’d be our twenty-third, Charlie. We shared one in 2013, but I wouldn’t expect you to remember-” Max sounds nostalgic.
Charles’ eyes widened. The distance between them suddenly feels too much and he switches chairs, sitting on the available chair besides Max.
“I remember! Je m'en souviens! Bien sûr que oui.” With the Monegasque within reach, Max moves forwards to gently hold Charles’ cheek, so incredibly delicate and soft. After a few years, the Ferrari driver never dared to question why Max was so affectionate to him, assuming that’s how the Dutchman is with all his friends. But the mere thought of Max touching anyone else makes Charles’ stomach curl, an ugly feeling (he likes to believe it isn’t jealousy, he can’t be possessive of someone who isn’t his) overpowering his mind. “How could I forget? That day was…”
“Good. It was good.” Max completed.
Charles would say it was fantastic. Nothing short of wonderful. Fantastic. Heaven.
Good couldn’t even begin to describe it, but he’d accept it. Everything was good with Max, he’d come to learn.
“You won them all that year, I never wanted to run someone over as much as you back then. The only reason I didn’t do it was because I wouldn’t let a perfectly fine kart go to waste.” With that, Max laughed wholeheartedly. Charles thought he’d like to spend the rest of his life hearing that sound and that he’d willingly go through hell and back if that meant he’d be responsible for Max’s laughter.
“I’m flattered.”
Charles huffed, clearly amused, but the sound quickly dies as Max’s finger runs through his hair. The Monegasque needs to snap his lips shut, a gasp nearly leaving them. As fast as Max’s touch came, it suddenly disappeared, leaving Charles high and dry. It’s impossible to contain the feeling of loneliness it fills Charles’ heart, but he finds strength to give Max an impish smile. “Only you would be flattered by someone threatening to run you over.”
“Not someone, schatje, only you.” The Dutchman shifted on his seat, looking apprehensive that something unpleasant could unexpectedly happen. Maybe Max was afraid of heights and flying, Charles assumed, not capable of finding another reason as to why Max Verstappen, three-time Formula One Champion, could get nervous.
He was untouchable, upheld as sacrosanct, deserving of veneration.
At least in Charles’ eyes.
“Aren’t you cold?” Max doesn’t wait to hear Charles’ answer before he’s getting up and picking up a small blanket, loosely draping over the Monegasque’s shoulders. Charles frowned, realizing his efforts in dressing up were a total waste. Max, focused on making sure the Ferrari driver is as comfortable as possible, doesn’t even notice as Charles gives him a death stare.
Is Charles being ungrateful? Sure, he could most certainly show Max more appreciation. He would, if he weren’t so busy with hiding how enamored he feels. The Dutchman as always spoiled Charles rotten, but he’ll never get used to it, it’s new and exciting every time.
“Merci, mon amour.” Charles said bashfully, looking through the window as the world around them got further away, replaced by soft clouds and sunshine. That’s how Charles justified the butterflies on his stomach. The Ferrari driver has notoriously been a shamelessly flirtatious person across the years, acting all demure and innocent, but never with Max. He didn’t have to play coy around the Dutchman. “I could’ve done that myself, y’know?”
Even as Charles says that, he’s blinking slowly and yawning, curling up in his chair. Max’s cologne hugs him, soothing like a lullaby, and Charles thinks he could live like this forever. The Monegasque woke up at the crack of fucking dawn, all so he wouldn’t be late to see Max, but now he’s drowsy and heavy-eyed.
“That’s what I’m here for, Charlie.” is the last thing Charles hears before sleep takes over, wondering if he’s already dreaming of the love he’s always wanted.
—
Max still hasn’t grown used to how fucking gorgeous Charles is. He’s convinced he’ll never see something more beautiful than the Ferrari driver, it’s like staring into the sun. Every time is like seeing Charles for the first time, like falling in love all over again, which makes things much more difficult for Max.
The Red Bull driver thinks, for a moment, he’ll be able to control himself, then Charles appears and all thoughts of restraint are gone.
Max simultaneously hates and is incredibly thankful to whoever designed Charles’ clothes, making him so fucking delicious, the fabric stretching over his muscular chest, hugging his body on all the right places.
No one should look that good.
Charles stirs a little in his sleep, almost as if he could hear Max’s thoughts, a soft blush painting his cheeks. The Red Bull driver wishes he could see the Monegasque’s dreams, could live in a reality where Charles had never felt pain or sadness, where Max could protect him. Max knew all-too well the hardships Charles had faced, all the grief he experienced, and felt incredibly proud to see how he overcame it all, coming out of it a better man.
