Chapter Text
“Max, you seemed more tense than usual today during the race,” the journalist starts as soon as Max walks up to his station. He doesn’t bother with “hello”, jumping straight to the point, as if Max were an animated doll at his command. “Was anything distracting you?”
When Max lifts his head to reply, he actually feels like invisible ropes are holding him up. The question feels invasive – the words themselves shouldn’t, but the tone of the man in front of him, the condescending eyes, the ever-present smirk, are more telling. Max hates it all.
“Nothing in particular,” he answers curtly. He shivers under the team jacket someone made him wear. It’s not for warmth; there’s a gentle breeze in Baku in the late afternoon hour, pleasant on his skin. But Max feels less exposed when he has it on, especially after a long race.
“You got caught in traffic at the start, almost colliding with Norris,” the journalist goes on. He has a sharp British accent. Max has never bothered to learn his name. “Do you think that going wheel-to-wheel with a fellow omega impacted your driving during the first few laps?”
Max feels his body go rigid. He lowers his gaze for a second, using his cap to shield his face from the camera. Fucking hell. His Press Officer, Anna, is standing very still by his side, phone recording in her hand. She can’t actually intervene; the question was framed with a racing focus.
“No,” Max says, at last. He presses his lips together. “It did not.”
“You were quite aggressive with your overtakes today. Not only towards Norris, but to other drivers, as well,” the journalist observes. His voice grates Max’s brain unpleasantly. “Especially that last move at the safety car restart. It’s a pity to see such forceful actions take the shine off your performance.”
Max imposes himself to breathe steadily, to maintain eye contact. “Is it? I feel like that’s racing.”
“I think it’s quite sad for your fans and all the kids watching.”
“I don’t agree,” Max says. Without giving the man time speak again, he adds politely, “Did you have any more questions about the race?”
A few minutes later, he gives another interview. This time, the woman asks him if the pressure has started to take a toll on him, mentally and physically. It’s a way to pry into his personal life. She hopes he’ll let something slip – whether the presence of a partner, of a heat partner, or comments about his omega cycle. As if.
Max knows all these questions too well; he’s aware of some journalists’ techniques to get information out of him. That’s how they got him when he was a rookie. Freshly presented, bright-eyed and eager to learn and talk about racing with anyone who’d listen, Max hadn’t understood, at first, that some journalists just wanted a scandalous quote to plaster all over social media and their websites.
When someone had first asked if he had a heat partner, back when the question wasn’t black-listed, Max had laughed. He’d been a bit embarrassed, a bit shocked, but mostly amused. “What do you mean?” he’d asked, worried that his English was failing him. “Why would you care if I have one?”
Another one had asked him how he managed his cycle with the racing calendar. Max had blushed high on his cheekbones, sweating under the scent suppressor patch on the nape of his neck. But he’d been angry, too. Back then, managing that kind of emotions was complex. People had taken advantage of that.
He’d learnt that some loved to explain how his own experiences should be to him. What he should do, how he should feel, who he should have in his life.
The sport has gotten better over the years. It’s not that bad, nowadays. But whenever he doesn’t have a spotless, straightforward race, it’s like everyone is reminded that Max is an omega. And he doesn’t fit some people’s idea of how omegas should drive.
“Hey, Max,” Charles greets him as soon as he gets near. His tone is kind and professional, but his smile is sweet, as usual. He always has a sweet smile for Max after races, no matter the result.
Max inhales and exhales slowly, calming down. Anna steps up beside him and starts recording again, but she’s way more relaxed, now.
Max nods at Charles to start the interview, jaw set. He leans his hands on the barrier, fingers curling around the cool metal edge, and tries to erase the last few minutes from his memory.
Charles hesitates, clearly sensing that something’s wrong. He frowns slightly. “Hey,” he repeats. “You drove beautifully today, Max. Congratulations on your win.”
“Thank you,” Max says, almost reluctantly.
“Perfect strategy, as well. You lost time in traffic at the start, but you kept your cool. I saw you braking earlier than usual at turn two. Was it because you were adapting to traffic, or were you trying for a different line?”
