Archive of Our Own

Charles is wearing Schiaparelli when they first meet.

Max is wearing an ugly suit from a brand that didn’t even try to live up to its legacy. The only redeeming quality of the horrible thing is the way it hugs the shoulders, making Max look broad and imposing.

It’s the first thing Charles notices.

At least, even if the suit is ugly it looks comfortable. 

Bits of metal have been digging in Charles’ skin for the whole night but he still stands up straight when the chair next to him gets pulled. 

The weight of the gold roses wrapped around his waist has made him slump the whole night — and it’s like he can feel his mother’s disapproving fingers on his spine each time the ache of his bad posture spikes.

So as soon as the red carpet was over and he gave enough naive smiles and eyes to people more powerful than he could ever be, Charles ran to hide at the bar. Hoping his eyeliner is intimidating enough to not have to talk to any stranger, except the barman. 

But the audacity of men knows no bounds.

The chair scratches on the floor, an ominous, awful sound, and Charles doesn’t acknowledge them until the person talks. 

“Hi, I’m Max.”

Charles let his eyes trail on the shades of bottles on the bar shelves in front of him to go and stop on the man next to him.

The suit aside, Max is handsome in a way Charles misses. With piercing blue eyes and a prominent nose, there’s a sort of confidence about him that many try and fail to replicate. His blond hair has barely any gel in it, and flops on his forehead in a clumsy way.

Charles has seen many beautiful people. The classic Hollywood LA model they usually put him with during photoshoots and fashion shows does nothing to him anymore.

With his poor taste in clothes, Max won’t hit the runaway any time soon but he sure looks like he could buy every pair of clothes on it.

Also, broad shoulders are always a hit in Charles’ book.

“Good evening. I’m Charles,” he offers his hand, which Max takes and for a second, Charles thinks he’s going to kiss the back of it. Some muscle spasms in the tight grip, rough velvet against soft skin. When Charles gets his hand back, it feels like he lost a finger or two in the fight.

“What’s your poison, Charles?” Max asks, settling on the barstool like it’s not designed to be the most uncomfortable chair in the world.

“Cyanide, usually. I’ll settle for a gin tonic for now.” 

Max hums. “Bold choice.”

“I could say the same,” says Charles, and he doesn't even hide his contempt as he looks up and down Max’s outfit.

Instead of running off as expected and intended, Max’s smile gets wider. 

So it’s going to be like this, then.

Charles knows who Max is. Formula 1 driver, three times World Champion, probably adrenaline junky. Also, clearly thinks Charles is some stupid pretty little thing that is going home with him tonight.

From his experience, three types of men come to him at those parties anyway. 

First, singers, actors, some artistic pricks flaunting their life masterpieces to his face. Hoping a high note or well-placed paint stroke will impress Charles into sucking their dick.

Second, athletes. Sportsmen of any kind looking for their next scandal between his legs, murmuring data and achievements like Charles gave a single fuck about it.

At last, there always were some poor lost souls who didn't know what they were doing there. Big, wide eyes, desperately trying to find some comfort in the shark-infested waters of celebrities' parties. Charles liked those the most. There was something about the awed look on their face that made him soft. It never lasted two evenings, however.

He’s not sure where he’s putting Max yet. Too confident to be in the last category but he hasn’t talked about his dick enough yet to be the second one. Charles hasn’t slept with a racing driver yet, and probably never will, so he doesn’t know what to expect.

After ordering two gin tonics and a bowl of peanuts put in front of them, Max leans on the bar, observing the careful way Charles moves to reach for his glass. Looming shadows hide half of his face, emphasizing the sharp curve of his cheekbones.

“So, not enjoying yourself?”

“Not particularly,” Charles admits. There’s no point in lying.

“Me neither. I don’t even know why I was invited, to be honest,” Max confesses in return. This time, there’s something other than cockiness in his smile. A bit of sheepishness, perhaps.

Charles snorts. “Yes, I’m also wondering. Did you come with Lewis?”

“Oh,” Max looks surprised but gets himself together quickly. “No, no, it’s some— I’m working with the charity.”

“That’s nice.”

It is nice. But every person in the room is ‘working’ with the charity. Ranging from giving a few dollars per year, to shooting for their ads. Money laundering or saving the world, it doesn’t matter either way, they’re all on the same level here.

Also, Charles must look particularly clueless if he looks like someone who doesn’t know who Lewis Hamilton is. They once got drunk together and they sometimes hit each other up to meet at events like this. Charles has just wished to not see anyone tonight.

Max might have a heart attack if he realizes he’s close friends with Pierre.

Not for the first time in the night, Charles wonders why he’s here.

There’s ice in his drink that clunks when he tilts it. It’s a waste of space and will melt in his drink to dilute the alcohol Charles desperately needs. As he tips the drink down his mouth, he traps an ice cube between his cheeks and teeth. Sucks on it slowly, the freezing sensation hurting his teeth and gum.

It gives him an excuse to half-listen to what Max is saying. Surprisingly, it’s not completely and utterly boring, and Charles catches himself repressing a laugh one or two times at the dry humor lying in between the story of a woman who didn’t want to let Max in.

If he was in a better mood — and not hurting like a bitch everywhere — Charles would have been very happy to have found his company. For now, there has been no allusion to sexual intent and a respect for his quietness that he deeply appreciated.

It’s unnerving, still. Not that Charles doesn’t like to be proven wrong! Quite the contrary, if someone could make this type of party fun again, he would be indeed very grateful.

But he prefers to keep himself on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And, like always, it does.

Max points out the golden circles around Charles’ waist and the flowers in the same metal going up his torso. His golden handcuff shines under the bar’s poor light.

“Doesn’t that hurt?”

“Well I can’t sit,” Charles says, sipping his drink. It’s now almost only water. “But I’ve had worse.”

Max looks mildly horrified, a small crease deepening between his eyebrows. It’s a bit comical, like something out of a Looney Tunes cartoon. It makes Charles smile. 

“Wow, it sounds horrible,” Max says.

A shrug. It makes a petal poke at his ribs. “Not really. Pain is beauty, as they said.”

The frown deepens on Max’s face, making the shadow progress on the rest of his cheeks. “I don’t think that’s true. You would look beautiful without pain.”

Charles bristles. It’s instinctive and he tries to repress it as best as he can, but his expression for a moment must have been an ugly one because Max shifts uncomfortably next to him.

Before answering, he passes his tongue on his teeth, feeling the ridges of it, and bites the little piece of glass that has almost completely melted.

He tilts his head to look into Max’s eyes. They’re very blue — an elusive color that is sure to change with the lightning. The one from the bars makes it a darker shade, bottom of the deep blue sea-like.

“You don’t know me,” Charles settles to answer, for lack of anything sharp to stab into Max’s chest.

“I want to,” Max assures.

Charles laughs. Not very happily, this time. 

“No. Have a good night.”

Without missing a beat, Charles catches the eyes of the bartender, waves at him with a grateful smile which is answered by a salute, and goes to disappear into the crowd. It welcomes his aching body like the sea does, cold and overwhelming.

There’s no shortage of people that can distract Charles from himself and others, but still, he finds himself looking for more familiar faces than those he only met once or twice. Nobody dances, only talks between themselves with glasses of bubbly champagne.

For a second, Charles stands in the middle of all this, tall and lonely, and feels the icy burn of blue eyes on him. His head and nose hurt from the coke he took in the bathroom two hours ago.

Finally, someone grabs his wrist from behind and when he turns to meet Pierre’s panicked eyes, Charles feels his body relax immediately.

“Pierre,” he coos. The gin tonic and the previous drinks mixed with the drugs must be starting to have an effect. He’s not feeling drunk, just lightheaded, like after skydiving, when the ground feels too real underneath your feet.

“Charles. What did Max Verstappen say to you?” asks Pierre and he looks so stressed Charles puts a soothing hand on his cheek. The velvet of his gloves scratches the beard underneath his hands and he smiles softly at his friend.

“I only threatened to poison him once, don’t worry.”

Pierre makes a strangled noise.

@maxverstappen1 a commencé à vous suivre. il y a 3 secondes

Charles is scrolling on Ikea’s website when the notification pops up. Between two sofas from different shades of beige, the Instagram notification clashes on the clean website like blood on white linens.

He pouts, observing the shape of the letters like it could tell him the whole story, before dismissing the notification.

Around him, an intern almost makes a rack of clothes fall on the ground, making multiple people yell, and the makeup artist working on Charles’ face pokes his eyes with her brush. She apologizes quickly and he gives her a small smile and a nod.

The frenzy of a fashion show doesn’t get to his head anymore, he’s just here to be pretty and walk, but for all the staff around him, it always seems like it’s a life or death situation. It probably is, sometimes. If there’s an industry as bloodthirsty as the fashion one, Charles had yet to find it.

Not to say it’s bad, he enjoys it well enough — the adrenaline, the praise, the spotlight. Even fake smiles taste sweet at the right time.

Charles has been here for years, he’s been here forever it feels, as though the sweat after his first walk made him womb-wet. He’s not sure there’s a place for him in a world without glitters and bloody red nails.

“Charles, you look so good,” Antonio yells and Charles puts his phone face down on the table to look up at him. With crazy glasses that only designers and fun old ladies wear, Antonio looks ecstatic for Charles to be here. 

“Only because you allowed me to,” Charles says and squeezes his hand as it is handed to him.

It’s maybe his twelve or thirteen time walking for Antonio, the first one being at the start of both their careers — a moment of faith shared and never taken back. It’s rare in fashion, to be trusted so completely by a creator. 

Maybe by pride, a lot by self-preservation, but Charles is a creature that feeds on praise and attention so the reverent way Antonio looks at him in his creations could sustain him for months.

Antonio rambles about something Charles should care about, but instead, he finds himself looking at his reflection in the mirror while the makeup artists add their finishing touches to his face.

Green eyes surrounded by dark lashes. Purple highlighter matching today’s outfit. When he moves his head a little, the pearls on his hair shift.

He should probably make an Instagram story about it. His agency is starting to get on his ass to do more of those but there are a lot of things Charles wants to do in the morning, but it’s not posting about his fruit bowl. 

All his model friends have perfected the art of the Ig Story (mysterious yet intimate; interesting but not nerdy; pretty but accessible) while he’s still left feeling he bared his body and soul too early and too much to allow more of this anymore.

Why can’t his followers be happy with pictures on his feed, golden, naked, and pampered? No one wants to see him when he wakes up, looking more like a ruffled kitten than a supermodel.

As he waits behind a girl who looks like she’s about to vomit on his feet, he can’t help but wonder if he’s getting too bitter for this. 

Suddenly, in front of him, the girl crouches down, holding her belly for a minute, before going back up, releasing a shaky breath. Charles now really thinks she’s going to throw up on his heels. But he’s been here before and he’s been alone, so he can’t help but lean towards her.

“Are you ok?” Charles asks softly, making the girl jump. 

When she turns around, she gasps, as if she didn’t realize who is behind her. She’s very pretty, long black hair slicked back, and shiny white highlighter on her brown skin, but the pure panic on her face inspires more worry than awe. 

With a shaky hand, she brushes her cheeks, messing up with her lipstick a little, which makes Charles frown and her freak out even more. “Oh fuck– yes, yes, I am ok, this is just—”

“I get you don’t worry,” Charles cut her off, and she looks almost relieved by that. He should definitely tell Antonio that his campaign to get rookie models is great but they should be way more guided. With a smile and a graceful flick of the wrist, he stops a staff member who automatically gives him a tissue. 

“I’m sorry I’m such a mess,” the girl whimpers, and Charles tuts before gesturing her to come closer so he can get the lipstick off her face.

“I almost had a heart attack the first time I did this,” he confesses, soft enough to be sure she’s the only one to hear him.

“Really?”

“I’m not kidding! I’ve like, had to get my pulse checked and everything after!” 

“Wow, Charles Leclerc nervous,” she says, but this time she sounds more teasing, and less like she’s going to pass out on the spot.

“I guess this is surprising.”

He gives her a close-lipped smile and someone claps and shouts in the background to signal the start of the show so the conversation dies here. 

It’s good, in a sense, because Charles is himself starting to get the pre-show jitters and after giving such advice, it wouldn’t be a really good look to look nervous.

The sounds of heels and the rustling of fabric stop for a second and the first note of a piano piece starts playing. 

Charles hasn't caught the girl’s name, but he is sure he will hear it again in no time — as he watches her walk with a confidence that seemingly came out of nowhere, he’s convinced there’s something bright ahead of her.

She mouths him a thank you when they pass each other on stage, and Charles winks at her. 

There’s something great about having new faces, even if a bit dreadful. He hopes she will make it far. He hopes he will make it at all.

Andrea meets him backstage after the show and hands him a bottle of water that Charles gulps down in record time. 

He hasn’t drunk the whole day — makes his stomach bloated, apparently. It’s what someone told him years ago. Their faces have been erased from Charles’ memory, but not their words.

Carefully, Andrea hands him an apple and a chocolate bar from an Italian brand that only Andrea carries, before he turns away to call a taxi. Charles nibbles on the apple and tears off the packaging of the chocolate bar without eating it.

When he comes back, Andrea gives him a stern look that makes Charles finish his apple and bite half of the chocolate bar off. 

The horror story of having a manager in fashion is something Charles had heard all throughout his career and he can’t be thankful enough to have been found by Andrea as young as he did.

Sometimes a friend, sometimes a bodyguard, but most of the time, Andrea seemed to be his guardian angel.

In the taxi, where bright lights are as fake as the leather of the car, Charles lets himself click on Max’s profile. He’s not very good at Instagram, is his first conclusion.

His second is that it’s a lot about racing. 

This makes sense, in retrospect, but still, Charles finds himself scrolling to find a picture of Max where there are no brands or helmets. It is an impossible task and Charles strongly suspects he’s not even the one posting half of the time when he finally stumbles upon a picture that makes him stop.

Max is with people Charles assumes are his family, a blonde girl who shares the same eyes as him and another woman with a kind smile who holds Max like she’s scared he’s going to disappear on her. There are multiple pictures in the post so Charles swipes and, without much surprise, there’s the typical racing picture —- Max with his helmet on, brandishing the Dutch flag like a cape, on a background of a night illuminated by fireworks. 

It’s a pretty picture. An even nicer moment, probably. He looks very happy. At peace, even.

Charles locks his phone and puts his head on the vibrating window of the car.

He’ll follow back tomorrow.

The smoke of the cigarette disappears in the fog of the late evening, and the person next to him leaves without finishing theirs.

At his feet, Charles’ heavy faux-fur coat pools, dragging on the dirty asphalt, and he can already imagine the dry cleaner’s fees. Little wood sticks and patches of mud got caught in the long black hair as if the animal the coat was mimicking came to life and went to chase in the wild.

Some ashes almost fall on it and Charles crushes the end of his cigarette under his heel and immediately lights up another one.

It’s a bad habit that he can’t seem to get rid of. As if the moment he decides to quit, a life-shattering event happens and forces him to go back to things he finds comfort in if he doesn’t want to lose his mind. Charles is not superstitious, but he’s not here to court distaste.

A door opens behind him, bringing loud conversation and music to the quietness of the outside. It doesn’t seem to be a couple looking for a spot to make out, thankfully, there’s only the sound of one pair of sneakers on the ground that stops behind him.

It’s maybe Pierre or Andrea who came looking for him, so Charles twists himself to try to look at who this is. In the dark, the imposing figure looks more like something mythical than a human being, but as soon as Charles’ alcohol and drugs-blurry eyes focus, he groans.

The dark figure laughs as it approaches him and looks down at Charles.

“Do all your dresses show your nipples?”

“Do you always lack as much personality as your closet?”

“I hope not,” Max says and sits next to Charles. He’s only wearing a shirt and jeans but somehow seems way less impacted by the cold than him, which is in all ways very infuriating. Since it seems like he’s not going to leave, Charles offers him a cigarette but he shakes his head. “Athlete lifestyle.”

“Gross,” Charles says, scrunching his nose while taking another drag out of his cigarette. 

It makes Max laugh, and it’s a surprisingly light sound. Almost shy.

“Yeah. I’m sure you’re doing some stuff I’ll be pretty shocked to do as a model. Diet and stuff.”

“Eh, you tell me, if it works,” Charles scoffs, and, as to prove his point, gets rid of his bulky coat with a shrug of shoulders to let it pool around him. Sheer dress that doesn’t let much to imagine, except maybe his dignity, clings at his skin and lets the wind freeze his body. He shows his teeth bitterly at Max, feeling too raw for any of this. “Here for a good time, not a long time.”

Gently, Max picks up the collar of the coat to put it back on Charles’ shoulders. Despite its weight, he makes it look so easy Charles gets surprised by how heavy it is — somehow, it’s not crushing him this time.

It’s the thing with bold clothes. It’s either you wear them or they wear you. What’s asked of Charles is to do both, all the time, at the same time.

Max smiles at him softly, and there are crinkles around his eyes that Charles wants to touch. “You’re going to get a cold,” he pauses, and the sound of the wind covers the sound of music for a second. “So you’re a model?”

There have been some ridiculous situations in Charles’ life, but this one might top the charts. Out in the cold, with a Formula 1 driver who’s trying to poorly hit on him, with three grams of alcohol and two lines of coke in his blood.

Charles laughs before groaning, the world spinning around him and he buries his face in his arms, resting on his knees. Once the world isn’t about to collapse on itself anymore, he rests his cheeks on his forearm to look at Max, who’s been observing him attentively.

“Let’s not do that, Max,” Charles says. There’s a pleading noise stuck in the back of his throat. “We know who we are. We follow each other on Instagram so you’ve seen my ass more times than we met.”

“It’s a nice ass, to be fair. And you took time before following me back.”

“Oh, you waited impatiently for it?” Charles teases, thankful for his hair to be hiding half of his face right now. He’s now feeling very hot and is probably blushing, but he can’t really tell; he’s in his body but his body does not have him in it.

The only real thing seems to be Max, and Charles’ eyes flutter when fingers come to free a strand of hair from his eyelashes.

When he blinks them back open, he can only see how dark the night is compared to Max’s skin.

“Every second. I was serious last time. I want to learn about you,” Max repeats, unshakeable the way old gods are.

Confident and nonchalant.

It makes Charles sick with envy.

“God, you’re stubborn, has anybody told you that?”

“Some have mentioned it,” Max says, now amused, as if they’re sharing a private joke Charles is not on.

“You have some serious stalker vibe too,” Charles doubles down. He’s fighting a battle that never began.

“If you think so.”

The hypocrisy is not lost on Charles and his hours spent on Max’s social media.

It wasn’t intentional — he swears — he had just gone back to follow him back. But Max had posted a story, and Charles had clicked on it, and he got lost in the intricacy of a sport he had sworn off long ago.

Charles thinks back to the picture on his Instagram, the one with the Dutch flag, the helmet, and the joy. He wonders what it tastes like.

His spine aches from the position he has been in for too long.

“Tell me something in Dutch.”

It only takes a second of reflection for Max, where he looks at the sky, searching for inspiration, before he looks back at Charles, serious. “Je ziet eruit als de mooiste persoon die ik ooit heb gezien, maar ook de droevigste.”

Charles burst out laughing, an uncontrollable thing that escapes him to fill up the silence, surprising both of them.

“That sounds like you’re making up words.”

“Maybe I did,” Max says, raising a challenging eyebrow. Somehow, Charles knows he’s not lying, but that might also be his brain melting. He kicks Max’s calf with his foot, the only place he can reach without moving too much.

“Don’t you want me to speak French?” Charles asks, curious. It gets some guys off, to hear Charles whisper in his native language, might it be his tomato soup recipe. 

“Eh. Not really. I’ve heard enough French for the rest of my life.”

Charles doesn’t know what that means.

“Je ne sais pas ce que tu veux de moi et ça me fait peur,” he says, finally. [I don’t know what you want from me and it scares me.]

Max hums in the way people who don’t understand but want to relate do.

As if Max is hiding his secret French skill, Charles can’t stop looking at his face, trying to find a hint of comprehension in the sweep of his lips. 

They’re nice lips, even if chapped. There’s a freckle on the top one, a single dot that Charles stares at. If Max put lipstick on, it surely would disappear but that would be a bit sad.

All of Charles’ moles disappear under enough foundation and concealer, and while there’s a new trend of having natural skin, it’s difficult for him to now look at unedited pictures of his face with all his imperfection, hills, and valleys.

Max must be catching that Charles’ mind is elsewhere because he leans slightly toward him and says softly. “Let’s speak a language we both understand from now on, no?”

“We’ll see,” Charles smiles, and he hopes it looks mysterious and not constipated. The loud background music changes into something Charles vaguely recognizes and it’s enough to snap him out of his slump — he jumps up, almost face-planting on the floor in the process, both drugs and his heels making him unsteady. He steps out of his shoes, the asphalt is freezing under his bare feet and everything about it is horribly uncomfortable. “Let’s go dance,” he announces.

“What?” Max chokes up.

With a condescending little pout, as if he didn’t almost collapse by simply standing up, Charles looks down at him. “You don’t dance? Another athlete lifestyle thing?”

A flash of competitiveness goes through Max’s face. 

“Lead the way.”

He doesn’t wait for Max before he sweeps up his shoes (they’re Prada he’s not leaving them outside) and goes to swing the doors open.

A wave of heat and the smell of sweat and alcohol hit him in the face. There are barely any lights inside, the bodies moving more shadows than flesh — Charles doesn’t remember who organized the party, but they know how to throw one.

Carelessly, Charles throws his coat and heels on some chair, knowing he has a 50 percent chance of never finding it again. Too bad for the Prada. He goes to mix in the crowd, swaying to the music and closing his eyes. 

The floor is sticky under his feet and the fabric of his dress is starting to give him a rash.

On the beat, he starts to feel his body, the curve of his waist going to his rib and his pectorals. He’s not very good at dancing. He’s self-aware enough to admit that — but like most things in life, he can get away with it by distracting everyone around him.

Someone bumps into him, and multiple hands are reaching for him when he almost falls. After he reassures everyone with soft apologies and nice smiles, they all go away but one.

“Don’t go too far,” Max tells him, near his neck.

It’s not like Charles is going to disappear on the spot, but he doesn’t say anything. He turns back to see Max’s face, barely visible, and wraps his arms around his neck.

Without Charles’ heels on, Max is slightly taller than him. Not by much, thankfully, but it’s enough to annoy Charles and dig his nails in Max’s shoulders over his thin shirt. It doesn’t seem to bother him however and, as the music changes to something slower, Charles slowly softens his grip with each brush of Max’s hands on his hips.

It’s supposed to be sexy, to be so close to someone and dance. 

Charles doesn’t find it very sexy to do it with Max. Instead, it’s horribly intimate. Each touch purposeful, without an ounce of carelessness, their bodies moving and barely meeting. It’s enough to make a man mad.

Especially since it’s been a while since Charles—

He doesn’t want to think about it.

