leave no space

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/43505271.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Fandom: Formula 1 RPF
Relationship: Charles Leclerc/Max Verstappen
Character: Charles Leclerc, Max Verstappen
Additional Tags: Character Study, Internalized Biphobia, Pining, repressed bisexual
charles leclerc, airmax as a plot device, how to win your maiden f1
championship, and at the same time NOT fuck your future rbr
teammate, spoiler: charles unfortunately fails on both accounts
Language: English
Series: Part 2 of objects in mirror
Stats: Published: 2022-12-18 Words: 31,700 Chapters: 1/1

leave no space
by linearity

Summary

Max Verstappen fucks men sometimes. Charles struggles to cope.

Notes

introducing the gay sequel to on the limit, feat.

a made-up-second-half-of-the-2024-calendar…… harrowingly similar to the 2023

calendar
mini-commentaries about grief, *gesticulates vaguely* ferrari as a metaphor for grief
likely, very bad math regarding championship points. i tried my best to make it
consistent but i really doubt it pans out. just go with me pls
and, of course, a lot more

happy reading <3

See the end of the work for more notes

Charles
happy birthday!

It took Charles ten minutes to draft the text. Another ten to press send. He spends the following
seven minutes staring at it.

He’s known Max—or, at least been aware of his existence—for seventeen years, and he’s had the
guy’s phone number for the past six, as long as they’ve been in F1 together. They’ve only ever
spoken to one another over text in the grid group chat. Until now, Charles hasn’t ever wished Max
a happy birthday, either in person or via text message.

For the first few years of F1, it was because he wasn’t actually aware of when Max’s birthday was.
For the last few, it was because—

They weren’t friends. And they still aren’t friends.

The drunken mid-afternoon breakdown that Max unfortunately witnessed over the summer had
changed everything, but nothing between them. Almost two months have passed since then, but
they’re still the same Charles and Max. Friendly on the paddock, a nonexistent relationship outside
of it.

Four races have passed as well.

Strangely enough, Charles won Zandvoort thanks to a botched Mercedes pitstop that had Lewis
exiting the pitlane behind Charles, and Max DNF’ing due to a rare power unit failure—but Max
won Monza, Singapore, and Suzuka all with pure, raw, brutal pace. Neither Charles nor Lewis
stood a chance.

Only Qatar, Austin, Mexico, Brazil, Las Vegas, and Abu Dhabi remain. Mathematically, both
Charles and Lewis still have a shot—but the odds aren’t in their favor. For Charles, they rarely are.
Charles would be bitter, defeated, angry—too angry to text Max, but he’s going to be Max’s
teammate next year. Part of the Red Bull family. He can put his bitterness aside for the day.

In addition, at least off of the track, Max has been nothing but kind to him.

After nearly thirty minutes of overthinking, he gives up on waiting for a response and goes on a
run to distract himself.

Nearly two hours pass until Max finally replies. Charles has already finished his entire morning
workout by the time his phone starts pinging.

Max
Thanks mate

Max keeps typing. After a few seconds, Charles receives two replies, rapid-fire.

[photo attached]
You’re invited btw
No pressure

Charles clicks on the photo. It’s a shitty, grainy graphic that looks like it was hastily made on
someone’s phone—Lando, Charles guesses—but he can spot out the details: MAX
VERSTAPPEN’S B-DAY BASH, it says, along with the date, time, and location. Jimmy’z.
Fitting, Charles thinks, given that most of the grid live in Monaco or near it, and that they have a
two week break between Japan and Qatar.

No pressure, Charles reads again.

He’s been unofficially invited to all of Max’s birthday parties since he’s been in F1. They’re
notoriously big, grand, and wild—hosted by Red Bull and open to all the drivers and members of
the paddock. Charles has never gone before, never was interested. Besides the fact that he’s never
been a big partier, Ferrari has always been hyperaware, critical of the image their drivers portray to
the world. Be careful about who you party with, and be especially careful about getting your
photos taken in such a setting, they always told him. The history, they reminded him, as if Charles
could ever forget it. Think about our history.

Really, Charles is aware, none of that matters anymore. He’s going to be in Red Bull next year, and
Red Bull is the last team to care about excessive partying. Objectively, it would be good to show
face to his future teammate and his future team. But—

Old habits die hard.

i’ll think about it, he texts back after a couple minutes of consideration. No thanks, he really means,
and he knows that Max knows that too.

Onto the rest of his day.

Busy with physical training, work on the sim, and virtual meetings with Ferrari, Charles largely
forgets about Max’s birthday party until later that night, at about 10 PM, when he receives a call
from Pierre.

Charles accepts the call immediately—a mistake, because he has to jerkily pull his phone away
from his ear and lower the volume due to the noise: club music, laughter, muffled voices, blasting
through tinny speakers.

After a few seconds, he makes out Pierre’s voice over the chaos. “When are you getting here?” he
asks, in French, which is a comfort to Charles. He doesn’t have to think as hard as he normally
does.

“What?” Charles asks, slipping his bookmark—a receipt from the bookshop he bought it at—
between the pages of the novel in his hands. He closes it, then sets it in his lap.

Pierre laughs, sounding drunk and happy. He must be at Max’s party. “Jimmy’z,” he responds,
shouting into the speaker.

Charles still struggles to hear him over the bass of the music vibrating through his phone speakers.
“I’m not going,” he replies, shouting also, so that Pierre can hear him.

“You should,” Pierre slurs back. “It’s fun.”

Vaguely, Charles hears a voice say, Pierre! We are drinking shots! Hurry on phone! Yuki, he
recognizes.

“I’m okay, thanks.”

Muffled noises, then some slurred arguing in broken English from both Pierre and Yuki. “Well,
what are you doing instead?”

Cheeks flushing, Charles looks down at the closed book in his lap, his empty living room, his
piano, the sheet music sitting on the shelf, the pseudo-fireplace bright with artificial flames. His
reading glasses feel heavy on the tip of his nose.

It’s a Monday night. Charles has meetings early in the morning. He surmises that most of the other
attendees of the party do too. He doesn’t want to feel like shit in the morning. He’s been hungover
in meetings before—it isn’t pleasant.

So he decides to be honest. “Reading.”

“Reading,” repeats Pierre. Not judgemental (he rarely is), but incredulous. Charles can’t blame him
for his surprise—he forgot to tell Pierre about his new hobby of his. Before he can say anything,
though, there’s rustling on the other line, and the sudden sound of the phone being dropped. “Hold
on,” Pierre says after a few moments.

Charles waits. He puts his book on the table and slumps into his seat, crossing his legs.

“You were invited, no?” comes a voice in English.

“Yes, but—” Charles answers back in English on instinct, then he registers who was speaking.
“Carlos?” he asks, shocked into sitting up straight.

Even Carlos is there?

Laughter. Charles would recognize that cackle anywhere.

“Yes, it is me,” Carlos responds warmly.

Charles bites his lip. Things have been—uncomfortable between him and Carlos lately. Charles
knows it has everything to do with him signing a multi-year Red Bull contract not only behind
Ferrari’s back, but behind Carlos’.

Why didn’t you tell me? Carlos asked, pulling him aside before their first meeting following the
summer break, the day after Charles’ move to Red Bull was made public. Charles doesn’t think
he’ll ever forget it, the stern crease between Carlos’ brows, the purse of his lips, an urgent squeeze
of his hand gripping at Charles’ wrist, betrayal in his eyes.

Not betrayal on behalf of Ferrari, but betrayal of his own.

Carlos Sainz, brought into F1 through the Red Bull Junior programme, tossed between team after
team before finding a home at Ferrari. Four years strong, more than any of his past teams. He’ll be
Ferrari’s new number one, after this year.

I’m sorry, Charles replied, ignoring the hurt on Carlos’ face, for lack of anything better to say. I
just—I had to, he added, uselessly. He had told Carlos, earlier in the summer, that he wouldn’t be
leaving for Mercedes. It ended up being the truth.

Carlos’ face fell. Then he nodded. A few seconds passed, and he silently let go of Charles’ wrist.
They shuffled into the meeting room, where the strategy team was waiting for them.

That was that. They haven’t talked about it since—they’re both pretending like Charles isn’t
leaving at the end of the year.

Charles has to take a moment to decide what to say. Thankfully, he remembers the question Carlos
had asked, and responds, “Yes, I was invited.”
“Then why are you not here, hm?”

Charles’ tongue feels thick in his mouth when he says, weakly, “We have an early meeting
tomorrow.”

“I’m here, are I not?” Charles can almost hear the smirk on Carlos’ lips. “It will be fun. It is fun.
Come for a little while. I am leaving before midnight, anyway.”

They were friends, once, Charles is sure. Not the bullshit friendship that so many F1 drivers are
quick to adopt and quick to drop. And also not like him and Pierre—torn and frayed but made
stronger with time and tragedy—but still, something real.

Real things, Charles knows, are easily lost forever. The most important things in life are
unrecoverable. He is twenty-six, two weeks shy of twenty-seven, but he learned this when he was
seventeen and again when he was nineteen and again just this summer when he put ink to paper
and shook Christian’s hand. He has carried each loss with him. He has lost so much already.

Still, he thinks, he is not so different from the boy he was. He has always been the type to hold
hope in lost causes.

“Okay,” he says, standing up, squaring his shoulders even though no one is there to see. “I’ll
come.”

As much as Charles likes to say he isn’t a partier, he is familiar with the environment. It comes
with the job. Hot, sweaty bodies writhing and grinding. Designer brands everywhere. Sticky floors.
Champagne. Shots. Deafening music. Dilated pupils. Spilled drinks. Crowds rushing in and out of
the bathroom. More shots. Strobe lights. Girls trying to pull him in for a dance, hoping it’ll lead to
more. You’re that Ferrari driver, right? I heard you broke up with your girlfriend.

When he was younger and in Sauber, he went out a lot more, curious to see what it was like, wide-
eyed and excited by how new and adult everything was. Fresh blood. And he enjoyed it—really,
he did. Then Ferrari happened, and reality kicked in. So did the promise of his dream.

Duty, history, burdens to shoulder. Eyes on the prize. Win a championship. Make your father
proud.

Charles has been to Jimmy’z before—he’s even held one of his own birthday celebrations here—
but it’s never been this packed.

On his walk here, he came up with a couple of goals:

Say hi to Carlos, take a shot and dance with him a little. Carlos was the reason he came.
Say hi to Pierre, also take a shot and dance with him a little. Pierre is his best friend.
Say happy birthday to Max, and—that’s all. Max invited him, he’s the birthday boy, and
Charles’ future teammate, but Charles has no further obligations to him.

He succeeded on the first two accounts with ease. Carlos and Pierre happened to be near the
entrance when Charles came in. They both hugged him, Pierre drunkenly stumbling and almost
knocking Charles to the floor, and dragged him to the bar to take shots.
He really doesn’t talk to Carlos, not in any way that matters. He doesn’t know what he was
expecting. A heart-to-heart in the middle of the club? Him spilling his heart and all the dirty details
about why he chose Red Bull over Ferrari? All he got was small talk, lighthearted talk about how
Lando’s doing great DJ’ing the event.

They danced, they drank a little more. It’s fun, but Charles still finds himself disappointed.

He can’t shake the feeling that there’s no use getting this friendship back.

After a few songs, Charles manages to escape them, and he also manages to greet Lando and the
other drivers present. He takes another shot.

He still hasn’t found Max. The club has only gotten more crowded. He’s starting to feel a bit tipsy,
and also like he needs to piss. He weaves his way through the sea of bodies, making sure to keep
an eye out for Max along the way, to no avail. He finds his way to the bathroom regardless.

The long hallway leading to the restrooms is empty, unlike the rest of the club, save for Daniel,
leaning against the wall adjacent to the bathroom door. Daniel Ricciardo, of all people.

Charles must be in luck. Once Charles finds Max and says happy birthday, he’ll walk home and
that will be that. If anyone knows where Max would be, Charles supposes it would be Daniel.

Putting aside his growingly urgent need to use the bathroom, Charles greets him awkwardly.

“Charles, buddy!” Daniel replies easily, pulling him into a hug.

After greetings are exchanged, Charles takes the opportunity to say, “I’m looking for Max. I want
to say happy birthday in person.”

The hallway is far enough from the source of the music that they can talk without having to scream
at one another.

Daniel grins, charming as ever, pearly white teeth looking blue in the colored lights of the club.
“Sorry. Don’t know where he is.”

Charles frowns, sighs defeatedly, then starts to push open the door of the bathroom, only for Daniel
to suddenly grab his wrist.

“Max’s parties aren’t usually like this, if you’re wondering,” Daniel blurts, eyes looking rather
wide.

Really, Charles wasn’t wondering about this at all. It’s Max Verstappen, a three-time, almost four-
time, world champion. It’s his birthday. He’s well within his rights to throw something like this.

“What?” he asks.

“They’re usually smaller,” Daniel begins to ramble, letting go of his vice grip on Charles’ wrist.
Charles stays and listens out of something he thinks must be comradery. “All tight-knit. He
decided to go all out this year, for some reason.” Daniel laughs. Charles can’t help but think it
sounds forced. “I don’t think he’s thrown a banger like this since he won his first championship.”

Charles feels a little dumb, like he missed a part of their conversation. And he has been drinking, so
he supposes that maybe he did black out for a moment there. So he plays along. “Why do you
think…?” He trails off, struggling to express what he means to say in English.
Daniel understands, anyhow. “Dunno, mate,” he says with a shrug. “Maybe he wanted to impress
you.”

Charles reels for a second, then shakes his head, dizzying himself with the motion. How many
shots has he taken? Three, he thinks. Maybe four. No, closer to six, he thinks.

“Max wouldn’t do that,” Charles denies. He’s aware of this no matter how much he’s drunk
tonight. He didn’t even know I would come. And why would he try to impress me?

“You’re right,” Daniel says, smiling fondly. Normally, Charles would get caught up in the
sentiment, if it weren’t for how odd this whole conversation has been.

Has Daniel always been this awkward and contradictory? Or is Charles just drunk? Is Daniel
drunk?

“He wouldn’t do that,” Daniel goes on. “That’s our Maxy. Never tries to impress anyone, but he
always ends up doing it somehow.”

“Okay…”

“If you asked me, I think it’s just ‘cause it’s been a while.”

“Yeah?”

“He got real domestic when he was with Kelly.” In all honesty, Charles forgot about Kelly, how
she and Max had dated—quite seriously—for three years, breaking up just before the 2024 season
started. Like everybody else, Charles was convinced they were going to get married one day.
“Didn’t want to go out unless he had something special to celebrate. Birthdays, a championship,
the works.”

Charles nods. “That makes sense.”

Their odd conversation comes to a strict halt when a man starts to come down the hall, clearly
heading to the men’s bathroom.

Like he did with Charles, Daniel stops the man from walking in, side-stepping before the door
quickly.

Charles gapes.

“Sorry, mate,” Daniel says seriously, shoulders squared. It isn’t until now that Charles realizes
Daniel is stone-cold sober.

“What?” the man asks, just as confused as Charles is.

“Use a different one,” Daniel insists, much too firmly. A little rudely, Charles thinks. Daniel puffs
out his chest. “There’s another set of bathrooms on the other side of the club.”

He and the stranger have a stand-off for a few moments. Charles has drunk too much tonight to
count the seconds accurately, but if he had to guess, he’d say it’s something like twenty-three.

The man is the one to back off, muttering something under his breath on his way down the hall.

“Hey, Daniel,” Charles says, reluctant.

“What?”
“I need to use the bathroom.”

Daniel’s laugh is stilted. “Use a different one,” he says, but without any of the firmness or rudeness
he held toward the stranger.

Charles lifts a brow. “Is something wrong with this one?”

“Yes,” Daniel exclaims quickly. Then he stalls, clearly reaching for an excuse. “Um. Pipes burst.”

“Pipes… burst?” Charles looks up at the ceiling, then around the hallway. “Everything looks fine
to me.”

“Uh—” Daniel looks a little panicked, eyes wild, frenzied.

Now that Charles thinks about it, it’s odd that Daniel was just standing outside the bathroom,
alone.

Daniel is hiding something, Charles realizes. And Charles isn’t one to stick his nose up in other
people’s business or cross boundaries when he doesn’t need to, but he really needs to piss. He also
remembers, vaguely, that his last two drinks weren’t shots, but cocktails. He really needs to piss.

Charles ignores Daniel shouting, “Wait, no, shit, Charles, don’t—” and pushes past Daniel—
because it’s Daniel, harmless and sweet, nice to anyone and everyone, even if Charles did take the
seat that Daniel was hoping would resurrect his F1 career. He’ll be driving in IndyCar in 2025.

Daniel doesn’t put up a fight, stays outside, slumped against the wall, like he’s resigned himself to
his fate.

A part of Charles is expecting a murder scene, or an orgy—something along those lines—when he

strides into the bathroom, but it’s just—a bathroom. Normal. Innocuous. No pipes burst. He would
think it was empty if it weren’t for the noises coming from the furthest stall loud enough to be
heard over the faint music.

Heavy breathing, a moan, perhaps—it doesn’t last for long, though. As soon as the door behind
Charles slams shut—

Shit, he hears a man whisper, oddly familiar. Then a slick noise. A gasp for air. A different voice,
rough, I thought you said you had someone at the—

The voice—another man, clearly—cuts off when the first hisses, Shut the fuck up. Then—rustled
noises. Then—

Quiet. Too quiet. Two people who don’t want to be caught.

Whatever, Charles thinks to himself, and goes to use the urinal, planning on interrogating Daniel on
his odd behavior as soon as he’s done in the bathroom.

Hands washed, he heads back out and glares at Daniel, still outside the bathroom.

“The bathroom was fine,” Charles says, pointedly. “Just some people in the last stall.”

Daniel looks pale. “Um,” he replies, holding out the m until he blurts, “do you want to take a
shot?”

Charles returns Daniel’s blinding grin with a glare. His interactions with Daniel tonight are only
getting more bizarre. They stay there for nearly a minute, neither of them moving, Daniel looking
like a deer in headlights, conspicuously glancing toward the bathroom. Charles crosses his arms
over his chest. He can’t help but be curious.

A man comes out of the bathroom, then. Charles gives him a glance. He doesn’t recognize him.
Daniel gives the man an awkward smile. The man merely fast-walks down the hallway, looking
like he doesn’t want to be seen. It seems that he doesn’t know Daniel, and Daniel doesn’t know
him.

The man is gone and has joined the main floor by the time Daniel finally turns to face Charles and
says, “We really should go—”

In the time that has passed between Charles entering the bathroom and hearing the strange noises,
and now—Daniel’s bloodless face and the man hiding his face from the two of them—Charles
finally realizes what exactly those noises were.

Oh, Charles thinks. That’s what Daniel was covering for.

After the initial shock of the realization, Charles throws his head back, laughing. “That was all?
Daniel, I do not care that—”

The door to the bathroom swings open, accompanied by a familiar voice.

“Jeez, thanks a lot, Dan—”

Charles’ head whips toward the bathroom door on instinct. He freezes.

Max does too.

And Daniel—Charles couldn’t give a single shit about Daniel right now.

Charles meets Max’s eyes. He catches Max’s throat bob, blue eyes wide, pink lips pursing into a
line. He isn’t sure how much time passes like that: Charles, staring at Max; Max, staring back.

“I, um—I’m sorry?” Daniel pipes in, sheepishly interrupting the tense mood.

Max finally takes his eyes off of Charles, careful about his gaze. “Nah, it’s fine,” he sighs, with a
shrug. He shoves his hands in his pocket. Casual. Unbothered. “We were done, anyway.”

From the obvious bulge in his jeans, Charles would say that’s a lie.

He angles his head to look at Charles once more. “Charles,” he greets coolly.

