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Abu Dhabi had been a painful chapter in Charles' career, a moment so close yet so agonizingly out of reach. He had almost been able to call himself a champion, at least in the constructors', but almost wasn't enough. The thought gnawed at him, looping endlessly in his mind as he retraced every decision, every mistake, searching for the missing piece that had cost them everything. No matter how many times he went over it, the answer remained the same. A single flaw in the equation, a piece on the board that didn’t quite fit.
Him.
He could have been better, so much better. That was the thought that followed him through every race since the season began, a constant reminder of what he should have done, what he still had to prove. The car had been decent, good enough to fight, and he knew he could have done more with it. It wasn’t that he wasn’t proud, Monza and Monaco had been moments to cherish, but there were too many times when he had stayed quiet when he should have spoken up, let things slide when he should have pushed back. He could have stood his ground against Ferrari’s bullshit, demanded more, expected more. Or maybe, he could have simply been better on track, just as Max was.
-Is something wrong?- Max asked, concern lacing his voice as he held Charles’ hand. -You look lost in thought.-
-Nothing,- Charles murmured, forcing a small smile. -Just go back to sleep, you need it.-
-Charles…-
-Don't worry,- he interrupted gently. -I promise, I'm fine.-
Max hesitated for a moment before resting his head against Charles’ shoulder.
-Okay… but if something's bothering you, you know you can always tell me.-
A few minutes later, Max drifted back to sleep. The celebrations had taken a toll on him these past few weeks, ever since he won the championship in Las Vegas, against all odds, with the third-fastest car. Charles couldn’t be angry at the man sleeping beside him for celebrating, for taking time to enjoy his victory. After all, he had earned it.
But he was jealous.
While Max partied and celebrated, Charles had been working, pouring over data with his team, analyzing, planning, considering every tiny detail that could help them catch the McLarens. But in the end, as always, it hadn’t been enough.
It never was.
Like a curse, one he had thought about more times than he cared to admit. It was as if the universe itself had turned against them, forcing Ferrari to stand on the sidelines, watching others succeed while their own chances slipped further away.
Ferrari had always been his dream. Elegant, powerful, formidable: the team of champions. And now, he was living it. He was Il Predestinato. The tifosi chanted his name, other drivers respected him, and he carried the hopes of an entire nation on his shoulders. All eyes were on him. So why couldn't he succeed? Why couldn't things go the way they had gone for other drivers?
It was in moments of weakness that his thoughts turned against him. What would his father think? He had died believing his son was a Ferrari driver, a lie that had become reality a year after. But what would he say about his failures? Because to Charles, that’s exactly what this was. Failure.
Would he be disappointed? Would he tell him to walk away from Ferrari? What would he have said?
The same applied to Jules. He was meant to be Ferrari's future, the one who would take the team to new heights, to carry the legacy forward. He was going to be what Charles was now: the face of the team, the hope of the tifosi. Maybe even better, more dominant, more untouchable. But that day, the day everything had changed, had robbed them of that possibility. If it hadn't happened, maybe Jules would have been standing where Charles was now, leading Ferrari into a new era of glory. Maybe he would have been the one to break through, to fulfill the promise everyone had seen in him. But instead, Charles was left with the weight of that loss on his shoulders, a constant reminder of what could have been.
Charles moved on autopilot when they landed in Nice. Grab his bag, thank the pilot, walk to the car, and then stare out of the window for the entire ride back to their apartment. His mind was elsewhere, lost in thought, but he could still feel Max's eyes on him, tracking his every movement. Max was probably gathering the courage to ask him again, to bring up whatever was bothering him, but he didn’t. He remained silent, the tension hanging between them, unspoken but undeniable.
The Dutchman had definitely been a pillar of support during these tough times: his rock, his advisor, his confidant. Max was the one Charles could turn to, whether things were going well or falling apart. He was the one who offered a shoulder to cry on, words of encouragement when needed, and even scoldings when he thought it was warranted. But always with love. Not once had Max thrown him under the bus for those risky moves Charles had tried on the track, whether it was the cheeky comments to the media, the playful distractions with random women to throw off the press, or the occasional flirtations to keep their relationship under wraps. Max had stood by him, never judging, always understanding, always loyal.
