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Charles was beginning to hate Monaco. What should have been a respite away from all the chaos of F1 had slowly become a place where anxiety peered over his shoulder and lingered behind every doorway. There was no other way around it: Charles was beginning to hate Monaco.
He shouldered his gym bag and pulled on his cap before he left the small gym that had become his one sanctuary in all of the principality. After all, since it was private and owned by Andrea, he had full control over who was allowed in and who was kept out. That meant that he would never be in attendance.
Max Verstappen.
Charles shuddered even just thinking of his name. Their last meeting hadn’t gone well. In fact, it had gone about as disastrously as possible. Charles tried to dispel the memory from his head as he walked toward his car. It was only a few feet, but his skin crawled as he looked side to side, praying he didn’t catch a glimpse of the one man he didn’t want to see, but somehow always did.
It was practically unavoidable at this point. Max shopped at his favorite grocery store, ate at his favorite restaurants, and partied at his favorite clubs. He was there every time Charles turned around, a ghoulish specter ready to jump out at him and catch him unaware.
Charles could find no peace; he could find no sanctuary.
There was something ironic about it, though. Funny how the two things he loved more than anything else in the whole world had eventually become the two things he dreaded the most.
-
2023 had started… peculiarly. Freshly single, Charles had been ready to keep his head down and get to work. He wasn’t interested in dating or quick hook-ups. All he wanted was the championship; he wanted – he needed – a winning car and a good team behind him. As they neared pre-season testing, neither of those things seemed viable.
The team was splintering. Since losing Mattia, they had been scrambling to get things in order. Fred was a nice guy, but Charles wasn’t sure he had the chops to know how to run a massive, historic team like Ferrari. Carlos had grown distant, spending more time with Lando, and staying close to the chest with sim details and car advice. Something told Charles he had spoken to his father over the break, and came back with the twisted idea that he was actually in contention for the championship. Sometimes, in his weaker, meaner moments, Charles wanted to laugh in his face. He wanted to scream at him, in French, Italian, and English, to get his head out of his ass and wake up to the fact that he was second driver and always would be.
Charles had a lot of those moments, recently. Where he snapped at the engineers and sniped during meetings, laughed behind Carlos’ back with his friends and adopted a colder attitude with the media. Last season had shown him that he was too soft; he needed to be harder, tougher, hungrier if he wanted to win the championship.
He wasn’t going to sit back this year and let Max – or, god forbid, that old man Hamilton – take the championship away from him. So, he worked harder; he spent long nights on the sim, countless hours discussing the car with the engineers, and trained until it felt like he was going to die. He was in the best shape of his life, and he had absolutely nothing to distract him. Charles could practically already taste the sweet champagne of his first championship.
That is, until he fell into bed with Max Verstappen in Monaco before they left for testing.
They had both been out at the same party during the middle of the break, and one thing led to another, and Charles had found himself pressed up against his own apartment door, the other driver’s hand on his cock and himself a moaning mess.
Charles had woken up alone the next morning, and the next time he saw Max, it was as if nothing had happened. Max acted completely the same as he always had in every social situation, but there was an undercurrent of tension that had never been there before.
Charles had avoided his eye every time they passed each other since then, but especially at Bahrain testing. Max always seemed to be near – laughing along with Lando, grabbing lunch with Checo, getting coffee from the stand outside Ferrari. Charles kept his earbuds in and his sunglasses on; he made sure his expression was stone cold. He didn’t want to be approached. He didn’t want a half-assed conversation with a man who had left him cold and alone in the middle of the night, too much of a pussy to deal with his problems and confront Charles head on.
Max was a coward; Charles thought he was pathetic. That’s definitely all he thought about him. He didn’t think about him any more than necessary. He needed his head in the game; he didn’t need Max fucking with his head as anything other than a competitor. So, he compartmentalized and blocked Max out of his mind.
It worked.
Most of the time.
-
There was something ironic about DNF-ing out of the first race, when Ferrari had done so well in testing and provided this whole “united front” bullshit to the media. Charles realized he didn’t even sound that angry on the radio – broadcasted to the entire world – when he announced he was losing power. He sounded resigned. Not a good look for the rest of the season.