“Maxie, ma chère.” Max gasped as he watched Charles talking in his sleep, voice rough, yet profoundly delicate and syrup-sweet, from sleep. His accent was stronger, more genuine. Even if Max’s French was flawless, he’d always recognize the way Charles’ said his name.
The Red Bull driver leaned forward.
“What is it, Charlie?” He murmured. Max was most likely being fucking delusional, but Charles’ hands twitched before he reached out, almost as if searching for the same voice he’d heard millions of times before in his life. The Ferrari driver pushed the blanket away, finding a way to intertwine his fingers with Max’s, their hand fitting perfectly together.
It’s ridiculous how Max had to cover Charles up with a blanket so he wouldn’t freak the fuck out, just like Lando had said. And if Max needed to strategically place a pillow over his hardening cock, it’s nobody’s business but his own.
“Viens ici, s'il te plaît, tu m'as manqué. C'est une torture d'être loin de toi.” Max struggled to understand what Charles said, picking up some loose words.
“Come here…” The Dutchman repeated thoughtfully, furrowing his eyebrows.
“Il n'y a pas un seul instant où je ne t'aime pas.” After that, the Monegasque is sleeping peacefully, which Max is grateful for. It gives him the opportunity to think as he watches Charles breathe, well-aware of how creepy he’s coming off. Max’s so preoccupied that he barely notices when he’s added to a new group chat (created by Lando, naturally).
Barely being the keyword.
He would’ve ignored, usually not particularly interested in hearing what Lando has to say, especially not in a group setting, if the group’s name didn’t make Max’s heart stop. There it was:
The Lestappen 2024 PDA Challenge.
Max immediately checked the group members, already mentally threatening to murder Lando if he added Charles, only to breathe out in relief. It could be much worse, the members are Lando, obviously, Oscar and Daniel.
Max
i expected better of you, oscar.
Daniel
ooooooh shit dad’s angry at you oscar lol
Oscar
sorry mate
wasn't really my choice
happy wife happy life
Mac chuckles knowingly at Oscar's comment, endearingly looking at Charles, still sleeping perfectly. The Monegasque might not be his partner (and never will, Max has come to terms with that already), but the Dutchman would do anything in the world to keep him happy. Charles deserves nothing but prince treatment, even if he still doesn't believe that.
Max
ideally, the wife isn't a british asshole
Lando
at least he has a wife, which is exactly why we're gathered here today
Daniel
can you all stop calling Lando a wife, he's a grown man
Max
anyone mind explaining why the fuck i'm being bothered?
Lando
how's your man btw?
Max
charles is fine
he's asleep
if he weren't, i wouldn't be fucking paying attention to you
Oscar
lol
Lando
BABE
Oscar
sorry
Daniel
damn walk him like a 🐶
now lando please explain, i think max will have a heart attack
Lando
max verstappen, we're here today to challenge you
we've all noticed who touchy-feely you are around a certain frenchman
Max
charles is monegasque
Lando
same difference
Max
definitely not
you LIVE in monaco, mate, you'd know how they fucking hate being called french
charles definitely wouldn't appreciate
Daniel
ok ok no need to defend your man's honor so much
Oscar
@lando we're getting distracted
again.
Lando
SO
we all think it's getting too much and people are starting to fucking notice
i mean, the fans have known for ages, but we need to get things under control
before it's too obvious
Max
it's clearly not that obvious
charlie doesn't know
Lando
that's another problem
charles is oblivious
you call him fucking charlie, he was supposed to know by now
i think he's too much in love with you to see
Max's heart breaks a little more whenever someone jokingly says Charlrs has feelings for him. It's simply cruel, it feeds Max's delusion and makes him feel empty inside, like there's a piece of him missing. Now, there's no point in arguing, Lando genuinely believes there's more to Charles’ friendly behavior.
Lando
so here's what we'll do:
you'll spend the entire weekend in Zandvoort WITHOUT touching leclerc
no hugs, no pats in the back, no holding his waist, no touching his hand
NOTHING
Max
…why would i do that?
Lando
just to see if you're capable
Oscar
it was lando's idea
Lando
actually, it's partially danny's fault, he's the one who said
AND I QUOTE:
“can you even be around charles without finding a ridiculous excuse to touch him?”
Daniel
how you sound right now:
🤓☝️
Max stares at Charles, wondering if things have really gone too far. Realistically speaking, he should stop being so affectionate to the Ferrari driver, if he wants to move on. Max isn't sure for how long we'll be able-bodied to endure so much yearning over someone who'll never reciprocate. The Dutchman wants a family, wants to feel loved, wants to be wanted and, even though he's always imagined Charles would be the one to do it, that most likely wouldn't happen.