As he starts speaking and builds his answer, Max feels himself settle, bit by bit. He takes another breath as he waits for Charles’ next question.
Charles asks him some other technicalities about the race and his driving. He doesn’t comment on Max’s aggressive style after the safety car, doesn’t ask him about almost-collisions, doesn’t try to get a reaction out of him. By the end of the interview, Max is leaning on the barrier more tiredly than angrily, body a bit loose after a tough race and a good, well-earned win.
“Now, final question,” Charles says. His eyes sparkle. They’re a vibrant, intense green. Max likes them a lot. But, in all honesty, there isn’t much Max doesn’t like about Charles. “What part of the race are you most satisfied with?”
It’s their thing. Charles doesn’t ask that to any other driver, as far as Max is aware.
Max feels his lips curl up. “The start was good,” he says, taking time to think about it. “It was challenging, but I like how I managed to keep my focus and got through all that traffic. And I’m happy with my overtakes,” he adds, quietly.
“Those were incredible. P11 to P1, Max. A great reminder of why you’re the Champion.”
Max’s heart tugs at his chest. That’s what he wants. Respect, recognition – the same automatically bestowed to alpha drivers who are not World Champions like he is. And Charles gives it to him without thinking twice, because he’s a professional. And a good person, Max adds internally, quiet warmth spreading through his body. One of the best I know.
“Thank you, Charles,” Max mumbles. He knows he’s blushing; he can feel heat on his cheeks, knows it’ll show through the camera pointed at his face. He doesn’t care.
When the cameraman stops recording, Charles extends his hand. “I’ll see you in Singapore in a couple of weeks, Max.”
Max grasps it easily. Charles’ skin is warm, soft. The contact sends a pleasant shiver down Max’s back. “I’ll see you there.”
When Max first started driving in Formula 1, Charles wasn’t there. Max knows that, because when Charles eventually appeared, he noticed.
He had been selected for the Thursday press conference before the Monaco Grand Prix. The other drivers were Hamilton, Sainz and Ocon. All alphas. Max had scoffed when he’d seen the list.
He’d spent almost the entirety of the press conference leaning back on the couch, microphone forgotten near his leg. No one had asked him anything; not a question, not a request for a comment. For all his “Mad Max” reputation, clearly no one actually cared about the fact that he was currently third in the championship standings, steadily climbing up for second. It always happened when alpha drivers were in the room.
He'd sat there, bored out of his mind, waiting for the end.
“Hello,” a new voice had echoed in the full room. “Charles Leclerc, Monaco-Matin. I have a question for Max.”
Max had startled a little. He’d sat up straighter, taking the microphone in hand. From the other end of the couch, Carlos’ lips had lifted up a bit. He had always been friendly, while keeping a respectful, old-fashioned distance, when they were teammates. Max liked him more than others.
The reporter who had spoken looked young, but his gaze was firm when he’d met Max’s. “You’ve looked particularly strong in managing races from difficult positions this year,” he’d started, microphone held tight in his hand. His words blended together in a French accent. “Is that something you’ve consciously worked on, or do you feel it’s a result of being more comfortable in the car now?”
Oh. Max had faltered a bit, taken off-guard, before he could speak. “It’s not really about being comfortable, for me, at this stage. I like the challenge of this car. But it’s a big plus, I won’t lie.” He’d paused, thinking. “I’ve been working a lot on not trying to force it too early. If you over-push on the first laps, you lose more than you can gain.”
Charles had nodded once thoughtfully, asking a good, follow-up question.
Then he’d disappeared for the rest of the year.
But the next one, he was there. With a new, full-access journalist badge and a Sky Sports France microphone in hand. He wormed his way into everyone’s hearts with his competence and cheeky remarks, his pretty face and polite demeanour. He was an alpha, but he never made himself imposing or menacing; he never exploited his second gender for anything. All drivers liked him.
Max had liked Charles, too, before he could even admit it to himself. He had resisted to his charm, at first, afraid it was all a ploy to make Max trust him, like some journalists regularly tried to do.
But Charles had won him over, at the end. He was irresistible. Kind, respectful, fun to be around. He was just a couple of years older than Max, but he carried himself with a quiet confidence not many had.
