Chapter Text
He’s pushed into a puddle, disqualified from the race, and glared at by a kid with floppy brown hair, angry green eyes, and soft looking pink lips. Max doesn’t even flinch—outwardly, at least. He knows who this is, Charles Leclerc from Monaco. On track he is fast, he is opportunistic, and he fights like every lap is the last.
Max likes him—even if he doesn’t seem to like Max very much.
His words are sharp, accented in something pretty (even when he speaks with the sort of abrasiveness that should make Max avoid him), and even though they don’t talk the way friends do, there is no one Max prefers debriefing a race with than Charles with his dimples and freckles and reluctant half-smiles.
He remembers one conversation vividly, about a month before Val d’Argenton, when they were forced to delay the race by one hour due to severe weather.
Charles walks up to him, helmet tucked under his arm, and glares out the window. “How will we ever learn to drive in the rain if they won’t let us? Do they think that is how Schumacher and Senna improved? By just waiting?”
Max blinks. He’s standing in a quiet corner, away from the other karters and their families, replaying he each turn and curve of the track in his head until the hour is up.
Charles turns to him, the frown slowly turning into a pout. “It is silly, non? To make us wait?”
This time, Max finds his voice—even if he nearly drops his water bottle in the process. “The weather does not seem so harsh.” He nods. “But, of course, they worry about safety.”
The shorter boy considers this for a moment, glances back at the other drivers, and finally gives a soft sigh. “Well, perhaps not everyone should race right now. But you and I should.” He turns back to face Max, those green eyes now sparkling like emeralds. “You are good in wet weather and mixed conditions.” He assesses sharply.
“You’re quick as well. Perhaps not so much in the rain but you are also not slow.” The words come out blunt and unfiltered—and Max almost winces.
He’s never been able to make friends easily. Always too honest, each sentence spoken with no brain-to-mouth filter (as Victoria so often points out). He begins to try again, to say something that is not quite so…blunt…but Charles smiles.
For the first time since Max has known, he receives a smile directed at him—dimples at all.
The pinched expression on Charles’s face vanishes—lips curved, features soft, and cheeks turning a little pink as he tries to hold back a giggle. “Arrogant.” The Monaco boy grins.
“But honest.” It comes out sounding like a question—and god, Max hopes this is banter.
Playful conversation.
Because Max is smiling right back, eager to continue, to talk about anything and everything because talking to Charles feels right. It feels comfortable and fun and Max never wants it to end.
“Honest and arrogant,” he muses, and then—“there are worse things to be, I suppose.”
“Yeah?” Max dares to move a little closer. “Like what?”
“Like being arrogant and a liar.”
“Or arrogant and a bad driver.”
“Or arrogant with bad breath.”
At those words, spoke with a cheeky little smirk, Max laughs out loud. “Who is the one with the bad breath?” He leans in closer, eyes flickering to the other boys and then back to Charles. “Is it Stefan?”
“Why Max Verstappen, are you a gossip?” Charles feigns shock. “Because you know I can never tell. I am a very good secret keeper—even if the secret I am keeping is so very orange.”
Max’s eyes move to the crowd again until he catches sight of—
“I knew it! It is Stefan.”
Charles giggles. “I didn’t say it.” He moves his helmet from one arm to the other.
“Guess I’m just that good aren’t I?” He teases. “A regular detective, yeah?”
Charles opens his mouth to reply but that’s when the intercom crackles to life—an announcement that the severe weather warning has ended.
And the race would soon begin.
Max remembers that conversation so fondly—so dearly—that he often replays it in his mind, again and again, cycling through every detail. Every last giggle and smile and roll of the eyes. Because not long after was Val d’Argenton and Max knows Charles might never smile at him the way he did that rainy autumn afternoon.
He tries not to dwell on it—especially now, at the last race of the year—because Max still tries. Still tries to make conversation, to say something silly to see if Charles will laugh (and sometimes he does—even if he hides it behind his hand).
Because Max is stubborn—a bull to his core—and he knows, deep down inside of him, that he and Charles are destined for something. The way his hands seem to have a mind of their own whenever he’s around Charles—constantly fidgeting, playing with the hem of his shirt, the seam of his gloves, the brim of his cap. Doing anything to keep from staying still because whenever Charles stood close, Max just wants to be closer.