Belatedly, Charles flicks his gaze back up to somewhere appropriate, registers he’s had his mouth
open this whole time. He shuts it as soon as he realizes, swallows thickly, then he replies, his jaw
heavy like lead with the weight of just one syllable, “Max.” It comes out hoarse.

Max nods stiffly, and keeps his chin tipped up. “Good to see you. I didn’t think you were coming.”

Charles clears his throat. “I did not think I was coming either.”

A stilted beat. Charles winces at the awkwardness of it.

“Well, um.” Max’s voice is gruff. He looks off to the side, then back at Charles. “Yeah.”

Neither Charles nor Daniel say anything as Max paces down the hall, chin still tipped up high.
Once he’s lost in the sea of bodies in the main room, Charles carefully turns his head toward
Daniel. He has never felt more sober.

There isn’t anything he can think to say except, “I think I will have that shot after all.”

Charles doesn’t realize until the next morning—hungover, feet sore, with a killer headache, late for
his strategy meeting, all his memories in place—that he never did end up wishing Max a happy
birthday.

Two days later, as he’s driving to the airport in Nice, France, ready to leave for Qatar, Charles
receives a call from Daniel. He accepts the call via the carplay on his dashboard, and lets Daniel’s
voice fill the speakers.

“So, about Max’s birthday party,” Daniel says, forgoing any formal greetings.

Unconsciously, Charles grips his steering wheel harder, so hard that his knuckles turn white. His
mouth feels a little dry, but he fights through it, clears his throat, and says, “Oh, um. That. I have
not really thought about it.”

Which is a lie.

For the past two days, and all the hours that Charles has been awake, he hasn’t not thought about
Max getting his dick sucked in a club bathroom—by a stranger. By a man. The heavy breathing,
the moans, shit, shut the fuck up, the bulge in his jeans. Charles had to pop a sleeping pill last night
because it was all he could think about.

“Good, yeah,” says Daniel from the other side of the line. “Max asked me to call you and tell you
not to tell anyone.” He clears his throat. “Like, seriously. You can’t tell anyone.”

Charles merges onto the highway. It had to have been Max, the one getting sucked off, he realized
the Tuesday morning after the party. Shut the fuck up. That was Max’s voice. Not to mention that
when he came out of the bathroom, his fly was half-unzipped, Charles rather belatedly registered,
digging back into his memories.

“I was not planning on it,” Charles replies, because he wasn’t. He doesn’t even think he could get
the words out. Max Verstappen likes men, or at least getting his dick sucked by them.

Daniel hums, pleased. “He’s just worried you’re going to out him to the press.”

He what? Charles thinks, heart thumping against his ribcage. “I would never,” he snaps, feeling
bitter and hurt even though it’s not his career at stake here.

He understands Max’s worries, he does, but—

Alright, he and Max aren’t friends, have never been friends, and he doesn’t know Max nearly as
well as Daniel or Lando, and he’s never been teammates with him like Alex or Pierre or Carlos
have, but out of all the drivers on the grid, he’s known Max the longest, has raced with him the
longest, and that has to count for something.

To Charles, it counts for everything.

“Does he think I would do that? Does he think so little of me?”

“Max thinks the world of you, trust me,” Daniel says, dismissively. Charles’ head races with a
thousand thoughts a second. A bullet train zooming by, passenger after passenger getting off,
getting off, with no one to check their tickets. Before Charles can ask what Daniel means by that,
he speaks over Charles’ rapid thoughts. “The kid just gets in his head, sometimes. It’s a cruel sport.
You never know what types of guys the other drivers are, outside the track, really. If you can trust
them with—personal shit.”

Charles swallows. Fuck the other drivers, Charles thinks. But he doesn’t say that. He only says,
“He can trust me.”

“Tell that to him,” Daniel says, and when Charles laughs, he follows up, “Like, seriously. I mean
it. Tell that to him. He’ll appreciate it. He was really shaken up after the party. Seeing you.
Knowing that you know. He normally doesn’t give a shit about what others think about him, but—
you know how it is. This could be career ending.”

Charles is aware. All the drivers like to keep their private life private, each pick and choose what
parts they choose to share with the world. Max chooses to share practically nothing. When he was
with Kelly, it was different. She was safe. Socially acceptable. Amazing for his image. Getting
your cock sucked by a man in the bathroom of a club on your birthday? Nothing could be worse in
this sport.

“Me and Lando are the only other drivers who know. He just wanted to keep it that way. It doesn’t
say anything about you.”

And, of course Lando knows. It makes sense that Lando knows, Charles thinks. He and Max are
friends. Real friends, somehow, even though the only things they really have in common, outside of
racing, is that they play video games and love to party in their free time.

“Anyway,” Daniel goes on when Charles doesn’t respond. “Max didn’t tell me to do this, but I feel
like I owe you an explanation. Max doesn’t do that very often, with guys, at least, or in public. But
it was his birthday, and I owed him a favor. I owe him a couple favors, actually. The tab is quite
high,” he reveals with a laugh. “It’s been years, but I’m still paying it off.”

“Yeah?” Charles chews on his bottom lip, Max doesn’t do that very often, with guys, playing in his
head over and over. To distract himself, he busies himself imagining the Losail circuit, the slow-
speed corner at Turn 6, the long straight after Turn 16, then Turn 1. He’ll overtake Max there. He
can see it. Charles hasn’t won a race in over a month. He’s hungry.

“When we were teammates, he used to do the same sort of shit for me. With girls—” Daniel hurries
to add. “Not—you know—” Charles knows, and he rolls his eyes at the implication. As if anyone
could look at Daniel Ricciardo and think that he’s anything but straight.

Then again, that’s what Charles thought about Max, all these years.

“I thought—” Charles says, and this time, he doesn’t have the sense to keep it inside.

“What?” Daniel asks after a few moments.

He’s already dug his own grave. He might as well jump into the hole. “I thought Max was
straight,” he says, voice a little too small for his own liking. He stares at the road before him.

Daniel’s laughter rings loud and clear through the car speakers. “If straight men do that with other
men,” he says, “then I suppose I’m not straight. Besides, of course you thought Max was straight.
That’s what the rest of the world thinks. We all have secrets we want to keep close.”
Charles realizes he was pressing down on the pedal too fast, going well, well above the speed limit.
He relaxes his foot.

“Why did you call me and not Max?” he wonders. It just occurred to him: why is Max making
Daniel do the dirty work?

“Because he’s Max Verstappen,” Daniel says, as if the answer was obvious. “The last thing he’ll
ever let himself do is be vulnerable with you, or anyone. The funny part is—he’s awfully easy to
read. Cards out on the table at all times, or whatever the saying is.”

Huh, Charles thinks.

It’s weird, hearing about what other people think about Max.

He’d never tried to read Max—only ever saw what was on the surface.

Max Verstappen, teenage prodigy turned triple world champion. Max Verstappen, youngest race
winner in F1 history. Max Verstappen, face of Red Bull Racing. Max Verstappen, who blazed up
the ranks and skipped F2 entirely. Max Verstappen, who set a precedent for being so young—too
young—that the FIA had to change the rules.

But he’s also just—Max.

Max, who got Charles drunk over the summer and convinced him to leave Ferrari and sign a multi-
year deal with his team. Max, who walked Charles home that afternoon, brought him a glass of
water and made him take Advil. Max, who is kinder than Charles would have ever imagined.

Max, who isn’t at all as straight as Charles once thought.

“Not that I don’t love chatting with you, Charlie,” Daniel eventually says. “But I got a flight to
catch. AirMax and everything.” Charles tries his hardest not to think about how he’s never been
invited on Max’s private plane. “Are we good? You won’t tell anyone?”

“I won’t tell anyone,” Charles answers. And just before Daniel is about to cut the call, he finds
himself shouting, “Wait—”

Teammates come and go, but you two…

Charles doesn’t know why he’s saying this, but he can’t get it out of his head. He needs to say it,
even though he knows nothing is coming out of it. “It’s nice, how you and Max are so close, you
know, after all these years.”

Close enough for him to trust you with his secret, Charles doesn’t say.

He wonders how Max and Daniel did it, when Charles has no idea how to regain his old friendship
with Carlos, if it’s even possible.

“It is,” Daniel replies, sounding surprised. “It won’t ever be the same, I’ll tell you that. But—it’s
nice. Having something you know you won’t lose.”

The irony, Charles thinks.

Max has always been an itch under Charles’ skin. Charles has tried to lose him all his life, and
instead, he’s only been left chasing after him.
Charles hates flights. Hates airplanes. His therapist has a lot to say about that. He told her, once,
offhandedly, that he hated flying on planes, and she said, Do you think it’s a control issue? You
hate not being in control? No, Charles thought. I just fucking hate planes. His job is to sit in place,
and he doesn’t need more of it in his daily life. And as glamorous as first class is, it doesn’t change
the fact that the Wi-fi rarely works, the cabin is cold but stuffy, his ears pop, and the food is
always crap. He’d rather be anywhere else. Anything below four hours is bearable. More than that
is horrible. Connecting flights are even worse.

For the special races, like Imola, Monaco, and Monza, or if it’s a short flight, Ferrari flies him and
Carlos private. For the others, however, first-class on commercial is the best they can do.

After nearly thirteen hours of travel with a two-hour connection between his flights, he arrives in
Qatar safely, and his team meets him at the airport.

He gets driven to his hotel, showers, sets his things down, changes into a Ferrari shirt, and heads to
the paddock, dreading his first meeting. These days, he’s always dreading his meetings.

They’ve started developing the new car and have been discussing it during meetings. Charles can’t
wait for another engineer to slip in a snide, Not that it’ll matter to you, Charles.

After the Red Bull news broke out, Carlos wasn’t the only one who was upset with him.

There is precedence for this, especially at Ferrari: a driver going behind the team’s backs to sign a
new contract. Seb did it, Alonso did it, and now—Charles. The difference is that he signed for the
direct competition.

They’ve lost faith in him. He’s been pushed away from meeting after meeting, not to mention that
the team is obviously favoring Carlos, no doubt contributing to the rift in their friendship, and yet
—Charles is still fifty-eight points clear of Carlos, no help from Ferrari. He’s earned this, has
clawed his way into second place, all on his own. Even points with Lewis.

The meeting goes overtime, but Carlos stays behind to talk with the strategy team more. Why
bother? Charles wants to tell him. You know that they don’t know what the hell they’re doing, he
wants to say. Any time we’ve ever won because of strategy was pure luck. But he doesn’t. He
leaves the conference room, heading outside to sign autographs and talk to the Tifosi.

This is the one part of Thursdays that he hasn’t grown to hate.

He wants the day to be over. He’s done with team politics. He just wants to race.

Saturday goes well. Charles gets P2, behind Max and ahead of Lewis. Any other track, he’d be
annoyed, bitter, disappointed, but Losail has always suited both Red Bull and Mercedes more—
they’re stronger on the straights and slow corners, even though Ferrari tried to improve that over
the summer break. He’s happy with P2, beating Lewis and Sergio in a car that doesn’t suit the
track. He’ll make up for it in the race. Front row with Max. He did what he could, and tomorrow,
he will do what he can.
It isn’t until Sunday that Charles gets a chance to talk to Max for the first time since his birthday
party.

Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, he saw Max plenty of times. In the paddock, the media pen, at
sponsor functions. They were even in the same group for interviews. But that was all with eyes on
them. Cameras. Before the driver’s parade, he’s ushered toward the media pen to talk about how
he’s feeling about the race. He prepares himself for the usual questions. You’re only twenty-two
points behind the lead in the championship. How do you feel? Do you think you have a shot?
You’ve been closer than you ever have before. Do you think this is your year? Tell me about Red
Bull. Why did you choose them over Mercedes? We heard they’re making massive improvements
for 2025. Will you be Max’s second driver? How are you and Max, your relationship? Friends?
Enemies? Rivals? You and Max are quite friendly, as we’ve seen, but do you think this will turn out
to be another Hamilton-Rosberg situation?

He happens upon Max walking out of the media pen.

“Max, hi,” Charles greets, quickly glancing around them for anyone with a microphone. Luckily,
it’s just them and a few engineers lounging about.

Max’s shoulders jump, and he turns to face Charles, face opening up with surprise. Charles realizes
that Max hadn’t even realized he was there.

“Oh, hi Charles.” Max’s face opens up with a smile.

Charles smiles back, and he steels himself up for what he’s about to say. He’s been planning this
since he stepped on the plane to Qatar. “I just wanted to say, about your birthday—”

Max instantly goes gloomy, closing up. His shoulders stiffen, brows furrow. He interrupts Charles
with a heavy sigh. “Look, we don’t need to do this. As long as you don’t fucking tell anyone, we
don’t need to—”

The funny part is—he’s awfully easy to read. Cards out on the table at all times.

Charles looks. Looks past the belligerence.

Max looks—angry. Looks—annoyed. Looks—vulnerable. Scared.

“I won’t,” Charles says, with enough firmness that Max doesn’t interrupt this time. Once he sees
that Max isn’t going to storm away, Charles takes a deep breath, Daniel’s voice playing back in his
head.

Tell that to him. He’ll appreciate it.

“You can trust me.”

Max blinks, and it might just be the heat, but Charles catches a blush on his cheeks. “Okay,” he
replies stiffly. His shoulders fall. “Thank you,” he adds, an awkward sincerity threaded through the
syllables. He doesn’t look terrified anymore.

He looks younger than Charles has ever seen him, and Charles has seen Max at twelve. Awkward,
angry, with a thicker accent, with a terrible haircut. Chubby and full cheeks, now replaced by a
sharp jaw and stubble, lanky arms, now large, bulky, with defined muscle, but the same blue eyes,
all stubborn fire.

He’s handsome now, a man—not the child he was when he entered F1 nor the child he was when
he and Charles started racing together.

They were just boys back then, both of them ill-tempered, immature, cut from the same cloth, and
as much as Ferrari has tried to beat the wildness out of Charles, the ferocity that had him driving
Max into a puddle that rainy day in Val d’Argenton, replace it with a mild-mannered, warm-eyed
heartthrob—the image, the image! you’re the face of Ferrari now, act like it! good and pure and
likeable off the track, but ruthless when you’re on it!—whatever the fuck they needed him to be,
there are some things that just you cannot change, no matter how hard you try.

And Charles has tried. Ferrari doesn’t know the half of it, how much he’s tried.

Charles swallows. He can’t help but think back to the club, memories cutting into his flesh. A bead
of sweat runs down his nape. Max is waiting for him to say something.

We all have secrets we want to keep close.

Something claws up Charles’ throat. This wasn’t the plan. He had a plan, tell Max he can trust me,
and he’s succeeded. He doesn’t have to do anything more, say anything more—all he has to do is
leave. You can trust me, he said, but it’s not enough. Something is rooting him to the spot.

“I—I also—” Charles hears himself say before he’s even aware of it.

“You also what?” Max says, head tilting, frowning. He looks lost. He looks—cute. Wide-eyed and
boyish in his stupid, flat-brimmed cap.

Charles—he wants to say it. He just—he wants to say it. He’s said it to his mother, to his brothers,
even to Pierre, one drunken night three years ago, but one of his biggest regrets in life is that he
never told his father. You never know it’s too late until it already is.

Max would get it. Out of all the other drivers, Max would get it.

He’s going to say it. He is. What better time than now? But then—Oscar comes out from the media
pen. Says hi to both Max and Charles. Both of them greet him, stilted. Once he’s gone, Max looks
at Charles, waiting for him to say what he was going to say, but the words that were clawing up to
his mouth get stuck in the back of his throat, his knees buckle a little, and all he can manage to get
out is, “Nothing. Good luck in the race.”

Max only laughs. “I don’t need luck,” he says, and walks past Charles, heading to Red Bull’s
garage.

Charles has fucked a man before. Once, when he was young and high off his F2 championship.

Pierre took him clubbing. I know all the spots, he said, confident and still high off his own
promotion to the Toro Rosso team. They were both celebrating.

There isn’t much of a story to tell. Charles got drunk. Pierre did too.

The difference was, Pierre brought a girl home. Charles let a man bring him home.

Charles enjoyed it. He enjoyed it a lot.

It was his first time with a man, and the only time. He came to his senses the morning after, waking
up in a stranger’s apartment somewhere in Milan, a soreness in his lower back, bruises on his hips,
a man beside him, hogging the sheets. Charles can’t even remember his name, but he remembers
the way his legs buckled when he climbed off the bed and hurried to put his clothes back on as
quietly as he could.

He didn’t tell Pierre. Instead, he went on a date with a girl that night, found her on Tinder, fucked
her. He had a girlfriend by the end of the month.

That’s the trap with bisexuality, Charles thinks. It’s easy to fall into the mold.

He doesn’t—he isn’t ashamed of it at all. If he was living a different life, a less public one, he
would be open about it, would fuck and date and love men, but—he can’t risk it. He told his family
when he was twenty-two. Told Pierre when he was twenty-four. And it didn’t change anything.
Everyone he told was supportive, but they don’t talk about it, haven’t talked about it since; they
don’t need to talk about it. The truth of the matter is that Charles dates girls. Only girls.

Girls do. Girls are great. Charles likes them. Soft and curvy and sweet. So much skin to pinch and
grab. Likes fucking hard and fast, likes making love slow and sweet. Athletic and sweaty, or sleepy
and slow in the morning. He likes it all. Likes it enough not to care too much that all he has of the
other side of it is a memory from when he was barely twenty years old.

That night doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. None of it matters. None of it will change
the fact that he’s a public figure in a sport that has never had an openly queer driver, a sport that
struggles to accept the fact that their most successful driver in history is black.

None of it matters.

Rug burns on his knees, nails scraping his scalp, fingers twisting his hair. Mouth bitten raw, jaw
aching and bruised.

The man took Charles on his back, then again on his front, then again on his side. It was good—
feeling all full like that, not having to think, only having to do. Felt like driving on the limit. Risky.
Automatic. He knew what to do.

Seven years have passed since then, and none of it matters, but—

He still thinks about it.

Charles wins in Qatar. Lewis DNF’s after a first lap collision with Alonso—the damage to his car
was too severe to carry out the rest of the race and finish in points places. Max settles for second,
but he looks happy in the cool-down room, marveling over Lando’s overtake on Carlos at Lap 37
at Turn 1, explaining Checo’s lock-up in Lap 52 that caused the yellow flag which gave Charles a
lucky, cheap pitstop and had him regaining the lead by Lap 55. Looks happy when he’s spraying
his champagne all over Charles’ face, dumping the rest of it onto the back of George’s neck. Looks
happy in the post-race interviews when he talks about how much fun the race was, most of it spent
at the front, racing with Charles.

Now, he’s only fifteen points off Max.

He actually—he has a chance to win this. Charles glows with the realization, but a few hours later,
the post-victory glory fades. He finds himself sitting in the lounge of his hotel, resting his forehead
against his single checked luggage, hating the world.

“Why do you look so unhappy? You won today, did you not?”

Charles’ head whips up, and he’s met by the sight of Max Verstappen, changed into a tight-fitting
white tee, jeans, and an Alpha Tauri jacket. He’s wearing the same ugly flat-brimmed cap from
earlier.

“Max?” he wonders aloud, confused until he remembers that Red Bull and Ferrari happened to
book the same hotel accommodations. He had an awkward run-in with Christian the other day.

Max has a duffle bag slung over his shoulder, a frown on his lips. “Was it not fun? I thought it was
fun.”

“Ah,” Charles says, rubbing the back of his neck. His skin is warm. “My flight was delayed.”

Usually, Charles and the other drivers he’s friendly with on the grid try to book the same flights
and fill the entire first-class cabin of the plane. Whenever their flight was delayed, they could
commiserate together and grab drinks at the airport lounge—but this time, because the next race
isn’t for two more weeks, they’re all split up. George and Alex are heading to Milton Keynes,
Carlos to Madrid, and Pierre to Milan. They’re well on their way to the airport by now.

