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Chapter Text

Charles closed his eyes, took a deep breath and knocked.  

“Who’s there?”  

“Me.”  

Pierre Gasly opened the door and looked at Charles in annoyance.  

The frown disappeared from his face the second he saw his friend’s face.  

“Wha—”  

“Will I go to jail if I commit mass murder?”  

Pierre stepped to the side, letting Charles in.  

The hotel room was kind of a mess, with half of the Frenchman's clothes still on top of his bed and his suitcase in the middle of the floor.  

He stared into the Monegasque’s eyes, searching for either wordless answers or silent tears.  

“It didn’t go well.”  

Not a question, but a statement.  

Charles was in no position to complain about that. He was lucky to have a friend that knew him well enough to just understand.  

“It’s always the same thing. I think I might hate team orders more than the fucking McLarens.”  

That was, of course, an exaggeration. There was nothing he despised more than the rotten papayas.  

It was enough to make Pierre realize how serious the situation was.  

The Frenchman put away all his clothes while the Monegasque ranted, lending him his ears and humming every once in a while, to indicate he was still paying attention.  

Charles couldn’t be more grateful for Pierre.  

He knew what to say, what not to say, how to react and when to stop the Monegasque’s monologue to offer some advice.  

“...and it’s not even about Carlos. I mean, yes, we have this kind of issues often, but the problem isn’t with him, it’s with the team. They do nothing—”  

“You can drop the PR when you talk to me, mate.”  

Technically speaking, he could.  

What happened in Pierre’s Qatari hotel room, stayed in Pierre’s Qatari hotel room.  

What happens in Vegas...  

Charles shook his head, trying to force the memory out of his brain.  

But it wasn’t PR. Truthfully, the problem wasn’t with Carlos. He always drove the same way, focused on the same things, fucked Charles over in the same way. He was predictable, and the Monegasque couldn’t be mad about that.  

Someone else had recently fu—  

It wasn’t PR.  

There was no PR to drop.  

His lips curled into a smirk.  

“I would never drop you.”  

The Frenchman raised an eyebrow, clearly confused.  

“PR. Pierre.”  

Charles got hit with a pillow, and he couldn’t say he didn’t deserve it.  

His head had hit the pillow—  

“Besides, Carlos is predictable. The problems I have with him are always the same. What bothers me is how little effort the team makes to prevent those problems! I’ve had enough, I'm sooo sorry for snapping.”  

“You have every right to snap at them, mate. Don't let them tell you otherwise.”  

“Thank you, Pierre. You get it.”  

Whatever Charles and Carlos had going on could not compare to Pierre and Esteban.  

Even if Brazil had fixed some things, had “ended the French civil war”, like people online said, Monaco was still recent enough to be remembered.  

Monaco.  

Max's smile while he congratulated Charles—  

“There’s something else I need to tell you.”  

He guided his friend to the bed, forcing him to sit down.  

He was well aware of how dramatic he was being, but the situation justified it.  

Pierre raised an eyebrow.  

He looked worried.  

Charles looked up, praying for enough strength to survive the conversation.  

“I fucked Max.”  

There were a few seconds of absolute silence.  

“What?!”  

For some reason, Pierre looked way less surprised than Charles expected.  

That didn’t stop him from choking on his own spit.  

“Well, actually, he fucked me.”  

“God. Don't. Just don’t. I do not need to know the details.”  

The Frenchman rubbed his temples, and Charles felt the sudden urge to jump off the balcony.  

“When?”  

“Right after Vegas, in his hotel room. We were both wasted.”  

There hadn’t been any photos or videos of him at the party, not even rumors.  

The world didn’t know Charles had been at enemy territory, enjoying himself much more than he would’ve if he stayed with his own team.  

But, of course, Pierre wasn’t part of the world. He had been the first one to know, and he had been very clear with the Monegasque.  

Don't do anything you know you’ll regret.  

“Did you enjoy it?”  

“You said you didn’t want details.”  

If looks could kill, Charles would be racing against the one and only Ayrton Senna.  

He nodded.  

The word “enjoy” would be an understatement, though.  

The memories were hazy, blurred by the alcohol and the lack of sleep, but they were there.  

And God, Charles wanted more.  

“Have you talked about it?”  

Ah. The dreaded question.  

God was not giving him enough strength.  

“We... have not.”  

In their defense, they had no time for that.  

Max had flown to Amsterdam without even sobering up, picked up his mother and sister and immediately hopped into another plane for Qatar.  

Charles had been lectured like a toddler, discovered he’d been scheduled for the Thursday press conference, reconsidered all his life choices and traveled to Lusail with anger still bubbling up inside him.  

The very first non-Ferrari person he had talked to that week was Pierre.  

“Charles.”  

“I know.”  

Pierre knew Charles well, yes, but that meant the opposite was also true, and he knew what his friend would say.  

He didn’t know what that night had meant for Max. He didn’t know if he just wanted a pretty face to look at while he celebrated his championship, or if he wanted Charles in a different way.  

Everything pointed towards the first option, except for...  

The keychains.  

The damned matching keychains.  

“You’ll get hurt.”  

“I know.”  

But, for Charles, that night had been a taste of paradise.  

He was in love with Max.  

Well, maybe not in love love. It was a very strong word.  

Either way, it wasn’t just physical, and Max wasn’t just a pretty face.  

There was only one outcome in which the Monegasque wouldn’t get his heart broken, and it was impossible.  

Because, even if Max and Charles weren’t straight, everyone believed they were.  

And they had both seen the comments under Ralf Schumacher's post.  

Pierre opened his mouth, probably to lecture him about bad decisions, but he stopped himself without even saying a word.  

Charles raised an eyebrow.  

“Spit it out.”  

“I can’t. I'm no hypocrite.”  

That did absolutely nothing to clarify the situation.  

The Monegasque crossed his arms, silently demanding an explanation.  

“I fucked Esteban after Brazil.”  

It was Charles’ time to choke on his own spit.  

“You what?!”  

To be fair, that was way less surprising than Charles’ adventure.  

A double podium, under the rain, both of them being praised by the Max Verstappen...  

There were a lot of emotions involved, and emotions turned into hormones.  

“What about it? It won’t happen again! It was all euphoria, no feelings, and there’s no way we’re getting another double podium before he leaves.”  

Right.  

The season was two races away from ending.  

Esteban would go to Haas, Carlos would go to Williams...  

No.  

No point getting sad yet.  

The season still wasn’t over, and Charles had a championship to win... if his teammate cooperated.  

No. No point getting mad beforehand.  

“And have you talked about it?”  

“Yes! Which is why I’m telling you it won’t happen again.”  

There was something in Pierre’s eyes though, something Charles couldn’t identify.  

It had to be the reason he interrupted himself earlier.  

“But do you regret it?”  

“...I regret not doing it sooner.”  

Childhood friends, turned into enemies who shared a team, who couldn’t even stand to look at each other.  

Charles had heard all about it.  

He had shared drinks with Pierre over it, hugging his friend while he cried out of pure frustration.  

If one passionate night was the only thing they needed to solve at least some of their problems, waiting until Brazil to do so was a terrible choice.  

Yet, at the same time, no one in their right mind would purposefully get under their quasi-enemy's sheets with no good reason, no matter how good they looked.  

“And I admit it hurt a little. I don’t know why, it just did.”  

Emotions tended to be that way. Confusing, nonsensical and incredibly bothersome.  

Checo was straight, happily married, with four children and no intention of getting divorced, yet the day Chestappen won the “Couple of the Year” award, Charles couldn’t sleep.  

And his feelings were easy. He was jealous, period.  

Whatever Pierre had going on had to be infinitely more complicated. Building an F1 car from scratch while blindfolded would’ve been easier than unraveling those thoughts.  

Charles made a mental note to buy his friend at least three bottles of pure vodka once the season ended.  

“But we talked about it, and now we’re both okay. Ahem.”  

The wall was incredibly interesting. The technique used to paint it was excellent, the brushstrokes completely unnoticeable.  

“Charles.”  

“I have a championship and a second place to fight for. I need to focus. And we already promised to talk about it after the season ends.”  

Even if Max wanted to feign ignorance, he couldn’t.  

Even if Charles wanted to suck it up and act like nothing happened, he couldn’t.  

Something had happened.  

The blue keychain he kept in his front pocket was proof of it.  

“And what are you doing until then? Daydream about a wedding?”  

“I am not that delusional.”  

“You are.”  

The blue keychain he kept in his front pocket was proof of it.  

Why else would Max give Charles the blue one, when he was a Ferrari driver?  

How could a poker chip be such a sharp double-edged sword, Charles didn’t know.  

“I am not! Why do people think that?”  

“You have a championship to fight for.”  

Charles rolled his eyes.  

If it was mathematically possible, then it was possible.  

Having hope and trusting his skills didn’t make him delusional!  

“You and Esteban carried a tractor to the podium. We can win constructors’.”  

Pierre hit him with the pillow again.  

“You know what, fuck you, Charles.”  

“I’d prefer if Max—”  

He didn’t get to finish that phrase. Pierre was faster.  

He covered the Monegasque’s mouth with his hand and glared at him.  

“Charles. For the love of God, listen to me.”  

He did as he was told.  

He didn’t really have a choice, though.  

“I don’t want you to get hurt. If you’re not talking about it, stay away from him. Don't be stupid. Don't make the same mistake twice.”  

Charles wanted to argue that Max wasn’t a mistake, but what would be the point?  

He understood what Pierre meant, and he was grateful for having such a caring friend.  

Besides, not getting under someone’s sheets was one of the easiest things a person could do. Especially if that person barely had time to breathe in between races.  

“I’ll be okay, Pierre. Trust me.”  

Charles was, indeed, not okay.  

It all had started on Thursday, when Max Emilian Verstappen had chosen not to wear the team kit.  

How could such a simple thing be so hot?  

He was still thinking about Max when everyone in the paddock asked him about Carlos.  

We're super motivated to bring back Ferrari to the top. What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.  

Saturday was decent. P4 and P5 weren’t exactly the top, but they had to work. Besides, it was a sprint. Who cared about sprints?  

Was he feigning indifference over yet another McLaren 1-2?  

Maybe.  

Besides, everyone was praising his overtake on Lewis. And a few hours later, he qualified P5, decent enough for a Ferrari in Qatar.  

Charles was decently happy.  

Max wasn’t.  

First pole in forever, and it was stolen right in front of his eyes.  

British bias was still very much present, to no one’s surprise.  

The Monegasque paid no mind to his instincts and left the dutchman alone. He had dinner, laid on his bed and browsed social media for a while.  

People were still questioning his answers from the previous days, asking Ferrari to “free him” from the living nightmare that was PR.  

He couldn’t help but smile.  

A lot of people were defending Max too, calling the FIA words that would cost them around a million euros if they were drivers.  

He took a few screenshots and sent them to some of his friends.  

If Charles got a text from a certain Alpine driver telling him not to do stupid shit, he decided to ignore it.  

In his defense, Max was flooding his messages with insults in four different languages, courtesy of Charles’ occasional French classes.  

I'll kill him.  

I’d prefer if you didn’t. Just overtake him in the first corner.  

And he did.  

That fact was quickly overshadowed by the absolute mess the race was.  

Drama. First-lap crashes. Punctures. Drive-through penalty. More drama. A broken mirror. Three safety cars. Lando Norris 10 second stop-and-go penalty.  

Lando Norris 10 second stop-and-go penalty.  

Charles. Wasn't. Delusional.  

He knew he could do it.  

He knew they could do it. Even after Carlos’ puncture.  

Charles defended his position like his life depended on it because, in a way, his life did depend on it.  

Max crossed the finish line first.  

Charles followed him six seconds later.  

It wasn’t impossible. God, it was very much possible.  

Charles had much more than just faith.  

There was a very much real chance, and he knew they could do it.  

But first, he had a trophy to receive and a sight to admire.  

Max looked ecstatic.  

His eyes were shining like a thousand suns, with a fire so intense it burned down through all of Charles’ defenses.  

If he paid a bit more attention to his champion than to Oscar, completely soaking the dutchman in Sprite, could he really be blamed?  

The group photo was the cherry on top.  

Maybe Charles was delusional, because there was no way Max was gripping his waist that intensely. It had to be his imagination, heightened senses or something.  

He didn’t have enough time to think about it, because they were rushed to the press conference, and someone asked the champion about his one-place grid penalty.  

Oscar and Charles exchanged looks.  

It was a shame no one had popcorn.  

No one had ever seen Max so mad in years.  