Someone screams with laughter as Charles sticks his whole body to Max. He’s now so close to Max he can physically feel the shaky breath he takes as Charles starts grinding against him.

Slow, steady, on purpose, sexy. He knows how to do that, it’s his thing, and he can take control back.

It’s all about the subtle move, about the way he scratches the back of Max’s neck, the way he knows how to tilt his head to make his collarbone look appetizing, how to make his eyes look glazed when he meets Max’s burning ones.

Soon, there’s a hand on his ass and the other close to it — and perhaps in the hallucination of Charles’ boozed mind, he thinks Max might even be starting to get hard.

Charles breathes in the junction between Max’s jawline and neck. It smells like sweat and heaven.

His hands are now fully in Max’s hair, grabbing it like a lifeline, his lips are open, waiting for a saving word or a kiss, and their breaths intertwine, and it’s going to be over, it’s going to be over so quickly and Charles leans it, desperate, wanting, sinning and—

His lips find nothing.

“Not like this,” Max whispers in his ear, his big hands patiently holding Charles’ hips and waist in place.

How, then? If not now, then how?

The question burns Charles’ throat. It doesn’t pass the threshold of his throat.

There’s a black hole in his chest, the size of the universe, and his tiredness. It won’t go away tonight.

When Charles’ agent booked him for a photo shoot with GQ, he didn’t try to look more into it.

It’s a job for a whole day, he likes the team at GQ well enough and it’s in Monaco which is more than enough for him. Traveling is fun until he realizes that his cleaning lady has spent more time in his apartment than himself for at least the last three months.

He doesn’t even want to look at the state of his pantry — he’s pretty sure a can of pineapple has been sitting there for at least two years.

Free of any makeup and feeling fresh and clean from his early shower, it’s with an unusual enthusiasm that he slips into the car waiting for him in front of his building. 

He kisses Andrea on both cheeks and pretends that his new haircut is really good. It earns him a swat with a folder on the arm. But also, how was he supposed to know it was the result of Andrea’s kid having a newfound passion for scissors?

The taxi driver gives them a mildly weirded-out look but as soon as they start switching to Italian, he loses interest. Good.

Despite the failed haircut, Andrea indulges Charles’ good mood and they talk about everything and nothing for half the journey. The pictures of Andrea’s daughter are adorable and Charles coos appropriately at all of them.

Once all the pictures are shown, and they have argued enough about a stupid subject (there’s no way Shrek beat Batman, but Charles is talking to a wall), they finally switch to work mode.

Charles makes the ice clink together as he stirs his drink with his straw. “OK, anything I should know about the shoot?”

“Hm, not particularly. I don’t think Verstappen has done many shoots though, so you might have to help him.”

Charles almost spills his latte in the car. The taxi driver gives him a dirty look in the rear-view mirror but Charles is too busy staring at an unbothered Andrea. 

“You’re fucking with me,” he says, and he’s not sure if it’s a question or not.

“Of course, I’m not. Didn’t you read the schedule?” Andrea asks, frowning as he looks on his phone for the Google schedule — and indeed, next to the ‘GQ PHOTOSHOOT MONACO’ there’s ‘WITH MAX VERSTAPPEN’ next to it. 

Charles had been one click away from being able to avoid what might as well be one of the most embarrassing moments of his life.

At his silence, it’s Andrea’s turn to glare at him. Helpless, Charles throws his hands in the air. “I— no, I didn’t read it, alright!”

“Then don’t complain,” Andrea concludes.

Andrea is right and Charles would rather die than miss a schedule because he can’t properly read. That’s probably some kind of karma for the pineapples.

So he sulks all the way to the building, like a small child. A professional small child.

As soon as someone from the team welcomes him as he enters, he puts on a smile and goes to greet all the staff.

Everyone is lovely and busy, and Charles gladly lets himself get swept into the buzz of the start of the day, directly in the makeup crew’s arms and brushes. From what he can understand, Max has yet to arrive and he can’t possibly be more glad to have more time to prepare himself.

The morning after their last meeting, when Charles had woken up in his bed, hungover and alone, he had sworn to never meet Max Verstappen ever again. 

The rest of the night after he had been so blatantly rejected is kind of a blur in his mind, but the burn of humiliation has lingered as clear as day.

Honestly, he knows it’s childish to be holding against Max the fact he didn't want to sleep with him. Charles is a big boy, he’s been denied before. He has gone through it, the mixed signals, the sympathetic twist of one’s mouth as they told no, the awkwardness that couldn’t be shaken off after. Not a lot, but enough.

Charles doesn’t want to believe he has been played with, but he can’t think of another explanation.

Thankfully, the girl who’s doing his hair must feel him overthinking, because she starts gossiping about someone in Monaco that Charles is vaguely aware of and she’s funny enough he makes her job harder by how much he laughs.

There has been a time when only his maman has been allowed to touch his hair. It hasn’t lasted long, or at least not as much as he hoped it would, but he would always recall fondly the moment passed in her hair salon, trying to recreate the impossible haircut picture the company sent them.

At least, she’s now the only one allowed to cut his natural hair short, and left the extension, color, and crazy stuff to the others, more for practicality than aesthetics. 

As soon as the hair is finished, long and smooth, he’s directed to the stylist's room, not without another Starbucks drink brought by Andrea. His energy must be really off because they allowed him a long cigarette break and he spent the whole of it staring at the brick wall of the little back alley. A cat comes to rub himself on his legs, and he gives him an ice cube to lick.

When he comes back, there are whispers and the chaos has increased. Deep in his bones, Charles knows Max has arrived.

He runs in to get dressed.

Unfortunately, it only takes about thirty minutes and Charles is asked back on set immediately after. There’s barely any time to breathe — especially in whatever they dressed him in — and Charles is distracted by watching Andrea seemingly ripping a new one to a girl who looks as annoyed as him when he spots him.

Max looks lost. 

Surrounded by staff and with someone talking rapidly next to him, it’s as if watching a baby deer in the middle of an open space. Far from the confidence that had been so attractive in their last interactions, Charles can’t help but feel some fondness creep in when Max nods eagerly at a question.

Oh, he’s just weak for pretty boys.

It felt like a cautionary tale at times, and one where the learning curve kept sliding down toward his inevitable grave.

He must have been standing still for too long, because suddenly, the staff member talking to Max noticed him and is now walking decisively towards him, Max in tow. Charles’ stomach drops as if he’s watching a car drive at full speed on the wall and when they stop in front of him, he’s not sure he’s even breathing.

The girl — whose name’s tag introduces her as Anna — smiles at him, and there are too many teeth for Charles to feel reassured.

He has yet to look at Max.

Unaware of Charles’ internal battle, Anna takes Max’s arms to bring him in front of her. “Charles, I’ll let you introduce yourself, Max, you’re in good hands, and— I SAID I DIDN’T WANT THOSE HELMETS, WHO BROUGHT THEM!” she yells, loud enough to make them both jump.

Max and Charles share a look as Anna runs angrily toward the crew with big boxes. In the silence between them, the sound of something falling and more yelling pushes them to finally burst into laughter like small children.

Perhaps it’s more nervous than genuine amusement, but Charles feels a weight lifting off his chest. When he calms down, he’s met with a sort of wonder in Max’s eyes that he’s not sure how to deal with.

He smiles at him.

It’s fine. It’s awkward but it’s going to be fine.

“Hi,” Charles says finally, flipping his ponytail behind him with a hand. It almost hit someone in the process but there are only trained professionals on set who duck out in time.

“Hi,” Max answers and he sounds breathless. There’s a blush starting to build in his neck up to his cheeks.

Maybe this can be fun, after all.

Charles snorts and pops a hip to the side, silently delighting in the way Max’s eyes follow the movement. “Oh, so now you’re shy when it’s the most clothed you’ve ever seen me?”

“I wouldn’t call it clothed, really.”

“Well, you can’t see my nipples this time.”

The styling is… Charles would say GQ had known better days. He had been put in a latex jumpsuit that he had to oil himself to get inside of and opened the zipper in front until the middle of his chest.

Vintage F1. With a Twist. It’s what the guy from the wardrobe team had told him as she had handed him the monstrosity he’s now wearing. Apparently, he’s supposed to be a grid girl — gender neutral — and Max would have to wear one of the vintage race suits they had found.

When he saw the race suit, Charles had to bite down his jealousy. To be fair, it is objectively a genuinely cool piece, but he will have to settle for the borderline-fetish jumpsuit and will make it work. As he usually does.

While Charles is fully dressed, Max is still in his everyday clothes, and there’s a slight bit of makeup on his face, something so light it’s barely visible. Someone passes by with a mirror and Charles catches the sight of both of them next to each other.

The red of Charles’ lipstick matches the Bull print of Max’s shirt. 

They don’t look too bad together, weirdly.

Reality catches up in the form of a stressed guy with three pens in his hair who grabs Max by the arm and drags him without a word to the dressing room. Max sends a desperate glance to Charles who waves his fingers at him with a smirk.

Feeling lighter, the rest of the time Charles spends with the photographer waiting for Max flight by. It’s even fun, as Will, who he had already worked with a few times, trusts him enough to talk with him about the artistic direction they should go with.

Charles does think the checkered flag as a toga is a bit tasteless but whatever.

He had successfully convinced Will by the time the lights were finally set and they were all just waiting for Max to show up. Someone runs to them and whispers something to Will’s ear that makes him nod, satisfied. That should have been the first red flag for Charles. 

The girls from the staff giggling between them should have been the second one, and third and fourth, honestly.

Unfortunately, he was never good at noticing them.

“Max! Perfect, perfect,” Will suddenly yells, making Charles jump and almost drop the fan Andrea brought him.

Ready to make a catty comment about making oneself feel desired, all words die on his tongue when Charles spins around to face Max. Very, very, shirtless Max.

The vintage racing suit tied around his waist doesn’t have fireproof underwear, or anything at all, really.

It’s one thing to think Max is good-looking, it’s another to be suddenly confronted with the fact Charles is incredibly attracted to him. Each of Max’s breaths only emphasizes how big his chest is, and Charles waves his fan at his face with newfound strength.

God, what is he? A Victorian woman? Ridiculous.

“Hi,” Charles chokes up and he has to swallow heavily to avoid getting a dry throat.

“My eyes are up there,” Max says, smug despite his obvious embarrassment.

It’s enough to sober Charles up from whatever trance Max’s tits had put him under.

“Oh, you’re going to be insufferable aren’t you,” he states more than he asks. Max only smiles wider.

It’s the moment Will chooses to clap his hands and everyone scrambles to finish the last details before starting the shoot.

Meeting Andrea’s piercing eyes got Charles straightening up. He’s here to work, not to have a weird sexual tension with some guy. 

The lights are hot against his skin. And they start.

Max is… Not very good at it. 

Which is fine, Charles is well aware it’s not Max’s job — far from it — and he probably did not choose the half-naked situation and was more bullied into it. 

But even if he was not, the same problem would have remained: Max is incredibly stiff. Like, Charles is pretty sure he could break a piece of wood on how tense his shoulders are. Even if Charles had worked with far worse people, there’s not much to do when your partner looks like he would rather drown himself than spend one more minute in front of the camera.

He tries it all. Tries to look like he does not care for Max to feel better, tries to posture himself as to hide the camera from Max’s eyes, and tries to do something stupid to make him laugh (it works, but it’s a one-time thing), he tries, tries, tries.

If anything, Charles is truly a professional. As Max’s hands rest weirdly on his thighs, he knows it’s not going to get better if something drastic isn’t done soon.

At last, it’s Will who takes the bullet, as he puts down his camera while sighing deeply.

“Charles, you look gorgeous. Max—”

“Try to not look like you’re about to shit yourself,” Charles intervenes, knowing whatever Will was going to say would destroy any rest of confidence left in Max. And he does look kind of pathetic, stuck in what is supposed to be some shade of sexy and instead makes him look sick. Charles sighs, and waves at Will to signal they will take a break.

While Will nods and turns back to his screens to check the photos,

“It’s fucking ridiculous,” Max says, his voice tight.

It is a bit. But that’s just a fact, everyone is ridiculous while doing what they’re doing if they’re ashamed of it. But shame is a hard emotion to unlearn. 

From all the poses they’ve been trying, Max is now flushed from the collarbone up to his cheeks. With his arms crossed against his chest, he looks more like a petulant child than a grown adult. There’s a plastic chair behind him, an abandoned helmet, and checkered flags, with a random tire in the middle of all of it.

Charles sighs. Max refuses to look at him and fixates on the tire out of all things.

Tentatively, Charles puts a hand on his elbow. “Max, it’s ok, it’s just me. Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not worried,” Max snaps back, but it looks more like a reflex than anything.

“Sure, you’re not,” Charles indulges. From the elbow he’s holding, he starts to rub on Max’s arm, but every inch of his skin seems to ooze with tension. “Relax, focus on me.”

“I’ve already been doing that,” Max grumbles but doesn’t protest as Charles pushes him back on the chair.

It’s almost cute, how Max scowls at him.

“I would tell you to think of everyone in the room naked but I think that would give us another problem.”

It startles a loud laugh out of Max and Charles deems it good enough to give a thumbs up to Will who’s been attentively watching them.

They go back to it, and it’s not as bad as before. It would be lying to say it’s marginally better, but Will makes some satisfied noise at some point so it might be salvageable.

At lunch break, Andrea brings Charles a salad that he only eats half of, too focused on looking at the pictures and talking about the editing with Anna and another guy from the team. When Max gets back from where he had spent lunch, probably complaining to his manager, his eyes linger too long on Charles’ lunch.

Charles discreetly throws it in the trash and promises himself and Andrea to order sushi at home tonight.

They do two other sets that require changing outfits which leaves Charles exhausted and grumpy but he pulls through when he gets a glimpse of how horrified Max looks when he gets announced that there are still two or three hours left.

The last hours involve less nudity and more weird artistic shit that Charles actually really likes, and Max must feel it because he is more relaxed and easily follows Charles’ direction, even when Will doesn’t say anything.

By the end of the day, Charles admits it had been a fun shoot. Max is funny in both a dry and silly humor that makes Charles laugh either way and despite his clear difficulty, he took the whole thing seriously. Not many people in his position would so it only makes Charles appreciate the effort more.

Maybe not sleeping together was a good thing after all because it probably would have shattered this illusion.

Will makes a chief kissing move at the end of the session and Charles is exhausted and happy. It doesn’t happen that often so he is delighted by the feeling.

The makeup wipes on his skin leave him feeling reborn and his clothes feel soft and rewarding. Ironically, the plainest version of himself might be before and after a photo shoot.

Andrea goes to call a taxi while Charles is smoking outside when Max steps next to him. They both smell like too much perfume and Max has probably run away from the makeup team because there’s still some foundation on his cheek.

This time, Charles doesn’t offer a cigarette to Max. Instead, he leans on the wall and observes the curve of his nose under the setting sun.

“Good job today,” Charles tells Max, genuine.

Max sighs. A big thing that makes his shoulders slump. “You don’t have to pretend it was good, I’ll be surprised if they even get one good picture out of the whole thing.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Charles says and ignores the hypocrisy of it all. “It was alright, you did your best. I’ll carry the pictures for both of us, don’t worry.”

“True. Thank you, Charles,” Max nods, actually sounding serious.

A car stops in front of them and Andrea waves at Charles from inside.

“Yes, whatever. Goodbye, Max,” Charles says, and automatically, he goes to kiss his cheeks. He’s halfway through leaning in before realizing what he’s doing and it’s both too late and embarrassing to abort the movement, so he just goes for it.

Max is frozen through the first touch of cheeks but comes alive at the second, and his hand rests on Charles’ side for a second. He almost goes for a third but Charles breaks away, his cheeks probably red not only from the rubbing on the beard.

He waves at Max a last time before slipping into the car. Andrea gives him a weird look that he ignores.

*

They send the pictures to Charles by email.

Titled modestly ‘GQ PHOTOSHOOT MAX VERSTAPPEN’, it reads like this:

Hello Charles,

I once again want to thank you for the incredible job you did, working with you is always a pleasure and the team is grateful for your kindness. So, we wanted you to have a peak in avant-première at the pictures!

Hope you like it as much as we did!

Best,

Anna & all of the GQ team 👍😎

PS: I haven't sent the pictures to Max, but feel free! and thank him for insisting on working with you, it was a surprise but a really great idea!!

Then, a few minutes later:

Re: ‘GQ PHOTOSHOOT MAX VERSTAPPEN’

It’s even better with the pictures :)

joined: FinalFinalFinalver16_THISONE.zip

In a daze, Charles opens the joined files. The pictures are great because the team are miracle workers but Charles read over and over again the PS of the first email.

‘thank him for insisting on working with you’

He gets Max’s number through Pierre.

It earns him a few embarrassing questions and a lot of suggestive emojis, but he gets it. 

The name on his phone feels a bit off. Max F1, to discern it from Max Agency and Max DO NOT ANSWER!!!!. Maybe he will soon have two Max Do Not Answer.

The next step is obviously to call and confront him, to ask him what the fuck is wrong with him. 

It’s one thing to happen to work together, it’s another for Max to have gone out of his way to do so.

Genuinely, Charles is stunned. 

In all his years of working in the, already weird by itself, fashion industry, something like this never happened to him. With friends, sure, he had himself asked for a few models he likes to do stuff with, but not behind their backs and certainly not straight-up strangers.

Max had not given him the impression of being a complete creep, so it might be why it stings even more.

Because… Charles tries to protect himself. Desperately, badly most of the time, he tries to look after the part of him that he still deems worthy. For many years, he had sharpened his instinct through highs and lows and he would like to think it’s pretty good now.

It feels like he has failed himself.

Three days after the pictures and the email, he finally clicks on the number on his phone. He’s alone at home, on his ridiculously small balcony facing the sea and he bites on his thumb knuckles. There’s a gravestone of cigarettes at his feet and another one between his fingers.

It rings a few times, long enough for him to think he will have to call later.

But suddenly, there’s a beep then a silence, followed by a groan.

“What?” The voice is rough, unused by the night. It echoes in the quietness of Charles’ balcony.

“Hello, Max?” Charles asks, softly. “It’s Charles. Leclerc.”

Max chokes and makes a weird noise, in the distance. When he talks again, it’s way more clear. “Charles?!”

“Did I wake you up?”

There’s shuffling as if one sat up in their bed with their covers around. Charles tries to not imagine him in bed but fails immediately at it. Focus, focus.

“Hm… Yes, I’m— It’s Sunday,” Max says like it means something to Charles. It doesn’t. 

“Right.”

“How are you? Uh— You — You wanted something?”

Here he goes. 

It had been building, slowly, like a card castle, and now that he’s been asked to destroy it, Charles staggers. It was easier in his head, or in the comfort of his shower.

But he needs to do it, for himself. Charles takes a deep breath and his eyes follow a bird in the sky that he thinks might be a dove but is probably a pigeon. 

“Did you ask for me? To do the shoot with you, did you ask for me specifically?”

There’s a long silence that makes Charles check his phone to see if Max hasn’t hung up on him.

“Yes,” Max admits, finally. He doesn’t sound ashamed. “I don’t like those things and I trust you. When it was asked of me to do it by my team, I couldn’t think of doing it with anyone else.”

It’s not what Charles expected and it throws him off horribly. His hands are shaking slightly. He wants to beg Max to be honest with him, to give him an answer that will leave him satisfied even if upset, for him to break it cleanly. To not leave splinters caught under his nails.

He coughs and puts the phone in speaker mode to rub his face. “This is— Max, you don’t know me. Especially when I work. I could have been horrible, I could have humiliated you, I coul—”

Max cuts him, sharp. “But you didn’t. I was right.”

“Why me?”

“Why not?”

Now, Charles knows what to feel and he falls into it easily. He can do rage, he can do anger, he can do not being answered and face being patronized too. Does Max think so lowly of him?

“You’re not answering, don’t play at that with me. First, you come to me and then you leave— putain, comment on dit? Blue balled? Just to organize this whole cirque to work with me. I’m not your toy.” 

Charles’ cigarette falls on the ground and he reaches out for one a little bit stronger.

“You could have said no, I never hid it,” Max says, matter-of-fact. There’s not much Charles can say to counter that, because it’s true, if he had checked his planning in advance, they wouldn’t be here today. “I’m sorry if it makes it weird for you, it was not my intention but... Everything is not all about you, you know?”

This time, Charles chokes on his newly-lit joint. “Wh— Oh, fuck you.”

Someone honks on Max’s side, like a warning. 

“I don’t mean it like that, just… It’s not just you. I’m in this too, it’s weird and complicated for me to know what you want and how you’ll react. I have feelings too,” Max adds, and it’s not mean, and it’s the worst part.

“I know you do,” Charles snaps back defensively. Guilt is a weird emotion to be feeling while angry.

“Great, at least we’re on the same page on that.”

Charles’ thumb knuckle is bleeding. “I need to go.”

“Ok,” Max concedes like Charles isn’t the one who bothered him in the first place to yell at him first thing in the morning. On a Sunday. Which seems to matter for him. “See you soon?” There’s something hopeful in his voice that Charles wants to claw out and keep on his shelf.

“Maybe.”

Dropping his phone on the seat next to him, Charles buries his head in his hand between his knees.

It doesn’t quite feel like the bitterness of a loss but it might as well be.

“Lolo! Arrête, t’es chiant!”

Charles bats away Lorenzo’s hand which is still messing with his hair. Reaches for his bag to get his small mirror out — a tiny object in the shape of a shell that has saved Charles many times from having lipstick on his teeth and other scandalous situations.

Some eyeshadow has snuck into his cheek and he rubs it out carefully. The black becomes blue and mixes into his foundation. It looks like a bruise.

“Oh, c’mon Charlie, you look great as usual,” Lorenzo says, both exasperated and fond, and puts back his sunglasses on top of his head and takes a swig of beer. From where he is, Charles can see his hair being tangled in the glasses but decides not to say anything.

Being petty came with the job.

But it’s not really his brother’s fault. What Lorenzo doesn’t know and will never completely get, is the ominous feeling of being known.

Charles wouldn’t consider himself a high-end celebrity but his face has been on the cover of enough magazines, for long enough, for the average person to stare at him with squinted eyes, trying to remember where they saw him. 

Also, in his 27 million Instagram followers, there’s always one or two people in the day that take pictures, either for themselves or their own following, hoping to get some likes on some unflattering angles of Charles. If he can help it, Charles won’t be caught slipping.

But also, if there’s anyone in his family that could come close to understanding, it’s his oldest brother.

By the time Charles was fifteen and his dad was too sick anymore to come to photoshoots with him, Lorenzo took his shitty car with even shittier music and drove from one city to another with Charles and his dreams. He stood in the corner of the room where all spotlights were on Charles’ lithe form and glared at photographers who touched him a bit too much.

There was Lorenzo when someone recognized him for the first time in the street and there was Lorenzo when he threw up in the toilet after he bought his first apartment. 