Charles is standing by at the hotel in the meantime.

Another reason why he hates flying.

Max laughs that light cackle of his. “That is why you never fly commercial.”

Charles rolls his eyes. “Not all of us have private jets, Max.”

“Just come on my plane. I’m heading out now. You’re going back to Monaco, right?”

Charles has to try hard not to let his jaw fall open. “I am,” he says gruffly, clearing his throat. “But
—” He thinks about what he wants to say. Am I that pathetic? No, Charles is past the point of
caring about that, and he knows that Max never does anything out of pity.

Except, maybe, walk Charles home after a drinking game gone wrong.

“You’ve never invited me before,” he points out, bluntly, matter-of-fact.

Max shrugs in lieu of an answer. Charles feels cheated out of one, but then he realizes that he
actually asked a question.

“You should come along. We have champagne on the plane, of course. Cozy seats. It’s way better
than first-class. And you’ll have great company,” Max coaxes, emphasizing the last point with a
grin.

Charles shifts in his seat. He was already sold at the champagne. But he doesn’t want to impose.

“Are you sure?” Charles asks, lips pressing together stubbornly. “It’s only a three hour delay.”

“Three hours is a lot, mate,” Max says, his three sounding like tree. It’s adorable. Charles’ chest
feels tight. “I am sure.”
The hotel lounge isn’t busy this late in the night. It’s just the two of them and a couple staff
members behind the front counters. The lobby music hums lightly in the background.

“Will there be room?”

“Of course there is room. Daniel is flying to the US, so it will just be you, me, and Lando.”

And Charles likes Lando. He doesn’t see any reason to say no, and Max seems to want him to
come.

He still finds himself double-checking, his mouth is pursed and his eyes narrowed when he says,
like a question, but not quite, “You are sure.”

Max shoves his hands in his pockets. “I don’t want to force you, or anything, but—why not? We
will be teammates soon.”

Right, Charles thinks. Right. That’s why Max is extending this offer. It makes sense.

Charles nods, then stands up. Max grins.

“I should call my team first and ask for permission,” Charles declares, pulling out his phone. The
team would like to know something like this.

Max furrows his brows together. “Ask? Just shoot them a text and put your phone on airplane
mode.”

Charles laughs. Of course Max would say that. He’s had Red Bull wrapped around his finger for
almost a decade now. He was seventeen and they were already letting him run wild. A golden boy
who can never do any wrong.

“It is not that easy.”

Max shrugs. “It can be,” he replies, already starting to walk out toward the revolving doors. “It
doesn’t have to be difficult.”

Charles stays standing there, watching Max’s retreating figure, all broad-shouldered and confident.

“My taxi is here. You are free to come, if you want. It’s up to you.”

Remember: Charles Leclerc has spent more than half his life chasing after Max Verstappen.
There’s no point in stopping now.

The worst part about this whole finding-out-that-his-childhood-karting-rival-likes-men situation is

that now Charles sometimes thinks about getting on his knees for Max.

It’s a new thing, he swears it. He never thought about Max in that way before, or even any of the
other drivers. He’s had girlfriends and prospective championship hopes to keep himself and his
mind busy, for the most part. And—Max has always been Max. Unruly. Annoyingly talented. Hot,
yes, Charles hates to admit, but straight. Until Monday night. Everything changed Monday night.

It would be better, he thinks, if it was the other way around. Nothing embarrassing about wanting
your cock sucked, but there’s everything embarrassing about wanting to suck cock.

He never lets it go far.

When he finds himself imagining it, how Max would pull open his jaw, fingers digging into his
chin hard enough to bruise, then slipping into his mouth; Max with a hand fisted in his hair, or
cupped around the back of his neck, pushing him down to his knees; Max’s eyes lidded and heavy,
his cheeks flushed, pink mouth parting with a gasp, handsome face screwing up tight with a moan,
strong arms caging Charles into the bed—the height difference isn’t too drastic, isn’t too severe,
but it’s noticeable, and Charles thinks about it too much; Max shoving him face-first into the
mattress, whispering dirty things into his ear—maybe he’ll be nice, maybe he’ll be mean—Charles
thinks he’d like it either way; Max telling him he’s good, Max telling him how he likes it; Max’s
fingers crooking inside him; Max’s cock filling him up; Max—

He stops himself. Bites his mouth hard enough to bleed. Digs half-moons into his palms. Bangs his
head against the nearest surface. Carlos caught him doing that once. He also caught Charles’ boner
through his racesuit.

Charles is coping. Trying to, at least.

Unfortunately, Charles’ birthday falls on the Wednesday before he’s set to fly to the Austin Grand
Prix, so he instead spends the Saturday before with his mom and brothers. He goes golfing with
Pierre and Alex on Sunday. He goes sailing with some of his hometown friends on Monday. He
spends the entirety of Tuesday on the sim, and reading in between races.

Wednesday, he fields happy birthday calls and text messages left and right. Carlos calls at about 2
PM. Charles tries his hardest to ignore the faint Italian chitter in the background. He must be at
Maranello. Charles wasn’t invited. They don’t have much to talk about. The call only lasts a few
minutes.

He plans to spend the rest of Wednesday on the sim. He has a championship to steal, anyway, and
it’ll be hard work, beating Max. Gone are the days where Max would crash out every other
weekend, bump wheels with Lewis and ruin his race just because he could, just because the past is
never as far behind as you leave it—

Max is consistent now. Mature. Rarely makes mistakes. Flawless drives are the norm from him.
Still as hungry as before, but—he has none of the desperation that Charles has. Which should work
in Charles’ favor, but it leaves him feeling pathetic. The only thing that stops Max from winning a
race these days is reliability, poor strategy, or Charles dangerously pushing his car to the limit and
beyond, like he did in Qatar.

Charles thinks about how Max joined F1 three years before he did. It has been three years since
Max’s first championship. If Charles was lucky enough for fate to favor him, that would mean
something.

He is twenty-seven. Too old, and also too young. But Charles is itching for a maiden
championship. That will always elude age.

At 6 PM on the dot, Lando calls, wishes him a happy birthday, and tries to get him to stream with
the other Twitch Quartet members. It’ll be a birthday boy special!, he says, but Charles politely
declines and settles himself in the simulator seat.

It’s four hours later, when all the twists and turns of COTA are committed to muscle memory, that
he receives a call from Max.

Charles pauses the sim, picks up his phone from the table, accepts the call, and presses his phone
to his cheek. Max’s voice fills his ears.

“Happy birthday, mate.”

Charles smiles, embarrassingly giddy with it. There are only two hours left of his birthday. He
won’t tell Max this, but a few hours ago, just before he hopped on the sim with no happy birthday
text from Max, he resigned himself to the possibility that Max forgot or simply didn’t feel like
bothering. And really, he understood it. They’re not friends, and they’re also not teammates yet.

But that didn’t stop him from feeling upset.

“Thanks, Max,” Charles says, and because a part of him wants to prolong the conversation, he
adds, “I was just on the sim.”

“That’s how you’re celebrating your birthday?”

“With a race so close, yes,” Charles responds. Not all of us have three championships under our
belt, he thinks. He rubs at his eyes, strained from the bright screen before him and the darkness
around him. The sun set long ago, and Charles hadn’t bothered to leave his seat and turn on the
lights. He wonders what Max is doing right now. Is he on the sim too? Or maybe playing video
games. Maybe playing one of those racing games on his phone he’s so fond of. He has the luxury
to relax.

He didn’t screw up two championships in a row.

Reasonably, Charles knows that one or two more races on the sim won’t help him in the coming
race, but it’s comforting, having something to do for the rest of the night.

He needs to distract himself.

Ever since Charles turned twenty-six, he’s hated his birthdays. Each one is just another reminder
that he is older than Jules will ever be.

Max hums, displeased. “What time is your flight tomorrow?” he asks.

“I am flying to Heathrow tonight, then I am taking an early flight to Austin. Six A-M.” It’s
unfortunate. The flight to Austin is one of the more brutal ones of the year, purely because of the
distance.

Max makes a noise. “How many hours of travel is that?”

“Something like thirteen,” Charles sighs. “And that is not including the layover.” He is deeply
dreading all of tomorrow. This was the most bearable flight sequence he could find.

“You should fly with me,” Max suggests off-handedly. Charles nearly chokes at the offer. “It will
only be ten hours, no layover, and we will leave at nine o’clock.” He can hear Max’s smirk when
he says, “Perks of owning a private jet.”

Max’s private jet is, well—it’s a private jet. It’s cozy, comfortable, and fancy. Charles had been on
many before, but until last Sunday, he had never been on one so empty. He can’t imagine having
one all to himself every weekend. If he had one for himself? He’d never have to set foot into
another airport again. Airports, second to airplanes, are his least favorite places to be.

If he took Max’s offer, he would have to cancel both of his flights, but he would get to avoid the
whole airport ordeal entirely. It feels too good to be true.

“Max, come on,” Charles says after a few moments of weighing the pros and cons, realizing that
there are no cons to taking Max’s offer. He can’t help but be scared that this is all one practical
joke. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” Max asks, sounding confused. “It will be a birthday present.”

Charles’ voice is small when he replies, “I didn’t get anything for your birthday.”

“You came to my party. That was enough,” Max says matter-of-factly. Charles ignores the way his
chest suddenly feels too tight. “Fine, how about this? If you really want to do something for me, I
will let you fly on my plane, only if you come out to Jimmy’z with me tonight.”

Charles squawks at the thought of clubbing tonight. “That does not sound like an equal exchange.”

“Yeah?” Max asks. “Who does it favor?”

“You, obviously. You get to hang out with me.” Charles blushes when he hears his own voice. He
meant to say it like a joke, but—

Max doesn’t laugh. “Yeah, well,” is all he says. Charles has no idea what he means by that.

So he panics a little, and tries to make another joke. “You just want me not to spend more time on
the sim. You do not want me to beat you on Sunday.”

That causes a laugh from Max. Charles can’t help but feel relieved. “Shit, you got me. My plan is
to get you so drunk that you never make it to Austin. Hey, did you know that your Red Bull
contract is actually fake?”

Charles laughs, warmth running up his neck to his ears and cheeks.

“It will be fun,” Max continues, getting back on track. “Lando is coming too. Besides, we are about
to have a triple header. It will be hell from now on.” Which is very true. Since Austin, Mexico, and
Brazil are all in the Western Hemisphere, Charles won’t be back in Monaco until November, and
there won’t be any time to go out and have fun between races. “I’ll even buy you birthday shots.
Twenty-seven of them.”

Going out the night before a race weekend obviously isn’t the responsible choice, but he has spent
the past six years being nothing but responsible, and it didn’t win him a championship.

Charles considers it.

“Twenty-seven? You are trying to kill me.”

“Damn,” Max curses lightly. Charles can already imagine the bright grin stretching his cheeks.
“You got me again. Seriously, though,” he goes on. “Birthdays are special. You should spend them
having fun.”

Did you have fun? On your birthday? With that man? Is that what fun is to you? Charles can’t help
but wonder. Will you have fun tonight? He bites his tongue before the words slip out. The thought
of Max having that sort of fun tonight makes him want to punch a wall.

Maybe that’s why he ends up blurting out, “Okay. I’ll go,” even before he’s already mentally made
the decision.

Tonight, Jimmy’z is very different from what Charles is used to. He supposes it makes sense:
without a public figure hosting his birthday party, it’s emptier and more relaxed, more of a luxury
bar and less of a clubbing extraordinaire. He can actually spot Max and Lando, sitting at one of the
circular, cushioned booths, once he walks in.

Max has a hand on Lando’s knee—actually, a little higher than that—and he’s whispering
something into his ear, close enough that his mouth must be touching Lando’s ear. Lando leans
back with laughter, and that’s when he notices Charles approaching.

Lando stands up to greet him, pulls him into a hug and everything. “Charlie! I thought Max was
fucking with me when he said you’d come out.”

Max is still sitting down, wearing, once again, a white tee and jeans. His hand is now in his own
lap. He grins up at them, cheeks pink from alcohol.

“Ah, well,” Charles says, smoothing his hands down his slacks. “He was persuasive.”

Lando is dressed in a nice black dress shirt, half unbuttoned, curly brown hair falling over his
forehead. “Clearly more than I was. Everyone in the comments kept asking us where you were,” he
replies, and it takes Charles a moment to realize that he’s talking about the Twitch Quartet stream
Charles missed out on. “Oh, and—happy birthday.”

Charles smiles, then Lando shoves him into the booth so that he’s sitting next to Max—the sides of
their thighs pressed together. Charles shivers at the warmth and proximity, blushes too. Lando
heads over to the bar to get shots and drinks, leaving just Max and Charles in the booth.

They chat in the meantime. Charles tells Max about his weekend, what he’s been doing—the
books he’s read, the friends he’s hung out with—and Max laughs, runs a hand through his sandy
hair, and says, “You have too many hobbies.”

Which Charles is aware of. The problem is, if he doesn’t have something to do at all times of the
day, he goes a little crazy. He hates being alone with his thoughts. He can already hear his
therapist’s voice saying, Maybe that’s why you hate planes so much.

“Lando has too many hobbies,” Charles ends up responding—thinking about Lando’s very serious
love of video games, photography, DJing, and so much more—which brings a smile to Max’s face.

“You’re not wrong.”

After a few minutes, Lando returns with a trayful of drinks. Six shots and two margaritas.

“I thought this was good to start out with. They’re all for you two,” he reveals, “since I’m not
drinking tonight.”
Charles made sure to eat a heavy meal before he came here, remembering what happened the last
time he drank with Max on an empty stomach.

As Charles reaches for one of the shots, Max says, “Careful. I am not walking you home this
time.”

Charles picks up the shot. “Even if I start throwing up in front of you?” he asks, lifting a brow.

“Not a chance,” Max says, grabbing a shot and easily tips it back into his mouth. Charles
unconsciously stares at the way his throat bobs.

He manages to tear his eyes away. He clears his throat, then drinks his own shot, cringing at the
burn.

“What’s this about throwing up in front of Max?” Lando shouts to be heard over the music, eyes
darting between the two of them, confused.

Charles looks at Max, who smirks, then glances at Lando. “Nothing. Red Bull secrets.”

Lando rolls his eyes. “Because Charles’ vomit is key to your 2025 car.”

“Well, how else do you think our cars will be fueled?” Max says, the skin around his eyes
crinkling with a smile.

Charles groans, leaning forward until his forehead is pressed to the wood of the table. “Can we not
talk about my vomit?”

Max laughs, bright and easy, then brings his hand to pat Charles’ back, palm smoothing down the
space between Charles’ shoulder blades. He lingers. Charles shudders. He wonders how much
Max has already drank tonight.

“Fine, fine. What does the birthday boy want to talk about, then?”

When Charles sits up, Max removes his hand, brings it to rest on the table. Charles pulls his bottom
lip between his teeth. “Literally anything else.”

“What about Ferrari’s set-up and strat for this weekend?” Max asks mischeviously.

Charles snorts. As if I’d know, he thinks. “Only if you tell me Red Bull’s,” he says instead. He
picks up his margarita glass and takes a sip. The taste instantly elicits a wince, more tequila than
anything else. He can’t even tell what fruit juice it’s mixed with.

“Sorry, mate. Helmut would kill me,” Max says. “Don’t worry, though. You’ll find out all our evil
secrets soon enough.”

Though leaving Ferrari has been a source of grief these past few months, Charles is finally excited
to be with a team who knows what they’re doing when it comes to strategy. He can’t help but
smile, thinking about it, being a part of a stable team with stable leadership. No dreams, no
promises, just reality.

When Charles finally realizes he should stop probably smiling and staring at Max like an idiot, he
turns his head toward Lando, who’s looking at the two of them, a crease between his furrowed
brows.

“What?” Charles asks, feeling a little exposed.

“It’s just weird,” Lando dismisses, shrugging. “Thinking about how you guys are going to be
teammates next year.”

“Are you jealous?” Max asks, fingertips drumming against the table, the noise completely
inaudible due to the music. “It could have been you and me.” He knocks his knee against Lando’s.

Lando scoffs. “Too bad Charles beat me to the punch,” he says. His tone is lighthearted, clearly a
joke, but the words still make Charles feel like shit.

It was never much of a secret, how Lando was always a favorite for a Red Bull seat, if one should
open up, and it did, over the summer. Charles wonders if Lando knew and he turned it down—or if
he didn’t, and Charles really did steal it from him.

Charles would place his bets on the latter. That’s who he is: he takes things that never should’ve
been his. First, the Ferrari seat. Now, the Red Bull seat.

“Anyway, gents,” Lando announces, scooting out of the booth and pulling Charles out of his mind,
“I’ll be back. I gotta go use the restroom.”

Charles sips on his margarita in the meantime, letting the alcohol warm up his body. He plays with
the condensation dripping down the side of the glass, all cold against his thumb, absently staring at
how it turns clear with each stroke.

“Don’t take it to heart,” Max says after a few moments of silence. “He was just joking.”

Charles looks up and sees Max’s stupidly kind face. He’ll never get used to that, how kind Max
really is.

Max, when it comes down to it, is all jagged edges and things that don’t make sense. A mean face,
but gentle eyes. A propensity to curse, but also to say nothing other than what he really thinks.

And yet—he keeps secrets. Charles wonders how many secrets he is hiding in his mouth.

He doesn’t bother asking what Max means. He only blushes at the fact that Max can read him so
easily, knows that he is, in fact, taking what Lando said to heart.

“Lando was never going to take the Red Bull seat,” Max continues, once he has Charles’ attention.
“He wants to build something with his own hands. Bring McLaren back to the top, or something,
even if that means never winning a championship.” He hums, contemplatively. “He’s very
altruistic like that.”

Charles isn’t sure what altruistic means, but he pretends to, and asks, “And I’m not?”

“No,” Max says, smiling. “You’re not. And that is a compliment. It is good to be selfish, I think.
That is the only way you can win a championship, of course.”

“Do you really think I can?”

“Of course,” Max says easily, and Charles thinks about the summer. I was born to do this, he said.
And so were you. “I don’t think you realize quite how good you are.”

This isn’t the first time that Max has said something like this—Max always treats it like an
inevitability, Charles winning a championship, when in reality, Charles himself knows, nothing is
set in stone.
But Max was the exception. He is always the exception.

His future was set in stone. From the start, he was wild, impetuous, immature, had a fire in him no
one could tame, but everyone knew he would one day become one of the F1 greats—on par with
the likes of Senna, Schumacher, Vettel, and Hamilton. Maybe not back when he joined in 2015,
and maybe not even now—but one day, Charles imagines a child, watching replays of Max’s
current races and thinking, Wow. I want to be like him.

Charles isn’t sure if he’ll be anyone’s hero.

“You know, you have been very nice to me lately,” Charles replies, because he can think of
nothing else to say in reply. Because right now, without Lando, Daniel, or any of the other drivers
between them, he is hyper aware of it—how something has changed recently. Very recently.

Max’s face screws up. “I am not being nice. I mean it.”

“I mean—” Charles hurries to correct, face growing warm. He stares at his drink, how the liquid
swells with color after color as the lights of the club change, wash over different areas. “Inviting
me tonight. Letting me fly on your plane. That is very nice of you.”

“You are supposed to be nice to your friends,” Max says. “We are friends, are we not?”

No, Charles thinks. We’re not friends. We have never been friends.

I hated you when I was twelve and we first raced against each other; when I was fourteen and I
pushed you into a puddle; when I was seventeen and you got the Toro Rosso seat and I was still
stuck in the junior categories; when I was twenty-one and we were in Austria and you left me no
space on the last lap; when I—

When did I stop hating you?

