Chapter Text
The 2021 season. His season. Max feels it running through his veins - a light buzz beneath his skin, making him tremble in excitement. He knows how fucking fast this car can be now, he knows he can actually beat Lewis this season and it feels amazing. He climbs out of his car and takes in the sun - literally beaming. Horner pats him on the back, “Really good job Max, we’ll get them this season for sure.” Them of course referring to the unstoppable - almost (un)holy - reign that Mercedes has had on this sport the last decade. Lewis' smug face - which Max must admit, it wasn't that smug but God was he tired of their car - was imprinted in his mind. He might wipe that smile off of his face this year. Finally.
Max grins as he walks over to where his coworkers have gathered, enjoying the afternoon sun. Daniel - fatherly as ever - pats him on the back as well (are they making up for lost pats? Max can't stomach the thought). "Good to see you mate, fuck the car's fast this year," he plays with a loose thread on this shirt - he had taken off his suit as soon as possible (Max knows how sweaty it gets). “Do you dare dream of beating them?” Daniel loved teasing Max, but Max wasn’t quite sure if this was teasing. Before he had stepped in his new car, it did sort of feel like a dream. Max looked Daniel in the eye, “I'm wide awake, Dan. I’ll fucking get them,” he feels a fire light up in his chest, burning bright with pride. He got this.
Daniel laughed and smacked him on his back. "Get him, tiger," he said, emitting a strange rawr as punctionation. Max snorted.
His new teammate seems nice enough. He couldn't help to feel a bit bad for Alex - poor dude. Sergio’s older than his previous ‘mates, and it shows; the experience, that is (Max giggles to himself - he does kind of look older too). They shake hands. “We will make this a good year,” Sergio’s smile is slightly crooked, which Max finds endearing. He can't help but grin just a tiny bit. “Yeah, yeah we will.” The solidarity in the Red Bull family was always nice, but he knew Sergio's still his competitor, first and foremost. He knows he'll do anything for that title. Just like him. Just like everyone. Just like -
Max spots him. In the back. Shining even brighter than the sun (is that even possible? What’s wrong with that dickhead?); his sworn rival - Charles Leclerc. Okay, that’s a bit dramatic, Max thinks. Sure, they ARE rivals, but honestly, their rivalry has been a bit lackluster as of late. Charles had a horrid second season in '20, Ferrari's strategists have been making interesting choices - not that he really gives a shit.
But Charles looked different than he did at the end of that race - he looked proud. Max glanced at the broadcast on his phone, which he had been fiddling with trying to pass the time in between interviews, and sees why his rival has the pride of a lion. That fucking car. It might rival his. Max sunk into thought.
They don’t talk - never have. It’s funny, Max thought. They’ve been racing together for years - decades even. Yet outside of the paddock they’re barely more than strangers. Chatting together during interviews - sharing meaningful (or meaningless, Max considers) looks. It’s not like he minds it per se, Max thinks to himself, it’s just a bit funny. He loves to race the dude - loves beating him more accurately - but a friendship never came of it. Okay, not that strange maybe. He had seen what rivalries could do to friendships (Lewis looking at Nico with stars in his eyes - Nico punching Lewis in the face after the '16 Austrian Grand Prix - that's what he had heard, at least). He would rather be strangers than enemies with the Monégasque, he didn't need any personal feelings intervering with his racing (he should know). He had friends, plenty of them actually - both on the grid and off (Daniel who took him under his wing - Lando who was unbashfully himself - his friends back home), he was not lonely in the slightest. He knew Charles wasn't lonely either - his friends always near him. They had no need for each other. And that was that. Which is why he was so surprised when -
“Well. This is becoming interesting, no?”
Charles had, in a few seconds, fluttered across the room towards him. Appearantly he had been staring at Charles just a little too long for him not to notice. Or the younger man must've been in an odd mood. Because they never talked - yet his words had been unmistakenably for Max. He grinned at Max, eyes full of pride and hunger (he knew that look of hunger too well - hadn't seen it in so long).
"Yeah, this will be interesting indeed," he smirked at Charles. Finally, Max thought, I can race him again.
~
Well. Okay. Maybe not an amazing start - but it's a start regardless! Charles kept his head up high, his spirits even higher (he tried), when he entered the team meeting. He walked through the red door, holding his breath slightly. Carlos had sat down, fiddling nervously with a Ferrari (tm) pen.
He had talked to Carlos before the race. They hadn't really known each other before becoming 'mates this season, but Charles had started to like the guy. He was nice. Seemed like a good teammate, too.
Mattia looked him dead in the eyes. "Sit down, please," he exhaled. He tensed up - had he pissed the team off? Seriously? Sure, sixth when you qualified fourth isn't amazing, he knew that as too, he wasn't that stupid (he liked to think so, at least). He looked at the ground like a kid who had been caught sneaking an extra piece of candy from the candy jar - not totally sarcasticallu. He sat down, determined to withstand a scolding (anything for his team - anything for the win), and was surprised when Mattia finally started talking:
"We did ok today. We will do better next race," The relief on Charles' face must have been immense, because he heard Carlos snort. "Sorry, sorry, go on," Carlos said, still laughing a little bit. Charles kicked him under the table. God, he was glad to be back. Off-season had been boring as all hell, especially with all the COVID rules. What did he even do?
He remembered. Of course, hanging out with the family during Christmas and NYE was always fun. Other than that? He drank, he practiced in the simulator, he fucked his girlfriend from time to time (she was nice, he thought, maybe a little bit too shy for his taste - it had been on his mind a bit), he drank again. He waited for the clock to tick by faster (it never did). He had itched - an itch that could only be scratched by The Prancing Horse. It was his pride and joy, and everyone knew it (he needed to show it off - had been working for it too hard too long not to). The race today might not have been stellar - sure. But he was just happy to be back. Everything made sense when he was in that damn red car, even when the world outside seemed bleak at times.