The two mortal enemies silently agreed on a truce and followed the Fury out of the room.  

Max emanated destruction and chaos.  

And George had already left the paddock.  

“This isn’t the end of this drama, is it?”  

For a guy that was nicknamed “polite cat”, Oscar was quite the gossiper.  

“Absolutely not.”  

Max turned around, stared at them and rolled his eyes.  

Maybe Charles was delusional, because he swore his gaze softened when his blue eyes met green ones.  

Maybe Charles wasn’t delusional, because Oscar noticed too.  

And he giggled.  

“Big day for the Leclerc family. Top three.”  

Charles wasn’t blushing. Nope. He was just a bit sunburnt. From the sun.  

Max was slightly confused.  

“What?”  

The temporarily-not-rotten papaya showed them a screenshot.  

Ollie won the sprint, Oscar is sharing a podium with his dad and Charles carried a tractor to P2, big day for the Leclerc family.  

Oh.  

Whoever had tweeted that was not including Max in the Leclerc family.  

No, he wasn’t blushing, he was sunburnt!  

He had to play it cool. And he was, luckily, an expert at doing so. Yup.  

“We should all celebrate as a family, shouldn’t we?”  

“I’d love to, but there’s a team debrief I need to attend, and there’s only so much talking I can tolerate. Max can go in my place.”   

If Oscar’s smile was genuine, why did it look so wrong?  

To be fair, everyone knew about Max and Charles’ tendencies to talk until their tongues fell off. No one in their right mind would share a table with both of them.  

And, out of all the people in the grid, Oscar was one of the most oblivious when it came to Charles’ dumb feelings.  

Okay, no. Literally everyone was oblivious, except for Pierre. And, well, Max.  

Not even Carlos knew. And no one had reasons to suspect anything, aside from internet memes that the fans made, not official sources.  

Charles looked at Max.  

The dutchman had no idea what was going on. He just smiled.  

“We could. I want to celebrate, and Checo’s not in the mood.”  

That was Oscar’s cue to leave with a smirk plastered onto his face.  

Charles tried not to look too much into it. Again, no reasons to suspect anything.  

There was no fucking way Oscar Jack Piastri knew. Maybe he was simply plotting murder. Or sabotage.  

Or, maybe, Charles was too paranoid and slowly losing his sanity.  

“Out-qualifying the McLarens is almost impossible, but if we manage to get close enough...”  

The walk back to the Ferrari garage was filled with potential strategies and hope for mechanical DNFs.  

Maybe discussing about that with Red Bull Racing’s golden boy was not the smartest thing to do, but Max had already won his championship, and constructors’ was out of reach. There would be no universe in which Max would personally benefit from anything Charles could say.  

Besides, it all depended on qualifying, and neither of them could predict the future.  

Carlos was waiting for them outside of the garage, and he fist-bumped Max as soon as he saw him.  

“Congrats on the win, mate.”  

“Thanks.”  

Charles didn’t miss how drastically his tone had changed, how harsh his voice sounded.  

The air was a bit too tense for his liking.  

He coughed and stared at Max.  

“Text me the details later.”  

Blue eyes softened.  

Charles' heart did a few backflips.  

“Uh, yeah, sure. See you in a bit.”  

Max couldn’t be blushing. He had to be sunburnt too.  

Damned sun.  

The dutchman smiled at the two Ferrari drivers before going back to his own garage.  

Charles had to be paranoid, because there was no way Carlos had the same smirk as Oscar.  

“What was that about?”  

“We’re celebrating our podium.”  

Carlos didn’t know.  

Carlos couldn’t know.  

Charles was simply terrified his secret would be exposed, his career would be ruined, and his life would be ended.  

“Traitor.”  

“It’s your fault for not being able to overtake Pierre. And George. And Oscar.”  

Carlos put a hand over his chest and gasped dramatically.  

“I had a puncture!”  

They teased each other all the way back to their hotel, and Charles offered to help the Spaniard pack his clothes.  

Being in good terms with Carlos was refreshing.  

It wasn’t PR or just a decent work relationship.  

Charles knew he could trust Carlos.  

But Carlos was leaving.  

In just one more week, his teammate, his friend, was leaving.  

No.  

It was too early to start crying, and they still had to win constructors’.  

Charles’ phone buzzed.  

We can stay in your hotel room and order food.  

No cameras, no fans, just the two of us.  

So we can talk.  

“Are you okay? You look a bit red.”  

Damned sun.  

“Uh, yeah. Just sunburnt.”  

He didn’t realize how absurdly stupid that excuse sounded until he said it out loud.  

Charles knew he could trust Carlos.  

No one else was around.  

“...If I tell you a secret, do you promise to take it to the grave?”  

The Spaniard looked confused, but what else was new?  

He nodded, holding one of his caps.  

“I have a crush on Max.”  

The cap fell to the floor.  

“...You like men?”  

...Had Charles made a mistake?  

No, it couldn’t be.  

Carlos could be a lot of things, but he couldn’t be homophobic.  

He was respectful, generally kind and a good person.  

There was no way Charles had made a mistake while judging him.  

His fear must’ve been noticeable, because Carlos raised his hands in pure panic.  

“No, no, no, don’t get me wrong! I just... didn’t expect it?”  

“Yes, that’s the whole point, Carlos. No one is supposed to expect it!”  

His soul came back to his body.  

He grabbed the cap and threw it on top of the bed.  

Carlos was frozen in place.  

“Oh. Well. I'm... glad you told me? What am I supposed to say?”  

The Spaniard’s confusion was quite amusing, to be honest.  

Charles smiled at him, hoping it was enough to ease his mind.  

“Nothing. It's fine. But aren’t you surprised I like Max?”  

“Well...”  

Charles raised an eyebrow.  

Carlos looked away, suddenly interested on the doorknob.  

“Out of all the people in the paddock... he is the least surprising...”  

Was he that obvious? Or had social media permanently altered everyone’s brains?  

Lestappen this, Lestappen that, Lestappen wasn’t real!  

Well.  

It had been. For one night.  

But no one knew, and no one could know.  

“I don’t know if I should get offended or not.”  

Carlos shrugged, finally unfreezing.  

“You always laugh and blush when you talk to him, mate. You're fucked.”  

“Well...”  

The two drivers locked eyes.  

Charles scratched his head.  

“What happens in Vegas...”  

“Are you serious?”  

He didn’t answer.  

He didn’t need to.  

The look in Carlos’ face was the one of a man who had fought a hundred wars, who had survived by the skin of his teeth, who had witnessed horrors no human should ever go through.  

He had to sit down to process it.  

“You... and Max...”  

“Yup.”  

One half of Charles was terrified. Had he shared too much?  

“Max... and you...”  

“Precisely.”  

The other half was trying so hard not to laugh.  

Carlos had to be exaggerating. They were grown ass adults, not teenagers who barely knew what sex was.  

“And... you two are celebrating tonight...”  

They locked eyes again, and Carlos snapped out of his shock.  

There was a dark cloud surrounding Charles’ head.  

“Remember you promised not to tell anyone.”  

“I won’t.”  

He sat down next to his friend and sighed.  

“We haven’t talked about it. I have no idea what’s happening tonight, I have no idea what he wants, but he’s on his way here.”  

“And what does Pierre think about that?”  

He couldn’t help but chuckle.  

It was a known fact that the Alpine driver had custody of their shared braincell eighty percent of the time, which made him the voice of reason in that friendship.  

The fact that everyone’s first reaction whenever Charles had to make a choice was to ask for Pierre’s opinion was hilarious.  

“That I’m stupid.”  

Clearly, that day wasn’t part of the other twenty percent.  

His phone buzzed.  

Charles looked up and prayed for strength.  

“He’s downstairs.”  

Carlos gently pushed his shoulder.  

“Uh... good luck...?”  

He rolled his eyes before leaving the Spaniard’s room.  

“...and I know that. We're drivers, we’re supposed to screw each other up. Hell, I do it all the time!”  

Charles had to bite his lip to avoid making a joke about the word “screw”.  

Wrong idea. Max was now staring at him with a distinctive fire in his eyes.  

He was lucky his champion loved talking.  

“But there’s a difference between trying to gain positions and completely throwing someone under the bus. I swear to God, I'd run him over with my car if I could.”  

“I know. This is the fourth time you’ve said that.”  

One for each championship.  

Max was a four-time world champion.  

And, instead of celebrating with his family, he was in Charles’ hotel room, waiting for the dirty dishes to be picked up.  

“Fuck him. Fuck the FIA. Fuck everyone.”  

“Even me?”  

Charles was playing with fire, and he was well aware of that.  

But they had to wait until the dirty dishes were picked up.  

Fortunately, it didn’t take long, and they were soon free to do whatever they wanted.  

Unfortunately, they were in Qatar.  

“Are there surveillance cameras in here?”  

“I have no idea.”  

It was risky. Way too risky.  

It was illegal.  

And Charles couldn’t win constructors’ if he was in jail.  

Every part of his body yearned for Max’s touch. The only thing he wanted was to grab his face and kiss him until their lips dissolved, to take off all his clothes and feel his skin once again.  

But he couldn’t.  

“Do you think we have a chance at constructors’? Or do you think I’m delusional, like everyone else does?”  

He had no choice but to change the topic.  

Max smiled sadly.  

It felt so wrong.  

They had just shared a podium. Charles had kept Ferrari’s dream alive for yet another weekend, and Max had overcome the dumbest of penalties to snatch another win.  

But Max’s smile was fake, and Charles was spiraling.  

“You are delusional. But I don’t think it’s a bad thing.”  

Pierre was right.  

Charles was stupid.  

Even though his champion was praising him, even though he was listing all his strengths and good qualities, even though he was confident Charles (and, well, Carlos) could do it...  

Charles was on the verge of tears.  

Being closeted was hard enough without the constant reminder that half of the world wanted him dead.  

Max waved at him.  

“Are you listening?”  

“...Sorry, what?”  

He had a championship to fight for.  

He had a second place to fight for.  

There had to be something wrong with him if the only thing in his mind was his stupid sexuality.  

At that point, it wasn’t even about Max, it was about him.  

Even if the dutchman disappeared from his life, Charles would still be attracted to men.  

Even if his crush died down, Charles would still be a mistake.  

“Are you okay?”  

He took a deep breath.  

There was no way he’d voice his thoughts in front of Max.  

“We’re lucky you won in Vegas.”  

The champion bit his lip.  

Even if he didn’t know the full extent of Charles’ crisis, he could guess the direction of it.  

He must’ve been feeling the same.  

Not being able to love was, at the very least, frustrating as hell.  

But love was a strong word.  

And they hadn’t talked about it.  

“I already told you. We're going back after the season ends.”  

“Promise?”  

The keychains could be just keychains.  

Their night could be just a night.  

Charles could be just a pretty face to celebrate a championship with.  

If it meant anything, it was up to Max.  

“Promise.”  

One week.  

One week, and Carlos would leave for Williams.  

One week, and Lewis would join Ferrari.  

One week, and Charles would be free to give his life a new meaning.  

One week.  

He could survive one week.  

“So, you were saying?”  

Max’s smile came back, shining like a million suns.  

Oh no. Charles got sunburnt again.  

“Even with Carlos’ puncture, you managed to get extremely good positions. I don’t know what kind of shit they put in your food, but I need it.”  

“Mate. You won from P17 in Brazil. I need your drugs.”  

The dutchman’s smirk was evil.  

Charles’ heart was weak.  

Clearly, Pierre still had custody of the braincell.  

“It’s called talent.”  

“Fuck you. Seriously. Fuck you, Max Emilian.”  

The evil smirk refused to disappear.  

“In Vegas.”  

Charles' mind threatened to slip back into the spiral, to make him regret all his actions, past and present.  

He had to admit it was quite hard when Max sounded so hot.  

The memories were blurry, but they were there, and Charles knew he shouldn’t, but he wanted more, and he’d have to survive only one more week for it.  

One more week, and Carlos would go to Williams.  

Carlos knew.  

But who else did?  

“Have you told anyone?”  

Max didn’t question it.  

He knew it wasn’t just curiosity, it was a safety measure.  

“Daniel.”  

It made a lot of sense. He probably had good (or, at least, decent) advice to give, and since he wasn’t on the grid anymore, he wasn’t dealing with end-of-season anxiety.  

“And I think Checo knows.”  

Charles suspected it as well. The guy wasn’t stupid.  

The official story is that you were too drunk and decided to sleep it off.  

Who in their right mind would believe that after witnessing the way Max and Charles looked at each other?  

Besides, the Monegasque vaguely remembered Checo saying the dutchman had been looking for him.  