Max is usually the first one to catch onto a joke—he’s smart like that, has a better grasp on English
than any of the others on the grid who were born outside of a primarily-English speaking nation.
Oftentimes, when they’re in press conferences, or in the paddock chatting with other drivers, and
Max bursts out in laughter, Charles laughs along, even before he’s got the joke. He trusts Max’s
humor.

And Max—he laughs at all of Charles’ bad jokes. Doesn’t look at him all funny whenever he
stumbles on his English. Listens to him carefully, pays attention. Seeks him out after quali and the
race, is happy for Charles whenever he wins, even if it means he’s lost.

Looks at him like—he’s a friend. Talks to him like one too, tells him all about his sister and his
nephews, now, no longer shying away from talking about their families like they had over the
summer.

“I guess we are,” Charles says, feeling struck with something he can’t name.

Max’s warm smile twists Charles’ stomach all up in knots. It happens in slow-motion, how Max
plucks a shot glass filled to the brim with tequila, then offers it to Charles, who takes it between his
thumb and forefinger, knuckles brushing against Max’s. Some of the liquid spills.

Then Max picks up another from the table, clinks it against Charles’, and says, “Here’s to being
friends, then.”

Charles keeps his eyes on Max as he takes his shot. It goes down easier this time.
Soon enough, Lando returns from the bathroom. Charles tries not to think too hard about how he
would rather it was just him and Max here.

Nevertheless, he and Max take the last of their shots, Charles finishes his margarita, and Lando
sips on his non-alcoholic cocktail. After half an hour of the three of them talking, Lando tries to
drag them both to the dance floor, to no avail. Charles isn’t drunk enough to want to dance, but he
is tipsy.

And Max, well, his face gets all gloomy and serious at the mere thought of dancing.

Lando goes to the dance floor regardless, abandoning Charles and Max at the booth. The leather is
searing warm under Charles, and so is Max’s thigh, still pressed to his.

And Lando has been gone for only a couple minutes for Charles to notice that Max keeps turning
around to scour the dance floor, making sure he knows where Lando is.

“You keep looking at Lando,” Charles points out, leaning in so that Max can hear him. It’s
unnecessary, probably. The music isn’t that loud, and they’re close enough that they can still
comfortably hear each other, but—Charles can’t help himself. The back of Max’s neck is pink, and
Charles’ breath must brush against his ear with each spoken word.

“I want to keep an eye on him,” Max replies. “I probably will have to save him at some point
tonight.” And at Charles’ inquisitive gaze, Max explains, “He has a bad habit of letting guys flirt
with him because he thinks they’re just being friendly.”

Charles knows how he must look right now: wide-eyed and pink enough that it can’t just be
because of the alcohol. He chews on the inside of his cheek, wondering if it’s okay to ask—

“Lando is straight,” Max says, answering the question that Charles was too afraid to ask. “So he
says,” he tacks on after a moment.

Charles’ mouth drops. “So he—?” His voice cracks on the he. Out of embarrassment, he isn’t able
to get the rest of it out.

Max smirks. He puts arms around the back of the booth, his forearm resting mere centimeters from
the nape of Charles’ neck. He sinks into his seat, rolls his head to the side. Charles can feel the
warmth of his body all over. “I have my suspicions.”

There’s a look in Max’s eyes. More confident than normal. He’s drunk, he has to be drunk. Max’s
hair is falling over his brows, body a warm, loose line. He looks good—too good. Charles might be
drunk too.

Me and Lando are the only other drivers who know.

They’re friends. Good friends. But how good?

He thinks about it, Max and Lando. How they act in the paddock. Casual hugs. Hands on waists.
Thinks about how Max had a hand on Lando’s thigh when he walked in, how he was whispering in
Lando’s ear, how all that stopped once they noticed Charles was there.
“Have you and Lando ever…?” Charles hears himself ask, reeling back once he hears his own
words. He can only hope that Max is as drunk as he is—he’s pretty sure that Max’s tolerance is at
least double his, but he’s also been here longer than Charles has. Charles needs him to be drunk.
He’s overstepping—he is. This is none of his business, but—

Max looks pleased that Charles asked. Has a stupid, smug look on his face when he reveals,
“We’ve had a couple threesomes with girls, if that counts.”

“A couple?” Charles gasps.

“It happens,” Max deadpans, eyes twinkling with something dark. Like he wanted Charles to know.

“Threesomes don’t just—happen,” Charles sputters, cheeks burning at the picture forming in his
mind. The worst part is that he isn’t thinking about Lando or a faceless girl at all—just Max. Only
him.

Max’s grin is all sun and sky, but something a little sultry hidden in the brightness. “They do when
you know how to have fun. And trust me, me and Lando have fun. You should learn,” he says with
a wink.

Charles’ heart nearly stops.

He’s snapped back into time when Max slides out of the booth and says, “I’ll go get us more
drinks.”

Really, Charles doesn’t think that he needs any more, but he still finds himself nodding up at Max,
his hands in his lap, feeling like the world’s just been turned on its side.

By midnight, Charles has lost count of his drinks. He took three shots and drank two margaritas in
the first hour, then that’s where it gets hazy. He thinks it’s something like four shots and a cocktail
in the second hour, but he can’t be sure.

He and Max have moved to the Hookah lounge, and Lando is also here somewhere, but he isn’t
sitting at their table.

Charles is—very drunk. Not drunk enough that he feels sick, but drunk enough that he’s stupid
enough to bring it up.

Max is mid-inhale of his shisha, water bubbling in the bowl, when Charles starts, “I know you said
you didn’t want to talk about it, back in Qatar, but—”

When Max blows out, he aims away from Charles’ face, but Charles still gets a whiff of mint, cool
and tingling on his skin. Max pulls the mouthpiece away from his face, then sets it down on the
table, and the hose coils around itself like a snake.

He’s pouting, and there’s a deep crease between his brows, like he’s on the verge of being upset,
but not quite. Charles hates how hot he still looks.

“There isn’t anything to talk about. I—like men. Women too.” Charles envies him for how easily
he says it. “You know, I think labels are fucking stupid. It doesn’t matter to me that I like cock.”
Charles jumps at the crudeness, but his eyes follow the shape of Max’s pink mouth. “Shouldn’t
matter to anyone else, either. I don’t need a name for what I am.”

Charles isn’t surprised that Max hates labels. He can’t imagine Max Verstappen ever bothering
himself with complicated things when he doesn’t need or want to.

However, Charles likes labels. They make him feel safe. Knowing that there’s a box he fits into,
somewhere, somehow. Knowing that there are others like him. Even if he has to keep it a secret.

“But of course, I don’t tell people. I would never—tell anyone who doesn’t need to know. I know
who I am, and that’s all that I care about,” he says, but he doesn’t seem finished.

There isn’t anything to talk about, Max said, but he sure does have a lot to talk about. Charles
listens, as always.

“Christian knows,” Max says. “I was stupid and young, and he caught me scrolling through Grindr
under the table during a meeting. He’s talked to me about if I wanted to—” He purses his mouth in
a way that makes his next two words sound and look ugly, “—come out. Make a press statement.
He said we would lose a lot of sponsors, but also gain a lot.” Max laughs. “It would be good for
the brand, apparently. It’s risky, but we would pull in new fans to the sport who are loyal to me just
because of where I like to stick my cock.”

Charles’ voice is hoarse when he asks, “And would you ever—”

“Never,” Max says. “I don’t want to be a mascot. I’d rather fucking die than have my racing be
reduced to fighting for a cause. I’m not—I’m not like Seb or Lewis. I don’t want to stand for
anything. That’s not who I am. I think what they have done is great, but—I don’t want to be known
for anything but racing.”

Since Charles was barely old enough to walk, he always dreamed about driving for Ferrari in
Formula 1. It was always Ferrari, yes, but more than the team, it was the job. Racing. Overtaking.
Setting perfect qualifying laps. Stepping up to the top level of the podium. Spraying champagne all
over the stage. Holding the championship trophy high up over his head to the raucous cheers of the
crowd.

It wasn’t until 2018 and thrown into the limelight that Charles realized it. There, lurking all along,
was a shadow to his dream. Interviews. Magazine covers. Sponsor functions. Fans asking for
autographs and selfies left and right, secretly taking photos of him wherever he goes. Charles loves
getting dressed up, loves people asking him about his job, but—a lot of the time, it isn’t about the
job. It’s about him, his family, his father, his girlfriends—all of his relationships have failed
because of this. You can’t separate the person driving the car from the person who goes on dates,
hooks up with strangers at clubs. Things are different now, different from how they were when
Charles was a child, watching Michael’s races on the TV, the red racesuit a persona, the only
persona that mattered. The man underneath it—who cared? Charles didn’t. You have to stand for
something, Seb always said. You are more than the driver.

That was one of his major grievances with Seb. Charles never wanted to be anyone. He only
wanted to race.

Seb had already won four championships by the time he started caring about being anything other
than a racer. Charles has nothing to his name but a handful of race wins and the legacy that he
carries on his shoulders. Maybe he’ll change his mind about all of this, one day, like Seb did. But
—not until he wins a championship. He has to. He will. He has faith. Faith is all he has.
“Anyway,” Max says. “I’m not looking for a relationship, and I am not in one, of course. So it’s not
like it matters, as long as I am discreet.”

Charles smiles, the knots in his stomach starting to unfurl. He takes a sip of his cocktail, looking at
Max over the rim of the glass. “Not discreet enough.”

Max snorts. “Yeah, well.” He picks up the hose of the shisha up again, and brings it to his mouth,
lips closing over the mouthpiece. Charles watches.

Earlier, Max politely asked Charles if he wanted any. Charles politely declined. He’s never
understood the appeal, but then again, he’s never smoked hookah, has never smoked in general.
Max must like it for a reason.

“How did you know?” Charles asks once Max is exhaling a cloud of smoke. “That you…”

Max blushes, looking embarrassed as he confesses, “I had a crush on Daniel, when we were
teammates. The biggest crush.”

Charles’ brows jump to his hairline, thinking about it, how Max would act around Daniel back
when he first joined F1. A puppy chasing after its owner. A starry-eyed child who thought Daniel
was the coolest person in the world. “That—makes a lot of sense.”

Max throws his head back with laughter. “Yeah, right?”

“Do you still…?”

Max laughs even harder, shaking his head fervently. “No. I was just a kid. Daniel’s straight as an
arrow, and I think a part of me knew that, but he was always there. Always so nice to me that I got
confused. And he’s hot, so, you know.”

Charles does know, but he doesn’t say it.

“I kissed him once, back then,” Max reveals out of nowhere. “I read the signs all wrong. He pushed
me off and ran away. Things were really awkward for a few days. Then Christian put us in a room
together and made us sort things out on our own. And we did.” He smiles fondly, drawing a shape
into the table with the condensation from Charles’ drink. “That weekend, to make up for
everything, Daniel played wingman.”

“Did he succeed?”

“He did,” Max says, humming absently. “But I think he feels sorry about it, still.” Charles glances
at his fingers, tries to make out the shape Max has drawn, but he can’t make sense of it. “I don’t
know when he’ll realize that if anyone should be sorry,” he says, voice suddenly gloomy and quiet,
“it’s me.”

The past six years, Charles has been beating himself up over taking the Ferrari seat when it should
have been Jules; the past two months, taking the Red Bull seat when it should have been Lando or
Daniel. It had never occurred to him that perhaps Max has felt the same way all along.

It’s a cruel sport. A zero sum game. Every seat you fill, every position you gain, someone else
loses it.

“Shit,” Max mutters after a couple quiet moments. He’s staring at the other end of the Hookah
lounge. Charles turns to look in that direction, and he sees Lando. A man has his arm around his
waist. Lando’s face is white, and his smile looks uncomfortable.
“Looks like I do have to save him,” Max declares, already up on his feet and out of the booth. “I
will be right back.”

While Max deals with that, Charles pulls out his phone to check the time. It’s 12:23 AM, October
17. No longer his birthday. He has a couple missed messages and emails from his team filling up
his screen, but none of them seem urgent enough that he has to care. Besides, he doubts it would be
the best idea to attempt to respond while drunk.

“Did your friend abandon you?” a voice asks him in French.

Charles looks up, pockets his phone, and sees a girl standing at the end of his table. She’s pretty.
Long, wavy brown hair falling down her shoulders, warm-eyed and tanned-skin, wearing a form-
fitting, black dress. Tall, but maybe that’s because of her heels.

“Uh,” Charles says, mouth cottony. After talking so long with Max in English, he has to remind his
brain that it can relax. “He’s checking in on our other friend.”

Her mouth pulls into a pretty smile. “Mind if I keep you company?”

Charles isn’t sure why he ends up agreeing. In all honesty, he would rather just sit here alone and
wait for Max to get back with Lando, but—

A month ago, he would have gone home with her. She’s exactly his type, and she’s into him, he
can tell just from her smile, the way she’s looking at him, asking to keep him company.
Reasonably, he can’t go home with anyone tonight. He’s flying out with Max to Texas first thing in
the morning, and it isn’t even like he wants that, right now.

A part of him, tucked away deep inside, doesn’t think he’ll ever want anyone like that again, not
when he knows that—

“I’m Eleanor, but you can call me Ellie.”

She’s now sitting beside him in the booth, keeping a careful space between their bodies, but
Charles is sure that space won’t last for long.

“I’m Charles,” he says, like an automatic reflex.

“Well, Charles,” Ellie responds, her mouth charming with the words. “Tell me about yourself.”

All in all, Charles has a good time talking with Ellie. He’s drunk enough that conversation comes
easily, and she’s into him enough that he doesn’t feel like he needs to try and impress. She also
doesn’t seem to know who he is, believes him when he says he’s a personal trainer working as a
barista on the side. Charles isn’t quite sure where that lie came from. He thanks his drunken mind.

He has fun. She’s nice, funny, friendly, attractive, and seems to really like Charles for who he is—
who he says he is, at least. And, it’s a plus that she doesn’t recognize him. Charles long outgrew
the thrill of someone wanting him just because he’s an F1 driver.

His drink is finished by the time he notices her perfectly-manicured hand resting on his thigh, the
way she’s curled up into his side. She’s leaning so close that all Charles can smell is her perfume.
Soft lips brush against his ear when she asks the question that Charles has been dreading this
whole time, “Do you want to get out of here?”

Charles jerks back, suddenly remembering Max and Lando. He should look for them. What if they
left without him? Ellie quickly leans back and removes her hand from his thigh. She looks shell-
shocked, mortified. Charles feels bad, really bad, but he needs to get out of here. He can’t—he
can’t give her what she wants.

“I’m—I should go to the restroom,” he announces, scrambling out of the booth and up onto his
feet. He doesn’t look back. Doesn’t want to see the look on her face.

He stumbles over to the bathroom, an easier feat this time compared to two weeks ago, at Max’s
party. The floor is more filled than it was two hours ago, but there’s still enough room that he can
weave himself through the sea without much difficulty.

He wonders if this time, again, he’ll find Max in the bathroom, in the last stall with a stranger
between his knees.

Just as he’s turning the corner, an arm slings around his waist and stops his inertia. A hand
squeezes his hip. Charles sways with it.

“Hey,” he hears, and his mouth blooms with a grin at the familiar voice.

“Max!” he says, turning into Max’s grip. Their faces are so close like this. His ribcage suddenly
feels too narrow for his rabbiting heart.

Thank god, he thinks. Thank god you’re still here.

“Wait a little bit,” Max says. Charles’ heartbeat is so loud he can barely make out the words.

“Why?” Charles feels his brows scrunch together. He feels a little out of his body—out of control.

But like this, practically tucked into Max’s side, his arm so solid and real along the small of his
back, his fingers digging into his hip, Charles doesn’t think it’s so bad. Letting life pass around
him.

He lets his body relax, lets his head fall until his forehead is almost resting on Max’s shoulder.

“They’re doing—” The rest of the words are jumbled in Charles’ head.

“What?”

Max leans in until his mouth just brushes the shell of Charles’ ear. Like the girl he was talking to
earlier. Charles can’t remember her name. He thinks it started with an E. He wanted to throw up
when she was this close to him, her scent all over him, but now that it’s Max, Charles wants to get
closer. Resents the distance between them.

“There are some people doing coke in there,” Max says, louder. His lips are chapped, and he smells
like the shisha he was smoking and cheap cologne. It’s better. Charles likes this better. “I walked in
on them just now, and they offered me some. I said no, of course.”

Charles furrows his brows. He doesn’t understand what that has to do with anything. “So?”

Max leans back, removes his arm from Charles’ waist. Charles almost lets out a small whine at the
loss, but Max’s hands come up to his shoulders, steadying him. Charles is thankful.
“You look drunk enough that you’d say yes to anything,” Max says, one corner of his lip pulled up
into a smirk.

“No I wouldn’t,” Charles says stubbornly.

Max rolls his eyes. “Mate. I don’t give a shit if strangers do coke, but I can’t have my future
teammate stroking out on me.” Future teammate is all that Charles hears. Next year, he’ll be Red
Bull. Next year, he’ll be Max’s. “Just take another shot with me. Those guys should be done by the
time we get back from the bar.”

Charles feels giddy. “Okay,” he says, though he’s still not quite sure about what Max asked of him.

“See?” Max glares at him, pointedly, and it’s only now that Charles realizes he’s proved Max’s
point.

Max’s hand returns to his waist, and he guides him all the way to the bar. “Shot? Or water?”

“Shot,” Charles answers, because he’s stupid. Max, because he’s not Charles’ babysitter nor
responsible for anyone but himself, asks the bartender for two shots.

“Where is Lando?”

“Don’t know,” Max says, his hand starting to stroke along Charles’ hip. His eyes are dark, but
honest. “I saw you and I got distracted.”

Charles swallows thickly. He isn’t sure why Max hasn’t let him go yet, isn’t sure why he hasn’t
moved.

The bartender gives them their shots. Charles grabs his glass as soon as possible, then knocks his
down. Charles is drunk enough that the alcohol doesn’t faze him. He thinks that Max takes his too.

“I think they’re done in there,” Max says, looking far off into the distance.

“Who’s done in where?”

Max levels him with a glare. “The bathroom. I thought you had to go.”

Right, Charles thinks. Right. “I just wanted to escape a girl.”

“I saw you talking to her,” Max says.

“Were you watching me, Max?” Charles asks, feeling smug.

Max licks his lips, eyes dragging down the expanse of Charles’ body. “Hard not to,” he replies
absently, noncommittally, but before Charles can register Max’s words and gaze fully, Max’s eyes
flick back up to meet Charles’. “She was pretty.”

Charles shakes his head. She was pretty, but— “Not what I’m looking for,” he confesses, looking
Max directly in the eyes. He can’t look anywhere else.

Do you know? You have to know. I have been making a fool of myself all night, asking you about
your sexuality. About Lando, then Daniel— You have to know. Sometimes, it feels like you know
me better than I know myself.

Max looks—his eyes are slits, and his hand is still firm on Charles’ waist. “What are you looking
for?”
There are a lot of answers to that question.

A championship. Forever and always. A gap to overtake. The racing line. My brothers, to hold my
hand. Papa, sometimes, when I’m standing up on the top step of the podium, looking out into the
crowd and praying for a miracle.

Tonight, though. Tonight—

“Charles. Charles. It’s almost seven-thirty. You have to wake up.”

“Casse-toi,” Charles mumbles, rolling onto his cheek, grimacing at how much it hurts to move. He
feels sore all over, and a little nauseous. He wants to go back to sleep. The hand on his shoulder
shoving him back and forth isn’t helping his cause. He pulls his blanket up over his chest. He’s
very cold.

“Our plane leaves at nine. Do you really want to miss race weekend?”

“Yes,” Charles groans. There’s too much light seeping past his eyelids; he tries to roll over again
so that he’s face-first into the mattress, only for him to be met with the cold, hard surface of the
floor.

