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Charles doesn’t mean to figure it out.
How could he not though? With the way they weren’t exactly hiding it.
A slight limp here, an awkward glance there. There was no doubt in Charles’ mind.
Carlos Sainz and Lando Norris were fucking.
Or at least… had fucked. At least once. Maybe twice. It was all one night, is all Charles knows for sure.
He knows it in the way that Carlos and Lando avoided one another for the week after Monaco, and the way they had Oscar as a buffer during padel matches for the week following. By the third week, once bruises faded and soreness relieved, the pair were back to normal.
It sickened Charles.
Every time Lando sent puppy eyes towards Carlos in the paddock, Charles could feel his heart clench a little tighter.
It was the act of knowing something and not being able to tell, Charles reasons. He wouldn’t feel this mad about it if Carlos (a close friend of Charles) had simply told Charles about his little escapades with his old teammate. Or perhaps if Charles was able to talk about it with someone else.
Besides, Charles had always been bad at keeping a secret.
“You made a conspiracy board,” Max Verstappen said, visibly unimpressed.
Charles suddenly felt worse. Telling someone also didn’t help.
“It is not a conspiracy board,” Charles snaps, “It is a situation board. For you to understand the situation.”
“The situation,” Max begins, “Is a crappy zoomed-in screenshot of Carlos’ thigh labelled “BRUISE? HICKEY?!?!?!””
“I am a researcher and my evidence can speak for itself, thank you very much.”
Charles’ situation board was full of this evidence. There were photos, red string, a fake bullet hole carved out with ancient kitchen scissors for ambience, the whole nine yards. He smiled at his glorious creation once more.
Max looks between Charles and the board. He rubs his face with his hand.
“I think you need psychiatric help.” He decides.
“Nevermind me,” Charles pulls Max right up next to him, grabbing his chin with his hand, and moves Max’s head to face the board, “The evidence is all right in front of us.”
“Why are you telling me then, if you’ve already solved the mystery?” Max pushes Charles’ hand off his chin.
“Because of the principle of the whole situation!” Charles grips Max by the shoulder, now face to face, “I am Carlos’ best and closest friend! How could he not tell me of h-”
“How could he not tell his teammate about how he fucked Lando Norris?”
Charles lets go of Max, dazed as if slapped across the face.
“That’s not very nice Max,”
“Its what I’m hearing, and what anyone else would hear if you showed them this.”
“Well if you say it like that…”
“Saying it like how it was?” Max sighed, “Charles, how much would Carlos telling you really have changed things?”
Charles had thought about this. Extensively.
Carlos would say it casually, over coffee, or perhaps during their own game of padel. Charles would be like “Oh? What? Lando?” and act completely shocked. And then after Charles and Carlos would be much closer as friends and they’d win the constructors championship through fantastic teamwork.
But now…
Now Charles kind of feels like a creep.
“Not too much I think.” Charles admits.
“Exactly.”
He looks at the board with fresh eyes.
At the center, Lando and Carlos. A big red circle, black marker and red yarn trailing in all directions, all leading to them. The two men.
“It isn’t their secrecy.” Charles says slowly.
“No.” Max agrees, “It’s you needing help.”
“But if it isn’t secrecy,” Charles begins, “And it isn’t about contract violations, and it isn’t about padel-”
“Wait, how did we get to padel,” Max searched across the board.
“Then what about it makes me so upset?”
Max looks at him.
Charles stares back.
“Is it jealousy?” Max attempts, visibly a little lost for words.
“What would I possibly have to be jealous of?” Charles almost laughs, “What could I possibly be jealous of here? Lando’s hair? I have better hair than Lando, Max.”
“Undoubtedly” Max shakes his head, “No Charles, I am simply trying to point out that what you’ve told me is that you are irrationally upset-”
“I am not irrational.”
“Irrationally upset about the two of them being together.” Max gestures towards the board, “It is what jealousy means.”
“No no no.” Charles really laughs this time, “I would know if I were jealous. There must be another reason.”
Max sighs in a way that screams “If you insist”. It is a sigh Charles is incredibly familiar with.
“Lets see,” Charles continues, “If I am not upset about the secrecy, then naturally I must be upset about the two of them together. Them. Together. Them.”
Charles’ eyes go wide.
He’s figured it out.
Max reads him like a clock, and immediately says, “Charles, no.”
Charles shrieks out, “I am homophobic!”
Tears truly begin to well in Charles’ eyes. The conclusion was so obvious. Right in front of him this whole time.
This is horrible. Formula One is supposed to be about acceptance these days. How can he be homophobic in a sport that values diversity?
Immediately, he writes out a message to his PR manager, informing them to make a very large, very public donation to an LGBTQ+ charity. No doubt that the entire F1 world would crucify him if this gets out.