How subtle of him.  

The king of subtlety coughed.  

Right. If Max had shared, Charles had to share too.  

“I told Pierre. And Carlos. I think I traumatized him.”  

To be fair, the Spaniard had just been a bit confused. Charles confessed his adventure not even minutes after coming out. It was a lot to process, especially right after such a chaotic race.  

“So... you’re okay with him.”  

Max had listened to his team radios.  

He had seen his frown, his body language, his depressing aura immediately after the Vegas race.  

He had gone out of his way to make his night better, and God had it worked.  

Yet he was still worried about the Monegasque one full week later.  

“Of course I am. Carlos was never the problem, Ferrari was.”  

Max narrowed his eyes, but he nodded.  

Carlos was off the hook. Which was great, because they needed both cars to score points, and no one was immune to Mad Max if he wanted to play bumper cars.  

“And what does Gasly think?”  

Yet another reminder that Charles was the dumb one in that friendship.  

He should’ve told the truth. That Pierre thought they were being stupid by avoiding the talk. That the only possible outcome that way was heartbreak.  

But they were in Qatar.  

They were illegal.  

There was no point getting their feelings across if they couldn’t act on them for at least another week.  

And there it was again, the reminder that he was a mistake.  

“That I am delusional.”  

By the look of it, Max’s brain had ben reset to factory settings.  

Charles contextualized before he could get offended.  

“I told him we’d talk after Abu Dhabi because I have a championship to win, and he called me delusional.”  

For potentially daydreaming about a wedding.  

But Max didn’t have to know that.  

“I told you. Being delusional is a good thing. I have faith in you.”  

Charles had faith too, but faith alone wasn’t enough.  

He needed to give it his all.  

They didn’t talk for much longer.  

Mainly because Charles had a flight to catch, but also because keeping their hands off each other was getting harder by the second.  

They wanted to.  

God, they wanted to.  

But they couldn’t.  

Because they were a mistake.  

It didn’t make sense.  

Charles, well...  

But Max?  

How could someone as ethereal as Max be a mistake?  

He didn’t say a word during the trip to the airport.  

He felt someone gently grabbing his shoulder.  

“Are you okay?”  

Charles couldn’t lie to Pierre.  

Even if he wanted to, he physically couldn’t.  

“I am stupid.”  

To anyone else that might’ve been overhearing, Charles was simply repeating an old meme of his.  

To Pierre, it was a call for help.  

“Me too.”  

So, Charles wasn’t the only one in the middle of a crisis.  

They had one whole hour to sort things out.  

But first, they had to board the plane, and look happy while doing so.  

Faking smiles for the camera was second nature to them.  

Chapter Text

“Esteban was kicked out. He's not racing this weekend.” 

Charles nearly dropped his drink. 

It was only a one-hour flight to Abu Dhabi, and between takeoff and the mandatory promotional photos, they didn’t have much time to pour their feelings out. 

Pierre knew they didn’t have a second to lose, but Charles still expected him to have some tact! Not just drop the news like they meant nothing!

“What?!” 

“Yeah. I don’t know the details. Jack is replacing him.” 

Yet another painful reminder of how easily things could change in their sport. 

Nothing was set in stone. Contracts could be broken, partnerships could be ended, sponsors could be dropped, and lives could be ruined. 

Okay. Logan seemed happy in IndyCar, Daniel was living his best, retired life, and Esteban already had a contract with Haas. Their lives weren’t ruined.  

Heartbreak was still incredibly painful. 

“Do you have any clue why?” 

“No. I mean, I guess it has something to do with post-season testing, but... I haven’t talked to him.” 

Pierre looked like he was about to jump off the plane. 

The French civil war had finally ended after Brazil, and the two childhood friends were finally on speaking terms again. 

They were looking forward to their last race together, but their wish couldn’t be fulfilled. 

And, to make things worse, Esteban hadn’t finished Qatar’s race. Hell, he hadn’t even made it past turn one. 

“So... now what?” 

Pierre took a sip of his drink. 

A long, long, long sip. It made Charles irrationally anxious. 

“Esteban and I both help Jack as much as we can, I do everything we can to get P6 in constructors’ and then we all finally take a fucking break.” 

Charles could relate to that. 

After so many emotions, so many ups and downs, the only thing he wanted was to go home and cuddle with Leo. 

And Max.  

Having his strong arms wrapped around Charles’ waist, his soft lips pressing kisses to his neck...   

“...You’re kidding me.” 

“What?” 

Pierre seemed to be, once again, in control of their shared braincell, because Charles could not understand what he had done wrong. 

“Again? That's what’s making you stupid?” 

“Mind explaining?” 

Pierre pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“You’re making that face. You... ahem, with... ahem, again?” 

...He had a face for that?  

Wow. Maybe he truly was as expressive as social media said. 

He tried not to think about how they couldn’t openly talk about that, since they weren’t the only ones in the private jet. 

He tried not to think about how that meant he was clearly a mistake. 

Why couldn’t he just be normal?  

“No! We didn’t! We just had dinner, nothing more.” 

“That’s how they call it nowadays?” 

Charles punched his friend’s arm. 

“We didn’t. It wasn’t...” 

Legal.  

“...convenient.” 

Pierre had to get it without making Charles say it out loud. 

He had the braincell. 

“Then why are you like this?” 

Because I want him.  

But I can’t have him.  

What is wrong with me?  

“I think you can do the math on your own.” 

It wasn’t a conversation for a not-so-private jet, during a race week. 

Pierre nodded. 

Charles didn’t know how much he understood, but at least they had both gotten something off their chests. 

“Anyways... George and Max?” 

The Monegasque rolled his eyes. 

“From what Max told me, George used every dirty trick...” 

“Arthur is driving the FP1 tomorrow. With me.” 

There were no clouds or stars to admire, yet Charles was still staring at the sky with a smile on his face. 

“We’re making history, you know.” 

First brothers to race for the same team at the same time. 

Charles wasn’t making any dumb excuses for his tears. 

Yes. He was crying. 

He was incredibly proud of his brother, and himself too. 

They were finally fulfilling one of their childhood dreams. A few years too late, yes, but better late than never. 

“I wish you two could witness it.” 

He didn’t think it was pure chance when the wind gently placed two leaves right on top of his shoulder. 

They were proud too. 

He wiped off his tears and headed to the bathroom, knowing damn well that he was late for the drivers’ dinner. 

Fashionably late, not disrespectfully. 

He washed his face, messed up his hair on purpose, put on one of his glossiest lip oils and checked his phone. 

He had unread messages from... 

Liam? 

Charles.  

For the love of all that’s holy.  

Hurry up.  

Weird, slightly cryptic, but okay. He wasn’t too far away from the restaurant. 

He did ask for clarification, though, but he received no answer. 

His expectations were through the roof, and he wasn’t left disappointed once he arrived. 

There was an empty chair next to Max, and as tempting as it was to sit there, Charles knew he shouldn’t. 

“Whose idea was this?” 

Almost everyone was there. 

George wasn’t. 

“God’s. It just happened naturally.” 

Given how normal the seat arrangement was, Charles almost believed him. 

Almost.  

"Then why is Yuki here?” 

Three quarters of Red Bull were together, with Franco, Lando and Oscar tagging along. 

Max being next to their newest yapper was everything but weird, and Liam was charismatic enough to fit in. 

But Yuki was three people away from Pierre. 

Yuki. 

Away from Pierre.  

“God’s will. Can't do anything about it.” 

Charles could do something about it, but his relationship with God was confusing enough as it was. No need to overcomplicate it. 

He also could be a menace, and no human being nor deity could stop him from doing so. 

“It’s childish. Childish.”  

Oscar nearly choked on his drink. 

For half of the people in that side of the table, the mere reminder that Hungary had existed brought back memories, both good and bad. 

Charles knew damn well what he was doing. 

He wanted a reaction, and boy did he get one. 

“Copy that, we are checking.” 

A very low blow that revived some old trauma. 

Max truly loved playing with fire, didn’t he? 

“Fuck you, Max.” 

“Gladly!” 

No one said anything. Everyone was used to their antics. 

Except for Franco. God bless his poor soul. 

“Am I missing something important?” 

Lando immediately leaned over the table to explain everything that needed explaining. 

The fans had spoken loud and clear. Lestappen this, Lestappen that, Lestappen wasn’t real, but it was fun to joke about. 

Hell, even the official F1 account had posted about them subconsciously mimicking each other and captioned it only with “Lestappen”. 

No one in the grid cared. They all knew it was just a joke. 

Maybe that was why the lines had blurred. 

Maybe that was why Lestappen had been real that night. 

Maybe that was why Charles wanted more more more.  

But it wasn’t the right time to think about that, because he still had to find a seat. 

The fact that he ended up between Lewis and Pierre was almost grounding. He couldn’t daydream about weddings or have mental breakdowns about all his mistakes if his best friend was there. 

And then, what everyone was expecting happened. 

George arrived at the restaurant. 

His perfect smile faltered one he saw who was next to the only available seat. 

“Hi, George! We saved you a seat!” 

He didn’t bother with an answer. 

His smile was still there, but his eyes had murderous intent behind them when he grabbed the chair and moved it to the other side of the table. 

And just like that, Charles was sitting one person away from the biggest source of gossip for the night. 

Everyone burst out laughing, including George. 

“I can’t believe this.” 

“I can. And you should.” 

Alex had a great, very valid point. 

The night was about to get interesting. 

With such a big group of people, it was only natural that multiple conversations bloomed at the same time. 

No topic was left behind, going from (obviously) racing, to music, to... 

“I know! Lily is obsessed with that song. God, I love her, but I’m a bit tired of it.” 

“Carmen too! You get it, Alex. You get it.” 

“I don’t think I can complain. Rebecca is one ‘Smooth Operator’ away from ditching me, I think.” 

Girlfriends. 

Checo was nice enough to turn around and give his attention to Nico and Esteban instead, and Valtteri only mentioned Tiffany once. 

Pierre, Lewis and Charles finished their drinks in record time. 

“Yeah, so, Roscoe destroyed another tennis ball.” 

Charles giggled. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t looking forward to the Leclerc-Hamilton doggy meetings. 

He opened his mouth, fully intending to talk about Leo until Pierre stabbed him with his knife, but Carlos didn’t give him the chance. 

“Right. You guys are single.” 

Charles was very much looking forward to the Leclerc-Hamilton human meetings. 

If he didn’t need Carlos to score a shit ton of points on Sunday, he’d be in jail by the end of the night. 

He could end up in jail if he visited Max again and let his feelings take control.  

“I am very happy this way, thank you.” 

Everyone looked at him in disbelief. Even Valtteri. 

“No you’re not.” 

He couldn’t argue against that, especially not with Pierre. He wasn’t winning that battle. 

Being a hopeless romantic while single was hard enough. 

Being in love with Max wasn’t making it any easier. But, aside from Pierre and Carlos no one knew about that, and no one had to know. 

He allowed himself to steal one single glance, to look at the dutchman for just two seconds. 

They were on opposite sides of the table, yet Charles could still feel the warmth that his heart exuded while he explained something to Franco and Oscar. 

If anyone else noticed, no one commented on it. 

“Okay, yes, I’m painfully single. There are worse punishments in this world.” 

He could think of a few. 

Being a Ferrari driver. Being stuck in traffic when you desperately need the bathroom. Running out of LEC ice cream. 

Not being straight.  

“Like getting into a fight with Max, apparently. People say he gets violent. Threatens to smash heads against walls and everything.” 

George narrowed his eyes. 

It couldn’t be that serious. The drama would die down after a few more days, or so Charles hoped. 

As much as he adored gossip, Max wasn’t happy, and that was unacceptable. 

He despised seeing his champion so angry. 

Love was a very strong word, but Charles couldn’t find another one.  

“You wish that was you, don’t you.” 

It took Charles a few seconds to figure out what George meant. 

Of course, it was just a joke between friends. Some playful banter, fueled by social media’s delusion. 

The mental image went straight to the Monegasque’s stomach. 

The only reason it didn’t go further down was the painful reminder that safe, consensual gay sex was illegal in the country they were staying at.

He was illegal. 

And laws existed for a reason, right? 

He didn’t get the chance to answer. 

Lewis took a very loud sip from his glass. 

“As I was saying, Roscoe destroyed another tennis ball.” 

Charles got his chance to talk about Leo, and no one complained. 

He tried to keep it civil and polite, to look at the people he was actively talking to, but it took everything in his power not to stare at Max from time to time. 