Charles hopped on the back of that ridiculous scooter and managed to hold it together until he got back to his motorhome. He went through the motions of the post-race routine with a blank stare, anger fermenting under his skin. But Ferrari was never angry; Ferrari held it together. Ferrari did not scream and cry; Ferrari held highly structured dinners in very public locations where team principal and driver could be seen having a laugh. Charles was no longer his own person. He belonged to something bigger, and therefore he could not break down until he was sure he was alone.
He banged the door open to his room as soon as he ran away from his engineers, feigning some type of random sickness – fatigue, perhaps, but not the kind they probably thought – and fell face first onto his couch as the door slammed shut behind him. He screamed into the pillows and felt like a child as he kicked his feet on the cushions. There were so many emotions swirling around inside him that it felt impossible to let them all out at once. He didn’t even know how to feel anymore. This felt like the first disappointment of many.
The new season was supposed to be a fresh start from the shitshow that happened last year. On New Year’s Eve, Charles had stood on the balcony of whatever random party he had been at and drunkenly made a wish.
He wanted to be world champion this season.
And now, with an engine problem or an electrical failure, he didn’t have high hopes. He would never lose faith in himself and his abilities, but his faith in Ferrari was fading fast. They couldn’t even definitively tell him what was wrong with the car, for God’s sake. All they could do was sit on their ass and try and placate him with false platitudes about the greatness of Ferrari.
Ferrari may have been great, once upon a time. Now, it was nothing more than a dusty red ball and chain, strapped to Charles’ ankle and weighing him down as he tried to win.
He stood up quickly, the anger overriding every other emotion he was feeling. He knew he was probably as red as his race suit right now. It hung limp from his waist, the rosso corsa making his stomach turn. He was covered in red; he would give anything to strip it all off and not see it again for a week. Not forever – he could never say goodbye to Ferrari forever – but at least for a while.
Charles let out a guttural groan and punched the wall. Seeing his knuckles turn bright red did nothing to calm the anger in his heart.
-
Walking into his hotel room after his insanely long day felt like a sigh of relief. He stripped out of his team gear quickly and shoved it all down in his suitcase, piling on his regular clothes so he wouldn’t have to see an ounce of red.
He walked to the shower after grabbing some clean clothes, thankfully some of his normal clothes that he usually wore on the flight home.
Sighing to himself, he let the steam fill up the bathroom as he relaxed under the powerful spray of the hotel room shower. His building back home in Monaco was old and the water pressure was lousy, so he always loved using the powerful showers when they traveled to races.
Charles didn’t know how long he spent decompressing in the shower. It seemed like ages as the steam filled the room until it resembled a sauna more than a bathroom. He savored the privacy and quiet, nothing but the sound of the spray and his own thoughts to accompany him. He loved his job, but sometimes he hated being a public figure. He was terrified to ever let his guard down in case there was a camera waiting to snap his private moments and publish them for the whole internet to see. It was bad enough when he broke up with Charlotte and suddenly everyone in the world had an opinion on his relationship. Now, with the constant team failures and internal leaks, it felt like the weight of the world had settled onto his shoulders and it had no intention of moving.
Charles toweled his hair dry before using it to wipe the mirror off. He stared at his reflection; usually he was so sure of himself, but the person looking back at him today didn’t resemble him in the slightest. Bright red skin from the heat of the water, eye bags that seemed to be never ending, and a frown etched onto his face – all of these things stared back at him as he looked on, trying and failing to recognize himself.
He shook his head and wrapped the towel around his waist, holding it there with one hand as he opened the door to his bedroom and stepped out. The clothes he had brought with him were laid out haphazardly on his bed, as he had just tossed them there before his shower with no extra thought. He slipped on his boxers and the grey sweatpants and he was reaching for his shirt when he heard a knock at his door. Sighing, he threw his towel around his shoulders and headed for the door. It was probably Andrea looking to debrief with him, but all Charles wanted was to be alone.
“Andrea, seriously, you didn’t have to come check on–”
The words died in his throat as he looked at the person standing outside his door, fist still raised to knock.
Max Verstappen stared back at him, as if in disbelief himself that he had actually shown up on Charles’ doorstep. They stared at each other for a few moments before Charles sighed, annoyed, and motioned for him to come in.