Charles almost forgets about Max’s presence in his spiraling until Charles’ phone is majestically removed from his hands. Max looks at the screen, sighs for what must be the 80th time that day, and deletes Charles’ hard work.
Somehow, Max manages to sit Charles down on the couch, knees pointed together.
“Charles. You are not homophobic.” Max says.
“But how can you know that?” Charles asks, tears pushing at the corner of his eyes.
“Because,” Max thinks for a second, “None of what you have up there has anything to do with them being gay. I’d argue that it’s a labor of love that put this board together.”
Charles nods along, and glances up to the board. It feels wrong to look at now.
“I would have told him.” Charles looks towards Max, practically defeated, “If it were me.”
Max moves his hand to cover Charles’. Both turn to look at the board once again. This time, Max sits up a little taller.
“Hold on,” Max says, “Why am I here Charles?”
“I invited you?” Charles points out, slightly confused, “Why? What happened?”
“No not here,” Max stands up and points to the board, “Why am I here.”
A photo, one of a few that only has one person, but certainly not the only one that doesn’t have Carlos and Lando. A photo of Max during the Monaco GP after party. A red string with a label reading “Where was he?”
“You left early,” Charles falls further back into the couch, “I wanted to talk to you, and you wouldn’t answer your phone and you weren’t even streaming or anything. I was worried.”
“Enough to feature me on the sex board?” Max’s smile falters, just slightly, “You were worried?”
“Yes! You barely finished your first gin and tonic! I was worried!”
“In Monaco? You were all over Carlos at the party,” Max sputters, “You were not worried about me of all things,”
“Me? All over Carlos?” Charles scoffs, “Maybe Lando’s hair is more similar to mine than I thought because I was not all over Carlos of all people.”
“That’s not what it looked like from the bar,”
“You were watching me?”
“How could I not be?” Max asks, “You don’t exactly shy away from the spotlight.”
“And I’m sure you love to just sit there and watch.”
“Not when it's shared with Carlos of all people.”
Charles pauses.
“Who would you rather it be, Max?” Charles squints slightly, unsure.
Max squints back.
“That’s not the point,” Max says after a moment.
“It sounds like it is the point,” Charles pesters, “You don’t like Carlos sharing my spotlight.”
Max lets out a sharp exhale, “You were hanging off him all night.”
“I was not!” Charles straightens up.
“You laughed at everything he said.”
“Carlos is funny.”
“No one is that funny.”
A slow grin starts to grow on Charles’ face,
“Max,” He begins, “Were you jealous?”
Max scoffs at the idea, “That's ridiculous. You’re the one with a sex board in your living room.”
“I have established that I am not jealous of Lando,” Charles says, “I may be homophobic but my name is clear of all other charges.”
“You can’t just go around saying that you’re homophobic Charles!”
“That is besides the point.”
“It should be the point!” Max insists, “It’s a pressing issue!”
“No. The point is,” Charles smiles, “Is that you are jealous of me simply being with my dear friend Carlos to the point of storming out of a celebration. Your celebration too.”
“You were flirting with him.”
“I was not flirting with him.”
“You held onto his arm.”
“I hold everybody’s arm. I was drunk.”
“You leaned into him!”
“It was a loud club! I couldn’t hear him speak.”
“You were practically on his lap.”
“I was not-”
“Fine!” Max says, “I’m sorry I didn’t want to just sit there and see you try to ride Sainz’ dick all night!”
The room goes silent.
Charles blinks, smile gone.
Max sits back down.
Charles tilts his head.
“...Max.”
Max looks at a now incredibly interesting golf magazine on a nearby table.
“You were jealous.” Charles’ smile comes back full force.
“I was not.”
“You so were.”
“I wasn’t”
“You left the party because you were jealous.”
“I left because I was bored!”
“No,” Charles says triumphantly, “You just said it was because of Carlos!”
“I said it was because of you and Carlos!”
Charles stops.
Charles looks at another particularly interesting magazine.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” Max drops his head into his hands, “Oh.”
“So…” Charles glances up slowly, not ready to stop teasing, “What I’m hearing is that while I have been so worried about Carlos and Lando, I have had my own secret admirer?”
“Charles,” Max groans, curling further in on himself.
“I am right on it then!” Charles exclaims, “Good thing I am trying to not be homophobic Max. Don’t worry, I will not hate you for being gay for me!”
“Thats not how homophobia works Charles.” Max tries one last time.
“Yes, I’m sure you’re experienced with homophobia.” Charles nods, “I apologize for my homophobic ways Max.”