“You know you have a crush on him, right?” his sister Victoria had asked when Max mentioned Charles to her, one night while they were on the phone. Max had been on the cusp of winning his first Championship, excitement and nerves making him talkative.
“What?” Max had laughed. “I don’t have a crush. I don’t get crushes.”
“Are you sure?” Victoria had challenged.
“I’m– I’m fighting Hamilton for a Championship! I don’t have time for this,” Max had said, caught off-guard and sweating under his hoodie.
They hadn’t mentioned it for almost a year. Victoria brought it up again one day over summer break, while they were having lunch together in Monaco.
Max had regretted inviting her as soon as she asked about Charles.
“He’s okay, I guess,” he’d mumbled, focused on his grilled fish.
“He’s from Monaco, too, right?”
That had made Max pause. “How do you know?”
“He’s pretty popular on social media. Your fans love him,” Victoria had explained.
That made no sense. “Why? He’s just a journalist.”
“They like the way he treats drivers, in general. He seems to really love the sport.” She had paused, looking out at the sea view from the terrace of the restaurant. “And they like the relationship he has with you.”
“What relationship?” Max had sputtered, wide-eyed. “There’s nothing going on.”
Victoria had looked at him calmly. But there’d been a terrifying flash of satisfaction on her eyes. “I was talking about your working relationship.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” Victoria’s voice had been amused. “Anything you need to tell me? Is it still definitely not a crush?”
“Listen. It’s– there’s nothing between us, of course. There could never be. He’s a journalist, Vicky.”
“That’s not a no, though. People love all your little interactions, you know? And I do, too. He seems so nice.”
Max had hesitated at that. “He is. He’s very good,” he’d admitted, voice quiet.
“And that cute thing he does at the end of all your interviews together?” Victoria had asked, her eyes lighting up. “When he asks you about your favourite moment in the race?”
“He asks me which moment I’m happier with,” Max had corrected. His face was on fire. “It’s different. It’s a race-related question.”
“But it’s your thing, right? And he looks at you like you hang the moon, Max. He more than respects you.”
Max had swallowed, flustered. He’d busied himself drinking a sip of white wine. “He’s a reporter. I’m sure there’s some rule against that, somewhere.”
“I don’t think there is. And you like him,” Victoria had stated softly.
“I don’t– uhm. It could be a crush, I guess.”
Victoria had smiled, her scent turning sweeter with happiness. She was an omega, like Max. “That’s so nice, Max. I’m happy for you.”
“Why? For my silly unrequited crush?” he’d said self-deprecatingly. He hadn’t met her eyes. Hadn’t dared to.
“It’s not silly, Max. And you don’t know if it’s unrequited.” Victoria’s voice had been very gentle. “I think it’s beautiful that you feel this way towards him. It means he’s really special, if he’s caught your eye, yeah?”
Max had sighed again, but his lips were curling up. It’d been a soft, small smile, one often seen only by those closest to him. His eyes had shined, cheeks pink. “Yeah,” he’d said in a low voice. “I guess he is.”
***
In Singapore, Max does his best to stay focused on the race, steely gaze on the track. But his thoughts are tangled together, crowding his mind in the attempt to catch his attention.
A part of him enjoys the challenge of racing in Singapore, but his inner omega hates it all: the pressure, the suffocating heat, how the air is so humid he starts sweating before even getting into the cockpit. He feels too exposed, this way, the hair at the back of his neck rising up to signal danger. It makes his omega anxious.
One of the worst things about being an omega in a sport like Formula 1, beyond the casual sexism, the careless comments, and the money-hungry business eager to extend its hands no matter what, is not being able to smell much other than dust, asphalt, and fuel. Scent patches are mandatory for everyone in the paddock. Not being able to smell himself when he needs it the most is one of the hardest things Max has to overcome on race weekends. And on a circuit like Singapore, it’s ten times worse.
He shoves his instincts down every time he has to get into the car. But every time he does, it feels harder. It’s like his omega doesn’t learn and get used to it like he should, but on the contrary, he screams at Max from deep inside that it’s not safe, louder and louder every time. The feeling of wrongness sits beneath Max’s ribs and becomes a low, constant tension before and through the race.