“Bordel de merde,” he hisses, finally shocked to full consciousness. He rubs at his shoulders since
they took the brunt of the fall, then blinks rapidly to adjust to the harsh daylight—and, also, to the
sight of Max, who’s all up in his face.

“Are you okay?” Max asks, frowning, brows furrowed in concern.

Charles blinks. Then blinks again. Max is in his flat. No, Charles realizes, once he’s gotten a good
sense of his surroundings: the couch he was sleeping on, the weird cowhide rug across the room,
the planters in the far corners of the living space, modern pieces of furniture that were clearly
purchased by an interior designer.

This is not Charles’ flat.

It takes Charles a long moment to collect himself. His memories too. He went out with Max and
Lando last night. He drank a lot. He talked to Max a lot. He talked to a woman for a little while. He
—went to the bathroom, but didn’t. He instead went to the bar and took shots. Many shots. He was
talking with Max about—

What are you looking for?

Charles can’t remember what happened after that.

“What happened last night?” Charles shouts, and instantly winces at the volume of his own voice,
head ringing painfully. He shivers a little, and sees that— “Why do I not have a shirt?” he shrieks,
even louder this time, hysterical. He can feel pink spread all the way up to his ears.

Did they—

Max shrugs. His hair is damp and spiky from a shower, and he’s wearing—another white shirt and
jeans. He smells good. Smells clean.
A part of Charles is hoping that they did. The other part is praying that they didn’t. He would want
to remember something like that.

Charles still might be a little drunk.

“We did a lot of shots last night,” Max explains, rather unhelpfully. Charles can surmise that. He
glares at Max until he gives a better explanation. “I didn’t trust that you’d get home safe all on your
own at four in the morning—” We were up till four in the morning? “—so I let you crash on my
couch. Not sure about what happened to your shirt. Probably, you took it off during the night. My
heater is sometimes too strong. Your shirt must be somewhere around here.”

Charles is both relieved and disappointed.

“Sorry,” he mutters, shrinking at the fact that once again Max had to take care of him. He turns
around and looks for his shirt. He finds it within the tangled mess of the blanket.

“Don’t be sorry,” Max says. Charles doesn’t miss the way his eyes rake down the expanse of his
exposed chest. “It’s a nice view,” he hums, then he gets up onto his feet, like he hasn’t just thrown
Charles for the biggest loop of his life.

Feeling cold and exposed, metaphorically and literally, he grabs the blanket from the couch and
wraps it over his shoulders and chest. He’s still struggling to get his bearings, disoriented and
envious of how Max doesn’t look hungover at all.

“I’m going to cook us breakfast quickly,” Max explains. “You can use my shower. You can borrow
clothes also, if you need. Just grab whatever. We can drive to your flat and pick up your things
before we head to the plane.”

Charles can’t do much but nod lamely as Max retreats toward the kitchen. Just as he’s out of sight,
he pops his head through the doorway, and adds, like an afterthought, “Oh, and—please don’t kill
my cats. They are a bit grumpy this morning.”

Charles gawks. “Your cats?”

Max spends the entirety of breakfast, the drive to Charles’ flat, and the drive to his plane talking
about his cats. Their names are Jimmy and Sassy. Like the club and the cafe. Jimmy is the one who
scratched your face this morning. Sassy is the one who was clawing at your ankle. They are
normally very sweet, but I think they were frightened by a stranger in the flat.

Charles, however, is still struggling to adjust to the fact that Max Verstappen has two cats, and
most of what Max says goes over his head.

He’s also struggling to adjust to this entire turn of events. This morning. Waking up in Max’s
apartment. Max cooking them both breakfast. Max driving Charles to his apartment, waiting for
him outside as he gathered his belongings—thankfully, before he went out last night, he had the
sense to pack up most of his things. Chatting about Max’s pets.

It’s—domestic. Harrowingly domestic.

He’s been asked about it in interviews before, his and Max’s quote-unquote good relationship.
They’ve always had an odd rivalry. Everybody expects them to be the new Hamilton-Rosberg next
year, but—he can’t imagine it. Can’t imagine ever hating Max no matter what he’ll do on the
track.

When it comes down to it, they’ll race. That’s what they do. They race.

And then there’s last night. All of it. Charles’ head is all twisted because of it.

Max was—flirting. He was definitely flirting in the club. He was also flirting this morning, but—
that was different. It’s a nice view. That was friendly banter. Charles has seen Max friendly-flirt
with half of the grid. Cheeky grins and dick jokes. There was none of that last night.

That comment, contextualized with the night before—Charles isn’t sure where they stand, if
anywhere at all.

Lando arrives after Max and Charles do, and the plane takes off just five minutes later. Nine
o’clock on the dot.

He sits across from Max and Charles. He isn’t as chatty as he usually is, headphones on, looking
intently at something on his phone. Charles realizes that he has no idea what happened with Lando
last night.

When Max goes to the bathroom, Lando takes off his headphones and lets them circle over his
neck. He looks at Charles. Stares for a good minute, squinting. Charles feels like a spectacle. He
also feels sober and nauseous.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he finally asks, a little irritated.

“You do know that you are wearing Max’s shirt, right?” Charles’ face goes warm. He hadn’t
thought that anyone would notice. Max offered, anyway. “What happened last night after you two
left the club?”

“Nothing,” Charles answers, voice cracking. “I just—I slept over, and he let me borrow clothes. I
didn’t have time to change out of them.” He chews on his lip, not liking the sudden interrogation.

“But,” Lando says, brows furrowing in confusion, “you have your luggage.”

“Yes.”

Lando blinks. “So you went back to your flat to grab it.”

“Yes?” Charles is growing increasingly confused.

“And you didn’t change out of his shirt,” Lando notices.

“Like I said, there wasn’t time,” Charles says, praying that Lando doesn’t bring up the fact that he
and Max in fact arrived at the runway before Lando did.

Luckily, he doesn’t. “Right,” he says, dragging out the vowel. “Anyways… Have you seen the
video? The media is having a field day with it.”
“The video?”

Snickering, Lando offers his phone to Charles. “You and Max are going viral.”

The video, posted on Twitter, is short and only nine seconds long. It’s already playing on loop.
Captured are Max and Charles just outside Jimmy’z, both of them clearly very drunk, faces flushed
pink, hair and clothes a mess, and shouting, “FUCK FERRARI.”

“I can already imagine all the questions you’re going to get about this. So Charles,” Lando starts,
in an awful vocal imitation that Charles is embarrassed to recognize is of Crofty, “Had fun on your
birthday? Honestly, I’m offended you didn’t invite me.”

“You were too busy making out with a model in the bathroom,” Max says, back from the
bathroom.

“Oh, right,” Lando says, smug with pride.

Charles is still staring at Lando’s phone screen in horror, mouth gaping open, the video looping
over and over.

He has no memory of this happening. What makes it worse is that there’s no plausible deniability.
The video quality is good enough that it’s unmistakably Max and Charles.

Max slips into the seat beside him. From Charles’ peripheral vision, he looks absolutely unfazed at
the video. He must have seen it already, probably even remembers it. And you didn’t think to tell
me this happened? Charles thinks.

“Fuck,” he curses once he notices the interactions on the tweet. Over one hundred thousand likes,
and there are bound to be more reposts. As if Ferrari couldn’t resent him even more. He looks at
Max, eyes pleading. “What am I going to do?”

Unhelpfully, Max just grins, pats his shoulder, and says, “Doesn’t matter, Charles. You’re Red
Bull now. Practically.”

When he gets to the paddock, he gets more happy birthday wishes. And, as if this day couldn’t get
any more mortifying, Alex, George, Carlos, and Yuki each, on separate occasions, ask him why
he’s wearing Max’s shirt.

Pierre is the nail in the coffin.

“Why are you wearing Max’s shirt?” is the first thing he asks Charles when they run into each
other just behind the Alpine motorhome. Charles is hiding. He’ll have enough mics and cameras in
his face when it’s his turn for interviews. The Alpine motorhome seems like a good place to hide,
and it might just be worth an interrogation from Pierre.

Charles groans. “How does everyone know this is Max’s shirt?” he shouts, feeling the urge to strip
it off. He crouches and sits with his back to the smooth metal surface of the motorhome. Pierre
comes down to sit beside him. They’re now under the shade. Even in October, the Texas sun burns.

“Because, it’s like—” Pierre waves his hands around, vaguely. “One of the only three shirts he
owns that doesn’t have the Red Bull logo on it. He’s worn it a lot at parties. Besides, he’s the only
one who would purchase a five-hundred euro shirt that ugly.”

Charles purses his lips. He thought that this shirt was rather stylish. He picked it for a reason. It has
a pineapple on the front. It’s fashionable. “When did everyone suddenly become amateur
detectives?” he asks, not wanting to get into a fashion debate with Pierre.

Pierre snorts. “It doesn’t take much sleuthing, especially with the video of you two from last night.
About that, care to tell me about it?”

And Charles does. He can’t give a firsthand account for what happened between 12 and 4 AM,
however, so he just tells Pierre what Max and Lando told him: they stayed in the club until 3 AM,
went outside to get some air, talked, the talking escalated into them screaming FUCK FERRARI,
which was unfortunately caught on camera, then they finally took a cab back to Max’s. The end.
Charles believes it for the most part: throughout all the hours he’s been awake, vague, fleeting
snapshots of last night’s blackout period keep coming to him. Dancing, a lot of dancing, Max
asking if he wanted to scream, both of them falling over onto each other in laughter, asking the taxi
driver if he could play Super Max.

Charles attempts to paint the full picture for Pierre, but he leaves some bits out, like the flirting,
like how Max’s cats attacked him, like how Max cooked them breakfast. He keeps those to
himself.

Pierre laughs at the end of it all and says, “Now that video makes a lot of sense. It still doesn’t
explain why you’re still wearing his shirt, though.”

Heat rises to Charles’ neck. He knows that he should have already changed into his Ferrari shirt—
Pierre and almost all of the other drivers are wearing their team’s shirts—but, Ferrari doesn’t feel
right on his skin today. This does. And once he changes out of it, he’ll have no excuse to put it
back on again.

He doesn’t tell Pierre this either, feels like that would be opening up a can of worms that really
doesn’t need to be opened.

“We’re friends,” he says, even though that’s not much of an explanation.

“Well, that’s good,” Pierre says, letting it go. “For both of you. Max especially.”

“What do you mean?” Charles is surprised that they’re even talking about Max.

Max and Red Bull have always been a sore topic that Charles knows to shy away from with Pierre.
Even back in 2019, Max was a giant, tall and quick and strong. The team leader. All talent and
rage. He knew he deserved better than a car that could barely fight for race wins, let alone a
championship, but he did what he could with the machinery he was given, pushed to the limit, and
maybe then some—tricked everyone into thinking it was easy, made Pierre look like an
incompetent idiot for not being able to keep up. But Charles didn’t blame Pierre, even though
everyone else seemed to do that with ease.

“Well, he’s very different now, but—back when we were teammates,” Pierre explains. “He was—
lonely. Grumpy. I think he was just upset because Daniel left.”

I don’t know when he’ll realize that if anyone should be sorry, it’s me.

“I think he wanted me to be what Daniel was to him, but no one is like Daniel.” Charles is struck
by the candor. He realizes that he’s never talked to Pierre about this. “But he seems happy, now. I
guess three championships will do that to you.”

Charles swallows. “He’s happy now, but—do you think he is still lonely?”

Pierre shrugs. “I’m not his teammate anymore.” He turns to look at Charles, face twisting up.
“Besides, why are you asking me this?”

“Huh?”

Pierre fixes him with a look. “You’re the ones with the history. Shouldn’t you know?”

Charles spends the rest of the day considering, for the first time, how he and Max must seem on
the outside. The media likes to talk them up. Their intertwined karting careers and the incident at
Val d’Argenton are common knowledge now. In 2022, the year of Charles’ first failed title charge,
a strange term was coined for them: fated rivals. A story years in the making.

Everyone makes a big deal about it. The history, the history, they all say.

Charles has never really seen it that way. Max was just—there. At the same time. At all the same
races. Somewhere along the line, they became friends. He had breakfast with Max this morning.
Woke up in his flat. Met his cats. Max convinced him to take the Red Bull seat. Max didn’t want
him to go to Mercedes.

Rivalries aren’t supposed to be like this, he knows. Prost and Senna couldn’t stand each other. Max
and Lewis still can’t stand each other.

Charles hated Max, yes. He hated him for a long time, as long as he can remember.

The thing is, so much of Charles’ life has been so filled with grief that at a point, there wasn’t room
for that boyish hatred anymore.

He misses those days. He wants them back. He should have cherished it, treasured the hatred. It
meant he still had something to lose.

Thursday, when he’s not thinking about Max, he’s asked about him during interviews and forced to
continuously dodge questions about his and Max’s viral FUCK FERRARI video. Friday, he sets
the fastest time in FP2. Saturday, he wins pole.

Sunday afternoon. Lights out and away we go. Charles thinks back to what Max had asked him the
night of his birthday. What are you looking for?

Sometimes he looks for the hurt. Sometimes it is all he has. Sometimes it is the only thing keeping
him going. The grief, the promise he made. Who is Charles if not a broken thing praying for a
championship to fix him?

Today, though, today—

He watches out for a blue car in his mirrors.

He is looking. Searching.
Charles doesn’t win in Austin. Max steals the win from him on the last lap.

Charles is staying in Austin until Wednesday, as are most of the other drivers. The three exceptions
are Sergio, who flew straight to Mexico on Sunday to see his family before the race; Logan, who is
already back home in Florida; and Lewis, who has some sort of fashion event in New York to
attend. Or maybe participate in. Charles can never be sure with Lewis.

Monday evening, after an hour of playing the game of to call or not to call, contact information
ready and on the screen, Charles’ thumb slips, pressing the call button. He panics. The decision is
now out of his hands.

Max picks up after two rings.

“Hey,” Max says, and Charles scrambles to remember the speech he had prepared.

“Um. Hi,” he says lamely.

“You called,” says Max after a few seconds of silence.

“Um—yeah. I did.” Already not off to a good start. Charles clears his throat. He doesn’t think he’s
ever been this nervous in his life. Not even before Monaco or Monza. “So, uh,” he starts again,
biting his lip and trying to get his heart back into a steady rhythm. “There’s this charity event that
Ferrari is making me go to. For cancer. I think.”

“Did you call me to brag about your altruism?” Max sounds amused.

Again with that word. Charles still doesn’t know what it means. He lets out a nervous chuckle
because he thinks Max was making a joke. Rambling is probably better than stammering
incoherently, so he just decides to go for it. “No, uh. I was wondering if—you wanted to go.”

An awkward beat.

“In your place?”

Fuck, Charles thinks. “No, I mean—go with me.” His face is on fire. The air conditioning is on full
blast, but he’s pretty sure that he’s sweating. “They said I could bring someone. Should bring
someone. I, uh, Pierre is busy, and Carlos is spending the night in—” Both of these are lies.
Charles never asked Pierre, nor did he ask Carlos. “—and I don’t know anyone in Austin or if any
of the other drivers would want to go with me, so, uh. But—it’s fine. If you do not want to.”

Charles has been single for the past two years. It’s the longest period of time he’s been single since
he moved to single-seaters. Before, he would have brought Charlotte, and before that, Giada. These
past two years he’s gone solo to all the events Ferrari has him go to, or he brings a friend or another
driver, and it’s been fine, it really has. But—it’s been lonely. Terribly lonely. Going alone, leaving
alone.

He wonders if Max feels the same way without Kelly. But he also knows that Red Bull doesn’t
force Max to attend anywhere close to even half of the events Charles has to go to.

Max’s humming fills the line. Charles picks at a hangnail on his thumb as he waits.
“Yeah, I’ll go,” Max says. “Sounds like fun.”

Charles’ heart sings. He’s embarrassingly happy. Still, he plays coy, smirks even though Max isn’t
there to see it, and retorts, “Because talking about cancer is so fun.”

Max snickers. “Well, I bet there’ll be an open bar.” Charles hums in agreement. Fancy events like
these always tend to. “Black tie?”

“Yes, I think so,” Charles says. He’s still wrapping his head over the fact that Max said yes, and
Charles didn’t even need to do any convincing. “I’ll text you the time and address.”

“Alright,” Max says. “I’ll see you soon, then.”

“Yeah. I will see you,” Charles says, feeling light and happy. It was so easy. He’d worked himself
up for nothing.

Really, Charles tells himself. This is merely him returning the favor. Max has been inviting him
out a lot, recently. He should—he should show Max that their friendship matters to him too. Yeah.
Yeah. That’s all it is. That’s—

He subsequently throws his face into a pillow. Even he knows that isn’t the reason why he asked
Max to come.

The gala is being held at the ballroom of the hotel Charles is staying at, so all he has to do is dress
up, then go downstairs.

He and Max arrive roughly at the same time. Max is wearing his one suit and bow tie combo he
wears to all classy events. He looks good. He always manages to look good. Charles on the other
hand is wearing his Ferrari suit jacket that makes him look like a private school boy. He used to
hate it, used to pick at the Ferrari detail sown by his chest, but he’s had a change of heart, recently.
He won’t be able to wear this anymore next year, after all. He’s learned to cherish the little
moments.

The charity gala itself—is a charity gala. Grim and stiff and plastic smiles and the soft shrilling of
violins in the background. Philanthropy as a pretense.

He and Max speak to sponsors. There’s a lot of buzz because the F1 championship leaders are
attending together. A show of solidarity between Red Bull and Ferrari, some say. A statement
about Charles’ real team alignment, others say. Charles isn’t sure how he feels about either
assertion.

A lot of people ask about his dad. Charles only smiles politely, tells them all about how much his
father meant to him, still means to him. Recites a practiced, generic script he mastered years ago
about how he knows, firsthand, how hard losing a family member is, so he’s happy and
enthusiastic about donating to such a meaningful cause. He doesn’t mean it. He doesn’t want to be
here. This wasn’t his choice. He finds it hard to empathize with another person’s cause and trauma
when he’s spent the last seven years struggling to accept his own.

Deep into the night, Charles loses Max. He expects to find him at the bar, but he’s nowhere to be
seen.
Eventually, he asks around, and someone tells him that they spotted Max slip out by the back exit a
few minutes prior.

Charles heads toward the exit, and outside he finds Max sitting on the steps by the dumpsters,
smoking a cigarette. Charles resents how his stomach curls at the sight. He’s only had a couple
drinks, and he’s just barely tipsy, but he feels the same way he did on his birthday, filled with a
feeling he doesn’t want to give a name to.

Max doesn’t notice his presence until he’s sat down beside him, cigarette smoke twirling up to the
sky, filling the space between them, illuminated by the small light just above them, yellow and
warm like amber.

“Sorry that I left,” he says, bringing his cig up to his mouth, lips curling around the orange end as
he takes a long drag. “Inside was…” He lingers on the exhale. Charles watches. He is always
watching. “Overwhelming.”

Charles shakes his head. “I get it.” There was too much talk about death. Anyone would start to
feel a little sick. “Sorry for making you come.”

“You didn’t make me come,” Max says, frowning. “I chose to.”

You did, Charles thinks. I don’t know why, but you did. He pulls his lip between his teeth. “I’m
sorry it sucked, though.”

“Not your fault. I’m glad I took some of the burden off you. I can’t imagine going to this sort of
stuff by myself.” The image of twenty-one year old Max—who tried to punch out Esteban on
camera, and had to do community service—going to a philanthropy event alone nearly makes
Charles chuckle. “If Christian made me do this sort of shit, I don’t know what I’d do.”

They fall into silence. Soft orchestral music from the ballroom is muffled but present. The air is
humid, but at the same time, pleasantly warm. They’re sitting in an alleyway, so there aren’t any
cars passing by. Charles stares at the cigarette dangling between Max’s fingers.