“Don’t just stand there like an idiot, merde , come in.”
Max sidled past him into the hallway leading into the main area of his suite and Charles suddenly became painfully aware of his current state of undress. It was not enough for Max Verstappen to burst into his life, give him the best fuck he’s ever had, and leave, ruining Monaco and Max himself for Charles, but he had to ruin his first race even more that it already had been.
The door slammed shut as Charles let it go from his fingers, and the sound startled both of them out of the unofficial staring contest they were in. Max swallowed and Charles followed the movement with his eyes.
“Well?” He asked unkindly. “Why are you here?”
Max flushed suddenly and looked away.
“I… I wanted to see how you were,” he replied weakly.
Charles scoffed.
“It’s none of your business how I’m doing. Besides, the moment for checking in would have been about this time, say, a month and a half ago.”
Max winced. There was nothing he could say to that. Charles surged forward suddenly, hitting Max on the shoulder as he passed him. He hoped his towel got him wet.
“I’m heading to bed. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”
“Charles, wait!” Max cried. “Please, just… give me a chance to explain.”
Charles tried his hardest not to turn around. He knew his resolve would crumble as soon as he saw those bright blue eyes.
“Please, Charles, please. And if you’re not satisfied with my explanation, I’ll leave and leave you alone. For good.”
Now that was a tempting offer; he could hear why Max had abandoned him and then he could kick him to the curb in one fell swoop. Charles cursed himself for his empathetic nature and turned around, an exasperated look on his face.
“Sit on the couch. Let me put on a shirt and I’ll pour us a drink. We’re both going to need it.”
Max awkwardly sat on the couch as Charles grabbed the shirt lying on his bed and pulled it on. Then, he poured them each a glass of the expensive hotel whiskey and sat down opposite the other driver. He slid the glass across the coffee table to Max, who picked it up and immediately started tapping on it.
Charles could see the anxiety written all over him. He had no idea why Max Verstappen of all people would be anxious in his presence; after all, the other driver had won today – more than that, he had crushed the rest of the field in a show of dominance that set the tone for the rest of the season. And, a little over a month ago, he had crushed Charles in his own special way.
Charles knocked back half of the whiskey in one go.
“Well, speak, Verstappen.”
Max looked taken aback at the use of his last name. Charles needed to put all the space he could between them; they weren’t friends, so why would he use Max’s first name?
“I just… what happened between us… it was…”
“A mistake?” Charles said with a bitter laugh, sipping more of his whiskey.
He enjoyed the burn as it slid down his throat.
“No, no, not at all,” Max said hurriedly.
And well. That was a surprise. Charles tried to control his face, not let the surprise show at Max’s words.
“It was just… very unexpected. I enjoyed it a lot of course, as I’m sure you could tell.”
Max’s face was blushing a bright red as he said all of this. Charles enjoyed watching him squirm. He nodded, a small smirk on his face as he remembered what Max had said to him.
“After we finished, I didn’t know how to handle what I felt. It was easier for me to run away than it was for me to stay with you. I know it made me a huge asshole, and I’ve felt awful since then.”
Charles let out another bitter laugh.
“You felt awful? Oh, poor little Max Verstappen, two time champion of the world, feeling sorry for himself because he didn’t have the balls to stay after sex like a gentleman.”
He snorted and knocked back the rest of his whiskey. Max sat across the couch, looking at him with an expression that was a little lost and a lot sad, his eyebrows creased together and his glass untouched in his hands. Little beads of sweat dripped down the side of the glass and landed on his hands. Charles wondered idly if that was annoying.
“Charles… You have to understand how overwhelming that was for me. I didn’t go into that party expecting to fuck another driver, let alone you specifically. Sure, I wanted it to happen – Jesus Christ, I’d been wanting it to happen for years–”
He cut himself off suddenly, aware of his blunder.
Charles sat staring at him in shock before he returned to his senses and stood up, the whiskey already hitting as he hadn’t had anything to eat since before the race.