In planes and trains, sometimes, Charles feels like he’s sitting next to him, a phantom presence made of love and worry.

“You can afford to look like shit,” Charles concludes, slamming his mirror shut. “Not me.”

Lorenzo raises an eyebrow, and he looks so much like their mom, that Charles almost wants to take a picture. “I look very good without needing anything, thank you.”

“What are your sources? The retirement home?” Charles makes a faux-pity face that Lorenzo laughs at. He’s kidding, of course, he loves the retirement home Lorenzo volunteers at, the old ladies there confess at least two murders per visit.

“Josette and Marie-Pierre know more about beauty and glamor than you ever could.”

“Oh, and I bet Charlotte from reception doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

Charles is busy making kissy motions at Lorenzo who pretends to try catching a waiter when someone stops close to their table. Too close. There was the daily ‘excuse me, are you Charles Leclerc?’. 

Charles ignores it pointedly, staring at Lorenzo’s face who had started to catch on to the weird atmosphere shift.

At least, the person doesn't waste any time to come and make themselves heard.

“Charles?”

“Oh,” Charles makes a weird little noise from the back of his throat as he looks up to the man. “Bonjour Max.”

The Monegasque sun is cruel, and Max has a red sunburn on his nose that is horribly endearing. It reminds him of the photo shoot and how fluttered Max had been when he first saw him.

Suddenly, Charles feels underdressed, in his white blouse and blue jeans. Thank god he had fixed his makeup. 

Immediately, he reprimands himself for thinking like that, for wishing to see Max flustered, to have his attention and approbation to feel good about himself. He’s hot and worth it even when there’s nobody else in the room.

The words sound performative and fake even in his mind.

“It’s great to see you,” Max says. He seems to mean it.

“Yes,” Charles answers, his voice thin.

“C’est qui?” asks Lorenzo, curious, snapping Charles back at the moment.

Panicked, Charles looks between his brother and Max, unable to articulate a single coherent thought or sentence. “Oh, it’s— Max, you—”

“Hi, I’m Max Verstappen,” Max offers, saving Charles from more embarrassment, and Lorenzo happily takes the hand offered to him. Traitor.

“Lorenzo Tolotta.”

Charles regrets not having put on his pointy heels. It would have hurt a lot more when he kicks him in the shin. 

Despite not being born with the Leclerc name, Lorenzo has immediately taken it in adulthood. To benefit from some of Charles’ fame, he had joked at a family dinner. But Charles was barely starting at the time, and the Leclerc’s name had nothing to offer except two unruly tiny brothers and a lot of love.

There’s always an underlying test when Lorenzo presents himself to people with Charles, however. Like if their reaction determined the rest of the interaction with both of them was worthy of his time or not. Many times, Charles has watched disinterest clouded people’s eyes as they thought Lorenzo was his boyfriend.

Which, gross. Way too old for him these days.

Max just nods and smiles at them with crinkles forming near his eyes. The sun had made his hair blonder, brown and white mixing artistically. Charles is sure he did nothing to earn that.

“What are you doing here?” Charles asks, for lack of something better to say. It sounds almost accusatory, even if he doesn’t mean for it to be.

“Well, I live down the street,” Max says easily, and now that Charles is looking closer, Max is holding a Carrefour bag full of groceries.

“Oh. Oh, that’s cool.”

“Since when?” intervenes Lorenzo.

Max blinks slowly, surprised to be spoken to by Lorenzo. “A couple of years.”

“Nice,” approves Lorenzo, and there’s a hint of something dangerous in his eyes before he leans towards Max. “Do you want to join us?”

“Lolo,” Charles hisses.

Uncomfortable, Max looks between the two brothers before shifting to his feet, feeling the tension increasing as Lorenzo bats innocent eyes at Charles. He coughs, shyly. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose.”

Somehow, it makes Charles even more mad.

“Oh, my god. Just— sit down,” Charles huffs, grabbing Max’s forearm to force him to sit on the metal chair next to him.

The thing is, Charles does not like Max. He doesn’t, for real. At the same time, there’s no reason for him to not like him. 

They’ve been over the rejection, Charles is not that petty, the whole thing with the photo shoot was weird but not unforgivable; their other interactions have been nice enough apart from those few incidents.

Maybe he’s still left unsettled by the phone call. As a model, he knows he’s self-centered, that’s literally his whole job. But being so directly called out is unusual. Honestly and shamefully, he thinks it was even kind of hot.

He licks his top lip and feels the regrown of his stubbles under his tongue.

Despite his hesitation at first, Max seems to be getting along very well with Lorenzo. They’ve started a conversation about the best spot in Monaco to eat that Charles does not and can not participate in.

With shaky fingers, Charles puts some tobacco in his rolling paper, overstuffing slightly before placing the filter he had in his mouth at the end of it. Some expert rolling, a long lick on the paper to seal it, and it’s done. Not his best work by far but Charles has been doing it for so many years he could roll his eyes closed.

Lorenzo is now rambling about beers, he thinks, but Max is paying as much attention as Charles is. His eyes follow the way Charles’ lips close around the cigarette, white-hot, and the lighter clatters on the metal table as it slips from Charles’ grip.

Trying to look unbothered but his throat dries despite his empty glass, Charles makes several attempts to switch his zippo on, all unsuccessful. Around the tenth time, it makes a spark and burns his fingers.

Hot pain, leaving a red mark on his thumb.

Charles curses, he’s not sure in which language, and immediately sucks on his skin, feeling both humiliated and pathetic.

There’s a lull in the conversation between Lorenzo and Max, both now looking at him all concerned.

From the side of his eyes, despite staring stubbornly at a stain on the table, Charles watches as Max picks back the rolled paper left on the table. Gently, moving slowly like he’s dealing with a scared animal, Max puts back the cigarette between his lips. 

Charles is frozen and can only part his lips when Max asks for entrance.

“Let me,” Max says and lights it up in a smooth wrist movement.

Charles’s breath is shaky as he exhales the smoke and he can feel his Adam’s apple tremble.

“Thank you.”

If there wasn’t Lorenzo, Charles isn’t sure what he would have done. Cry, maybe. Storm off, more probably.

Licks Max’s fingers as they presented the cigarette to him if he was brave enough.

But he never is. That’s what it’s all about, at the end of the day, isn’t it?

Nothing to be afraid of, yet the sun rises and he lays, sleepless, in an empty bed of his own making.

Wary of his city and everyone who dares to enter it without previous invitations. The concealers barely hide the dark circles under his eyes anymore, and the feeling of a cleaver of his own making looms over his neck.

But his head is still there and he knows the shape of his family’s vault but doesn’t have a seat there — he’s there, he’s there, he’s still there.

Sometimes, it feels like he has sharpened his teeth too much to smile properly.

Coldplay starts to play all of a sudden, and it sounds like an angel’s choir for Charles. He reaches out for his phone and checks who’s calling and has taken the role of his savior today.

“I need to take this,” Charles says, already standing up, crushing his cigarette in the ashtray, his eyes fixed on the name on his phone. Lorenzo makes a movement to follow him but Charles stops him with a hand, dismissive. 

It’s the wrong move because Lorenzo starts to openly glare at him.

“Cha, we said no work calls.”

“You said no work calls. I would like not to be blacklisted from the industry forever,” Charles snarks, and before Lorenzo can respond, he accepts the call. “Bonjour Marie, comment tu vas?”

For the duration of his call, he goes in front of the terrasse, near the water. The phone call is not that important, as it turns out, and he feels bad about being bitchy with Lorenzo now.

He cuts it short, making sure for Marie to know that he does have a lovely manager who would love to take work calls instead of him. Emails also exist for a reason. Not that Charles didn’t have a good thousand to answer already but what’s one more?

A boat with a group of friends passes in front of him and Charles lets himself have a moment before going back to his brother and Max. Sea breeze is strong enough to make tourists complain, it replenishes Charles’ lungs like the purest air on earth.

Soon, the salt of the sea makes him want to sneeze and some fishermen come back with their daily shipment which smells even worse.

The cafe has those big plants that almost reach the roof of the building all around it, a domesticated jungle-like grotesque thing, and Charles has to fight down a branch or ten to get to the fountain near their table.

He can hear Lorenzo’s voice but falters as he comes closer.

“-- your intention with my brother?”

There’s no way in hell that his brother is giving a shovel talk to Max Verstappen. Charles doesn’t know if he stays hidden, frozen by embarrassment or with the wish to know what Max will answer.

“Brother?”

“I'm not as pretty as my brother but we still share a mother,” Lorenzo says, teasing. Charles can’t see him but can picture exactly the kind of expression he’s making. For his next sentence, however, Charles has to lean in to hear what he’s saying. “What do you want from him? Don’t lie, I’ll know it.”

There’s a lull where Charles hesitates to step up to put an end to this excruciating masquerade — but the moment he pushes a bought out of his face, Max speaks again.

“I— I just want to learn about him. He’s fascinating, and yes, he’s very beautiful, of course, he is, but he also seems so full of stories and life and I just think we could become really good friends if anything.”

It, honestly, couldn’t have been a more vague and generic answer. Still, Charles feels himself getting hot, a weird feeling tightening his stomach as he stares at the leaves, blacking out for the rest of their conversation.

There’s nothing new from what Max has said, but hearing it from afar feels maybe more… He wouldn't say genuine. Of course, Max wouldn’t tell his brother he just wanted to fuck him nasty and then never talk to him again. Maybe he didn’t even want to fuck him. Which would be vexing.

A waitress, with her apron and tired eyes, stops in front of him with an amiable smile. “Bonjour, vous cherchez une place?”

“Non, non, il y a déjà mon frère et mon— je vais les rejoindre, excusez-moi.”

He must have looked particularly suspicious because the waitress watches him scramble away with the air of someone who is not paid enough to do any of it.

Lorenzo’s hair from the back is even messier than expected and, thankfully, he’s hiding Max and doing big gestures, no doubt trying to explain a story Charles has already heard a million times.

Before he can talk himself out of it, Charles wraps his arms around Lorenzo’s neck from behind. It’s something he used to do a lot as a child, come to seek hugs and comfort from his older brother and Jules sometimes, as they often were an inseparable unit.

Now, it’s as if he only does it to apologize.

“Pardon,” Charles mutters, his cheek squished in Lorenzo’s hair, quiet enough that he hopes only his brother has heard.

The moment passes with a rub of hand and forearm that migrates dangerously toward Charles’ hair. 

When he sits back next to Max, who he’s carefully avoiding looking in the eyes, Charles clears his throat and drinks half of the drink in front of him that he didn’t order. It’s his favorite.

None of them acknowledge Charles’ weird behavior and, gradually, he eases back into the conversation, now more involved and natural. It’s nothing but small talk, but Lorenzo seems to be squeezing out answers from Max and his life slowly but surely. 

In another life, Lorenzo is a terrifying lawyer or businessman. In this life (and many more, he hopes), he’s Charles’ brother.

Learning about Max is… Surprisingly nice. From the shoot, Charles knows he’s witty and good company, not yet the intimacy of getting a story about the Netherlands, the rainy days, and the color of hard-earned victories.

He thinks they might be a little more similar than expected.

The bubble of comfort that he carefully crafted suddenly pops with Lorenzo checking his phone and grimacing.

“I need to go,” Lorenzo says, and he sounds genuinely apologetic about it. Helpless, Charles watches him get up to shake Max’s hand and then goes to kiss Charles on the cheeks and whispers in his ear. “Ça va aller?”

Charles pushes him away, with a roll of eyes. It makes Lorenzo laugh. “Casse toi, sale traître.”

“Envoie moi un message quand tu es chez toi. Bye Max, it was nice to meet you!” 

Max answers Lorenzo’s enthusiastic goodbye wave with similar energy.

With no good reason to leave, other than being embarrassed, Charles let the conversation die pretty quickly. Having a brother to do all the social heavy lift work when needed feels as much a gift as a curse because Charles is left stumbling like a child without him.

The awkward silence is a stark contrast to when Charles has gone away. Far from heartfelt conversations, if the ground could swallow him, he wouldn’t oppose it. Clearly, Max had chosen the wrong brother to have his little infatuation over.

The thought of Max and Lorenzo together makes Charles silently giggle.

It must have been more noticeable than expected because Max gives him a curious look that makes Charles slump in his chair. He rolls his shoulder once, twice, and when the tension doesn’t leave, decides to light a new cigarette. This time it’s quick and he doesn’t need Max’s help.

After blowing his first puff of smoke, he picks on his thumb and nail. There’s some lipstick staining his skin.

“Lolo didn’t scare you away?” he asks, finally.

Max shrugs. “I don’t think he could.”

“After me, you mean?”

“Kinda, yeah,” Max snorts, and he takes the time to finish his drink. Charles tracks all of his movements with a sharp eye. “But I’m not scared. You probably heard me talking with your brother, and I have no problem saying it again. I’ll leave you alone, though, if you ask me to, and— for what it’s worth, I’m sorry about the GQ thing. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. Genuinely. It was clumsy on my part.”

Charles bites his tongue. If something is said out loud enough times, it can become real. Lies are hard to find in the valley of Max’s eyes.

For a long time, there had been a line between overreacting and not reacting enough that Charles couldn’t find. He would throw fit over the pasta on his plate at his parents’ and then smile blankly when a photographer grabbed his stomach to show him all the fat he had gained.

“You already apologized,” Charles points out, something challenging in the raise of his eyebrow.

“Yeah, on the phone, and it was a shit apology.”

It was a shit apology. It feels great for it to be acknowledged, like a weight he didn’t know was there suddenly disappeared off his chest.

Oh, why is he lying? He knows the weight, knows it as much as he knows his own brother, the inside of his chest, the inescapable truth of life.

Nobody has apologized to him like that in a long time.

Self-consciously taking a new drag of smoke, Charles takes his time to gather his thoughts before speaking.

“I guess I’m sorry too. For jumping to conclusions and not letting you explain.”

Max seems surprised but hides it fairly quickly. “Which conclusions did you jump to?” he asks.

“That you were a stalking weirdo.”

Max frowns. He’s lovely. “Have a lot of those? Stalkers?”

“Not anymore,” Charles smiles.

That’s not quite true, but the dangerous ones have been taken care of. Or at least Charles likes to think so. He wouldn’t consider the person sending him his exact location two or three times a month on his story to be a major problem.

There’s a last question that Charles would like an answer to. He leans onto the table, and his face is now the closest it had been to Max all afternoon. The lip freckle is still there and Max’s strand of blond hair seems darker and a bit wet.

“Do you want to fuck me?”

“Quite obviously,” Max answers, honest to a fault.

“Ok,” Charles nods. “Let’s have another beer.”

At 21:45, a few days after their meeting at the bar, Charles receives a message. It’s Max, of course.

The message in itself is nothing to write home about, it’s just a few pictures of Charles at the charity’s party they first met in, from months ago. 

Found these in my gallery and thought you might like them, Max wrote and Charles can’t help but snort. They’re not good pictures, too blurry to post on his Instagram feed, and too badly framed to even make it to his stories.

Still, Charles double-clicks it to leave a small heart and reply a simple thank you.

They left their relationship at the bar in a weird limbo that left Charles both feeling like that might be the last time they would ever talk or it was the beginning of something he had yet to understand the magnitude of.

Leaving the conversation at that would have been fine. When he thinks about it, it’s without bitterness.

Of course, Charles’ misfortunes are somehow always his brothers’ fault.

When Arthur whines about not knowing where to bring his date in Monaco, Charles can’t help but remember the mindless conversation he had with Max, especially one about a niche little restaurant.

The phone blinks 21:40 at him when he opens it. Maybe the sign he’s been waiting for. He hesitates, before clicking on the conversation on Instagram.

hi

what’s the name of the restaurant you told me about the other day?

-> 21:45

And just like that, Charles finds himself watching the clock every night for 21:45. Well, not every night, he’s a busy person with a full schedule and obligations, but still, he checks his phone even then, under Andrea’s murderous gaze.

Sometimes, the conversations are good. Others, less so.

But it doesn’t really matter, it is always 21:45 somewhere, and Max answers, always.

It’s in New York City, two or three weeks after they started whatever this was, slaloming between cars and giving the finger to inattentive drivers when Charles presses for the first time the little microphone in their Instagram conversation. He rambles, probably something about schedule and annoying photographers, and it’s only when he finishes, that he realizes what he has done.

It’s not 21:45, not anywhere, and they— they stuck for text, for a reason, he thinks. The uncertainty of their voice when they left each other at the bar, bleeding into the present.

When his phone lights up with a new notification. 

maxverstappen1 a envoyé un message vocal.

They start to do Facetime, and it’s possibly the worst mistake Charles has ever made.

It’s as embarrassing as it can be, the first few times, when Max calls from across the world, and Charles answers while still in bed, unshaven and shirtless.

“Oh is,” Max stops. Breath. Charles cracks one of his eyes open and is confronted with a very awakened Max. “Is it a bad time?”

“W’at d’you think?” Charles mutters, before burying his face back in the pillow.

“I can call back later if you want,” Max offers, gently. 

Charles gets his head out of the mattress to glare at him. 

“No. You woke me up, suffer the consequences.”

And suffer the consequences, Max does without flinching. After spending thirty minutes with Charles, his disastrous wardrobe, and rambling, most men would have given up. What should have taken two minutes at best, becomes a full explanation of Marc Jacobs internal drama, with patterned shirts as characters.

It’s one of Charles’ best works if he’s being honest and objective.

Weirdest of all, Max had enjoyed it.

“Are you sure?” Charles squints at his phone, precariously put on the vanity. Behind, there’s a mirror that taunts the fact he’s still very much in his boxers and has an ocean of clothes around his room.

“Yes, it was fun,” Max says again, nodding. “You should definitely tell Nick to fuck off, though.”

Max has to leave soon after, not without more deeply thought-out advice.

For a racing driver, Max is surprisingly boring. 

While Charles is doing three continents in the same week, launching a new sweatpant brand, visiting the Pope, and chasing people in his car (he really liked this watch, ok) Max is sending him updates on how he’s doing in sim racing from deep inside his house. Charles doesn’t understand why he’s doing more racing while he’s on break but he tries to be supportive. 

When called out about his hypocrisy (when was the last time he took a real break, uh?), he tells Andrea he likes being busy and gets insulted in Italian.

Somehow, he even gets convinced to do some sim racing on his own when he visits Max back in Monaco. It’s a bit of a disaster, both because it’s the first time Charles goes to Max's apartment and makes it this big deal in his head, and because he’s very aware of how much everything costs and means to Max in the room.

Thankfully, he doesn’t break anything, except Max’s lungs as he laughs at him when Charles crashes into the virtual wall for the fifth time.

Yeah, so Charles doesn’t understand sim racing or why Max spends so much time on it.

On the other hand, Max seems a bit horrified at Charles’ eagerness to have a fast-paced life. When he calls to complain about another triple-header, Charles is preparing himself to go parachuting.

Don’t die, says Max’s text, afterward. Charles puts a laughing emoji reaction on it and jumps in the plane. No one dies, except his mother a little when he shows her the pictures.

It’s easy to find common ground, unexpectedly. At night, at least for one of them, they whisper and confess.

It goes like this:

I resent my father as much as I’m grateful to him for giving me this life, Max would say.

Charles would then hum. Sometimes, there’s no right way to feel. It’s out of your hands, anyway, and I don’t think the universe is cruel. It just is, without any particular feelings toward you. It’s neutral like most things are.

I didn’t take you for a nihilist.

Oh, but it doesn't mean it doesn’t love. Everything is about love, and the rest is about the absence of it.

Or:

Is there such a thing as home, when you’ve left it so long ago?

I hope so. It waits for you, at least.

Or:

I wonder if I exist when there’s no one to see.

Like the sound of a tree falling?

A laugh.

Yeah, I guess.

I’ll hear you falling. Even if I don’t see you.

It’s reassuring, to have such strikingly different lives yet to look at someone else’s features, listen to their voice, feel the texture of their skin, and think: I know you.

On one particular occasion, as Charles is working in Los Angeles and is desperately homesick, someone knocks at his door. It’s late enough he has to check who it is by opening the door with only a crack, but it’s only one of the hotel’s employees with an interesting package with him.

The scent of flowers hits his nose as soon as the door is wide open.

A postcard accompanies the flowers, one that makes Charles bark an embarrassingly loud laugh — a stupid thing with bad lettering and amateur graphic design skill.

Despite not having sent a text to him all day, there are not many people who would send something like this without any more information.

maxverstappen1

did you send me flowers?

Depends.

Did you like them?

(Sorry for the card, it was the only option on the website for this hour.)

🙄

yes, thank you

<3

After some hesitation, he posts the flowers in his story with a red heart. He ignores Max reacting to it with some more hearts on his own.

The next time he finds an ugly postcard, going through the streets of Sanghaï, he decides to take it and write in careful cursive Max’s address on it. When he goes back to Monaco, there’s something similar for him in his letterbox coming from Hungary.

Charles is too old to have a situationship. At least, it’s what he tries to tell himself as it seems like his routine starts to align with a man who had refused to kiss but admitted he would fuck him. Not that they even talk about the whole thing, and Charles is more than fine to pretend everything is fine and completely normal.

For a while, his friends are not the biggest fan of Max. Not after they heard Charles whine about him, exposed the situation a few hundred times by phone and dinners, before making the biggest switch around of all history and becoming kind of obsessed with the guy.

At breakfast with his diet coke and cigarette, when he recalls something funny Max has said, he can visibly see some of them roll their eyes.

It’s the moment Charles decides he needs to make his circles collide by the risk of letting it rot and having a magnitude 10 earthquake on his hands. 

When he exposes the idea to Max, he’s surprisingly into it, and it takes two or three group chats to organize everything – both on their side. Charles is not mean enough to trap Max in a room where everybody wants his head on a pike, even if Max couldn’t give less of a fuck, so the guest list extends with Max’s group of friends.

It feels a bit too domestic to talk about renting a whole venue for what was supposed to be a lowkey party, but they end up deciding on Max’s apartment. It’s on the only basis that Max has a balcony and, if his sofas are pushed in the corner, he has enough room for a thirty-ish person gathering.

When Charles starts searching for caterers on his break, Andrea puts his foot down.

As it turns out, the whole thing becomes a trap of Charles’ own making.

But Charles is very casual about meeting Max’s friends. At least Vivienne Westwood’s team doesn’t ask too many questions about what the vintage dress will be used for.

Gathering the skirt so it does not drag on Max’s hallway floor is a humbling experience.

“Is it too much?” Charles immediately asks when Max opens the door.

“No,” Max lies easily. Charles readjusts the corset, custom fitted for him, and straightens up to hide his sudden awkwardness. It’s definitely too much. Max is wearing his usual shirt and jeans. “You look great,” Max adds, and it’s hopefully the truth this time.

He’s careful with Charles’ necklaces when he hugs him.