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

Max’s cheeks are rosy, and his hair is neater than it is during race weekends. He shrugs, looking a
little small. His shoulder brushes Charles’ with the motion. “Only sometimes. Never when a race is
close.”

Usually, the smell of tobacco makes Charles feel sick, especially American cigarettes, but—he
likes it. Getting to see new sides of Max.

“Can I…?” he finds himself asking.

Max looks surprised, brows lifting slightly, but he taps the ash off the end then hands his cig to
Charles, who plucks the stick from his fingers.

He brings the orange end to his mouth and attempts to take a long drag, only for him to sputter out
a dirty cough, quickly pulling the cig away from his face. Smoke is getting all up in his eyes.

Max, on the other hand, is laughing at him. “Christ,” he snorts, “you’re just like Lando. You’ve
never smoked a cigarette before, have you?”

Once Charles is done with his coughing fit, he looks at Max, sheepish. “Is it obvious?”
“Yeah, mate,” Max responds, eyes bright and smile easy. Charles’ throat feels tight. “Give me
that.”

It takes Charles a moment to realize he’s gesturing toward the cigarette. “What? No,” he says,
pouting like a child. He pulls the stick away from Max.

“Charles,” Max sighs, reaching out for the cigarette. “Don’t force yourself—”

“I’m not forcing myself,” Charles argues.

“—for something so stupid.”

It happens so quickly, Max’s hand darting out to snag it, and Charles panicking and jerking, only to
end up pressing the lit end to Max’s palm.

“Ow, fuck,” Max hisses, yanking his hand away.

Charles drops the cigarette, stomps it under his foot, and catches Max’s wrist. “Fuck, I’m so sorry,
I—”

Max’s hand unfurls in Charles’ grip, like a small flower blooming, turns over all on its own, as if to
face the sun. Charles’ fingers brush along the edges of his palm, lingering along his heart line. He
is careful to avoid the wound, pink and ashy already. Max lets out a small noise in pain or
oversensitivity. Charles can’t be sure.

He looks up, suddenly aware of what he’s doing, what he’s done. He blames the handful of drinks.
He meets Max’s eyes.

Max is already looking at him, lips slightly parted, eyes shaking. His throat bobs. Has he been
looking at him this entire time?

“I’m sorry,” Charles chokes out, voice hoarse. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

“I know you didn’t,” Max sighs. “It’s fine. I’m fine. It’s a tiny burn. I’ve had worse.”

Which Charles believes. When you grow up on a race track, you’re bound to collect bruises and
scrapes and burns all over. You build up calluses, thick skin, and pain sensitivity. But Max’s skin
is so soft.

“Let me clean it up,” Charles says, fixing Max with a firm look.

Max’s face scrunches up. Charles is still holding his wrist. “You want to go back to the gala?”

Charles shakes his head. “My hotel room is upstairs. I always bring a first aid kit with me.”

For a few long seconds, Max is quiet, considering it. “It’s fine,” he ends up deciding. “I’ll just—”

“Max,” Charles says, leaving no space for Max to argue. “This is my fault. Let me fix it.”

Max’s eyes soften. “You don’t have to fix every problem you encounter,” he says. His voice is so
gentle.

“Only the ones I cause.”

Charles finds himself absently stroking the base of Max’s wrist, thumb smoothing over his pulse
point. Max’s heart is beating so fast. Or maybe Charles is just imagining it.
“You aren’t going to budge on this,” Max says after a couple moments of silence. But silence,
perhaps, isn’t the right word for it. Charles can hear each of Max’s breaths, accented by the rise
and fall of his chest.

“No,” Charles says, smiling.

When has Charles ever backed down from a fight? Max should know this, better than anyone.

“Alright,” Max says, smiling back.

So Charles stands, pulls Max up by his wrist. He doesn’t want to let go.

He does, though. As soon as they hit the end of the alleyway, the front of the hotel halfway down
the block, at least a dozen people lingering out by the entrance and along the street, Charles drops
Max’s wrist. Max keeps his wounded hand cupped against his thigh. As they travel toward the
entrance and across the lobby, neither of them say a word. It isn’t until they’re on the elevator that
Max points out, “So I’m basically walking you home. Again.”

Charles blushes at the realization that, yeah, pretty much.

The actual affair of cleaning up the burn is quick. Charles fishes out the first aid kit from his
suitcase as Max runs his hand in cold water. Charles disinfects the wound, puts ointment on it, then
sticks a square bandaid on his palm, and Max pouts and complains the whole time about not
needing to be treated like a child. He lets Charles do it anyway. Lets Charles take his time.

“So,” Max says once he’s all bandaged up, leaning against the sink. “I should go.”

Charles tries not to look visibly disappointed. He nods and says, “Yeah.”

He leads Max to the door, and just as they’re about to trade their goodbyes and thank yous and see
you in Mexico, he looks at Max. Really looks. His tie is lopsided, and his shirt is wrinkled.

Sunday, during the race, Max was ruthless as always. Daring. Confident. But as soon as he slipped
out of his car, he found Charles, patted him on the shoulder, told him he had a lot of fun, and
Charles couldn’t even be mad that Max stole the win from him on the last lap, coming up through
the slipstream, sparks flying as he suddenly disappeared from Charles’ mirrors. Charles tried to
defend, but before he knew it he was met with the sight of Max’s rear wing. He tried to take the
place back, but he couldn’t, and Max crossed the checkered flag first. He was furious then, but not
when Max came to him after. The Max in the car is just too different from the Max outside of it. It
gives Charles whiplash. Terrifying indifference signature of all the greats, but charming
awkwardness and a Dutch lisp.

But these are the Max’s of now. Charles knows both of them pretty well, he thinks, but—he never
knew the Max-out-of-the-car from before. He knew Max as a driver before he knew Max as a
person, and he can’t help but wonder what Max was like. In childhood. At Toro Rosso. In the early
Red Bull years, with Daniel, then Pierre, then Alex. Before he won a championship.

Pierre said you were lonely, back then. And I do not think you are lonely anymore, but—

“Charles?” Max asks when Charles doesn’t open the door. Still looking.
What are you looking for?

“You—” Charles starts. The few drinks still coursing through his veins drive his words. “You
could stay.”

Max’s brows lift. He looks at Charles, gaze thick, eyes dark. His Adam’s apple bobs. “I don’t think
that would be the best idea,” he says. Then he licks his lips. Something deep inside Charles burns.

“Why not?” Charles says, desperate to get Max to stay.

“I don’t want to impose,” Max says, but Charles has a feeling he’s really saying something else.

“You wouldn’t be,” Charles promises, fidgeting with his hands behind his back and trying not to
sound as desperate as he feels. “We could drink wine. You’re here, anyway.”

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” Max asks, quirking a brow.

“Maybe,” Charles says.

The inside of Max’s cheek goes hollow as he chews on it. Eventually, he nods, then walks away
from the door.

Like he does for most race weekends, Charles brought his PS5. He never uses it when he’s away,
but he always brings it on the weekends anyway. He’s thankful that he did, though, because the
first thing Max did after Charles invited him to stay longer was ask if he had a gaming console.
Max hooked it up to the TV because Charles had no idea how to.

The minibar is a godsend. Three bottles of wine, two bottles of champagne, a fifth of gin, vodka,
and tequila each, and an exorbitant amount of shooters. They stick with soft liquor.

They go through the three bottles of wine with ease, poured into the complimentary glasses the
hotel room came with, as they play FIFA, chatting about everything and nothing. They’re both
sitting on Charles’ bed, backs to the headboard, shoulders touching. Charles is sipping on his wine,
pretending to focus on the game, but in reality, he’s been spending most of his time sneaking
glances at Max. His performance in the game reflects it: he hasn’t won a single game.

Max’s bow tie is on the floor, suit jacket lying across a chair, shoes at the foot of the bed, his dress
shirt half unbuttoned. He looks devilishly handsome. It’s unfair to expect Charles to be looking
anywhere else.

And it’s fun. Charles hasn’t had this much fun off the track in—a long while. From the way Max
smiles and laughs at him, he thinks that Max is having fun too.

Just after three hours of playing, they both start to get too tired to start another ninety-minute game.
Max’s eyes start to droop, and Charles notices. Tells him that he can sleep over, share the bed,
borrow some clothes. Max is too tired and drunk to argue, so he wordlessly takes the spare clean
clothes that Charles hands to him, heading to the bathroom to shower and change.

As Max showers, Charles busies himself on his phone and drinks the rest of his wine.

When Max comes out from the bathroom, hair blow-dried, clad in Charles’ clothes—the shirt
stretches out slightly at the chest, which makes Charles’ heart beat like a wild, pathetic animal—he
crawls under the covers, lying just at the end of the bed, at least a person length’s distance away
from Charles. He falls asleep immediately, without saying a word.

Charles knows that he should go and shower, but he spends a good amount of time just—staring.
Staring at Max sleeping, like a creep. His face is smooth and relaxed, without any of the heaviness
he carries in the daytime. His natural pout, hair messy, body completely still.

And in this moment, Charles has no choice but to face his want. The want that has been collecting
ever since he learned that Max likes men, gets his dick sucked by them, sometimes. Fucks them,
sometimes.

His desire disgusts him, the enormity of it, ugly and sitting at the base of his chest.

This isn’t a crush. Charles knows what crushes feel like, and this—isn’t that.

He wonders how different his life would’ve been if he didn’t go to Max’s twenty-seventh birthday
party, didn’t send him a happy birthday text, didn’t go to his favorite Monacan bar over the
summer and find Max at that bar, didn’t get so drunk that he trauma dumped all over Max, didn’t
race against Max in his karting days, didn’t push Max into the mud in Val d’Artengon, didn’t—

There are so many things that could have gone differently in our past, in our history, but I cannot
shake the feeling that nothing about us was an accident.

Impossible luck brought me to you, and you to me.

He can’t ignore the truth anymore, not when it’s right in his face.

I want you, he thinks, looking at Max, peacefully asleep. More than I should. And I wish that it
was just a physical thing. I wish I wanted you only for that. I want you in that awful feelings sort of
way. Lewis couldn’t stand Nico by the end of it, but—I don’t think I could stand to live without
you. And isn’t that horrible? The worst part is, a part of me thinks you might want me too.

Max makes a small noise in his sleep, and rolls over onto his side, facing Charles.

You stayed, Charles thinks. Tonight, you stayed. That’s more than he can say for most of the
people in his life.

After his shower, he kneels by the side of the bed, folds his hands together, and looks up at the
ceiling.

Charles still believes in God, even though God has taken so much from him.

He doesn’t go to church, but he prays sometimes.

Not for big things like a championship or a race win—he knows that God doesn’t have any say
with that. Merely himself and his team. But he prays for small things. A good day. A painless
flight. A race without fatal crashes or serious injuries.

This—this careful, horrible thing he has with Max that has weaved its way into the center of his life
—it doesn’t seem like a small thing. Doesn’t feel like one either. He prays anyway, because this
doesn’t feel like it’s in his hands. Isn’t in his control. He feels selfish and stupid, threading his
fingers together and looking up at the cold bright lights of his hotel room, asking God not to take
this away from him too.

Charles wakes up in bed alone. The first thing he does is roll to the side and check his phone,
charging and sitting on the bedside table.

Max
Thanks for the wine mate
Had to leave early to film a promo vid for Red Bull
Btw you suck at FIFA

Mexico is—

It’s alright.

Thursday afternoon, as he’s heading toward the media pen, Charles has an awkward run-in with
Toto, who’s still pissed that he lost out on another talent to Red Bull—thankfully, the only person
he’s taking his anger out on is Christian. Mick, who was the second choice for Lewis’ seat, was
announced as their 2025 driver alongside George a few days after Charles’ Red Bull
announcement.

He and Toto haven’t spoken since the summer, when Mercedes was desperately trying to sign
Charles. And Charles went behind everyone’s backs, signed a multi-year contract with Red Bull
Racing. No one knew about it, except for Max, Christian, Helmut, and the other higher-ups in the
organization.

Toto finally congratulates him on his Red Bull contract, two months after he signed it, wishes him
luck for the future and for the Mexico race. Charles nods along. He doesn’t apologize. He knows
that he has nothing to apologize for. At least not to Toto. He doesn’t say much else other than
something along the lines of thank you—I am very excited about this opportunity, driving for a
new team is always exciting, but also nervewracking.

On Sunday, Max wins, with Charles in second, Sergio in third. Lewis just barely misses out on a
podium. It’s—

Charles’ championship hopes are waning. The only hopes he has of winning the championship are
if Max somehow doesn’t finish in the points in the next two races and Charles does reasonably
well. He doubts that’s possible. He’s licking at scraps. A dog desperate to be fed, biting the hand.

Still, Charles will fight to the end.

Lewis, though, is done for. Mathematically out of consideration. It’s only him and Max left.

He and Max talk in the cool down room. Tyre deg. Lap times. Downforce. That’s all.
Charles feels like he’s at a turning point. Not in his career but—in another part of his life.
Unimportant, but all-consuming.

He spends the few days between Mexico and Brazil in physical training, in engineering meetings,
and on the simulator. Max invites him to fly on his jet, but Charles declines. He wants space.
Needs to clear his head.

Ferrari flies him and Carlos to Brazil on a private jet. And it’s a short flight—only a little more
than two hours—so it’s bearable. After Mexico, he has three races to clinch the championship. He
has three races to beat Max. He has—

“Only three more races with Ferrari, ey?”

Charles turns to look at Carlos. “Yeah,” he says, putting his phone down. “I—yeah.”

The thing about Carlos is that—he’s great. He’s just—he’s great. He’s friendly, personable, and
it’s hard to hate him either on the track or off it. He’s friendly. Personable. Genuine. Polite. He
works hard, and he’s a good driver, a hard racer, but—he doesn’t have that killer instinct.

He’s the same on the track and off of it. Nothing like Max. Nothing like Charles.

“Are you going to miss it?” Carlos asks.

This is the first time they’ve really talked about it. Since the summer. Since Charles was
announced for Red Bull. A part of Charles thought that they’d never talk about it. Let it go
unspoken. Let it—let it just be what it was. Charles, abandoning Ferrari and Carlos and his father
for a selfish dream, one that will only appease himself.

The championship he wants, a championship with whichever team that can give it to him—it’s a
selfish dream. If he wins a championship with Red Bull, when he wins a championship with Red
Bull—it will be for himself and no one else. Not for Jules, not for his father, just—for himself.

The other day, while he was bored and holed up in his Mexican hotel room, he Googled
“altruism.” The belief in or practice of disinterested and selfless concern for the well-being of
others, it said.

Max was right. Charles isn’t very altruistic at all.

And yet, he finds himself saying, “I’m sorry.”

Sitting across from Charles, Carlos blinks, visibly confused at the sudden apology. “Why?”

“That—” Charles swallows, his throat feeling suddenly tight. “That I am leaving.”

“Why are you sorry for leaving?” Carlos asks. “It is just a team, no?”

Charles shakes his head. It’s not—it’s more than that. It is so much more than that. He can’t put it
into words, so the only explanation he gives Carlos is, “It’s Ferrari.” He hopes that Carlos
understands.

Carlos only chuckles, clearly not understanding. “Ferrari is just another team, mate.”
Charles talked to his therapist about this. Once, many years ago. She asked, Have you ever
considered that you might have an unhealthy attachment to Ferrari? As a concept?

He turns his head, looking out the window. Blue skies and white clouds.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he says, because surely Carlos will understand this.

Carlos smiles at him, comfortingly, reassuringly. “It is fine. I—understand. I was hurt, at first, you
know. That you did not tell me, but I get it, and I am happy for you.”

And Charles can’t help but ask the childish question that’s been itching at him, all these months.
“Even though I’m leaving, will we still be friends next year?” His cheeks burn at the question, the
bluntness of it. He had to ask. Everyone says that Charles is too blunt sometimes, but that’s just
how he is. He can’t be any other way, doesn’t want to be any other way, either.

Carlos laughs, but it isn’t patronizing. “Of course we will be friends. I am still friends with Lando,
after all of these years. And I like you better than Lando.”

Charles doesn’t think that’s true at all, but he laughs anyway. Maybe, he thinks, maybe he has been
grieving something that was never lost—not entirely.

Then Carlos opens his mouth, takes a deep breath, lingers on it. He’s going to say something
important, Charles can tell. So Charles waits.

“I have to ask, though. Why Red Bull over Mercedes?”

And that’s the million dollar question: Why did Charles Leclerc choose Red Bull over Mercedes?

He’s been asked this question enough times in interviews that he almost gives the knee-jerk
response:

Red Bull has been consistently ahead of Mercedes in the turbo-hybrid era. After all, they’ve won
two constructor’s championships, and are the favorites for winning a third this year. Red Bull are
my best shot at winning a championship.

But Mercedes is improving. The horror show that was their first half of 2022 is long past.
Realistically, and on paper, Mercedes will be just as good as Red Bull are in 2025. Charles knows
this. Carlos knows this. Everyone knows this. Additionally, Charles would’ve had George as a
teammate, and George is great—but he’s not Max. Without question, Charles would have been the
number one driver.

Yet Charles had decided not to move to Mercedes. Chose to stay with Ferrari over moving to
Mercedes. If it wasn’t for Max, Charles would have renewed his Ferrari contract.

“Mercedes didn’t feel right,” Charles says. It’s the most honest response he’s ever given.

“And Red Bull felt right?”

In part, Charles chose Red Bull because of Max. Because he wants to beat him in equal machinery
and all. But that’s not entirely it, he knows.

Mercedes is a well-functioning machine. An organism. Living and breathing and thriving.

Composed of efficient feedback loops. Ferrari is a family in all the wrong ways. It’s dysfunctional.
No one within it can stand each other. It functions purely on love and spite. It has too much
history. But Red Bull—
While Ferrari is their history, Red Bull is their brand. Energy drinks. Mythical wings. High-
performance.

Red Bull is a dark horse. Red Bull is a vendetta. Red Bull is a team. Not a machine, nor a family,
but a team.

A team that cuts corners. A team that was willing to put a child in an F1 car. A team that values
talent over age. A team that parties hard and works even harder.

Red Bull is—a team that is willing to do whatever it takes.

They put their drivers before their legacy. They do not care about history, only the future. They
want only to win. Charles, at this point in his life—he needs to win. Wants it more than anything.

Mercedes—they can win, alright. But they have always felt too cold, impersonal, clinical. Charles
can’t imagine himself loving anything that cold. Racing, to Charles, is all about love.

Mercedes has no heart, only results.

But Red Bull—is all heart and unconditional love for the sport, the brand, the energy, the thrill.
They are racing. They are what they do.

Charles knows he can love Red Bull. That one day, he will love it. Not like he loves Ferrari—
Charles will never love anything like he loves Ferrari. But it will be close, and it will be good.

Charles knows he made the right choice, choosing Red Bull, but just because the right choice was
right doesn’t mean that it isn’t hard and frightening.

Sometimes, Charles is still learning, and he has been learning this all his life, the right choice is to
let go. Accept that some things are lost forever. And you will grieve. Charles is still grieving.

Here is a secret about grief: you carry it with you all your life. It is the one thing you will never
lose.

It has been nine years since Jules passed and seven since Charles’ father. It hurt the most in the
hours, days, weeks, and months following each loss. And after some time, he stopped thinking
about it, forgot about it, almost. Learned to live with it. But sometimes, Charles finds himself
looking at his car, at the number 16, and thinks about how it should have been 17. Finds himself
staring at the engineer who has the same glasses that his father had, who is older than his father
will ever be. Finds himself at home or on a plane or somewhere that has nothing that has nothing to
do with either of them, somewhere with no reminders of them. And it still hits him. Hits him all the
same. The absence. He was fine, but—then, he’s not. He feels alone. He wants to cry—and
sometimes, he does. He wants to crash into the barriers, just because he can, just because he wants
to feel a different sort of hurt—but he never does.