By the time he stops his car in P2, Max is exhausted.
He’s not happy with the result, but he barely registers it. He goes through the routine of unclipping belts and pulling the steering wheel free with heavy arms, but has to take a moment before he can pull himself out. His thoughts are hazy, mind numb.
His omega is silent, too; not soothed, but completely spent, instead. It used to alarm him, at first, but Max now understands it’s his automatic way of protecting himself.
The heat follows him everywhere. After the podium, he barely has time to pull off his fireproof undershirt and wear the team polo before he’s directed to the media pen by Anna. Some people pause as he passes, but he doesn’t pay them any mind.
“Charles is free first,” Anna tells him.
Max’s instincts perk up a bit at that. His heartbeat starts picking up when he sees Charles chatting with the cameraman, and goes even faster as Max gets closer.
Charles’ fluffy brown hair sweeps on his forehead, and he looks a bit tan, like he’s got some sun in the past few days. His bright green eyes go soft when he smiles at Max, dimples showing on his cheeks.
“Hi, Max,” Charles says. “Give us two seconds. Sorry, I don’t want to keep you.”
You can. Keep me, please.
Max’s shirt is suddenly too tight around his neck and shoulders, the warmth underneath stifling. The fabric clings to his skin unpleasantly. In the back of his mind, he thinks something’s wrong, but the race is still clouding his brain – all that heat, adrenaline, the struggle to keep his breath in check, muscles screaming at every turn. He feels light-headed.
When Max doesn’t reply, Charles glances up at him. His expression turns worried, but Max is too busy looking at his face, drinking up all the details he can; a beauty mark on his cheek, how the dimples seem to carve themselves on his skin, the hint of facial hair on his chin and above his upper lip.
“Max?” Charles asks, but his voice sounds far away.
Max blinks slowly. He feels his skin burn. His hand trembles around his Red Bull-branded bottle of water, fingers itching for something. With his eyes fixed on Charles’ face, he doesn’t miss the way his nose twitches, nostrils flaring for a second.
Charles stares deep into Max’s eyes, unmoving, before he seems to catch himself and his gaze spans over Max’s face and neck, where his scent patches are. It doesn’t linger anywhere, but Max is a spectator of the understanding settling into his expression.
Charles smiles again tightly. He looks worried. “Max,” he says his name for the third time. His voice turns very, very soft. “You’re okay, yeah? Everything’s fine.” Then he leans close to Anna, who’s watching their interaction with a confused frown, and adds in a hushed murmur, “Please, Anna, grab him a jacket. The usual long-sleeved one.”
Realisation seems to dawn on Anna, as well. “Is he going to be alright here?” she asks, looking at Max, concerned.
She’s a beta, Max remembers in the fog of his mind; she’s not trained to recognise signs of an omega or an alpha in distress – but as his PR Officer, she should be.
“Of course,” Max hears Charles answer. “Let’s just make sure he’s comfortable and covered up for the interviews. We can delay a few minutes.”
As she goes, Charles whispers something in French to the cameraman, who takes a few steps back, distracting himself with the camera. Max is grateful for that; it feels like it’s just Charles and him.
“Hey, Max,” Charles speaks to him. His voice is soft, calm. “Come back to me. You’re probably dehydrated and exhausted from the race.” He hesitates, then he touches Max’s hand wrapped around his bottle.
Max watches him. His thoughts stick together, but his mind clears a little at Charles’ cool touch.
“Drink some water, please.” His fingers tap Max’s lightly before withdrawing. He’s still speaking in a low, clear voice, anchoring Max.
Acting is easier than thinking. Max does as Charles asks, trusting his words implicitly. The fresh water grounds him a little more with every gulp.
“There we go,” Charles says, encouraging and sweet. “You’re okay, aren’t you? You just needed a moment.”
“Charles,” Max mumbles helplessly. He’s still rooted in place, instincts flaring, even as embarrassment prickles under his skin. His inner omega is curled around his ribs like he wants to burst out and get Charles himself.
“Breathe slowly, in and out.”