Charles is not sure what he expected, but almost nothing is ready when he comes in. The delivered food is in the kitchen and there’s no visibly dirty underwear in the living room but that’s pretty much it.

In Max’s defense, it seems like it’s a way bigger deal for Charles than it is for him.

Charles sighs. People are supposed to come in less than two hours. “What do you want to start with?”

“I trust your vision,” Max shrugs.

Charles gives a silent apology to Vivienne Westwood’s very nice staff before tying his skirt in a knot on the side to go and push every piece of furniture over. He’s almost sure Vivienne herself would have approved, however.

By pushing a drawer, he disturbs a cat — Jimmy, he thinks — who mewls at him, mortally offended. Charles coos apologetically at him, carefully taking him into his arms to rock him a little, and revels in the immediate purrs he gets in return.

“Don’t stand around doing nothing,” he scolds Max, as he realizes he has not moved one bit and is simply staring at Charles with a blank look on his face. He turns back to Jimmy, who’s looking at him with big, round, dumb eyes. A bit like his owner. “Ton père est un peu bête, hein, bébé?”

“My cats speak Dutch,” Max tries, but gets shushed immediately by Charles.

“Well, they can be bilingual. Teach them some open-mindedness, won’t you?”

Max has nothing to respond to that, so they continue moving everything around under Charles’ supervision and some of Max’s input. More cat-playing breaks later, and the first people start to arrive — not without Charles spending twenty more minutes in the bathroom to fix himself, despite Max’s reassurance.

Surprisingly, Max’s group doesn’t seem to have the same reluctance about him that he can see in his own friends, so making the two merge together is easier than anticipated with at least one side into it. 

With Max’s hand on the small of his back, Charles can even pretend to play house, sipping his bitter sangria. That’s the only thing he had made, so everybody compliments him on it. He’s pretty sure he saw one of his own friends pour her glass into one of the plants.

Trouble comes in the immediate glint of mischief in Pierre’s eyes as soon as he opens the door.

The first mistake has been to invite Pierre in the first place, to be honest. They know too much about each other for it to go well.

The second mistake has been the Westwood.

Immediately as he’s let in, Pierre bends to grab Charles by the legs and carries him with unexpected strength, like when they were ten and throwing each other in the swimming pool.

“Charlito, trop beau. Magnifico,” Pierre laughs, bouncing Charles up and down, his arms firmly around his thighs, bunching his skirt in horrific ways.

“Pierre, c’est du Westwood,” Charles cries, trying to wiggle his way out of his grip and failing miserably at it.

A little cough grabs their attention, and Max stands awkwardly at the end of the hallway, observing them with an unreadable expression. “Is everything ok?” he asks, and Charles yelps when Pierre pinches him on the ass.

“Yes, yes, he— Pierre, sale con, laisse-moi descendre— Oh, Max, I’m so sorry, he’s insortable, I can’t take him anywhere,” Charles despairs.

“Don’t talk about me like I’m your dog,” Pierre grumbles but still lets Charles touch the ground again. He stumbles, and both Max and Pierre reach for him at the same time.

Charles slaps Pierre’s hand away, glaring daggers at him. “My dog would be so much more well-behaved than you. You would be like those small angry chihuahuas that the grandmas’ have.”

Max barks out a surprised laugh, drowned out by the headlock that Pierre traps Charles in, which he valiantly fights against. It’s a blessing in disguise that the party is happening in another room because they must make a very poor spectacle. Dread fills his stomach at the thought of any of Max’s friends seeing this.

At last, he successfully pushes Pierre away (no he did not bite Pierre, it’s self-defense), and he can’t bear to look Max in the eyes for now.

Charles fixes his hair in the reflection of his phone, desperately trying to keep the rest of his dignity intact after being manhandled like a child.

“So vain, Cha, so vain,” Pierre says fondly and goes to mess up Charles’ hair even more. “What’s up, mate,” he finally acknowledges Max, going for a clapped handshake that looks strong enough that their palms must hurt after.

Watching them interact feels a bit wrong. Like someone had tried to make two characters from different universes exist without changing the art style. Realistically, Charles knows they’re competing in the same sport, but there’s a bridge between his mind and reality he had not quite crossed yet.

Charles pouts as Pierre leaves, definitely way more disheveled than when he arrived. At the first touch of Max’s hand on his cheek, wiping something off it with his thumb, Charles sighs and closes his eyes, leaning into the warmth.

When he flutters his eyes open, Max is so close to him he can see individual lashes, the freckles on the bridge of his nose, the way his eyes lighten when he smiles conspiratorially. They breathe the same air, for a second or two, and Charles feels lightheaded. 

“Pierre would definitely be one of those crusty small dogs,” Max whispers with a smirk.

Breathless by the proximity and previous fight, Charles giggles helplessly and they leave it at that.

When back in the gathering, Pierre’s sharp eyes are inescapable. Master of avoidance and all things that don't exist if he doesn’t acknowledge it, it’s not hard for Charles to ignore him. Charming his way into people’s approval is a full-time job anyway.

Learning about Max from the eyes of others is a new experience Charles doesn’t quite know how to deal with yet. He tells people a story about Max almost walking in a post while Facetiming him and getting startled by the reaction.

“Oh wow, so Max knows how to use his phone! I’m surprised he even knows what Instagram is,” one of Max’s friends jokes, and gets immediately both stomped on the foot and nudged on the ribs.

For the rest of the night, Charles quietly observes Max, and it might as well be because everyone he would ever text in his room, but he’s pretty sure he didn’t see him get his phone out one time.

It doesn’t have to mean anything, he thinks and laughs at a joke he didn’t hear.

“You could have done worse than a World Champion,” whispers Joris as he leaves, and Charles smiles blankly at him.

Sure, there are trophies all over Max’s apartment, on top of fridges (yes, multiple, Charles is still unsure why), behind the couch, in the bedroom, even in the toilets, there’s a boxed medal. But it’s not— Charles doesn’t ask.

They don’t talk about the races.

Of course, they talk about racing, about the car, about everything that happens or doesn’t, and the paddock gossip, but what happens from Friday to Sunday on track is unknown territory.

It’s like with Pierre. When they meet, they fall into an easy companionship, built with the foundation of shared childhood and mischief; but it’s never about the races. 

By this point, Charles is not sure if it’s by choice or just habits — like his brain has an automatic mode that shuts down the moment tires hit the asphalt. If Max notices, which would be hard not to, he doesn’t push.

But it will catch up to him, Charles knows it will. Some things are inevitable like that. 

When it does, he’s at least somewhat prepared.

Charles is doing his makeup, Facetiming with Max, and chattering about some insane story that he’s been told and he hasn’t got the reaction he wanted yet when the call gets hijacked.

It starts innocently, with the sound of a door opening in the background on Max’s side, and when Charles glances at him, Max is scowling at the person who probably entered the room. Deciding it’s none of his business if Max gets yelled at by his PR team (he’s now starting to know most of their names), Charles goes back to his very interesting story, but there’s a giggle and a crash that interrupts him again.

Now annoyed, Charles screws down his mascara and stares at Max through his screen, who is now full-on ignoring him and whispering at someone. 

The phone is tilted and it might be one of Max’s worst angles Charles has found yet, so he quietly takes a screenshot. He now has a gallery on his phone with random screenshots, embarrassing or not, of his Facetimes with Max, but he’s too ashamed to admit it to anyone.

“Tell me if I’m bothering you,” he snaps finally.

It makes Max jump and fumbles with his phone which he almost drops. “No, no, it’s—” His face reappears on the screen, visibly panicked, before the screen blurs, and there's the sound of fighting in the background and an emphasized: “Oh c’mon, fuck you.”

Charles observes the whole thing, unimpressed, but not without some kind of amusement.

Finally, the image stabilizes, to let appear a curly-haired man with a dazzling smile. The tube of mascara digs in the palm of Charles’ hand.

The moment of realization is visible on Daniel’s face, as much as it probably was on Charles’.

“Oh. Hi, Charlie,” Daniel says, losing all his humor with the surprise.

He looks a bit silly, with his big eyes and messed up hair. Charles smiles at him, thin-lipped. “Hello Dan.”

One of the last times they saw each other in real life was at Jules’ funeral. It was nearly 10 years ago.

Daniel makes a quicker recovery than him, and he shushes Max off-screen before going back with a genuine smile on his face. “You look good.”

“You look old,” Charles remarks, more wistfully than expected. It’s unfair to Daniel, for Charles to see someone else in his laugh lines. He turns back to the mirror to finish his brows. “Maybe if you wore sunscreen you wouldn’t have to do Botox, you know?”

Daniel splutters something before bursting out with laughter.

They chat a little after this, catching up about their life, both having severe cases of whiplash on multiple occasions. He thinks he hears Max leave the room at some point, maybe to get some water, but he’s too horrified to learn that Daniel’s sister has children now to care.

Ultimately, because it’s the one thing they have in common, they talk about Jules. 

Not a lot of people around Charles know about him and their link anymore. 

Charles doesn’t like to share his grief, to expose it in the media and watch the pity in their eyes. Doesn’t like the people who try to appropriate his pain, doesn’t like the sob story he feels like they want to have from him. Doesn’t like that nothing he has is paired with the certainty of it being only for him, even if he wishes so. Especially if he wishes so.

But sometimes, he’s afraid that no one is going to remember. That no one will know who Jules was to him, and how he hugged him at the airport with a reassuring smile, before leaving. Jules is like always, omnipresent in his life, but not enough to stop missing him. 

Daniel tells an anecdote that Charles never heard before, and there’s an odd pang in his chest.

It’s hard to love someone who is gone. Shamefully, Charles is jealous of people who knew Jules better than him and jealous of people who never had to miss him in the first place.

“He would have been really proud of all of you,” concludes Daniel, like he knows something Charles doesn’t, before giving back the phone to Max, who takes it back, grumbling.

Charles mentally checks out the rest of the conversation, the lulling sound of Max telling him something about his car that probably shouldn’t get out of the factory.

When he tells him he needs to go, Max doesn’t fight him, even if he knows he still has a few hours ahead of him before his next event. He looks worried, but Charles ignores it and waves at his screen before pressing the red button. 

The black screen shows his reflection and tired eyes.

Charles looks at his wall and the pinned ugly postcards Max has sent him. There are five now.

What the fuck is he doing?

Charles is at a point in his career where he doesn’t force himself to do every fashion week. 

He did that, back then, when he was young, naive, and stupid. Begged creators to let him wear their clothes, and did countless auditions where people didn’t even look at him even if they were the ones asking him to walk.

Screaming, crying, pleading on the inside, he had smiled brightly instead, and there had never been a place on earth he had been happier to be in than being in the middle of all the models twirling around him on stage.

As much of a tedious era as it was, he made most of his friends in the industry at those shows. Backstage, where they shared secrets and biscuits while waiting for their turn, wearing clothes they wouldn’t be caught dead being seen in public with or more expensive than they could ever conceive. 

But they had a job, they had shared hotel rooms because it was cheaper, and they had dreams.

Some of these friends don’t work in the industry anymore. Charles likes their stories when they post their family. He’s not jealous, he swears, but sometimes he wonders if it could have been him.

It’s not, though.

5 AM is a terrible time to wake up.

Despite doing this for years, Charles can’t make himself a very early morning person. It’s simply not in his DNA, he’s meant to be lounging in his bed while the sun is high in the sky, not hitting the wobbly pavement of Paris when everything is still dark.

It’s the middle of the Paris fashion week, but it feels simultaneously like he’s been doing this for weeks and just a day. When he’s not walking, he’s in the audience and when he’s not in the audience, he’s in the after party of some rich prick and when he’s not in the party of some rich prick he’s—

Well, he’s not sleeping very well, that’s for sure.

A stubborn cold has been bothering him since the second day, but it’s so usual for him that he doesn’t care that much, only takes his vitamins religiously with half a banana at lunch. 

If Andrea is half as stressed as he is, he doesn’t show it, and the rented motorcycle they got turns out to be a very good investment. Years of Andrea’s life are being lost in the middle of Parisian traffic however and Charles has to physically stop him to go fight someone in the middle of the rond-point de l’Etoile one time.

Charles simply refuses to drive as he doesn’t want to spend his fashion week in jail.

Today, he’s starting by doing fittings for Calvin Klein then goes on to do two shows, one he’s particularly excited about — a small creator that he’s been following for a while and who’s doing her first fashion show. He’s working with a salary that’s well under what he usually asks for but he couldn’t care less.

It has been a real fight with his agency and Andrea, that Charles has tried to turn into making an investment act that didn’t fool anyone. What the agency is losing, he will pay with his own money — he has too much of it anyway.

You’re soft, Cha, Lorenzo told him one day, and Charles still doesn’t know if it was a warning or a compliment.

Fashion week is fun, it is, but through the years he has been making more of an effort to see it as it really is: a part of his job. 

When he was very young, before the scouting and the castings, he would attend it as one of the spectators, waking up early to crowd himself in the barrier in front of where a show would happen — and if he was lucky, would even be allowed to attend! His mom would kiss him on the head and watch him jump to see behind the army of photographers.

Now, he’s the one waving at the kids gathering in front.

Calvin Klein goes smoothly, despite Charles almost falling asleep while waiting for the next outfit, and they take a break at the coffee shop afterward. Andrea makes the mistake of ordering something too watery for him so Charles accepts to switch off his drink, but leaves with a significant lack of caffeine in his body.

He doesn’t even like coffee, but it’s either that or coke and he needs not to look completely drugged on stage. It will have to wait after.

At least the show from the small creator — who goes by Sam — goes well, even if it’s a bit short and disorganized but there’s a fresh, new energy there he likes. 

They don’t give him coffee but Sam gives him a hug strong enough he might gain a few bruised ribs in the process. He even discovers an old friend is walking too, which he tries to catch up with.

Because Charles is there, however, it’s more mediatized than expected and he has to suffer through an interview with Vogue and Elle while having an increasing headache and then his brain is completely turned off the next hour or so.

When they all stand on stage, in the end, Sam squeezes and kisses his hand with tears in her eyes. While ‘muse’ has lost its meaning, passing between too many lips, it’s still an oddly flattering name to be called that in front of so many people.

Charles giggles while Sam insists he turns on himself to show how the dress flows around him.

Andrea has to leave early to go eat with one of his friends who lives in Paris so Charles needs to get to the next show and home by himself. He wasn’t sure he could handle the moto anyway, so he didn't mind taking an overpriced taxi.

That’s when he makes the mistake of checking his schedule. And see the ending time of his next show.

He’s contemplating between killing himself right there in his robe and injecting something strong directly into his vein when a girl from the staff interrupts his thoughts.

“Charles, there’s someone who says he knows you in front. Verstap— something?”

“Max?” Charles gasps, despite himself. They’ve been talking a little less since the week had started, Charles too overwhelmed to handle a real conversation over text, no matter how nice it is. The girl gives him a tight smile, urging him to answer. A bit dazed by the potentiality of Max being here, Charles blinks slowly. “Tell him I’ll be here in a few, please.”

“Sure.”

If he spends a little more time making sure his hair is not going everywhere before exiting backstage, no one comments.

Honestly, he’s miffed that Max is apparently in Paris and knows that Charles is in Paris and hasn't tried to meet until now. It makes him feel desperate because if the situation was reversed, he would have run to Max immediately, trying to spend as much as possible together.

But that’s not Max’s fault if Charles is needy and prone to fall for anyone who does more than the bare minimum.

He hoists up his tote bag on his shoulder and says goodbye to everyone he can, dragging the moment long enough that he feels bad about making Max wait. But by now, Max must know he’s chronically late, something he has never quite successfully cured in his personal life.

Finally, he escapes a small talk from an employee of the building, pushes the door to let a cool breeze enter the overstuffed room. Max, who was leaning against a wall on his phone, straightens immediately and smiles brightly at Charles.

He pockets his phone (in his skinny jeans and he’s wearing a white shirt at fashion week, good lord), messes up his hair self-consciously then gives an awkward dance showing he clearly doesn’t know how to greet Charles.

Merciful, Charles gives him a half-hug. He does not linger to smell the sweet scent of his cologne. He knows which brand he uses.

“You looked lovely,” Max says earnestly, as their eyes meet and it almost makes Charles wish he had coke to deal with it.

“Thank you,” he murmurs instead, drinking a little from his freezing bottle of water.

The headache menaces itself back again behind his eyelids and he hopes the smile he gives Max doesn’t look like a grimace.

The last time they saw each other in real life was during a dinner in a fancy restaurant in Monaco. Max had ordered wine and looked horrified when Charles told him he didn’t like it.

There are too many people in the hallway to make proper conversation, so they end up outside, not without Max offering to hold Charles’ bag. Because he’s feeling petty, Charles agrees easily, batting admirative eyelashes and holding up his laugh as he watches Max almost fall under the unexpected weight of his bag.

“At which time are you finishing?” Max asks, wincing as he hikes the bag up his shoulder.

“1 AM,” Charles sighs, sleepiness already lingering behind his heavy eyelids. “And I need to be back at 6 tomorrow.”

Max frowns. “PM?”

“Don’t be stupid,” he says, more sharply than intended. The sticky feeling of distrust is coating all his steps and glossing his lips, nearly impossible to get rid of. It’s unfair to Max, but he can’t help it bubble under his skin.

“Fine, let’s have a bite when you have a break,” Max suggests, already pulling out his phone.

Caught off guard, Charles burst out laughing. Max doesn’t follow him, waits for him to finish, a blank look on his face. Right. 

“Oh, you’re serious. Max, it’s fashion week, I don’t eat.”

“What do you mean you don’t eat?”

Now, Charles is starting to get genuinely annoyed. Of course, he’s not eating — everyone in his life knows it. Doesn’t mean they enjoy it, but it’s been a sort of open secret for years. 

Death, taxes, sometimes Charles stops eating.

The only one who said something about it was his papa, who kept adding dollops of mashed potatoes over Charles’ carefully planned three peas meal. 

At the time, it did nothing but crying meltdowns, and even now, he’s sure he wouldn’t appreciate it at all but he finds himself missing the weirdest thing about his dad — the scent of his too-dark coffee in the morning, the horrendous jokes, the way he cared, in all the right way but the wrong moves.

Someone achingly similar has entered Charles’ life recently.

He’s not sure he remembers how to deal with it anymore.

When he smiles, it’s more teeth than joy. “Am I not speaking English? Je ne mange pas. Non mangio.”

“Since when?”

“Like three weeks, I need to be in shape for fashion week,” Charles dismisses, picking back his bottle of water from his bag. Don’t drink from it, only hold it tight enough to make some dents on the fragile plastic. The frown on Max’s face squishes all his features together. “Don’t look at me like that, I’ll eat normally again after.”

“This can’t be good for you,” Max stresses again, almost like he’s explaining things to a particularly petulant child. It makes Charles’ skin itch.

“Loads of things are, it’s like this. This is my job.”

Max makes a face like he ate something sour. Charles hopes he chokes on it. “Starving yourself?”

Before, being empty held a certain charm to it. A sense of purity to Charles he’s been searching for ever since. Almost as if he was perfect, for a moment. A doll in a museum, exactly at their place, doing exactly what they were asked to do.

To look in the mirror and to be satisfied, even for a second.

It doesn’t feel the same now. It’s not worth it anymore, Charles can feel his days being counted down in the industry anyway, there’s no need for him to accelerate the process. It’s a slow process, but he’s good, he’s better.

Still, he knows what to do at which time.

Max is an athlete, he knows the things he had to make his body go through for his job.

“You’re a fucking hypocrite, you know that?” Charles manages to say between his teeth, seething.

“Yes, I am, but don’t act like you aren’t too,” Max points out, a bit meanly.

“Why the fuck are you here if it’s just to tell me that?”

“Charles. You know why, I’m here for you,” Max says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

When the world starts turning again, Charles is feeling lightheaded.

Everything he could have said died on the tip of his tongue, useless, so he let the moment pass with a huff.

His cheeks must be as full of blood as the inside of his mouth, but he swallows it. It’s both bitter and metallic. From the corner of his eyes, he can see Max regularly turning his head towards him, but he stubbornly looks ahead and the other side.

Parisians and tourists alike pass by them, some giving him a pitiful glance. They’re probably looking like a fighting couple. Max still holding Charles’ bag is not helping — the stylish tote bag looking out of place against his plain shirt. Plus, Max had this sort of air about him, not quite a resting bitch face, but more of a constant pout.

Oh, Charles is so fond of him. It’s the worst part of the whole thing.

The stew of Charles’ insecurity that was boiling all over the place had calmed down enough for him to clean it up, even a little. As always, the aftermath is a twist of deep shame inside his stomach, even more so in the face of Max’s honesty.

It’s like Charles can’t learn from his mistakes, has to do it again and again and again, until it hits him back in the face hard enough to have a scar.

Another glance at Max tells him everything he wants to know.

They walk in silence for too long, too slow, to go nowhere before Charles stops. They’re near the river, and it’s almost abnormally empty for a fashion week day — but he’s not going to complain about it. Ahead, Max walks for a few more meters before looking back at him. 

Trying desperately to keep his head high, Charles makes a sign for him to come closer and puts his hand deep in his bag, brushing Max’s warm skin in the process. They don’t say anything as Charles gets his pack of cigarettes from the black hole of his bag, and even less when he stops someone to ask for a lighter.

“I don’t want to fight, it’s not— I can’t do that, right now,” Charles says, finally, halfway through his cigarette.

Max’s face softens visibly. “I don’t want to fight either, but you can see how it looks from my point of view,”

“Yeah, I guess. Do you still want to hang out?” 

The words feel childish like a child going around asking for someone to play with them at recess.

“Don’t be stupid,” Max teases, throwing Charles’ previous attitude back at him. “I’ll drive you to where you need to be.”

The implication that Max has been walking with Charles while having a car parked somewhere leaves him stunned for a moment.

When Max reaches out, the hand on Charles’ side is warm. He leans into the touch, exhausted, and the strong build of Max feels unshakeable. In his mouth, the long vowels of English morph into an indigestible porridge. “Ok, but don’t go too fast, hein?”

“I’ll go the pace you wish,” Max almost whispers, and it’s a promise.

maxverstappen1

Vous avez répondu à sa story

????

What?

why the fuck are you in japan

I told you.

Like, two or three weeks ago?

I know you weren’t listening, you can’t listen to podcasts and me at the same time.

There’s your proof.

https://goo.gl/maps/Kt1wG5H3FGJuoAkGA

this is my hotel

room 161

I’m in Suzuka, not Tokyo.

what do you have a private plane for, then?

Not very environmentally friendly of you.

I’ll donate to charities after

mister my-sport-leaves-a-carbon-footprint-of-a-small-moon-every-year

Fair enough.

I’ll be here tomorrow with some friends.

fine

It’s raining enough for Charles to have taken his Burberry trench coat out. The buckle is digging at his stomach with how tight the belt is but he would rather die than do anything about it.