The debrief went by quick enough - the night was still young. He stepped outside, and felt the cool air hit him. He let out a deep, warm breath. He was Charles motherfucking Leclerc, and he was a Ferrari driver. And he was fucking hot. And the night scene in Bahrain wasn't bad - wasn't bad at all. He quite fancied a quick fuck with a pretty girl (he was shallow - isn't afraid to admit it. He's a guy. He likes fast cars and good looking girls).
Instead, he let out a tiny yell as someone pat his back from behind, "Charles! Mate! Good job out there today!" Sebastian laughed, "I get why everyone calls you a mouse now, you sure squeek like one!" Charles looked at his former teammate with feign-anger (he hated to admit it, but he had missed his former teammate), "Says the guy who managed to get a ten second penalty in the first race of the year." Sebastian mirrored Charles' feign-anger, before laughing again. "Yeah, wasn't great for me - eh. Whatever," he put his hands behind his head, looking off into nothing. There was a comfortable silence between the two.
They might have had disagreements as teammates (especially on the track, God he could've killed the guy in the past), but Sebastian was one of the kindest people Charles knew. He had taken Charles under his wing (begrudingly at first - proud as a lion later on), despite their differences. He really respected the guy. When Sebastian left Scuderia, he had left him with a brotherly hug and a few words of warning. "Don't let them trick you, kid. I know you want to win with Ferrari, but they need you, not the other way around," and Charles had laughed. If only Sebastian knew how badly he needed them (his fathers words echoed in his mind - always).
Sebastian broke the comfortable silence, "So, what are you doing tonight? Heading back? Going out?" Charles smiled. "Was thinking of going out - the night is young, eh?" He looked at the ground a little, he didn't really want to invite Sebastian to go out with him (it's always awkward entering a club as two and leaving with someone else - he had made that mistake with Sebastian before), but he didn't want to be rude either. Sebastian smiled warmly. "I won't hold you up, mate. I'll speak to you later, okay?" Thank you, Charles thought. "Yeah, see you mate!" Charles said.
He stepped out (for real this time) onto the warm streets of Bahrain. Time to release some pent up energy (or frustration).
~
The club was loud and his shirt was wet and sticked to his skin. He felt a bit silly - disappointed with second place - but he couldn't help it! He needed more, he needed to win. Second place would never be enough for Max (not right now at least. Maybe when he was as old as Fernando, maybe then). Still, he couldn't complain. He was sandwiched in between the two Mercedes - not behind them anymore. Checo had been slightly ruffled during the debrief (grieving what could have been - a feeling he knew too well), but Christian had been so, so proud. They aren't catching up with Mercedes anymore. They have caught up with Mercedes. And as proud as Max was, he also knew that it wasn't enough to have equal cars. He still needed to be the better driver (but the pressure of the world has been on his shoulders since he was five, so a little more shouldn't break him). Max was their Golden Boy.
Said Golden Boy was at a shady club somewhere in Bahrain, drinking until his legs felt heavy (and then some more). There had been a few girls trying to seduce him (some boys too, which he didn't mind, even if he for sure didn't swing that way), but he really did have a one track mind. He needed to be better than better. He needed to be good. He was hyperfocused on it. It's all that was ever on his mind.
Driving. Racing. Need to catch up with Mercedes.
Charles walked into a shady club and looked around. This will do, he thought. Plenty of girls, some of them were pretty even (he couldn't help having high standards, for he is Charles fucking Leclerc). He scanned the dimly lit room like a hunter looking for prey (okay, creepy, he thought to himself), and moved to the bar quickly. He needed a drink (or five) after this shit.
"May I have a vodka please?"
A couple of drinks later, Charles started looking around for cute girls to take to his room -
- and had to do a double take when he instead saw Max Verstappen. And he saw Max Verstappen looking back at him.
They had ran into each other in the past in clubs, of course. It wasn't like that never happened, but Charles felt a bit... awkward? Max had driven well today, and he saw the frustration on his face when he came in second. It's the Max he knew (he had looked at Charles with the same burning fury when he had put him into the puddle, way back when they were twelve). He didn't have the chance to congratulate him on the paddock - he had been too busy getting sprayed with champagne and cheering with his mates.
He knew he wanted to congratulate the runner-up, as awkward as it might be. They hadn't spoken with each other off the grid a lot - which Charles understood. They were rivals after all, not childhood best friends. Childhood rivals sound funny. The whole situation is kind of funny. Knowing each other for so long, but not knowing each other at all. He scurried over to the Dutchman, who had not taken his eyes off of him the entire time (did his hair look funny or something?).
"Congratulashions Max," Charles said, putting on a fake heavy accent (why the hell did he do that? Was he trying to be funny? Maybe he was just drunk). The music was loud and Charles felt how sweaty (and now red) his face was. He realised it might've come across as sarcastic. Max must've either not heard his absolute horrid accent, or he must have not known it was fake (which is worse, Charles thought), but he got a kind and genuine - albeit weak - smile in return. "Thanks, Charles. Sorry that your day didn't go as planned," his hair was sticking to his forhead and Charles could smell the horrid cheap alcohol on his breath. There was an awkward silence for a moment, before Charles remembered he had to actually respond during a conversation. He had been caught so off guard by the genuinenly kind of sweet reaction of Max (why had he been caught off guard? They had always been friendly outside of the races?), that he had forgotten it. "Yeah, yeah, it's alright. Team says they're going to fix the car up nicely, and next race I'll be better, just you wait," Charles gave him a cheeky smile. He wasn't sure if he believed the words coming out of his mouth (that was the alcohol talking - right?).
Max laughed once again, "I'd like to see you try," and Charles smirked. Yeah, he would like to actually try, too.
There was an uncomfortable silence - whenever they did hang out outside of the paddock, there were always other drivers around. Never fully together. Usually Daniel would crack a joke, or Seb would drunkenly start talking about world peace or whatever - but now there's no one saving them from each other. What even was there to say?