Of course, his closest friends knew. It would have been ridiculous to hide it from them when they lived, traveled, and shared everything together. He couldn’t bear the thought of Pierre or even Carlos walking in one day, completely blindsided, finding out by accident. He wouldn’t have been able to forgive himself if that had happened. Their trust meant everything to him, and he knew they deserved to hear it from him, not stumble upon it when it was too late.
The reactions had been different from everyone who knew about it. For Daniel, it was easy to digest, he’d suspected it for a while, often teasing Max about being a 'fanboy' for charles, as he liked to call it. Carlos was unfazed by the whole thing; as long as it didn’t affect Charles’ performance as a teammate or their friendship, he didn’t care. But then there was Pierre... His reaction had been more complicated. From the moment he found out, he had tried to convince Charles to cut ties with Max. Not because he cared that Charles liked guys, he had suspected that for years, even back during their karting days, but because of the man in question. Max. The number one rival on the grid, the guy they were supposed to beat. Pierre couldn’t wrap his head around the idea of Charles getting involved with someone who wasn’t just an opponent, but the very person standing in the way of their shared goal.
Back in the comfort of their bed, staring at the white ceiling while Max unpacked both of their luggage, Charles found himself replaying the harsh words his best friend had said to him that day, the day he had decided to ask Pierre to accompany him in what was going to be the best day of his life.
-Pierre, I love him,- Charles' voice broke as he spoke. -It's not like I decided this—it just happened.-
-You could have chosen anybody,- Pierre snapped, his French accent growing thicker with his anger. -But you had to go with him? Of all the guys in the world, you had to fall in love with Max?-
-But…-
-But what?- Pierre cut him off, his frustration palpable. -You're with your biggest rival, Charles. What are you going to do now? When you're on track and have to fight him wheel-to-wheel? When you’re standing below him on the podium, looking up while you're stuck with the rest of us? Are you just going to settle for the thought that at least he won and be happy for him?-
-It's not going to be like that,- Charles scoffed at the idea, shaking his head. -I'm still competitive. I'll still fight for the top step, no matter what. I'm going to be a champion, Pierre. What happens off the track doesn’t affect what happens on it.-
Pierre exhaled sharply, his expression darkening.
-That’s not how this sport works, and you know it,- he murmured, disappointment laced in his voice. -He’s already in the history books, Charles. A champion. The one who ended Lewis’ reign this season. The one who’s about to start a new one. What are you going in all of this? What do you want to be remembered as? His husband? -
Charles kept his mouth shut, stunned into silence. He couldn't believe the words coming out of Pierre’s mouth: the bluntness, the certainty, the sheer lack of faith in him.
-You know you're my best friend, Charles,- Pierre said, his voice quieter now but no less firm. -But when it all happens, don't come crying to me.-
And with that, he had walked away, leaving Charles alone with the weight of his words.
It had all solved itself after a few months, time had done its work, smoothing over the tension, allowing them to move forward. They had grown together after all, years of friendship too strong to be broken by a single argument, no matter how heated. Pierre had apologized eventually, in his own way, a casual ‘Maybe I was too harsh, I just didn’t want you to get hurt.’ Charles had accepted it, nodding, offering a small smile, and for the most part, things had gone back to normal.
But deep down, Charles knew the truth. He knew Pierre still thought the same. That beneath the apology, the shared laughter, the familiarity of their friendship, Pierre still believed this was a mistake. That Charles was playing with fire, setting himself up for disappointment, for heartbreak. He could see it in the way Pierre’s eyes lingered whenever Max pulled him close, in the way he hesitated before congratulating them when things were good.
-I need to be in Rwanda two days before the gala.- Max's voice pulled Charles from his thoughts, warm arms wrapping around him from behind.
-The penalty?- Charles asked flatly, his voice void of emotion.
-You can come later if you want,- Max answered softly. -I’ll send the jet back for you. We can’t be in the same room anyway.-
-Yeah, I don’t feel like it,- Charles muttered, barely reacting. -Don’t worry, I’ll just arrange a flight with the team.-
-Are you sure?- Max pressed, his hold tightening slightly, as if trying to ground him.
-Yes,- Charles hesitated for a moment before repeating, -I’m sure.-
And just like that, by Wednesday evening, Max had left for Rwanda.
