Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Charles meets Max at the worst possible moment. 

He’s kneeling on the floor, red wine spreading unforgivingly all over the front of his Charvet shirt.

He was on his way to the living room, carefully holding the wine glass and clutching the pot full of pasta – he’d insisted he could hold both at the same time, he was not clumsy, thank you very much – when his brother’s cat started walking close to his feet, looking for attention and rubbing her body against Charles’ legs. Charles had just slowed his steps, thinking she’d go away if he ignored her, but she’d persisted.

He stepped on her tail on accident.

When she jumped and hissed, he got so scared he’d hurt her that he got wine all over himself in his haste to deliver the pot to the dining table, where everyone was waiting for him. 

There’s a whirlwind of movement around. People help him with the pot, ask if he’s okay. He doesn’t notice the newcomer until he’s on his brother’s hardwood floor, asking his cat for forgiveness. 

“Je suis vraiment, vraiment désolé,” he pleads as he pets her. She looks at him like he’s a particularly succulent rat she’d hunt just for fun. 

“You’re a disaster,” his brother Lorenzo announces, stepping into the living room. He’s wearing an apron and is holding a metallic ladle. 

“I’m not,” Charles whines. “Your cat got in the way.”

He looks up. Lorenzo has started serving pasta, people around him passing him empty plates and handing out full ones. 

The long dining table is full; Lorenzo had invited a mix of friends to his housewarming, and most of them came to celebrate him finally getting the apartment of his dreams. There’s people from different worlds – Charles being the most obvious one, but also some model friends of Lorenzo’s girlfriend, Lorenzo’s own colleagues from the university, and people he’s met around during his time in Milan.

When Charles stands up and joins the crowded table, he notices a new person. 

“Hello,” Charles greets him, holding his hand out. 

The other man looks startled. “I’m Max,” he says, shaking his hand.

He’s pretty, Charles notes in the back of his mind. Soft, blond hair, blue eyes, strong nose. Not conventionally attractive, but the more Charles looks at him, the prettier he gets. He’s wearing a white shirt and terrible skinny jeans, and looks a little awkward, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. 

“Charles, go change,” Lorenzo mutters while filling plates of pasta. 

“I can’t believe your cat ruined my shirt,” Charles complains. “It’s a good one.”

Lorenzo rolls his eyes, used to his antics. “Just get one of mine, you know where the bedroom is.”

Charles huffs, just to be dramatic, and does as he’s told. 

Lorenzo’s new apartment is airy, all in light tones. It has a spacious, modern living room, a white kitchen opening up just near the balcony door, and two bedrooms. It’s in the Isola neighbourhood of Milan. They can see the skyscrapers of the Garibaldi area and the neat rows of buildings in traditional Milanese style from the balcony. Charles knows the area pretty well; Pierre lives nearby, and he himself has visited the city too many times to count, ever since he started competing in karting series when he was a child.

Charles gets changed in the master bedroom, wiping at his chest and stomach in the en-suite bathroom to get rid of the sticky sensation of wine, and gets one of Lorenzo’s good shirts from the closet. He wants to look nice in the pictures. 

When he comes back in the living room, everyone is waiting for him. Lorenzo is standing up holding a wine glass. He patiently watches Charles take the empty seat to his left before speaking. 

“Thank you all so much for being here tonight,” he says. “You know coming to live here was a big decision for me. After getting my PhD I felt a little lost, and this city offered me more than I could have imagined. I met so many friends.” He smiles at them all. “I met the love of my life,” he continues, placing one hand on his girlfriend’s shoulder. “This city has been very good to me in the past few years, and seeing you all here, sat around the table in my dream home, I feel very lucky. I’m excited for what the future holds.”

They all clap their hands and make a toast before digging into the pasta. Lorenzo made the spaghetti from scratch and prepared the tomato sauce, adding ricotta in the last few minutes of cooking. It’s creamy and rich in Charles’ mouth.

Everyone rushes to compliment Lorenzo before conversation naturally splits into different groups. 

Charles gets asked several questions. Yes, he enjoys the city, and yes, he’s in Italy a lot, he’s just driven up from Maranello, actually; yes, he’s excited for the new season to start. 

One of the models asks him many questions throughout dinner; she’s been eyeing him all night, and Charles is not unaware of the attention. He’s used to it, after all these years in Formula 1. Many people want things from him. He tells her a bit about the celebrities that get invited to races around the world, but doesn’t offer much about his own life, and she doesn’t ask. She smiles and touches his arm lightly as they speak.

He flirts back just enough not to be forward. He enjoys this kind of attention, likes flirting with people, but he has an early morning tomorrow and is exhausted after a day at the factory in Maranello. 

They scatter around after dessert. Some sit on the couches in the living room, some go to the balcony for a smoke, glasses of prosecco in hand. 

Charles doesn’t know everyone at the party – wasn’t even supposed to be here, actually; he, his mum and his younger brother already had a dinner here a week ago, before everyone else. But Charles was too tired to drive back to Monaco after all those hours on the simulator and a meeting that went on even longer than he’d anticipated.  

At one point, he notices Max sitting at the dining table alone. Lorenzo’s cat is on his lap. He doesn’t look too bothered by the fact that he doesn’t have company; he’s relaxed back in his chair, one hand gently scratching the cat between her ears, expression thoughtful. 

“I can’t believe you tamed her,” Charles offers, taking a nearby chair. 

Max barely spares him a glance. “She’s a very sweet cat.”

“She’s evil,” Charles tells him seriously. 

Max looks up, frowning, but seems to decide Charles must be joking. “I think she’s just misunderstood.”

Charles smiles. He takes a sip of prosecco. 

“Are you a colleague of Lorenzo’s? From the university?”

“Not really,” Max answers. In his lap, the cat purrs steadily, reminding Charles of the gentle rumble of an engine. “I’m just visiting for my own research. But we, of course, met there, yes.”

Charles nods along, trying not to show how clueless he is. “So you are… visiting for your research,” he repeats. 

Max lifts his gaze, blinks. His eyes are a deep blue. “Oh, sorry,” Max says. “I thought you were from the university, as well. You seem close with Lorenzo.”

“He’s my brother,” Charles says, surprised. “You don’t– you don’t know who I am?”

Max looks even prettier when he raises his eyebrows, his full lips pursed. “Should I?”

Charles does the worst possible thing. 

He widens his eyes, face heating up. “I’m Charles Leclerc,” he sputters, like Max should know him from the name alone. 

He sounds like an entitled prick. At loss, not knowing what to do and fidgeting after realising his mistake, he takes a too-big sip of prosecco. His cheeks puff out and he struggles to swallow. He must look so ridiculous. He wants to close his eyes in shame and never open them again.

Max gives him a confused smile. “Who?”

As first meetings go, this one is a disaster. 

Later, when people start leaving, Charles observes Max from his spot on the couch. He’s – different, in a way Charles is not used to. He’s quiet, comfortable with himself but not really at ease in such social situations. And he barely looks at Charles. 

It’s not like everyone knows who Charles is. It’s not like he’s recognised everywhere he goes. Far from it. And he’s grateful. But here in Italy, people tend to know who he is. He knows the language, behaves and speaks like Italian people do, has dedicated one of his Championships to them, has his face plastered on promotional posters and advertisements around the country. He’ll probably get citizenship very soon.

It's not unsettling. But Charles finds himself eager to get Max’s attention, for Max to glance at him, for Max to talk to him. 

Max doesn’t. He just meets Charles’ eyes twice, but quickly looks away, caught, and keeps nodding at something Lorenzo’s friends from the university are telling him.

He and Charles had talked a little more as the night progressed. Mindlessly, just enough for Charles to feel the pull of curiosity drawing him in like an invisible thread. 

When Max eventually gets up and starts saying his goodbyes, Charles stands, as well, and meets him near the door. 

“It was nice meeting you,” he says, offering his hand.

Max clasps it easily, fingers a bit cold. “You too,” he smiles, lowering his eyes for a second, as if embarrassed. “Sorry I didn’t know who you are.”

“No, no, please. I really sounded like a dick,” Charles tells him seriously. “But– do you, now?”

“Do I…?”

“Know who I am?”

Max blinks, taken aback. Charles presses his lips together, hoping his idea will work and something good will come out of this mess. “I mean, someone kind of explained it to me, eventually.”

“I could tell you more about it over coffee?” Charles proposes, almost wincing at how dumb that sounds. His hands are sweating. 

“You want to invite me for coffee to explain your job to me?”

Charles feels heat rushing to his face. He’s unpleasantly warm in his brother’s nice shirt. “Sorry,” he mumbles, flustered– again. “I’m doing this all wrong. I’m just asking you out for coffee.”

Max considers him. He still looks startled and not entirely convinced. “I don’t like coffee very much.”

“Tea,” Charles suggests immediately. It’s not a no. “Iced tea.” It’s January. “Juice? Matcha?”

Max has gone pink, too, now. Pretty, Charles’ brain supplies. “Alright,” he says, hesitant. “What’s matcha?”

Charles’ heart gives an enthusiastic pull, and he breathlessly laughs at Max’s joke. “Cool,” he voices, relieved, and knows he’s smiling so wide his dimples are showing. 

Max doesn’t have social media. Not even a private Instagram account. Charles is sure he looks at him with adoring eyes for the rest of their exchange. He saves Max’s number, promising to text in the morning to set up a date and time. Max seems unsure about the whole thing, but departs soon after. 

Charles can’t do anything but stare at the new contact on his phone in amazement for several long moments. 

Until Lorenzo walks up to him, hands on his hips. “What the fuck.”

Charles looks at him, still thunderstruck. 

“Charles, seriously. What the fuck.”

Lorenzo goes on and on about how he and Max are just too different, and Charles is just wasting time because Max is a serious person, and they’re from different worlds, and can’t he see it will never work? And why does Charles have to go after his friend, anyway? 

Charles just smiles beatifically at him, phone warm in his hand. 

“Max will eat you for breakfast,” Lorenzo concludes, shaking his head. 

Charles’ smile grows. “Not if I eat him first.”

***

The morning after, Charles wakes up early and drives back to Monaco for a photoshoot. He barely has time to stop at his apartment to shower and have some fruit and granola to get him through long hours of make-up and posing. 

When he’s done, he sits in the car with his friend and assistant, Joris, and spends long moments contemplating Max’s number on his phone. He hesitates. Last night’s excitement has morphed into slight doubt. 

“What is it?” Joris asks. “You look weird.”

“Weird?”

“Like you’re pondering doing something you shouldn’t.”

Charles sighs and puts his phone down, starting the car. “It’s nothing,” he says. He navigates the familiar winding roads of Monte Carlo automatically. When he reaches Joris’ building, he turns to face him in his seat. “I could decide to do a stupid thing. But it’s too early to tell you about it.”

Joris studies his face. “Okay,” he accepts easily, accustomed to Charles’ bursts of crazy ideas. “You’ll tell me if this stupid thing becomes more?”

“You mean real? Dangerous?”

Joris opens his car door, bags and his two phones clutched into his hands. He’s always busy trying to give sense to Charles’ life. But he always finds time for him – to chat, to support, to make him reason. “Something like that.”

Charles watches him walking inside. He stays there for a few minutes, looking at people walking along the street, some holding grocery bags, some walking dogs, with light coats to shield from Mediterranean winter. 

It’s not like Charles makes a habit of embarking in adventures he knows have no future. But the temptation is too strong, sometimes. Forming real connections with the life he leads is not easy, but there are sudden moments where Charles tries, anyway. His schedule is difficult. He works most of the year, travels constantly, has more commitments to his team and with his sponsors than he’d like. 

He’s fragmented into small, polished versions of himself that he offers the outside world depending on the occasion, to the point he struggles to become whole again, at times. 

His life looks glamorous from the outside – parties, photographers, travelling the world. His past partners had assured they’d manage, that they were happy no matter what. 

Then the long hours, his constant absence, unwanted attention from fans and heavy loss of privacy had made his boyfriend pack up and leave after a few months. 

His girlfriend, on the other hand, thrived in it, so much that she started posting nice, private pictures on her social media for everyone to see – them in bed one Sunday morning, Charles half naked on his yacht, family lunches. Charles had shrugged, at first. But then he’d started feeling like his quiet, private moments with his loved ones were violated. Those pictures offered a window on his real life to someone who had no right to see it, bones thrown to famished packs of wolves ready to judge and lust after him, his relationship, his body. 

He’d endured it for a while, tried to talk to her multiple times, before putting an end to the whole thing. It had left him stunted for months. That was his last steady relationship.  