"Well, I should be going, or I won't be able to accomplish my goal," Charles broke the silence. Max laughed. "Your goal? What's your goal, mate?" He realised a second too late that yeah - that was a weird way to say that (English was his fourth language, he should be excused). Max' blue eyes locked with his for a second (his eyes crinkled. Has Charles ever seen him laugh like that at him? What does it matter? He must be far gone already if he's thinking about Max' smile).
He almost forgot to respond, again.
Almost.
"You know, you know," he waved his hand, "just trying to bring someone back to my room." Max nodded. A silence fell again. God, Charles thought, why did I have to congratulate him in the first place. He hadn't even seen me. I could've just let it be.
"I'll be going then, bye bye," and with that he jumped off the chair and hurried to the dance floor (he had only heard the "b" leave Max' mouth). He needed to be gone from that man as soon as he possibly could.
Max was so confused. Charles had come up to him outside of the paddock - again. And was decidedly awkward - but nice? He wasn't sure why this was so surprising to him (they had never been enemies, only rivals), but his train of thought was locked on it. He didn't know what to make of it yet, but he had thought it was very very sweet of Charles to congratulate him after the shit day Charles himself had had. Sure, he didn't need a new friend.
But he wouldn't mind one either. Or maybe he did - because this was Charles. And they were not supposed to be friends, right? It would only complicate a simple rivalry - one he enjoyed. Or maybe all of this was the alcohol talking. Whatever.
~
Charles groaned as he rolled off the girl (what was her name again?), throwing the condom on the floor - he could deal with it later. It had been a good fuck, nothing special. The girl looked at him with adoring eyes (annoying, he thought), trying to get him to spoon her (it was warm. He wanted to sleep).
But it wasn't his style to be anything but respectful. So he grabbed her waist regardless (just a few minutes).
"Mon cheri," he whispered in hear ear (always trying to be a charmer), "I'm so sorry, but you have to leave." She frowned, but sat up without saying a word. As she put on her clothes, his mind wandered just the tiniest bit. His race. Not being able to defend his position. The disappointing look of Mattia - of the whole team (they had done ok. He had expected a shouting tirade, but this wasn't nice either). Max battling with Lewis (Max losing his position as well - maybe they wouldn't be so different this season after all). Max in the club. Max' drunk breath (his forehead was sweaty).
He had been so lost in his thoughts that when the girl said goodbye to him, it took him a few seconds to respond (he was faster than this usually, right? Must've been the alcohol tonight, right?). He hastily blowed her a kiss - to which she rolled her eyes (he couldn't blame her. They both knew she wouldn't ever see him again). When the hotel door closed, he groaned once more. What the hell. Why was Max on his mind? It must be the alcohol.
He would fly to Imola in a week - he could get up late tomorrow (he was so tired). He closed his eyes, and drifted into a deep sleep.
~
P1. A well deserved one at that. Max grinned from ear to ear on the podium - sprayed with champagne from both Lando and Lewis. Imola had treated him kindly - thankfully. He was still in the race. Lewis looked happy that he had won. Maybe he could feel the heat too - maybe he had missed it (he had been dominating for so long. Max couldn't really imagine it at all if he was honest - but he at least knew how boring it was to see the same person win every year).
After the buzz of the podium, Max walked past by him. They hadn't really spoken since Bahrain a few weeks ago (the weird night might have been a fluke after all, well, they had been chatting a bit on the paddock, but that's different), but he understood how much it must hurt to lose in Italy with Ferrari. Just shy of a podium spot too, P4. Charles looked upset. Carlos was saying something to him (he seemed to be trying to cheer him up), but Charles wasn't really looking at him. In his eyes, Max recognised the anger and disappointment. He had seen it before. Whenever Max won, Charles would be near him (P2, P3, P4. This has been the way it's been since the karting days). The same was true the other way around, back then - back when they were little kids. They swapped places like he's swapping them with Lewis now.
But Lewis already got his own rival (or had - at least). Max didn't want any other rivalries - not like the one he had with Charles. It had to be Charles.
Charles looked at him with that anger only reserved for a rivalry (but he looked genuinely angry now - that was new). Normally, Max would smirk back - like they had always done. They both knew it wasn't personal (but it was only shared by them). But Max couldn't do that. Couldn't smirk at his rival who was so clearly genuinly suffering (and he had heard the rumors of Mattia's screaming matches - then again, Ferrari was like a family right? And that's what family does). So Max tried to give Charles a sympathetic smile against his own judgement. He knew Charles hated sympathy more than anything. He didn't need to be pitied.
Max wasn't surprised when the glare turned sharper. He was surprised at how shitty that made him feel.
~
He had defended today. Better than the last time. But it didn't sting any less - not getting a podium in Italy in his beautiful Ferrari (the Tifosi were still pleased - happy as always to see a Ferrari get close). Maybe it was the lack of sleep, or the anger at seeing his rival beat Lewis fucking Hamilton after he had taken pole, but he couldn't be happy. He couldn't be happy for Lando. Couldn't be happy for Lewis. And certainly couldn't be happy for Max.
He knew he was just as good as Max. He knew it was just the car (they had fucked it up). He knew he was now fourth in the championship (but Max was first - another slap in the face). He knew the car just wasn't up to speed (despite how much the team tried - and God did they try). He was shaken out of his thoughts by a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"It's okay Charles, you did your best, mate," Carlos tried to comfort his teammate (he looked a bit awkward - they still haven't known each other for that long). Charles did really appreciate the effort - genuinely. He and Carlos had fought for the fourth place, so this gesture - despite Carlos being the biggest loser today (at least in the eyes of Italy) was very much appreciated. Yet, Charles didn't have time to react to his teammate's nice words.
Because, there he was, walking off the podium (his hair was wet, his suit glinstering with champagne - a wide smile plastered on his stupid face).
Max Verstappen had won today.
He had seen Charles. Charles had seen him. And Max had shot him a condensending smile.