Under his Gentle Monster sunglasses, he scrutinizes the street like Max is going to pop up right out of the floor. He’s in a non-smoking area of Tokyo so he can’t even distract himself with a cigarette, so he settles for spinning his umbrella, making drops of water falls in a circle around him, and splashing anyone stupid enough to get close to him.

Tokyo is pretty, even under cruel never-ending rain. Usually, Charles tended to avoid Asia during the rainy season, but the call from Vogue came at a moment when he had been bored enough to accept.

To escape Monaco and only to find himself running back to it in Japan. 

The noise of his heel impatiently hitting the pavement is starting to get annoying even to his own ear but it’s a nervous energy he would either spend locking and unlocking his phone or biting his nails if not bouncing his leg. 

Charles isn’t used to getting nervous meeting boys. He’s not sure how he feels about the flutter in his stomach that’s been bugging him since the Instagram message exchange last night.

“Charles!”

The voice comes out of nowhere and Charles finds himself looking around him stupidly, tipping his umbrella behind him as if it would offer a better range of vision. It doesn’t and it’s only when an arm wraps around his waist and a tangy perfume hits his nose that he relaxes.

“Hi Max,” Charles says, letting Max take the umbrella away from him and, for good measure, offers him a half-hug that is as physically uncomfortable as the feeling of wet clothes under his palm. “You smell like plane.”

Max rolls his eyes but bites down a smile. There’s some overgrown beard on his cheeks that suits him surprisingly well but he looks too tired for Charles to tease him about it.

He won the race yesterday. They won’t talk about it. But Charles is trying to get better at it.

“I wonder why. Charles, you already know Jack. This is Lando,” Max points at both the people with him.

Jack is nice enough, quiet in a way that makes his sarcastic comment unexpected, making their dinner spent together a few weeks back more entertaining than 80 percent of his usual meetings. Charles goes to kiss him on both cheeks.

“Hello,” Lando squeaks. He’s sweating under his ugly orange hoodie. It doesn’t even look like cotton. Charles is unimpressed, but whatever floats Max’s boat for racing friends. There’s not a lot of choice, he heard.

“Hm. Hi,” Charles replies and because he’s polite, he leans in to kiss him on the cheeks too but Lando is clearly not expecting it because he panics and turns his head in a way that almost makes their lips meet. They both make a small noise and when Charles looks at Max, he’s coughing to hide his laugh. Charles sighs and pats Lando’s arm. “Not on the first meeting, babe.”

Lando turns into an interesting color of red that clashes horribly with his hoodie and Charles turns back to Max, putting a hand on his forearm.

“When are you leaving?”

“I’m not staying the night,” Max says, looking a bit defeated but it might just be because he’s tired. “But we can spend the whole day together.”

“Well, what’s left of it. Let’s go to the park,” Charles offers, already putting back his glasses on, and presses himself against Max’s warm body, wrapping his arms around his biceps.

Max laughs in disbelief but makes sure the umbrella is covering them both properly. “It’s raining.”

“Well, I’m not forcing anyone, am I?”

As to prove his point, Charles turns back to Jack and Lando with a raised eyebrow. This won him a shrug from Jack and a frenetic nod from Lando. Too easy.

Since Yoyogi is close and Jack has never gone there, they settle on it. The streets are a little empty, which is only a plus. By the time they reach the park, the rain is only a drizzle. Max regularly checks if it’s raining outside their umbrella and only closes it when it has completely stopped, even if everybody else had closed theirs long ago.

After striking up a nice discussion with Jack and giving him some suggestions for his next trip, Charles lets him get stolen away by Lando, who’s doing everything in his power to not interact directly with him.

They’re now walking a dozen meters in front of them, leaving Max all to Charles. He doesn’t mind it. 

“Your friend does not like me,” Charles comments casually and observes the droopy line of Max’s eyes.

It doesn’t change, only smoothen when Max smiles at him. “You’re scaring him.”

“Of wearing his own merch? Good,” Charles scoffs.

“Don’t be mean,” Max says, and he looks so fond Charles pretends to claw his face with his long red nails. It makes Max scrunch his nose, and Charles wants to kiss him.

“Pot, kettles, whatever is the English expression.”

They stay quiet for a moment, the dark clouds barely letting a ray of sunshine through. It’s a shame they’re in Autumn, the trees barely have any leaves left, and the ones that do are a deep orange color far from the pretty pink of the Spring. Charles wants to offer Max to go see it next year.

The future sounds like a scary thing to talk about, however.

As if sensing Charles’ mood, Max turns to him, something solemn in the dip of his eyebrows.

He opens his mouth. Close it. Coughs a little, licks his lips, takes a breath, deflates again. Charles observes all of it with the wish of keeping it forever. Finally, Max gives him a tight-lipped smile and looks ahead, like the whole thing would be easier to say pretending Charles isn’t listening. 

“You should come. With me, to a Grand Prix.”

The white sound of the world after the rain fills the silence between them.

“Max, I don’t know. People are already speculating,” Charles watches the squirrels climb on a tree and disappear between the leaves. There’s nothing to say. Maybe that makes it even more frustrating. 

Suddenly, Charles remembers his latest doom scroll session under the ‘leclerc vestappen’ Twitter search. Teasing, and to lighten up the mood, he turns back to Max to sink his nails in the meat of his biceps. Feels the muscles twitch. “I didn’t know people were so interested in your love life. I saw someone make a tarot spread about our potential relationship.”

Max, who couldn’t care less about any kind of witchy thing if it hit him in the face, nods sagely at that. “Oh? What was it?”

“Tower, Judgement, Ten of Cups,” Charles' smile gets wider as the confusion on Max’s face increases.

“Which mean?”

“You’re fucked,” Charles sing-song, and it makes Max groans.

Before he can go further with his teasing, Charles is stopped by Max’s weirdly intense tone. “Don’t read about those things. It’s ridiculous.”

“Oh but why?” Charles asks, trying to sound genuinely caught off guard. He tilts his head to the side, slowly blinking, and his smirk is barely hidden. “This kind user got an anonymous confession from an insider who confirmed that I was a terrible person.”

“Charles…”

“Oh what now, it’s funny!” He taps on Max’s arms like dealing with a petulant child.

“I don’t think it’s funny when people disrespect you. I don’t think people who don’t know you think they do and are assholes about it.”

This time, Charles takes time to consider Max. His muscles are tense where they touch and he rubs a smoothing thumb on the fabric of his sleeves. “Max, I’m not mad, I don’t care.”

“I’ll care enough for both of us,” Max says firmly.

Charles hums but doesn’t answer. There’s no use, it’s a fruitless debate.

While he’s not online a lot — except for Instagram and trolling some whimsical account — it’s hard to miss news about F1 now that he started following some people for this very purpose. It’s also hard to miss the avid sports fans’ presence there.

He has to say, he’s pretty impressed by some of the names people come up with.

But also, he can’t help but think of a smaller Max, one that didn’t want to do anything but win, who got hit with the reality of being a public figure, with the storm of press and social media. 

When he sees the pictures of Max younger, so young, in his F1 car, he wants to reach for him and wrap him in tight blankets. Pat him on the head, kiss his forehead, and tell him to call his mother more often, or he will regret it in the future.

In a way, it feels like they are mirrors of each other — one uncaring with how he looks and the other obsessed with it. The results don’t seem very different, somehow. If anything, with a clear goal to achieve, Max was always going to be happier, in the end. What Charles is after is unclear even to himself sometimes.

He wouldn’t call the feeling inside his chest jealousy but it might be close to it.

They walk for a while, and they ease back into conversation at some point, between two bad jokes from Lando and an appreciative stop in front of a pond for Jack to take a few pictures.

When they exit the park, the buildings are tall and a particular colorful poster catches Charles’ attention. 

“Let’s go to the arcade,” Charles declares and does not wait for an answer before entering the building.

It’s on the second level, the sound of his heels on sticky plastic soon joined by heavy sneakers. Automatic doors open a world of neon lights and loud noise, machines, and humans.

Taking a look at Max’s reluctantly starstruck face reassures him into bullying the group to hang out there. He doesn’t bother to ask Lando and only nods at Jack’s enthusiastic rant about a show he saw the arcade in.

After buying a sort of slushie from a girl dressed as a cat, who regretfully tells him it’s no longer allowed to smoke inside, Charles puts all his bills in the machines without checking how much it is and gets in exchange an indecent amount of coins. 

Five cups full later and distributed around, without letting anyone protest about it, Charles is blinking slowly, sipping at a too-sweet drink at some of the games. Like an overstimulated child, he stands for a long time in front of a very efficient player at a shooter game, fascinated by the quick reflexes and gory graphics. Who knew a cute cartoon character could bleed this much?

Somehow, he had lost everyone in the corner of some imposing crane game but he’s not too worried about it. 

When someone puts their hand on the small of his back, he startles a little, almost spilling the drink on his shoes. Thankfully, there’s no wardrobe incident, and he smiles lazily at Max who’s looking worse for wear under the aggressive lights. He’s sweating quite a bit, with blotches of red on his cheeks and jaw.

He’s very beautiful.

“Lost you,” Max groans, and steals Charles’ drink to take a sip. He frowns at the horrid taste.

“You’re having trouble keeping up with me?” Charles teases, hip-checking Max.

“Never.”

None of them has tried any games yet, and Charles is starting to wonder what he is going to do with all his coins when Lando stops and gasps. The object of his enthusiast stands proud and bright, upbeat music fills the air.

Lando turns to the group, pointing at the machine, almost bouncing on his feet. “I want to play Dance Dance Revolution!”

“Oh yes, I’m really good at it,” Charles says proudly.

“Really?” Lando makes a face that makes Charles squint.

He is very good at dance dance revolution. Since Just Dance came out and his brothers were cowards who would only move the Wiimote instead of doing the full dances, Charles has been crushing it. From all points of view, he’s basically a trained professional.

In a swift move, Charles gets rid of his long coat and glasses and throws them blindly at Max before stepping out of his heels.

He’s pretty sure Max drops his coat but he doesn’t bother to check and step on the platform to put some coins in the machine. Quickly, he finds his song — always the same but there’s no one to call him out on it — and stretches his legs and arms before clicking on start.

DDR is just aerobic but way more fun. If he could, Charles would probably replace his whole exercise routine with it.

(He does sometimes when he’s sure his downstairs neighbors are not here.)

By the end of the song, he’s sweaty and his feet hurt a little from slamming directly on the hard floor of the machine. With his hands on his hips, he turns back to the group with a smug smile, not even bothering to look at the score. They all look stunned and Max has an expression close to reverence on his face.

“Wow,” Lando whispers and the light blue screen reflects on his face as he reads the numbers behind Charles.

So, Charles absolutely annihilates Lando at Dance Dance Revolution. And Jack. Max looks too scared to try and challenge him. For a minute, Charles regrets not bringing Joris or one of his friends with him — they always indulge him even if it’s to get beat.

Street Fighter sees a series of victories for Lando however and Max beats them all at a game with a moto and a gun.

It’s quite honestly the most fun Charles had in a while, and he’s laughing breathlessly at every little thing by the time the sun goes down and they have enough tickets to buy the arcade back. They settle for less and Charles takes a set of cute plates while Max takes an enormous cat plushie that will probably take a full seat in his plane.

When they get out, it feels a bit like they went through a Vegas casino trip, the rest of sunlight left in the sky burning their eyes. Max, who somehow has been keeping Charles’ sunglasses the whole time, hands it back to him.

One check of the time on their phone, and it’s clear that their time has already run out.

Never mind the Vegas trip vibes, Charles feels way more like he did at nine, watching everyone leaving the camp early while he stayed there for another day. Max goes to answer a call from either Christian or someone Red Bull-adjacent while the rest order a taxi.

It’s supposed to get there in 20 minutes. Charles wants to reach for the numbers and morph them into hours. He has his hands full with Max’s plushie right now but he’s not above slashing some tyres either.

Instead, he smiles blankly at the last-minute preparations from Jack and Lando. At last, Max comes back and Charles pushes the giant bear back into his arms, maybe too harshly but Lando taps his shoulder so he puts his attention back on him.

“It was nice to meet you,” Lando tells him, his cheeks still flushed from god-knows-what. It might be his default setting, but when Charles tucks his hair behind his ear, he follows the movement with attention.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Charles fakely scolds him, snapping him back into reality. He’s starting to get fond of Lando, all things considered. “Bye Lando. Take care of Max for me.”

“You too, but I think you don’t need me to tell you.”

Charles thinks they’re probably the same age but the teasing smirk reminds him so much of his little brother, he succumbs to the urge to give him a strong noogie.

Lando squeals, tries to escape, and fails at it, under the disapproving eyes of Jack. When he’s done bullying Lando, Charles goes to tell Jack goodbye, carefully avoiding looking at Max in the meantime.

But there’s only so long he can spend babbling about Jack, his girlfriend, and his best wishes to the both of them. As patient as ever, Max is waiting for him on the side and smiles widely when their eyes meet.

Admittedly, it's what makes Charles step up towards him.

Fingers prickling from wanting to smoke, Charles focuses instead on trying not to do something stupid in front of Max’s open arms. It’s no use because he traces Max’s forearm with his hands to wrap himself around his neck.

If it hurts, Max doesn’t say it. He takes it in stride, pressing his fingers between Charles’ shoulder blade and the others on the small of his back. Charles wants him to stay in the creases of his body, for him to fill what’s gone and never leave. 

He lets him go and feels immensely stupid.

“I’ll see you in Monaco,” Max tries, clearly hoping to cheer Charles up with the prospect of spending time together in their apartment, far away from hotel rooms and watchful eyes on the streets.

“Yes,” Charles says and he can’t stop his voice from being on the edge of dejection.

It’s their life and they chose it but it seems like they’re always chasing each other, from one part of the world to the other.

Would you stay for me?

Charles’ lips linger at the corner of Max’s mouth before letting him go. He puts his sunglasses back on and doesn’t stay to watch the car leave.

The dumb postcard folded in the pocket of his jacket feels very heavy, suddenly.

For once, Charles is in Monaco and has nothing to do. It doesn’t happen often but his brothers are busy, his mom is on some sort of holiday with her coworkers, and all of his friends are somehow working. Even Andrea had taken a vacation.

At least the sea is always there for him, no matter what. The harbor smells like fish but that also might be the small market that Charles passed by. He hopes the scent doesn’t stick to his clothes — it’s Miu Miu and out of stock.

A small child with a backpack bigger than him runs in front of him, trips, and falls on his knees and there’s a deep sigh behind him that belongs to a mother with shadows under her eyes. They share a smile when she goes past him as if Charles could understand the worry of having a tiny human depending on you.

Almost hungrily, Charles observes the way the mother puts the kid back on his feet, kisses his head, and takes his hand before crossing the street.

The child didn’t cry. They had blond hair and blue eyes bigger than the sky. 

On a bench with suspicious brown and white stains on it, Charles takes a break in front of the water and lights himself a cigarette. Mornings in Monaco are usually quiet. There’s not much that happens here outside of the holiday period and sporadic sports events. 

He loves it, though, loves it like heartache and memories of something long gone. 

It’s the thing about hometown, it’s that everywhere he goes, he will compare it to Monaco. Doesn’t matter that it’s a joke of a country, full of ridiculous wealth and expensive cars. But there’s still the woman at the bar-tabac who watched him try to buy his first cigarette when he was still underage and the baker who gave him free candies when he came to buy the bread alone. 

When everything exciting is gone, when the dust has settled and the waves have calmed down, the version of Monaco Charles knows is one that few witnessed.

A village that outgrown itself, put a mask on and fooled everyone long enough to become a full country.  Even when it obviously shouldn’t, it still stands and sometimes Charles is amazed at the resilience.

A gull screeches and his phone pings.

Max 🏎️ 💙

I’m back home. Miss you.

There’s always something to love for Charles in Monaco, Max is just another addition.

Automatically, Charles clicks on Max’s tiny picture and lets the phone ring while watching a flock of birds make what looks like a deformed heart above the water.

A cough. “Hey,” Max answers, voice hoarse yet thin.

The immediate butterflies in Charles’ stomach are genuinely embarrassing so he tries to compensate by scoffing. “You sound like shit.”.

“You sound lovely, as usual.”

“Yuck,” Charles giggles, despite himself. “What is up with you?”

A cat meows near the phone and he can hear Max gently tuts at it. “Nothing. I don’t think my body loved the 15 hours of the airplane.”

“Poor baby,” Charles drawls, crushing the rest of his cigarette under his heel.

“Don’t make fun of me, I–” Max stops his sentence to cough, a wet and scary thing that makes Charles stop breathing for a second. Finally, when Max is done puking his lungs out, he sighs. “Yeah, I might have a fever. And I can’t stand up.”

“Come to my apartment.”

Max scoffs and even then, he sounds bad. “I told you I’m sick and invalid and you tell me to come to yours?”

“Hm. Do you have any groceries?”

“You can bring me some,” Max jokes before his voice sounds distant. “Sass, ach–”

Charles glances at his wristwatch. “Fine. I’ll be here in like, twenty.”

“What? Charlie, baby, I was kidding, you—”

“A tout de suite,” Charles sing-songs before hanging up.

Almost an hour later, he’s pushing the door of Max’s building.

Charles greets the concierge, and even makes conversation with him for a bit — he knows his daughter is in fashion school and any other day, he would have really liked seeing her latest project but alas, he had a Formula 1 driver to take care of.

Martin laughs at that and calls the elevator for him, and it even takes some convincing to stop him from carrying Charles’ bags for him.

Inside the rose-perfumed elevator, Charles can’t help but wonder how it all came down to this. It’s not bad, far from that, but it’s certainly… Different. Never has he known his partner’s concierge’s name and even less what their daughter studied. Never would he have dared to just show up at their apartment with barely an invitation.

Never, ever, did he ever text his mom asking for medication for his boyfriend. They're not even boyfriends.

Like saying the word out loud would make their bubble pop, they don’t say it, work around it in excruciating ways that make their family look at them weird. At least, Charles likes to think Max talks about him to his family. They recognize him when he appears behind Max during their Zoom calls, but that’s pretty much it.

They don’t kiss either, but that doesn’t mean much in Charles’ range of labeling his relationships – he kissed people he can’t even remember the name of right now and had barely touched some of his most loved ones.

But they don’t need to be boyfriends, they don’t need to be anything really, as long as Max keeps answering his phone whenever Charles calls and he’ll do the same.

In front of Max’s door, he allows himself a second to feel silly with his big Carrefour bags and designer sleeveless turtleneck before he knocks on the door. Max keeps trying to more or less subtly give him a set of keys, which Charles has carefully avoided until now. Maybe he’ll take on the offer.

Something falls inside the apartment, followed by a curse and a cat howling.

Charles patiently waits for the door to open and gets rewarded soon enough.

It’s probably not the worst Max has ever looked, but it’s pretty bad. With red, puffy eyes with an overall bloated face, he looks like he has gone through one or two laundry washes before being spat out on the ground.

“Mon Dieu, you look terrible,” Charles gasps, and Max rolls his eyes at his dramatics.

Pushing him out of the door, Charles enters the apartment as he owns it — and it might as well be, for he spent almost as much time here than in his. He goes straight to the kitchen and puts his Carrefour bags on the counter, pushing off the mess on it. Some stuff falls on the ground, and they will stay there.

Dejected, Max watches him destroy his kitchen, leaning on the doorframe. “Are you going to cook?”

“Do you want to be even more sick?” Charles scowls while trying to turn the oven on. It’s one of the many elements of the kitchen that seems designed to make his life difficult, but when he hits the button hard enough, it finally comes to life. He gives a triumphant smile to Max. “I brought the German thing you like.”

In his humble (and often right) opinion, it looks inedible, but Max lights up when he gets a glimpse inside the bags to see the transparent Tupperware. He picks up one of the rare dishes Max owns from the drawers, transfers the food on it, and almost drops it all on the floor to finally put it in the barely-preheated oven.

Sneakily, Max has started putting things away from the bag and Charles swats him away and forces him to go rest on the couch with the cats. Speaking of the little demons, he fills back their bowl of dry food and water, grabbing their head to give it an aggressive kiss before letting them back in the wild.

When the food is ready, he puts it in his Japanese arcade plates that have somehow landed at Max’s.

Charles is not good with sick people, never been. Not by fear of being sick himself — he has been a pretty fragile child and does not care about his own body failing him anymore. But watching others get put to bed and not being able to get out of it paralyzed him deep in his bones.

Still, he stays.

Like the most incompetent nurse ever, he makes Max eat all of his meal, drink his water, realize he hasn’t taken his medicine because it ‘tastes bad’, and then force-feed him the little pills.

After that, they try to put on a movie, but Charles takes so long to understand how the TV works (usually Max’s job), that he gives up and instead, they just lay on the couch together, Max’s head on Charles’ chest. By this point, Max’s already naturally hot body is a furnace, and if he wasn’t sick, Charles would have pushed him off a long time ago.

But he doesn’t, instead, he listens to his rants about track limits, and if it sounds delirious, he doesn’t comment on it. His little knowledge about the sport can only entertain the conversation so far and soon, Max is practically falling asleep in his arms and he can feel an ache in his neck crawling down his spine.

The sun has started to set outside, so he gently runs his nails on Max’s back to get his attention. What he gets is a full-body shudder and a choked noise that he ignores.

“Let’s get you to bed,” Charles says softly, already shifting positions but gets immediately stopped by Max’s stronghold around his waist.

When he wiggles to get out, he almost gets crushed to death.

“No,” Max’s voice is muffled against where his face is buried on Charles’ chest, and it vibrates in his whole body.

“Oh c’mon, I’m not carrying you,” Charles groans, trying to make Max stand up again but failing at it. “You big, big baby, my fucking god.”

It takes a good ten minutes and a few threats for Charles to successfully drag a sleepy Max to his bedroom, definitely carrying half his weight.

Max falls face first in his bed and, arm akimbo, Charles grins proudly at his limp form against the blue sheets.

“Here we go! Wasn’t so hard, was it?”

The lack of answers makes Charles roll his eyes and metaphorical sleeves to get Max on his side. He’d rather he won’t choke on his vomit, just in case. If he tucks the sheet under his chin and brings a glass of water to his bedside, it’s only just in case too.

Sassy — or Jimmy? — comes to visit them at some point, and Charles quietly takes it back to the living room before it can wake Max up.

When he returns to the bedroom, it’s to see Max’s glazy blue eyes very much open. So much for not waking him up, but Charles suspects he was never asleep to begin with.

He swallows the urge to scold him and closes the door behind him to give himself a moment.

When he turns back, he finds himself weak against the hand offered to him, and Charles lets himself sink to the floor, almost face-to-face with Max.

The white noise of the city traffic fills the silence better than a thousand words.

Max’s voice is still hoarse when he speaks. “You know you’re one of the best things that happened to me?”