Charles drives to his own building, lost in thought. He makes himself a light lunch – turkey, courgettes and white rice with olive oil – and eats perched on a stool at the kitchen island, phone in hand, distractedly watching reels on his private Instagram account. 

His thoughts wander back to last night again. He sips his water, thinking about blue eyes and a soft, raspy voice. 

Hey Max, he texts. This is Charles.

Max doesn’t answer immediately. Charles has time to finish his lunch, load the dishwasher and recline back on his couch, before his phone lights up with a notification. 

Charles Leclerc?

Charles raises his eyebrows, typing, thinking Max must be fucking with him.

How many people named Charles have you met since last night?

I meet a copious amount of Charleses in my life, actually 

Charles frowns, googling “copious” just to make sure, before typing again. 

This particular one was wondering if you’d like that tea, or juice, or matcha 

Charles stares at the text bubbles appearing and disappearing on the WhatsApp chat. 

Yes, ok

Then, after a few seconds: 

I’m busy today, but we could do tomorrow or Friday afternoon?

Friday afternoon works for me 

No wine stains this time, I promise

And no further attempted murders from Lorenzo’s cat, I hope 

That makes Charles smile. 

They settle on a place and time for Friday. Charles doesn’t really feel as elated as last night, the momentum lost, but the thought that someone interesting and different wants to see him and doesn’t seem to care about him being famous is nice. 

The following days fly by in a mix of time with his trainer, brief PR commitments, and relax before the season starts again. Charles sees a couple of friends, plays padel, and goes to his mum’s for lunch.

On Friday, he almost cancels on Max. 

He just feels tired. A little hollow inside. His couch and television are very inviting. 

He dresses reluctantly, wearing light-wash jeans and a white sweater, throwing on a black coat and heavy scarf – Milan is way colder than Monaco in winter – and chooses the most inconspicuous car he owns for the three-hour drive. 

Three hours become four due to an accident on the way, right after Genova, which causes a long queue on the highway. He almost turns around and goes back home, but thinks that would be a dick move. But, another part of him reasons, he’s already behaved like a dick in front of Max. And he’ll never see him again. He could cancel last minute, if he wanted, and just forget about him. 

While he’s contemplating the possibility, traffic opens up. He gets to Milan not long after. 

When Charles emerges in the city centre from the underground parking lot, the air is crisp, cold but not unpleasant. The winter sun casts a timid, golden light on the nearby park and the surrounding historic buildings. He presses his beanie down over his ears and puts his hands in his pockets.

He spots Max before Max spots him, in a small, secondary street Charles takes to get to the main road. Max’s dark coat is buttoned all the way up, his neat blond hair almost glinting in the sunlight. He’s standing in front of an old bookshop. He’s looking at the window, but Charles can see he’s fidgeting with his hands; his fingers press on the knuckles of his other hand distractedly, gaze fixed on the same spot. 

Charles slows his steps. His heartbeat calms down as he observes Max. 

“Hey,” he calls quietly. 

Max startles minutely, turning to him. 

Very pretty, Charles thinks. 

“Oh,” Max says, taken aback by Charles’ presence. “Hi, Charles.”

Charles offers an uncertain smile. “Why do you look surprised to see me?”

Max watches him, inclining his head slightly to the right. There’s a glint in his eyes. “You’re forty minutes late. I thought you weren’t coming.” 

Charles stops, blinking at him. “I’m not late. It’s almost four.”

“We were supposed to meet at three.”

“We were not,” Charles gasps. He fumbles for his phone, glancing at the time (it’s 3:42) before opening their chat on Whatsapp.

Does 3PM work for you?

It does

See you then :) 

“Oh my god. I’m so sorry,” Charles groans. He covers his face with one hand, embarrassed, feeling humiliating heat crawling up his neck. “I didn’t even realise. I remembered wrong. And there was an accident on the way.” He gestures vaguely behind himself, face burning. 

Max looks at him as he speaks, his blue eyes boring into Charles’. “It’s okay,” he says, eventually. “You were lucky to find me here.” His tone is not accusatory, just factual. 

Charles is mortified. “I’m so sorry,” he repeats weakly. 

“Stop apologising,” Max tells him. His voice is low, gentle. He slips one hand inside his coat pocket, showing him the paperback nestled there. “I had company, and the sun is nice.”

“You’re not too mad?” Charles says, peeking at him guiltily. 

Max shrugs. “I wouldn’t still be here, if I was. And it sounds like you made a genuine mistake.”

“I did,” Charles assures him. 

They fall into step together, close but not touching. They turn right to the main street in the area, Corso Magenta. It’s one of the oldest neighbourhoods of Milan, elegant but not flashy, with mostly locals bustling around shops and cafés instead of the usual large crowds of tourists. 

“I love this part of the city,” Max says. “Do you live close by?”

Charles stammers. “More or less. I live not too far from here.”

It’s not a lie. Monaco is not too far. 

As they walk, Max tells him he’s been living in Milan for two months. “For research,” he says, without explaining what it means – but he’ll leave in a few weeks. He’s Dutch and Belgian and has spent his childhood in Belgium, before going to the Netherlands to study. 

“I got my Bachelor’s there, in Leiden, but moved to London for my Master’s,” Max tells him. 

A small yellow tram passes by noisily. 

“That’s cool,” Charles says, impressed. He knows people often move around Europe to study, but he still finds himself fascinated by Max’s life. 

He opens the door of the café for Max, waiting for him to enter before following him inside. The scent of chocolate and coffee tickles Charles’ nose pleasantly. 

A waitress leads them to a small marble table in no time. If she recognises Charles, she doesn’t show it. People around don’t pay them any mind, focused on their own coffees and pastries – a few elderly people dressed smartly and a mother with her toddler daughter, all speaking Italian amongst themselves in low tones. 

They hang their coats on the back of their chairs and Charles carefully removes his hat, running his fingers through his hair to tame it into some kind of order. 

“What would you like to get?” he asks as they study the menu. 

Max goes a little pink. “I heard the hot chocolate is really good here.”

“Oh,” Charles quips, surprised. “Good idea. I wish I could have it, too.”

When the waitress arrives, he orders the hot chocolate for Max and a green tea for himself. 

“Why can’t you have it?” Max questions. He looks cute, with his brows knitted together in confusion. His light blue sweater softens his features. 

Charles explains that the start of the season is approaching and he’s already doing tests and simulations with the team. “And I’m flying to Barcelona for a private test in a few days, so weight distribution is important.”

Max asks some follow-up questions about weight limits and how flexible Charles’ diet is, but he looks genuinely interested, leaning slightly forward while listening – like he’s curious, not like he’s prying into Charles’ life.

They both thank the waitress when she sets their cups and Charles’ teapot on the table along with some complimentary biscuits. 

Charles pours some tea into his cup. “So you live in London, still? Since you’re here just for research.”

“I currently live a bit further north from London. I’m doing my PhD. You know, uhm– my doctoral degree?”

“I know what a PhD is,” Charles says, amused. “My brother has one.”

He enjoys watching pink settling into Max’s face again. “Right, sorry.” Max is clearly embarrassed. 

Turns out, Max is doing his PhD in History at Cambridge. At Cambridge, Charles repeats in his head, trying to picture it but failing. It’s just too far from what he knows. Too different. 

He sips at his tea, trying not to stare too openly. “That’s so impressive,” he says. “You must be really smart. Like– have an élite brain. And doing History, too.” 

Max raises one eyebrow, lips twitching. “I think I have a regular brain.”

“No, no.” Charles waves his hand vaguely, trying to make him understand. “You must be a genius. It’s so impressive, Max. I don’t know what to say.”

“More impressive than your job?” Max counters lightly. “I doubt it.”

“I know many people who have the same job as me. I’ve never met someone like you.”

Max goes red again. Charles wants to find out all the ways he can make that happen. Is it the compliments? The attention? Is he flustered? Would he go even redder with Charles kissing him?

“You’re flattering me,” Max murmurs. He lowers his gaze to his cup. 

“I’m appreciating you,” Charles corrects, leaning his chin into his palm. But he senses a touch of discomfort in Max’s tone, and resorts to asking him silly questions about Cambridge to distract him.

No, Max explains, they don’t wear capes. He usually goes around by foot or bike. No, it’s not like Hogwarts – or at least, Max guesses it isn’t, because he’s never read the books or seen the films. Charles is so appalled by that he goes on a tirade about how much he loves them, and by the end of it, Max is back to being relaxed. He finishes his hot chocolate calmly, the spoon making a tinny sound against the cup’s sides. 

It's hard to understand if Max is even remotely interested. He’s hard to read. Composed, polite, reserved, but he could just be shy, Charles supposes. He had agreed to this date, after all; that has to count for something. 

For the first time in Charles’ life, he spends a date without talking about himself or his life.

He’s just too taken by Max. Max doesn’t seem to mind all the questions and Charles would dare to say he seems even pleased by them, like he’s not used to someone being so interested. 

He speaks with a slight lisp, probably due to his accent. It softens the s and z sounds, making them feel rounder.

“Here,” Max says at one point. He offers Charles his own cup of hot chocolate. “I left you some to try. It’s very good.”

Charles looks at it for a moment, trying to mask how touched he is.

He takes Max’s cup with unsure hands, dipping his own discarded spoon inside, gathering the last of the chocolate. “Thank you, Max. That’s so…” He struggles to find the right word. “So sweet.”

Max mumbles something inaudible. 

He’s adorable, Charles thinks. Hot. 

Charles puts the spoon into his mouth; it’s gone cold, by now, but the taste of the chocolate explodes pleasantly on his tongue. He does his best to act casual. His heart is beating fast. “It’s good. You have very good taste.”

Max glances up, curious. “Thanks?”

“But I have to ask,” Charles continues, leaning back into his chair. “Do you always share your treats with strangers, or am I special?”

He watches, transfixed, as an involuntary smile shyly curls at Max’s lips. “I don’t know,” he pretends to ponder, buying time. 

“Max,” Charles whines, making sad eyes at him. 

Max huffs out a laugh, but his next words come out in a soft, honest tone. “Yes, Charles. I’d say you’re special.”

Charles feels his chest tightening with warmth. He leans his cheek into his palm again, holding Max’s gaze. He’s sure they’re both blushing, this time, but Charles doesn’t feel embarrassed or nervous. “Well, I think “special” is a good place to start.”

Max hums, taking the cup back when Charles offers it. Their fingers brush briefly. 

“To start what?”

Charles glances outside the large windows, gaining time. The sun had set as they talked, lamplights illuminating evening life outside the café.

He wants to thread gently. Max is not what he’s used to.

Charles meets his gaze. “To see if this is something we both want to keep doing,” he says, tone light. “Talking, sharing chocolate.” 

Max’s expression is unreadable. Charles waits patiently, ignoring his own loud heartbeat. 

“I wouldn’t be opposed to that,” Max says, guarding his words. He’s back to fidgeting with his knuckles.

“Good,” Charles breathes. He smiles at Max in a way that showcases his dimples. Max smiles back timidly. 

“We didn’t talk much about your job, at the end,” Max tells him a bit later, after Charles has insisted on paying and they’re walking back along the main street. The air is chilly now, people going to happy hour or dinner dates rushing past them. “You didn’t get to explain anything to me.”

“Better this way,” Charles dismisses. He’s thankful they only grazed the subject. “Would you like a lift home? My car is this way.”

They slow to a stop in front of the windows of an old art studio.

“I’ll take the tram,” Max declines softly. “Thank you for the hot chocolate.” He just looks at Charles, maintaining his distance. 

As much as Charles would love a kiss from Max right now, despite how drawn to him he feels, he decides it’s better to wait. He needs to take it easy.

“Thank you for waiting for me,” he says sincerely.

He steps closer to kiss Max on the cheeks as goodbye. Then he forces himself to smile and mutter another farewell, turn around to get the car, and drive back to Monaco. 

The morning after, Charles is in bed, sleep pulling at the corners of his mind, contemplating just relaxing back under the duvet for a few more hours, when his alarm goes off again. 

He grumbles and bats around for his phone. When he lifts it to turn off the alarm and set another one for later, squinting at the screen, he notices he has a new text from Max. 

Good luck in Barcelona this weekend, it reads. 

Charles lets his phone drop beside him, rubbing his face on the pillow. A wide smile pulls insistently at his mouth. He tries to contain it, but it’s almost impossible. 

***

Charles feels ridiculous. 

In Barcelona he’s mentally restless; focused on the tests, but mind drifting elsewhere as soon as he has space for breathing. 