A smile that told him how much better he was than Charles. How much better he was with his car. How much better he was as a driver. It felt personal (since when is this stuff personal?).
Charles didn't understand. Despite all their awkwardness, the two had talked on the paddock before the race. It had been a nice talk (just some small talk, but it was comfortable. They were comfortable on the paddock together. It's where they have been together for the longest time), nothing out of the ordinairy. In fact, Charles had felt something that hadn't been there in the years before. A budding friendship, maybe?
Max and Charles. Friends. He couldn't have imagined it a year ago. But it had all of the sudden seemed so... plausible? It had been awkward, the talk at Bahrain, but the Dutchman being so genuine had created a soft spot in the heart of Charles. A seed had been planted. He had wanted to return the favor tonight (he had hoped he'd be the one being sprayed with champagne - preferabbly with Max as P2. As it had been. As it should be); had wanted to invite him and other friends to go clubbing.
That thought seemed impossible now.
He glared at Max with the fury of a thousand suns. He didn't have to like Charles (he hadn't liked Max, so who cares), but this was a dick move. He had lost, again. He had lost in Italy. He didn't have to rub it in.
Max had the audacity to feign a hurt look. Charles would've spat at him if he could (since when does he care so much what Max does?).
Carlos was still trying to cheer him up, despite being rudely unresponsive. Charles felt bad. He wanted to hide from the world - but press was waiting, and so was the debrief and the parties (there were always parties, no matter who won). He took a deep breath (he felt a lump in his throat): "Thanks, Carlos. You gave it your best too - could feel you breathing down my neck," Charles laughed a little. It's true - the race had been close between them. He just wished the race would've been closer with someone else instead.
~
Max had won. He had won the Grand Prix – but he felt like a sad little kid. He knew what he did was wrong – even felt it in the moment, but how could he not feel sympathetic towards the Monegasque? Maybe he shouldn’t have felt that way – they were competitors after all, but the anger behind those eyes wasn’t just regular racing anger. It was sadness. He knew how resiliant his rival was (I mean, it was his rival. Obviously you need some resiliance if you're gonna be his fucking rival - otherwise he would've been gone a long time ago), so it was just depressing to see him in that state.
Whatever.
He had sat outside of a club, close to the paddock. He had attempted to make small talk - but had felt no further joy in the party that was very clearly thrown for him. Even Horner had been there. He kicked a pebble, absent minded. Angry. Angry at Charles (but mostly at himself - they weren't friends. Charles didn't want his comfort, why had he tried).
"Mate, what in the hell is up with you?"
Max couldn't help but startle a bit. He had been so lost in his thoughts, that he hadn't noticed the Australian in front of him, looking at him a bit funny. His curly hair had become drenched in some kind of alcohol - his pupils a bit too dilated (had he been snorting again?). Daniel was studying him, his eyes, his face, his hair - as if he could figure out what's wrong with Max just from those features alone.
Well, to be honest - he might. Daniel and Max had become really close teammates - it had stung like a motherfucker when he left Red Bull a few years back (didn't want to be second, Daniel had said, shrugging). Thankfully, the driver was never far away (always a party animal - just like Max. To be fair; who wasn't a party animal on the F1 grid?), guiding Max - but now only as friends, not as drivers. He was glad, honestly - now Daniel couldn't act like he was his big brother or dad (he still did, honestly. Asshole, Max thought, endearingly). He could read Max like a book, most of the time.
Max was happy to see him. He hadn't spotted the man at the party - mainly because he was too busy sulking in his own sadness.
He was less happy to have to explain what was going on. Because it was childish, no? Boo hoo, your rival looked at you with anger because you beat him. But he knew it wasn't just because he had been angry. It was the fierceness of the anger - going beyond a rivalry, heading into something else.
He knew the other man well, though. He knew there was no hiding from him (and honestly, did he really want to? Wasn't this the best thing that could have happened to him right now?). So, instead, he took a deep breath and spoke his truth.
"Charles is pissed at me."
Saying Charles' name out loud to other drivers was also new to him. Charles was never the topic of conversation between him and his mates, especially not in a context like this. But it did feel surprisingly natural and good to admit what was going on to Daniel, even though he knew he would probably get laughed at a little bit. It's worth it.
And yeah, Daniel laughed (Max had to admit it - it was kind of silly), "you're upset that Leclerc isn't happy?" Max glared. That was certaintly not the case. He didn't care about Charles being happy - outside of how he wished everyone on earth could be happy, that is. He just didn't want Charles to be mad at him. Why, he didn't give much thought. He hadn't given a shit before Charles congratulated him in that stupid club, why would it change now? Why does it even matter?
"No, dickhead. I'm upset because Charles looked at me like he wanted me dead," Max looked Daniel straight in the eyes, squinting them just slightly. Daniel opened his mouth to say something, but Max spoke before he could get any sound out. "And yes, we are all rivals and it's just a race, I am well aware. But he has never looked at me with that amount of anger before." It was embarrasing, how much Charles' anger was affecting him. He felt his cheeks turn a slight pink.
Daniel thought for a few seconds, contemplating (probably whether to laugh at Max again, embarrasing him further - which he had done in the past plenty. Or would he play it kind this time?) his response. "Mate, I don't think Charles was angry at you," he chose his words carefully, for some reason (why wasn't he teasing him about this?). "I think he's angry at this shitbox, if anything." Daniel laughed a tiny bit again, eyes crinkling. Max rolled his eyes. Maybe he was just overthinking it? But,
"He only looked at me like that after I pity smiled at him. I know how much he hates that, pity," Max admitted, defeated.
He knew Charles hated pity more than anything. Losing is one thing, but being pitied and babied for losing is a whole other kind of hell. With everything Charles had went through, he had been pitied enough for three whole lifes. Pity was the emotion on most people's face, whenever Charles was mentioned. And that look of fury whenever that took place in Charles' eyes, had told him enough.