“I don’t think you’ve ever been even the slightest bit homophobic.” Max looks towards Charles
“You don’t know that,” Charles puts a hand on Max’s shoulder, the other on his heart, “You don’t know me.”
Max stares at Charles, unsure on how to proceed.
Charles sighs, “Max, we have to deal with this like adults,”
“What?”
“Obviously we still have not covered the most important thing.”
Max sits up, ready to talk about the elephant in the room, simultaneously acknowledged and ignored, “We haven’t?”
“Me.” Charles grips harder into Max’s shoulder, “What’s wrong with me.”
“I’m not entirely sure what you’re asking here.”
“Max!” Charles shoves him lightly, “the root of our issues. Why won’t Carlos tell me?”
“Obviously because you’re homophobic Charles this much is obvious.” Max laughs as he dodges a flying couch cushion.
By the time the British Grand Prix comes around one week later, Charles still isn’t over it. Charles is actually so not over it, that he goes to the root of the problem.
“Ay Percival, Lando and I are doing just fine,” Carlos sips on his drink, “Nothing happened.”
Charles glares at his own drink. Something in him doesn't want to get into the concept of the situation board. Carlos simply wouldn’t get it like Max did.
Carlos clinks their glasses together and downs the rest of his drink, before signaling to the bartender to fetch another. And that's when Charles got an idea.
“One round of tequila please!” Charles says, also downing his drink. If he can’t convince Carlos the normal way, the drunk way is also okay. After all, Charles knows better than anyone that Carlos simply cannot handle his tequila, nor can he resist it.
God knows how many shots later, Carlos (and Charles) were finally starting to loosen up, just enough.
“I just - sniff - Really like talking to him.” Tears flowing down his face, “I think I fucked it all up.”
“No, Charles, Max still likes you I’m sure,” Carlos wipes a tear from his own cheek, “Lando however, must hate me now.”
“Noooooo, Carlos, nooo.” Charles looks into the other’s eyes, nodding as he says, “You two are meant to be. If Lando hates you there's no such thing as romance.”
“But-”
“Noooooo” Charles presses his hand onto Carlos’ mouth.
“But he hates me Charles,” Carlos sniffs, prying Charles’ hand off his mouth, “I wasn’t good enough and now he hates me.”
“Carlos, how could anyone hate you!” Charles asks, “You are so perfect, Lando must be wrong.”
Carlos nods, “You’re right. We should call him and tell him that.”
“Genius!”
The two clearly sober drivers went to the alley next to the pub. Carlos pulled out his phone and the two huddled around as he pressed call.
It rang once.
Twice.
“Carlos?” Lando’s voice rang through the speaker, slightly distorted.
“Lando!” Carlos smiled for the first real time that night, “You know I love you right?”
“Carlos you’re drunk,” Lando sighed through the speaker, “Where are you? I’ll you a cab to your hotel and-”
“No!” Carlos exclaimed, “Lando I miss you! We never spend time together anymore!”
“And who’s fault is that?” Lando said, “Look Carlos, if you want to talk about this we can, but it will be tomorrow and it will be with us both in our right minds.”
“He really loves you Lando,” Charles chimes in, “Like don’t forget that because he really loves you. Like really.”
“Hold on, is that Charles?” Lando yelled, “Carlos you told Charles! Great now the whole grid might as well-”
Carlos hangs up the phone.
“He hates me,” Carlos pouts, looking at the phone.
“No Carlos,” Charles says, dead serious, “He hates me. And he loves you too!”
“How do you know?” Carlos sniffles.
“Trust me, I know.” Charles nods. He then hugs Carlos, holding his head to his chest, patting his hair softly.
“Charles?” Carlos' voice is muffled in Charles’ shirt, “What is this hug for?”
“You finally told me.” Charles’ throat closes up slightly, tears beginning to form again, “I was homophobic because you didn’t tell me.”
“What?” Carlos pushes off of Charles’ chest, “What do you mean homophobic?”
“Well I was talking to Max, and he said that I was homophobic for being upset that you wouldn’t tell me about you and Lando.”
“Max said that? That doesn’t sound like him.” Carlos’ brows pinch slightly, “But Charles,” They look into one another's eyes, not one cell of either man joking, “I believe you.”
“Now that you’ve told me though, I don’t have to be homophobic anymore!” Charles lights up, “This is great news for my branding and image online!”
“We should tell Max.”
“You’re right.”
Charles calls Max, but the first call doesn’t go through. Neither does the second. The third however, is answered with a groggy, “Hello?”
“Max!” Charles yells, catching the attention of a group of similarly sober people outside the alley, “Max, Carlos says I am no longer homophobic!”
“Good for you Charlie,” Max sighs, “Do you need to talk about this now or maybe tomorrow before your flight,”
“Max!” Carlos interrupts, “This is important news! You need to be more supportive.”