He goes through sessions on the circuit with Bryan’s voice as a familiar presence in his ear. They change setup multiple times, long stints and longer waits blending together. He meets with the team every few hours to give feedback and have intensive debriefs that sometimes spill late into the night. 

His shoulders and legs ache, neck stiff more often than not, but he only feels trepidation running into his veins along his blood. That steady, well-known hunger settles beneath his skin. 

He won his first Championship with a difficult, unreliable car, battling with it, with the track and with his competitors all at once over race weekends. He won his second with the best car he’s ever had. He’ll chase his third this year. 

But when he’s back at the hotel, alone in his room and silence all around him, his mind drifts back to Milan – to Max, the way he stood in front of the shop window, his calm and pragmatism as he explained his life at Cambridge, his blush high on his cheekbones when he’d allowed himself to be gently teased. 

They text occasionally, deciding to see each other again for dinner sometime next week. 

And Charles can’t stop thinking about him. 

It was one afternoon. One date. Basically nothing.

Charles has been in long-term relationships. He’s had one-night stands. He’s had magical first dates where he or his date had gone all-in, fabricating the most wondrous, perfect night, at crazy expensive Michelin restaurants, on luxurious yachts with the best view of the coast, where he’d been courted and charmed and fawn over, the night often culminating with very, very good sex – just to go back to the real world the day after. 

I’d say you’re special.

Charles thinks back about the way Max had said the words. Voice gentle, sincere. Based on a conversation that had nothing to do with Charles’ life or his job. Charles had mentioned he wished he could have hot chocolate, and Max had just left him some. Considerate.

I’d say you’re special.

Max didn’t say that because of Charles’ fame, lifestyle or work accomplishments. He said it after Charles had spent the afternoon asking if Cambridge really looks like a castle and if Max’s friends there are just as smart as him. 

Lorenzo even calls him one evening, once Charles has flown back home and is sorting through his clothes, trying to settle on an outfit for his second date with Max. 

He asks about how Barcelona was. Charles just tells him enough to make him excited for the season. Whenever he can, Lorenzo comes to races. Charles treasures having his loved ones close during race weekends; he thrives on their support and proximity, doesn’t like being alone in the paddock without familiar faces of what reality feels like. 

“And with Max?” Lorenzo asks after a while. “Did you actually go out?”

Charles discards a Aimé Leon Dore cable knit sweater. “We did,” he confirms, considering his blazers. Sometimes he thinks he has too many. But he likes having nice clothes. He gets his favourite Brunello Cucinelli blazer in corduroy, brown, but sighs. Too much. 

“And?” Lorenzo’s voice sounds metallic over the line. 

“We had a lovely time.”

If he can’t have his soft corduroy blazer, he’ll have corduroy trousers, he decides, shifting to stand at the opposite section of his walk-in closet. 

He’s always wanted a walk-in closet. It feels like shopping for his own clothes every day. It was his only request when he got the apartment – a walk-in closet, an en-suite bathroom, and a nice view over his country. Easy enough to get, when you have a lot of money. 

“That’s it?” Lorenzo asks, surprised. “No enthusiastic details, no declarations of love? No string quartets or crazy helicopter rides?”

“No,” Charles laughs. “We went to a café and talked.”

“And?” Lorenzo asks again. 

“And what?” 

Charles selects cream corduroy trousers and moves to the sweaters. 

“Charles. I’m dying here. Give me something.”

“We just talked. It was really nice.”

Charles can hear Lorenzo sigh on the speakerphone. He goes through his neatly folded sweaters, getting a dark green crewneck in soft cashmere. It’s Zegna. It’s comfortable and warm, and it looks nice, perfect for the dinner he’d planned. 

“I just can’t picture it. You and Max.”

That stings a little. Charles hangs his choices on the half-empty clothes rack by the door, bending down to retrieve a white t-shirt to wear under the sweater, as well. 

“We had a lovely time,” he repeats quietly. “I’m seeing him again tomorrow.”

“In Milan? Or are you whisking him away to Monaco’s grandeur?”

“In Milan. Can I sleep over if I’m too tired to drive back?”

Lorenzo is silent for a beat too long. “Don’t you plan to sleep at his place?”

“I don’t think so, no.”

More silence.

“Charles,” Lorenzo says gravely. “Are you actually serious? About this whole thing?”

The surprise in his brother’s voice stings even more. But maybe Charles deserves it. 

It happens. He throws himself into adventures without thinking twice, sometimes, enthusiastic and starry-eyed, until it all goes to shit.

“I’m trying to be. But you know how I am, yeah?” Charles bends his voice to sound light, amused. “Who knows, really.”

“It’s good to try, though,” Lorenzo tells him. His tone is a little softer. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow night, then.”

The phone call lingers in his mind for the rest of the evening, as he eats his trainer-provided and nutritionist-approved dinner and settles on the couch to watch the new episode of MasterChef France, and well into the next day. He goes on a run and to the gym with Arthur and visits his friends’ house to have coffee on their balcony after lunch, playing with their baby daughter until it’s time for her nap. 

He double checks the time he’d agreed with Max more than once, just to be sure.

Charles feels like he’s just collecting bad impressions, with him. He just hopes tonight will be good from start to finish. 

The restaurant he proposed is definitely on the high-end style, but in an understated way. It’s in a relatively new area of the city, at the top floor of a building overlooking a square with three lone skyscrapers and a park slithering through funny-looking, brand-new residential buildings.

It’s a nice place, perfect to have a good dinner without getting too much attention; exclusive enough that he and Max can stay as long as they want, without being interrupted by whispers or phones pointed to Charles’ face. 

Max told him he’d take the underground to get there, so Charles parks, checks his hair in the rearview mirror, and walks up the elevated square to meet him. 

He’s excited to see him. Excited to talk to him, get to know him more, maybe see if he can make him blush again. 

He recognises Max’s blond hair and lean frame immediately. He’s standing under a street lamp, phone in hand, but he looks up as Charles gets closer, as if feeling Charles’ eyes on him. He slides the phone into his pocket immediately. 

When Max smiles and tilts his head slightly, Charles mirrors him playfully. 

“Hello, Max,” he greets as soon as he’s close enough. He knows he’s wearing a giddy smile, but can’t hold it back. 

They kiss on the cheeks and go up to the restaurant. Inside, it’s all dim lights and quiet conversations, with tables far enough apart to grant intimacy. They are guided to a table in a secluded area, on the opposite side from the open kitchen that steals the patrons’ attention. 

Charles was a little worried Max wouldn’t feel comfortable, or that conversation would be stilted – it’s only their real second date, he reminds himself – but he really, really shouldn’t have. 

Max looks lovely under the soft lightning, attentive but relaxed. He’s wearing his terrible skinny jeans again. The blow is softened by a light blue button up that highlights the colour of his eyes, his hair, the paleness of his skin so often tinged pink. 

“You look beautiful,” Charles tells him once they’re sat. He says it sincerely, but he loves how Max widens his eyes and blushes, taken by surprise.

Max distracts Charles by asking how Barcelona was. It’s clear he’s not familiar with the world of Formula 1, so Charles tries to explain it as best as he can, just touching briefly on how the season works, travelling, how race weekends are structured. 

“There’s only twenty drivers in the world who get to do this,” he says, trying to convey how monumental that is. 

“But it’s mostly white European guys, right?” 

Charles falters. “Mostly white European guys, yes,” he confirms, wincing. The words feel foreign in his mouth. He doesn’t think he’s ever discussed that with anyone. “It’s a weird world. It’s not easy to get in, it’s very…” he struggles to find the right word in English. “Exclusive. Closed. Not everyone has the same chances.”

Their waiter clears their plates and promises to be back soon with their next course. Charles takes one moment to have some wine, looking around the restaurant. 

“You’ve been racing for a long time, then?” Max asks. 

“Since I was born, basically,” Charles nods. 

He tells Max how he was born in Monaco and how the loud rumble of the engine of F1 cars has been with him all his life – first as a toddler who laughed every time he heard the funny noise, then as a wide-eyed kid just starting karting competitions, and as a teenager desperately trying to make it into higher series. 

Max has to gently remind him to eat as they talk, Charles growing animated the more he explains how much it means, how essential it is to him. 

“I asked a friend about you,” Max tells him at one point. He moves his fork around his empty plate, keeping his gaze lowered. “He said you’re a big deal. Told me you have two– World Championships? Is that the right term?”

Charles smiles, endeared. “It’s the right term. And I do, yes.”

“Right,” Max lets out a quiet laugh. “Just casually having dinner with someone who’s won the biggest thing in his field, twice.” Before Charles can open his mouth and reassure him, he continues, “Does the second time feel different? Is it something you get used to?”

Charles has to take a few moments to ponder his answer. 

“It’s my dream come true,” he says eventually, voice low. He feels himself shiver. “The first time definitely felt more emotional. Just pure happiness and relief. I won it on the last race of the season after fighting with my car all year.”

“Was it hard?” Max asks. 

“The hardest year of my career. But I’ll never forget how it felt to cross the finish line and become Champion. After, I realised how much I had to give up to get there, how much I’d gone through. And how I’d do it again immediately.” As he speaks, he fights the strong urge to sugarcoat it the way he usually does. “The second time was definitely very special, but I felt less off-balance and enjoyed the process a little bit more.”

“Did you have to give up a lot?”

“Time,” Charles answers immediately. “People, sometimes. Sense of normalcy. Your life narrows down to that specific goal you have, and you do everything you can to accomplish it. It’s easy to get wrapped up in my world and forget what’s outside.”

Max frowns, like he’s trying to picture it. He’s looking at Charles with clear, inquisitive eyes, the moment suspended around them. “And it was still worth it?”

“It is worth it.” Charles gives him a tight smile. “But I realised it’s not something I like doing alone.”

He watches as Max fits his gaze around the room, thinking. Charles tries to imagine what’s going on inside his mind, what he feels. 

“I don’t know much about your world. I don’t know how it works,” Max admits. Charles nods; he knows – he likes it. “But I can understand that. Your focus reducing to that one thing that becomes the most important in the world, so much that nothing else seems to exist.”

Charles stares at him. “That’s exactly it. You get it?”

“I do,” Max smiles gently.

“You’re so interesting, Max. Fascinating.”

“Is this an experiment, then?”

“Isn’t it always?” Charles makes a wide gesture to include the restaurant, their empty plates, them both sitting in front of each other. “Isn’t going out with someone new always an experiment?”

Max presses his lips together, like Charles has surprised him. “I guess,” he concedes. “But I meant– Am I an experiment to you? To see if someone like you could get on with a boring academic like me?”

“You’re not boring,” Charles counters automatically. 

“Charles.”

“It’s not like that. It’s nothing like that. I think you’re interesting, and you treat me like a person.” 

“That’s a bit of a low bar.”

“Not for me,” Charles offers, earnest. “I’m sorry if I made you feel like you’re just an experiment. I know we’re from different worlds. I’m not trying to– to see if you fit into my life. I’m curious about yours. And I like that I’m getting to know you,” he adds, very carefully, doing his best not to overwhelm Max.

They study each other. Charles releases a soft breath, body tingling with vulnerability. He’s not used to speaking so plainly to his dates. He’s not used to proceeding with so much caution. Not used to making it count so much. 

“Okay,” Max says softly. “Do you want to split dessert?”

Charles has to stop himself from throwing himself across the table and hug him. Or maybe kiss him breathless. Mess up his neat hair with his hands, press kisses on his pink cheeks until he reaches his lips.

“Choose whichever one you like,” he breathes. 

Max decides on a fancy chocolate mousse with a cocoa crumble base and chocolate ganache. Charles eats a spoonful and has to pause and sigh from how good it is. 

“You really like chocolate,” he observes lightly. 

Max’s mouth twitches. “I like it a normal amount. You love it.”

Charles pauses, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Did you– did you get this dessert because I love chocolate?”

“I thought you’d like it.”

It’s like something settles and catches fire in Charles’ chest at the same time. He can’t contain the helpless, pleased smile that breaks across his face, heart beating a little too fast. “Max, you’re ruining all future dinner dates for me. I’ll have to have them all with you.”

Max shifts, but there’s a blush across his cheeks and nose, a faint smile curling at his mouth. “Finish your dessert, Charles.”

As they eat, the Chef makes the rounds in the restaurant, greeting guests and asking if the food is of their liking. He stops by their table briefly, graciously saying hello to both, making small talk with Charles for a minute.