Especially when he knew those beautiful blue eyes were staring at him. 

If he looked, if their eyes met, Charles wouldn’t be able to handle it. 

He elbowed Pierre, silently asking for support, but the Frenchman wasn’t paying attention, even though he had his own cute dog to include into the conversation. 

Discovering why wasn’t too hard. Yuki was talking to Zhou, and Pierre was staring at them. 

It was almost scary, how many things Charles and Pierre had in common. 

Without a reasonable voice telling him not to, the Monegasque had no reason not to look. 

Max and Liam were talking about God knows what, trying to ignore how both Lando and Franco had thrown half of their bodies on top of the table to be able to communicate. 

He couldn’t help but do something about it. 

“Wouldn’t it be easier if you two switched seats?” 

They had all finished eating. There was no reason not to, given how they were literally next to each other. 

Surprisingly, they listened. 

Blue eyes met green ones. 

Max smiled, thankful for Charles’ single braincell. 

He feigned ignorance to Oscar’s raised eyebrow. 

“...but I don’t believe the curse is over. This year was an except—” 

“Bye, Charlie!” 

The nickname was easy to ignore when it was used passive-aggressively. 

Charles had already said goodbye to everyone, had thanked Valtteri for paying, had approached the door and was more than ready to leave. 

But he had been intercepted! By Checo! 

He couldn’t say no to Checo! Especially not when he mentioned Monaco! 

But alas, Max was waiting for him, and so were the other three quarters of the Fantastic Four. 

How had Oscar not collapsed yet, after spending so much time with Max, Lando and Franco, no one knew. 

Luckily for his bruised soul, he was getting rid of the maxplainer soon enough. 

The dutchman and the Monegasque shared a hotel by pure chance, and it wasn’t the same one the Australian was staying at. 

The fact that Lando and Franco were still talking even after exiting the restaurant wasn’t a good omen, though. 

“Good night, Oscar. Sleep well.” 

“God, yes, please, I need it. Good night... to you two.” 

Charles raised an eyebrow, but the Australian was already gone. 

What a strange pause. 

Whatever. 

The ride back to the hotel was filled with gossip. Max desperately needed to know what George had said about him, and Charles was incredibly interested in whatever the dutchman had to say in his defense, so he could tease him about it. 

It had always been that way, ever since they were kids who barely knew how to speak English. 

“So? Who do you believe?” 

“Neither of you. I know you two well enough to know you’re both filthy liars.” 

He did believe Max when he said George was two-faced, though. Men with pretty faces tended to be that way. 

But Max didn’t have to know that, because Charles was a man with a pretty face too. 

He'd get teased to oblivion. 

Any other night, and he might have tolerated it. It wasn’t too far away from the truth, since he technically was a chronic liar, and most of the time, he didn’t mind that kind of banter. 

Any other night, and not that one, because his stomach was doing all those weird jumps gymnasts did, and he knew damn well what were the reasons. 

He wasn’t the type of guy who got anxious, just nervous, but knowing that his own brother would be driving alongside him was enough to push him over the edge. 

What if something went wrong? What if Arthur crashed? What if the session got canceled and they missed that opportunity? What if, what if, what if? 

On top of that, he had a championship to fight for, one last race with Carlos, and Max refused to stop talking, looking ethereal while doing so. 

Too many different, complicated emotions, that Charles wasn’t being able to drive through. Ironic. 

“...but anyways, I know karma will get to him eventually. He'll regret screwing me over.” 

“Sweet like honey, karma is a cat...” 

Max didn’t say anything. He was used to Charles’ sporadic Swiftie moments. 

“Can that cat scratch his pretty face? Please say yes.” 

Charles' eye twitched. 

Pretty face.  

Objectively speaking, yes, George was pretty. Hell, even Charles himself had thought so moments ago. 

But Max saying it out loud awoke something inside him, that did absolutely nothing to help his insanely twisted stomach. 

He tried to play it cool. 

“The cat is good karma. It sits on your lap even though it doesn’t usually do that.” 

“But can it or can’t it scratch George’s face?” 

He was pretty confident his annoyance wasn’t showing. 

He was so insanely good at playing it cool. 

“Only time will tell. I’d crash into him during the race, but I need the points, so...” 

Maybe he could sabotage George in some other way. Maybe he could ask Alex to ask George to visit the Williams garage and absorb a bit of the Curse they had over there. 

Maybe Lando could join too. No one seemed to be immune to the Williams Curse. 

No, that wouldn’t be necessary. 

Charles and Carlos would beat the rotten papayas on track.  

“Do you want me to crash into a McLaren?” 

No, because he wanted to beat them on track. 

But, if it happened... he wouldn’t complain about i— 

Wait, what? 

“Are you really willing to give up a potential win for me?” 

The chances of Max actually winning Abu Dhabi were slim, but never zero. If he had won from P17, he could do anything. 

Max would never give up a race win. Or a fight for one. 

And yet there he was, offering to do so. 

For Charles.  

“No, you’re right, I wouldn’t. I'd do it for myself, though. There's nothing I want more than papaya downfall.” 

Max was not good at playing it cool, but Charles decided to feign ignorance, for the sake of his weak heart. 

The fact that they had just arrived to the hotel was incredibly helpful. He had to concentrate on not tripping, he couldn’t think about how subconsciously romantic Max was! 

“God. They deserve the downfall just because of the word ‘papaya’, don’t they?” 

“I wish I could crush the skull of whoever chose that.” 

You wish that was you, don’t you.  

Yes. 

Yes, he did. 

But he also wanted to wake up next to Max every day, and kiss the tip of his nose before getting up to make breakfast. 

He wanted to open his closet and find Red Bull merch and pretend to be disgusted by it, only to wear one of those hoodies simply because they smelled like Max. 

He wanted to hold him close, arms wrapped around his waist after a long day, not being able to lay down on their bed because their pets were on top of it. 

He wanted— 

“Do we have time to finish this talk in my room, or does the champion have a bedtime?” 

Illegal. 

Mistake. 

Charles was manifesting his own downfall by asking that question. 

“We do. No one can tell me what to do.” 

The Monegasque rolled his eyes, even though he knew his... 

His... 

Friend. 

His friend was right. Not even GP could get him to follow orders sometimes. 

Charles' room wasn’t too messy, but Max still felt the urge to comment on it. 

He didn’t even bother rolling his eyes. 

He grabbed two water bottles from the minibar and opened the balcony door. 

He instinctually looked up. 

“You good?” 

Without any cameras pointing at them, without the risk of people seeing them, Max looked so peaceful, almost soft. 

It was a side of him that people rarely witnessed, that Charles was almost used to after so many years racing together. 

“Arthur and I are making history tomorrow.” 

He knew Max would read between the lines. He knew how much that free practice meant to him. 

He knew Max’s smile was genuine. 

“You look good like this.” 

Charles’ heart did a quadruple somersault.  

“Like what?” 

And Max seemed oblivious to that fact. 

“Happy. I like seeing you like this.” 

Yeah. 

Charles was happy. Extremely happy. 

Even though he had suffered for his entire life, even though the world constantly reminded him that he was a mistake for not being normal, in that moment, Charles was happy. 

Fuck the world. Fuck the FIA, the homophobes, the haters. 

Charles and Arthur were making history, but most importantly, they were creating memories they would never forget. 

Max put an arm around the Monegasque’s waist. 

Surprisingly, the bundle of feelings stored in his stomach didn’t get worse. 

“Fuck whatever Ferrari is expecting of you. Fuck the data, the tires and the race. Enjoy tomorrow.” 

“I can’t just ignore the data, idiot. I'll have to multitask.” 

Max squeezed him closer. 

The already blurred lines were almost imperceptible. 

But alas. 

They were in Abu Dhabi, United Arab Emirates. 

“Vegas?” 

Charles wasn’t sure if the dutchman had heard him, given how subtle his whisper had been. 

But Max had listened. 

When it came to Charles, he always did. 

“Vegas.” 

They didn’t stay together for much longer. Bedtime or not, they still had things to do tomorrow. 

Charles closed the door and immediately tucked himself into bed, ready to get some good, nice, quality sleep, to get rid of his anxiety. 

Good news: those weren’t conflicted feelings stored in his stomach. 

Bad news: if he puked one more time, he was sure he’d die. 

The GPDA but cooler  

WHICH ONE OF YOU POISONED ME?  

@Lando Norris @Oscar Piastri LOW BLOW GUYS, LOW BLOW  

Lando Norris:  

???  

Why are you up at this hour  

Could ask the same thing  

I GOT FOOD POISONING  

So much for making history. 

Charles was tired. Dehydrated. Hungry, but also nauseated at the mere thought of solid food. Annoyed. Angry. Tired. 

Very tired. 

His car wasn’t ready. Arthur was on track but Charles wasn’t. He was hours away from officially getting a ten-place grid penalty when he desperately needed to start the race as close to pole as possible. 

He looked absurdly good for the miserable state he was in. 

No, it wasn’t the time for his ego to show through. He needed to focus. 

“Do you think that someone has cursed me?” 

“Yes.” 

Bryan hadn’t even tried to soften the blow. 

It was greatly appreciated. It meant Charles wasn’t as insane or delusional as other people said. 

No one questioned him when he started muttering prayers under his breath, both to God and to Enzo Ferrari. 

When his car was finally, finally ready, he waved to his mom before getting in. 

It was a free practice. 

Just a free practice. 

He had to hold back tears and gather as much data as possible at the same time. 

He could multitask. It wasn’t difficult. 

Just. A free. Practice. 

He was first.  

They had a chance. A very real chance. 

Charles. Wasn't. Delusional. 

And Arthur was right next to him, waving at him, and Charles was so happy he could’ve burst into flames right there and then. 

That was, without any doubts, the best day of his life. 

No stomach virus or grid penalty could make him miserable. He was exuding joy, and he was sure it reached the sky, where both Jules and his father were watching him. 

The cherry on top was Carlos’ face when the brothers started talking in French in front of him in between practices. 

His mouth was opened, but his protein bar wasn’t being eaten. 

“How on Earth can you two sound so similar?! And why is it worse in French?!” 

They couldn’t help but laugh, knowing damn well that even then did they sound almost identical. 

“I don’t know, mate. Genetics.” 

They didn’t feel bad for excluding the Spaniard. They weren’t having any meaningful conversations, just dumb ones, like they always did. 

He was used to having his younger brother by his side. They spent a lot of their free time together, with Lorenzo tagging along too. 

But being able to mess with the cause of at least 55% of Charles’ nightmares together was just... 

Perfect. 

“I feel very attacked right now.” 

“What a shame. Let me enjoy my family time, Carlos.” 

Of course, everyone was aware those were all just jokes. No feelings were being hurt. 

Charles' perfect smile faltered for just one millisecond once he remembered he was days away from losing those special moments with the Spaniard. 

God. Feelings were so unnecessarily complicated.  

He didn’t have time to spiral because he felt his phone vibrating. 

Correction: he did have time to spiral, just for different reasons. 

Max was texting him. 

He simply asked if he enjoyed his free practice, and Charles was already feeling that stupid urge to jump off a building. 

Was that normal? 

“Ooooh, who are you texting?” 

When he looked up from his phone, he realized Arthur was wiggling his eyebrows. 

Sometimes, Charles truly despised being so expressive. 

“No one.” 

“Right.” 

His brother didn’t push the subject, but Charles knew he wouldn’t be off the hook for too long. 

He hoped he could stall for as long as humanly possible. 

He didn’t want to lie to Arthur, or Lorenzo, or Pascale, but he couldn’t just... 

Confess.  

Come out. 

He knew they’d be supportive. Even if they had issues with his... lifestyle (which he knew they hadn’t), they loved him enough to stay by his side. 

But they didn’t have to know. It was a really big part of his identity, yes, but it wasn’t, like, a cornerstone of his relationship with his family. 

Romantic relationships weren’t that important. 

“By the way, what was the name of that song you recommended the other day?” 

Charles' eye twitched. 

Arthur was an idiot, with a nonexistent attention span and an even less existing long-term memory. 

“I told you a million times. ‘Lover’. It's not hard to—” 

Oh. 

Motherfucker. 

“Fuck you.” 

“Good luck with her.” 

Nope. That didn’t hurt. At all. 

It was fine. 

Besides, Charles was attracted to woman. It wasn’t an assumption per se. 

Or, at least, he thought he was. Differentiating between real attraction and what everyone expected of him was too hard for a guy who barely had time to cuddle with his dog, let alone do some serious introspection. 

Arthur dropped the subject for real this time. Carlos made no comments, partially because half of that conversation had, indeed, been in French without either of the brothers noticing. 

