Work Text:
1.
They’re sprawled out on the couch as usual, Charles’ feet resting in Max’s lap. It’s become ordinary, as of late. After a long day at the paddock, Max drives them both to his apartment. It was a temporary arrangement, at first, but they’ve fallen into some kind of routine. It’s almost domestic, the way Max hugs him from behind after a bad day, or when they stand side-by-side in the morning brushing their teeth. Charles still remembers how Max looked this morning, ruggedly handsome and unshaven.
“Max,” Charles calls.
“Hm?” Max makes a sound like a cat.
“What are we?” Charles asks. He watches Max lift his head from his phone, meeting his gaze with a confused, little quirk of his head.
They’ve never talked about this, about them. They’ve always been good at unspoken communication, at knowing what the other wants. But this is something Max doesn’t know, surely. That Charles wants Max. That complicates things a little. The fact has been eating Charles up on the inside, keeping him up late at night.
“What kind of question is that?” Max, of all things, laughs. “Obviously, we’re F1 drivers.”
…what. Max has clearly misunderstood his question. Charles lets his gaze linger on Max’s side profile before forcing himself to look away, dropping his gaze into his lap disappointedly. “Ah, yeah, of course,” Charles forces out.
Max raises an eyebrow at Charles’ tone, a silent question. He puts his phone down on the couch, watching Charles concernedly.
“It’s nothing,” Charles murmurs. Max lifts his ankle off his lap, sidling closer to him on the couch until their shoulders are touching. Max places a hand gently on Charles’ face, cradling it like it’s porcelain.
“Are you sure?” Max asks again. He taps his finger lightly against Charles’ jawline, beckoning his gaze to him.
“Yes, Max.”
“Okay,” Max says. Then he removes his hand from Charles’ face, the lack of warmth suddenly jarring. Charles stares at the side of Max’s face. There is a difference between needing something and wanting something. He wants Max. It is a selfish want, he decides. Max has always been a forcefield, not one to be tied down by family or a lover’s arms.
And certainly not Charles.
Charles lets out a little sigh, which comes out louder than he expects. Max nudges his foot under the couch, a question. He nudges back, an answer. We’re fine. Max’s foot stays pressed against his for the rest of the night.
2.
Charles has just gotten back, from one Ferrari marketing event or another. He’s exhausted, ready to slide into Max’s clean, comfortable sheets, with a thread count high enough to make anyone salivate.
When he walks into the living room, he finds Max on the couch, room dark except for his phone screen illuminating his face. He jolts. “Max?”
“Charles?” Max says, rubbing his eyes.
“What are you doing here? And why didn’t you turn on the lights, it’s so dark,” Charles says, flipping on the light switches. The sudden flood of light makes them both wince.
“I was waiting for you,” Max states, as if it were obvious. “You weren’t back, and you weren’t answering your texts. I was worried, Charles.”
“Ah, sorry,” Charles says quietly. “My phone died, and I didn’t bring my charger, so–”
“You don’t have to apologise, Charles. Let’s just go to sleep, okay? I’m tired.”
Charles lets out a breath of relief. Yes, he can do that.
-
Details: Max flips the lights off before slipping into bed, because the switch is right over his bedside. Charles takes the left side of the bed, Max takes the right. Max wears socks to bed, Charles doesn’t. Max used to sleep on his back, but now he sleeps on his side. And so does Charles. They end up facing each other, and every breath Max takes fans across Charles’ face. It’s intimate, and bathed in the soft light, Max looks so beautiful. Charles’ heart aches where it ferrets in his chest. This Max, close but not close enough to reach, to hold, will never be his.
Max pulls the covers over them both, and Charles snuggles under the soft fabric with a satisfied hum. He stares at Max’s face, eyes half-lidded and mouth folded into a small smile.
“What are we?” Charles whispers, though it must be loud to Max, they’re close enough that whispers can’t hide anything, not even his shaky tone of voice.
Max’s eyes are shut now. He must be tired, Charles thinks. Without opening his eyes, Max wraps an arm around Charles. “You’re mine,” Max mumbles.
Charles doesn’t know if he even heard Max right. His half-asleep mind could be making things up, at this point. “What?” he asks. But Max is already fast asleep, his even breaths filling the room.
Max’s words could mean anything in the world right now. Charles could be Max’s rival, Max’s competitor on the track, Max’s boyfriend, Max’s anything, really. Instead, Charles forces himself to calm down. His heart is hammering against his ribcage so violently he thinks he might wake Max up.
This is a problem for another time, he resolves, closing his eyes. He breathes in the scent of Max’s laundry detergent deeply before promptly falling asleep.
3.
The other time, in question, never comes. They resume their daily routine, seemingly as per normal, until one day, Charles decides to breach the topic again. It’s movie night, which means some shitty film is playing on Max’s TV and they’re cuddled up on the couch with the cats. Max has Sassy curled into his lap comfortably, as Charles mindlessly strokes his hand down the length of Jimmy’s back. It’s nice, like this. Domestic.