Charles wasted no time in contacting the team, informing them he’d need a flight there as well. The request caught them off guard, it wasn’t like him to rely on the team for travel arrangements. He usually handled it himself or simply flew with Max. But no one questioned it. Just like they never questioned his relationship with Max at all.
Fred, if anything, seemed pleased that Charles and Max had grown close. He saw their friendship as a potential advantage, a chance to build a bridge that could one day bring the Dutchman over to Ferrari.
Little did they know…
And it was better that way.
By Thursday evening, he was on a charter flight to Kigali, alone.
The past few days had been spent lost in thought, reflecting on everything: his season, his career, the endless cycle of hope and disappointment. But more than anything, he had poured himself into the piano Max had gifted him after his Monaco win. The instrument had become both a refugee and an escape, his fingers translating emotions he couldn’t quite voice.At least it kept him distracted. And, after hours of playing non stop, he had finally managed to compose another song.Maybe that would be enough to shift the fans' focus, give them something else to talk about.
Maybe it would keep them from seeing him for what he truly was.
He arrived early in the morning. The hotel was decent, but it wasn’t anything close to the level of luxury Max was enjoying. Max had been placed in the best hotel in the city, the presidential suite reserved just for the champion by the FIA, a room that screamed wealth and status. It was the kind of place where every corner was meticulously crafted to make the champion feel like royalty.
This was the first year since Max's first championship that Charles had to refrain from sneaking into his room. In the past, he would have found a way to be with him, no matter the distance or the circumstances. But this year, it was different.
And it wasn’t just about the hotel or the title. It was the first year he didn’t really want to sneak in. The thought didn’t spark excitement or warmth, just a dull ache in his chest. He wasn't in the mood for it.
His phone rang, the screen lighting up with Max’s name.
-You forgot to call me.- Max’s voice came through, moody and tired, likely just waking up. -Where are you staying? We could go somewhere for lunch before we get ready.-
Charles paused, the weight of the situation pressing down on him.
-We shouldn’t,- he replied, his voice firm. -It’s not safe.-
-Come on, when has that stopped us?-Max’s tone shifted to one of impatience.
-Max…- Charles hesitated, not wanting to get caught up in their usual back-and-forth. -Not today.-
There was a soft pause on the other end.
-Oh…- Max’s voice sounded a little deflated. -At least can I see you before the ceremony?-
-Would be better not.-Charles exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face.
-Let’s just see each other after the ceremony and get out of here,- Charles continued, the words slipping out before he could stop them. -I don’t want to be here more than necessary.-
-Sure…- Max replied, a resigned tone in his voice. -I love you.-
Charles was silent for a few seconds, the words lingering in the air.
-I love you too.-
He hung up first.
The gala was the same as every year. Elegant, polished, and filled with the usual faces. But this time, everything felt off.
Getting ready was harder than it had ever been. Despite the fact that every piece of clothing had been tailor-made specifically for him, nothing seemed to fit right. The Ferrari emblem on his jacket felt heavier than it ever had before, almost suffocating him with its weight. His hair, usually so manageable, refused to cooperate today, and he felt uncomfortably warm in the suit. Nothing was falling into place, and every moment spent in front of the mirror only amplified the unease.
Somehow, though, he managed to get out of the hotel on time. He didn’t know how, but he did. He had no choice.
The interviews on the red carpet were just as uncomfortable as he had imagined. It always started the same way, with some compliment about how attractive he looked that night, a superficial remark that felt disconnected from everything he was actually feeling. Then, without fail, the questions would spiral into the same territory: the season, his performance, his failures. The questions left a sour taste in his mouth, and he had to work hard to remember all the PR training his team had drilled into him. He couldn’t afford to give the answers he really wanted, not in front of the cameras, not with the world watching.
It was curious, though. The questions always followed the same pattern, focused more on his appearance than his abilities as a driver, as if his looks were the only thing worth talking about. It was especially obvious compared to the other drivers, who were asked about their racing skills, strategies, and the seasons they’d had. For him, it was always about how handsome he looked that night, as though being a Formula 1 driver wasn’t enough to define him. It didn’t escape him, how the media seemed more interested in his image than his talent.