There’s a little holiday party for all the karters held at one of the boy’s houses—an enormous, sprawling estate in the British countryside. Max and Charles both attend. For Max, it’s because his dad has a meeting with potential investors and businesspeople that will run on for hours and hours. He later learns from a mutual friend that Charles is going to be there as well—because his godfather is testing in the UK.
Does he put on his smartest shirt and best trousers? Yes.
Does he polish his shoes until the mud stains are faded and the navy patent leather is clean and bright? Sure.
Does he nervously wonder if it might be strange to bring a gift—not for the host but for another attendee? God, Max stares down at the poorly wrapped present in his left hand, he is pathetic.
But he just can’t help himself. He’d seen the way Charles had tried to hide the palm of his hand after each race—had seen the red, angry skin. Blisters already forming.
Holes had formed in his well-worn race gloves and Max knows the Leclerc family can’t afford to buy him new ones. His dad said so. While driving back home with Max clutching his first place trophy, Jos had reluctantly admitted, “The Leclerc boy drives well. He’s quick. Unafraid to get his elbows out. Shame about the equipment.” Jos mused. “Maybe he’d be faster if his family didn’t have to scrape for parts.”
Max was silent. Blue eyes fixed on his brand new race gloves that had been carelessly shoved into the side compartment of the van. He knew Charles’s papa had once driven in F2, knew the family lived in beautiful Monaco, and that Charles always had clean, pressed race suits and a polished kart.
To the outside eye, Charles Leclerc was a karter from a well-to-do family pursuing his passions.
But Max could never just observe Charles casually. He’d spent far too much time watching him, drinking in every move, every smile, every quick handshake and grimace. The way his lips twitched when someone shook his hand too hard, or how he sometimes shifted from foot to foot because his race boots were too small. Max noticed—he always notices Charles.
And each and every time he saw the perseverance, the unwavering determination to keep fighting even when his gloves fell apart and had to be re-sewn, even when his boots pinched his toes and his kart was upgraded with used parts…
Max’s heart swelled with admiration and fondness and something so warm and sweet that it makes his pale skin flush crimson red.
Because the young Monegasque boy—his rival, his favorite competitor—has been able to give Max battles on track that leave him breathless, ears ringing with adrenaline, and eyes wild and bright, so eager for a glimpse of brown hair and a devilish smile because it was Charles. It’d always been Charles who would push Max to his limit and laugh while doing so.
It’d been a no brainer when he saw the Ferrari red race gloves at the upscale sport shop he and his dad frequented—the ones with black leather paneling and elegant stitching so fine that it must have been done by hand. As soon as Max saw them, he knew who they were meant for.
So he bought them.
And then came back to the shopping complex the next day, Victoria holding his hand, and asked his sister which wrapping paper looked prettiest. Some part of him should be embarrassed by the fact he was buying a gift for someone who only saw him as another driver to beat on track, but the greater part of Max simply didn’t care.
The gloves would make Charles smile.
And that’s all Max has ever wanted.
He’s ushered into the main foyer by someone’s parents while his hat, coat, and scarf are tagged and tucked safely in the coat closet. Even with his father’s wealthy contacts and associates, Max is impressed by the sheer grandeur of the estate he’s in right now—everything is white marble and bathed in golden light. All the other karters are in the game room where there are multiple flatscreens mounted everywhere, various consoles, two sim rigs, and numerous laptops for online gaming. The boys have split into little groups, each migrating from one area to the other as everyone tried out the various games and tech laid before them.
A juice bar, snack bar, and dessert bar have been set up in each corner of the room so the boys can eat and play at the same time.
Max stands at the entrance for a moment, blue eyes searching for one familiar mop of floppy brown hair that he’d recognize anywhere—
There!
At this point, Max is convinced there’s some built-in radar he has that just pinpoints him to Charles’s exact location. Standing near one of the sim rigs is Charles Leclerc, a frown on his face, and arms crossed. There’s a bit of chocolate on the left side of his mouth and he’s already had two glasses of the strawberry lemonade, judging by his lips have been stained pink.
And just like that, the nervousness Max initially felt melts away.
He can even feel a slight smile tugging at his mouth because there’s really only one reason Charles Leclerc is standing by a sim rig and not driving it.
He doesn’t just want to race—he wants to compete.