Max does. It feels better. “Can– can everyone smell me?” He’s scared of looking away from Charles and see people crowding around him, gazes fixed on him and his neck.
“No,” Charles assures quietly. “You’re fine.”
“Can you?” Max keeps his eyes on Charles’ face, on the calm focus there, on the way he’s angled his body toward him. It’s like he’s shielding Max without making a show of it.
“Just for a second,” Charles murmurs. “You’re safe, Max. Completely safe. No one is looking our way, no one noticed anything. Okay?”
Max nods, his throat dry despite the water he’s still gulping down every few seconds from the straw. Relief washes through him so suddenly his body almost aches. He hates how close he was to losing control. But he’s so, so glad Charles was there to take care of everything – to take care of him.
“I’m– I’m so sorry,” he says. His senses are coming back to him, and he realises how warm he is, how much he’s sweating through his scent patches. He feels drained, exhausted, and completely, totally mortified by what happened.
But Charles’ eyes are clear of any judgment. He gives Max a kind smile. “Nothing to be sorry about. It happens.”
“I hate it happened here,” Max whispers. The words come out more honest and open than he intends.
Charles tilts his head to the side, still smiling softly at him. “I know,” he says. “You’re fine, Max.”
Anna comes back with Max’s usual jacket and helps him put it on. As he zips it up, the pressure in his chest eases up a little. He feels better, with Charles there. The thought makes a part of him – the more natural, instinctual one – feel comforted and safe, because he trusts Charles. But he’s not happy about it. This wasn’t supposed to happen. The paddock is the last place where Max wants be his full, omega self.
“Are you sure you’re okay with interviews? I’m sure you could skip them for health reasons,” Charles tells him earnestly.
Max preens internally at that, but nods. “I’m feeling much better, now.”
Charles keeps the interview short. He asks Max a couple of questions about the race, about how tough and exciting it is to race in Singapore and push himself, and then he wraps it up. At the usual question about what Max is most satisfied with his race, Max answers he’s happy with the communication with the team and how they managed the last laps.
“Thank you, Max,” Charles says, lowering his microphone. The camera stops recording and they both relax. “Good race today. I hope you have the chance to rest tonight.”
He doesn’t extend his hand for Max to shake like he usually does. Max thinks it’s out of respect; he’s still feeling vulnerable, after all, and contact with alphas can be tricky.
But Charles knows nothing about what’s been happening in Max’s head since they first met. About how Max is ready to bare his neck, how he’d love to be scented by him, how he’d let him into his nest right now.
Max holds out his hand before he can stop himself. Charles takes it hesitantly.
“Thanks, Charles. For– well, for everything,” Max says, almost under his breath. He tries to convey how grateful he is for Charles’ help today and every day before.
Charles’ green eyes are very warm as he looks at Max, expression open in a kind smile. “Of course, Max. Anytime.”
Afterwards, as Max is walking down the aisle of the hotel to his own room, he gets a call from his sister. “Hey, Vicky. What time is it there?”
She congratulates him on the race and they make small talk while he gets some fresh clothes and gathers everything he needs for a shower. His hotel room is spacious, with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the city. He’ll order some room service and get comfortable inside the nest he’s made on the bed after he’s washed the day away.
He tells Victoria about what happened before interviews while he’s under the cold lights of the bathroom. There isn’t much they keep from each other: they grew up attached at the hip and, as omegas, they’re very close. Max’s inner circle is small, but he likes it that way. He doesn’t trust many people.
“Max, that’s so dangerous,” Victoria scolds him. She sounds both frightened and relieved that it’s already happened and is over with. “You should take care of yourself a bit more. Especially after such difficult races.”
“I know,” Max says tiredly. He finally starts removing his scent patches from his neck, wrists and thighs. His scent timidly starts seeping out of him. “At least Charles was there. He was so good at– grounding me, I guess.”
Victoria hums over the line. “That’s nice. Must be good to have someone you can trust that much every time you’re in the paddock.”
“Yeah,” Max replies, voice thin. He’s still a little embarrassed that Charles saw him so vulnerable, so exposed. All the same, his chest warms at the thought that he can count on him, like Charles has shown him time and time again.