Once they’re done, Charles pays the bill, ignoring Max’s quiet protests (he’s paying, he says calmly, because he wants to and he chose the restaurant – and, he thinks to himself, it’s an expensive one; not only that, but he likes treating people to a nice meal). 

They take the lift to go back outside. Charles’ palm hovers on the small of Max’s back, not touching but silently leading him, fingers itching to feel the warmth of his skin. He really doesn’t want to let Max go, now. There’s so much he wants to know, so much he wants to learn about him. So little time to do it.  

The air is chilly, the world around them muted. Charles can only hear the sound of distant traffic. 

“Do you want to take a walk?” Max asks, tilting his head to the nearby park. 

Charles considers it. It’s really nothing special under the lamplights. Just a regular park and luxury residential buildings. “Not very nice for a date. We could go somewhere better.”

“It’s quiet and no one’s around to recognise you,” Max reasons. 

Charles finds himself nodding along, absorbed by the sight of him, and before he knows it, he’s strolling through the green area with Max at his side, hands in pockets and chins tucked inside their coats. 

“Can I?” Charles asks after a while. When Max nods, he loops his hand gently around Max’s arm and just keeps walking. “Tell me about your research.”

A faint smile curls at Max’s lips. “You know it’s about ancient warfare. The focus is mostly on logistics, strategy, but also on the human side, especially on how societies dealt with everything going to hell. It’s a mix of history and politics, which, in my opinion, always go together.” He turns to look Charles in the eye. They’re very close. “There’s a lot of sources, but I’ve had so much fun with it. More than I probably should.”

Charles hangs off Max’s lips as he follows him through the explanation of what he’s been working on and how his dissertation feels almost complete. He tells Charles he’s been to Greece, Türkiye, and Southern Italy for his project, collaborating with archaeologists and meeting with researchers and professors in the field. He’s composed, as always, but his tone is eager, like he genuinely enjoys talking about this. He sounds exactly like Charles does while talking about racing. 

“You’re staring,” Max comments, matter-of-fact. 

“I’m not,” Charles lies. Badly. “Okay, maybe a little.”

“Why?”

“I like listening to you.”

They turn back around without speaking, in sync. 

“You’re strange,” Max murmurs. “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone like you.”

“Good strange?” Charles tightens his hold on Max’s arm minutely, fingers flexing over the sleeve of his dark coat. 

“Good strange.” Max doesn’t look away. 

Charles wants to draw him closer. His hands are prickling with restraint. He makes himself lower his gaze and breathe out steadily, trying to centre himself.

“Would you like a lift home?” he asks instead. “It’s late to get public transport.”

“Just a lift?” Max’s voice takes a careful, uncertain tilt. 

“Just that. Let me drop you off.”

When Max agrees, it feels like a small victory. He leads Max to his grey Ferrari Purosangue and opens the passenger door for him with a playful flourish. 

As Charles follows the directions to Max’s address, the silence between them is thick, but not uncomfortable.

The low, familiar hum of his car is soothing. Next to him, Max is sitting with his back straight but relaxed, his hands folded in his lap. The faint scent of their colognes mixes with the leather inside and the faint perfume of laundry detergent. 

“Thank you for the lift. And for dinner,” Max says ten minutes later, when Charles pulls up outside his building. 

“Anytime, Max. I had a really nice evening.”

He doesn’t wait for Max’s reply, getting out and running to the other side to open the passenger door before Max can do it. Max slides out with a quiet “thank you”. 

They look at each other for a long moment. 

“Can I see you again soon?” Charles keeps a respectful distance, hands in his pockets. 

Max observes him. “Yes.”

“Cool, that’s cool” Charles babbles. He takes two steps back, ready to get into the car again. “I’ll text you tomorrow, okay?”

Max just nods. He’s watching Charles with interest, like he’s entertained, lips twitching to contain a smile. 

“Goodnight,” Charles says. 

“Charles.”

“Yes?” He almost winces at how eager he sounds. 

“You can kiss me if you want.”

“Can I?” Charles breathes. 

Max’s smile grows, amused.

Charles steps closer. His heart is beating fast like it wants to burst out and kiss Max itself. 

They don’t get it right at the first try. Charles leans in, hesitating, and their noses bump awkwardly. They both laugh under their breath. Charles presses their lips together briefly, testing. 

He leans back. Max is looking at him with his eyebrows raised, as if to say, “Is that all?”

Charles curls one hand around Max’s jaw, draws him in, and kisses him for real. 

Max’s lips are plush – soft and warm, but firm as he responds. Charles presses long, lingering kisses to his mouth, then gently takes his bottom lip between his teeth, dragging them over it to feel how full it is. He hums low into his throat, appreciative. Max lets out a tiny, inquisitive sound in response, but Charles just uses his hold to gently tilt his head to the side, and swallows it by licking into his mouth. 

Before they know it, Charles has Max pressed against his Ferrari. One hand holds him steady by the jaw, the other curling around the warm skin of his neck. Max tastes faintly of the chocolate of the dessert. Charles kisses him again and again, wanting to taste like Max, wanting Max to taste like him, heat and adrenaline making his body tingle, feeling hot all over. 

“God, Max,” he murmurs. He pulls Max in another slow, wet kiss, savouring the sensation of having him right there.

Max is responsive and lovely, surrendering with a gasp that’s lost between their lips as he lets Charles guide their kisses.

Flashes of how this could go keep swirling inside Charles’ mind. Dragging Max upstairs, unwrapping him layer by layer like a present. Gently teasing him by mapping out his body with his fingers and lips and tongue. 

Max separates with a final, lingering press of their mouths. Charles follows him like a helpless puppy, his gaze trained to his red, puffy lips, until Max notices and laughs under his breath, bringing him back to reality. 

“Wait,” Charles pleads. He cups Max’s face into his hands and kisses him once, twice, three times in quick succession, eyes fixed on his mouth and the freckle he has on his upper lip. “I’ll see you soon, okay?” 

“Yes,” Max mumbles. He’s blushing again. 

Charles waits for him to close the front door behind him, before he starts the car and drives to Lorenzo’s apartment with a giddy smile. 

The next morning, Charles bites his lip as he sends Max a tentative text to ask if he’d like to have breakfast together, if he’s not busy. Max says yes. 

It’s the best breakfast of Charles’ life. They talk, and eat fresh croissants at the bakery just behind Max’s building, and talk some more, and kiss a little, and Max is really, simply lovely, Charles decides. 

***

They text frequently. Max’s replies are a bit dry, as usual, until he kind of– disappears. 

He starts replying less and less. He seems his usual self over WhatsApp, but one day, Charles’ text goes unanswered for ten hours. He writes back immediately when Max finally replies, trying to catch him still on his phone.

But Max apparently doesn’t use his phone for the next several hours. Charles debates internally before sending another text, quietly inquiring if everything’s okay. It goes ignored. 

Max is busy, Charles reasons. It’s normal. Maybe he doesn’t like to text. Maybe his phone broke, or got stolen. 

Maybe Charles was too much. Too excited. Too present. Too pushy. 

Maybe Max realised Charles is not worth it, like many before him. Maybe Max is not interested anymore. Maybe he never was. 

What if someone caught them together and people are stalking Max, and he got overwhelmed or scared? But a quick search on social media doesn’t show Charles anything out of the ordinary; throwbacks from last seasons, thirst posts about his body or face, and enthusiastic fans looking forward to the new season. 

A part of Charles is outraged at the prospect of getting ghosted by Max. Ghosted. 

A bigger part of him is drowning in self-doubt.

He’s a little sad; he feels sorry for himself, but also feels a strange kind of sorrow about losing something that could have become such a good thing. Charles felt so good, with Max. Like he could be his own authentic – a bit ridiculous, definitely too eager, but ultimately very sweet – self, and have that accepted instead of frowned at. 

Was it all in my head? he wonders, biting at his lips nervously. 

It makes his heart ache a little. He feels stupid about it. But his breath stutters when he inhales. 

He projected, as usual. He was foolish to believe it could work. Better sooner than later, he convinces himself. At least he didn’t have the time to properly catch feelings. That would have been bad. 

Days pass slowly. 

Yes, he concludes. It was all in my head.

“How’s the stupid thing going?” Joris asks him on the morning of the fourth day, as they’re driving back from a sponsor meeting. When Charles turns to look at him, confused, he elaborates, “A few weeks ago, you said you were thinking of doing a stupid thing, but that it was too early to tell me about it.”

“Oh,” Charles mumbles. “No, it– it never happened.”

“Are you sure?” Joris prods gently. He’s the one driving, this time. Charles doesn’t really like being driven around, but he almost doesn’t notice how wrong it feels to be in the passenger seat, now. “You look off.”

Charles ponders his answer. “Yeah, uhm. It’s already over. So.”

“I’m sorry.” Joris nudges his thigh with his knuckles, before placing his hand on the gearshift. “You deserve better.”

Do I? Charles wonders but doesn’t say. 

Too much. Too extra. Too excited. Too clingy. 

Shame curls into his gut. He’s embarrassed – not by Joris’ words, but at himself. At how he got caught into an impossible thing and lost it before it even started properly. He’s embarrassed at how keen he was to drive three hours to Milan, repeatedly, and how he’d asked his brother to let him sleep over so he didn’t have to drive back in the middle of the night, making him part of it. 

Lorenzo had asked questions, obviously. He’d looked a mix of amused and puzzled when Charles got to his apartment after his dinner with Max and refused to give him details, limiting to describing how good of a night it had been. He’d tried to contain himself, but knew his eyes were shining, his smile a little too wide. 

It’s fine, he tells himself. There will be someone, one day.

Someone who likes him for who he is and grows to love him in quiet, soft moments away from camera flashes, away from luxury trips, away from crowds demanding things from him. Someone he can dote on and who is good to him in return. Someone who feels like home. Someone Charles can lean on. 

Charles’ hands ache from his longing to have that. Sometimes, he can feel it dangle in front of his eyes, invisible and inestimable, and just wants to grab it, cradle it carefully close to his chest, and never let it go.

He blinks. Swallows, smiles faintly. “It’s okay,” he says, forcing his voice to come out light, self-deprecating. “It was impossible, anyway.”

***

When his phone starts ringing, Charles almost doesn’t answer it. 

He’s dripping and his shoulders ache after his run. He’s pushed himself a bit more than usual, trying to drown his tangled thoughts in sweat. 

His apartment is quiet around him, the faint buzz of the electronic appliances and the distant sounds of the city below keeping him company as he makes his protein shake and gets the pre-prepared oatmeal bowl out of the fridge. 

He groans when the phone’s ringtone breaks the quiet. It’s probably someone from Ferrari, or Joris. They’re leaving for Bahrain in a week.

He’s almost tempted to let it ring out and call back after breakfast, but his brain supplies a series of what ifs that make him shuffle towards the kitchen island to peek at the screen.

His eyes widen. 

“Max?” he answers. His voice comes out strangled, and he’s a little light-headed, feeling half elated, half worried. A quick look at the digital clock on the oven confirms it’s just past eight. 

There’s a rush of air on the other side, like Max just let out a breath. “Hey.” His voice sounds tinny over the line. “Charles. Hey.”

“Hi?” Charles tries. “Uhm, is everything alright?”

Max is silent for a few seconds. “Yeah,” he says quietly, but it doesn’t sound like it’s alright. “I’m so– Charles, I’m so sorry I stopped replying and ignored you. I really didn’t mean to.”

“Oh. It’s okay.” Charles forces a smile in his voice. “Don’t worry about it, it happens.”

“Don’t do that, Charles,” Max chides softly, and Charles freezes. “I’m sorry I hurt you by disappearing that way.”

Charles grips his phone harder. “Okay,” he mumbles. “Thanks.”

He feels off-balance. Max is not offering excuses or waiting to be reassured that everything’s fine; he hasn’t taken the easy way out. He’s said sorry without conditioning it to something else – without performing and rushing Charles into saying “It’s okay” before swiftly moving on. 

Charles presses his fingers into the edge of the kitchen island, the marble cool under his touch. Max feels steady on the other end of the line.  

“I’m also sorry about calling you this early. And calling at all without warning, actually.” 

“That’s really fine,” Charles says. “I just got back from my morning run. And I like calls.” I missed you, he thinks. Missed listening to you. 

“Alright.” Charles can hear the small, shy smile in Max’s voice. It makes something warm settle between his ribs. “I really didn’t mean to disappear like that. I understand if you’re angry. I saw all your texts, and every time I thought, “I’ll reply properly in a minute”, because I didn’t want to send you a shitty text just to send it, you know? But every time, things kept– happening, I guess, and I tried so hard to keep everything under control,” Max says, tone quiet. “I got overwhelmed. When I get like that, I kind of… shut everything out. I isolate myself.” He exhales. “But it wasn’t fair to you.”