Even saying most likely was wishful thinking.
Oscar
in my opinion, max, you should really just confess
it's probably better than spending your entire life in silence
even if charles doesn't feel the same, it'll be good to get it off your chest
besides, he's a great guy, he wouldn't treat you with disrespect
Max
thank you, oscar
Lando
NO!!!!!!!!!!!!
THAT'S THE WORST IDEA EVER
respectfully babe
Daniel
you can't say something rude as fuck, add “respectfully” and act like it's all good
Lando
damn you're up my ass today #hater
Oscar
yeah daniel, stop it
that's my job
Daniel
LMFAOOOOOO
there's always an australian up lando's ass huh
Max
gross
Lando
stay mad you're both jealous 😛
Max
well, about your challenge
i can do it
it'll be easy
Daniel
easy?
how many times have you touched charles today since you've seen him?
Max
fuck off
that's not the point
i've self-control, i can stay away from charles for a weekend
Daniel
you better
i’ve good money on you
Max sighed, this conversation was physically and emotionally painful, he felt at least ten years older. Did he want to stay away from Charles? No, of course not. The Dutchman thinks there hasn’t been a day since he’s known Charles that he’s wanted to stay away. From sworn enemies, to rivals and friends, the Monegasque was a reliable company in Max’s life. Touching him was second nature, something now deeply ingrained in the Red Bull driver’s soul, as instinctive as breathing.
But now, all Max can imagine is the future: when Charles settles down, falls in love, forms a family, chooses to retire from his career, eventually moving on with his life. Would Max break down and cry? Would he become bitter and cruel, cold and heartless like he was taught to be? When Charles’ life became a constant reminder that Max wasn’t enough, would be haunted by memories? Maybe Max was being dramatic, unusually melodramatic, but he could picture an universe where he’d die alone.
He’d refuse to put a poor soul through a loveless, miserable marriage, would prefer his solitude. Max despised all men who never fully mourned the loss of “the one that got away”, forever subconsciously projecting their image on others. After reading all theories about how first loves never went away, the Dutchman knew he was fucked.
Maybe it wasn’t too late. He could forget Charles.
As a solitary tear ran down Max’s face, he was strangely glad to see the Monegasque’s sleeping form, knowing he’d be mortified to cry in front of him. A small part of the Dutchman’s heart screamed that Charles had already seen him cry many times and had even offered a few words of comfort when they were only children. All so sympathetic, finding a way to communicate his support, pushing through the fact neither of them spoke perfect English.
Max tried to suffocate that thought, it wasn’t helpful.
“Game on, motherfuckers.” The Dutchman whispered, ignoring how he sounded like a cartoon supervillain, before leaving the group chat. Max’s private jet momentarily shakes, a stronger than usual turbulence hitting the aircraft. He’s already used to it, never really afraid of flying and knowing it’s a necessary evil for someone who works around the world, so he isn’t too surprised. Beside him, the Monegasque stirs, eyes snapping open.
“Max? What was that?” Charles yawned, suddenly waking up, looking startled.
“Just turbulence, schatje, don’t worry about it.” Max mumbled, self-consciously hiding his phone and turning his body away from Charles. After hearing his voice, seeing his messy hair and soft eyes slowly blinking, it’s increasingly difficult to control himself. The Red Bull had never noticed how down bad he was for Charles until now. “We’re almost there, you slept through nearly the entire flight.”
“I had the strangest of dreams…” The Monegasque trails off, cutting his train of thought off.
Charles’ face turns pensive, his lips downturned with disappointment.
“I wanted to spend time with you.” Charles crossed his arms and pouted his bottom lip, looking like a petulant child, which was the silliest sight, even if incredibly endearing. “We won’t have time to hang out this weekend. How angry would Christian be if I invaded Red Bull’s hospitality?”
“We have all our lives to hang out, Charles.” Max doesn’t bother with explaining how everyone at Red Bull already fucking knows they shouldn’t mess with Charles, unless they want an infuriated Championship Leader who wouldn’t think twice before creating a scene. The Dutchman realizes how unaware Charles is that his mood wildly depends on how his relationship (or the lack thereof) with the Monegasque is. Ferrari would have a field day with that information, but even GP has teased Max about how cranky he gets.
Then, just to prove his point, Max adds.
“You were just fine without me during all summer, I’m sure one weekend won’t kill you.” Max knows exactly how he sounds, like a petty husband complaining about being neglected, but he doesn’t particularly care.