It was Max' own fault, after all.
"Was it pity, though?" Daniels voice cut through his thoughts. "Or was it just compassion?"
Ah. Max hadn't considered it like that before. And it was true - it was actual, genuine compassion. After all the shit Charles has been through - both on grid and off the grid, he had genuinely felt horrid for the Monegasque. It wasn't just pity - he actually wanted Charles to feel better. He let the thought sink in for a moment. "You know, I hadn't considered that before. Thank you, Daniel, I at least feel less shitty about myself now," Max felt... lighter, now. But it didn't solve the issue of Charles still being mad at him. Daniel could read him like a book, as always.
"If you feel this shit about it, why don't you just talk to the guy?" It was so simple, but it was also the hardest thing Max would ever had to do in relation to Charles. First of all, he doesn't have Charles' number. Second of all, how does he even start that conversation? "Sorry for caring about you, I won't do it again?" Max chuckled at the thought - imagined the shocked look on Charles' face (and since when did he start caring about the guy? Since when was that something he did?).
They had sat down on a curb now, breathing in the warm Italian air. Flowers were blooming, some even trying to bloom near the grid (which was stupid of them, Max thought, they would all be ran over). "How do I talk to someone I've barely ever talked to off the grid?" Max swallowed, continuing. "I don't have his number, and even if I did - what do I say?" Max was plucking particles of grass, rolling them up into little balls, before throwing them into the distance. Daniel smacked his back. "You're too old for this now, come on dude," but there was zero bite in his words. Max giggled. Yeah. He was too old for this shit.
"I should just tell him I'm sorry, right?" Max looked at his friend like a dog asking for permission (or like a child seeking validation from a parent - Max quickly threw that thought in the trash). Daniel snorted, "Mate, you already know what you gotta do. No need to ask permission. I'm not your daddy, no more," and the fucker had the nerve to wink. Max pushed him, snorting himself. "Fuck you, you wish I called you daddy!" He got a shove back for that comment.
He missed Daniel, missed their flights together, missed their long FIFA nights (they had seperate hotels now, usually). It was good to see the Australian again. He felt like he owed it to Daniel to give him this sensitive information, even if he would be teased for it. "I've missed you being around, man," and Daniel did laugh, did snort, did give his friend a slap on the back. But that's only because he was never really gone. "No time to be sentimental, mate," Daniel had said, though Max could see the joy in his eyes (and that made his heart flutter). "Let's party, because you're the fucking winner."
And with that, they returned to the club. Loud music was blaring - something Dutch and horrible (he loved his country, but God their music can be exhausting - he appreciated the gesture regardless). He still felt a tiny bit sulky (he still had to have the conversation with Charles - where would he start?), but his mind became preoccupied when he was drowned in champagne for the second time today (Lewis could be a bit funny outside of the paddock, Max thought). He laughed as he ran after the Brit, yelling that he was going to get him back for that (to which Lewis responded that he could better do that on-track).
Glass after glass, shot after shot. Max was soaking in it - legs heavy, head dizzy. A girl had been talking to him for ages, she was kind of boring, but she was pretty at least (fuck, did he say that out loud?). The girl looked at him with a look that could kill - and the memories came flooding back.
Charles. He needed to talk to Charles right now, he needed to set things right, he needed to -
His tirade was interrupted by a very confused Checo, because appearantly he had been voicing his thoughts out loud to the room (there goes his good fuck, Max thought. He hadn't noticed the girl had been gone since the second he had started blaring about Charles Leclerc, probably looking for someone who could help him with his request - God he was such a dickhead sometimes). "Uhm," Checo and him had been friendly, but Checo was mostly in his own world - not really looking for a friendship with the man. So this was incredibly awkward, for both of them, "why do you need to talk to Charles?" Max blanked, feeling his cheeks heating up. He had not said all of that out loud. He refused to believe it. He took a second, before deciding it would be best to just... shake it off? Try to play it as a joke? So Max shrugged his shoulders as nonchalantly as he possibly could (Checo's eyes burned into his face, puzzled): "Just was wondering if he was at this party or not, you know, most of the grid is here so," and Max was lucky that the other was so horrible at reading him, because Daniel or Lando would've bullied him right away.
He turned his gaze towards Checo, tentatively seeing if the older man would take the bait. He relaxed his shoulders slightly when he saw Checo nod (albeit in a slightly confused manner). "Don't think he's here," Checo admitted. Max had already known this. Why would he be here at his party.
"I see, thanks Checo," Max once again tried to avoid eye contact as much as possible with his teammate, who just seemed confused beyond anything. "I'll see you later than," Checo shuffled to the back of the club, awkwardly. Max couldn't help but find it sort of endearing. Thanks, Checo, the thought. Because no matter how horrible Checo was at reading him, there's no way he didn't notice anything at all. He counted his blessings.
His evening was over after that. Another girl had tried to talk him up, but he had been too distracted - only one person on his mind (why the fuck did he care so much? It must be the alcohol, right? Surely?) and sex was just out of the question right now.
Well, full blown sex wasn't happening, but he didn't complain when he was in the bathroom, a girl on her knees - a prayer just for him. But he was a cruel God, because there was still only one actual thought floating in his head. And he prayed to his own personal God, to let him focus on this one thing for just a minute. Just on her mouth on him, looking up at him with eyes that seemed to be asking something of him (but he didn't have the answer) - the heat of it, her tongue swiping up. It worked, for a second - until he imagined -
The girl hummed, satisfied. Max looked bewildered. He must've been really pent up, to come that quickly. Hadn't even been five minutes. The girl stood up, gave him her number and left the shabby bathroom.
When he returned to his hotel room, the sun was starting to rise again. His head felt like it would explode. He closed his eyes - praying that they didn't need him for anything productive tomorrow, because God knows he's fucked tomorrow.