Charles speaks after a beat. “Okay. Thank you for telling me. I wasn’t angry, just worried. And maybe a little hurt.” He winces at the honesty of it, but pushes himself through it. “I thought you changed your mind about seeing me.”

“I didn’t.” 

“I know I can be a lot,” Charles whispers, unsure. “Not only the world I come from, but– me, in general. I know I can get too much.”

“You didn’t get too much, Charles. Not even close.” Max’s voice is earnest. 

“Do you want to tell me about it? About what happened?” 

“Sure.” Max sounds a bit lighter. It’s like he expected the worst – expected Charles to berate him, or be resentful toward him. “Do you want to meet, actually? We could go to a café again. I have a couple of hours free.”

Oh, fuck. 

It’s the first time Max has outwardly asked him on a date. And Charles can’t go. 

Because Max still thinks he lives in Milan. 

“I can’t– I’m not. Uhm. I’m home,” he blurts out.  

“Yeah, in what area do you live? I’ve always meant to ask.”

Charles grips the phone tighter. He needs the ground to swallow him. His kitchen is silent, making him feel even more pathetic at the sound of his voice so loud around him. 

“Max, I need to tell you something,” he starts, voice wavering. “I did not want to lie to you. But I didn’t correct you when you assumed. And, uhm. I’m sorry.”

“Just tell me.” 

“I don’t live in Milan,” Charles admits. His face feels on fire, his hands clammy. “I live In Monaco. You asked me if I lived close by and, uhm, it’s not that far, really.”

A moment passes.

Charles hears Max’s surprised intake of breath, and then Max is laughing.

“Charles, what?” he asks, laughing at him. 

“Max,” Charles whines weakly, embarrassed. He covers his eyes with his free hand, smiling despite himself. “Don’t laugh.”

“I’m sorry.” There’s a smile in Max’s voice. Charles desperately wishes he could see him right now, see the laugh lines around his eyes, trace them with his fingertips. “Did you– did you drive here every time we went out?”

“Yes,” Charles admits. “I used Lorenzo’s spare room when I didn’t feel like driving back.”

“That’s a lot of driving.”

“Comes with the job,” Charles jokes lamely. 

But Max lets out another rush of laughter on the line. “You’re ridiculous.” He doesn’t say it meanly, but more like he’s fond, making Charles bite back a smile, face still flushed. He wonders if Max is blushing, too. 

“I know.”

“I can’t believe it. It’s kind of cute, though.”

“Is it?” Charles perks up. 

 Max hesitates, like he’s pondering his words. “It means you really wanted to be here.”

“I did.”

They breathe together over the line. Charles’ stomach grumbles in hunger a little, but he doesn’t move from where he’s propped on the kitchen island. 

Max speaks again after a few moments. “You remember I’m going back to the UK, right? You can’t drive from Monaco to Cambridge.”

Try me. “Right. When are you leaving Italy?” 

“In a few days, probably. It’s part of the series of things that have been stressing me out,” Max explains. “Let me make some tea and I’ll tell you about it.”

Charles hears some shuffling sounds on the other end. He tries to picture Max moving around his kitchen, and his stomach grumbles again. “I’ll have breakfast, too,” he decides, moving to his forgotten protein shake and his oatmeal bowl. “It’ll be like a date, yeah? Just… not in presence.”

Max’s voice goes soft again when he quietly agrees. They eat as they talk, and if Charles closes his eyes, he can pretend Max is there, sitting at the kitchen island with him – him sipping his tea, Charles with his overnight oats and blueberries. 

He’s missed his voice. God, he’s missed his kisses.

Max tells him about the issues he’s had with his research project and how his supervisor had asked him considerable changes last minute, how he’d been holed up in his room to try and make up for it, and how frustrated he’d felt at working with so much urgency and having to change so much of his focus in so little time. 

It’s oddly domestic. It’s something Charles has never quite experienced this way; the calmness and ordinary nature of it settle warmly beneath his skin, as he listens to Max speak like it’s their routine. 

“It sounds really stressful,” Charles offers. “I’m sorry that happened.”

“It just had the worst timing ever. And then heating stopped working and I’ve been kind of cold for days. On top of that, the airline cancelled my flight to London and instead of rebooking me on another one, they just gave me my money back. And I’ve already sent a couple of boxes with all my stuff ahead, because I wanted to travel light,” Max adds. “So the boxes will get to Cambridge before me, and I still need to arrange for someone to get them or get in contact with the shipping company and ask them to delay, and I have to leave the house the day after tomorrow by my contract, and– yeah, sorry. It’s just a lot.”

“It sounds really hard, though. Especially with your heating not working. Is it better now?”

“Kind of? I’m just being dramatic, but I get cold easily.”

“It’s not dramatic.” Charles smiles. “You should have asked to sleep over at someone’s, even Lorenzo, he would have offered you a room in a heartbeat. Or you could come here,” he jokes, glancing up at his kitchen and the living room beyond the arch. “It’s pretty warm.”

“I didn’t feel like asking people for hospitality,” Max says, defeatedly. “Didn’t like the idea of being a burden or imposing my presence.”

“It was just for a few days, right? And what’s with the airline, anyway? You can’t find an earlier flight?”

“They’re just all crazy expensive now, so I’ve been hesitating to buy a ticket. Which just made everything worse. I think I’ll just take a day off and try to go by train.”

Charles nods to himself, thinking. He bites his lower lip. He has an idea – over the top, probably, but so simple.

“I’m just going to say this and you can say I’m crazy, if you want. It’s fine. But I’d really like if you accepted my offer.”

“Do you always give out a warning before revealing insane bits of information about yourself? Just blurt it out.”

“I could help you get home in Cambridge faster. With zero stress, after the week you’ve had,” Charles tells him hesitantly. “I have a private jet. I could come to Milan and take you back to the UK. I’d love to help you.”

Max is silent for a long, long moment. “Charles,” he says at last, voice faint. “Are you insane?”

“Think about it! I mean it. It would be much easier for you. I hate that you had such a hard week and have to move countries at the same time. I know how tiring that is, physically and mentally.”

“Charles, I can’t– this is huge.”

Charles focuses on breathing in and out calmly as Max comes to terms with the extent of his wealth – with how easy it is to offer things most people wouldn’t even dream of. “I know,” he whispers. “Let me do this for you.”

“You’re really serious about this,” Max notes, still stunned. 

“Yeah. Only if you’re comfortable. It’s– it’s not a big deal, Max.”

“Wow.” After a moment, Max adds, “I guess this is your life, right? It’s… kind of unbelievable.”

“That’s not a no,” Charles says, still frozen on his stool at the kitchen island. 

“No,” Max admits. “I’m just trying to wrap my head around the fact that you’d do something like that for me.”

“I would. If you’d let me.”

Silence stretches again. Charles stares at the empty bowl in front of him, waiting, heart thudding into his chest. 

At last, he hears Max exhaling over the line.

“Okay,” Max whispers, unsure. “If you’re serious, and if you can.”

“Really?” 

“Really. I can’t believe I’m saying yes, but, if you’re sure, then yes.” Max pauses. “But I’m getting the train to Monaco. I can’t let you fly here just to turn around.”

Charles bites at his lips. “But Max, it will take you so long, and you’ll need to change trains. I know because Lorenzo did that once, it took him hours. Can we compromise?”

“What do you mean?”

“You can take the train to Genova. I’ll come get you there with my car.”

“Why would you do that? It’s just a hassle for you.”

“It’s fine,” Charles insists quietly. “I want to.”

They talk logistics after that. Max still sounds dazed, but when Charles proposes they leave tomorrow already, he agrees. 

“I already have all my stuff packed, and I have to leave, anyway,” he explains. “Tomorrow would be great.”

“I’ll have to check with my team for flight times, but we can do tomorrow.”

“Okay.” Max sounds a bit out of breath. 

“I’ll text you to confirm,” Charles tells him, softly. He shoots Joris a text asking him to handle the trip from Nice to London with the charter company. 

“Charles,” Max says a few minutes later, before they hung up. “Thank you so much. I’m– I’m struggling to find the right words, but it really means a lot.”

Charles feels his lips curve into a small, bashful smile. Max sounds so sincere. This kind of gratitude is something he’s not used to. “Of course, Max. I’ll text you later, okay? And I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Max tells him, voice faint. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Charles ends the call.

He looks around his kitchen; it’s bright and homely, sunlight spilling inside from the open window. He never noticed how much he likes this space – how he loves his marble counters and the light blue cabinets, how it feels shiny new and lived-in at the same time. He got the apartment a few years ago, but he still marvels at the thought of having it.

He walks around the island and goes to stand in front of the window. Outside is sunny, Monte Carlo extending below, sea glimmering in the distance. The beauty of it all is almost blinding. 

***

Max looks even prettier than Charles anticipated. He has a small carry-on and is wearing a heavy coat, probably in prevision of England’s much colder weather. A book is peeking out from the left pocket. 

Charles drinks him in greedily; his blond hair neatly swept to the side, his defined features softening when he spots Charles. A blush colours his pale cheeks when their eyes meet. 

“Max,” Charles says, a giddy smile bursting out of him as soon as Max is near enough. Unable to contain himself, he opens his arms, bouncing a little on his feet as he waits. 

Max smiles, too, as he gets closer. It’s a small, timid thing, the corners of his mouth twitching as if he wants to keep himself in check. “Hello,” he says a bit awkwardly, his voice a soft rasp. 

Charles doesn’t hesitate to wrap him in a hug as soon as he can. He gently draws Max close, arms winding around his neck, relishing the feeling of having him back and refusing to feel awkward.

If Max is surprised by the enthusiasm, he doesn’t show it. He folds himself easily around Charles, hands going to stroke his back. 

“Hey,” Charles murmurs, pressing a kiss to his jaw.

He cups Max’s cheek into his palm, wanting to just look at him for a few moments. Max gazes back, eyes soft. 

“You look like an American,” he observes. His fingers brush the brim of Charles’ green cap, eyes gliding over the dark sunglasses tucked in the collar of the sweatshirt, his dark coat. “You’re only missing a coffee paper cup.”

Charles chuckles, still pressed close. “It’s my undercover kit. A random cap, sunglasses, black coat.” He leans in again, placing a kiss to Max’s cheek, another to the corner of his mouth. He swipes his thumb over his full bottom lip. “Missed you,” he whispers against Max’s skin before kissing him. 

Max makes a soft sound in response. His lips part for Charles’ automatically, breath hitching as their tongues slide together languidly. He removes Charles’ cap when they separate for air. 

“I missed you, too,” he mumbles, pink-cheeked and lovely. 

Charles curls his fingers in the hair at the back of Max’s head. It’s thick and soft, a bit dry. He makes a mental note to recommend his own conditioner.

“Baby,” he sighs. The name makes Max shudder, and Charles smiles against his lips. “You’re so sweet.”

“Shut up,” Max whispers without real heat.

Charles just leans in to kiss him again.

He keeps one hand firmly in Max’s hair, the other sliding down to the small of his back, fingers splaying over his coat. Max exhales into the kiss – another quiet, involuntary sound that makes Charles’ stomach flip.

Max’s hands cling on Charles’ shoulders, gripping lightly then relaxing, as if testing the closeness and deciding he likes it. 

When they separate, Max glances around the empty parking lot. “Why,” he starts. His arms wrap around Charles’ neck casually, cap still clutched in one hand. “Do I always end up pressed against your car?”

Charles breathes out a giggle. Delighted by the teasing, he presses two quick kisses to Max’s upper lip, where his freckle is. “Exactly,” he hums. “I have you against my car. I can’t help it.”

Max’s mouth curls up in a half-smile. He raises his eyebrows. “So you’re one of those obsessed with their cars? Do you give them names and call them your girls?”

“Never,” Charles sputters, eyes wide, and they laugh. 

He takes Max’s carry-on, hauling it in the trunk, and goes around the car again to open the door for him. 

Max clears his throat. “You don’t have to do this every time,” he mumbles. 

Charles leans in to press a quick kiss to his pink cheek. “Okay,” he shrugs. “I will, anyway.”

While driving down from Monaco, Charles had asked himself if the whole thing would turn out to be awkward. After Max ignored his texts and isolated himself, hurting Charles in the process, Charles feared the drive would be stilted and uncomfortable. But they make light conversation until they’re out of the city, then Max sighs and says he’s sorry again, and they end up talking about how their own past week was, each narrating his own. 