“Okay Carlos,” Max says, “Wow Charles! I am so proud that you are not homophobic.”
“Max,” Charles says, so seriously, “Who am I now if not homophobic?”
“Oh this is true,” Carlos agrees, “Max help us answer!”
“How about you ask me again tomorrow when you aren’t drunk and I am not in bed.” Max grumbles, voice muffled by a pillow.
“Okay!” Charles grins, “See you tomorrow Max!”
The phone cuts shortly after.
The next morning, Charles is awoken by a pounding headache, puke beside him on the bed, and his pajama pants on by only one leg.
Obviously his drunk self had attempted to do something akin to get ready for bed.
Charles tries his very hardest to think back to the night before. He won the British Grand Prix, then went clubbing, tried to get Carlos drunk, successfully got Carlos drunk, called Lando, called Max, done a few more shots-
Called Max?
Charles made a mad scramble to the bedside where his phone lay. 9%. Drunk Charles had the bandwidth to drag a trash bin up to the bed, but not to place his phone on the wireless charger, missing the pad by just a few centimeters.
He scrolled through his apps, and sure enough in his call log, the first thing up there was three calls to Max at 1 a.m. and a message from him this morning. For some reason, Charles didn’t want to look at that message
God Max was probably asleep when he called. Charles cringed, and the act of scrunching his forehead brought his headache back full force. He groaned as he got a bottle of ibuprofen out of his bag, and swallowed two dry. Damn his mouth was dry.
Water first, then think about Max.
Charles stumbled into the bathroom, eyes closed at the light, and turned on the faucet.
The toilet bowl looks at him through the mirror.
Throw up first, then water, then Max.
Charles, while bent over the toilet, could be thinking about how he regrets those last shots he did. Or maybe how he’s most definitely throwing up all the medicine he just took, and he doesn’t know if that means he should take more. But no. He’s thinking about how bad he must have screwed his friendship up with Max.
No one wants a drunk call in the middle of the night. Max probably doesn’t like Charles anymore because of how stupid he is while drunk. And Charles interrupted his sleep! Rest is so important for athletes, and as a phenomenal athlete Max must surely need more rest than allowed by stupid drunk callers.
After the puke fiasco on the toilet, and then a sip of water, followed by a second puke fiasco on the toilet and a good cry, Charles finally began feeling slightly more human.
He allowed himself a nice long shower, using all sorts of products and cleansers that would break the average person's bank account. Anything to avoid the little red notification on his phone that could mean any number of things.
What had he even said to Max on that call? Charles must have been completely embarrassing and Max’s message definitely says that they should probably never talk ever again.
Charles doesn’t want to never talk to Max ever again. They text often and it's very fun. A highlight of his day. Charles has shared everything with Max. Max saw his situation board for gods sake.
It only took one bad night for Max to completely hate Charles and he probably deserves it too. Max still stayed friends with Charles even when he was homophobic and he hated that Charles was friends with Carlos even though Charles only really wanted to talk to Max the entire time anyways-
Hold on.
Charles didn’t want to hang out with Max that much, did he?
Like he wanted to hang out with Max in a normal way. The normal way that most friends want to see other normal friends, like how Max sees Charles. Max wanted to see Charles the normal way.
But no. Max wanted to see Charles in the admirer sort of way. And Charles maybe wanted to see Max the same way.
That's a lot to unpack when hungover.
So he doesn't.
Charles packs his things, gets on the Ferrari private jet to Nice, drives home to Monaco, and lies awake on his bed that night.
All night.
For the next four nights.
Max’s message goes unread for the entirety of this time, and the little red bubble haunts Charles’ every waking moment.
He gets food delivered, it goes uneaten. Starts his workouts indoors, he doesn’t have the energy to finish them. Worst of all, he goes and ignores calls from his maman. It's not good, and he knows it. But Charles has a lot of thinking to do.
Charles thinks. Far too much. Charles thinks about himself, how he felt about Lando and Carlos, and why the panging in his chest would spike particularly when they were close with one another. He thinks about how during that night at the club he wanted nothing more than for Max to be there to share that initial moment of realization about Carlos and Lando. But most of all, Charles thinks about Max. How Max makes him feel. How Charles wants to have what Carlos and Lando could have with Max.
He takes down the conspiracy board. Or more like pulls all the photos and notes off and lets them lie around his living room. Charles memorizes the locations of the push pins strewn across his floor.
It comes to a head on the fifth day of their short break. Charles is a ghost around his apartment, ignoring the incessant buzzing periodically coming from his phone.