He doesn’t, because his grief is a memory. His grief is all he has left of them.

His therapist’s voice, from long ago, plays back in his head: Have you ever thought about what
Ferrari means to you, she asked, that it might be tied to your grief?

Yes, Charles thought, but didn’t say out loud.

Yes, I already know. I love it because it was my father’s dream. Because it was Jules’ dream. I
love it because I am grieving. I am grieving because I love.
It is hard to admit that he has changed, that he doesn’t love Ferrari like he used to, that the love that
had once created the illusion has faded. All he can see now is reality, but still, it is hard to let go. It
is hard, he thinks to himself, because sometimes it feels like I am nothing more than my grief.

Charles breathes in a shaky breath. This, perhaps, is one of the hardest things he’s ever had to
admit. “Yes,” he says. “Red Bull feels right.”

Brazil is incredible.

Charles can’t quite put it into words. Seventy-one laps of hard racing. Thirty-three of them spent
battling with Max, single-mindedly racing each other, trading places, bumping wheels—brutal,
dirty, but still fair maneuvers, driving each other off the track like they were just boys in go-karts,
the boys they once were.

Neither of them win. Lewis does, and he has a teary celebration on the podium, the crowd roaring
with cheers. This was his race. It is very fitting, Charles thinks, that Lewis is ending the twilight
years of his racing career with another win in Brazil.

Neither of them even make it to the podium, far too busy with each other to notice Carlos slipping
past them on Lap 59, then Sergio on Lap 66. Charles finishes fourth, and Max fifth.

Charles won. He might not have won the race, but he won, and that’s what matters.

He has never had this much fun in all his years of racing. When he thinks about it, thinks long and
hard, all the races he’s had the most fun in were when he was racing wheel-to-wheel with Max. On
the track and off the track, he always has fun with Max. He is happy when he’s with Max, more
often than not.

It always comes back to him. Always.

And he can’t keep pretending. Can’t keep it inside. Can’t keep praying. Wants to take this into his
own hands. He isn’t at the top of the podium, but he feels on top of the world. He feels powerful,
feels—

The ugly mess inside of him feels beautiful. Feels right.

After the race and all the many obligatory interviews, he doesn’t go back to the Ferrari
motorhome. He ignores all the weird looks he gets from the other drivers, ignores the microphones
and cameras shoved into his face. Sweaty, veins coursing with adrenaline, still wearing his red
racesuit, he walks over to the Red Bull motorhome under the guise of needing to speak to Christian
about next year. It’s clear that no one believes him, but he doesn’t care.

Despite how differently structured the Red Bull motorhome is from Ferrari’s, he finds Max’s
driver room easily. He just—knows. Has a feeling. A good feeling. Charles feels good.

When he opens the door, Max is sitting on the couch and chugging a bottle of water. He spills it all
over himself at the intrusion.

“Charles?” he asks, spurting up to his feet.

His cheeks are rosy, eyes bright and wide with confusion. His hair looks the color of gold with the
way the sunlight, through the window, is hitting it. His chin is still wet with the water he spilled.
His neck is flushed blotchy-pink. He is so beautiful and raw that Charles feels sick with want.

“What are you doing here?”

“I—” He shuts his mouth. There’s no way he can put this into words. So he just—locks the door
behind him and walks toward Max. Closer, closer, until they’re face to face. Max is heaving in
breaths, looking so confused and gorgeous, looking at Charles. Closer, closer. Max is forced to
walk backwards until his back hits the wall, his spine pressed up against the windowsill.

Max has been running his mouth this entire time—adorably, something about the race—but
Charles isn’t really listening. He usually does, when it comes to Max. But not now.

He tugs on the zipper of Max’s racesuit. Max sucks in a sharp, shocked breath as Charles pulls it
all the way down. He isn’t talking anymore. Doesn’t speak a word as Charles pulls it off his
shoulders then off his arms.

It isn’t until Charles is trying to pull the suit down his hips that Max starts talking again. “What are
you doing? Charles—what are you—”

Charles looks at him. Really, really looks at him. They’ve been—dancing around this forever. And
if Max doesn’t know by now, then—

His heart is beating so fast that it hurts, hurts how it presses against his ribs, like it’s trying to
escape. Charles might as well let it.

“What do you think I’m doing?”

“Charles,” Max says again, choked-out, hoarse, barely a whisper. He looks sad. His eyes, they look
sad. The smile he flashes Charles is forced and painful and tight. “You’re—straight.”

Charles swallows. He’s only ever done this, said this twice. Once with his family while they were
all on holiday; the other time was with Pierre when they were wine-drunk at Pierre’s family home
in France. Maybe he should’ve told Max this earlier, but—he didn’t have the courage.

Now, though. Now—

“I’m not,” Charles says. He is holding his heart in his hands, the beating mess of it, letting Max
see. He has never felt this vulnerable before.

Somehow, however, he isn’t scared at all.

Gradually, Max’s face opens up in surprise, brows rising. For the longest time, he doesn’t speak.
Charles is smart enough to conclude that Max must be recontextualizing every interaction he’s had
with Charles these past few weeks.

Charles waits. He watches. He is always watching.

“You’re… not,” Max parrots back after what feels like an eternity. Uncertain. Incredulous. Like he
still can’t believe it, like he’s afraid it’s a joke. Like he needs further confirmation.

And Charles gives it to him. “I’m not.”

Max blinks. “Well,” he says, curtly. “Fuck.”

He grabs Charles’ face and pulls him into a kiss.

Charles gasps with it, but he lets himself be pulled, stumbling onto Max, pressing him against the
wall. Kisses back.

Max, Charles is learning, kisses like he races: with single-minded determination and terrifying
certainty. Intensely, to put it into a word. Max’s hands move to his waist. His grip is brutal, firm.
Charles runs his hands through Max’s hair, then to his neck, to his shoulders, down his arms, along
his stomach, over and over and over. Wanting to touch Max everywhere he can. Wanting to hold
onto him and to never let go. Wanting even more. Wanting so much. Charles is all want. He
doesn’t think he’ll ever stop wanting.

Where is your hunger? he sometimes asks himself when he’s mid-race and tempted to settle for
second place. Here it is, he tells himself now. Here it is.

This was always going to happen, he thinks. There was no other outcome.

Charles breaks the kiss, panting, gasping stupidly. There’s a line of spit that connects their mouths
for a brief instant, hanging and drooping until it falls. It should be gross, but it isn’t. His lips feel
swollen. He takes a selfish moment to just look at Max. Take him in. The sight of him post-kiss:
his hair a mess from how Charles was grabbing at it, eyes all dark, face bright pink. The feel of
him: all sharp angles, jagged edges, sturdy. His smell: sweat, gasoline, rubber. Charles wants to
crawl under his skin.

He cups Max’s cheek, thumb brushing along Max’s wet bottom lip. In response, Max squeezes at
his hip, pulling him closer.

There are so many things he wants to say. Stuck in the back of his throat. Sitting on his tongue.
Charles is fluent in three languages, but he doesn’t know how to say any of it. So he slides his
hands to Max’s waist, where the top half of his racesuit is folded over on itself, and carefully—
with care, with so much care—pulls it down his thighs. Max lets him do it. Charles looks at Max
the entire time. Max looks back.

Max watches. Maybe Max has always been watching him too. All this time. Watching.

You confuse me, Charles thinks. You make no sense. You are wonderful.

What are you looking for?

I think a part of me has always been looking for you. I think I have been looking for you my whole
life.

Thank god. Thank god you were born sixteen days before me. Thank god your father’s dream
became your own. Thank god you are here with me.

Getting on his knees is the only way he knows how to communicate that gratitude.

They don’t fuck.

They don’t fuck, but Max cums in his mouth, Charles swallows it all, and Max pulls him up onto
his feet merely to shove him onto the couch. Undoes his racesuit hastily, and jerks him off. They
kiss the entire time, gasping into each other’s mouths. Max has his hand cupped around the side of
Charles’ neck, his thumb just barely pressing into his throat, but enough to make Charles feel
dizzy. Neither of them say a single word.

They keep kissing for what feels like an eternity—until there’s a knock at the door, a voice through
the door telling Max that he’s late for the post-race debriefing.

Max breaks their kiss, upset and groaning. He lingers. Kisses Charles again. Then again. Again—
Stubble brushes against Charles’ face with each kiss. His thumb strokes at Charles’ ear, then he
kisses Charles again. The weight of him, all heavy and solid, Charles needs it, wants it, but Max
stands up, apologizes. “Fuck,” he says. “Fuck. If only I could—”

“It’s okay,” Charles says, still breathless and dazed and lying on the couch, feeling absolutely
wrecked. He wants to stay here forever, in this little Red Bull driver room, sunlight slipping
through the window. With Max. “You should go.”

“Are you sure?” Max asks, panting, frowning.

“I am sure,” Charles responds. Reality is starting to kick in. Not entirely, but enough that he knows
that they both should go. “Just—” he smiles, loopy. “Just help me get out of here?”

Max blushes, nodding. He lets Charles borrow underwear, a spare plain white shirt, and clean grey
sweatpants, too big and wide, but Charles cherishes it and wears it all the same. Charles leaves his
cum-stained underwear in Max’s room, but brings his racesuit with him. Max is the one to open the
door first, peeking his head out as he dutifully checks the hall. He tells Charles when it’s safe to
sneak out.

Once the hallway is empty, he nods at Charles, and Charles gets on his tiptoes, preparing to sneak
out, feeling silly and happy and light and—

Before he slips out the door, Max surprises him with another kiss. Grabs his face, pulls at his jaw,
bruising. Chaste.

“When will I see you again?” Max breathes out against Charles’ lips.

“I don’t—” Charles heaves in a breath, lightheaded. His brain isn’t working properly, too slow for
him to remember what his schedule is like. “I don’t know.”

Max thumbs gently at Charles’ cheekbone. “Well,” he says, then bites his lip, then slides his hand
down to Charles’ neck, tilts Charles’ head back with his thumb. “One more for the road.”

This kiss is dirty and desperate and deep, and Charles wouldn’t have it any other way.

Later that night, Ferrari flies him and Carlos straight to Maranello. It’s a long flight, and Charles
spends most of it sleeping. He was all jitters before he got to the plane, could barely focus on
anything during his own post-race debriefing. He got scolded a bit for his conduct with Max on the
track, missing out on a podium and valuable points, and he also got scolded for going to the Red
Bull motorhome and arriving at the meeting an hour late. Apparently, a video of him walking both
in and out of the Red Bull hub got passed between their teams. He had no explanation for any of
the charges. He found it hard to care.

He doesn’t arrive back in Monaco until Tuesday afternoon. He posts about it on his Instagram
story, not really thinking about it.

A few hours after he’s settled in, at about 10 PM, there’s a knock at the door. He assumes it’s one
of his brothers, or his personal trainer.

When he opens the door, he doesn’t expect Max to be standing there, hands shoved in his jean
pockets.

“Hey,” Charles says, jolting. His heartbeat quickens. He’s barely able to stifle his surprise.

“Hey,” Max replies. He chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment. “Sorry that I didn’t let you
know I was coming. Are you busy?”

“No, no—it is fine,” Charles says, shaking his head. He was planning on playing piano, or reading
to pass the time. Today and tomorrow are his only rest days before Vegas. “I should have told you
I was in Monaco.” But he didn’t. He was hiding. The post-race adrenaline had faded and he was
afraid of the aftermath. Afraid that Max would say something along the lines of, It was good, but
we probably shouldn’t do it again. He couldn’t be the one to reach out first. “How did you—?”

“I saw your Instagram story,” Max answers, looking a little embarrassed. The thought of Max
Verstappen using Instagram recreationally, as anything but a mere obligation, would have made
Charles laugh, if he wasn’t so nervous. “Can I come in?”

“Of course,” Charles says a little too enthusiastically, wincing as his voice cracks. He steps back to
give Max space to enter. Max closes the door behind him.

For a long time, they just—stand there. Looking at each other. Neither of them saying anything.
Waiting for the other to speak first. A stalemate.

And in this time, Charles—well, he can’t help but stare at Max’s mouth. Can’t help but think about
how only two days ago, he had that mouth on him kissing him until his lips were bruised. The past
two days, Charles thinks he did a great job of burying it, the want. He was too busy talking with
Ferrari engineers about car set-up, with Vasseur about the end of his contract, with Carlos about
everything and nothing, just trying to return to normalcy, little by little. Of course it was there,
always there, lingering, and dwelling, and burning, just under the surface. Charles is good at
compartmentalizing. He put this, Max, into a little box, tucked in his heart along with all the other
important things in his life he is too afraid to lose. It is all coming back to him now, all in full force.

“So,” Max speaks first, hands now out of his pockets, awkwardly smoothing down his thighs. His
thighs. Charles is thinking a lot about his thighs. “We should probably talk.” He pauses, then licks
his lips. His lips. Charles is thinking a lot about that too. “About Brazil.”

“Yeah,” Charles agrees. They probably should talk about Brazil. Brazil. His eyes flick down to
Max’s mouth. Max notices. Charles swallows. They should—talk. Max loves to talk. But. Charles
doesn’t really want to talk right now.

“Or,” he starts, and that’s all he’s able to get out before Max is shoving him to the wall and
catching his mouth in a hungry kiss.

Charles has never resented the long distance between the front door and his bedroom as severely as
he does right now.
It isn’t until an hour later, when Charles is staring up at the ceiling, sex-stupid and trying to recover
his breaths, that they finally do talk. Well, about Brazil. They actually talked a lot as Max was
fucking him. The only time Max wasn’t talking, he thinks, is when he was returning the favor.
What happened in Max’s driver room. Regardless, none of the talking was very productive.

Charles tries not to think about the trail of clothing scattered in the hall, the kitchen, his living
room—

He hasn’t been this sex-obsessed since he was eighteen, and he isn’t sure if the sex was
extraordinarily good, or if he just thinks that because it was Max. Probably both, he concludes.
Athletic, slow, sweet, sloppy, precise. All of the above. Everything and more. Charles wants more,
but his dick is fed up with him, limp on his thigh, under the covers. The sheets are honestly
extremely disgusting at this point, a mixture of cum and lube and sweat, but Charles doesn’t want
to move. Doesn’t think he could, even if he tried. Soreness is creeping down his lower half. It’s a
good feeling. He likes it.

“I would’ve done this a lot sooner if you’d told me,” Max mutters when all is said and done. His
head is nestled in the crook between Charles’ shoulder and neck, leaving a row of wet kisses in his
wake. None of them are hard enough to bruise, which a part of Charles resents, but—they need to
talk, before that. He knows this.

Charles laughs. “I think sucking your cock was pretty obvious.”

Max pulls back from his neck and rolls his eyes. “Before that.”

“I was obvious even then,” Charles admits, biting his lower lip.

“Only in hindsight,” Max argues, blushing a little. He looks—cute. Young. Honest.

“I can’t believe you didn’t know,” Charles gloats, feeling a little smug. “I was so—” There are so
many words that could fill in the blank. Desperate. Clingy. Obsessed. He goes with the most direct
of them. “I wanted you so much.”

Max’s face opens up with a smile. “I had a feeling, but I thought I was just imagining it. Seeing
what I wanted to see,” he confesses, not quite looking at Charles, but also not quite looking away.
He brings his hand up to Charles’ chest, sliding lower until he’s drawing geometric shapes into
Charles’ stomach. The physicality makes Charles’ heart twist in knots. “For the longest time, I
thought I was just torturing myself. Flirting with a straight guy.”

Charles frowns, guilt eating at him. He hadn’t—all this time, he honestly hadn’t been considering
what it must have been like for Max. To not know. “I am sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

Max hums. He doesn’t seem upset, but he seems like he’s thinking about something. “Who
knows?” he asks after a few seconds.

“My family. Pierre. That’s it.”

“Have you ever done this before?” Max asks, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. His hand
slides to cup Charles’ hip, gently smoothing down to his upper thigh, the swell of him, then back
up. Charles shudders. Over and over. It’s distracting, but nice.
“I’m not a virgin, Max,” Charles says.

Max finally meets Charles’ eyes again, and he glares. “You know what I mean.”

Yes, Charles does know, and for a second, he considers lying, doesn’t want to make Max feel
burdened by this, by him. Considers making himself seem more experienced at, at—this than he
really is, but he quickly throws that thought away. There’s no point in lying to Max.

“Once,” he answers honestly. Max doesn’t react, which is good, Charles thinks. So he goes on,
“When I was younger. After I won the F2 championship. Just some guy in Milan.”

“How did you know? That you, you know…” Max asks, which is the last question Charles was
expecting him to ask. He thinks about the club, how Charles had asked Max the same thing. It’s
only fair that he tells Max too. And Max is always full of questions. Curious about anything and
everything. And, Charles supposes, it’s not like either of them really get to talk to people about
this. People who feel the same way.

“I—” Charles shrugs. He’s trying to respond, really. Tries to remember when he first realized. Max
told him the Daniel story, so Charles owes Max a story of his own, but—there just isn’t a story to
it. “I think that I just always knew.”

Max hums again.

“My turn for a question now,” Charles begins, smiling as he thinks back to their drinking game
over the summer. The disaster it had been. But he doesn’t think that any of this would have
happened if not for that Tuesday afternoon. “Have you always liked me?”

Max scoffs haughtily, and he pinches Charles’ thigh. “Who ever said I liked you?” he responds,
smirking. When Charles fixes him with a glare, Max sighs and rolls over onto his back. Charles
misses him already, even though he is right there. “No,” he finally answers, staring up at the
ceiling fixtures. “Not always. Not until Qatar, when you told me that I could trust you, I think. But,
I thought—it was never going to happen.”

Charles rolls onto his side, brows furrowing together unconsciously. “But—you still…” He doesn’t
know how to say it. Kept inviting me out. Stayed with me. He doesn’t end up needing to finish his
sentence. Max understands.

“I liked being around you,” he says, looking at Charles, eyes filled with sincerity.

The last thing he’ll ever let himself do is be vulnerable with you, or anyone, Daniel had said. In
truth, Charles has learned these past few weeks, he couldn’t have been more wrong.

Max picks and chooses. Charles is so grateful that Max chose him.

“For me,” Charles says, wanting to give Max just as much as Max has given him, “it was your
birthday party, I think.”

Max laughs, turning over so that his face is pressed to the pillows. He is so cute, Charles thinks. “I
think I should send Daniel flowers,” he says, voice muffled. “Thank him for being such a shitty
guard.”

Charles turns him over so that he can see his face. Max goes with it, lets Charles cup his cheek and
kiss him, chaste. Just because he can, now. Just because this is all he’s wanted to do ever since
Brazil, and he finally can. Max lets out a pleased sigh.
“It is strange to me,” Charles hears himself mutter, playing with the cartilage of Max’s ear. “How
much I like you.” He ignores the satisfaction on Max’s face. To take some of it away, he adds,
“You pissed me off so much, back when we were kids.”

It backfires. Max only seems into it. “Yeah?”

Well. Charles might as well go with it. “Yeah. You were just—too good. Too quick. I wanted to
beat you more than I wanted to win.”

Max grins, big and wide. “Beat me next year.”

“Yeah?” Charles asks, grinning also. “You’ll let that happen?”

Max snorts. “Try, I mean. You of course won’t be able to beat me, but I want you to give me a run
for my money.”

Charles shoves his hand in Max’s face and pushes him in retaliation. “You still piss me off,” he
replies, no heat to it.