Max seems to relax more and more as he talks and lets everything go. He tilts his head back into the passenger seat, turning slightly towards Charles. It’s like he’s finally allowing himself to loosen up and unwind after all the stress. 

By the time they pass the Principality of Monaco, he’s leaning back into his seat with his coat unbuttoned. His fingers are curled lightly around Charles’ cap on his lap. 

“I’ve never been here,” he observes. “Never had the chance to visit the south of France, nor Monaco.”

An automatic smile curls on Charles’ lips. He keeps his eyes on the familiar road. “I love it. It’s where I grew up.”

“You’ve always lived here, right?”

“Yes,” Charles says softly. “Never saw any reason to leave. It’s a special place to me.”

“It’s home.”

“It is,” Charles answers. Voice light and casual, he adds, “I’ll show you one day. I’ll take you around all my favourite places.”

Max just hums. Charles can’t really interpret it – can’t tell if it’s interested, or just polite, or if Max doesn’t care about seeing his home country at all. 

He clears his throat and stops wishing he could read Max’s mind. “Do you like living in England?” he asks instead.

Max hums again, but this time, it’s self-deprecating. “I don’t dislike it,” he says carefully.

When Charles makes a noise to signal he’d like to know more, Max continues, “Cambridge is home, for now, but I know it’s temporary. When I was living in London, I knew I wouldn’t stay forever, and even before, in the Netherlands– I mean, I spoke the native language, of course, and got by well enough, but I still ended up moving away.”

“Do you miss Belgium, then?” Charles asks, trying to understand. He takes the exit to Nice. 

“Not always,” Max says. “I grew up there. Of course, it feels like home sometimes. But I think I’ve overgrown it– or the place I’m from, at least.”

“Is it nice? Wait.” Charles frowns, a thought striking him. “If you grew up in Belgium, do you speak French?”

“I learned it in school as a second language. I’m not fluent, I haven’t practiced in years–”

“Alors, si je te parle français, tu comprends ?”

“No, no.” Max shakes his head vigorously in the periphery of his vision. “Don’t make me speak French with you, please.”

Charles’ eyes light up. He laughs, endeared. “Ah bon ? Mais tu me comprends quand même ?”

There’s a pause. “Ça dépend,” Max mutters. 

Charles gasps. “That’s so cool,” he says, switching back to English. 

“It was my least favourite subject at school. My teacher was terrible, she kept picking on me because I didn’t have a good enough accent.”

“Well, who cares about perfect pronunciation when you can speak three languages?”

“Four,” Max corrects. “Dutch, English, German, a bit of French. And, of course, I read Ancient Greek and Latin.”

Impressed, Charles takes the next exit to the airport’s private terminal. “You’ll be fluent in French after I’m done with you.”

“I will not speak French with you,” Max retorts, embarrassed. 

“Who said anything about speaking?” Charles asks. He parks at the usual spot and turns to Max with his eyes shining, mouth curled into a cheeky smile. “I was talking about French kissing. You’ll learn by osmosis.”

Giggling at Max’s sputtering, he climbs out to retrieve the carry-on and his bag from the trunk. When Max emerges from the car, he’s red-faced and avoids Charles’ gaze. 

“I was only joking, mon cœur,” he teases gently. The pet name slips out without his consent. Too sincere, and way too early. When Max comes closer, begrudgingly, Charles leans in and presses his lips to his smooth cheek. “You’ll have a Monégasque accent, though.”

It’s fun, seeing Max both being shy and trying to act unimpressed. 

They navigate the private terminal together. Charles watches as Max looks around curiously, taking in the space, its polished floors and the quiet, relaxed atmosphere.

The jet is waiting for them on the tarmac outside the glass windows. It’s sleek, its narrow body gleaming in the early afternoon sun. 

Charles knows everyone already. He introduces Max to the small crew and assistants gathered inside. Max looks a little surprised by that, but pleased all the same. 

In no time, they’re stepping up the small stairs to enter the jet. 

“It’s smaller than I imagined,” Max observes as they climb up. 

“Right?” Charles agrees. “That’s what I thought when I first got on one of these. But it takes me everywhere.”

Inside, the cabin is warm. Beige leather seats face each other, with a sofa running along the left side of the space. The carpet is thick enough to muffle their steps. 

“This is crazy,” Max murmurs, taking everything in. His lips are curved upwards.

Charles smiles at him. “Sit wherever you want.”

Max drops his backpack on one of the seats, putting his phone down on the polished wood table. Charles slings both their coats on the sofa and takes the seat next to Max’s. They both greet their flight assistant and get something to drink – Max gets a Red Bull, drinking it directly from the can, blushing as he explains he often drinks it while working on his dissertation.

He tilts his head to the side confusedly when Charles mentions there’s a Red Bull Racing team on the grid. 

“But it’s an energy drink,” he says, frowning. “They don’t make cars.”

After take-off, Charles watches him remove wired earphones and his laptop from his backpack. “Do you have to work?” he asks curiously. 

“Oh,” Max pauses. “I don’t have to, of course. Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

“No, no, it’s okay, Max. You can do whatever. I don’t expect you to dedicate all your time to me just because we’re here together.”

“I truly am grateful,” Max tells him, fingers fiddling with his earphones. “I don’t want you to think I’m not. You have no idea how much you’re helping me.”

Charles smiles softly at him. “You can do your own thing. I have my own stuff to go through, anyway.”

Max hesitates. “If you’re sure. But I actually wanted to ask…” He bites the inside of his cheek, looking down. “What– what happens when we get to London?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you flying back to Monaco?” Max clarifies. “Staying in London? Coming– coming to Cambridge with me?”

Oh, Charles thinks. 

“It depends on what you prefer,” he answers easily. “I can drop you off in London and be on my way back to Monaco. This was about helping you get home, I don’t want to impose.”

“You don’t have to rush off, though.”

“I won’t, if you don’t want me to. I’m happy to keep you company however long you want. I’m going to Bahrain in a few days for final tests and the season starts soon,” Charles explains. “It won’t be easy to make our schedules fit like before, I think.”

“Especially if I’m in Cambridge and you in Monaco, or travelling all the time.” 

Charles glances at Max, struggling to decipher the tone of his voice. “That doesn’t mean I won’t try, anyway,” he says lightly. 

Max is silent for a long moment. Suddenly nervous, Charles busies himself looking around the cabin, gaze focusing on tiny details – the grey clouds outside the windows, the shiny black surface of his phone, a loose thread on his Cos straight-leg trousers, his own pale hands.

“I live in a studio not far from the centre,” Max murmurs, eventually. “It’s going to be pretty dusty, and I’ll need to clean it, and of course my fridge will be completely empty. There’s not much to do there.” He inhales and exhales. “But if you don’t mind, and if you’re not busy, you’re welcome to come with me to Cambridge.” 

“Yeah?” Charles says, to give him an out. 

Max shrugs a bit shyly. 

“I’d love to,” Charles accepts. He doesn’t mention he’s brought a change of clothes in his bag, just to be sure. But his insides melt at the thought of Max wanting him there.

The rest of the flight is spent in companionable silence, with Max working on his laptop, earphones on and a focused expression on his face as he sips his Red Bull every now and then, and Charles going through his schedule for the next few weeks and looking at some data from his last sessions on the simulator in Maranello. He steals some glances at Max’s form, but lets him be.

At last, when it’s just fifteen minutes before landing, Max sighs and closes his laptop. He stretches, rubs his eyes. Charles tries very hard not to obviously track his movements – but when Max leans his head against the seat and turns to him sideways, looking very soft, Charles is powerless. 

“Hey,” he whispers. He angles his body towards Max’s. “Are you okay?”

“Just tired. This week’s been a lot.”

“I know.” Charles strokes Max’s arm soothingly, placing his hand on his waist and leaving it there, above his dark sweater. He leans in to kiss him once. Max tastes like artificial sugar from his Red Bull. Charles wants to lick into his mouth and pull him into his lap, or get onto Max’s lap himself, but refrains. “Happy to go home?” 

Max hums. “Not happy about having to clean and get groceries and pull all my life out of boxes again.”

“But then you can relax a little afterwards, right? Or will you be very busy once you’re back?”

Max purses his lips as he thinks. “I’ll keep working on the last part of my dissertation. Next week I’m supervising a few essay-writing sessions for Bachelor students, and the next I’m teaching a couple of classes on Historiography.”

“You teach?” Charles opens his mouth. “That’s so hot– I mean, interesting.”

Max goes red, but he looks pleased. “I usually teach some Historiography and Classical Political Thought classes. But when I’m lucky, I do a seminar on the Peloponnesian War.”

Charles doesn’t really know what any of that means. He finds it hot, anyway. “When you’re lucky,” he repeats. He simply has to kiss Max again, slipping a bit of tongue into his mouth this time. 

When they separate, a little out of breath, Max trails his fingers along the line of Charles’ sand-coloured crewneck. “This is very soft.”

“Yeah, it’s cashmere. Loro Piana.”

“Is that a person?”

“Fuck,” Charles pulls him into another kiss. “You drive me crazy.”

Max blinks at him sweetly. 

Not for the first time, Charles thinks that, if he allowed himself to let go, falling for Max would be very, very easy – all the butterflies in his stomach would burst out to make his landing soft, too. 

London greets them with ice-cold rain and unpleasant wind whipping against their faces. They hurry to get off the jet and into the terminal, thanking the crew and retrieving Max’s carry-on before following directions for the train station. 

“Cambridge is pretty close,” Max says, leading the way through the crowd inside the airport. “Just around half an hour of train.”

Charles adjusts his green cap and follows Max automatically, trusting him to get them there. He seems like the type to know exactly how to navigate the airport and England’s public transport system. 

“I could have rented a car,” he just grumbles once they’re seated on the train.

“No need.” Max shrugs. “This is perfectly fine.”

They spend the entire ride talking in low voices. Charles keeps his head down, not wanting to be accidentally recognised, and makes Max tell him all about the classes he teaches, fascinated.

By the time they get the Cambridge, it’s late afternoon. It’s not raining anymore, but the cold air infiltrates in the slivers of bare skin exposed to the temperature, making them shiver. 

“It’s a ten-minute walk,” Max tells him. “Is that okay?” 

Charles eyes him carefully. Max looks nervous, lips pressed together tightly. 

“Max,” he whispers softly. “This doesn’t have to bring you more stress, yeah? I love that you’re showing me a bit of your life. You don’t have to share more than you’re ready for.” 

Charles thinks he’s nailed it when Max seems to relax.

“It’s just me,” he adds. “This is completely new to me, too.”

Max mumbles, “I just wish I had everything together before bringing you here.”

“I can find a hotel or just–”

“No, no.” Max shakes his head. “I want you to stay.”

He doesn’t know how monumental those words feel. Charles swallows thickly, touched. He smiles. “Then lead the way, baby.”

Max blushes pink, but looks more at ease. 

Cambridge looks pretty even in the dark. A bit austere and intimidating, like Charles imagines the university feels like, but still nice. There aren’t many people out. When they pass a pub, they hear voices and laughter from the other side of the door. The neat rows of brick houses remind Charles of some neighbourhoods in London. 

“It’s cute,” he notes. He insisted on carrying Max’s luggage, but struggles a little with the wheels on the cobbled street. Bicycles run by smoothly. “Very quiet. Elegant.”

Max points Charles the places he usually goes to – the pub he sometimes meets his friends at, the grocery store tucked into a corner, the Indian restaurant he resorts to when he’s really tired and doesn’t feel like cooking. Charles drinks it all in. 

It’s– nice. Max leads a life he struggles to imagine. Monaco is full of luxury parties and high-end brands and a lifestyle most people dream of. And Charles likes it. He likes eating at restaurants in the Michelin guide and the comfort of his life. He likes having everything he could ever need at his disposal. 

This is different. But as he looks around and takes it in, as Max leads him through the city and to a brown-brick building and they take the narrow stairs to the first floor, opening the door to his life, Charles can’t help but think he could love this, too.

Max’s small studio is warm. Max explains he asked one of his friends to pop by and turn on electricity and heating. “He’s also come by a couple of times to water the plants,” he explains, nodding to the healthy green plants scattered around the space, near the windows or in front of the bookshelves. “Now he’s in Geneva for a conference.”

As Max talks, moving around the studio and telling him about his friend’s PhD in Physics, Charles looks around. 