“Well, I didn’t see you blowing up my phone either, how was I supposed to know?” Charles raised an eyebrow, smirking in a way Max has always found infuriating. Whenever his pretty eyes glow mischievously and he bites his cherry-red lips, looking at Max from underneath his long eyelashes and downturning his chin. It makes him unfairly gorgeous and he knows it, that’s the worst part.
“Your pretty privileges don’t work on me, baby.”
“I’m beginning to think they do, Maxie, it’s the second time you’ve called me pretty. Just today.” Charles giggles, smoothly getting up and dropping the blanket on the floor. Max has to look away to physically restrain himself from staring at the way Charles’ elegantly bends over, showcasing his mouthwatering ass and making Max want to take a fucking bite.
It’s easy to imagine Charles holding on for dear life to the private jet’s armchair as Max fucks him from the back, the Dutchman’s strong fingers wrapped around Charles’ neck, his other hand jerking the Monegasque’s beautiful cock (unfortunately, Max has never seen it, but everything in Charles seems to be God’s gift to the world, so it’s simple to assume). But Max doesn’t imagine.
He doesn’t.
Really.
“And so what if I think you’re pretty, huh?” The Red Bull driver cringes a little at how rough his voice sounds, almost a growl. It’s no surprise that Charles freezes and Max thinks he sees a delicious blush peaking through his shirt. Standing up straight, the Ferrari driver looks frozen, as if he wasn’t ready for Max’s response. “I wouldn’t be the first man to think you’re pretty, would I?”
Max has repeated the word pretty so many times, he swears it’s echoing on his head, but that’s understandable whenever he’s around Charles.
“You wouldn’t. But who says I care about them?” Charles puts a lot of disgust on the way he pronounces them, which makes Max oddly proud. The thought of his man (he should really stop calling Charles that in his head) thinking that other men are disgusting might be the best thing he’s ever heard in his entire life. It’s so satisfying that Max doesn’t stop an arrogant smile from appearing.
“I’ve seen you take quite a few of them home before.”
Really, there was no stronger mood-killer to Max than seeing random men touching what belonged to him, it was fucking annoying. Rationally, the Dutchman knew Charles wasn’t his and, most importantly, wasn’t an object to possess, but his life surely would be easier if he could keep all people interested in Charles away.
“You sound jealous-” Another turbulence hits and Charles stumbles, falling on Max’s lap with his thighs spread. Max’s hands instinctively move forward to support his body, grabbing his ass and pressing their bodies together.
Max wants to pinch himself to make sure he isn’t fucking dreaming when he hears Charles moaning, his head falling against Max’s neck. Once the Dutchman feels friction on his hardening cock, he realizes he should desperately pull away, before the situation becomes even more awkward, but Charles isn’t leaving.
“Maxie, please…” The way the Monegasque’s lips move against Max’s skin, his wet and impossibly warm tongue peaking through, is equally terrifying and exhilarating.
“Please what, Charles? Use your words.” Max’s hands have a mind of their own when they leave Charles’ ass (and fuck, he hears when the Ferrari driver whines at the loss), moving up to roughly grab his hair and pull Charles’ head. Now, looking at his eyes, Max finally fucking sees desire in them as the Monegasque involuntarily shifts his lips, searching for more friction.
Max yanks Charles’ hair once again, a stern look on his blue eyes, now almost fully eclipsed by his blown-out pupils.
“Putain!” Charles whimpered, his cock visibly twitching in the confines of his pants. “Don't be mean to me, Maxie, don't make me wait!”
Max fucking guffaws at that, knowing he's waited all his life, so it'd be insufferable to wait even more. Still, there's something appealing to hear Charles beg, to leave him so desperate that he'll be crying for it.
“Be a good boy and stop fucking moving, huh? There you go, schatje, just tell me what you want.” The Dutchman answered. The way Charles was squirming was driving Max insane, he wanted to bend him over again, to strip down his pants and to suck him off until Charles came down his throat. His mind was overwhelmed with so many possibilities, it was impossible to choose one.
A small, annoying voice, that sounded awfully similar to Lando's, kept pestering Max, remembering he had made a promise of not touching Charles. Not only that, he said it would be fucking easy.
Now, when he made that promise, did Max imagine Charles would quite literally fall on his lap and beg him to be fucked?
Of course not.
And, if Max knew that offer was on the table, would he have accepted Lando's challenge?
Fuck no.
“I want you to touch me, is that so hard to comprehend?” Charles sounded awfully frustrated, as if Max behavior was insufferable to him, bordering on painful. The Dutchman was already feeling delirious, he had never felt this hysterical. Most Formula One drivers are adrenaline junkies, but Max thinks the ecstasy of speed-driving comes nowhere near the euphoric feeling of Charles begging.