“You should ask him out.”
“Vicky.” The word comes out strangled, close to a whine. He looks at himself in the mirror above the sink. His face has turned red, blotchy, expression alarmed. “Come on.”
“What?” Victoria asks innocently. Max can picture her blinking at him, her eyebrows raised.
“He was just being professional,” Max says, despite his own heart aching at the thought of not meaning anything more than any other driver to Charles. “A good person.”
His scent finally curls around him, familiar and grounding.
“I think you’ve been very close, especially this year. You’ve known each other for years. You trust him, he cares about you. You have a connection.”
“I’m not sure,” Max deflects. “And if I try something now, he’ll think that I’m just reacting to whatever happened today.” He pauses, hesitating. “He won’t take it seriously.”
Victoria is silent for a few seconds. “Alright. Then let’s change approach. Instead of asking him out, you could… take it slow. Start small and then build on it.”
Max hears what she’s not saying out loud. “Are you suggesting I court him?”
There’s a smile in Victoria’s voice when she speaks. “I think I am.”
“He’s an alpha. And courting is, like, a serious thing,” Max says, disbelief clear in his voice. “I can’t court an alpha.”
“Why not? Things have changed a lot these past few years. My friend Elise courted her alpha and they’re mated now. I hear of omegas doing that all the time,” Victoria argues. “And I think it makes sense. If you court him, it’s gradual. You can gauge his interest bit by bit.”
Max looks around the empty bathroom. He realises he's shivering, half undressed and still sticky with sweat from the day. “I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it,” he says.
But his mind has started to wander. It’s true; courting has adapted to modernity, nowadays. And not many people do it.
Max rubs the back of his neck, where one of his primary scent glands is. The skin is a bit tender. He imagines how Charles would touch him there. Would he brush his skin with his fingertips? Lay a kiss there? He shivers again.
In his mind, courting means serious business. You don’t go around courting just anyone. It feels a bit old-fashioned, something you do when you’re sure about the other person. Max has never been courted before; his past partners had preferred to just ask him out via text or through common acquaintances.
“Charles could have someone in his life, you know?” Max mutters. “He’s very discreet.”
Charles never talks about his personal life. Max thinks they follow each other on Instagram, but he doesn’t post much about himself, preferring to use his account for work. There’s no way to pry into Charles’ personal life.
“He doesn’t,” Victoria tells him. Before Max can ask him how she knows, she adds, “He did a Q&A a few weeks ago. It was one of the questions he answered. He said he doesn’t have a partner.”
“What if he’s not into omegas?” Max questions, just to be difficult.
He’s reminded of the way Charles’ eyes had widened and dilated, nostrils flaring, when he smelled Max before their interview. Max knows what that means. Charles could not like him, but he didn’t seem to hate his scent.
“Stop it,” Victoria cuts him off. “Go shower and eat something, okay? Call me again later if you want. We can keep talking about how cute Charles is and come up with ways to court him. Or we could just watch something together and not talk at all.”
They do that, sometimes, when they’re home alone and want company. They just put an episode of something and watch it together, making comments only every now and then.
After they say goodbye, Max finally steps into the shower and takes a long, warm one. His muscles are sore but loose when he emerges, his scent strong. He wears his soft clothes and grabs the room service menu.
With a satisfied sigh, he gets into his nest. He feels immediately comforted and safe, sinking into his blankets, his own scent wrapping around him like a warm hug. It's like honey melted into hot green tea, soothing and soft, slightly floral. He grasps a turtle plushie he’s had since he was a child, pressing it to his chest.
Not for the first time, he wonders what Charles' scent is like. How he’d treat Max.
He’s a good alpha, he thinks to himself. It’s like his inner omega purrs at the mere thought. Max barely contains a smile at that.
Charles would be sweet, caring. Respectful and warm.
Max’s heart aches again. He wraps his arms around himself, shivering – not from cold, but from how much he desires.
It’s been years. He could try and court him. Just to see if Charles is interested.
He thinks back at how Charles had quietly taken care of him, how he’d smiled at him.
Max really, really could try.