The smile Max gives him says everything. It makes Charles’ heart feel too big for his body. Makes
him feel a way he has never quite felt before. Max brings his hand up to Charles’ face, and for a
moment, Charles thinks he’s going to shove him back, but Max just cups his cheek, gentle, like
Charles had done to him moments before, kisses him, playful and sweet, then rolls over on top of
him, slides a leg between his, a knee digging into the bed, Charles’ dick pressed to Max’s thigh,
Max’s to Charles’ stomach. Max lingers with the kiss, running his fingers along Charles’ scalp. All
slow and lazy motions, like he wants to take his time, wants to learn the feeling of kissing him by
heart.

Max, Charles knows, is abnormally good with things like that. Physical memorization. He was
born for things like this.

When Max pulls back, he is looking at Charles in awe. Sometimes, even after all of this, Charles
still can’t quite believe it. The way Max looks at him, like there’s something to be amazed about.

Sometimes, it feels too good to be real.

“What are we doing?” Charles whispers. His hand drops to the side from where it was, smoothing
down Max’s back. What he really means to ask is, what is this? what are we?

“I don’t know,” Max says. “Living? Fucking?”

“Max,” Charles says. Anxiety whirs under his skin.

Max notices. He always notices, Charles is learning. He finds Charles’ hand, weaves his fingers
through the spaces, and squeezes, comfortingly. “We can figure it out along the way.”

But that’s—that can’t be enough, can it? Charles has been in a lot of relationships. It helped, to
have a definition from the start. A name for what they were. But Charles looks closer. Max’s eyes
are telling him to trust him. And Charles does. He trusts Max. Maybe more than he should, but—

“Max,” he says, his free hand unconsciously sliding up to cup the back of Max’s neck. “You
should know that—” He has to put this into words. He has to try. “I don’t want just—this,” he says,
with great effort. If it wasn’t for Max’s weight, pinning him to the mattress, forcing him still, he’d
be shaking, he is sure. His face burns when he continues, “I want—I want it all.”
He looks away, too afraid to see the look on Max’s face. He can’t—a rejection right now would
break his heart, even more than it is already broken from loss after loss after loss.

“Of course you do,” Max replies, and it’s the fondness in his voice that makes Charles look at him
again and see his smile. His blue eyes. All of him, so open and sweet. He leans down, and Charles
mistakenly thinks that Max is going to kiss him again, but—instead, he presses his forehead to
Charles’ and says, “I wouldn’t like you as much as I do if you didn’t.”

This is real, Charles finally realizes. This is real, he repeats to himself. Somehow, this is real.

“Is that… okay?” Charles asks, needing to hear it. Needing to know that he’s not just making this
all up in his head.

“Yeah,” Max says. He closes his eyes then breathes in deeply. “I want all of you too.”

Charles swallows, his tongue too thick for his mouth. His eyes start to sting, but he wills away
whatever tears might spill with sheer willpower. He feels stupid. Feels happy. Feels terrified. Feels
excited. Feels a lot. Feels so much.

“Promise me,” he says, closing his eyes too, thumbing at Max’s nape. “Promise me that we won’t
—that when we are teammates next year, we won’t—” There are a lot of words unsaid here. We
won’t let this interfere with our racing. We won’t let our racing interfere with this, whatever this is.
We won’t try to kill each other, on or off the track. He is afraid to say any of this, and not because
he doesn’t want Max to hear, but because he is terrified that if he speaks, the floodgate he’s barely
holding back will burst.

Max understands. He always understands. “I promise,” he says.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Charles blurts. He says it, even though he was trying so hard not to. Not
everyone is an expert in grief, so familiar with it, sees it everywhere he goes, in everything he
touches and dares to love. Not everyone has lost as much as Charles has. “I don’t want to—I
cannot lose this. Please.”

I have lost enough in my life, Charles doesn’t say. This is real. You are real. And I cannot lose you.

“What happens if we crash and burn?” he rambles, eyes flying open, because—this thing he has
with Max could never be just a relationship. It’s their careers. Their lives.

Max hums, considering the question. “Then we crash and burn,” he replies, opening his eyes. He
smiles close-mouthed. His nonchalance is annoyingly charming. “At least we’ll have given it a
shot.”

Charles frowns, ready to babble out another series of questions and worries but—then Max’s
thumb is at his mouth, pulling at his bottom lip, tender in his gaze and touch. “Stop overthinking,”
he orders, then wipes his thumb along Charles’ jaw. Charles is too preoccupied with his thoughts to
be grossed out.

The thought of not overthinking this is unthinkable. “I can’t help it,” Charles says, feeling a bit
frantic. Blinking away tears, rapidly. It is just so easy for Max. He doesn’t get it.

Max only smirks. There’s fire in his eyes, like he’s just been given a challenge.

“In that case, I will just have to get you out of your head,” he says. Max’s tongue is in his mouth
before Charles can argue.
He slides his hand down Charles’ chest, lower, lower, and—oh. Yeah, that works.

As always, the next week and a half is spent in physical training, in the sim, in meetings, or at
sponsor functions. The new addition, however, is Max’s presence in his life.

Wednesday, Charles wakes up with Max still in his bed, sleeping, snoring, and hogging all of the
covers. Charles feels stupidly charmed. He sleeps in till noon. They have morning sex. After that—
Max stays. The entire day, he stays. He wears Charles’ clothes and stretches them out. He eats the
food Charles cooks for them. He drapes himself all over Charles’ body, rests his chin on his
shoulder, wraps his arms around his waist as he’s using the stove. He demolishes Charles in FIFA.
He listens to Charles play the piano and lets Charles teach him an easy song. They make out on the
couch in between each event. It’s domestic, no doubt, but even more than that, it’s easy. It’s
comfortable. It’s a honeymoon period, Charles knows. But he finds that he doesn’t care. He’s
figuring it out along the way, and learning that it isn’t so bad, if he just lets go.

After Wednesday the days get busier for both of them, but they still make time to see each other
after or between their individual obligations. Thursday, they go sailing and swimming, just the two
of them, as the sun is setting. Friday morning, they drive up to the French countryside, then return
just in time for their afternoon happenings. Saturday and Sunday they don’t see each other, but they
text. Monday night, Charles goes over to Max’s.

Tuesday morning, while Charles is waiting for Max to wake up, he dwells over a decision, and
comes to it. However, Max, he has learned, has a propensity to sleep in until or even past noon if
he’s let alone, so Charles shoves at him, gently waking him up.

Max grumbles at being awoken, rubbing his head along Charles’ neck sleepily, a little like a cat,
but he opens his eyes soon enough. “What is it?” he mumbles, eyes squinting against the sunlight
in the room, pouting. He’s so cute in the mornings.

Charles chews on his lip before he says, “I want to tell Pierre. About us. If that is okay.” Max—
doesn’t respond, still tucked into Charles’ shoulder, face not visible. He’s drooling a little bit. The
only reason Charles has to think he hasn’t fallen asleep is that, when Max is asleep, he’s dead still.
He’s wriggling right now. Charles only gives Max a few seconds until he starts rambling again, “I
tell him everything. I am not very good at keeping secrets from him. He is already in Monaco
today, so. I think it would be a good time.”

He waits. Waits. And then, sleepy and hoarse, Max asks, “What would you tell him?”

Charles might not have thought this part through. “That,” he struggles, heart fluttering at the
thought. “We are together.”

“Mmh,” Max hums, and that’s all.

Charles needs to push a little harder. “Is that a yes?”

Max finally untucks himself from Charles’ neck. Charles shivers at the loss. Max naturally runs
hot. He’s like a portable space heater. Without Max all over him, Charles feels like he’s lost a layer
of clothing.

He stares at Max, takes him in as if this was his first time seeing him in the morning. His hair is
sticking up on one side but completely flat on the other, his shirt is wrinkled to hell, there’s drool
on his chin and a bit of crust in the corners of his eyes.

The sight of him makes what he says sound completely ridiculous. “Only if you let me fuck you
before breakfast.”

It probably says a lot about Charles, that he still finds this Max painfully hot. He rolls his eyes,
laughs, and says, “I was going to let you do that anyway.”

After, while Charles is making breakfast, Max comes up behind him, as he’s accustomed to doing
lately, and sets his hands on Charles’ hips, chin on his shoulder. Charles has to focus and make
sure he doesn’t burn the eggs he’s frying.

“I think I will also tell my sister,” Max says. His hair is still a little damp from his shower. Their
shower, Charles means. “After the season, probably.”

Charles smiles, feeling light and content. Max’s hands slip under his shirt until they’re gripping
bare skin and thumbing at his hip bones. It isn’t sexual, but it’s intimate. Charles is still getting
used to Max’s intense way about physical affection. His verbal affection too. He is very
affectionate in general, which no one would believe if Charles told them. And Charles wouldn’t,
for the obvious reason, but also—it’s nice, at least for now, to have this to himself. All to himself.

“You should meet her,” he also drops out of nowhere. “And her kids. My mom, too. If you want
to.”

Charles sucks in an audible breath, eyes going wide. He should probably flip over the eggs now, or
at least turn down the heat, but—

He knows that Max is a family guy, which he was surprised to learn over the past few days. Knows
that Max loves his sister and his mom more than anyone in the world. Knows that Max still loves
his dad in spite of everything, maybe because of everything—where he is, how he got here. But the
fact that Max wants him to meet them. Wants to tell them about Charles. It’s scary. It’s scary
because it is real—so plainly real.

When Charles is in the car, he is never afraid. Never has fear. The day he feels fear in the car is the
day he will stop racing on the limit—and what other way is there to race?

This, however. This is terrifying.

“Max. That is a little fast.”

He can feel Max smirking against his neck, but more importantly, Max’s hand sliding down the
waistband of his sweatpants. Now that—that is sexual. “Is there any other way to live life?”

Charles does, in fact, end up burning the eggs.

At 9 AM, Max drives Charles back to his flat, where he arranged to meet Pierre. They are running
late, however, after breakfast—the second one. Max cooked the second round as an apology for
distracting Charles. In reality, Charles didn’t care at all. It wasn’t his building that was almost
burned down. But it was sweet, how Max did look genuinely sorry.

As Max was cooking breakfast, he kept trying to get Charles to play with his cats. Spend time with
them. Let them get used to his smell. In reality, Charles spent that time narrowly avoiding Jimmy’s
claws and narrowly avoiding stepping on Sassy. Max is certain that they will warm up to him, and
he will warm up to them. Charles isn’t quite sure about that, but he is trying.

He arrives at his apartment thirteen minutes after the arranged time. Pierre’s car is already parked,
so he must be inside already. He has one of Charles’ spare keys. He and Max quickly say and kiss
goodbye, but they’ll see each other in only a couple hours, so it’s more of an I’ll see you later kiss.
Both of them are heading to Las Vegas early. Charles, Max, and Lewis, as the current top three,
have a publicity event to attend at night. He and Max are flying on AirMax, as per usual.

Charles climbs out of the car, fumbles a little with his key, but manages to get it open, dashing up
the stairs. He’s already late, and he hates keeping people waiting.

Pierre, as Charles expected, has already made himself comfortable, spread out over the couch.
Charles winces a little, thinking about what he and Max did on that couch just a few days ago. They
didn’t do a great job of cleaning up. He doesn’t mention it. He already has a lot to tell Pierre.

Charles profusely apologizes for being late, but for a couple seconds, Pierre doesn’t say a word. He
just looks at Charles carefully, much too carefully, for a long time. Studies him. Examines him.
Charles feels like a museum exhibit. He doesn’t think he dressed that horribly today, horribly
enough for Pierre to be looking at him like he’s grown a third head. He merely dressed as he
normally does. And, it can’t be his hair either. Charles’ hair is nice today. He learned the hard way
to bring his products to Max’s place. He refuses to use Max’s 3-In-1 shampoo-conditioner-
bodywash ever again, after the first time.

The first thing Pierre says is, “Is that cat hair on your leg?”

Charles looks down and indeed sees cat hair on his pants. Max and his stupid fucking cats, he
thinks vengefully.

“Um,” he stalls, gaze erratic. He can’t really think of a good excuse.

“Never mind,” Pierre dismisses with a wave of his hand when it becomes clear Charles won’t
answer, at least not satisfactorily. He swings his body until he’s vertical, and there’s space for
Charles to sit beside him. “You said you needed to tell me something?”

Charles sits. Chews on his lip. Courage, he tells himself. Have courage. Pierre is your best friend.
Pierre won’t judge. Well, he might. But—he won’t hate you for it.

“Yes, I do have something to tell you,” he announces uselessly after a terribly lengthy minute of
mental deliberation and physical preparation. Like taking deep breaths. Like running his hand
through his hair to ground himself. None of it actually helps, he realizes, starting to stammer, “I, uh
—” And similar unintelligible noises for the next half-minute.

Sighing, Pierre takes pity on him and opens his mouth. Charles prepares himself for Pierre to
encourage him to come out with it, not for him to say, completely deadpan, “You’re sleeping with
Max.”
Charles blinks. He isn’t sure if he heard that correctly. “What?”

Pierre looks at him dead-on, then repeats, “You’re sleeping with Max.” And when Charles only
responds with a vacant gaze and a hanging jaw, Pierre starts to really hammer it in. “Max
Verstappen. Red Bull Max. Max, my old teammate. Max, your future teammate. Verstappen Max.
Three-time world champion Max Verstappen. Max, who—”

“Okay I get it,” Charles breathes out, sharp and snappy, feeling like—he doesn’t think there’s a
word to describe how he’s feeling right now. He swallows. Shuts his mouth, finally. The inside of
his mouth must be torn up and bleeding from how much he’s been biting at it. “How did you
know?”

The only silver lining is that Charles didn’t have to get the ball rolling.

His face is burning. It takes every bit of courage within him to meet Pierre’s gaze. Meanwhile,
Pierre is looking at him like he’s stupid.

“I’ve known you since we were children. Remember that time we went out after your F2
championship, and you came back to my house, and you wouldn’t tell me who you spent the night
with? You have that same guilty look on your face from then,” he says. He positions his hand on
Charles’ knee, and Charles can tell it’s supposed to be comforting, but he is far too confused and
shocked to take that reassurance to heart. “I don’t think you would have arranged such a serious
talk if it wasn’t someone I already knew. Someone who mattered.”

“How did you know it was Max,” Charles whispers, more of a statement than a question.

“Would it ever be anyone else?”

You’re the ones with the history. Shouldn’t you know?

“You were—obsessed with him when we were kids,” Pierre continues. “I don’t think you were
aware of it. You were always Max this, Max that. Even when me and Max were teammates, I doubt
I talked about him half as much as you did, those days. You stopped talking about him at a point,
but you still look at him in the same way. And he looks at you too.”

Charles has—far too many questions. Did I really talk about him that much? Was I that obvious?
Has it always been that obvious?

But most importantly, When did you get this observant?

“Also,” Pierre says, like an afterthought. Charles realizes that he’s started gaping stupidly again.
“Max has cats. And all your cars were still in your garage, so you were dropped off. You must have
spent the night somewhere else in Monaco. And you are wearing Red Bull socks.” Charles
immediately looks down at his feet, cringes when he realizes that he is in fact wearing Christmas
themed Red Bull socks, logo clearly visible just where his pant legs end. He hadn’t picked them on
purpose. He was in a rush and randomly picked them from Max’s sock drawer without looking.

Charles takes a moment to find his bearings. He feels like his guts were just torn out and scattered
all over the floor. He looks down at his lap, starts to play with his hands, for lack of anything better
to do.

“Well. Yeah. That’s it,” he mumbles, heart racing.

Neither of them say anything for at least a minute. Then Pierre is starting up again, “I know I said
that it wouldn’t be anyone else, but—really? Max?”
Charles raises his head, fighting back the urge to glare. “He’s—he’s really good,” he insists, as
firmly as he can. “Good to me, but also—just good.”

The firmness in Charles’ voice must have been enough to convince Pierre, because Pierre’s eyes
soften, and he brings his hand to massage Charles’ shoulder. He hadn’t realized how tense he was.
“Sorry. I just want to make sure you’re okay,” Pierre says. “Not doing anything you’ll regret.”

Charles doesn’t think he could ever regret Max. It’s—it’s embarrassing. He thinks that, even if
they do crash and burn—he would still be grateful. That they tried. That it happened. That they
gave it a shot.

He doesn’t tell Pierre this, because he soon registers what Pierre is really trying to say. He’s known
him since they were children. Over the years, Charles has gotten good at reading between the lines
when it comes to Pierre.

“You’re—okay with it? That me and Max are—” Charles inhales deeply before he finishes, “—
together?”

Pierre snorts, rolls his eyes, the whole shebang. “Well, no,” he says, laughing. “It’s Max.” And
Charles blushes because—that’s fair. “But it’s none of my business, you and Max,” Pierre goes on.
He smiles. “I am glad that you told me, though. I would tell you to be careful, but—I think it is
good, sometimes. To not be careful. Especially for you.”

Charles is learning that. Still learning that. He is still learning a lot of things. He is only twenty-
seven. He will never be this young again. There is always room to grow, learn, love.

“It is—” Charles swallows over the lump in his throat. “It is new. We are new. You are the first
person I told.”

Pierre looks pleased. Charles feels warm all over. Anxiety dissipated, somewhat, though it is still
there. It is always there, but—he can live with it. By now, he has learned how to live with it.

“And, uh,” Pierre begins, stilted, looking away. “Please, no details, but—is it just sex, or—?”

“I care about him,” Charles says, because that’s the closest answer he has to the truth, what they
are. He’s still figuring it out. They’re figuring it out together.

“Does he care about you?” Pierre asks, eyes narrowing.

Charles tries to conceal his smile, because he wants to keep this feeling all to himself, but he
doesn’t do a very good job. He knows that Pierre sees it. “Yes. He does.” Charles has never been
more sure of anything in his life.

“Good,” Pierre replies, even though he looks a little surprised. Charles can’t blame him. He can
barely believe it himself. “Are you happy?”

Charles wasn’t expecting this question. He thinks about it long and hard. Not happy with Max.
Only—

Are you happy?

For the majority of his life, the answer, the real, honest answer, would’ve been no, I am not happy.
It’s what he told Max over the summer, it’s what he tells his therapist he hasn’t seen in weeks
because he’s just been so busy, and it’s what he has told Pierre. Not verbally, because neither of
them really need to say it to the other. It goes unspoken, the lingering sadness that weaves their
 lives together.

Are you happy?

He thinks about it, his life since Max’s birthday party. Since he found out. Since the world tipped
on its side. He will be with Red Bull Racing next year. A new beginning. A new team. A new
teammate. Not a new life, since you only get one of those, but—a new stage of it. He carried
Ferrari like a burden but now—he feels free.

Are you happy?

He thinks about Brazil. He thinks about Max showing up on his doorstep. The way Max looks at
him like he is something amazing, something brilliant. Waking up with Max beside him in bed.

The warmth. The want. The certainty.

Are you happy?

“Yes,” Charles says. “I think I am.”

To win the 2024 championship, all Max has to do is win in Las Vegas, and he does. He makes
history. He ties Seb’s record with Red Bull. Four championships. In a row. They celebrate. They
party hard. Charles goes to Max’s hotel room at the end of the night. But these aren’t the parts that
matter.

This is what matters:

Charles Leclerc and Max Verstappen lock out the front row. Charles is on pole. However, he
knows that Max will win today. He has a feeling. It feels right for Max to win here, win tonight,
feels like something predestined. And yet—

Where is your hunger? he asks himself as the lights go out.

Already, Max tries to overtake. Charles covers him off, sparks flying behind him. The crowd roars.

Here, he thinks to himself, smiling when he sees Max’s Red Bull from his mirrors. It is right here.

End Notes

this fic was a labor of love <3

lmk ur thoughts in the comments!
 fic post

edit: ok i know in the beginning notes i said that the math regarding wdc points was bad
but i actually worked it all out because i'm insane so..... if you want to check it out. click
here

pt3 is out!

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