“Overwhelming for you? You wanted me? Why the fuck are you here, Max? And don’t give me any bullshit. It’s been more than a month. If you really wanted me, you would have come and seen me before this. Why? Do you pity me? Huh? Poor little Charles Leclerc, tied down by that Ferrari. I bet you laugh together with all your little gremlins in Red Bull, you and Christian and Checo, all laughing at me as I DNF out of another race.”
Charles was beyond angry. He was angry at himself, at Ferrari, at Max – he was angry at the whole world. Spittle was flying from his mouth as he pointed a finger at Max, who sat terrified on the couch, eyes wide.
“Well, you know what? Fuck you, Max. FUCK YOU! You come here just to rub it in my face that you won today and I didn’t. I couldn’t even get second. I couldn’t do SHIT. And now you want to come here and pity me. I won’t take it, Max.”
Suddenly, tears were building behind his eyes and his hands were starting to shake. Fuck, this isn’t what he meant to do. He hadn’t meant to work himself up into a breakdown. He just wanted to be angry for once in his life. Well and truly angry, without the shadow of grief warping everything into sadness.
“I won’t take it. Not from you, not from Ferrari, not from anyone. I don’t deserve your pity. I just– I just–”
And then, embarrassingly, he burst into tears. And he hated Monaco, and he hated Max Verstappen, and he hated Ferrari. He felt he had nowhere safe to run, nowhere safe to turn. He was alone, in this stale hotel room, crying into a shirt that was nearly ten years old and had little holes from where it had caught on his drawers when he still lived with his parents. He was crying – sobbing, snot flying from his nose, eyes surely red-rimmed and bloodshot – and all he could think about were the little holes in the bottom of his shirt.
Distantly, he was aware of Max getting up in front of him. He wasn’t sure if the other man was going to flee the scene and they were going to have to pretend like this didn’t happen for the rest of time or–. Oh.
Max was hugging him.
The other driver pulled him close, seemingly uncaring if Charles’ tears and snot smeared along his stupid fucking Red Bull team shirt. He hugged him tightly, and it turned out Max Verstappen was surprisingly good at giving hugs. Charles felt the tension slowly drain from his body, and slowly he wrapped his arms around the other driver, clutching him as tightly as Max held him.
Charles wasn’t sure how long they stood there, hugging so tightly that Charles thought he might explode. Eventually, his tears lessened until they turned into sniffles. He pulled back slightly and Max let him go easily, but his arms were still draped around him.
It didn’t feel suffocating. It just felt nice.
“Feel better?” He asked, a small, sad smile on his face.
Charles nodded, throat still too raw for words.
Max led them back to the couch and this time when they sat down there was no space between them. Max was warm, like his own personal space heater, and it made Charles smile as he remembered it had been the same when they had slept together. It was nice; Charles was always too cold when he slept.
Max rubbed his shoulder softly, and Charles found it was a grounding touch that kept him from slipping back into a breakdown.
“I know how you feel,” Max whispered.
Charles smiled sadly and laughed wetly.
“No, you don’t.”
“I do,” Max insisted, stubborn as always. “Remember last year?”
“Last year you already had one championship under your belt.”
Max went silent at that and went back to simply rubbing his shoulder.
It was silent for a while before Charles spoke up.
“Do you remember how hungry you were for it?”
Max opened his mouth to reply but Charles beat him to it.
“I know you’re still hungry for it, but there’s nothing like the hunger before you win. I remember the hunger I felt before every first win in every series I’ve ever competed in. There was nothing like the hunger before the first one. I was still hungry for every win – I’ll always be – but there’s a different kind of hunger that eats you away inside.”
Max nodded.
“I remember. I was so angry, all the time. I needed to win. I needed it more than life itself.”
Charles sniffed and wiped at his face, disgusted with his current state.
“I’m never satisfied,” he whispered, and it felt like a confession. “There’s a void inside me and I know I’ll never do enough to satisfy it. It wants more; it wants every win, every bottle of champagne, every podium, every anthem. I want it. I want it all.”
He was silent for a moment.
“I want to win.”
Max put a finger under his chin, and lifted his face up to look him in the eyes.
“I know.”
This time, Charles knew he understood. They were cut from the same cloth; no one else on the grid wanted it as badly as they did. Even Hamilton, with his seven wins, knew he was finished. It was either Max or Charles. Everyone else was fighting for a pipe dream.