To fight.
And to win.
“Sulking all by yourself, Charlie?” Max can’t help but grin.
Charles looks up, startled. “When did you get here, Verstappen? And don’t call me Charlie.” He adds, almost as an afterthought.
“Not long, just a few minutes ago. Why, were you missing me?” He teases, even as his heart skips a beat at the thought.
Charles. Missing him.
God, he wants that.
The brunet scoffs, quickly crossing his arms and looking away. “Ne sois pas ridicule.” He mutters, even as the tips of his ears turn the faintest shade of pink.
Like a cute little gnome.
“Hm? Say that again, Charlie. I don’t speak much French so if you don’t translate, I’ll just assume you’ve been here, missing me the whole time.”
“Ugh, you are insufferable Verstappen! Why would I miss you?” Charles glares at him this time, ears red, cheeks flushed and arms still crossed tightly against his chest.
Max shrugs, carefully placing the pink and teal wrapped package on the nearby table. “Maybe because I’m the only one who can give you a real fight on track?”
“Yes, but we are not on track are we, Verstappen?”
“No.” He smiles, eyes shifting to the two sim rigs beside them. “But I think you’ve been dying to jump in one of these beauties and actually have a good time.” The last two words leave Max’s lips with more innuendo than he intended, judging by the way Charles’s blush deepens and he quickly bites down on his bottom lip. “Come on Charlie,” he steps a little closer, “you want to race me on one of these?”
Another glare. A pout. And—
“No.” He declares obstinately. “I was actually waiting for—Jarno.”
“Jarno’s in the living room pilfering from the liquor cabinet.”
“Well, then, I’ll go ask Matthias. He’s good around a hairpin.”
“Matthias is good around a hairpin because he drives slower than my grandma.” Max retaliates, watching the way Charles almost laughs before catching himself.
“You’re big headed.”
“I’m the only driver here you like to race with. Admit it, Charlie.”
“Not true! I like racing with Józef!”
“You like racing with Józef because that kid can’t defend against a tricycle.”
“Who are you calling a kid anyway? You’re a kid too, Verstappen.”
“I’m older than you are, Charlie.”
“By 16 days!”
“…Oh.” Max blinks. “You remember my birthday?”
“I—” Charles chokes, quite literally. He blinks rapidly, those big doe eyes and their fluttering lashes doing something to Max’s stomach that makes it feel like he’s getting thrown a thousand feet in the air—
And now he’s falling, head first, into something too lovely to name.
“You do remember my birthday, don’t you?” He dares to move even closer, until he can reach out and just barely brush against the sleeve of Charles’s jacket.
“I do not.” He mumbles, looking very much he’d like the earth to swallow him whole.
“You do.” Max grins. “But that’s okay. Because I remember your birthday too.”
“I—do you want to race or not?” Charles suddenly yanks his wrist back, waspish and irritated as he quickly hops in the nearest sim rig before glaring up at him through the fringe of his too long bangs. “Well?”
Max beams back at him, smiling so wide that his eyes crinkle.
Charles’s lashes flutter again and he quickly looks down, the tips of his ears pink once more. “Yeah, Charlie,” Max smiles, quickly moving to sit in the other sim rig, “let’s race.”
“Even though this is virtual, I will push you off track if you say something stupid while we race.”
“Ha!” Max laughs. “Of course you fucking would.” The words come out fond and warm and more than a little excited.
Charles glances at him through the corner of his eye and Max swears that, just for a second, he sees the faintest flash of a dimpled smile.
It’s madness.
Chaos.
Sheer exhilaration.
Max and Charles race and race and race, one round after the other, until all the other karters abandon their games to watch, forming a small circle around a pink-cheeked Dutchman and a sparkling eyed Monegasque. Max laughs when he overtakes Charles and Charles giggles delightedly when he undercuts Max. The two of them grin at one another each time, swapping positions back and forth, pushing each other to the limit.
And Max saves each and every one of Charles Leclerc’s smiles in his heart, memorizing the curve and dip of each one and greedily coming back for more.
Cheers and chants roar behind them but neither Max nor Charles pay attention—
“You were very good with your flying lap, but I think I can do better this time.” Charles grins, devilish and excited as they start another game.
“You can try Charlie, but I’ll defend that lap time with my life.” Max counters, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel.