“I’m touching you, aren’t I?”
“Ouais, espèce de connard! You’re always touching me, but never where I want you to. Where I need.” Then, Charles forcefully takes Max’s hand, placing it just above his hard cock. Even through a few layers of fabric, the Dutchman can feel the wet tip leaking pre-cum and can’t resist rubbing it in circles, making Charles moan brokenly. Max barely manages to wrap his hand around the Monegasque’s thick length, which leaves him stupidly infuriated once again at Charles’ ridiculous pants.
“Stand up and take these off right now.” Max demands and, surprisingly, Charles instantly obeys, blushing furiously and biting his bottom lip as he awkwardly kicks his pants away. He’s clearly trying to come off as seductive, putting on a sexy show, but Max giggles a little, thinking how surreal this entire experience is. Charles, of all people, wants to impress him.
“What are you laughing at?” Maybe Charles would’ve actually sounded pissed off, if he weren’t chuckling uncontrollably as well. When he finally gets naked, Max struggles to breathe, not thinking twice before getting on his knees. A childish, competitive part of him is oddly proud he’s bigger than Charles, Max vaguely remembers of growing up and wondering about that (it took him years to realize that wasn’t a platonic thought to have), but the rest of Max is just fucking horny.
His hand now fits perfectly around Charles’ cock, framing the pretty tip before licking the salty droplets of precum, Max taking it inside the warmth of his mouth. The Monegasque’s hand instantly holds Max’s hair, but not in a grotesque way. No, like he’s delicate, as if Max’s precious to Charles, someone he’d never dare to hurt, someone he’ll cherish all his life. The sounds leaving Charles’ throat aren’t as respectful, though, they’re filthy and desperate, repeating Max’s name like a prayer, amongst an abundance of French swear words.
“A younger version of me wouldn’t fucking believe this is happening.” Max's heart is in his ears and he's getting embarrassed by how sloppy his sexual performance feels right now. Sucking Charles' cock again, the Dutchman knows his lips are spit-slicked and swollen, knows he's gagging around Charles' length as he incessantly tries to take it deeper, knows his hands are running up and down the Monegasque’s thighs, knows he's leaving crescent marks where his nails carve a place in Charles' body.
Max's position on the floor is awkward. They might have the entire fucking jet to themselves, beyond whoever's piloting, but the Red Bull driver somehow manages to be cramped in-between seats.
Charles, ridiculously kind even if this fucking unbelievable situation, delicately pulls Max's head away before sitting down across from his, legs spread and cock standing proud, his ball hanging impossibly heavy and making Max crave disgusting things he'd never admit aloud.
He's about to ask if he's done something wrong, suddenly desperate to receive praise, approval, support or any crumb of love before he notices the way Charles looks enamoured. The Ferrari driver bends down, capturing Max's lips in a deeply passionate kiss, playfully biting his bottom lip. That makes Max moan pathetically, opening his lips and allowing Charles’ tongue to taste and explore Max's willing mouth.
Charles pulled apart, gasping for air before slowly but sure leaving a trail of kisses down Max's jawline and moving down to suck a beautifully purple bruise on his neck.
The Dutchman wonders if, later on the weekend, the hickey will still be there. Will it appear on television? Will journalists, interviewers and fans speculate? Will they know Max Verstappen belongs to Charles Leclerc?
A sick, twisted part of Max's heart fucking wishes people see it.
“Can you ride my leg as I fuck your face, sweetheart?” Charles whispered against Max's ear, sulking another mark underneath it. “Nothing I'd love more than fucking myself open on your cock, chéri, but it's race week and you're huge.”
Max almost crawls forward, standing on his hands and knees between Charles' open legs, when the Monegasque places his feet against Max's hard cock, still restrained in his pants. He's already so overwhelmed that he doesn't even question it before grinding against Charles’ leg, appreciating all the friction.
Maybe, with someone else, Max would find it fucking humiliating, he wouldn't even allow it to happen, but with Charles, he's honored. Max's already on edge, no one else in the world could make him feel this loved and wanted.
“Echt heel erg bedankt, hartelijk dank.” It's all Max says before he's worshiping again, teary-eyed as he takes Charles' cock inside his throat, hands wrapping around where he can't reach. It's fucking lovely, Max switches off his brain and all he sees is Charles’ head thrown back, the gorgeous smile on his face, the way his Adam's apple moves deliciously as he swallows, the blush adorning his pretty cheeks.