“Oh Max,” Charles sighs, brushing Max’s hair out of his face. He’s so sweaty he’s wondering if he needs to switch the AC on but he doesn’t want him to get even more sick. “You have a pretty sad life if it’s the case.” The jokes fall flat in the intimacy of the room. He’s not even sure it’s one, to be honest.

The frown on Max’s face makes his heart hurt so he tries to smooth it out with his thumb. 

“No. No, I don’t think so,” Max protests, but he’s clearly moments away from checking out.

“Go to sleep,” Charles gently urges, and he glances at his wristwatch again. 21:47. How ironic. 

There’s little chance Charles is going home tonight so he settles more comfortably on the floor, rising to get a better angle.

Max must have misunderstood what he's doing because he grabs his wrist in alarm. His eyes are wide and wet, reminding Charles of his cats. “Will you be there when I wake up?”

Startled, Charles laughs. “Where else could I go?”

“I don’t know,” Max whispers, and somehow, Charles thinks this is not totally meant for him to hear. “You’re always so far away.”

“You’re delirious, mon cœur, go to sleep.”

Charles is almost jealous of the way Max closes his eyes and immediately seems to relax. It only takes a couple of minutes for him to be asleep. 

Free of worry, albeit still sweaty and kind of gross, Max’s face is fascinating to look at from so close. Without touching his skin, Charles grazes his fingers over the curve of his nose and lips, letting his warm and steady breath hit his forefinger and then brush his rough stubble.

He wonders how different it would feel to taste it.

Charles falls asleep on the ground, his head on Max’s legs, and wakes up with a hand combing his hair.

It’s the best sleep he got in a while, even if his neck hurts.

Once he feels better, Max insists on ‘repaying’ Charles.

Of course, Charles laughs at his face when he brings it up. An ugly laugh, breathless and squeaky, resonates in the tiny family-owned restaurant they found themselves in. 

But Max is not laughing. Max is very serious and keeps staring at him with a blank expression.

“I’ll take you on a holiday,” he repeats like Charles didn’t understand the first time.

There’s a scathing comment at the tip of Charles’ tongue but he swallows it. Instead, he takes time to sip on his water before putting it back with a sigh. “Thank you, but I can take myself on holiday. I do that regularly actually.”

“You go to work overseas, that doesn’t mean you’re relaxing,” Max points out and Charles clicks his tongue in annoyance. “But I’ll take you somewhere nice, you won’t be allowed to answer emails or phone calls and you won’t have to worry about anything.”

The fact Charles can not remember a day it happened in the past few years annoys him greatly. Not worrying about anything sounds nice, even if completely unrealistic.

Charles’ nails ticking on his glass is the only sound between them for a few minutes. “Whoever you’re paying to organize your holiday, they better be very good.”

“I think I’m pretty good at this, yes,” Max beams, and it’s almost as if Charles can see the cogs already turning in his head.

“Can’t wait.”

The sarcasm goes way over Max's head and he happily calls the waiter to order more drinks.

Andrea is delighted when Charles tells him about the whole ordeal. It’s almost like he’s the one who’s being brought on vacation — and it’s not far from the truth. 

Still, it takes a whole day of rescheduling everything to make it work, with a lot of headaches and stern phone calls. Since Max’s schedule doesn’t allow him a lot of free time and moving around, and there are no major events that Charles can’t miss, it happens to be the only way around it.

He and Andrea end up eating pasta on Charles’ floor in sweatpants and over-caffeinated when it hits him. This very scenario would have been impossible to conceive, even a year back. For him to push back things, to cancel even, and not feel horrible guilt. 

It was a long time coming, maybe, but it could have taken another decade.

At 3 AM, Andrea leaves and Charles’ plane is planned five hours later. He has yet to pack a single sock.

“Enjoy and be careful,” Andrea scolds him, gently.

“I always am,” Charles huffs. Still, he melts in Andrea’s embrace.

Doing his suitcase without any idea of the destination turned out to be a small disaster. The only thing he got from Max was that it was ‘hot’ and that resulted in two suitcases full of everything going from summer dresses to sweaters. 

After some hesitation, he packed a bottle of lube between his morning routine and underwear. Just in case.

The all-nighter has the advantage of at least making him skip the anxiety of not knowing where he’s going. As soon as he puts his ass on a seat in Max’s plane, he’s fast asleep. Private jets don’t impress him anymore anyway, even if they are owned by Max.

He wakes up a good two hours before they land, and spends the rest of his time playing and crushing Max at chess.

At the window, mountains shape themselves among the clouds and sky, making Charles stick his nose to the small window. He doesn’t immediately recognize it, but when he does, he gasps at Max.

“We’re going to Rio?”

“You said you wanted to visit,” explains Max, frowning while moving his queen to a place where Charles can easily capture it.

A few months or weeks ago, when Charles was still watching his clock to send a message to Max, he had indeed mentioned going to Rio and being frustrated at his short stays each time. It had been more a desperate attempt to keep the conversation going than anything, but still, he felt his whole body warmth at the idea of Max keeping the information until now.

The sun shines on Max’s face, his eyes almost transparent for a second.

Charles captures Max’s queen with his knight. The king is just behind, trapped. “Checkmate. Thank you, Max, I’m really excited about it,” he admits, feeling the dread in his stomach finally goes away. He’s not even sure why it was here in the first place.

Despite losing, Max smiles softly at him. “I’m glad.”

As soon as the plane lands and they get out, first in the cold A/C, then in the humid warmth outside, there seems to be a clear destination for at least one of them. Feeling like a child following his parents to not get lost, Charles resists the urge to hold Max’s hand and tries to keep up with him and his sure steps.

Thankfully, the destination Max has in mind is not too far, and they finally stop in front of a rental car stall. While Max gets everything ready, Charles makes conversation with a British couple leaving today. He successfully gets some good restaurant names and less-known spots to visit.

When they leave, they wish him and his husband a good trip. Charles doesn’t have the heart to tell them.

Traveling, even being an inherent part of Charles’ job and after a nap, still makes him terribly tired so he’s more than happy when Max comes back with a winning smile and a pair of car keys.

“Not a Ferrari?” Charles teases him when they stop in front of a BMW in the garage.

Max gives a long-suffering look to the pile of suitcases Charles has brought and shakes his head. Putting all their suitcase in the truck turns out to be a bit of a Tetris game and they finally end up giggling hysterically when Max fails to start the car three times in a row. 

All in all, it’s a good start to their holidays.

In his lap, when they finally enter the highway, Max’s hand rests heavily, and Charles laces their fingers together. There are a few scratches from Sassy on his knuckles and under Charles’ thumb.

Groggy, the time from the airport to the hostel seems to pass in the twinkling of an eye for him. 

The soothing piano music in the hotel hall welcomes them along with a smiley receptionist who visibly tries to bite down a squeal when they greet her. Max, who has insisted on carrying everything, struggles to take the key she hands to them, and Charles snatches it and three bags with a roll of eyes.

The ride in the elevator is quiet, and Charles pretends he’s not falling asleep again on Max’s shoulder until it dings and leaves them at their level. At the end of the hallway, they beep the room open, and Max lets him first.

It’s like a cold shower.

Gold and white, big windows surround them, leaving them a full view of the busy city. Big plants ornate the corners to give it some life. One glance at the bathroom shows Charles what looks like a bath the size of a small pool. He’s pretty sure there’s a balcony with a jacuzzi too.

It’s a beautiful room. Rooms. Because it’s clear from the moment he puts a foot in. There are two communicating bedrooms, both with immense beds that would probably take up half of their apartment in Monaco.

Two rooms. Two beds.

If it’s not a slap in the face, Charles does not know what it is.

Feeling the shift in energy from sleepy to restless, Max squeezes Charles’ waist while passing by to get his attention.

“Are you ok?” he asks, a frown on his face. Charles wants to claw his face out. Not playfully.

“Fine,” Charles instead says coldly. “I’m going to wash.”

Without taking the time to take his toiletries, he goes to lock himself in the furthest bathroom — losing himself temporarily on the way. The door slams behind him, loud in the silence of the newly-discovered environment. 

He doesn’t take any time to appreciate the beauty of the room before he strips himself naked, leaves his clothes on the floor, and steps into the shower to put on the coldest water possible.

It’s stupid. He’s a grown man, he can deal with a friendship trip with an unrequited crush.

Desire is not reality. He can pretend to play house with Max all he wants, it’s clearer than ever — that Max is not interested and will probably never be. Not even interested to fuck him anymore apparently, or maybe he would but by pure pity only.

It happens. Charles is more attractive as a concept, easier to fuck when you don’t know anything about him.

He lets his forehead hit the white marble and switches the water to be warmer.

The towels are fluffy and smooth under his skin, so he grabs the bathrobe of the same fabric to wrap it around himself.

Max is waiting for him on the bed (his bed? They haven’t even decided which room was whom) when he steps out. Outside, it’s almost dark, and the blue light of Max’s screen disappears when he sees Charles.

There’s a pile of suitcases that Charles recognizes as his own, so he opens one, ignoring Max’s piercing eyes, to get a pair of shorts and a big shirt in the middle of the mess inside.

“Sorry, I was just tired,” he tries to explain, his wet hair making pearls of water run down his spine and face. He shakes his head to get it off and only messes it up even more.

“It’s fine. Are you sure you’re ok?” Max asks again. At Charles’ small nod, he sighs and gets up. “Let’s spend the night in, I can’t bother with eating out right now, anyway.”

“Order me a salad, please,” Charles requests as Max grabs the hotel phone.

He can feel Max wanting to comment on being on holiday but he doesn’t, and go to order. 

In the meantime, Charles calls his maman and despite the time difference, she answers. It’s a bit more than midnight for her, but they stay for a good hour on the phone, and it’s when Max comes to tell him the food is here that he hangs up.

“Amuse toi bien et fais attention,” she tells him. Maybe Andrea and she are the same person, after all.

Dinner is quiet between them but not awkward. Charles eats half of his salad and even steals some pasta from Max before giving up, curling himself up in the comfy chair.

The telenovela on their giant TV distracts them enough to joke mindlessly about it and they get accidentally very invested, even without knowing the language.

They hug goodnight before going their separate ways.

As he slumps in the middle of it, the bed seems to swallow Charles, a Scylla in white satin.

The next day, as he wakes up, alone but well-rested, Charles is determined. He is going to enjoy his holiday. Whether the universe wants it or not, he’s going to have some fun, and he’s going to rest.

No way he’s going to let a boy ruin that. Even one he’s desperately in love with.

Max is already sleepily brushing his teeth in the bathroom when Charles enters it, and he doesn’t ask why he doesn’t go on his own. Instead, he hip-checks him to make him gag on his toothbrush.

Charles makes fun of Max’s morning routine, which essentially consists of putting some water on his face, even though he has seen it before, but it doesn’t get old. At least he had convinced Max out of the soap he was using before. One battle at a time.

They shave together, shoulder to shoulder, making faces at each other like children before Max almost cut himself by laughing too hard.

If he wants to comment on Charles’ weird scene from last night, Max doesn’t show it. More than happy to match it, he takes his jolly mood in stride, almost making Charles forget why he was upset in the first place.

Having taken the role of planning the trip semi-seriously, Max has booked them a tour in the morning, which forces Charles into putting on sneakers (yes, he did own those) and a big hat. 

Before getting out, he sits down with Max to put sunscreen all over his face and arms. It becomes compulsory after Max comes back from his run with a sunburn on his nose on the second day.

As expected, Rio de Janeiro is really fun.

With his Italian, Charles gets by with understanding some bare-minimum Portuguese, and he can almost order in the language after three days. The waiter in the bar near the hotel even starts to recognize them at some point. The amount of tips he gets probably helps too.

Despite having very different ways to spend their off time, they strike a balance between doing more intense activities and just relaxing. However, there’s no convincing Max to do anything in the skies, much to Charles’ disappointment.

It’s genuinely been a while since Charles has spent so much time without working — making it both unsettling and glorious. Even if he takes pictures, he can just close his phone without opening any other apps. Not that Max with ice cream on his nose doesn’t deserve a place in his stories, but it might make his way into a holiday photo dump by the end.

He still messages Andrea daily, who seems more than happy to not be doing anything in Italy and is horrified by what Charles considers ‘fun and relaxing activities’. 

On their visit to the old town, they choose their ugly postcards for each other — one with kittens and roses with a big BRAZILIA in bold in the middle for Max and one in the form of the Cristo Redentor with someone butt naked on it for Charles.

A drawn heart, a bit wobbly, adorns the back of his postcard, with four numbers. 21:45.

Charles tucks it safely in his bag, in between the pages of the novel he took knowing he wouldn’t have time to read it.

Despite the oppressive heat, it takes them half a week to finally decide to go swimming.

Max is definitely a beach-and-chill guy, but they decided pretty early on that the beach wasn’t an option. Sure, they were probably going to be photographed together anyway, but the scrutiny of going to a public beach doesn’t sound very relaxing to either of them. 

Still, Charles whines enough about bringing a swimsuit for apparently nothing, that Max concedes to a boat day — which he’s also very excited about. Charles has seen his Google search history. 

Battling a complicated straps bathing suit situation in the morning doesn’t deter Charles from wearing it, and he slips simple flowy pants over it to spare himself some more difficult clothes. It doesn’t matter anyway, because the moment he steps on the boat, he doesn’t even wait for it to sail; he’s getting everything off.

Next to him, in his swim truck old from at least 10 years, Max smiles at his eagerness.

“You look lovely,” Max says, his hand brushing Charles’ hip without touching. Charles watches it wistfully having some weird spasm before Max buries it in his pocket. Why would a swimsuit even have pockets in the first place?

Feeling his sudden tension, Charles pushes Max away, teasing, and lingers on his chest. He doesn’t back down, can’t when the warmth of Max’s skin is burning and addicting under his palm. He smiles. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. You don’t look too bad yourself.”

Far from some of the athletes Charles had slept with, Max’s body is all strength and softness. Thin waist and full chest, make him want to sink his teeth into his thighs. Even if Charles has more defined abs, he’s sure Max could easily throw him on his shoulder, and he tries not to dwell on that thought. 

All the freckles on Max’s fragile skin beg to be kissed, but the subtle bitterness of the start of the trip can’t escape Charles’ mind.

Max lets him in the stairs to go up the deck first and, when Charles turns back, there’s a glint of something dangerous in his eyes. He’s staring intently at Charles, and if he didn’t know better, he would even think that he was checking his ass. 

“Can I ask something? I always wanted to know,” Max asks, finally. By now, Charles had learned the music cue of Max looking for trouble.

“Sure,” Charles says carefully, immediately regretting his answer with the way Max’s smile widens.

Max’s eyes trail down the curve of the high waist of his bathsuit. “When you wear things like that, where do you put your dick?”

The bark of laughs he let out is honestly a bit embarrassing. “Oh my god,” Charles swats him in the side with his towel, rolling his eyes. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

His dick, who’s safely tucked in and very much still here, twitches a little as Max laughs, exposing his neck and flex of muscles.

The day is lovely, of course. 

They rough play with each other on the deck over a long chair; at some point, Charles cries about flashing the world with his dangerous swimsuit, and he takes advantage of Max sheepishly apologizing to push him over the boat. 

Somehow, Max grabs Charles’ ankles, and they try to drown each other for a bit, before going back to toast under the sun.

There’s honestly not much to do on a boat, so they lounge around, talking softly about everything and mostly nothing. 

There’s no doubt Max is going to win the championship, and he’s already planning his celebration party and the simulation about next year’s car. Victoria and the kids are supposed to come to Monaco in the next few months. Jimmy and Sassy need to go on a diet or they’ll get sick. 

Charles already knows everything, but he listens all the same.

Embarrassingly, he falls asleep at some point, and he wakes up with Max brushing his hair out of his face, whispering sweet encouragement.

The shower back at the hotel is one made for Charles to rethink all his life.

The truth is, Charles has been looking for a catch. Sure, Max is cocky, completely unaware of some social cue, blunt, almost borderline rude, and obsessed with racing in all its form but… he’s so kind and romantic and insightful and he looks so genuinely interested in everything Charles says or does, it’s disconcerting. 

Charles didn’t have a good record of keeping things he liked.

In the giant bathroom mirror, he looks at his reflection. After debating with himself, he decides against any makeup, letting his treacherous pimples and moles appear. There’s a flush on his cheeks that he can’t get rid of.

Despite his skin not reacting very well to the sun, it has taken on a golden shade that clashes nicely with the black lace.

Readjusting the strap of his silk slip dress a last time — vintage Dior, he hopes it’s not for nothing — Charles straightens his posture before pushing the door of the bathroom open.

He needs to make sure. To know, for sure.

Max is hunched over his phone, his shirt unbuttoned up to the middle of his chest, tanned too, a healthy glow that makes his blue eyes look bolder. Looking like a dream. 

From where he is, Charles can hear him humming what he thinks is Fleetwood Mac. 

The sound of Charles coming in clearly catches his attention, but Max scrolls a bit more, his eyes still bound to his screen.

“What do you want to eat tonight? I’m not sure about the seaf—” Max’s voice thins out to disappear when he looks up. “Charles?”

Charles thinks back to their missed first kiss, in the middle of moving bodies and more with something to prove than real desire.

He also thinks back to one of his boyfriends, older than him by a decade or two, who after fucking him roughly for too long and leaving Charles splayed on the bed, spent and exhausted, had looked down at him. There was something both fond and pitiful on his face as he caressed Charles’ cheek.

You’re lucky to have a pretty face, you know?

What?

Well, you’re not very good at anything else. That’s ok, baby, don’t worry about it, I love doing all the job for you.

Charles had stared at him, stunned, but hadn’t replied anything.

Learning you’re bad at sex at twenty-something but also being reassured in the same breath that it doesn’t matter anyway. A life lesson, if he ever had one.

When his boyfriend left to shower, slapping him one last time on his ass, Charles did not cry. He’s been way over it at this point. Instead, he had stared at the sheer material of the curtains and the sunset hidden behind, filling the room with blood-red light.

Once it was dark, he got up, took the sachet of white powder next to the bed, snorted a line of the expensive cocaine that one boyfriend had bought directly from Columbia on his pillow, and left.

What did men like?

He had tried many things after that, some he regrets, some he would have never known he liked without experimenting. He had his body used and used other people's bodies, he watched Youtube’s tutorial on how to moan like a pornstar before going to a hookup and had left in the middle of it. It had been fun and it had been excruciating.

But, in all of this, he left with one certainty. 

Men like to feel wanted.

A smile, a stroke, a shyness. An act, carefully crafted, never vulnerable.

Despite having walked in front of thousands of people with way less fabric on him, Charles feels incredibly exposed.

Max’s pupils are so dilated they make his eyes seem black, even from where Charles is standing. 

With confidence he didn’t feel, Charles crosses the room. It feels like the world’s shortest and longest runway happening in their hotel room too big for two, both the model and the designer of this strange masquerade.

Finally, he stands, naked under his thin silk, between Max’s open legs. His dark eyes don't stray away from his face, and it would feel a bit vexing if not for the tension visible in his shoulders. 

Slowly, Charles traces Max’s cheekbones and jaw under his fingers. His skin is still warm from the sun.

“Touch me,” Charles whispers, but it echoes in the immensity of the space around them.

A tentative hand runs on the side of his thigh, under his dress. Warm and heavy, a thumb rests on the crease of his hip bone, almost bruising. It presses like hot iron on his skin.

Charles lets out an audible gasp when Max grabs a handful of his ass. 

So this is it. It is happening. The tightness in his stomach melts nervousness and anticipation in an indiscernible monster. 

As Charles sinks to his knees in front of Max, he opens his mouth and closes his eyes, like a devotee in a church, hoping for redemption and answers. 

He doesn’t get either. Instead of the expected weight of a cock, soft lips, and tongue get pressed into his open mouth.

It’s unsure if it’s Max who leans in or Charles who raises himself, but the result is the same. On his back on the bed. Panting and disheveled. His dress now hiked up to his chest, a hand plastered on his tight stomach, and his legs wrapped around Max’s waist. It’s all-consuming, and there’s barely a coherent thought he can form. 

Licking, biting, sucking on his tongue, Charles drinks up everything Max gives him. It’s better than what he had expected — their teeth clatter against each other, their noses bump and hurt, and he’s pretty sure Max can taste a bit of blood on his lips.

They fuck, and it’s tender.

Max’s heavy body on his is a reassuring weight. Plastered on his back and leaving a trail of hot kisses on his shoulder blades and neck, rocking inside of him slowly. Charles tries to match him, his back arching, feeling split in two, but it’s so much, it’s too much, he’s all over him and he’s so so so— 

While his face is pressed against the mattress, Charles watches in fascination their hands next to each other. Max, steady and veiny, and his own, gripping a pillow tightly with white knuckles. He can’t watch for too long, because he has to bury back his face in the sheets that he has to bite to muffle his cries after a particularly deep thrust.

The post-orgasm shame only comes when Max goes to get a towel from the bathroom after spilling on his ass and back. Slow, sticky, overwhelming.

Blindly, Charles reaches for his bag on the ground and gets his pack of cigarettes out of it. He fumbles with his bag some more to get his lighter, almost falls from the bed, and by the time Max comes back, he has barely started to smoke.

From where he’s lying on his stomach, Charles can’t see Max’s reaction but he hears a sigh and a window opening. 

Then, the coldness of a wet towel hit his skin. To help, he lifts his hips and opens his legs further and the sensation of the towel on his sensitive dick up to his ass makes him shudder.

Slowly, he reaches down to where Max is gently cleaning him, and he finds an untouched spot where Max’s cum is still drying and sticky. This time, he cranes his neck to look at Max when he licks his finger.

Max visibly gulps but finishes quickly what he has started without pushing for more.

When Max flops down next to him, Charles has already started another cigarette. There’s a moment of silence before Max leans toward Charles, making him flutter his eyes closed. The expected kiss doesn’t come, however, and it’s the half-burned cigarette in his hand that gets stolen.

Max takes a drag without coughing and blows the smoke in the air between them. When it dissipates, Charles meets his eyes. 

Was I good? Charles wants to ask. Did you like it?

“You are beautiful,” Max says instead. Charles tries to not show his disappointment. 

Instead, he laughs, a bit more shyly than he usually allows himself to, dipping his head before looking back at Max. “I’m already in your bed, you don’t need to flatter me anymore.”

“It’s not flattery. I just want you to know.”

“Oh, I do, don’t worry about that,” Charles teases, rolling to crush his cigarette with some paper on the side of the bed.

“I don’t think you do, to be honest,” Max says, and he sits on the bed, legs crisscrossed. There’s a frown that Charles now knows precedes something big for him. His eyes are the color of the ocean when he looks at Charles. “Charles, baby, you’re pretty beyond your looks. I could watch you for days and my eyes would not be tired. I could listen to your voice for hours and it could still sound like the most beautiful melody in the world. I can touch you for a minute and feel it for the rest of my day. You can be gone for seconds and I can still miss you. You– I’m so thankful for you.”