Charles reaches over and gives Max a gentle shove on his left arm.
The Dutchman blinks.
This is the first time Charles has ever willingly touched him.
“What was that?” He asks. Voice breathy, blue eyes dark and searching, body already turned towards the brunet.
The emerald-eyed boy smiles—and it’s smaller. Softer.
More intimate than the wild laughs and grins from before.
“I told you I’d push you.” He teases. “Just be grateful that there are no puddles nearby.”
And Max bites down on his bottom lip, blood rushing through his ears, before he gathers all his courage—
And quickly reaches for Charles’s hand, gently intertwining their fingers together.
He keeps his gaze fixed on where their palms are clasped together, fingers locked, and feels the warmth of Charles’s calloused palm soak into his own.
“Max…?” Charles’s soft voice cuts through the frantic beat of Max’s heart, silencing the hurricane of emotions that has the Dutchman unable to tell up from down. “Max—”
“I like you, Charlie.” Max breathes out, all at once. “I think you’re the best driver I’ve ever met. I think you’re talented and clever and I love watching you on track.” And off track. “And I think you have a pretty smile too. When you’re not glaring at me.” He swallows, forcing himself to breathe as he carefully looks up, half-expecting to see disgust, half-expecting Charles so yank his hand away and run out the door.
Instead, Max sees green eyes shining with surprise—
And he feels Charles’s hand squeeze his own.
“You feel all that about me?” He asks—and he sounds disbelieving.
Shocked.
And this in turn shocks Max.
“Of course I do Charlie.” How could he not? How could he not admire and adore and feel so much for the boy who was his equal in every way and who Max looked to whenever he felt so dark he thought he might slip away? “Charles…” He lowers his voice, even though the room is now empty (everyone else having left for dinner some time ago). “I think you shine brighter than everyone.”
“You don’t think I’m annoying?”
“Annoy—? Who the fuck would think that? Annoying? Charlie, you’re fucking amazing!” Max is indignant—furious—because which moron would dare think of Charles as anything less than phenomenal?
A little watery giggle escapes Charles’s lips and pierces through Max, emptying the rage and replacing it with that soft, sweet warmth he only feels around the brunet boy. “Do you want to be friends, Maxie?”
“Yes.” He swears he almost falls out of the rig chair with how hard he’s leaning over, clutching Charles’s hand like a lifeline. “Yes, I would Charlie. More than anything. I—this is going to sound weird—”
“Maybe, but I like hearing you talk.” Charles interrupts sweetly, suddenly robbing Max of his ability to speak because he didn’t think Charles liked anything about him at all. “Of course I like things about you!”
Oh. Did he say that out loud?
Charles suddenly slips out of his sim rig (hand still intertwined with Max) before hopping over to where Max is sitting, squeezing himself into the same seat, their bodies pressed together and Charles halfway on his lap.
And Charles is still holding is hand.
“I like lots of things about you, Max, even if I want to beat you in every race.” Charles snuggles himself against Max, resting his head on the Dutchman’s slightly broader shoulders. “And now that we’re friends, I’ll like even more things about you. And I will still want to beat you in every race.”
“That’s what I like about you, Charlie.” He can’t help but blurt out. “You’re like—god, you’re like the sun, you know.” He tries to articulate everything he’s feeling—how much he adores Charles’s passion, his fury and his fight, how he wants to spend the rest of his life just being with Charles in some small way.
Because Max has always been used to the cold.
But around Charles? He swears he’s being bathed in the purest sunlight.
In his arms, the brunet tucks his face against Max’s chest—but the Dutchman can still see the way the tips of his ears turn pink. “You are being too nice to me, Maxie.” He mumbles, words smushed against Max’s dress shirt.
Not nice enough, he thinks with a smile.
“Charlie, can I give you your present?”
“Present?” His suddenly sits up, moving to…straddle Max so they’re face to face. “You got me a present?”
“Yeah.” He nods, squeezing Charles’s hand. He loves how perfectly their palms fit together. “I saw it a few weeks ago and it just…reminded me of you.”
“Is it a towel?”
“Wha—no, why would you think that?”
“Because I push you into puddles. And then you get wet. So you’ll need a towel.” He explains with a smirk.