“You're so good, Maxie, fuck… you're the best. There you go, make yourself come against my leg, wanna feel it.” Charles moves his feet back and forth, eagerly trying to coax an orgasm out of Max, but the Dutchman's fucking determined to make Charles come first.
Max's fingers are wet and sticky, so he circles them around the rim of Charles' tight asshole delicately, with utter reverence, before pushing a finger inside and fucking Charles open. When Max meets a specific place, the Monegasque suddenly snaps forward, suffocatingly ramming his cock down Max’s throat, his pelvis brushing against Max's nose.
“Sorry-” Charles doesn't even have the opportunity to finish that sentence before Max's happily swallowing around his cock and simultaneously adding another finger, mercilessly hitting that same spot with precision over and over, using the perfect pressure and rhythm. “Fuck, your fingers are so thick… ‘M so full of you.”
Max preens at that, not bothering with hiding how much he fucking likes to be praised, which Charles notices.
“Oh. Oh, someone's a whore for compliments, huh? Good to know.”
Only yours, only yours, only yours.
And Max isn't proud, far from it, but the second he hears the word ‘whore’ come out of Charles' mouth, his cock fucking twitches, nearly prematurely coming in his pants. He's in heaven, too focused on the weight of Charles' cock against his tongue, to worry about his own pleasure, but Charles doesn't share the sentiment. He forcefully, almost painfully, pushes his feet against Max's desperately hard cock and the Dutchman loves the bittersweet ache, craving for more.
“Humping my leg like it's your fuckin’ job, baby. Pretty like a picture, should show the world how dumb Max Verstappen gets when he's cock drunk.”
Only yours, only yours, only yours.
But Max's competitiveness and the knowledge Charles has been with other men isn't helping. He's here to set the standard, he's here to break records, he's here to give the next motherfucker a hard time.
So he carries on, shamelessly hungry for Charles' cum. And Charles is talkative, of course he is, even if his grasp on the English language is failing miserably.
He moans and encourages and praises and degrades and screams and whines, he's all Max dreamt and more.
And when his orgasm catches them both by surprise, pearls of white dripping down the corners of Max's agape mouth as he struggles to swallow it all, it triggers Max's as well, leaving them gasping for breath. Only then, Max realizes he's crying, hoping he can chalk it off as a result from his gag reflex and not because he fucking knows this most likely will never happen again.
“Come here, sunshine, please.” Charles' voice is raspy and rough around the edges, almost gone from all the screaming, but it's still syrup-sweet when he's pulling Max from the floor and cuddling him, caressing the sweaty strands of golden hair glued to his forehead.
And when Max kisses Charles' lips softly, the Monegasque indulges his wish and kisses back, even if Max's disgusting from all sweat, spit and cum. They stay like that for a while, before Max's internal monologue gets too much, before he becomes too self-conscious and self-deprecating, finding some cheap excuse to leave.
“Mind getting me some water?” The Monegasque said as Max absent-mindedly gathered the scattered clothes thrown around the jet and tried to ignore the emptiness lodged on his heart. Knowing his hook-up was something casual that probably meant nothing and would never happen again was interfering with Max’s afterglow.
“Uh, yeah. Sure. Of course. No problem.” Max shrugged, pretending he can't see the odd look Charles gives him. The truth is that Max Verstappen has never done anything casual in his life, so being nonchalant isn't natural to him. Actually, he's probably coming off as paranoid or a psycho.
Charles is seemingly content in allowing Max to dig his own fucking grave, rambling about how he's a terrible host for not offering Charles a drink before. It's freaking Max out how they're not addressing whatever just happened, like it's just another fucking Thursday.
So many people's lives depend on Max at Red Bull, he feels the weight of all expectations on his shoulders and knows his performance can't be nothing but the best. It's Media Day, Max literally chose the worst day to randomly appear with a fucking huge, fuck-off-it's-mine hickey, distracting everyone from what really matters, which is and will always be racing.
“Here.” Handing the water bottle over, Max makes sure he doesn't touch. Sure, maybe it's too late, he's already crossed the line on the fucking sand and he can't pretend it didn't happen. He crossed the line so much, he can't even see it anymore. It's fucking gone and Max's a two-headed lamb: insane, with a short lifespan, torn apart, broken and put back together wrong.
He goes back to tidying Charles' clothes up, finding his wallet hidden underneath a seat. Once Max takes it, an insignificantly small piece of paper falls and Max can't believe his own eyes. Sometimes, after Max regrets a choice, he wishes he could go back in time, only enough to stop himself from single-handedly releasing a shitstorm in his life. Now, it's one of those times.