~
When Charles woke up, he woke up alone. That did not happen often, especially the morning after a GP. Whether he won or lost, good sex with a hot girl made him feel even better. Yesterday, not even Carlos could have convinced him to go out. "Come on, it would lift your spirits!" Charles remembered his kind words and smiled. Carlos was so nice to him, nicer than anyone else at Ferrari (except maybe his personal manager - or his mechanics - or -). But even with all of his kindness, Charles only felt bitter and sad.
He had wanted to go to his hotel room, maybe play some piano (he knew the hotel had one, his heart swelling a bit at the thought, piano was the only thing close to being as fulfilling as driving for Ferrari), but the pent up stress, anger, disappointment - all of it had made him increasingly more tired. He had scrolled through Instagram in bed (anger burning tight in his chest whenever he saw a post mentioning his rival), becoming increasingly annoyed. The TV hadn't been kind to him either (Max was everywhere he went - just like it had always been. This is the first time in his life where he wished the Dutchman to just go away), but he had managed to fall asleep at an impressive time of ten in the evening.
The sun was rising. It was early. He had the whole day ahead of him - he wish he didn't. Another day of team meetings, debrief, angry eyes of Mattia scorching into his soul. Another pair of eyes had scorched its way into his soul - eyes he would rather not think of right now. Why had his smile been so condensending. He knew they were rivals (had been since they were eight, he remembers), but he had never seen Max being so intentionally mean to him. Well - maybe once. Maybe when he had pushed him off the grid when they were small boys. If looks could kill, Charles would be dead.
He unlocked his phone. A message from a number he doesn't quite recognise - and a message from Pierre. It took him a second to recognise the profile picture of the unsafed number. Why the hell was Checo of all people texting him? He rubbed his eyes, groaning.
[UNSAFED NUMBER]: Max was looking for you, Checo
His first reaction was to roll his eyes. Checo texts like an old man - putting his name after a message like it's a serious email. I mean, good thing he did (Charles' eyes were still blurry, so he might've mistaken him for someone else), but still. His second reaction was absolute and utter confusion.
Why the fuck was Max looking for him. And why the fuck was Checo telling him this. He needed a fucking break.
He opened Pierre's message, wanting to distract himself from the questions that spun in his mind.
Pierre: are u going home tmrw
Charles snorted at the distinction between Checo's and Pierre's texting styles. Pierre. His best racing friend off the grid. He saw that man like his own brother - prefers to party with him above all else. He didn't know why Pierre asked this, but he does have a prediction.
Charles: No, I have not booked my ticket yet - wbu
He knew Pierre to be a bad texter, so he would have to wait for a response. He stretched like a cat, basking in the sun just slighty risen above the horizon. He was surprised when he felt his phone buzz on the bed. It wasn't Pierre. It was Checo, once again.
[UNSAFED NUMBER]: It seemed urgent. Have a good day, Checo
Welp. Plans to ignore this situation out of the window, Charles groaned. He convinced himself to text back a short "ok, you too mate" before jumping into the shower. The warm water helped his aching muscles a tiny bit (racing hurts - but don't all things that are worthwhile?). He didn't know why the Dutchman was looking for him. He didn't care (he didn't want to care, his brain provided him. He winced).
Relief flooded his body when Charles realised he didn't have Max' phone number, so there was no way to contact him. He could go on with his day, until someone (probably Daniel) would provide Max with his number - but he knew Daniel had been out all night, so that would be far away.
Time for breakfast.
The team meeting went... well enough. There hadn't been any screaming, so it's good, Charles thought sarcastically. They went over the few corners he had struggled with, Carlos raised the concern of their rivalry (and Charles had laughed, because he truly only needs one rival), and Charles even had time to ask some more technical questions regarding the development of the car. Sure, Mattia's eyes burned into his soul, but when had it not? He wasn't one to care, or even mind. He wanted everyone to know he's Ferrari's child - wanted the boss' eyes on him. He was proud of it. Any feelings of discomfort he pushed down easily, readily.
In fact, the team meeting went so well enough that he had forgotten about the text Checo had sent him this morning. He remembered it when he was drunk out of his mind, partying. Partying. A sensory experience Charles enjoyed. The smell of alcohol, the touch of a woman, the laughs with his mates. The feeling of forgetting what it's like to be him - he needed it. Craved it. And he had gotten it, until a hand tapped his shoulder very softly - as if anxious to break the man. He laughed, didn't think anything of it, turned around.
What the fuck dude.
He had been talking with a girl. He had almost gotten his after race fuck his body had been craving. Why was Max at this club. Why did he look so scared. Did something happen? His stomach flipped, before realising that if something serious had happened, anyone else would've gotten to him first. Hadn't Charles suffered enough for three lifetimes? He felt the anger bubbling inside of his stomach - he didn't want this. The worst part was his anxious smile. The tiny mole on his lip. The smile lines. Charles hated Max right now.
And when he thought things couldn't get any worse for him, the Dutchman spoke. "Can you come outside for a second?" Charles would rather explode than leave this club. But somehow, Max' eyes convinced him anyway. Since when did he get so weak? He hated himself, but he nodded. "'Ure," his speech slightly slurred, "here's my number, mon cheri," as he gave his (burner) phone number to the girl he had almost been inside of. This better be fucking important.
Max grabbed onto Charles' shirt, guiding him along. Charles rolled his eyes, he could find the exit himself - thank you very much. More importantly, he was ruining his shirt. He swatted the man's hand away, only to touch it on accident and it must have been the alcohol but he swore he felt an actual electric buzz. What the fuck.
Charles didn't have time to think about it, because they were outside. He looked at Max, judging him, trying to burn a hole through his shirt. "What," he muttered. What did he want from him.
He saw Max' cheeks turn slightly pink, he was avoiding eye contact, until suddenly he seemed to have talked some sense into himself because his mouth opened and - "I'm sorry for looking at you like that after the race." Charles was still annoyed, that's all? He didn't reply, almost turning around to walk back into the club (and get his well deserved fuck), but then Max opened his mouth again, blue eyes locking with his. "I didn't mean to look at you with pity," huh? Charles narrowed his browns in confusion. Pity? When did Max look at him with pity? He had lot's of people looking at him with pity, but Max? Never.