Somehow, all the thinking he’s done has added up to nothing. Charles has always been good at problem solving, Arthur always needed help with puzzles as a child, but now? It was as if every thought that went through Charles’ head had no real meaning.
Charles had reached a point where even his piano couldn’t bring him peace. His hands simply refused to move across the keys with that practiced ease he’d trained his entire life for. He didn’t dare try to go behind the wheel of a car.
All this over what? Shaky hands and skipped meals and a completely ruined sleep schedule over a man? Over Max?
And as if Fate himself had come to call, there was a knock at the door.
Charles, who’s apartment (and self) is in no state for guests, ignores this knock.
The knock refuses to take ignorance as an answer, and continues to harass Charles for the better part of the next three minutes. He stares at the door from behind a couch, as if whoever is knocking knows Charles is hiding.
After these three minutes, the knocking dies down. Charles, thinking his harasser has begun walking away, opens the door (so as to identify them by the back of their head) only to end up mere inches away from Max Verstappen's infuriatingly blue eyes.
Charles scrambles to shut the door, but Max, with champion level reflexes, gets his hand in the door, and therefore the rest of him into Charles’ apartment.
The apartment that is, just to remind you, a mess.
“You ignored my message.”
Charles’ mouth runs dry. He drinks from a two day old cup on the table next to him.
Max stares, glancing around the room, then furrowing his brows when his eyes meet Charles’ again.
He wants me to talk, Charles thinks, unable to come up with words to say.
“Oh, you’re spiraling spiraling,” Max turns to a nearby table and starts stacking old, half eaten plates, “No worries, my mom always said the first step to a clear mind is a clear room,”
“You’re so nice to me,” Charles blurts out, grabbing the stack of plates from Max, “Even when you hate me you’re nice.”
“I hate you now?” Max grabs a couple of cups, “I can’t keep up with you Charles, when did I start hating you?”
“Your message!” Charles follows Max to the sink, running the water to rinse some of the old pasta off a plate.
“My message asking if you got to your hotel alright?” Max stared, “Charles, did you even open it?”
“Of course not!” Charles says, “You know as well as I that I only read messages when I know what they say!”
Charles, for the first time since that morning in Britain, felt tears begin to gather at the corners of his eyes. He looked steadfastly into the sink. For some peculiar reason, liking someone gets a thousand times more difficult once you realize you like them. I’m not going to cry, he thinks.
He let the silence sit between them for a minute, still scrubbing at the same exact plate he started with. Charles could feel Max’s eyes wearing a hole through his head as he stood with a towel beside Charles.
Gently, the plate was removed from Charles hand, soft fibers of the towel running replacing cool porcelain.
“You know I would never text you something bad Charles, right?” Max quickly dries the plate and places it on a rack, “And I know when something is bothering you, and I don’t like that you won't say it to me.”
Charles blinks confusedly, “But you hating me is what bothers me,”
Don’t cry Charles, don’t cry.
“I don’t hate you,” Max turns Charles head to face his own, “Anything else?”
“And…” The shake in his hands returns, Charles takes a breath. Too fast, “And I want you to keep liking me.”
Max blinks, a little surprised at what Charles said, then his eyes soften, just a fraction, but he quickly blinks it off, taking the next plate from Charles.
They worked in silence for a while, the main room looking cleaner than it had in days, guilt eating away at Charles for allowing Max to help. Slowly, the two made their way from the dishes to the papers scattered across the room.
Max picks one up, flipping it over to see what was on the other side. Charles knows that it's a remnant from that damn conspiracy board. All of the papers are.
Max reaches to pick up a second one, but before he can grab it, Charles has lunged over and gathered a small pile from the floor in front of Max.
He clutches the photos to himself, both arms crossed in front of his chest, eyes wide. Max has already seen the entire board, seen the spiral, but he doesn’t need to see this. Max doesn’t need to see any more of the confused shards of Charles’ soul around the apartment. He doesn’t get to see him cry.
Max furrows his brows. Charles froze.
Max looks down at the papers, then back up at Charles. He looks away.
“I’ve misunderstood,” Max steps back, “Sorry for bothering you Charles, I’ll see you in Belgium.”
And so much for not crying.
Because Max is gone.
And Charles is right where he started.
He sits back down on the couch, and watches as the days pass him by.
The mess comes back to the apartment, a little meaner than before. It's mad that Charles tried to get rid of it, so it attacks with vengeance.
Andrea comes by to drop off food for the next week, letting himself in as he usually did. He murmured something in Italian, then jumped upon seeing Charles on the couch.
“God Charles,” He presses a hand to his heart, “You scared the life out of me,”
Charles didn't speak. His throat felt too dry. A shrug takes the place of any words.
“What- why is-,” Andrea stutters through the beginning of multiple questions, “What’s wrong Charles?”