It was after the red carpet that he could finally catch a breath. He could sit down, let the tension ease from his shoulders, and just smile, nothing more, nothing less. He’d get through the rest of the night, get over it, and try to forget the discomfort of all this shitshow represented.
Suddenly, a hand landed on his shoulder.
-Hey,- Max's voice was familiar, a comfort in the midst of the chaos. He had just sat down next to Charles, clearly breaching the meticulous protocol of the gala, since the chair he occupied had Oscar's name on it.
-Hey,- Charles greeted back softly, his eyes flicking to the seat placard. -That's not your seat.-
-I know,- Max teased, a playful glint in his eyes. -But Piastri seems fine with sitting in mine, so who cares?-
Charles couldn’t help but exhale, the tension he didn’t even realize he’d been holding slowly fading. He had missed Max, more than he wanted to admit.
They sat side by side, watching as the other categories went by, the future of racing, the present, the past. Max was a yapper, always full of stories and comments, something Charles knew all too well. But tonight, it was a welcome distraction. Max’s constant chatter kept his mind off that impending moment of the ceremony, off the pressure, and for a moment, Charles could simply relax and lose himself in their easy conversation.
The moment of truth came when some staff called him to get ready to head onstage. As the third-place finisher, he was up first. Standing in the corner of the stage, he saw the video. Max's struggles throughout the season, how the competition had closed the gap, the effort it took to get through it all, and how it all ended in triumph. But that was Max's story. Charles watched the screen with a mix of envy and resignation. Unlike Max, he was now standing alone, on the edge of the stage being the first one to be called up, the first loser, clutching the third-place trophy, the same as the second-place one, with only the name on it changing. Nothing else was different.
He stood there, forcing a smile as Lando took his place, receiving the second-place trophy. As McLaren came to claim what could have been his, what he had lost the chance to bring back to Maranello in that final race, the weight of it all hit him. The last race, the one where everything slipped through his fingers. There, on that stage, it was like the moment was being replayed over and over again in his mind. The reality of what he could have achieved but didn’t, the disappointment gnawing at him, even as he forced himself to applaud.
And then, finally, there was him. The man he loved. The one who had once been the figure to beat in his early years, now standing there as the world champion. It seemed like just another day for Max, as if the weight of the title didn’t carry the same weight it did for others. He walked up to the stage with his usual confidence, took the trophy, and gave a smile to the crowd. His words were calm, steady, and assertive as he thanked his team and answered the questions with practiced ease. For Max, it was just another year, another star for his helmet, another trophy to leave on the factory back in Milton Keynes. But for Charles, it felt like everything he couldn’t have, everything that was just out of reach, while Max stood there effortlessly, the embodiment of success he could never fully grasp.
They flew back home that same night, the exhaustion of the gala wearing off, replaced by a lightness that only the privacy of the plane could offer. Max was a couple of gin tonics deep, looking slightly tipsy, and Charles couldn’t help but notice he was too, his mind not quite as sharp as it usually was. Neither of them could resist. As the plane hummed through the night sky, the distance between them closed until there was no space left. They didn’t even wait to land. The moment Max’s lips met Charles’, everything else disappeared. The world outside the plane, the trophies, the fans, the expectations, all of it melted away. The kiss was fierce, passionate, the kind that spoke of all the things unsaid between them, the things they didn’t need words to understand.
As soon as the jet touched land, they decided to call a cab and head straight to an airport hotel, bypassing any pretense of caution. They didn’t need the luxury of home right now. All they needed was each other, and nothing felt more right in that moment than their own little bubble, far away from everything that could weigh them down.
When Charles woke up again, it was late in the afternoon. Max was completely knocked out, sprawled naked on the bed. Charles tried to gather his thoughts as he remembered what had happened hours earlier. They had celebrated, there had been a reason to. After a long, rough season, Max had been able to be the best again.
On the other hand, Charles had nothing to celebrate this year. And yet, here he was, celebrating and cherishing someone else’s achievement.
As his husband…
He grasped the sheets at the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the floor. The tears started to fall, and he rubbed his eyes in an attempt to stop them, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.
The ring hanging on his neck suddenly felt heavy.
And Pierre's words echoed in his mind, his sarcastic:
-I told you so.-