The Dutchman continued: "I genuinely felt super bad for you, Charles," what the fuck was happening. "Not because I beat you, but because I want you to be on that podium too, especially in Italy," Max was rambling (this wasn't unusual, but it was unusual to be rambling about why he wanted Charles to be happy).
Charles went through ten different emotions in the last two seconds. Max felt bad for him? He hadn't looked condensendingly? He wanted Charles on the podium with him? Since when did Max give a flying fuck about Charles' placement in a race?
He was staring at Max, puzzled, looking for any words at all (that weren't in French, because he did want Max to understand him, despite language failing him in general right now) - grasping syllables together desperatly, he stuttered. "Oh, uhm, well," this was getting more embarrasing for him with the second. Now his face looked like a giant tomato. God's sake Max, a man's drunk, you can't just do this to a man who's drunk. "I... accept your apology?" He ended, wincing at the crack in his voice at the end of the sentence.
The relief on Max' face was, well, cute? Maybe? Charles couldn't help but laugh at his expression. Sure, Max had offended him (and he had been thinking of him night and day), but he would've let it slide regardless. The last time the two had been truly mad was when they were eleven, angry tiny boys with a huge dream. Max feigned offense at Charles' reaction, before joining in on the laugh. Maybe it was the Italian air, maybe it was the pep talk he had gotten from Daniel (maybe he was finally growing up - not scared to speak his mind anymore), which made Max ask:
"You wanna come to my hotel room to play some FIFA?"
And yeah, Max was crazy for asking that when he knew there was a girl waiting for him inside the club (Charles wondered if he was intentionally cock-blocking him - if he had noticed how hard Charles had been in the club; the girl was crazy good at dirty talk), when they had never hung out one on one, when all they had ever been were paddock buddies (if that - they were barely anything). But Charles knew he was crazier when he didn't reject his offer - when he practically lept at the chance and when his body had answered for him before his mind could. "Yes, 'ure," he nodded, accent heavy, mind hazy - eyes still locked with something blue and shiny (and how had he never noticed his blue eyes before - or maybe he did but didn't let himself and his mind was racing faster than his Prancing Horse had been all season). Max' eyes twinkeled and those fucking smile lines and Charles had to stop thinking - had to shut his mind up - was scared what he would do otherwise. Thankfully Max safed him from himself, when he gestured towards the hotel they were both staying at. "Cool, let's go," Max' tone was way too casual, how was he keeping it so cool?
He was turning delirious when they finally broke eye contact and started walking towards the hotel. He needed more booze man, he needed to forget those thoughts because he was Charles fucking Leclerc, professional Straight Guy (tm) and he was not thinking of how pretty another guys eyes were, no fucking way (he would forget about this tomorrow, right?).
When they arrived in Max' room, Charles gasped. He had been in Max' hotel rooms before, way back in 2019 when they were both just starting but it had never been like this. The room was fancier than his, bigger than his and he couldn't help the pang of jealousy (which he surpressed because he wasn't a child, come on now). Max must've interpretated his gasp as genuine wonder (thankfully, because Charles could be mature - even when drunk, and he didn't want to upset Max), because he smirked. "Cool, right?" He casually walked over to his sofa, turning on the PS5. Charles hummed, distracted, the room was big but merde, Max, could they have putten more Red Bull shit in here? Everything was Red Bull themed.
"Is your team scared you'll forget them?" Charles quipped. Max looked confused, "don't think so, why?" And Charles couldn't help but smile at how genuine the Dutchman sounded. It was just a little bit endearing. Instead of getting all sappy, he continued, "look around, mate, Christ!" He cracked up. Max cracked up with him, "Yeah, I don't know, but I like it," his earnesty always showing. "Is your team scared you'll forget them?" Charles decided it was best to ignore that question as he fluttered across the room, sitting next to Max on his ugly Red Bull couch. Their knees were almost touching and yeah, this was new, but, it wasn't bad. He was sitting next to Max Verstappen on an ugly couch, alone in his room. But it wasn't bad. The silence between them was comfortable, so comfortable that he almost forgot that they were going to play FIFA. That comfortable silence got comfortably broken.
"I'd offer you a Red Bull, bu-" before Max could finish his sentence, Charles made a fake throwing up sound, which made Max snort, "merde Max, I would rather die!" He said with as much disgust in his voice as he could possibly fake. Max was doubled over on the couch, laughing hysterically. "Jesus Christ," he uttered in between hiccups, tears in his eyes. Hm. His smile lines were kind of cute, weren't they. "I have Coke instead? Or a beer?" Charles chose another beer, despite his better judgement. Might as well go all the way and forget about this night tomorrow.
The couch was comfortable - he was comfortable. A couple of empty beers were stacked up on the coffeetable in front of them. He hadn't played FIFA in ages and was sucking dick at it, but honestly, he couldn't care less. Max was pretty tipsy as well now, judging by his slurring of words and occasional Dutch expressions (he would have to Google what "eikel" and "Godverdomme" mean - although he could guess the last one). "Come on this is so fucking unfair, I pressed and nothing happened," Max whined, brows furrowed. Charles smiled, he knew Max had made a mistake (saw it from the corner of his eye). "Nah mate, think you're just not good at FIFA," he liked riling Max up like this - like they always had. There was no bite behind his words - he knew Max could feel that. Regardless, Max shot him an angry look. "I'd watch out if I were you, I wasn't even playing at 50% before." He shrugged his shoulders. "Bring it on then, Maxy," and if he had been any more sober he would've ran out of the room after he said that. Only his friends get to call him that. Max either didn't hear him, or didn't mind: "You'll regret this for the rest of your life, Leclerc."