Charles hesitates, thinking just a moment. Not that he couldn’t speak. The words just wouldn’t form, wouldn’t get far from his brain before becoming something completely embarrassing like a scream or sob. He shrugs again.
“Do I need to call Pierre?”
It wasn’t that bad. This horrible ache in Charles’ chest would go with time. No amount of company could cure it.
He wants to lie down on the couch, but that would look worse. Just until Andrea leaves, then he can lie down. But first he needs to shake his head no.
Andrea, reluctantly, accepts this and goes to the fridge. Two thirds of the meals he left a week ago are uneaten. His grip on the fridge tightens slightly, “Charles…”
Charles can already hear the lecture, and he has no energy for it. Instead he musters up the courage to get a glass of water, and shuts himself in his bedroom, glass nearly empty by the time he’s in bed.
The front door opens and shuts with a barely audible click, but Charles is already far too asleep to hear.
Before Charles knows it, his plane lands in Belgium.
He smiles at fans, signs the hats, exchanges polite words with Lewis. Charles is everything the perfect media trained Ferrari driver has to be.
He answers questions at Thursday’s press conference. Max is there with him. They sit besides one another with a distance that suggests far more animosity than the last time they were seen together.
Besides the point.
Charles laughs a little too hard. Charles talks a little too fast. And Charles feels a little too little.
But he smiles. And that is all he can do.
After the press conference, instinctively Charles turns to Max. A small quip on the tip of his tongue, but the other has already left.
For the first time that day, his smile falters. Charles looks towards the exit and makes his way out. He trips slightly on a carpet.
A hand wraps around his arm, keeping him from stumbling too far. He looks back only to see Carlos there behind him. Carlos looks worried.
God. Something has made Carlos worried. The smile drops completely.
“Whats wrong?” Charles asks, turning to see if the hallway is empty, “Did something happen with Lando?”
“What?” Carlos looks confused, “Me? No Charles, what's wrong with you? You’re acting strange.”
“I’m acting perfectly normal Carlos,” Charles nearly laughs as his stomach drops into a pit, “Nothing is wrong with me.”
Carlos squints, but doesn’t question Charles. He’s always liked that about Carlos. He doesn’t push too hard.
Charles spends the rest of the day with Carlos. It's easy, familiar, yet slightly different, because now Carlos blushes about Lando a little more openly. And when Lando messages Carlos, there's a small orange heart next to his name. Charles nearly tackles Carlos for not mentioning it as soon as it happened.
Lando invites Carlos and Charles to a small pre-race weekend get together that night at his hotel. McLaren had apparently splurged on them this weekend, and Lando was keen to show it off to his friends.
Charles was not expecting a small group of drivers all huddled around Max of all people when he arrived.
They were all laughing. Not a small polite laugh, but the uproarious kind that comes from either too much alcohol or too little sleep. They all looked at something on his phone.
“What’s so funny?” Carlos asks, walking up beside Lando, Charles following more than a couple steps behind.
Lando wipes his eye from laughing, “Carlos you have to see this message someone sent Max,”
“It surely can’t be that funny,” Charles takes the phone right out of Max’s hand.
@MarcDupont
Hiii Max if you’re in Belgium are you down to 2️be fwb with me a hot and sexy model. Seen you posting those selfies so if you’ve got that horny bone in you I can help satisfy it😚🫣😚
Charles can’t breathe. He wordlessly hands the phone to Carlos and shrugs.
It’s not funny. Not to Charles.
Now Max doesn’t want Charles, and Charles wants Max, and so does some Marc Dupont.
He doesn’t even want Max! He wants to fuck Max! Granted. Charles would not be opposed to fucking Max. But he wants more!
Charles looks at Max and sees everything. He sees championships and trophies and honestly what more could Charles want.
The conversations drone on around him, moving on from the horrible solicitations of Marc Dupont. Charles chimes in from time to time, but by the end, when it's just Carlos, Lando, and Max left, Charles is completely silent.
Carlos pulls Charles to the side while Lando and Max finish a round of FIFA.
“Charles you should just tell Max how you feel.” Carlos says in a near whisper.
“What? No.” Charles insists, “No, he won’t feel the same now.”
“He probably will, but even if not, at least you won't sit here like you’ve already been disqualified from the season as a whole.”
As Carlos says that, Max leaves, and Charles follows on his tail, mumbling something to Carlos about not wanting to third wheel the new couple.
It’s late at this point. It's raining outside, but Charles has to find a cab to take him to his hotel. Ferrari was kind enough to put their drivers away from where the majority of the grid was staying.
Him and Max stand a few feet apart under the overhang out front. The streets in front are empty, not a taxi in sight.