Partially because he was waiting for Arthur to leave. 

He chose to strike not even five seconds after the younger brother was called somewhere else. 

“He doesn’t know?” 

“Why would he?” 

Carlos opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again and closed it again. 

He was thinking too hard about everything, and he was giving Charles a headache by osmosis. 

“You can answer honestly, you know.” 

“I don’t want to say something I shouldn’t say. I don’t want to hurt your feelings. Or assume anything and make you uncomfortable.” 

That was... 

Incredibly sweet of him. 

It almost made Charles cry. 

Having Carlos’ support was so different from Pierre’s. The Frenchman wasn’t straight, but the Spaniard was. Allegedly. 

Half of the world, Carlos’ half of the world called him a mistake every single day, even if it wasn’t to his face. 

Yet the Spaniard was trying, almost too hard, to be a good ally, a good friend. 

But they couldn’t get emotional. Not yet. 

Charles played it cool, like he always did. 

“Damn, who trained you? You know a lot of stuff.” 

Nope, his voice didn’t crack, it was just... an illusion. Yup. 

“...You do know that there’s other gay people in this world, right? They told me stuff.” 

The mental image of Carlos sitting in a classroom, learning about diversity, was hilarious. 

But Charles couldn’t laugh when he was fighting back tears. 

“Um. Gay or any other label. You—” 

“Stop overthinking, for God’s sake. That's my job!” 

Carlos didn’t laugh. 

“You should seek help. A therapist or something.” 

According to, apparently, a lot of people, Charles was the perfect description of every tifosi. 

Absurdly anxious, extremely delusional and slightly insane. 

And a lil’ bit gay.  

They always joked about it, mostly because Charles wasn’t that bad. Just passionate. 

“I know, I know—” 

“No, I mean it, Charles. I don’t want you to have a bad crisis about it.” 

The Spaniard sounded so... 

Broken. 

Was he talking from experience? 

Had he witnessed friends suffering just because they dared to be different? 

“I’m fine, Carlos. Most of the time, I’m at peace with it. It's not a big deal. And everyone has bad days, mine aren’t worse because...” 

The paddock wasn’t empty. Far from it. 

No one was listening, but what if... 

...Maybe Charles wasn’t doing as good as he thought he was. 

“You know you can count on me if you ever need it, right? The Williams garage isn’t far away.” 

“Thanks, but I don’t want to be cursed again.” 

Deflecting was one of his favorite hobbies. 

Besides, he had already decided that day would be the best of his entire life. 

Nothing would ruin it. 

“Stop jinxing my future! There's not a curse!” 

“Look at me in the eye and tell me that whatever is going on there is normal. There has to be a curse in that place.” 

They argued about it until it was time for FP2. They agreed to disagree. 

P19. 

Position number nineteen. 

The very back of the grid. 

Behind him was only a Williams being held together by tape, love and the hope of a country that was even more delusional than Italy. 

Maybe, if Charles ran away and avoided everyone who tried to stop him, he could jump in front of any of the cars that had made it to Q3. 

No. 

The fight was on until he saw the checkered flag the following day. 

He truly believed it was possible. Accidents could happen, safety cars could be deployed, miracles could be done. 

He highly doubted he’d make it to the podium. That was Max’s thing, not his. 

Still, he had hope. He knew what he was capable of doing, he knew what Carlos was capable of doing, and he knew better than to give up the fight before the race even started. 

He still allowed himself a few minutes of self-deprecation and misery once he got back to his hotel. 

He tucked himself into his bed and opened TikTok. 

Dog videos were, without any doubts, the second-best thing that ever existed, the first being Leo. 

God. 

Charles missed his son so fucking much.  

After a day like that one, the only thing he wanted was to cuddle his baby and forget about the championship, the races, the nightmare, the world. 

But alas, Leo was in Monaco, and Charles was in Abu Dhabi, alone and depressed. 

Okay. Not depressed. That was a really strong word, with serious implications. Charles was just sad, frustrated, angry and maybe a bit more conflicted than usual. 

He didn’t want to be alone. He wanted to drop that tough-guy facade no one really bought and be comforted for a bit. 

Yet, at the same time, the mere idea of being perceived while he was in such a state turned his stomach upside down. 

Luckily for him, he didn’t have to make a choice. Everyone was asleep, so even if he chose the comfort, no one was available. 

Dog videos would have to work. 

He left a like and scrolled up. 

Now, it was a known fact that more than most F1 drivers browsed social media daily, and Charles was no exception. 

He had gotten used to the edits, the theories, the wild comments and the borderline creepy ones. He had memorized the lyrics to both “Skyfall” and “Sticky”. 

Nine out of ten times, he didn’t care. He laughed whenever appropriate, occasionally sent screenshots to people and moved on with his life. 

One out of ten times, he reconsidered all his life choices. 

He was drowning in his misery, minutes away from crying himself to sleep, and his fucking algorithm had chosen to show him an edit. 

Of Max. 

Taking his balaclava off. 

Shirtless. 

Sweaty. 

Just sitting, but looking absurdly hot while doing so. 

It was a very effective way of kicking him out of his spiral, but why?  

He forced himself to get up and walked to the bathroom. 

He washed his face and stared at his reflection. 

His cheeks were red, and he knew damn well that he wasn’t sunburnt. 

Max had said that he looked good when he was happy. 

Max wouldn’t want to see him like that, miserable and almost hopeless. 

Maybe forcing himself to get it together for a man wasn’t the healthiest thing ever, but Charles didn’t have time for introspection. He needed to go back to his usual, delusional self, make a few miracles, and get Ferrari back to its glory. 

He wasn’t surprised when the message he sent got answered almost immediately. Max wasn’t acquainted with early bedtimes. 

If anyone can do it, is you.  

And me. But you already know that ;).  

How could a winking emoji be so hot, Charles didn’t know. 

How could a simple message be so effective against his foul mood, he didn’t know either. 

Love was a strong word. They hadn’t talked about it. Charles had a championship to win. 

Charles was pretty sure he loved Max Verstappen. 

But he had a championship to win. 

They had a good strategy planned, and they might not even need the little miracles. 

Charles knew they could do it. 

It didn’t take him too long to fall asleep. 

Chapter Text

Having Franco close to him meant that, for the first time in his twenty seven years of life, Charles was the quiet one. 

“...and so I asked Lando, and he was like, ‘no, he’s lying!’, but I don’t know... Carlitos is more believable...” 

Surprisingly, it was enough to ease his nerves. Or, at least, most of them. 

They understood each other more than the Monegasque had expected. They both carried a whole country on their shoulders, Franco being the first Argentine in the sport in twenty three years and Charles being Ferrari’s predestinato.  

They wished each other good luck before getting into their cars. 

The formation lap was, unsurprisingly, uneventful. 

He took a deep breath. 

The lights turned off. 

Instinct guided him through the chaos. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed an orange car spinning. 

He tried not to get his hopes up. 

First lap, P8. 

He tried not to get his hopes up. 

He tried not to get his hopes up. 

Lando, Carlos, Charles. 

He tried not to get his hopes up. 

He tried not to get his hopes up. 

He tried not to get his hopes up. 

He tried not to get his hopes up. 

He tried not to get his hopes up. 

He tried not to get his hopes up. 

He tried not to get his hopes up.  

He was Charles Leclerc. 

He got his hopes up. 

The bigger they come, the harder they fall. 

Had he finished anywhere but the podium, Charles wouldn’t feel as utterly broken as he did. 

He hit his steering wheel a few times. 

He couldn’t cry. Not yet. 

Lewis was doing donuts. 

Haha. 

He parked his car and got out. 

He knew the cameras would zoom into his face, displaying his misery for the world to see. 

He hoped that all the tifosi saw him, so they could all feel less alone. 

No matter what happened, Charles would always be one of them. 

The joy in Monza, the pain in Abu Dhabi, they shared it all. For better, for worse, in sickness and in health, until death do them part, until he was nailed to a cross and left there to bleed out. 

He tried to keep it together all the way to the podium. 

Surprisingly, he managed to do so. 

At least Carlos was next to him, for a proper goodbye. 

Life was a bit blurry after that. He was supposed to go party with his team, yet there he was, faking a podium with Brad Pitt. 

Two podiums. The other one with Damson Idris. 

At least George was there, to share his misery after they were finished. 

“We could become actors once we retire, don’t you think? I believe I was quite convincing.” 

Some of his misery. 

Charles didn’t even bother answering. He simply side-eyed the Brit and kept walking. 

“...You okay?” 

“I’ll let you take a wild guess.” 

Il predestinato, who couldn’t get the trophy even after gaining sixteen positions. 

Il predestinato, who had been fucked over again and again and again and again. 

Il predestinato, who had to rely on his teammate, and his teammate failed him. 

Il predestinato, who was both grateful and destroyed about said teammate leaving the team. 

Il predestinato, who was only predestined to fail. 

No, he wasn’t okay. 

“No, I know, I mean... you look much worse than I expected.” 

George got side-eyed again. 

“Elaborate.” 

“Don’t take this the wrong way, and note that it’s a hyperbole, but you look like you’re about to hang yourself from a ceiling fan.” 

Okay. 

He couldn’t help but chuckle. 

George was the drama queen of the paddock, as proven by recent events, but that was a lot, even for him. 

“And what were you expecting?” 

“Uh... a whole bottle of pure vodka?” 

That didn’t sound too bad. 

But if he said that out loud, George would probably call the police. 

He deflected, played it cool. As he always did. 

“Is that how you measure sadness? Really?” 

The Brit’s pretty eye twitched. 

Seeing that perfect mask slip away for just a few seconds never ceased to be hilarious. 

“You get what I mean! What's going on, Charles? Championship aside, Carlos aside, is something in your mind I can help you with?” 

Maybe. 

Maybe he could. 

Maybe George could hear him out, help him get rid of some of those heavy feelings that were filling his mind. 

But he was Charles Leclerc. Master of denial, CEO of delusion. 

He was used to repressing his feelings. 

“There is, actually, but nothing I can’t solve on my own. Thank you for worrying, though.” 

His smile was genuine, because he was genuinely grateful for George’s offering. 

The Brit didn’t push him, and the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. 

That particular night, though, Charles couldn’t tolerate silence. His thoughts were too loud. 

“I’m curious, though, what’s the rest of your sadness scale like?” 

George's eyes lit up. 

“I’m glad you asked! See, this is the result of years of careful examination...” 

The music was way too loud. 

Perfect. He could pretend he wasn’t hearing his mom scolding him for how much he was drinking. 

Pascale rolled her eyes and stopped trying. 

To be fair, Charles wasn’t that drunk. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if he was actually drunk or just overwhelmed by the music and the amount of people. 

But she was his mother. Her only job was to worry about him, especially after he cried his eyes out in the Ferrari hospitality. 

Damned Carlos and his damned goodbye speech. 

“What is she doing here?!” 

Charles turned around, not being able to recognize that voice over whatever the DJ was playing. 

Blue eyes met green ones. 

“What? Don't tell me you never party with your mom.” 

Blue eyes rolled around. 

“No! Why would I?” 

Green eyes fought very hard against every instinct to focus on the blue ones. 

Max looked beautiful. 

Charles hadn’t properly seen him, but he knew he looked beautiful. 

“Why not? Look, she’s having so much fun.” 

Pascale wasn’t far away from them, dancing with a glass in her hand. It only contained water, just like Arthur’s, and both Leclercs had smiles on their faces. 

Charles was the odd one out. 

“Fair point.” 

Neither of them knew what to say. 

They weren’t expecting to see each other that day. 

Max was supposed to text Charles both congratulations and condolences, Charles was supposed to be thankful and ask about the FIA gala and the community service, Max was supposed to joke about reusing the same suit for the fourth year in a row. 

After a few days passed, after post-season testing, Charles was supposed to leave the UAE, the car, the rosso corsa colored mask behind. He was supposed to text Max about a potential Vegas vacation and open up about his frustrations. 

And no, that wasn’t Charles being delusional. That was a pattern, that repeated itself every time either of them had a bad enough weekend to deserve ranting, with a few extra details thanks to that year’s... situations. 

Yet there they were, breaking that pattern, seeing each other when Charles’ emotions were exposed for everyone to see, even if he was trying to ignore them. 

Three weeks ago, it wouldn’t have been an issue. 

But alas, they had fucked everything up in Vegas. 

Pun intended. 

“You should’ve texted me you were coming here.” 

Max's eyes were still fixed on Pascale and Arthur, clearly avoiding Charles’ gaze. 