Charles hummed to himself. Maybe Max was right. Maybe he would regret this (this night, that is) for the rest of his life - maybe he would avoid Max forever after this fever dream of a night. But he didn't have it in him to leave now, because Max looked at him with a smile that was only reserved for friends. That made his heart flutter, for some reason. He didn't want to think about why, didn't want to think about tomorrow (about the hundered questions his mates would have), didn't want to examine anything. He wanted to play FIFA with his rival, world be damned.
So that's what they did. The empty cans piling up more and more, their playing getting worse by the second. They didn't care. The line between tomorrow and today was blurring and Charles kind of wished he could live in the blur forever. Max was absentmindedly explaining something to Charles about why his football team was actually amazing despite the bad luck they'd had this season (Charles couldn't give a flying fuck even if he tried, and he wasn't trying right now, but he still listened for some reason), Charles was doing his best to keep his eyes open. He was failing. Time had slipped past him - it could be three AM, could be seven. The freckle on Max' lip was moving at a speed he couldn't quite follow. There was a slight ringing in his ear.
He wasn't sure if he had ever been this tired before. And it must have been the alcohol, because he didn't even attempt to get out of Max' room (or even from his couch), despite his room being two rooms away. What would the press say if they saw Charles Leclerc walk out of Max Verstappen's hotel room. His PR-team would explode. "Je m'endors," he muttered, the English language failing him for the final time today. Max gave him a puzzled look, but he smiled warmly as he saw Charles' eyes close slightly. Charles attempted to smile back. As he closed his eyes, he heard Max' voice one last time. "Welterusten, Charles. Slaap lekker," and although he had no clue what he just heard Max say, it made him feel a bit fuzzy.
~
Charles had fallen asleep next to him on the couch. His own legs felt like jelly, barely able to move. He hadn't realised how late it was - they had been doing what they had always done on the paddock (Max talking, Charles listening - Charles looking at him with chestnut eyes (they had eye contact often, now that he thinks about it). Somehow it was five in the morning. Max thanked whatever God was out there for having no plans at all tomorrow (maybe he would've gone on a date with that girl who had sucked him off so nicely, but fuck that girl, this was way better; no way he actually thought that?). He would fly to Monaco whenever he felt like it - he had time.
Charles looked pretty when he slept (Max' mind couldn't stop that thought on time - too tired and tipsy). His chest moving up and down in time with his breath. Max had never had the opportunity to study the Monegasque this closely. His face sometimes twitched a little bit - deep in a dream. His lips were pink, albeit chapped (he knew Charles bit his lip when angry - he had been angry a lot lately); a freckle just below his nose. Slight peach fuzz around it. Ears sticking out like a little mouse (he knew what fans called him online, he didn't know what Charles thought of it). Max couldn't help but feel a bit like a creep - what is he doing studying his rival like this in his sleep?
Ah right. They're still rivals. That's his rival, on the couch, with his mouth just slightly agape. That's his rival, who he had been playing FIFA with all night.
More importantly, that's his friend. He had been his friend for tonight at least. Max silently prayed for many more nights of friendship with the younger man. Which was weird, because he had so many friends already, but he chose not to think too hard about it. Why spoil the fun when he was still having it? Why wake up from a dream for which he was wide awake?
Charles let out a sharp breath, which startled Max. He saw that Charles was shivering slightly - goosebumps on his arms and bare legs (it had been an exceptionally warm day in Imola, Max had worn the same). He forced himself off the comfortable Red Bull couch (despite what Charles had said, he loved this couch. Christian had given it to him when he had joined the team), shuffeling quietly to his bed to grab a blanket (which was not Red Bull themed, thank you very much). It felt like there was cotton in his mouth as he shuffled over to the sleeping Monegasque, who was still slightly shivering.
Careful, Max thought to himself. He wrapped the blanket around his rival as carefully as he could, making sure he was fully covered in it. Max laughed when he noticed the younger man still had his shoes on - silly guy. Well, at least his feet have been warm, Max thought to himself. That's the last thing you want as a driver. Cold feet.
When he was done, he stepped back - looking proudly at the work he'd done. Charles looked comfortable wrapped in the warm blanket (Max didn't have the mind to realise how warm it would be once the sun rises), a content smile forming on his lips. Max' heart was full.
He plopped down on the other side of the couch and looked around him. He was in Imola. He had won - he had an actual chance at the championship this year. His new teammate was nice. He had, despite everything, made a new unexpected friend. His team was so proud of him. Christian had told him, verbatim. "I'm so proud of you, Max," and those were words he hadn't heard enough in his life, which is why he teared up just a tiny bit as the man hugged him. Today had been a good day. He thanked Daniel quietly for spotting Charles and texting him afterwards - this meant everything to him.
~
When he opened his eyes, confusion hit him for just a second - before he looked besides him and saw Max, mouth agape, eyes closed, legs wide spread (their knees were almost touching).
Oh right. He had been in Max' hotel room. Because that's a thing that just casually happened.
The sun shone high in the sky. How late had it been when he fell asleep? His head was fucking killing him. He hadn't been that drunk since Imola '20 (what was it with Italy?), and he had a beautiful hangover to show for it. It was so fucking warm here. He noticed his shirt sticking to his stomach, wet from sweat. Yikes. Then he noticed the blanket that had been wrapped around him (as if he was a gift, Charles thought), which was making him overheat.
He should be panicking. He is Charles Leclerc and he is in Max Verstappen's hotel room and Max had wrapped him in a blanket (despite Max admitting he was barely able to move at the end of the night) and they had played FIFA and this was fucking weird. Yet, he couldn't feel anything like that. Instead, he felt a warm happiness bubble in his stomach. They had been strangers off the grid for so long - maybe another friendship wouldn't hurt. Even if it felt weird - because this wasn't just a friendship, this was a friendship with Max. His sworn rival. A man snoring next to him, drooling a little bit. He smiled to himself. Yeah. He wouldn't mind nights like these happening more often, with his rival.
With his friend.