“I… I wanted you so bad that night, Charles. I’ve wanted you for years. I’ve always watched from a distance. Your racing… it’s incredible. It’s an extension of you. You’re just as magnetic in the car as you are out of it. You’re beautiful and special and like I’ve said in all those interviews, unfortunately sappy for the rest of the world, racing you is the best feeling I’ve ever had. When we’re out there together, my world feels like it’s on fire. You do that to me, Charles. Only you. No one else.”
Charles sucked in a breath at Max’s words. There was something gratifying about being told that the man you’re obsessed with – have been obsessed with for nearly half your life – is just as obsessed with you.
“I’m sorry, Charles. I’m sorry your team can’t support you, and I’m sorry that most of the mistakes on track are theirs. It’s not pity – I of course respect you too much to pity you. Sure, you’ve made some mistakes that have cost you some points. But had it not been for Ferrari’s fuck ups last season, the championship would have been a lot closer. You have the talent. I see it every time you drive.”
Max cupped Charles’ cheek and Charles let himself rest on it. He was tired. He was so tired. And Max was looking at him like he deserved the world, and he was saying things that made sense. He wasn’t his team, trying to talk their way out of every fuck up because the great Ferrari would never make those kinds of mistakes. He was simply saying the truth, which everyone else had been too scared to say to him.
Leave it to his biggest rival to also be his biggest comfort. Max had never bullshit him before, and while Charles had found his blunt honesty grating when they were kids, now it felt like a soothing balm on an aching wound.
“I’m tired, Max,” he said softly.
“I know, Charles,” Max replied, his eyes big and sad. “I know.”
Charles slumped onto his chest. He knew Max was startled, but he didn’t let it show. The other driver wrapped his arm around Charles and tugged him closer. They sat there in silence until Charles fell asleep.
-
Charles woke up to the bright Bahrain light streaming through his windows. He groaned and threw his arm over his eyes, annoyed that he had forgotten to close the blinds yesterday before he got into bed. Wait. Bed?
He blinked awake to see he was safely ensconced under the hotel sheets, the pajamas he had put on the day before still on. The last thing he remembered was lying down on Max’s chest–
Oh shit. Max.
He groaned again, the light too much for him this early in the morning. Wait, how late was it? He looked over to the alarm clock on the bedside table and nearly shrieked when he realized how late it was.
“Fuck!” He cursed as he scrambled out of bed, falling on the floor in his haste to get ready and somehow make the Ferrari flight that was leaving in a half hour.
He laid on the floor for a few seconds, breathing heavily as he considered the ramifications of missing the flight.
Suddenly, a messy head of hair popped out from behind the couch. Charles stared in shock as Max Verstappen gave him the stink eye.
“Can you be a little quieter? Some of us are trying to sleep,” he huffed out, obviously annoyed.
Charles stared in silence for a few more seconds before he snapped out of his daze.
“Wait– what the fuck? This is my room. I can be as loud as I want. Especially when I’m late for my flight.”
“Oh, that? Don’t worry about that. I texted Carlos to let him know you were flying back to Monaco with me.”
Max waved his hand around languidly as he spoke, but dropped it as he finished. Anxiety crept into his eyes.
“That was okay, right? I just figured you probably wouldn’t want to ride back with them. Considering… everything.”
Charles shot him a small smile from where he was still sprawled out on the floor, half-wrapped in sheets.
“That’s… more than alright, Max. Thank you. Let me get ready, and then I think you and I need to have a talk. Especially after I woke up in my bed when I distinctly remember falling asleep on the couch.”
The with you remained unspoken but lingered in the air between them. Max blushed and rubbed the back of his neck, seemingly embarrassed at being caught out.
“I’ll see you in a few,” Charles said as he gathered up a change of clothes and headed into the bathroom.
When he got into the bathroom and shut the door behind him, he took a deep breath. He dropped his clothes on the closed toilet seat and gripped the sink. He took a few more deep breaths before looking up to face himself in the mirror.
God, he looked awful. There were dried tear tracks and snot all over his face and his eyes were red. His hair was sticking up in every which way, and the collar on his old shirt was pulled, showing a bit of his collarbone. He had a sickly pallor; he looked half-dead.