He shifts his gaze to Max, who’s fully concentrated on the movie playing before them, his blue eyes unmoving. Charles doesn’t even know if he’s blinked for the past hour and a half. Still, Max’s hand moves instinctively to pet the top of Sassy’s head, then scratches her softly under her chin. She meows softly in return, pushing her little head against his hand. At last, Max tears his gaze from the screen to look down fondly at Sassy. Charles looks away quickly before Max realises he’s been staring.
And he suddenly has a horrible revelation: He would’ve just liked to be Max’s cat in another life, staying curled up in Max’s lap all day and getting little scratches behind his ears. It seems to be a common theme in his life lately, revelations. He swallows a mouthful of saliva, then braces himself for the question.
“What are we?” he asks. Max hums noncommittally, before hitting pause on the film and turning his gaze to Charles fully. Then his gaze drags down pointedly to where Charles’ hand rests on Jimmy’s back, and then back up to him. A bright grin appears on Max’s face.
“Ah, is that what this is about? Well, the cats belong to me, of course, but you can be Jimmy and Sassy’s god-father, of course. The cats love you, as well. Even more than me, I think,” Max says. There’s a hint of disappointment, frustration that curls up in his gut at being misunderstood again. It all melts away as he looks at Max’s sweet smile, his own expression soon mirroring Max’s.
“So do I get them on weekends, at least?” Charles teases.
“No,” Max says, defensively curling his hands over Jimmy and Sassy. “They’re mine.” They’re mine. How Charles wishes Max would say that about him.
Instead, he chuckles, patting Jimmy softly on the head.
+1
They’re getting ready for bed. Charles is looking for a pair of pyjamas to throw on, when he realises he’s left his back at his apartment. He spots a navy blue sweater slung over the back of a chair, one Max wore this afternoon. It has the Red Bull logo emblazoned right across his left breast, and when Charles puts it on, it sits right over his heart. This must be a company violation of some sort, but he’s frankly, too tired to care. And besides, this isn’t the first time they’ve shared clothes. The sweater is a little loose around his shoulders, pooling at his arms, but he doesn’t think much about it.
After Max has finished brushing his teeth, he walks into the room, hair still wet and ruffled from his shower. When he sees Charles, he stops in the doorway. Charles meets Max’s gaze, and feels self-conscious all of a sudden. He looks down at his sweater. “Does it look that bad on me?” he asks jokingly.
But Max has this weird, spaced-out look in his eyes. Beneath the dimmed lights, there’s a sparkly sheen glazing his eyes. “Charles,” Max chokes out.
“What’s wrong, Max?” Charles says, concerned now, walking closer to Max to put a hand on Max’s shoulder.
And Max does the last thing Charles expects him to do in that situation: he kisses him. Max tastes like minty toothpaste, berries, and home. It’s fleeting, a brush of lips, before Max is pulling away, shrinking into himself. “Fuck,” Max breathes. “Fuck.”
“Max,” Charles says.
“Charles,” Max speaks the syllable of his name roughly, urgently, almost like a prayer. “What are we? I need you to tell me, please.”
“We’re F1 drivers, remember? And I’m a Ferrari driver and you’re a 3-time World Champion. Max, did you forget?” Charles says, teasing.
“Charles, I’m not joking, I– I need you to tell me, please. Charles, I think I’m falling in love with you. And I finally realised what you were asking, and God, I’ve never felt so stupid in my life, and I think you might, you might…” Max pauses. “Love me too,” he whispers, low and confessional. Charles thinks he feels his heart drop to the pit of his stomach. Max… loves him too? A swarm of butterflies flutter up in his ribcage, birds suddenly released from their cages.
“Max, Max, look at me. Will you look at me, please, Max?” Charles puts a gentle hand on Max’s chin, softly angling it up. “We can be anything you want us to be. We can be boyfriends, or lovers, or whatever you want to call it. We don’t even have to call it anything. We could just be us, because I think I love you too,” Charles says tenderly, like each word might crumble under his tongue if he’s not careful enough.
To Charles’ horror, a tear slips down Max’s cheek. But the momentary fear is replaced by an intense, burning joy in his chest as Max engulfs Charles in a hug, pulling him impossibly close. Charles thinks he’s never been closer to another person in his life. Right now they could be one human, right now they could be one soul, one heart.
“Thank God,” Max breathes. “Thank God, I was so scared, Charles. I thought I’d really lose you. I thought you wouldn’t like me anymore.”
“I could never,” Charles admits, voice muffled by Max’s shirt.
Max pulls back, lashline sparkling with unshed tears. Charles thinks he’s never seen anyone so beautiful. Max leans in, and Charles’ eyelids flutter shut softly as butterfly wings in anticipation. When Max’s lips finally meet his again, there aren’t fireworks going off in the background, but the feeling is something akin to that.