Work Text:
Charles Leclerc didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
His season was a joke—only no one was laughing, least of all him. DNFs, botched strategies, tires that wore out faster than his patience—everything was against him. And then there was the heartbreak.
So he did what any smart driver would do: he withdrew, tried to fix it all on his own. Spoiler: it didn’t work.
And just when he thought things couldn’t get worse, Max Verstappen was sitting in his kitchen.
With a spoonful of Nutella in his mouth. And Charles’ gray hoodie on his body.
“That’s mine,” Charles snapped.
“Do you have proof?” Max’s grin was so innocent that Charles almost threw the spoon at his head.
“Take it off.”
“Make me.”
Charles narrowed his eyes. Of course. The World Champion, ladies and gentlemen.
The situation escalated faster than Charles could say “Box, box.”
Because instead of yelling at Max—what he had fully intended to do—he simply leaned forward and kissed him.
Just a short, stubborn kiss, more defiance than affection.
But Max blinked at him in surprise, like he had just decided to call a Safety Car.
“That… was interesting,” he muttered, still in that damn hoodie.
Charles felt his cheeks burn. “Forget it.”
But then he kissed him again. And again.
As if it was nothing. As if it didn’t mean anything.
Only… it did.
A few days later.
Charles walked out of the motorhome, still half lost in thoughts about the next race, when he spotted Max in the paddock.
Wearing the same hoodie. Charles’ hoodie.
This time with a wide grin and—much to Charles’ absolute horror—a thumbs-up to Lando, who nearly choked laughing.
“Are you ever going to give that back?” Charles asked as they walked side by side.
Max leaned closer, lowered his voice. “Maybe. If you kiss me again.”
Charles rolled his eyes but felt an involuntary smile tug at his lips.
“You’re unbearable.”
“And you’re cute when you’re mad.”
And before Charles could come up with a sarcastic comeback, Max bent down and kissed him first—right in the middle of the paddock, surrounded by mechanics, journalists, and a wildly gesturing Carlos.
Charles should’ve been embarrassed.
Should’ve protested.
Should’ve said something.
But he didn’t.
Because suddenly, the world didn’t seem quite so shitty.
As long as Max kept stealing his hoodies—and kissing him.