“What hotel are you at?” Max asks, the first words between the two all night.
Charles rattles off the address. Max nods.
“I’m at the same one. I’ll get us an Uber.”
They stand in silence for a minute.
“Marc Dupont?” Charles looks into the rain, away from Max.
“Who?”
“The boy. Who sent that message.”
“Him? What about him?”
“Nothing. I don’t like him.”
“Why should I care about your opinion?” Max exhales sharply, “I could like him.”
Charles turns towards Max, trying to see a hint of a smile, a smirk, anything.
The ever growing pit in his stomach burns and aches. His eyes start to feel the same. He never used to cry so easily.
Max turns slightly towards Charles.
“You… you could.” Charles tries, voice small.
“He is very beautiful.” Max says, “I always liked brown hair.”
“Maybe he likes blondes.”
“Maybe.”
“Or Dutch accents.”
“It’s a good accent.”
“And winners.”
“Winners are nice.”
“He seems sweet.” Charles begins, “And particularly interested in your horny bone whatever that means.”
“Charles…” Max laughs, “Jesus Christ.”
“I am just trying to be supportive!” Charles exclaims, “I am trying to be supportive as someone who is not homophobic anymore!”
Against his will and better judgement, a sob forces its way out of Charles’ chest.
Max pauses.
Charles sniffs.
“You think I want Marc Dupont?”
“Shut up.”
“No like really?” Max laughs again, “You think I want a bot account?”
“It could be real!” Charles says.
“It was a bot, Charles.”
“Well how am I supposed to know what it is you want!”
Max laughs harder, if possible, before it quickly dies down when Charles doesn’t laugh along.
The rain fills the silence between the two. Max furrows his brows.
“Charles,” He starts, “You know what I want. I’ve said it before. I need to know what exactly it is that you want.”
“But I-”
“If you say you don’t know, I call bullshit.” Max turns fully back towards the rain, “Because you disappeared. You dropped out of existence for two weeks. And I came to help. I want to help you Charles. And you pushed me away. So tell me. What did you spend the last two weeks spiraling about? Better yet, what was it about Marc Dupont’s message that made you act like he shot your dog all night.”
Charles’ mouth goes dry.
Max looks at Charles.
Charles looks at Max.
The truth? The truth could hurt.
The same way Max could like Marc Dupont.
“C’mon Charlie,” Max puts one hand on Charles’ arm, smile forming slightly, “Don’t tell me the guy who spent hours making a conspiracy board about other people's feelings can’t figure out his own.”
But Charles can’t talk.
For years, Charles and Max didn’t speak with words. They battled their thoughts out on the track. The unique anger that only comes from children without outlets that festered and boiled over during races. Words had never been their preferred method of feeling.
So Charles picks actions.
Charles chooses to wrap both hands around the back of Max’s neck, and Charles chooses to pull the other in.
The soft plush of Max’s lips hitting his own tells Charles that he made the right decision, and he melts right then and there.
Max kisses him back and it's all he could ever ask for. Not chaste. The two always moved too fast to settle for something so small, instead skipping to the deep, passionate kind of kiss that spilled all Charles’ secrets for him.
“I like that.” Charles says, moments later, the taste of Max fresh on his tongue.
Max’s face softens, gripping onto Charles’ hips. His fingers twitch there, as if debating whether or not to pull Charles back in.
“Yeah?” Max says, just over a whisper, “So much for being homophobic huh.”
“I am a researcher Max,” Charles laughs, “I have to use evidence to back my theories up.”
“So I’m what? A guinea pig?”
“Precisely.”
The headlights of a car turn around the corner, and the two jump apart. Max checks his phone and turns the screen towards Charles.
“Ubers here,” Max says as he runs his fingers through his hair briefly.
“Yeah,” Charles clears his throat, “Uh… yeah.”
The car ride was silent, but not awkward. In fact, it seemed like Charles and Max couldn't stop themselves from looking at one another, smiling at one another.
The hotel is no different. The two walk into the elevator side by side, less than a person's distance between the two. When the elevator doors close and Max hits one button on the console, Charles speaks.
“What now?” Charles’ smile has disappeared, nerves setting in.
“What do you mean?” Max wraps one arm around Charles’ waist, using his other hand to move strands of brown hair that weren’t in the way at all.
“I mean… I don’t know,” Charles sighs, “Just… What is this? What are we doing? Because Max I don’t really know what's going on and it doesn’t quite feel real and I don’t even really know what I want much less what you want out of this and-”
Charles could get very used to the feeling of Max’s lips on his.
“Well what's going on is first,” Max backs his head away, replacing his lips with one finger on Charles’ mouth. “I’m taking you up to my room. And then I may sweet talk you, or maybe depending on how you’re feeling I’ll skip straight to pinning you to my bed. From there? It's anyone’s game.”