“That was a horrible joke.” Max grins. Because it is. It’s dorky and silly and so adorably Charles. Who has no shame and simply sticks out his tongue at Max. “Real mature.” He laughs.
Charles laughs too, free and bright. “Will I get my present after dinner?”
“Yes.” He replies, even though Charles can get his present any time he wants.
“Good.” The Monegasque declares. “Because I am starving and I think I saw Agnolotti and it is simply delicious.”
They carry their plates of food to the outside veranda where overhead heaters warm the outdoor space, allowing for a gorgeous view of the midnight sky, snowy countryside, and full moon. There’s a circular table and two well-cushioned chairs alongside a small cabinet filled with rows and rows of individually wrapped bon bon chocolates.
Max moves to pull out Charles’s chair but the Monegasque insists they move the chairs so they’re sitting side by side, with the table in front of them.
Max doesn’t even hide the wide smile on his face as he hands Charles his plate and proceeds to move the table and chairs to the brunet’s liking.
He watches the way Charles puts down both plates of food (complete with napkins and forks) before tugging on the sleeve of Max’s dress shirt. “Now that we are friends I think it is only fair you give me a bite of your favorite food and I will give you a bite of mine.”
They take their seats and Charles lets out a delighted giggle when he feels the warm heat from the overhead heaters wash over them. “I think I will also have overhead heaters on my balcony one day. But it never gets this cold in Monaco.”
“Then we’ll just have to get a place in the English countryside.” Max watches the way Charles’s nose wrinkles. “No? You don’t like the countryside?”
“I like the countryside but I don’t like the cold.” He clarifies. “I always want to be somewhere warm.”
“Are you cold?” Max asks, instantly alarmed. “I can go back in and get my jacket—or your jacket, because of course you will want your own jacket. Not my jacket. But—” His rambling ends when he sees Charles throw his head back and laugh—unrestrained and delighted.
It mesmerizes him, the way comet falls and solar eclipses do.
There is something cosmically beautiful about Charles Leclerc, Max thinks. Something that wraps around him like a force field, pulling everyone near.
“You are very sweet, Max,” Charles manages between giggles, “but I think if I put on my jacket I will die of heatstroke.” He glances up at the suspended heaters. “And now I want ice cream.”
“Wait one second, Charlie.”
“Max! Sit down, we have to eat first—”
“No, schat, I’m getting your present for you.”
Charles blinks and then looks down for a moment. “But I didn’t get you anything.” He finally says after a moment.
“That’s okay,” Max insists, “I wanted to get you this for you.”
A pause.
And then—
“I will get you a present too.” Charles declares firmly with a little nod of his head.
“Charlie, you don’t have to—”
“I know.” He interrupts. “But I want to. I am a very good gift giver.” The words are said so seriously, and with such an intense expression, it actually cause Max to chuckle. “Don’t laugh!” Charles feigns indignation—Max can tell by the way he tries to bite down his own laughter. “I can and will surprise you! Stun you, in fact. You will be very without words, Max Verstappen.”
“I think you mean speechless, Charlie.”
“Well you can speak less now. And eat before everything goes cold.” He picks up Max’s fork and jams it into his hand.
“Ooh, feeling violent?”
“You are being very annoying right now.” He twirls his fork into his portion of pasta.
“I think you like it.” Max holds his fork, eyes fixed on Charles’s profile. “Me being just a little bit silly.”
“Well, maybe a little.” Charles concedes after chewing and swallowing. “You are always so serious when I see you.”
Max shrugs. “I’m focused.”
“Yes, yes, I know. On the track, on the race. I am too but I can still smile.”
“You looked like you wanted to suffocate me with a pillow every time you saw me, schat.”
“Because you looked like you were frozen! A block of ice!” He gesticulates wildly with both hands, fork nearly stabbing Max in the eye.
God, Max can’t help but smile, he’s endearing like this.
It’s only after they’ve both cleared their plates—Charles snagging bites of beef carpaccio off Max’s plate and Max being fed bites of Charles’s favorite pasta—that the Dutchman insists he’ll be back in a few minutes once he gets Charles’s present.
And ice cream.
Vanilla, two scoops each, with a chocolate flake in each bowl.
He tucks the pink and teal package under his arm and makes his way outside to see Charles staring out in the distance but quickly turning once hears the veranda door open.