“I had no idea you were here.” 

Charles wasn’t sure if he’d picked that nightclub if he had known. 

Not because he wanted to avoid Max, because he knew how difficult it would be to keep the distance after a few drinks. 

“I have a private booth, if you all need some space. This place is... really crowded.” 

Fuck the distance. 

“Uh... yeah, let me ask.” 

He managed to navigate through all the moving bodies and reach his family. 

He felt those gorgeous blue eyes piercing through his skull while he explained everything. 

Pascale searched for Max in the crowd and signaled for him to get closer. 

No one made any comments when she pinched his cheek. 

“Hello, dear. Congratulations on your championship!” 

Arthur and Charles rolled their eyes, and had Lorenzo been there, he would’ve joined them. It was a known fact that their mother loved all their friends more than her own children, and could talk with them for days. 

It was only a miracle, then, that the small talk was actually small, and lasted only lasted five minutes. 

“Thank you so much for inviting us, but Arthur and I were just about to leave. Charlie, are you coming with us?” 

He ignored Max’s smirk after hearing the nickname. If there was anyone in the world who had the right to call him that, it was Pascale Leclerc. His mother.  

“I don’t think so, maman. The night’s still young, and so am I.” 

“No, you’re so old, mate.” 

Of course, Arthur had to intervene. Charles was more than ready to retaliate, but Pascale was faster. She lightly hit her youngest son on the back of his head. 

“Don’t call your brother that!” 

“Yes, maman.”  

When her gaze turned to him, Charles looked away, feigning ignorance. 

His mother could be terrifying sometimes. Even if he was a grown ass adult with free will. 

“And you, don’t do anything dumb.” 

“Yes, maman.”  

She locked eyes with Max next. 

The dutchman gulped. 

“Take care of him.” 

“Yes, Pascale.” 

Charles was more than ready to argue that he could take care of himself on his own, but yet again, his mother was faster. 

She hugged both drivers and walked away. Arthur barely had time to wave at them before chasing after her. 

Max and Charles broke down laughing. 

“I love your mom.” 

“Yes, yes, everyone does. Where's that private booth?” 

Fingers wrapped around his wrist, and the dutchman gently pulled on him to guide him. 

Charles’ cheeks weren’t red. Nope. 

Besides, he could tell something was slightly off about his friend. There was something about his grip that felt... 

Protective. 

That wasn’t normal. 

The second they sat down on the fancy sofa, the Monegasque squeezed the champion’s knee. 

“You okay?” 

Blue eyes stared at that hand for a second longer than needed. 

Charles moved it away. 

Max cleared his throat. 

“Does she do that often?” 

“...Do what?” 

The dutchman gently pushed his own head. 

Oh. The smack. 

Charles couldn’t recall if Pascale had ever done that in front of Max before, but he was sure he had his moments with his two brothers. 

It wasn’t unusual, just a joke with no ill intentions, which was probably why the blond hadn’t noticed until then. 

“No, just when we joke around. Never hard enough to hurt, it’s just a joke. And we all do it.” 

He could absolutely not blame Max for getting worried. He hoped that his smile showed it. 

The smile he received in return seemed to prove it. 

“So... what part of your grief are you at?” 

Right. 

The championship. Or lack thereof. 

He finished what remained of his drink in less than a second. 

“George said I looked like I was about to hang myself.” 

“So, translated from drama-queen-ese, you’re... very sad?” 

He nodded, although that would be an understatement. 

He was devastated. 

He had gained sixteen positions, had made it to the podium, and the trophy still refused to come home with him. 

Il predestinato, predestined to fail. And fail. And fail. 

He despised that feeling. 

He knew what he was capable of. Hell, he had just proved what he was capable of. 

Yet he still felt like everything had been his fault. That he should’ve worked harder, overtaken more people, gained more positions, more podiums, more wins. 

It didn’t matter that he only had finished two races outside of the points, that he only had one DNF. It had been his fault. 

It didn’t matter that he had finally won in Monaco, that he brought happiness to the tifosi in Monza, that he had done the unexpected in COTA. It had been his fault. 

Carlos wasn’t to blame. Even if he made some... questionable choices in some occasions, he wasn’t to blame. Charles was. 

McLaren's mini-DRS wasn’t at fault either. It was Ch— 

Okay, no. 

That was a new low. 

One he definitely didn’t like. 

“Please tell me you have unlimited drinks or something.” 

He wasn’t sure if the dutchman really understood that feeling, but they had been friends long enough. He knew he’d at least get the gist of it, and make sure Charles didn’t drink himself to death. Which wouldn’t happen, even if Max wasn’t there, because Charles was responsible enough, was happy to be alive, and intended to stay that way. 

“I... don’t, but I have a G&T right here.” 

It was Max’s gin and tonic. He had barely touched it, but his lips had touched the glass. 

He took a sip, trying to hide his smile. 

Ugh. 

They had fucked, for God’s sake. Max had literally been inside him, and Charles was kicking his feet at an indirect kiss.  

Despair was making Charles act like a teenager.  

“Delicious, but not nearly enough. Can we get more?” 

“Hey, I promised your mom I’d take care of you. Don't make my job harder.” 

And Charles had promised he wouldn’t do anything dumb. 

It was so hard to do so if he kept thinking about his race. Or, well, anything related to cars. 

He finished the G&T, slammed the empty glass on the table and stared at Max. 

“Then talk. About whatever aside from racing. Please.” 

Max bit his lip, trying to find a good topic. 

His eyes lit up, and Charles nearly had a heart attack. 

“During the drivers’ dinner, Franco could not shut up about Argentinian meat, and Lando could not stop asking about it. Apparently, they produce around three million tons of meat per year.” 

Of course he picked geography. 

Not that Charles cared. Far from it. It was cute. 

The dutchman ranted about square kilometers, human population and cow population, about rivers and mountains and why beaches had cold water, about everything that Franco had said that night and everything that Max had researched afterwards. 

How could 1 (one) single human brain retain that much information, Charles didn’t know. 

They got a few bottles of champagne delivered to their booth, and Max kept talking, and talking, and talking, until he noticed the first bottle they had opened was almost empty. 

“...Charles.” 

“What? I wasn’t doing it on purpose! You were distracting me.” 

It wasn’t a lie. 

He had been subconsciously sipping on his glass every now and then, refilling it whenever he emptied it, just to do something while Max talked.

And he still wasn’t drunk drunk. Champagne didn’t have that much alcohol.

The dutchman snatched the glass from his hands. 

“Your turn, then. Talk.” 

Charles looked around, searching for inspiration. 

A part of him wanted to ask about Lando and Franco. It was... suspicious, to say the least, even though Charles didn’t know if either of them were straight or not. 

But they were in the UAE. If something was going on between them, it was illegal. 

Just like Max and Charles. 

But he wasn’t going there. One crisis at a time. 

The ever-present feeling that he was a mistake was, well. Ever-present. 

He was the master of delusion. He bottled up his thoughts and focused on something else, hoping that the Molotov he just created didn’t catch on fire. 

“Did you know that the Eras Tour ended today? I can’t believe it’s over.” 

That was a safe-enough topic. He had a lot of things to say about Taylor Swift, mostly random knowledge he had acquired over the years. 

Yes, Max had probably already heard it all, but he seemed happy to feign ignorance while he slowly emptied the second bottle of champagne. 

“What’s ‘champagne problems’ about, by the way?” 

“A girl who breaks up with her boyfriend right when he was about to propose.” 

Max looked like a deer caught in headlights. 

It was hilarious. 

It was so cute. 

“...Oh.” 

“Why do you look so surprised?” 

“I don’t know.” 

Charles couldn’t help but chuckle. 

Maybe they both were a bit drunker than they thought. 

The third bottle of champagne got opened, and conversation flowed around seamlessly, even when Max’s friends joined them. 

Everything was fine. Really. 

Charles was fine. 

The music was starting to become too much, and he wasn’t sure if the cocktail he had ordered tasted like mint or orange, but he was fine. 

How couldn’t he be, with Max glowing in front of him? 

I'm so in love that I might stop breathing.  

He had to shake his head to get rid of the lyrics playing in his mind. 

Bad idea. 

The world was spinning. 

“Charlie?” 

Beautiful. 

Max was so beautiful. 

What must it be like to grow up that beautiful?  

“That’s it, we’re leaving.” 

Beautiful Max was blushing. 

Had he said that out loud? 

“Can you walk?” 

“’Course.” 

He grabbed his phone and stood up. He was fine! 

Okay. Maybe he stumbled. A little bit. 

Max rolled his eyes. 

“And every time you shine, I shine...” 

Max was extremely conscious at the glares the taxi driver was shooting them from the mirror. 

He wasn’t paranoid. Charles was just too drunk. And love songs could be about anyone. 

“Jump then fall into me...” 

Max didn’t need to be told twice, but he had made a promise. 

They had made a promise. 

Las Vegas. 

“Maxie... where are we going?” 

“Your hotel.” 

Their hotel, that they shared by pure chance. 

But the glaring was getting more intense. 

Honestly, he wasn’t mad at Charles. Not at all. 

He couldn’t blame him. He always hoped too much, never lost his faith until the race report was published. 

He didn’t know if it was a good or a bad thing. Whatever. 

Losing the championship like that must’ve hurt like a bitch. Max would’ve gotten just as drunk, maybe even more, if he had been in that situation. 

“Every time I smile, you smile...” 

“Charlie, you’re singing the same part over and over again.” 

He muttered something in French. 

Couldn't they get to the fucking hotel faster?  

He knew Charles. He wasn’t vomiting or anything. He wasn’t at that point yet, and Max wasn’t letting him get there. 

But if he heard those lyrics again, he’d explode. 

It had to be Taylor Swift. Who else had songs like that?! 

Max wasn’t in the right place to process it. Metaphorically and literally. 

They finally, finally got to the hotel. 

But, before they could leave the car, the driver turned around and stared at Max. 

“He lost the race?” 

“Yes.” 

Why would he lie? Their faces were everywhere. 

Even if that guy never watched a race in his life, he had to know who Max and Charles were. 

“Hurry up before you’re seen. He can get in trouble. Too much to drink.” 

...Oh. 

That explained many things. 

He thanked the taxi driver profusely before dragging Charles out of the car. 

“Say that you wanna be with me too...” 

“Shut up. For once in your life, shut up, Charles.”  

Surprisingly, he listened. He even tried to look as sober as possible. 

They walked side by side, Max ready to catch Charles if he lost his balance. 

They got into the hotel, nodded to the receptionist and went straight to the elevators. 

“What floor was your room in?” 

He remembered, actually. 

He just wanted to see how bad Charles’ memory was. 

“Noooo, Carlos is sleeping next door. We can’t wake him up. He has stuff tomorrow. With Williams.” 

God, he looked so broken while saying that. 

Max wasn’t jealous, especially not about Carlos, but... 

“And?” 

“We’re gonna wake him if you stay with me.” 

Absolutely not. 

Max didn’t hate himself. 

And he had made a promise. 

“Charlie...” 

“I don’t want to be alone.” 

Max couldn’t leave him like that. He wasn’t heartless. 

He pressed the button to his own floor and put an arm around Charles. 

He looked stable enough, but just in case. 

“Encore plus près d'tes adversaires...”  

“That’s not Taylor Swift.” 

Charles rolled his eyes. 

“Non! It's ‘Arcane’. The... uh...” 

“Series?” 

He had heard the song on TikTok. It wasn’t really his style, so he had never searched the lyrics. 

It sounded much better when Charles was the one singing. 

“Oui. Mais ma meilleure ennemie, c'est toi...”  

Note to self: after Vegas, either learn French or find a good translator app. 

If Charles was that sloshed after losing a championship, how much worse would it get once he won one? 

The elevator doors opened, and they slowly walked towards Max’s room. 

Charles was trying to be quiet. Keyword: trying. 

He wasn’t being too disruptive, but his body was too heavy for a Max who wasn’t sober either. They crashed against a wall. 

The dutchman froze in place. 

If whoever was staying there opened the door and saw the state Charles was in... 

He heard footsteps. 

Maybe he could leave Charles there and run away. 

No. 

Never. 

He was never leaving Charles’ side. 

The door opened. 

Checo was holding a bottle of tequila. 

His eyes were just as red as Charles’ car. 

“Explanation.” 

“Fratelli d'Italia, l'Italia s'è desta...”  

Max stared at his teammate and sighed. 

No explanation was actually needed. 

“Need help?” 

“Just open my door, please. And wait here.” 