A picture of 2013's podium. There, inside Charles Leclerc's fucking wallet. They had just spoken about that day and Max thinks he just might spontaneously combust.
Oh my God.
“Oh my God.” Max voices, feeling like he's witnessing something he shouldn't, secretly watching a private part of Charles' life without consent, like a peeping Tom. He quickly hides the picture, even though it's already burned in his memory forever.
Max doesn't know what to do with the knowledge that Charles carries a picture of them around. All he really knows is he fucked up, ruining a genuine friendship, someone that cares enough about their history together to always keep it in his pocket. All he really knows is that he's being a terrible friend for taking advantage of it.
“What's wrong, Maxie?” He hears Charles' voice, saccharine and endearingly slow, still basking on the pleasant aftereffects of a good fuck, and it tugs on Max's heartstrings. He's so unaware of Max's betrayal of trust, instead of being rightfully upset, and the Dutchman can physically feel mortification setting into his bones.
His brain is clearly running a half-second behind his body, because Max's eyes greedily fall on Charles' fucking perfect chest, shoulders, thighs and even his, now half-hard, cock, almost ready to go again. He's mostly naked, beyond the blanket he covered himself with, only barely. It's still a feast to Max's eyes, the guilt festering whatever pleasure he could possibly get from seeing Charles.
“Nothing's wrong.” The words come out defensive, something that sits too close to aggressive, a tone Max never used with the Monegasque, adding up to the guilt. He hands the clothes over, all neatly (Max is being generous with himself, it's obsessively) folded, encouraging Charles to get dressed.
“You're my favorite, Maxie, you can't lie to me. I know when something's wrong.” The Monegasque giggled.
So carefree, ridiculously happy-go-lucky, Max's once again reminded of why Charles is the Golden Boy of Formula 1, all smiles and compliments, always with something nice to say. No one in the world should be as earnest and genuine as Charles Leclerc, it's no wonder he's God's favorite.
Max wonders what it means to be God's favorite son's favorite, if it's a blessing or a death sentence. It's divine, an otherworldly feeling that no human being has ever experienced and survived.
Patroclus was Achilles’ favorite too, loved him more than life itself, wished everyone else to die so they'd never be apart, was destroyed by the grief of losing his lover so brutally. Patroclus met the fate of being God's favorite son's favorite too and Max asks himself if it was all worth it in the end.
He thinks that, when his time comes around, he'd also want to bury his bones with Charles', just to touch him one last time.
“Am I really your favorite?” The need for reassurance is nearly sickening, but equally irresistible, so the Dutchman asks for it anyway.
“Such a silly question.”
Max's rotten heart screams in dissatisfaction, knowing that isn't enough to soothe his worries, fearing the day someone else steals what's rightfully his. Max's merciless mind only provides the thought that they'll have to pry Charles out of Max's cold, bloodied, dead hands and that he won't go down without a fight.
“Indulge me, then, regardless of how silly.” Charles seemingly notices how deadly serious Max is, raising his eyebrows in astonishment.
“I clearly haven't been doing a good job at expressing my thoughts, if the answer isn't clear.”
“Maybe I just want to hear it.” Max responds just as fast, fighting the strange urge to beg on his knees. He isn't sure whether Charles is purposefully torturing him or he's truly confused, but the Red Bull driver doesn't care.
Right now, he'd do just about anything to crack Charles’ skull open and crawl inside, living there forever, gluttonously swallowing every thought and opinion Charles has ever had of Max. Max liked to believe that was a symptom of being in love, even if in a parasitic way.
“Stop deflecting it.” Max hopes he sounds encouraging, knows he sounds suffocating and regrets not sounding more blasé. All the rejection across the years should’ve prepared the Dutchman better and, after experiencing it so often, he should be more unimpressed. The way Charles shows little to no enthusiasm hurts far stronger than if he outright repudiated Max, but that never comes.
In some cruel twist of fate, Charles Leclerc never forswore Max Verstappen’s name with great vehemence. Max preferred burning to death in scalding flames than drowning in lukewarm water, but that wasn’t an option.
“M’not. You’re my favorite person, Max, I’ve never denied that.” Charles gets up, suddenly sounding frustrated, still so fucking naked and the sight was inexplicably enervating to the Dutchman. “Is that so unfathomable to you, really? Such a brilliant man, it’s impressive how oblivious you can be when it’s convenient.”
“None of this is convenient to me, Charles!” The Red Bull driver frantically gestures in-between them, trying his best to not look down, so he won’t lose focus.
“This what, Max? What the fuck do you mean by this? Say it with your chest.”