Max looks like a demi-god of some sort, under the unforgivable hotel room’s lights.

“I think I’m in love with you.” The words pass Charles’ mouth before he can taste the weight of them.

“I know I am,” Max states simply, and he brushes a hair that has stuck on Charles’ eyelashes carefully. “I love you, Charles.”

Charles feels the tears before the pain. 

Like those waterfalls coming out of seemingly nowhere, it burst out of him, tightening his throat and lungs, spilling everywhere as if to flood the whole world. Through his blurry vision, he can see Max widen his eyes in panic, shattering his calm exterior, and look around, searching for tissues. 

Incapable of fighting it, Charles buries his head in the nearest pillow, where he had been screaming for pleasure a few moments ago.

Once, Charles had thought Max had no cruel bones in his body. A petty one, sure, but mean… That might be the genuine first time he considered this possibility.

He looks back at Max, probably looking like a mess, and the thought makes him want to cry even more. Previously composed, Max’s whole attitude had crumpled into being unable to do anything but stare at Charles, a box of tissues squished in his hands. 

“Honestly, how could you say all of that?” Charles sniffs, making a very unattractive snorting sound. “You don’t even want to date me, you— I’m not even your boyfriend.”

Max looks genuinely baffled. “What? Of course, we are dating!”

It shocks Charles enough that he immediately stops crying. In disbelief, he opens and closes his mouth like a fish before settling on rubbing his face.

“You never said it!” he finally barks, inside his hands, and he doesn’t know if it’s from embarrassment or anger.

Max’s hair flops in front of his eyes when he shakes his head. It makes him look younger. 

“I thought it was obvious! Do you think I go on romantic vacations with all my friends?”

“Why didn’t you kiss me then? And why did you book two beds?” Charles adds accusingly, sitting up to get at eye level with Max. He wants to be mad, but he can only manage even more heartache at Max’s lost expression.

“I thought you just weren’t ready!” Max cries, throwing his hand in the air.

“You are— it’s—” Charles stumbles on the English, feeling it swell and become too big in his mouth. “I wanted you. I have been waiting for you. Wishing you.”

The tension in the room fizzles out as Max takes his hands, making soothing motions on his knuckles like Charles usually does to him. 

“Well, you should have told me. And me too, I’m sorry I made you feel like this, it wasn’t to hurt you, I really thought I was straightforward enough. I guess I wasn’t, for once,” Max chuckles self-deprecatingly. Their laced hands squeeze each other. “I want us to be dating. But Charles, I need you to tell me how you feel.”

There’s a silence with so much anticipation that it feels a little pressuring. Like going in the sea, deep enough for ears to pop, deep enough to take conscience that you’re not much, in the scale of the world. Charles’ world had grown to become both a lot bigger and smaller since he met Max.

He takes a big breath. A shaky one.

“It’s not, it’s— I thought you didn’t really care, or at least not as much as I do. Of course, I want us to be together, but Max…. What I feel, it’s a bit too much. When we’re together, I just feel like I’m bursting from inside, all the time,” Charles clenches his chest, where his heart is going fast enough to dive right out his chest. “When you leave, I imagine you think back on our time and realize I was too clingy, too annoying, too mean… Or that you will realize it, some days. I don’t know, don’t look at me like that.”

At his request, Max lowers his eyes, but it’s too late because Charles has already seen how glossy they’ve become.

Max is quiet, pondering on his words, before speaking again. “It makes me sad, for you to think of me like that. It’s a little mean, too. I do care, I do love you, even when we’re apart.”

The previous confession hangs in the air. All previous images of Max sighting as he sees a notification by Charles on his phone blurs, melting into the Max that is holding his hand, still sticky with sex in a hotel room. Waiting for him.

“You make it seem so easy.”

“It doesn’t have to be hard.”

Living with fear is exhausting. A deep bone tiredness, nestled between his ribs, claws its way out. It has a name, multiple ones, that Charles had learned and forgotten long ago. You should leave, Charles wants to tell it. But you should always stay with me.

It doesn’t answer but smiles. It will find a new home, Charles is not too worried about it.

Maybe they can be neighbors.

“Ok,” Charles laughs wetly, messily wiping his cheeks and nose. “Let’s do this. Sorry, I kind of ruined the moment.”

Max leans to kiss the back of his hand, his wrist, then his forehead. Everywhere his lips touch leaves a tingling sensation. “You couldn’t. No moment with you can be ruined.”

And somehow, Charles realizes that this is it. There is no scenario where Max suddenly decides to laugh it out and Charles isn’t devastated beyond repair. Thankfully, it doesn’t seem in Max’s immediate plan to break his heart, nor in the foreseeable future.

“Sap,” he whispers, but his voice is too thick for it to be taken seriously.

As Charles wraps his arms around Max’s neck to fall back into the soft mattress, he lets himself trust.

“What do you mean your bathroom is broken again?”

“I don’t know, it’s just— It’s bad,” Charles says through his teeth. 

“I’m coming, don’t move,” Max’s voice crackles on the phone, and a door slams in the background.

Charles takes a deep breath. “My apartment is becoming a swimming pool, babe, I’m not going anywhere.”

Another spurt of water hits his feet and he kicks the bath mat closer to the shower. Fucking hell.

By the time Max arrives, Charles has long since run out of mop and, in panic, had thrown a sheet on the bathroom’s floor, hoping to minimize the damage. It’s 100% Egyptian cotton and he’s regretting his decision.

“Why are you dressed like this?” Max asks as he enters, after giving Charles a chaste kiss. His hands trail on his side as he looks at him up and down.

Max makes him spin around slowly, to show the whole outfit, and Charles flushes at the intensity of his gaze. Despite officially dating for a few weeks, a whole new layer of tension has been covering every second they spend together that doesn’t seem to go away. 

Even with his house collapsing on itself, Charles let himself be manhandled, drunk-dazed by the attention.

Max raises an eyebrow. “Is this what you wear to fix your bathroom?”

It snaps Charles out of it, and he pushes Max away with a pout. “I told you about the red carpet! I didn’t have time to change since my fucking bathroom blew up on me!”

Max pretends to let long-suffering sighs pinch Charles’ side, where there's sheer mesh showing his freckled ribs that get a half-yelp, half-giggle out of Charles. “Half-naked again.”

“It’s Iris Van Herpen,” Charles hisses.

It’s useless because Max is already laughing while leaving to go see the scale of the disaster.

And a disaster, it is. Exhausted by his night out, Charles had not asked for much — a nice shower and his bed. Maybe a pack of crisps to wash out all the alcohol he had. 

But when he turned on his shower before stripping, for it to go hot, it had simply… Exploded. Cold water, at that.

Charles had stepped out of the way in time to avoid most of it. The rest of the room hadn’t been so lucky. 

He should be used to it at this point — because it’s not the first time it has happened. Not even the second, not the third (which would have been annoying but, whatever). No, it’s been the tenth time in all his 4 years in this apartment that Charles had to deal with his suicidal shower and overall bathroom.

So, understandably, he’s a bit at his wit’s end. Not without trying too, he had literally called a different company to come to fix it, after a first attempt by himself which had probably caused more problems than solutions. Monaco didn't have an unlimited amount of plumbers.

With Charles’ (albeit small) toolbox, Max looks a bit out of his depth too. 

It can’t be harder than qualifying, he had told Charles, months ago, around the seventh incident.

Admittedly, it’s not the most reassuring thing someone had told Charles before taking a screwdriver and diving into his shower. 

It doesn’t matter, because it’s a sight. In sweatpants and Red Bull’s shirt, it’s a bit humiliating for Charles to find Max very, very attractive.

“You should totally quit your job and do this full time,” Charles tells him, shamelessly checking out the way his biceps stretch his shirtsleeves and the glimpse of golden skin and hair above his waistband.

Max looks up from where he’s crouching near a pipe to smirk at Charles. “Is this your way to tell me I’m bad at racing? Or do you just want a stay-at-home husband?”

“Guess.”

Max would definitely love the stay-at-home husband life. For a second, Charles imagines coming home to Max in one of those stereotypical 50s housewife aprons, (maybe not cooking because he would like to stay alive), kissing him after a hard day of work, bending or getting bent over the kitchen counter and—

Feeling a small problem slowly rising in his stomach, it’s with a newfound focus that Charles stares at Max’s ass and the sewing of his pants. 

He almost gets scared to death by Max suddenly jumping on his feet with something akin to an ‘ah-ah!’.

“Here you go,” Max says proudly. “Fixed!”

“Wow.” Charles leans in, genuinely impressed. It’s not that he didn’t trust Max, just… Not with this.

Indeed, the flow of water had stopped, not a drip coming out. This is better than everything Charles had attempted with his numberless YouTube tutorial.

About to praise Max, there’s a weird sound that stops him. A rumbling, of some sort.

Charles approaches his ear near the pipe. 

SPLASH.

Having a pipe explode near his face is not something Charles would have thought he would experience nor would he recommend it. 

Blinded for a few seconds, the water stops almost immediately with Max covering the breech with his palm.

So much for a quick fix. 

Both soaked, they look at each other like two very wet, very startled idiots before bursting into laughter.

Apparently, a friend of a friend has had his sink fixed or something, so Max easily gets an allegedly good plumber’s number that Charles doesn’t recognize.

Charles resists the urge to ask why he hadn’t done that in the first place.

“Definitely don’t quit your job,” Charles says, rubbing Max’s hair with a towel. His hair had gotten pretty long lately, which both suits him incredibly well and makes Charles constantly want to tug it.

“No, no, I’m feeling confident. A successful career in plumbing is ahead of me, I feel it,” Max insists, and Charles press the whole towel in his face to stop him talking.

For Charles, it takes Max’s help to get his dress off. Which has the unfortunate side effect of having Max’s hands all over him while knowing a stranger is going to show up any time soon.

Putting on sweatpants and a hoodie is a religious experience after that. Thankfully, he has no extension to get rid of, and taking off his makeup is a quick thing since he can’t bother to do his whole routine.

“I hope you have an NDA prepared,” grumbles Charles, as the bell rings.

The guy doesn’t show any sign of recognizing Charles when he first sees him — but again, that might be the lack of anything glamorous on him — which is more than fine by him. Maybe they won’t need the NDA, after all.

Charles indicates to him where the bathroom is, and goes to get a bunch of plans one of the other plumbers had left and his wallet when he hears a loud gasp followed by an emphasized:

“Max Verstappen?”

In the bathroom, the guy looks like he’s about to cry and Max like he’s desperately hoping the shower will flood the room so he can drown.

Stunned, Charles watches his boyfriend get fanboyed over like a full-on pop star. Once again, he knows Max is famous and very much gets stopped in the street but — in Charles’ house?

Charles is not jealous but he would also like for people not to drool over his boyfriend under his roof.

In the end, it goes like this:

Yes, I will sign your shirt. And your cap. And take a picture for your little cousin. Now please go fix my boyfriend’s bathroom and sign this NDA, please.

With Max’s arms wrapped around his waist, Charles quietly observes the whole ordeal of trying to save his bathroom and wooden floor.

It’s a matter of one hour for the shower to be fixed, but it will take more time for Charles to trust anything in this house ever again.

“God this sucks, I can’t believe it’s probably going to break again in like, two weeks,” he whines at Max, finishing brushing his teeth in the kitchen sink.

Max twists his mouth nervously, probably not liking the toothpaste before turning to Charles. 

“You should move in with me.”

“God, no,” Charles cringes immediately. He could not even begin to think about the logistics of fitting both of them full-time in Max’s small apartment. “But we should start looking for places together. There’s no dressing room in your apartment, where are we going to put my closet and your trophies?”

“Everything you want,” Max says, and he sounds a bit choked up. Charles ignores it. Runs his fingers on the back of his hands.

“Also we need to plan in advance so it’s quick and efficient to not disturb Jim and Sass too much—”

Barely finishing his sentence, Charles is being raised on the (still wet, but that seems to be today’s theme) kitchen counter, Max eagerly looks up at him between his legs.

It’s a pretty sight.

Especially for the almost desperate way, Max is blinking his eyes. “I love you. I can’t wait to live with you, I’ve been— It's been on my mind. For a long time,” he stutters.

Charles squishes Max’s cheeks between his hands, squinting suspiciously at him before leaving a quick peck on his lips. “I’m starting to think you’re the one who had been sabotaging my bathroom just so you could ask me to leave this place.”

“Oh, no, my evil plan has been revealed,” Max says against his mouth, and Charles can feel his large smile.

“Shut up. I think we should also test the bed, to see if it’s broken or not. Just to make sure,” Charles adds, with the most serious expression he can have when his ass is being groped.

His back hit the door of his bedroom and Max is right there to open it.

“Yeah, let’s make sure.”

The karting track is burning hot. On TV and in photos drivers always seem so sweaty and kind of gross, and Charles had always assumed the heavy helmet must be the cause of it.

Now that he’s been put in a suit on the hottest September day that existed, he genuinely wonders how they don’t melt every weekend. Even under all the spotlights on the runway, it doesn’t feel that suffocating.

Coming from behind, Max slaps his ass and laughs when Charles swats him on the side of his head. “You look hot in blue, lekker ding.”

The last time he called him this nickname, Victoria had choked on air on their monthly Facetime call.

“I wanted a Ferrari fireproof,” Charles whines playfully and Max kisses the protest out of his mouth.

Truth be told, he couldn’t care less about the kind of race suit he got handed, he was pretty sure he would be really fucking hot in all of them — pun intended. At least the Red Bull ones served a purpose.

After some excruciating and boring discussions with the Red Bull PR team, they finally agreed to let them come out about their relationship. Max said he was planning on retiring soon anyway, and he admitted he couldn’t bother making a conscious effort to hide anymore.

Charles knows that Max still has at least 5 years ahead of him, but his heart still flustered at his bull-headness against the desperate PR manager.

So they accepted. Now they have to announce it.

The only thing Charles had put a veto on was to make some soulless Instagram post. That brought them to the middle of a karting track, both of them in Red Bull gear, about to film a video and take some pictures. The karting was, pretty obviously, from Max’s wish.

They’ve been soft-launching for a while, anyway. Not even by choice, but the articles have been going crazy anyway. Charles’ friends had been doing a compilation of the best gossip magazine covers. Marta is winning by a landmile.

Especially after a particular incident where Charles had come to kiss Max while he was playing games with his friends online, without knowing he was on a livestream. Only Max’s superhuman reflexes had saved his face to show by hiding the camera, but the damage was still done.

Charles felt giddy thinking about what is going to be. 

Not hiding anymore with some ambiguous turn of phrases that left everyone wondering, no more deep-dive analysis from body language experts (although those had been fun, and Charles had sent them all to Max). 

He will be able to call Max his partner in the world and be proud of it.

They go through the photoshoot first — both by practicality with the lighting and Max’s intense wish to get over it as soon as possible. It’s just them and Charles’ favorite photographer, while Red Bull marketing is planning the video and the karts. Wouldn’t want their World Champion having a freak incident a few races before the end of the season.

From when they first shot together, Max hasn’t gotten a lot better. Maybe he’s less stiff since the whole reason they’re here is to make a couple shoot, so he happily wraps himself around Charles and doesn’t let go.

“This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done,” he mutters against Charles’ neck.

Charles gently pats his head. “It doesn’t even qualify in the top 10, baby.”

Leaning on the skin of some Red Bull’s car (My RB16, Charles. — Mon amour, I’m so serious when I say that means absolutely nothing to me.), they still manage to get it done in a pretty short time, but it’s too long for Max’s liking.

“Unbelievable. I really don’t know how you do this,” Max says, exhausted, sucking on his straw like a child.

“It would be easier if you put some effort into it.”

“I am,” Max whines. “Next time, we will just go-karting.”

“If that’s what you want,” Charles concedes.

If he can do it once, he surely can do it twice.

He’s not even sure how he got convinced on racing Max for a fucking coming out in the first place. Surely to compensate for the photoshoot part, but getting on the track, feeling and smelling the asphalt and rubber, had just made it a lot more real than he had anticipated.

The karts have been prepared on the side, catching his eyes despite firmly trying to ignore it for now.

Charles does his own solo shoot for his Instagram — sponsored by Red Bull, which is extremely funny to him — but Max keeps bothering him. For someone who has been talking everyone’s ear off about the camera, he was sure now very actively to distract and mess up the shoot.

It takes Charles literally pinching his cheek for him to stop.

After, when they look at the pictures, Charles finds himself only liking the ones he didn’t know he was on camera for. One in particular, where he’s fighting Max to let him go, and its immediate follow-up where he’s getting dipped in a long kiss. The next one, he’s groping Max’s ass, so he closes the tab quickly.

Maybe it’s a bit too intimate for Instagram. He’ll have to talk to Max about it. (He won’t care, he knows it.)

The moment comes of getting on track, not without a building stomachache that reaches his acme once they get in front of the compulsory safety video.

If Max notices how Charles has pressed their chair together, he doesn’t say anything and only wraps an arm around his shoulders. He’s warm and still smells like Charles’ sunscreen. 

It’s been a while since Charles had slipped into a kart. Maybe more than ten years, maybe it was on Bianchi's track in France and he was facing Jules and Lorenzo under the careful eyes of their fathers. He thinks he has won, but that might be just because they had let him.

At least, it isn’t completely dreadful, like he had expected it to be. 

A bit weird, at most, almost sitting on the ground is not a driving position he’s used to, of course, but it takes ten laps, off camera, for it to feel pretty good.

When they deem it safe enough for them to go on track together without crashing, they push them in front of the camera.

It’s really different from the interviews Charles has done before, so this time, he leaves all the heavy lift work to Max. He hopes he comes off as shy and not cold. Max assures him the editing team will never paint him in a bad light, but it’s still hard to have this so out of his hands, to expose himself to an audience he’s not sure will like him.

Through enough of Max’s teasing and reassurance, he finally relaxes a little. Kiss Max softly on the cheek when it’s over. Try not to think too much about it.

The helmet is compressing when he puts it on, and he can feel it digs into his cheeks, rubs on his skin. Thanks fuck he had shaved before doing this. Everything about racing seems to be a claustrophobic nightmare.

Of course, the first race is effortlessly won by Max. It’s only by a matter of respect he doesn’t lap Charles once or twice, probably. 

Still, his celebrations are a bit too much since he’s very much going against an inexperienced driver, so Charles doesn’t hesitate to shove him as soon as he's out. Hopefully, editors will cut this out.

Max is nicer to him for the next few races but never lets Charles win one.

It would have been more humiliating for Charles to have a gifted victory, so he can’t find himself too mad about that. In the end, and it’s probably only wishful thinking, but he thinks they come close to a fight near the finish line of their third race.

Whatever. He’s good at other things.

He can’t resist the urge to trash-talk Max a bit for the finishing interview, and they end up almost making out against the car again — but they spare the poor staff the headache this time.

There are more beautiful shots of the car, of the people, of their hands, linked. Some of Max is alone on the track. Of Charles watching him on the side. 

Finally, the crew leaves with all the equipment, and there’s only Max and Charles left on the track, sweaty and full of adrenaline.

“Got one more left in you?” Max taunts, a shark smiles on his face that he usually wears at their game nights. They’re too competitive for it to be any fun but they still do it.

Charles scoffs. “You bet.”

Having a few races under his belt, Charles feels better and better about the kart and the track as each lap goes by.

He even talked about setups with one of the mechanics that hung around — Max’s post-race long monologue finally finding an actual use. So, it’s pretty confident that he sits back on his kart.

At his side, Max put on his gloves. Charles’ hands twitch on the wheel. Oh, he’s going to win this.

The first laps go well, Max, who had been very nice up until this point, starts pulling his multiple Karting Championship’s weight and gets a dozen seconds on Charles. Maybe too confident, Max makes a mistake in a corner in the second to last lap, which makes him lose all his advance, and Charles— 

He flies past him. 

Exhilarated would be a sad term to describe what rises in his chest, hot and bubbly. But there’s no time to dwell on it, because Max is already back behind him, almost glued to his back wheels, close, close, close.

Max tries something at his exterior on a sharp corner, which scares Charles enough to make a sort of jolt on his steering wheel that almost sends him crashing into the wall. 

It must have scared Max too, because he calms down, and tries another attack, gentler this time, in the next corner. But Charles is prepared. Instead of backing down, he stays, and when he can see Max's bright kart next to him, he pushes.

This time, it’s Max who is sent almost flying and ends up going wide in a gravel section.

Charles passes the finish line first.

Giddy, and feeling his whole body throbbing, Charles lets out a victorious laugh inside his helmet, something that comes from deep inside his chest and throat. When he stops, he pretends to do those Grand Prix winner celebrations, pumping his arms in the air with gusto, under the amused gaze of the mechanics.

Too hot from both victory and the helmet, he removes it and waits for Max to join him.

Stumbling, it’s like a baby deer Max gets out of the kart and goes straight to Charles.

“Baby, you pushed me off the track, you can’t do that,” Max says, his eyes blinking quickly in disbelief behind his helmet as he reaches him. His lashes cast dark shadows on the blue.

“Why not? Because you lose?” Charles asks, mocking. The balaclava he wore is wet on the inside and his hair is probably a mess. He can’t bring himself to care. Helmet is heavy resting on his hips, the reassuring weight of victory, and Max is flushed by both anger and effort. “Maybe I should get into Formula 1, I would crush you.”

Max snorts, and he takes out his helmet, to shake his head. 

“Somehow, I have no doubt you would have been the biggest headache I’ve ever had.” 

Max almost sounds wistful, looking at Charles’ gloves on the ground as if he can picture a life where Charles and he would have fought in karting, dragged their way through Formula 1, and tried to kill each other every weekend on track.

Charles is content with this life. They could try the racing together thing in another.

“Don’t worry, I’m way too pretty to be in F1,” Charles says, dismissive and it snaps Max out of whatever fantasy he was having. It makes him laugh, at least, and Max grabs Charles by the waist to pull him to his side.

Charles makes a big act of being disgusted by how sweaty he is but lets himself be kissed on the temple easily.

“You’re so sexy when you’re being a bitch,” Max whispers on his skin and captures Charles’ lips in a hot kiss.

“Loser,” Charles gasps between two kisses but the impact is lessened by his quiet moans. “Let me blow you.”

He thinks Max says yes, but it sounds more like a groan than anything. No matter, because they sneak their way into the changing room, as everyone tries to pretend they do not see them.

As soon as the door closes behind them, they’re all over each other. Open-mouth kisses make wet noise echo in the closed room, lewd and completely inappropriate. Max is hard against Charles’ hips, and he can slowly feel him lose it

“You were so good, so hot, putting on, ah, fast laps so easily,” Max pants.

Of course, Max would still talk about racing when they were about to fuck. To indulge him, Charles laughs. “What, like it’s hard?”

At that, Max takes the time to pull out and wiggles his eyebrow. “I’ll show you something hard.”