He gave Checo the keycard and managed to get Charles inside of the room and on top of the bed in record time, all three sectors in purple. 

“Maxie...” 

“I’ll be right back, Charlie. Checo's worried about you.” 

The Ferrari driver nodded, and kept muttering God knows what song under his breath. 

Max took a really deep breath before leaving his room, meeting his teammate in the corridor. 

Out of anyone else in the grid, Checo was, maybe, the one who understood Charles’ despair the most. Sort of. 

He wasn’t questioning either of them for the state they were in. 

But Max was about to explode, and he needed someone to hear him out. 

“He’s been singing love songs since we left the club.” 

He had never said it, but he knew Checo knew. Neither of them had been subtle after that night. 

Or during that night. He knew his teammate had been exhausted, yet he only went back to his room after seeing Max at the party again. 

The look that Checo gave him confirmed his suspicions. 

“Then why are you babysitting him?” 

“He doesn’t want to be alone. And you saw him. I don’t think he should be alone, even if he wanted to.” 

He trusted Charles. He knew he wouldn’t do any stupid shit. 

But... 

Just in case. 

Even if it destroyed him, seeing the man he was too afraid to love singing love songs while drunk was the right thing to do that night. 

“Doesn’t it hurt?” 

“Same as always.” 

He was used to it, even if the circumstances changed every day. 

He'd come to terms with it, eventually.  

Before Vegas. 

But that night wasn’t about him. It was about a very drunk, devastated Charles. 

Checo turned around, ready to get back into his room. 

“Good luck.” 

“Checo, wait.” 

He stared at the bottle of tequila. 

A DNF in the last race was frustrating, but not tequila-frustrating. 

Max was too afraid to ask, so he didn’t. 

His teammate didn’t answer, but his eyes said everything, even if he was smiling. 

“My kids miss me.” 

Max bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. 

Both teammates turned around and walked back to their rooms. 

“Mira lo que se avecina, a la vuelta de la esquina, viene Diego rumbeando...”  

What did that even mean? 

“How would I know?” 

Oh. Max was back. 

Oh. Charles was talking, not thinking. 

Maybe he needed water. 

“Water?” 

“Gotcha.” 

That word was funny. English was so funny sometimes. 

He could feel he wasn’t as drunk anymore, but he was tired. So, so tired. 

The effects added up. 

Max gave him a water bottle, and Charles emptied it in seconds while he stared at his friend. 

His brows were furrowed, and he looked sad. 

“Are you mad at me?” 

The dutchman’s gaze immediately softened. 

He sat down on his bed, next to Charles. 

“No? Why do you think that?” 

“...I don’t know. You look weird.” 

Charles managed to sit up without getting dizzy. 

If something was going on, he wanted to be there for Max, not burden him. 

“Checo’s leaving.” 

Oh. 

Nothing, absolutely nothing was set in stone. 

They all knew what to expect when they signed their contracts, especially the Red Bull drivers. It wasn’t a surprise, but... 

It hurt. 

Even though Charles and Checo weren’t the closest, it hurt. 

And Max... 

Max was good friends with Checo, but he was used to those changes. 

Charles knew, though. He knew more than anyone how tired of the Red Bull shitshow he was. 

“...Who’s stepping up?” 

There were only two real options, and Charles knew better than to bet for Yuki. 

Not because he didn’t deserve it. If anything, he deserved it more than anyone. 

But Pierre had spent entire nights ranting about how much Yuki was being mistreated, and Charles had quietly listened, seriously considering to pay for all the Red Bull victims’ therapy. 

“No clue. I don’t think they settled everything yet. But Checo made his choice... if you can even call it a choice.” 

“You don’t think it’s a choice?” 

Unsurprisingly, the dutchman glared at him. 

Max had spent the entire year defending his teammate. 

Someone as experienced as Checo wouldn’t just forget how to drive in a few months. 

“If your team ignored your feedback for a year and a half, called you useless every single weekend and did nothing to help you out... aren’t they forcing you to leave?” 

“I didn’t.” 

To be fair, Ferrari would never compare to Red Bull. Even if they had their... issues, they still loved each other. More or less. 

They were a big family, and with so many people, fights were inevitable. It only took one look at the Monza photos to fix everything. 

Almost everything. 

But 2022 had ended forever ago, and things had changed. People had left, people had stepped up, and Charles was doing mostly well. 

His smile wasn’t as genuine. 

“But I guess I didn’t have to deal with Hell- mut Marko.” 

He made Max chuckle. That was a big win. 

“No, but you had to deal with Mattia Bi- no- tto. I know it wasn’t easy.” 

Their friendship had survived 2022, but Charles’ psyche hadn’t. 

He had left fragments of his heart in Suzuka, his rosso corsa mask in Abu Dhabi and called Max before going back to Maranello. 

It hadn’t been beautiful. 

But it was in the past, and things were better. 

Charles hadn’t left Ferrari, and despite losing the championship, they had a good enough season. 

If only he had scored more points. 

It would’ve been perfect. 

“Charlie?” 

Max’s fingers grazed his cheek. 

He hadn’t noticed he was crying. 

“We were so close.” 

He couldn’t compare both experiences. 

2022 was blurry. Sometimes, when he watched past interviews, he couldn’t remember he had said those things. 

He had hope. He always had hope. The sun of Maranello never stopped shining. 

But the sun had been surrounded by clouds for more than half of the season. 

Losing his championship because his team failed him hurt. Absorbing all the guilt to maintain Ferrari’s reputation numbed him. 

He could’ve crashed into a wall at 400 kilometers per hour, he could've been run over by Mattia driving Carlos’ car, and he wouldn’t have felt anything. 

And he’d do it again, because Ferrari was Ferrari, and Charles was il predestinato, predestined to fail. 

That year, he remembered vividly. Maybe because it had literally just happened, but he knew the feeling was different. 

He had flown too close to the sun, had gotten his hopes up, and had fallen head first against the pavement when Lando finished first. 

Every single nerve he had was actively feeling that pain. 

The numbness had been terrifying, but God did Charles miss it. 

“My best wasn’t enough.” 

Max was wrapping his arms around him, and Charles was holding on to him for dear life, and he couldn’t stop crying. 

“I know. I get it.” 

“You don’t.” 

He was Max Verstappen, four-time world champion. 

Always faster, always first, Max’s best was always enough. 

He got the wins, he got the titles, he got the records. 

Charles got nothing. Just a few nice nicknames and the weight of almost a hundred years of history in his shoulders. 

“...I do. I wasn’t enough back then.” 

There had been a time, when Max was just Max, a little kid who couldn’t make any mistakes without facing consequences. 

Even if it wasn’t the same, maybe he did get it. 

Maybe Charles was being too selfish. Maybe he was trying to gatekeep his pain. 

“Right.” 

He didn’t know what to say. 

He didn’t know what to think.  

The only thing he wanted was to sleep until pre-season testing, preferably with a good car. 

He wasn’t sure how he’d react if the car was shit again. 

They had to get it next year. Lewis had seven world championships, goddamnit. He had to help him get it. 

Or would it be the other way around? 

No, no. 

Charles wasn’t thinking about that when the season had just ended. 

...God. 

They had been so close.  

If Lando had bottled his pole, if Oscar— 

Do you want me to crash into a McLaren?  

“Wait.” 

Are you really willing to give up a potential win for me?  

“You crashed into Oscar on purpose.” 

Max pushed him away, cheeks red and eyes open wide. 

“No. No! God, no. I know how it looks, but I swear it was an accident. I even apologized to him.” 

Charles couldn’t help but smirk. 

He believed him, but Max didn’t have to know that. 

“Sure.” 

Seeing the one and only Max Emilian Verstappen lose his temper would never stop being hilarious. Especially when both of them were drunk. 

“Seriously! Why would I crash into Oscar? Lando was a bigger threat.” 

“Hey, don’t disrespect my son like that.” 

Max was seconds away from committing murder. 

Hilarious. 

He was right, though. He loved Oscar, and he was a great driver, but he still lacked a lot of experience. Overtaking him probably would’ve been easier. 

But alas, that hadn’t happened. 

Lando had won, and every sacrifice that Charles had made turned up to be useless. 

What even was the point in— 

Nope. Nope. Nope. 

“T'es la meilleure chose qui m'est arrivée, mais aussi la pire chose qui m'est arrivéе...”  

It was nice, finally having a popular song in French that wasn’t from Eurovision. 

He hadn’t watched Arcane, and he wasn’t sure if he’d ever do it, but the song was cool. 

He could relate a little bit, too. 

“What’s gotten onto you? Why are you singing so much?” 

Max was, indeed, the best and the worst thing that happened to him. 

Death, grief, numbness and pain, he could deal with. 

Crushed dreams, unreasonably high hopes, a broken psyche, he could deal with. 

Losing championships after sacrificing everything, he could deal with. It would only take a bit longer. 

Being in love with a man?  

Who happened to be his childhood friend and rival? 

“I’m hoping it helps my brain shut up.” 

It was wrong. On so many levels. 

It wasn’t normal. In the country they were staying at, it was illegal.  

Charles knew he was a mistake, and he knew he couldn’t be fixed. 

He'd be that way forever, even if he stopped liking Max. 

He hated it. 

He just wanted to be normal, for God’s sake. Hiding himself was exhausting, and he couldn’t choose not to. 

“But it doesn’t seem to be working.” 

Why couldn’t he pick one crisis and deal with it before moving on to the next one? 

Maybe Carlos was right. Maybe Charles should get a therapist or something. 

Maybe he could find someone who could fix him. Someone who could make him normal. 

Max pulled him into another hug, squeezing the air out of his lungs. 

“Regardless of the results, what you did today was impressive, Charlie. Eleven positions in the first lap? Not even I could do it.” 

If anyone can do it, is you.  

Charles had starred that message, because he knew he’d need that encouragement in the future. 

“You could.” 

He was delusional, yes, but not that much. He knew Max could do even better if given the chance. 

“Not in this fucking car. I swear I’d burn it into the ground if I could.” 

Max chuckled, and Charles swore he tried to. 

His body didn’t move. 

The dutchman squeezed him harder. 

“We should go to sleep. We can talk more in the morning if you want.” 

The bed was big enough for both of them, even for a third person if needed. 

Charles was only a bit jealous. His own bed was much smaller. 

Perks of being world champion, he supposed. 

“Seems good.” 

Max rolled out of the bed and immediately found a baggy shirt and shorts for Charles. 

The Monegasque stumbled to the bathroom, got changed and stared at his reflection. It was becoming a habit. 

His cheeks were red, and Max’s clothes suited him quite well, even if they were pajamas. 

Jumping between being in love and hating himself for it would break him in half if he kept going at it. But that was a problem for Sober Charles. 

He stumbled back into the bedroom, tucked himself into his side of his bed and muttered a goodnight to Max. 

In what language he had said it, he didn’t know. He fell asleep soon after. 

He woke up, hours later, throat as dry as the desert. 

There was an arm around his waist holding onto him so hard he could barely move. 

He ignored it while he tried to drink some water from the bottle he had left in the nightstand. 

He immediately closed his eyes again. 

Chapter Text

Charles woke up alone, with his phone charging on the bedside table and three unread messages from Max. 

The deja vu hit him like a truck. 

Checo, Carlos and I are downstairs having breakfast.  

We’re saving you a seat.  

Don't tell anyone about Checo.  

Charles rubbed his eyes. 

His head was a bomb about to explode, his stomach was a black hole, his throat was a desert, last night was a not-so-distant memory and he didn’t have any space left in his designated bottle for his feelings. 

He did remember. He remembered quite vividly. 

There was a reason he never ranted to Max when his emotions were recent. 

He was more in love than ever. 

He wished he wasn’t. 

He ignored Checo and Carlos’ raised eyebrows when he sat down. 

He ignored Max’s raised eyebrow when he saw the sunglasses he was wearing. 

“You didn’t have those last night.” 

“I didn’t, no.” 

Charles had gone back to his room to get changed into something more appropriate. As in, sweatpants and comfier shoes, plus the sunglasses for his headache. 

He was still wearing Max’s shirt. 

Their table was secluded from the rest of the hotel, so it was impossible anyone saw them. And, even if they did, they would have no idea Charles was wearing clothes that weren’t his. 

Only those who had to know were aware. And Max was blushing. 

In his humble opinion, Charles was a mastermind. 

“Do I want to ask?” 

Carlos had the same look in his eyes as the day that Charles had confessed everything to him, the look of a traumatized man. He was probably grateful he was leaving Ferrari. 

“What are you talking about? Nothing happened.” 