Charles’ eyes widened. He nods once. The doors to the elevator open as he does, and he finds his feet frozen till Max guides his willing self to his room.
He doesn’t have to worry. Max wants him. Max wants him as much as he wants Max.
Max barely steps through the door before Charles is on him.
He lets himself get pressed against the door, holding him by the front of his stupid RedBull team kit. Max goes straight for Charles’ neck, licking and biting across his jaw, immediately finding every spot that drives Charles wild, rubbing stubble against stubble, body against body so tight they can barely breathe.
Max moves his hands around Charles’ waist, and pulls the pair towards the bed across the room. He falls on top of Charles, and resumes his prior position, continuing marking Charles’ neck in ways that he won't be able to hide easily.
Through a sharp inhale, Charles halfheartedly pushes at Max’s body.
“Do you want me to get fired,” Charles laughs, “You’re worse than a leech mon beau.”
“Good.”
Charles swears he didn’t whine at the tone. He pushes his fingers through Max’s hair, pulling their faces together, biting and sucking at his lips.
After a particularly hard nip from Charles, Max’s hips push down against Charles’ crotch. Charles takes the opportunity to wrap his legs around the other, pulling the other man closer, craving the pressure and friction.
They begin to grind against one another for a minute, the occasional groan coming from either man, taking a quick break to remove each other's shirts and pants (for easier access of course, Max insists).
The easier access seemed to be exclusively for Max’s delight, since upon some very brief exploration, he managed to discover one of Charles’ greatest weaknesses.
Max nipped at the left nipple, circled his tongue around the fresh bite, traced patterns with his tongue, bit again, and switched to the other side. All while Charles whined with his eyes shut so tight he saw stars.
The sting along the sensitive nerves drove him wild, Charles bit the meat of his palm to muffle some of the sounds he was bound to be embarrassed by.
Max was having none of it, however, taking both of Charles’ hands and holding them above his head. Charles opened his eyes to look down and nearly choked at the sight of Max pouncing back up to his lips.
After a while of being tortured so brilliantly, Charles had enough, and used the leverage of having his legs wrapped around Max to flip the two over. Max landed with his head on the pillow with a soft thud. He smiled up at Charles.
“Hi,” Adoration filled his eyes.
Charles melted, “Hello.”
Quickly, Charles crawled down Max’s body, looped his fingers around the waistband of his boxers and kissed his navel as he took Max’s boxers completely off.
Max’s cock stood hard and tall between his legs. Long and girthy enough to make Charles’ twitch in their own constraints. Charles looked up at Max as he wrapped one hand around the base and kissed the leaking tip. Max panted. Charles gave the tip a kitten lick.
“Charlie,” Max groaned through gritted teeth, “Please.”
Charles once again responded without words, and took Max into his mouth.
Using his hands to jerk off the bottom where he couldn’t quite swallow entirely, Charles bobbed his head on Max’s cock, paying special attention to the thick vein along the bottom and the sensitive glans at the tip.
Charles had never done anything of the sort, but by the sounds Max was making, and the hand buried in his hair, he assumed he was doing at least somewhat well.
He kept going until the hand in his hair started pulling up, where Charles let go entirely and just looked up at the other.
Max, completely out of breath, said, “Close- I’m close. Not in your mouth.”
Charles simply nodded and moved back up Max’s body to kiss him again, removing his own boxers to free his cock and lining it up with Max’s. Using the remaining spit to lube his hand as he jerked the two off together.
“I missed you,” Charles breathed against Max’s mouth, “So much.”
“I thought I’d lost you forever,” Max wrapped his hand around Charles’, moving them in tandem.
Kissing had long become heavy breathing into one another's mouths. The muscles in Charles’ core jumped at the stimulation and he could feel himself approach that ledge faster than he ever has with a partner.
Max murmured something into Charles’ ear, and that was it.
Charles whined as he finally came, Max following less than a second later. Charles let go, but Max continued stroking the two through their orgasms, before Charles rolled off to avoid the sting of overstimulation.
“Why didn’t we do this weeks ago?” Charles asks, breathless.
“I don’t know if you remember this,” Max wraps one arm around Charles’ torso, “But a month ago you were homophobic.”
Charles presses the heels of his hands into his eyes with a groan while Max continues.
“Besides, homophobia or denial, where's the difference?”
Charles groaned again, louder.
“I am not talking about homophobia anymore,” Charles turns over, “I am going to sleep. Goodnight Max.”
Max follows Charles’ turn, spooning him and pressing his stomach against Charles’ back, drying cum and all. He laughs.
“Goodnight Charlie.”