It’s small but cozy, with a half-wall built to create a nook for the double bed and pale wood furniture. A tiny kitchen, a grey sofa. Books are stacked everywhere, on shelves and upon the desk to piles on the floor, some even making it to the windowsill. 

Together, they manage to clean it as best they can and bring it back to being a living space, opening the windows to let fresh air in. Charles helps with dusting and sweeping the floor and putting fresh sheets on the bed. 

“Let’s go get groceries before the store closes,” he says afterwards, looking around; it’s all done.  The soft light from Max’s lamp illuminates their faces. “But I don’t want you to cook tonight. I can do that.”

“Absolutely not,” Max retorts, emerging from the small bathroom. “We can order in, or get something to-go.”

Before Charles can argue back, Max is rushing into his space and wrapping his arms around him awkwardly.

“Thank you,” Max whispers, hugging Charles tight. 

Taken aback, Charles hurries to hug him back. “You’re welcome, Max.”

“You’ve helped me so much. I was so stressed at the idea of moving back here alone, travelling here with everything to clean up and unpack and…” Max pauses. His voice wavers as they both melt into the embrace. “It’s the first time someone’s been with me throughout it. I’ve– I’ve always been alone, ever since I was very young.”

Charles closes his eyes, feeling the warm lines of Max’s body against his own. He wishes he could ask more, but this is not the time. He strokes his back. “I’m glad I could help.”

When they part, Max’s under-eyes are reddened. “Let’s go,” he says softly. “Time for you to have a proper English grocery store experience.”

Charles perks up at that. And he’s even happier when they eventually get to the store, which is a five-minute walk from Max’s studio, and he stands in front of mini pretzels covered in dark chocolate. 

“Max,” he moans. “I’m not supposed to have snacks. But I want them so much.”

“Just get them.”

“No.”

Max snorts, moving to the tea aisle with the shopping cart trailing behind him. 

“I’ll get them,” Charles calls after him. “But only these.”

It’s all very domestic. 

They pick up pizza on their way back – (“I thought you weren’t supposed to have this kind of food,” Max observes drily. 

Charles gasps dramatically. “Let me indulge, Max, I’m on holiday.” 

That makes Max sputter out a surprised laugh. “On holiday, here?”

“Well, of course. I’m with you. I can indulge in greasy food and you.”

Max blushes.) – and eat sat at the small dining table. Max doesn’t have a television, so they use his laptop to put in the background an episode of an old cooking show Charles finds on Netflix.

Charles has a shower while Max puts everything away. He scrubs tiredly at his body, drying off and wearing the sweatpants and the long-sleeved henley shirt he’s brought with him just in case he could stay overnight.

He sits on the small armchair opposite the sofa with his phone while Max has his own shower. 

It was a long day. Charles loved every bit of it. He wants to do it again, and again, and again. Pick Max up, spend the entire day with him talking and kissing and getting to know one another.

His heart skips a beat at the thought. Being with Max like this just makes him so happy. His heart starts racing at the thought of showing him Monaco, his home, his world. 

Max emerges in pyjama pants and a sweatshirt, pink and glowing after his shower. His hair is not swept stiffly to the side with gel, but looks softer, a bit ruffled. Charles breathes in the scent of his bodywash curling around them. 

“Do you want a cup of tea?” Max asks, going to the kitchen. The floorboards creak softly under his bare feet. 

“Do you have chamomile?”

“I do.” Max bustles around in the kitchen corner.

Night settles over them slowly, muted and calm. Max goes around the space, checks on the plants and closes the blinds. 

When he stops to hand Charles a cup of chamomile tea, Charles clears his throat. 

“Where can I sleep?” he asks. The question comes out awkward, and he winces. He simply meant to ask whether they’re sleeping together in the same bed, or if he’ll take the sofa. 

Max takes a seat in front of him. “Uhm, the sofa turns into a bed. If– if that’s okay.”

“That’s okay.”

There’s a moment of silence. 

“Sorry,” Max speaks again. He’s not looking at Charles. “I– maybe you expected to sleep with me. By now, you know. I guess most guys would have slept with you already, I– I don’t know what you expected from me–”

“I’ve never expected anything from you,” Charles interrupts. He takes a big sip of tea. “It’s completely fine.”

The silence that follows is painfully uncomfortable. 

“I don’t have much experience,” Max says to his own cup. 

“With men?”

“In general.”

“Okay,” Charles smiles easily. 

“Okay?” Max repeats. His gaze is still focused on the green ceramic. “Aren’t you famous people all freaky and stuff?”

Charles lets out a soft giggle. “We’re just people. Some are freaky, some aren’t.” He looks at Max. He’s clearly nervous, even though he’s acting casual about it. The thought makes Charles wish he could offer comfort of some kind. “I like sex. I like having fun during it. But I care about the person I’m with liking it, too. I would never try to take it too far or do stuff you’re not into, or not ready for, yeah?” 

Max finally looks at him. His cheeks are dusted with a faint pink, and his eyes are watchful, but his lips curve up into a tiny smile.

Charles trails his eyes over him. Smooth, burning want flows in his veins. 

He wants to kiss Max, pry open his mouth with his tongue, suck at his freckle on his upper lip. Bite at his lips until they’re red and swollen. Trail wet kisses down the line of his neck and lick at his throat. Strip Max completely naked and just look at him. 

Charles feels arousal low into his stomach from the thought alone. 

Suck on Max’s nipples, too, to see if he likes it. Move lower, to his stomach, his bellybutton. Trace the beauty marks on Max’s body with his tongue. Map all his sensitive spots until Max is panting.

Charles would brush his cheek over the line of hair below Max’s stomach and tease him relentlessly, with small touches, light kisses, eyes trained up to his face to drink in his reaction. 

Max wouldn’t be vocal, he imagines. He’d find it hard to say “please”. But when he eventually did, Charles would take his pretty, leaking cock into his mouth. He loves the warm weight on his tongue. He’d swallow around him, relax his throat. Maybe he’d let Max thrust up into it. Or maybe he’d pin him down and make him take it. He’d drag it out a bit. Make it memorable. 

Max would come all over his hand, panting, hopefully moaning and whining, and afterwards, Charles would smear some of it all over Max’s mouth and lick his lips clean greedily. 

Instead of all that, Charles asks, “Got it?” 

He does his best to look unaffected. 

When Max nods, Charles puts the half-empty cup on the floor. He raises to his feet and walks to where Max is sitting, stopping in front of him.

Max doesn’t make a move to stand up; he looks up at Charles, eyes big and blue, a faint blush on his cheeks. He’s never looked prettier. His earnest expression morphs into eagerness as they keep looking at each other and Max blinks up at him. Charles reaches out, running his fingers into his thick blond hair.

Slowly, Charles lowers himself to his knees in front of him.

“I’d never want you to feel uncomfortable with me in any way, Max,” he insists. He keeps his eyes into Max’s, because it’s important that he understands. 

Charles watches, transfixed, as Max’s throat works when he swallows, his brow furrowing slightly before he relaxes his face. 

“Yeah, okay,” Max murmurs, voice tight. He sets the cup down, too, before hesitantly opening his legs to make space for Charles. The distance between them thins. “I’ve never felt uncomfortable with you. Just– inadequate, sometimes.”

Charles props both arms over Max’s legs. His fingers brush Max’s outer thighs when he rests his hands on Max’s hips, cradling his lower body in half an embrace.

“What do you mean, inadequate?” he asks, serious. He’s the one who has to gaze up at Max, now. From this angle, he looks unbearably beautiful. Very humanly so.

“It’s just– you know perfectly well what to do, how to behave. You’re very confident. I’m not.”

“Confident?” Charles repeats. “I second-guess everything I do with you. I don’t want to be…” Too much. “Overwhelming.”

Vulnerability drifts idly between them. It’s not awkward, nor irritating; it’s intimate. It feels like they’re immersed in warm water, the world muffled around their bodies.

“You’re not,” Max whispers shyly. His cheeks are the loveliest shade of pink. He looks like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself, with Charles so close and in such an intimate position.

Adorable, Charles thinks. Hot as fuck. 

Charles just smiles at him. “I like you. Do you like me?”

“Yes,” Max breathes. 

“It’s simple, then. Isn’t it, Max?”

“Is it?”  

Charles doesn’t answer immediately. He strokes his thumbs up and down Max’s hips over his t-shirt, gazing up at him. He can’t look away; he hopes Max can recognise how sincere he is – how Charles wants nothing but make him happy. “I think it could be.”

“Okay.” Max looks down. 

“Okay,” Charles repeats. Bringing one hand up, he brushes his fingers over Max’s smooth cheek, his jaw, fitting his palm there and drawing him closer. The kiss is just a soft smack of their lips. Charles thinks it’s one of his favourites they’ve shared. “Beautiful.”

Hesitantly, Max laces his hands around Charles’ neck. Their bodies are locked together, now. “Could we– could we go slow, then?” he asks timidly. 

“Of course.” He looks at Max, awed, heart racing. “Does that mean that we…”

“That we?” 

“That we’re…” Charles reduces his voice to a breathless whisper. “Dating? For real?”

Max blinks at him. “Yeah.” 

Charles hides his face into Max’s stomach. Speechless, he squeezes his eyes shut tight. 

“Are you okay?” 

Charles nods silently without lifting his head. His fingers flex on Max’s hips.

“Charles, are you crying?”

His shoulders shake once when he inhales and exhales against Max. “Maybe,” he mumbles. His eyes sting a little. He doesn’t mention it. 

There’s a soft huff of breath, then a hand in his hair. “You’re impossible,” Max murmurs, but he doesn’t sound mean or irritated – he sounds fond, a tinge of affection in his tone. It makes Charles shiver. He basks in it, feeling warm all over. 

“Yes,” he agrees, sighing against the fabric of Max’s sweatshirt.

Charles feels good in the cradle of Max’s legs. He tilts his head up and purses his lips exaggeratedly, asking for another kiss. Max bends down to give him a brief one, but Charles just groans and tangles his fingers in his hair, keeping him there. He can’t let him go. Not when Charles feels Max’s breath hitch and his lips so soft against his own. 

“Baby,” Charles breathes, slotting their mouths together again. He takes Max’s lush lower lip between his teeth. Max lets out a soft sound in response, and Charles just kisses him again. “You’re so pretty, you know that?” 

“Shut up.” Max kisses him. “You’re the one looking like a model.”

“But you’re so pretty and soft. And you let me pet you,” Charles says nonsensically against his lips, giving him another kiss. 

“Only after you showed me I could trust you.”

“Yeah.” Charles nods. His eyes light up. “Like cats do. You’re exactly like a cat, Max.”

Max snorts. “What?”

Charles noses along Max’s jaw, trailing his lips along it. “Can’t believe I didn’t think about it sooner,” he says distractedly, focused on kissing Max’s neck. “Kitten. Kitty.”

Max’s body goes rigid. 

Charles stops. Interested, he lifts his head to study Max’s expression. “Kitty?”

“Charles.”

“Oh,” Charles breathes, delighted. He doesn’t even try to hide how pleased he is. “You like it.”

Max frowns. He turns serious, visibly doing his best to conceal how flustered he is. “I don’t,” he says, voice tight. “I hate it.”

“Do you?” Charles resumes kissing up Max’s neck. His lips press right against his right ear when he whispers, “Kitty.”

He watches, already obsessed, as goosebumps erupt on Max’s skin. Max tries so hard to appear unaffected. 

“I despise it.”

“Mmh. That must be why you’re shivering. You look so pretty when you’re flustered,” Charles says. He could get hard just from this – suck at Max’s neck, hear all the soft little sounds he struggles to mask, feel his intakes of breath pressed so close against him. “Do you want to just make out for a bit? I could call you kitty and you could pretend you hate it.”

“No,” Max says, but he’s already scooting back on the sofa. He pulls at Charles’ sleeve. 

Charles giggles. He sits up next to Max, crowding into his space, and thinks he might start glowing with happiness. He slips his tongue into Max’s mouth before he can think of a comeback. 

The next morning, Charles spends torturous long minutes kissing Max against the kitchen counter. He tastes like tea and cinnamon from their breakfast. Charles holds him by the hips and dips his tongue inside Max’s mouth again and again, drawing tiny noises out of him. 

“I’ll see you soon, okay?” he murmurs, pressing kisses everywhere he can reach – Max’s lips, jaw, cheekbones, leaning down to suck lightly on his throat. 

“Yeah.” Max sounds breathless. 

“Can’t wait to see you again, kitty.” Charles pecks his mouth once, twice. Max’s lips look obscene. He struggles to focus. “Soon, okay? I’ll do my best.”