Max realizes he isn’t sure about what he means, he didn’t really think the words through before saying them. All he really remembers is Nietzsche’s quote about he only loves what a person has written with their own blood, a phrase he never truly understood until he lived it. It’s impossible to talk about love if you haven’t experienced it at least once, it’s worthless to talk about feelings you don’t possess, but it’s priceless to share what you carry in your heart.
He wrote his love for Charles with his own blood, sweat and tears, but he couldn’t find the strength to say it, not yet. It felt too soon, it felt too late.
He watched as Charles’ eyes grew dark with some profound emotion, so mystifying and secretive that he couldn’t comprehend. Had they always been this cryptic with their words? Max couldn’t remember anymore.
“Christ, why does it feel like I have to waterboard the information out of you?” Charles shouted.
“As if talking to you doesn’t feel like pulling teeth sometimes!” The conversation begins to feel like starting a war, but Max’s too proud to lose the battle.
Sure, Charles could be a headache sometimes. He was dramatic, impatient, selfish and always hungry for more, but Max was a hypocrite for pretending those aren’t the reasons he fell in love with the Ferrari driver. All his obsession, his drive, his perfectionism, they were endearingly infuriating, they weren’t flaws.
“Would it kill you to put your goddamn clothes on? I really can’t think straight if you’re fucking naked, Charles. It’s an unfair advantage-”
“C'est ridicule!” The Monegasque laughed wholeheartedly and Max’s once again reminded of why he’s so hopelessly enamored with this foolish, incredible, absurd man.
It’s absolutely frightening how Charles could be an awful, awful man and Max would worship the ground he walks on anyway. Such a scary thought.
The Dutchman silently observes as Charles jumps around, stumbling as he puts his pants on, and Max forgets why he was even upset. It’s so easy to imagine a life with this outrageous man, to forget all the reasons he can’t have it. Max is unreasonably jealous of the version of him, in an alternative universe, where he’s lazily laying in bed, enjoying the show as Charles runs around, trying to get dressed after sleeping in and being late for an event.
“Better?” The Ferrari driver stubbornly points to his, now clothed, body.
“Yes, actually.”
“You weren't complaining before.” Charles shrugged petulantly. He's silent for a moment, running a hand through his hair, lost in thought. “...Why are we arguing, Maxie?”
Max thinks that's a great fucking question, he's also confused by that. Maybe, the unexpected shift in their lives created a fracture in their relationship, something they'll never be able to recover from. How could Max pretend he isn't deeply in love with Charles after being so close to having everything? Now, it was all damage control.
“I just… I don't want things to change.”
“Oh.” Charles said, understanding dawning on his face, quickly followed by a profound disappointment, which instantly breaks Max's heart. Maybe the Monegasque no longer wants Max in his life, unsatisfied by his careless actions towards their friendship, and he'd be right to feel that way. But the Dutchman knows Charles can't reciprocate the depth of his love and it'd be better to have nothing than to only receive crumbs of affection forever.
“I know our feelings aren't the same and I'm okay with that, I swear. I can't blame you for that, Charlie, but I would hate to lose you because of that. Our friendship means too much to me and-”
“Max, I understand.” A lonely tear rolls down Charles' face and he quickly wipes away as he gives Max the most insincere smile he's ever seen in his life.
You're my favorite too, Charles, you can't lie to me. I know when something's wrong, Max wants to say, but the words feel wrong. It'd be cruel to throw Charles' own words on his face, especially since the Red Bull driver knows it's not the same.
“I don't think you do! I saw the picture of us that you carry in your pocket and-”
“You went through my fucking wallet?!”
“-there are things in my heart, feelings I'd never share, because I know it'd change the way you see me.”
“Max, please.” Even Charles' hands shaking Max's shoulders aren't quite enough to make him stop.
If anything, the touch only fuels the fire, only deepens the cut tearing his heart apart, only makes things worse.
“And I don't know how to live in a world without you, so I'm begging you, don't leave!”
“That's enough. I heard you, loud and clear.” Charles' scream cuts through Max's train of thought, leaving them both broken and defeated. “I don't think we can be friends after everything that happened today.”
Max feels Charles' last kiss before he pulls away completely, a quick brush of his lips against his temple, and it feels like a goodbye.
And, for the rest of the flight, Max thinks people would be fucking proud of him. He doesn't touch Charles, not even once. He doesn't dare to say a word. The silence isn't comfortable, it's final.
Max Verstappen has always known he was unlovable, undeserving of forgiveness, especially unworthy of Charles' heart. It's nothing new, but it hurts the same.