“Maxie! You even arranged it to look so pretty!” He coos after seeing the two glass bowls of ice cream.
He tells himself not to blush at hearing that nickname again.
Maxie.
Spoken in Charles’s sweet, delighted voice. Max is only 15 years old and he is certain, absolutely certain, there is no better sound in the world.
“And the added chocolate flake.” Max smiles. “I figured you’d like that.” Charles has a sweet tooth—something he tries to hide but Max knew the second he saw those emerald green eyes dart to the wood and glass cabinet lined with rows and rows of bon bons.
Charles gives him a devious little smile. “Thank you, Maxie, and now I have something for you too. Hold out your hand.”
And he does—without question.
He watches as Charles deposits one beautiful wrapped bon bon from the cabinet into the center of Max’s palm. “It’s got a hazelnut creme center,” Charles explains, “there’s a little card inside the cabinet that tells you the flavors of each bon bon. And I saw you with those Kinder bars on track sometimes.” He sounds a little unsure. “So I thought—”
“It’s perfect, Charlie.” Max’s hand closes around the chocolate and half of Charles’s hand, their fingers almost locking together again. “I didn’t think you paid any attention to me when we were off track.”
“You looked very cute with your little Kinder bars. You hid them from your father and I remember one time you shoved a whole bar in your mouth when you saw him walking over.” Charles giggles a little. “You looked like a very cute squirrel.” He slots their hands a little closer together, their palms warming—and probably melting—the hazelnut bon bon clasped between them.
But Max doesn’t care.
He only moves his free hand to the pink and teal package—
And holds it out in front of Charles. “Here, schat,” he whispers, “merry Christmas.”
“Max…” Green eyes dart over the lumpy package, the shiny wrapping paper Max had bought with Victoria’s help, and the way a slightly crooked pink ribbon ties it all together.
“I know, it’s not professionally done and some of the edges look a little strange, but I think I was having trouble with some of the folding—the how-to guide said there was a specific way you’re meant to hold the edge so when you fold, everything is smooth, but I think—oh.”
The words stop.
Max’s heart almost drops to his stomach.
Charles lets go of his hand and in one fell swoop, wraps his arms around Max’s neck. “It’s beautiful.” His face is buried in Max’s shoulder, words muffled, but Max hears it—clear as a bell. “I think it is beautiful and you should never say anything bad about it. I love it.”
“Charlie,” he laughs, overwhelmed and happy and disbelieving, “you haven’t even opened it.”
“I will love what is inside too.” He holds Max tighter. “Because you got it for me. And you thought of me.”
I always think of you. He wants to say but holds himself back—not right now.
Not yet.
Slowly, Charles leans back, cheeks pink and eyes so vivid that Max is unable to look away. “Thank you, Maxie.” He smiles, dimples on both cheeks, as he carefully takes the package with both hands and slowly unwraps it.
Piece by piece, the ribbon carefully placed on the table (far away from their melting bowls of ice cream), until the red race gloves with the black leather and perfect stitching come into view.
Max watches, sapphire eyes fixed on the way Charles’s face immediately brightens—surprise and joy flushing over his expression as he quickly moves to slip one hand into the glove. Elation and warmth swirl through Max as he watches Charles flex his hand inside the glove, hands curling into a fist and then stretching back out before he freezes.
“Charlie? What’s the matter?” He asks worriedly. “Is it too tight? Did I get the size wrong?”
“No.” Charles quickly removes his hand from the glove. “But I can’t accept this.”
“Yes you can. They’re meant for you, they were practically made for you—”
“I can’t.”
“Charlie—”
“I…I can’t pay you back.” He finally mutters, red-faced, shoulders hunched, and eyes fixed on the ground.
“You don’t have to Charlie. This is a gift. And,” Max takes a deep breath, “and just seeing you smile like that? Seeing you happy? Charlie, that’s already the best kind of repayment.”
“But why?” Charles looks up suddenly, guilt and confusion weighing down his voice. “I haven’t been nice to you at all and you—you’re so sweet to me, Max. And then you get me this gift and it’s so beautiful and I love it so much and—I don’t know what to do.” He sniffles.
And the sight of Charles, fighting back tears, looking at him with something close to desperation finally burns away the last remnants of hesitation that Max has.