And yet, last night Max Verstappen had said he had wanted him for years.
There was something funny about fate.
Charles hated thinking about fate, but somehow he knew he and Max were fated. There was something up there in the stars, watching them as they raced all over Europe, and then all over the world. Two shining talents circling around each other.
Charles laughed a little at himself in the mirror.
“New day,” he whispered. “New opportunities.”
Then, he pulled on his clothes, brushed his teeth, and splashed some cold water on his face. He took one last glance at himself in the mirror.
“New day.”
He walked out of the bathroom to meet Max and finally have the conversation .
-
The air was tense between them for a while until Charles cleared his throat. There were so many words swirling around in his head that he wasn’t sure what to say. Still, he knew he had to say something.
“Max,” he began, “I just want to know one thing. Why did you leave me that night in Monaco?”
Max sighed.
“I was terrified,” he said plainly. “I had finally done the one thing I’d been dreaming about and I didn’t know how to deal with it. Foolishly, I thought that if I left and we pretended like it didn’t happen, it would be like it actually didn’t happen. We could go back to the way things were before.”
“But we didn’t.”
“I know. It was so stupid of me. I had stared at you while you slept, looking so peaceful in the moonlight, and I was happier than I had ever been. It scared me.”
His voice cracked a bit, but he continued on. Charles was content to listen.
“I was so scared, Charles. And I know that’s not an excuse, but it’s the only explanation I have. All I could hear in my head was my father’s voice, the voice of the media, even Christian’s voice – telling me I could never have them both.”
“Both what?” Charles interrupted.
Max looked at him, his icy blue eyes filled with tears.
“You and the championship. You and racing. But to me, they are inseparable. You are racing. We aren’t us without racing.”
He stopped and they sat in silence for a while.
“I understand why you did what you did,” Charles finally said. “But I can’t forgive you for it that quickly. It hurt me – deeply. I kept wondering what I had done wrong. I went over it in my head countless times.”
He laughed self-deprecatingly, breaking their eye contact to stare out the window.
“I never stopped going over it. And I analyzed every interaction after. And before. When I wasn’t thinking about racing, I was thinking about you. Although, I guess it’s like you said. They’re the same thing.”
Charles sighed. He never would have predicted he would be having this conversation now.
“I wanted you so bad, Max. I want you so bad. I can’t be left again. I can’t take it. Not right now. I need someone who will support me. I need to go to sleep at night and know that when I wake up in the morning, you’ll still be there.”
Max nodded.
“I completely understand, Charles. And trust me when I say that I of course have given it much thought, too. I can be that for you; I want to be that for you. I want you, in any way you’ll have me.”
Charles felt a sense of relief flood through him that almost sent him crashing down to the floor. He had wanted to hear those words come out of Max Verstappen’s mouth for so long, his Dutch accent curling around the syllables just right. Charles made an aborted move to cross the couch and pull Max in for a– hug? Kiss? He wasn’t sure.
Max took charge and slid across the couch. He slowly raised a hand to cup Charles’ cheek, much like he did last night, and yet again Charles sunk into the touch. Their faces were mere inches apart, and Charles felt a thrill go through him when he realized he could just… lean forward.
He leaned forward until their foreheads were touching and their breath was mingling together.
“I missed you,” he said, and it felt like he had just ripped his heart in two, and with his hand still bloody, handed over one half to Max.
“I know,” Max replied, voice gentle.
Charles leaned forward until their lips met in a simple, sweet kiss. He enjoyed the feeling of Max against him, familiar but not at the same time. He leaned in and slid a hand into Max’s hair, messing up the already messy strands. He moved closer until they were touching so closely it felt like Max was a pillar of heat against him.
Max tilted his head slightly and let his hand drift down until both hands were looped around Charles’ neck. He tugged him in closer and Charles moaned. Max took full advantage of that and slipped his tongue in. Charles granted him an easy entrance and felt like he was high on the best drug in the whole world as he and Max lazily made out in the Bahrain sun.
He knew that the year ahead would be rough, but as long as he had Max on his side, he was confident he could get through anything. And who knows?
Maybe there would be a free Red Bull seat in 2024.