Charles scrunches his nose at the lousy innuendo. 

“Nevermind, let’s get back on track, I think I can beat you a few more times,” he declares and pretends to leave.

He gets caught by the waist, and the heavy press of Max on his ass and crotch makes his legs weak.

“Oh, you’re not going anywhere, my love.”

Max bites on his neck, and Charles melts.

This time, when he sinks to his knees, Max lets him stay there. 

“So good for me, baby,” Max murmurs, his voice low from desire. He runs a hand through Charles’ hair and settles to the back of it, not pushing, just here.

From where he is, Charles can see how dark his eyes are. Burning, only for him, focusing on his mouth and how red they probably are from kissing. Slowly, Charles starts by palming at Max’s crotch, where his dick is hidden by the heavy fabric.

He can barely feel it, a bump under his hand that keeps on growing bigger, but the anticipation makes his low stomach twist. Max observes without saying anything, but his hand grips his hair when Charles presses on a certain spot. 

It’s hard to repress a smirk when there’s Max, almost shaking from desire from a simple touch, just under the palm of his hand. Charles looks up to Max with wide eyes and blinks innocently as he kisses where his cock is.

It’s easy to get rid of the fireproof, the zipper going all the way to the crotch, Max barely has to push it down, not even under his ass, for Charles to have access to his underpants.

Calvin Klein. Charles is really starting to rub on him.

With appreciation, Charles makes the elastic of the boxer snap against Max’s waist, and the following groan goes straight to his own neglected cock, rubbing against his feet. To make himself forgiven, Charles nuzzles the hard dick-shaped form under the dark fabric.

He licks his bottom lip, only a peak of tongue, and feels Max twitch.

Max’s cock fattens under his lips, and there’s a wet spot that’s not due to his saliva growing on the gray of the boxers. When he starts to mouth at it, Max’s hips thrust, instinctively and bumps on his cheeks. The room is so quiet, except for the little noise Max lets out, small groans and gasps, interspersed by English and Dutch curses.

It’s Charles’ favorite part, to tease Max until he snaps. 

Because he can, Max has started to rub his dick between Charles’ lips without any shame, as he does between his asscheeks sometimes, and Charles pulls out, suddenly. Pouting, he looks away as Max hits his cheek with his hips.

Firmly, he gets his head snapped back by a tight grip.

There isn't much more playful teasing in Max’s expression. Charles feels his mouth water even more.

Carefully, Max’s fingers open his lips, and Charles resists a bit, clenching his teeth, before letting the two fingers into his warm mouth. It stops in his tongue, not far enough to trigger his gag reflex. When he sucks on it, it’s salty. 

Max hums, satisfied. Charles shudders. “Come on. Don’t be a tease.”

As he pushes down his boxer, and Max’s dick hits his stomach, Charles’ world realigns. 

His head buzzing pleasantly, Charles licks a long strip on the underside of Max’s cock, the velvety skin soft under his tongue. Pumps it up, one, two times with his hand, licks it again to wet it, and goes to kiss the top of it languidly, as if he were making out with Max. The taste of cum on his tongue is pleasant, and it sticks to the inside of his cheek.

When he gets pulled back this time, he whines pitifully. 

“What did I say about teasing? Be good, baby,” Max says firmly and doesn’t let Charles answer, grabbing his cock to guide it between his lips.

It slides down easily down his throat, barely fluttering with the intrusion.

Now, his nose is pressed in Max’s pubic hair, and the smell of Max is so strong, moist, and musky, that he swallows without meaning to. This snaps something in Max, because, the next second, without any regard for any existent gag reflex, there’s a deep thrust inside his mouth.

It hits the back of his throat, again, and again, and again, making Charles’ eyes water. Some tears get caught in his lashes, and only fall when he looks up to see Max’s reaction. 

Like a work of art, Max has his head thrown back, jaw clenched, and for a minute, Charles deeply regrets not being home and is able to hear Max’s full moans. 

He’s drooling all over himself, on the fireproof, on his chin, and the throbbing pulse of his cock doesn’t help either. As to not make Max aware of what he’s doing, Charles starts to rock back and forth on the heel of his feet, the pressure on his cock heavenly. He moans over Max’s cock, and that makes him choke a bit on the mix of saliva and pre-cum that has been building in his mouth.

He doesn’t die by dick, fortunately, because Max let him go for him to take a breath.

A soft brush on his cheeks makes him rest his head on Max’s thigh, but he’s still so hard he can’t really focus on anything. He hears Max talking but doesn’t understand what he said.

Max laughs at his fucked-up state, his thumb rubbing on his sticky lips, smearing the cum on it like a gloss. 

“Do you like it?” Max asks again, patronizing.

Charles nods. Max’s cocks bump against his nose. “Yes.”

“Where do you want me to come?”

“My face,” Charles says, immediately. He wants to feel Max’s cums running on his skin, marking him in front of the whole world. 

It’s completely fantasy, of course, but he can’t help but be disappointed when Max shakes his head.

“Oh no, baby, everyone is going to see,” Max tuts. “You will swallow it, like a good boy, aren’t you?”

“Of course.”

Charles would like nothing more than to be a good boy for Max.

Clenching at his thighs, he takes back Max’s cock in his mouth and bobs his head up and down, this time careful not to gag or swallow too early. It hits his back molars, and his jaw hurts a little from how much it is filling him up.

Wraps his tongue around the length, lets his teeth scratch the surface of it for a second, sucks on the head again, and moans when an unexpected small squirt of cum hits his cheek.

“Baby, baby, made for me,” Max rambles, breathing heavily, his whole collarbone up to his cheeks flushed deep red. “Fuck, look at you.”

A loud pop echoes when Charles lets Max’s cock go.

“Yeah? Take a pic?” Charles asks, smiling, and Max groans before reaching for his phone. His hands visibly shake as he opens the camera.

Charles opens his mouth very wide and flutters his eyes closed. He lets his tongue loll, blindly reaches for the cock presented to him, and almost chokes when it enters him back suddenly. Max’s cum spills down his throat, long strips of warm liquid, drenching his endless thirst.

He sees white for a second, as he comes inside his fireproof, and it’s lucky that Max had taken his cock back because he would have probably bitten it off.

Carefully, Charles pools some cum, sticky and hot, on his tongue, and sticks it at Max for him to take another picture. Max has an awestruck expression as the shutter of the camera app rings.

His voice is shaky when Max speaks again, caressing Charles’ cheeks and attentively watching his Adam’s apple bob when he swallows. “You’re so hot, fuck, you’re the hottest person on this earth,” he whispers.

“Thank you, baby,” Charles says, pleased.

“Jesus, fuck, I’m going to get hard each time I see a fireproof suit now,” Max pass a hand through his hair, putting some of his own cum like a gel in his already-wet strands. It’s incredibly hot, and Charles’ knees hurt a little when he stands up.

Max makes a weird noise when Charles takes and puts his hand in his fireproof suit, and his fingers feel the mess inside.

“That doesn’t bode well for the rest of your career then,” Charles laughs, pecking Max on the mouth. It must taste bitter, but Max doesn’t protest. “I’ll take your place in the car if needed.”

Max makes a painful expression as he squeezes his dick. “Stop, I’m going to cum again.”

The thing is, Charles is familiar with being a WAG — or maybe HAB, in his case. There’s not much he hasn’t done in his time and a pretty thing to bring to work events and to fuck in a hotel down the street didn’t miss his list. 

He’s been seventeen, nineteen, twenty-one. They’ve been forty, thirty-nine, fifty-two. 

Now Charles is twenty-six and Max is twenty-six, and they’re holding hands in a car that’s going too slow for it not to be intentional. They both pretend it’s not the case, as Max takes another turn that Charles is almost sure makes them move away from the circuit.

Started by babbling frantically about nothing, the car progressively became more and more quiet. By the time Max passes security and does a smooth parallel park into his designed spot, it’s completely silent.

They sit there for a moment, the tinted windows hiding their immobile form. It’s all a bit stupid.

Max turns his whole body toward Charles, twisting in his stupidly tight car. His Red Bull shirt is tight on his body, stretching over his chest. “Ready?”

Charles squints at him. It isn’t the time for Max to be having second thoughts. 

“Only if you are.”

“Of course, I am,” Max chuckles in disbelief.

“Then let’s just go,” Charles says, and for good measure, opens his car door.

For his first appearances in the paddock, his outfit had been a long source of anxiety for him. 

He’s self-aware enough to admit it has just been a way to avoid focusing on something else than the actual event, but everyone in his life had heard about it at some point. From his friends to his mom, even the cashier of the deli near their apartment. This one is probably what triggered the intervention.

At last, it was Max who had to sit him down. 

I will be proud to show up with you, even if you wear a garbage bag.

Well, yes, that's how you usually dress anyway.

Charles.

Ok, ok. I will cancel my appointment with Prabal Gurung.

You don’t have to, schatje. I just want you to be comfortable.

Which, obviously, was not happening in any scenarios.

But the whole thing is not about him. It’s about Max, it’s about stepping out of his comfort zone and showing how proud he is. So, Charles bites his tongue and tries to not call back all the designers he reached out to in the first place.

A full Tom Ford evening dress would not be an appropriate paddock debut. 

(Pierre had cried with laughter when he showed him his emails.)

But Max has been almost disappointed that nothing in his outfit is sheer. Instead, in a multi-layer skirt and a custom Anna Walsh corset, Charles feels both very under and overdressed.

He slips his hand into Max’s, whose palm is moist – the only sign that he’s somewhat affected by the situation beyond having to handle a Charles’ crisis. A few strands of blond hair escape from under his cap, and Charles takes a moment to tuck it back before beeping their way in.

They don’t kiss, not yet, but they share a small smile that might as well do it.

Paparazzi take a few shots of them, which Charles ignores pretty easily before someone from the Red Bull team runs to them with an umbrella to hide. Cute, but unnecessary.

Otherwise, there are not a lot of people in the paddock yet, apart from the paparazzi and a few poor souls with deep dark circles. They have set the alarm early enough for Max to complain, and Charles to scold him for staying up till 2 AM to watch his friends’ stream.

It must not be very usual for Max to be so early, because the few people in team gear they meet double-check them. Maybe it’s because they’re holding hands. Or that Charles looks significantly taller than Max in his platform boots. He hadn’t dared open shoes for today.

Charles has already gotten through meeting Max’s family, and it has gone pretty well if he has to guess. At least, Sophie and Victoria adore him, already making plans for the next holidays together, Jos is… Another story but it’ll be fine.

Going into the Red Bull’s garage is pretty close to what he had felt when entering Max’s childhood house. Full of noise, shapes, and smells, a full part of Max’s life he hadn’t been able to conceptualize until now.

“Just smile, and pretend to laugh if he says something weird,” whispers Max to him before they meet Helmut, and Charles feels like he’s at a family dinner, going to be introduced to the senile old grandpa.

It’s not far from it. 

Helmut is both fun and intimidating and weirdly seems very happy to see Charles, going out of his way to offer him a drink that smells like vodka. When they shake hands, he pats the back of it before nodding at Max with a conspiratorial air. Max makes a smile that looks like a grimace.

Maybe the whole garage got a briefing before this, actually, because they all very enthusiastically welcome Charles. 

At one man trying to give him a friendly kick in the shoulder, Charles physically recoils. After that, he sticks to Max, carefully smiling at everyone coming to greet them. He doesn’t want to be rude. It’s all just a bit overwhelming.

When they reach Christian, in a corner of the garage with a lot of screens and cables, Max has to leave for a meeting. They're left to converse awkwardly, about the weather, Christian’s daughters, the car this year. At least, they have a common interest. As in everyone around them.

Once, Max had asked Charles if it was not too intimidating, to step on a runaway or do a shoot and know your face is going to be plastered everywhere. Charles had just shrugged, at the time. He was too used to it. His face appeared in the kiosk in front of his old primary school at 15 and never really left.

Now, he can understand Max’s incomprehension.

Because, ultimately, what Charles does is not really about him. It’s brands, showcasing someone else's work, trying to wear and show it the best possible. Nobody truly cares about his personality, or what he thinks — which he doesn’t mind. Likes it, even.

But, here, as far as the eye can see, it’s Max’s. Everything is about him, everything revolves around what he is, what he needs, what he likes, what he’s thinking of. A hivemind shaped like a bull with his name on it.

For his boyfriend.

Good lord.

Christian is actually fun to talk to, it turns out, dry in ways British knows how to be, but passionate enough Charles can see why everyone is… like this.

Very intense. He’s into that.

Max gets back, looking grumpy, which either means the meeting went badly or the lack of sleep is catching up on him. The answer appears quickly, because Max insists on going to his driver’s room, and immediately falls asleep on the couch between Charles’ arms.

Charles is too fond to do anything but comb his hair as Max snores on his chest.

Max’s driver's room is not very similar to his apartment. It doesn’t look very lived-in, first of all, there’s a couch, a drawer, and only one small fridge (full of Red Bull, Charles genuinely worries about his health). The only personal touches are some frames put here and there, of Max’s family: Victoria, his nephews, Jos and Christian.

On top of the fridge, there’s a picture of Max kissing Charles’ cheek, his arm full of roses.

Surprisingly, the whole thing is way less about racing than he had expected. 

Or at least, way less about on-track action and a lot about everything around. A bit like modeling, really, but way louder. Now Charles understands better why Max complains so much about it.

Apparently, Netflix has a docuseries and tries to get Charles in front of the camera for an interview, which he declines firmly. But he stays during the time Max does his own, waving at him when he looks in his direction, and sharing grimaces at particularly stupid or directed questions.

When Max kisses him before leaving, Charles is pretty sure a camera is on them. Whatever, let them stare. For good measure, he brings him to a deeper kiss and hopes their camera is HD enough to see the tongue action.

They met Lando too, which Charles is somehow surprised about. Not that he’s not happy to see him, while not best friends, they’re friendly. And always willing to fuck with each other.

“Landito!” Charles beams, before kissing his cheeks, and gets immediately shushed by an increasingly redder Lando amongst his snickering mechanics.

It’s fun. Even he forgets immediately every name of the people he gets introduced to — some he’s too ashamed to ask if they’re drivers or not.

Of course, there’s Daniel too, and they take a coffee break together. Charles complains about how bad the beans’ quality is, under Max and Daniel’s amused gaze.

“And you dare have Italian teams in the paddock with this… jus de chaussette,” he spits out, putting another three cubes of sugar in his cup.

The truth is, the only thing that stuck with him, for all those years, is Ferrari. 

So, it’s a bit intimidating to pass in front of their garage. Blood red and Giallo Modena, there’s the world’s kindest ghost hiding between the wheels of their car. He thinks he can smell a cookie from his childhood, and get a glimpse of a poster that was hung in Jules’ bedroom.

Max tries to convince him they’re not that good anymore, which only pushes Charles to want to root for Ferrari even more. Their car is the prettiest, anyway.

Also, seeing Max getting sulky over his sudden enthusiasm for the Ferrari drivers is funny. They exchange signatures, Alex makes him laugh, and he’s quickly dragged away.

At some point during the day, they go hide in the toilets. One without access to the public, and where a few mechanics run out as soon as they get a glimpse of Charles’ heels.

Max waits patiently for him to put on his lipstick in the bathroom, and gets rewarded with a long kiss on the jaw. And on the mouth. And the cheek. Actually, Charles has to put on another layer of lipstick after that.

All day, they’ve been like teenagers, unable to keep their hands off each other. Mostly on Charles’ part. 

It’s burning in his stomach. Everyone wants a piece of Max, of their World Champion, of their golden boy, but they can’t have him all. 

Because when he tells something he thinks is funny, Max will always immediately look at Charles to see if he laughed. Because they’ve found a place together, and they’ve waited anxiously together the first day to see if the cats liked it. Because at night, Max will always bury his face in Charles’ neck before snoring.

So, if he doesn’t tell Max about the obnoxious lip stain on his cheek, he can’t be blamed.

The race is too soon.

Like a looming sword over his head, it had been easy to ignore at first. But as Max goes to talk to his engineers for his last check before going on the grid, it’s becoming too real. 

Quietly, Charles observes the number and graphics around him. If he hooked a cable to his heart, could it tell how fast it was going? If it can outrun the car? 

If he decided to put his pulsating organ inside the engine, could it assure Max to always have a good and safe race?

“You ok?” Max asks, making Charles jump.

“Yes. Nervous,” he admits, after reflection. Max will know he’s lying anyway.

“You don’t have to be. I’ll win, don’t worry.”

Charles smiles and nods, helpless, while Max’s attention is getting asked elsewhere. Nobody has told Max about the lipstick on his skin yet, and he hopes it will keep on like this.

Unfortunately, it all comes down to Christian.

“Max you have a bit of,” Christian waves toward his face and Max turns an interesting shade of red when he sees the scarlet lipstick wax on his hands after wiping his cheek.

When Max looks back accusingly at Charles, he only bats innocent lashes. Silently curses Christian for ruining his fun.

But it’s here now, it’s here, and Charles can’t do anything about it.

Before Max puts on his balaclava, before he goes out to show his face to the media and the rest of the world, they get a few seconds alone together.

He kisses Max and it’s perhaps a bit more desperate than he intended.

“Don’t die,” he whispers against his lips, hoping his voice doesn’t shake too audibly.

“I wouldn’t dare.”

When Max’s features disappear behind the helmet, a part of Charles dims a little. Everything in him yells for him to not let him go. His body only drops Max’s hand when physically impossible to keep up.

He loves Max too much to keep him.

Charles slips on the headphones offered to him, inside the garage, without his eyes leaving the screen. 

A big zoom on Max blinking shows on all the TVs. It’s hard to think it’s the same eyes that crinkle at him in the morning.

The start of the race might as well be the most stressful moment of Charles’ life. His heart fails multiple times during the moment when the lights start to disappear one by one, to the end of the first lap.

It’s one thing to hear about it, to see short clips of the carefully edited highlights post-race when all is said and done and Max has already washed the champagne off his body.

Seeing, hearing, feeling, the power of the car, of everyone around it, is completely another. When Max makes his first pit stop, it’s like everything wakes up and buzzes in the garage — an intense energy that leaves Charles exhausted even though he did nothing.

His cigarette urge got so bad at some point, that he started eating his nails. Taking a break is unthinkable. Besides he wouldn’t want to make the whole paddock blow up.

Max gets so far ahead in half the race, that the TV doesn't even bother to show him anymore. That’s when Charles goes to the pit wall, just to ask a few questions. Just to make sure. 

Everything is ok, don’t worry, he’s good, he’s good, he’s good.

When Max crosses the finish line, first by a margin, Charles yells and jumps like he’s the one to have won. Immediately, Christian is right at his side, beaming like a proud parent, and despite having only really met him today, Charles lets himself get hugged.

Father of heart, father of blood, who cares in the face of so much genuine joy?

Charles gets it.

The flood of people to the Parc Fermé is one that he gladly lets himself drown in.

All the mechanics form a way through to get to the barriers. This time, Charles doesn’t mind the press of their bodies against his. Welcomes it, even, shares the happy smile with the rest of the team, feeling one with them and their joy.

Max is here at the end of the tunnel. Victorious. Shining, all-powerful, sweaty. 

Charles grabs his visor, as if to crawl inside of it, curls around the wet lashes, and stays in the curve of the bridge of his nose. He’s lifted over the barriers by the mechanics behind and Max’s arms wrap around his waist like an iron grip. 

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” Charles repeats like a litany, incapable of forming a sentence or thought besides the overwhelming adoration that burns his body. “Je t’aime.”

His forehead bumps against the plastic of the helmet. There are maybe tears running inside of it.

The array of helmets all around Max’s house pops into his mind, and Charles thinks a hundred more would be good. An altar of protection like the one he lit a candle with Sophie in secret.

If Charles is babbling nonsense, Max only smiles, making his eyes crinkle. Back on the ground, it’s hard to let go of Max but he still does it.

Apparently, he can’t see or talk to Max right away. Which is stupid and frustrating.

Christian and Samantha from PR talk to him through it, and he really wishes he brought Andrea. There’s the podium, a Dutch and Austrian anthem that everyone seems to know by heart.

In the sea of people, Charles looks up to see Max holding his trophy to the sky, before looking down at them, at him, and winking.

And then there’s more media. More interviews, more of the same thing Max says, over and over again.

Charles is patient. He has to be, he’s good at it.

Max’s lips taste like energy drinks when he finally comes back to him.

They escape to the car pretty quickly after this, and the adrenaline and tiredness from the whole day start going down as they take a country road to go to some after-party.

Deeming it far enough to not have some fans jump out of a bundle of straw, they stop for Charles to have a smoke near a field. Feet in the mud and smell of poo all around them, it’s less glamorous than the paddock but Charles likes it almost as much. 

The sun has started to set, and they watch it disappear on the horizon, bathing the world in orange, red, and pink, before going backstage, like a satisfied performer.

“So,” Max says, leaning against the car. His sneakers squish in the dirt. “Did you like it?”

Charles snorts. Did he like it? There are so many layers to this question, he’s not even sure he wants to ever find the depth of his answers.

“You were so good,” he settles to say.

“Eh, could have done better.”

“Yeah, you could have braked later in turn 10,” Charles mocks, faking the voice of one of the British commentators. It makes Max laugh. “God, that last lap, you madman, I thought I was going to have a heart attack.”

“Sorry. Just had a boy to impress,” Max smirks. Charles crushes his cigarette under his heels and wraps his arms around his waist.

Max easily holds him around his shoulders, and they probably look like two idiots, standing in the middle of nowhere with fancy clothes and a fancy trophy in the back of their car. Like some scarecrows who got dressed up to mimic real people, maybe a parody of the bourgeoisie or just dressed with what was in the attic left to take the dust, once belonging to someone but too old to remember who it was.

Charles has always been made of other people. He’s a bit more whole with Max holding him.

“I’m taking a break,” Charles glances nervously at Max. “Next year. For a few months at least, Andrea— Andrea said he would basically lock me away if I didn’t.”

“That’s good. I’m happy for you, you deserve it,” Max nods, kissing Charles’ temple. Making mindless patterns on Charles’ ribs. A heart, a star, a cloud, a promise.

“That,” he stops again. Swallow, to try and make it sound more confident. “It means I can come. To more races. If you want.”

“Yes, of course, I always want you here. But only when you wish.” Max adds it like it’s an afterthought. It soothes a frown that Charles didn’t know he even had.

“Don’t worry, it won’t be every weekend. It’s supposed to be a break, after all.”

“Good, good,” Max says, back to kissing every inch of Charles available to him. “Do rest a lot. Be happy, liefje, that's what is most important.”

There’s nowhere Charles would rather be than six inches deep in the mud, with Max’s arms around him.

Let’s start something real. He would say tonight. Maybe in the plane. Maybe in their apartment. Something that we can’t take back.

And Max will say yes.

Charles is sure of it.