Fuck it, he’s never been someone who hesitated—who held back, meek and silent. Max is open, blunt, and honest. And right now, he needs to just be himself—to speak without the specter of doubt looming over him.
Max places the half-melted hazelnut bon bon on the table and slowly moves to brush aside Charles’s bangs, hand shaking ever so slightly. “I’ve wanted to be your friend for a long time, Charlie. I just didn’t know how to go about doing it.”
“So you buy me expensive race gloves?” He tries to joke. His eyes are watercolors—emerald, sage, and the first signs of spring. The way he gazes up at Max, allowing the Dutchman to run his calloused fingertips down Charles’s cheek until his palm rests on his shoulder, inches away from his neck.
From his scent gland, still unmarked.
They haven’t presented yet but Max knows—he simply knows—that he belongs to Charles.
“I bought you those gloves because I want to take care of you. I want to see you smile, I want you safe and happy and by my side. Because I think you’re one of the most amazing people I’ve ever met and every time we’re together, even when we’re arguing, I know that I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”
A soft little sob escapes Charles’s lips but he steps closer, the tips of their shoes almost brushing. Max remains still—immobile in his place—as Charles slowly brings up one ungloved hand to cup his cheek.
Max feels the rough callouses and the scratch of the band-aid stretched across Charles’s palm brush against his skin. He feels fingertips seared by the cold clumsily trace his cheekbone. He feels Charles lean closer, the heat from his body permeating every inch of Max.
“I want to take care of you too, Maxie.” He promises.
“Then we’ll take care of each other.” Max dares to move his own hand, until this thumb is caressing Charles’s jaw. “Together.”
“Together.” Charles vows.
And this memory—the night on the balcony, snow in the distance and a moon in the sky—Max hides away in the depths of his heart, fiercely guarding it because it is the night he realizes.
The night he can no longer deny it.
He is 15 years old, an aspiring future F1 driver who loves cats, Kinder chocolate, and video games.
He is 15 years old and he realizes, with the kind of clarity that only ever came to him when he was behind the wheel, that he is in love with Charles Leclerc. His rival, his favorite driver, and now, his best friend.
Max can close his eyes and recall how they snuggled up together (Max in the chair, Charles on his lap), slurping melted ice cream and Charles cheekily licking a bit of stray hazelnut chocolate from Max’s cheek. He can recall the way Charles put on those red race gloves and refused to take them off. How he kept the wrapping paper too, neatly folding it and tucking it into his jacket pocket.
How years later, when Max got signed to Toro Rosso, Charles gifted him a soft fleece blanket infused with Charles’s Omega scent—
All wrapped in the same pink and teal wrapping paper from that winter evening in 2012.
He is in love with Charles—but unfortunately, as Max quickly comes to realize, so is nearly every Alpha, Beta, and Omega in the world.
But Max has always believed that true love will prevail.
Even if true love needs an intervention every once in a while.
With his gray hoodie pulled up, sunglasses on, and dark denim jeans to better blend into...well, Max didn't realize the restaurant would be so brightly lit.
But he chose a darkened corner, so he should blend in just fine.
He raises his menu, doing his best to remain inconspicuous.
💙❤️💙❤️💙❤️
A week ago, his Charlie had burst through Max's apartment (with his personalized key), plopped himself down on Max's lap as the Dutch Alpha was in the sim rig, and dreamily declared Carlos Sainz ("with those gorgeous honey brown eyes") had asked him on a date!
Max's eye twitched.
The arm around Charles's waist tightened.
"Maxie?" The brunet peered up at him. "Are you mad?"
"No." He lied, doing his best to control his scent. "I'm just...you know he's a bit of a playboy, schat."
"Maybe a little." He admitted, but then smiled. "But I think...you know, with how much time we've spent together? Maxie, I think he may be the one."
Max had gone shopping with Charles, helped his precious boy plan his date night outfit, and then bent down so Charles could kiss his cheek before the Omega left for the night.
💙❤️💙❤️💙❤️
He peeks around the menu.
Carlos and Charles have entered.
Max remains on alert.
Sometimes Cupid's arrows are a little misguided. And Max has never been one for passivity.
The course of true love never did run smooth. Or something like that.
He ducks behind the menu again.
Game.
Carlos pulls out Charles's seat.
Set.
The brunet smiles up at him, all doe-eyed and adorably excited.
Match.