Max nods. When Charles tugs him into another deep, wet kiss, he goes easily, arms tightening around his neck. 

“Let me go or I’ll never leave,” Charles whispers against his skin. 

Max laughs. He’s still smiling when he leans in for a final kiss. “Have fun in Bahrain. Have a good start of the season. I’ll watch.”

Charles’ heart does a flip. “Will you?”

“Yes, obviously, Charles. I won’t understand what’s happening but I’ll cheer for you, yeah?”

“If I’m first, I’m winning,” Charles smiles cheekily. He probably looks ridiculous, hanging off Max and gazing up to him like a lunatic. “Have fun teaching your classes. Don’t be too strict to students.”

“They love me.”

“Of course they do,” Charles says without thinking. 

He kisses Max one last time and says goodbye before he lets slip out something he shouldn’t.

***

So Charles goes back to Monaco, to the gym, to meetings and to PR commitments, to his friends and to get matcha with Pierre and gushes about Max to him only, because Pierre has been there for a long time and understands his life and his struggles better than most, and then flies to Bahrain. They’re having final tests before the season starts. 

His days there are full; but every night, when he goes back to his hotel room to finally shower and sleep, he’s happier than ever. Excitement and trepidation for the season buzz under his skin. Sometimes, he can’t keep his smile off his face.

And, every night, he gets in bed under the cotton sheets, or sits on the loveseat with a blanket, and calls Max. He closes his eyes, listening to his voice telling him about his days at the university – in the archive or at the library, sometimes at home, sometimes teaching – and getting lost in Max’s reality.

Charles recognises that Max’s life is not exactly normal for the average person; most people don’t just get PhDs at Cambridge. He knows how exceptional Max is. But his everyday life is made of a routine so different from Charles’.  

The thought of Max being at the top of his field like he himself is, and at the same age, warms Charles’ heart. Max is so focused on his work, and so interesting to talk to and discover. A bit closed-off at first, for sure, but once he started trusting Charles, he let him in. He’d allowed Charles to see his softness, the way he lives quietly but passionately in his little studio full of life – life flowing in his plants, tucked in the stories and histories of the books scattered everywhere, folded in his low humming voice as he makes tea standing barefoot in the kitchen. 

Are you awake? he texts Max one night, when it’s almost midnight in Bahrain. 

The reply comes instantly. Yes.

Max answers at the first ring. “Hey, Charles.”

“I thought you’d go to bed early. You didn’t sleep well last night, did you?”

“I know,” Max says in a low voice. “I’m in bed, actually. Just wanted to talk to you before sleeping.”

Oh, baby. Charles squeezes his eyes shut. “How are you? Did you see your supervisor?”

“I did. We went through everything and I’ll probably need to shift some things around in the last chapter, but we talked about submitting.”

“Like, the official submission of your work?” 

“Exactly,” Max hums. “She– she thinks I could submit it before summer.”

“Oh.” Charles frowns, trying to guess if it’s a good or bad thing. “In a few months, then? What happens after?”

“I could submit it around June or July and then I’d have to wait for examiners to read it. It could take a few weeks or even months, you know, with summer in the middle,” Max explains. “And then there’s the viva, which is the oral defence.”

“Wow,” Charles exhales, feeling out of his depth but doing his best to follow. “So you’re basically done in a few months?”

“Kind of. I’ll have to prepare for the defence but, of course, no one knows my dissertation better than me,” Max says, matter-of-fact.

“So I’ll be able to call you Doctor soon?” 

Max breathes out a laugh on the other line. “Only after the viva. If I pass.”

“Of course you will. You’re brilliant.”

Charles thinks Max might be blushing. He wishes he could see him. 

“And how are you? It’s late there.”

“True.” Charles yawns. “I’m good. Tired. Very happy.”

“You sound like it,” Max says softly. 

“Tired or happy?”

“Both. More happy than tired, though. Is it because tests were positive?” Max asks. “Excited to start again?”

“Yeah, that’s…” Charles turns to his left side, pulling the duvet up to his chin. “That’s very important to me. My confidence in the car is high, I feel good when I drive it, for now. I’m very happy to start again. But I’m also happy to talk to you every night like this.”

“Are you?” Max’s voice is metallic over the line, but he sounds short of breath. 

“It’s one of my favourite moments of the day.”

Max makes a squeaky sound. There’s a beat of silence, then he says, shyly, “I– I also like it. I like our conversations.”

Charles smiles into the pillow. It lasts throughout the remainder of their call, and again when he reaches over, turns off the lamp, and goes to sleep. 

Lorenzo and Arthur fly to Bahrain to support him through the first two races, and they use the days before the start of the season to explore the area. 

One day, they drive out into the open desert roads around the circuit, taking in the open horizon and stopping by a farm to learn about camel racing. 

The day after they have a quiet day at the golf club, then take the highway north, leaving the deserted areas behind as they get close to the capital city and the north coast.

They visit the Qal’at al-Bahrain site at sunset. The fort walls look like they’re made of gold under the light. Charles takes as many nice pictures as he can, posing for a few, then sits on a low stone wall to open WhatsApp. 

After a while, Lorenzo comes to stand next to him. 

“Well, this was unexpected.”

“Why?” Charles asks distractedly. 

“You’re not usually the type to visit archaeological sites when the season starts so soon. You don’t want to isolate to get into the zone?” Lorenzo says, mocking the way Charles used to talk in the past years, when he only wanted to focus on racing and spent all his free time studying old onboards, on the sim, or working out. 

“I’m good.” Charles sends a couple more pictures to Max and smiles when he receives a string of !!! back. 

Lorenzo hums thoughtfully. Charles can feel his gaze on him. 

“And why did you want to visit here?” 

“It’s nice, isn’t it? Someone recommended this place to me.”

“I bet he did,” is Lorenzo’s dry retort. 

When Arthur wanders over, Charles gets up. He slings his arm around his brothers’ shoulders, squeezing them to his sides. 

“Come on,” he says. “We had a good time together, just us, yeah? Let’s send a selfie to maman.”

Lorenzo snorts but dutifully gets his phone out and snaps a picture of the three of them, golden light on their faces. 

Lorenzo waits until the first race is over before bringing it up again. 

Charles wakes up late, mind playing his win on loop. Leftover adrenaline and happiness pervade his body. He stretches, sheets rustling softly. 

The flash of red cheering for him below the podium, the rose water cool on his damp skin. The endless praise and celebrations by everyone around him. 

Charles sighs. Sleep lingers into his subconscious. Without thinking, his hand goes to his hair, fingers tangling into the soft locks and pulling weakly, before sliding down to his face, his bare chest, his abs, wrapping around his half-hard cock. 

He replays the bliss and euphoria of finishing the first race of the season in P1, the car feeling good all around him. Bryan’s triumphant voice in his ears, the podium, the cheers, the feeling of being the best once again, of being cherished by his Ferrari red team, all that love –  

He strokes himself languidly, teasing the tip of his cock. Gentle arousal thrums under his skin. 

He can’t wait to see Max again. Can’t wait to see him, have him close, kiss him, touch him, feel his pink, full lips against his own, on his body, on his cock, fucking up into the wet heat of his mouth, stuffing it full, pleasepleaseplease –

Charles comes with a soft gasp and lays there for a while, satisfied and boneless in bed. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, getting up and going to the shower. 

He and his team depart from Bahrain in the afternoon, set to Saudi Arabia. 

After a while on the jet, Lorenzo takes the seat next to his and makes light conversation until he leans in and starts, “So, anything you want to update me about?”

“About what?” 

Lorenzo gives him a look. 

“Well, what do you want to know?” Charles crosses his arms protectively in front of himself. 

“Are you still going after Max?”

Charles bristles inside. Going after. It makes him sound bad, like it’s one-sided. 

“Yes,” he mutters. “I’m still… going after him.”

His brother is silent for a while. Charles looks out the oval widow and tries to breathe normally. 

“I’m just not sure about this whole thing. Max is not like the people you date. I don’t want to see you hurt because he’s not what you expected, or to see you lose interest in him when the excitement wears off and it becomes boring.” Lorenzo speaks with a calm, reasonable tone. But Charles feels his body going stiff. “He’s my friend, but you’re my brother.”

“Max and I are dating,” Charles says, tone measured. “I think he’s lovely. Not boring at all. This is not about me being excited like he’s a shiny new toy.” This is not about me being what you and everyone else believe I’m like. “I’ve never seen people that way. This is about me liking him as a person.”

“You know there’s a whole account on twitter dedicated to tracking your private jet?” 

Charles scoffs. “I know.”

“Imagine my surprise when I opened it two weeks ago to find out that your jet landed in London.”

“You could just text or call if you want to know something. No need to go to see what stupid bots post on social media.” Charles shakes his head, his eyebrows drawn together in annoyance. “I went to see him before leaving for a month. I’m not sure when I’ll see him again next. Is this a good enough reason?” 

“Okay.” But Charles can hear the doubt in Lorenzo’s voice. “I just really, really want to see you happy, yeah?”

Charles grimaces. He ponders his next words. “I just don’t like how you’re always doubting my choices. I think you have a wrong perception of me. A wrong idea of what I’m like.” 

He says it somewhat timidly. He’s always suspected his brother’s opinion of him might not be very positive, his reality distorted by what he thinks Charles is like. That Charles is shallow, capricious. That he can’t form real connections with people because he’s too volatile. The fear of being perceived like that has always made Charles feel insecure.   

But Lorenzo just smiles, patting him on the back. “Or maybe I can see you as you really are,” he says in a reassuring tone. 

Charles’ heart drops to his stomach. 

It hurts.

He musters up a smile and shakes his head, turning to the window.

He wonders, not for the first time, if he’ll ever stop feeling misunderstood by a person who’s supposed to know him better than everyone. 

The air is humid when they arrive in Jeddah. Charles finds a text from Max and writes back, Just landed, will call you at the hotel <3 before pocketing his phone and following Arthur to the car. 

Hotel rooms started to all look the same after his first years into Formula 1. This one is nice – spacious, in dark colours, with a seating area and a big bed for him alone, and a balcony overlooking the Red Sea. 

Charles washes his face and hands in the pristine bathroom and calls Max. 

The soft lisp in his accent Charles’ his body relax, tension slipping out of him like the phone has just absorbed it all. “Baby,” he calls quietly, a bit whiny. “I miss you.”

Max laughs over the line. They talk about everything and nothing for half an hour. Charles puts Max on speakerphone and pulls the most important things out of the suitcase. His products and toiletries go in the bathroom, the clothes he’ll wear to the paddock in the walk-in closet. 

Towards the end, when he’s given Max a rundown of what his schedule for the next few days looks like, Charles clears his throat. “I just wanted to say,” he murmurs. “That we don’t have to talk every day like this. Don’t feel obligated. I know I can be clingy, but don’t feel like you have to humour me. I know you have your own things to take care of. I– I respect that you do.”

Max is silent for a few seconds. “What brought this on?”

“Nothing. It’s just– we don’t have to call every day if that’s too much.” And he doesn’t want to prove Lorenzo right, like he always does.

“Do you think it’s too much, Charles?” 

“Uhm. No?” Charles winces. He looks at his hands. 

“It’s completely okay with me. I like it. I thought we established that.” Max pauses. “And of course I have my own stuff to take care of. We’re both busy, aren’t we?”

Charles sits down on the bed, suddenly exhausted. He hates having so many doubts about himself – hates being so insecure when he doesn’t need to be. Insecurity has become an automatic response. “Sorry. I don’t know why I brought this up.”

Max’s voice turns gentle. “No need to apologise.”

“I just want you to know I care about you.”

“I do know. And I didn’t tell you before, but I miss you, too.”

Lorenzo doesn’t bring Max up again during their stay in Saudi Arabia – not when Charles is on his phone more than usual, texting Max little tidbits of his days and sending nice pictures he took while visiting or at the track, and not when Charles excuses himself from his own after-race celebrations for P1 to take a call. 

Charles is happier this way. 

He has a wonderful team that’s always elevated him and trusted him throughout his career; his brothers are here to support him; and Jeddah has always been one of his favourite tracks on the calendar. He loves city tracks and the razor-sharp precision they require. Winning on one feels like a reward for having been perfect all weekend. 

And having Max’s congratulatory text (with two red hearts) and his sweet voice in his ear afterwards, telling Charles how great it looked from the television and how happy he is for him – it just ties it all together. 

Two perfect weekends. A perfect start of the season. 

Charles feels like he could have it all.