The Spaniard opened his mouth, but regretted it last second. 

He took a bite of his toast and moved on with his life. 

“Charles was so drunk last night he couldn’t stop singing the Italian anthem.” 

The Monegasque couldn’t believe it. 

Checo was a filthy traitor. 

“Hey!” 

“Oh. Yeah, he does that sometimes. I bet it wasn’t an easy night for you, Max.” 

Carlos too?! 

Was Charles alone against the entire world?! Did he have no allies by his side?! 

“Hey!!” 

Max was his last hope. 

But Max’s eyes were slightly unfocused. 

“Not for the reasons you’re thinking.” 

Only then did Charles realize that the dutchman’s hair was a mess, probably not on purpose. 

The Monegasque took off his sunglasses. 

“All yours.” 

Max was just as hungover as Charles was, and he was much more sensitive to light. Something about blue eyes and their lack of pigment. 

If the light was bothering him, it had to be killing his friend. 

“Dankje.”  

Checo and Carlos exchanged looks and said something in Spanish Charles was too tired to try to decipher. 

He decided to ignore them. 

He had a breakfast to enjoy and a painkiller to take. 

“Who are you texting?” 

“No one.” 

Maybe immediately locking his phone wasn’t the smartest thing to do, because Arthur was now smirking. 

And so was Antonio. 

And so were Andrea, and Bryan, and every other person in the vicinity. 

Okay. Maybe not everyone was, but it was still enough people to make Charles blush. 

“Charlie has a crush!” 

“I do not!”  

He should’ve known better than to try to lie to his brother with his team present. 

Everyone knew he was lying. And, in case someone had their doubts and chose to trust his words, his blush was the final piece of evidence. 

“Mate, you made the exact same face the other day. You have a crush on someone, and that someone is texting you.” 

Sometimes Charles despised having a brother. 

Why couldn’t his parents put Arthur up for adoption immediately after he was born?! 

“You are so wrong.” 

He knew he was an expressive guy, so he tried to control his reaction. 

He didn’t mind the teasing itself. It was funny, even if awoke murderous instincts inside him. 

But if, for some reason, he decided he wanted to be honest and let everyone know that he did, indeed, have a crush, he couldn’t. 

His locked phone was burning through his hand, the unread message proving he was a fucking mistake. 

Arthur must’ve sensed something was going on, because he put an arm around his brother. 

“You’re not escaping this interrogation, but I’ll allow some privacy. Come on.” 

They walked away from the garage, leaving behind the chuckles and nudges. 

Arthur's smile never left his face, yet Charles knew it wasn’t as playful as before. 

“Are we crossing a line we didn’t know existed?” 

He was speaking in English, not French. 

A habit of theirs, whenever the conversation got too deep, a way of distancing themselves from feelings that weren’t pretty. 

Charles raised an eyebrow. 

“You got super defensive. Are we crossing a line? Is she someone we know? Someone you’re not supposed to be texting?” 

The answer to all of those questions was yes. 

Charles could’ve just nodded, and Arthur would’ve dropped the subject forever. 

He didn’t move. 

He couldn’t move. 

His brother bit his lip. 

“Is she, uh... forbidden? Is that the right word?” 

“He is a man. Un homme.”  

He didn’t know why he said it. 

He didn’t know he was ready. Not too long ago, he had been sure he wasn’t. 

“...Oh.” 

“Yep.” 

Arthur wasn’t homophobic. No one in their family was. 

Charles knew his shock wasn’t out of disgust or disappointment.  

It was just shock. A normal kind of shock for a situation like that. 

“Don’t tell maman. Or Lorenzo. Or anyone.” 

“Wasn’t going to. It's your secret, not mine.” 

He didn’t know what else to say. 

Coming out to Pierre had been easy. They were teenagers, and they had laughed it out once the Frenchman came out immediately after. Coming out to Carlos had sort of been a necessity, out of desperation, so there weren’t any awkward silences or anything. 

Coming out to Max... 

Technically speaking, he hadn’t done that yet, but it had been easy as fuck. Pun intended. 

But coming out to his brother?  

For the second time in minutes, Arthur must’ve sensed something was going on, because he pulled Charles into a hug. 

“You know that, most of the time, I love you and I’m glad you’re my brother, right? That's never going to change.” 

Charles nodded. 

There was a lump in his throat, but he couldn’t cry. Not there. 

“I’m sorry for pressuring you.” 

“No, no, it’s fine. I didn’t feel pressured.” 

Not by Arthur, at least. 

His brother smiled at him before switching his mood back to whatever was going on in the garage. 

“So... is he someone we know?” 

“I’m not answering any of your questions.” 

He had the right to remain silent, yadda yadda. 

He wasn’t falling for Detective Arthur’s traps. 

“So he is.” 

Yep. 

He had fallen right into that trap. 

“No! I'm just not answering! This isn’t... this place isn’t safe for this.” 

The pained look Arthur gave him shattered Charles’ heart. 

Why couldn’t post-season testing be literally anywhere else but one of the countries where homosexuality was illegal? 

Why couldn’t it be in Italy? Monza, specifically? 

God, post-season testing in Monza... 

He was getting sidetracked, and Arthur was talking. 

“So... what do we tell the guys?” 

Detective Arthur couldn’t come back empty handed. It would be too suspicious. 

But he was not coming out to the team. Not then, not ever. Or not until he followed Seb’s footsteps and bought a farm after retiring, at least. 

“Nothing. Let them reach their own conclusions.” 

It was the safest option, because no one would assume his crush was a man, let alone the Max Verstappen. Not even the detective knew that last part. 

They went back to the garage, Arthur’s arm around Charles’ shoulders, and neither of them said anything. 

Arthur was smirking. 

Knowing looks were exchanged, Charles rolled his eyes, and he retreated back to his preferred secluded corner. 

He finally, finally unlocked his phone. 

Max had sent him a single question mark, attached to a photo taken hours earlier, where Charles was wearing the shirt for the new cooling system. 

The Monegasque had assumed he wanted to know more about that, so he described both how it worked and how it felt. 

Boy was he wrong. 

The unread message was the same photo as before, just zoomed in... 

Into his hardened nipple. 

There was another question mark under it. 

Charles rolled his eyes. 

Yes. That's a nipple.  

I have two, thanks for noticing.  

I thought you knew, though.  

Since, you know.  

You saw them.  

It was safe to assume that Max had a thing for Charles’ chest. 

Not that he could be blamed, since the opposite was also true, but... 

Where was the decorum?  

Besides, Max knew Charles was driving that day. He had to focus, and the dutchman was purposefully distracting him. 

Really?  

I can’t remember...  

Show me again?  

;)  

Oh wow. 

Oh. 

Wow. 

He answered with a middle finger emoji, rushed to the bathroom and splashed some cold water over his face. 

He wasn’t surviving until Vegas. 

Charles managed to knock the door ten times before Carlos opened it. 

“Dios mío, dame paciencia. Is someone dying?” 

“I am.” 

Before stepping inside, the Monegasque looked up and muttered a quick prayer in French. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Asking God to protect me against the Williams curse.” 

He knew the Spaniard would, at the very least, hit him. 

He didn’t expect to be tackled. 

“Fuck you. There's no curse!” 

At least Carlos was nice enough to help him stand up. 

“What does Alex think about that?” 

He vaguely remembered an interview where he had mentioned his Thai relatives had been sending him bracelets to fight the curse. 

If even only one person believed in it, then it was real. 

“That they reverted it. It was a really... smooth operation.” 

Charles rolled his eyes and grabbed his phone from his back pocket, fully intending to ask Alex if that was true. 

He then remembered why he was there. 

Max had read his message. 

He hadn’t answered yet. 

“Okay. Good for you. I need you to shoot me and throw my body off a cliff.” 

Carlos took the deepest of sighs. 

Instead of doing as he was asked, he grabbed two bottles of water from the minibar and sat down on his bed. 

Charles threw himself on the floor. 

He could almost hear the eyeroll. 

“You’re so dramatic you make George look normal.” 

“Max has been flirting with me. Via text messages.”  

He sat up and accepted the bottle the Spaniard was offering him. 

He seemed unamused. 

“Okay, and...?” 

“...Things got heated. And, um... there were photos involved.” 

A hundred wars, horrors not to be witnessed, et cetera. 

Carlos had definitely never been happier for his team switch. 

“Charles Leclerc.” 

Only then did the Monegasque realize how that had sounded. 

He sat up in a panic. 

“No! Not that kind of photos! Just shirtless. Only to view once. We're not that perverted.” 

“I doubt that sometimes.” 

Charles’ feet were close enough to Carlos’ to kick his ankles, so he did. 

Not hard enough to hurt, though. But if the Monegasque was dramatic, the Spaniard was a Shakespeare character. 

He closed his eyes, biting his lip so hard he could’ve drawn blood if he wanted to. 

“Hijo de... no, your mom did nothing wrong. You are the problem.” 

It was a joke. 

Just a joke. Between friends. 

When the Spaniard opened his eyes again, his friend was crying. 

Seriously. 

What the hell was wrong with Charles? 

“Sorry, Carlos. I'm...” 

One dumb joke was enough to resurface not only all his thoughts from Sunday, but all his... insecurities too. 

“I’m an idiot.” 

Carlos bit his lip and decided to slip onto the floor, pulling Charles into a half hug. 

“What’s going on?” 

He never expected to open up to anyone in that way, but there he was, spilling everything to his former teammate. 

Not that Carlos would ever use any of that information to harm him, Ferrari driver or not. He was a good friend, a good guy. Off-track, at least. 

And there wasn’t much to spill either. Ferrari's chronic mistreatment, the lost championships, how numb he had been after 2022 and how much he was feeling now, Carlos already knew. 

The Spaniard’s breath hitched when Charles confessed he missed the numbness. 

“No. Don't you dare say that again.” 

It hadn’t been Carlos’ fault. 

On the contrary, he had done everything in his power to cheer the Monegasque up, during and after the season, not as a teammate, but as a friend. 

Once Charles’ numbness got replaced by hatred for the Dutch and Austrian anthems, Carlos had confessed how terrifying those times were to witness. 

Grief had made Charles a thousand times stronger, but even the toughest metals break under pressure. 

Carlos had seen the cracks, had tried to fill them, reinforce them, tried to decrease that pressure, but it hadn’t been enough. 

Charles broke. 

He assumed all guilt, let the people turn him into a martyr, and broke into a million pieces. 

He bounced back, of course. And Charles never even considered doing anything stupid, anything that could be labeled as dangerous, but Carlos didn’t know that. He lived in fear that, one day, he’d wake up to news no one would want to hear. 

A moment of weakness, that shall not happen again. 

“Sorry.” 

“I’m sorry too. I should’ve tried harder this year.” 

He was crying too. 

It healed something inside Charles. 

Call him an asshole, selfish, whatever. He was sharing his burdens, his pain, with someone who was experiencing the same. 

His shoulders felt much lighter. 

Aside from that drunken quasi-breakdown in Max’s room, he hadn’t allowed himself to fully process everything that had happened. Maybe one day he’d decipher why that had been the case, but he didn’t have time for that. 

He wiped off his tears, left CL16 behind and became just Charles. 

Just Charles looked at just Carlos. 

“Anyways. Max.” 

Maybe one day he’d decipher why he switched topics so quickly. He didn’t have time. Yadda yadda. 

Just Carlos reconsidered all his life choices for the millionth time that day. 

“Let me guess. You don’t know what you want with him.” 

They still hadn’t talked about anything, and the lines were almost invisible by then. 

With the season over, there was no point in feigning amnesia, and Max’s recent texts hinted towards his true feelings. 

If he only wanted Charles’ body, he’d just say so. He was quite a direct guy. 

But no, he had asked for shirtless pics and how his day was, how he was feeling, whether or not he had breakfast. 

Love was a strong word, but Charles couldn’t find another one. 

“No, I do. I'm in love with him, and I don’t think I’d care about a secret relationship.” 

He enjoyed his privacy, like any normal person would. 

Not telling the entire world he was dating someone couldn’t be that hard.  

“So? Are you daydreaming about a wedding and kids and need help getting back to Earth?” 

“Hey! I'm not that delusional!” 

He had been, though. For longer than he wanted to admit. 

But that wasn’t the point! 

“I’m scared I’ll do something wrong and fuck all of this up. Like I always do.” 

Max still hadn’t answered. 

Of course, he had a life and he could do anything he wanted with it. 

But even the strongest of people would have doubts if they received no answer after such a risky text. 

Carlos’ eye twitched, and Charles found himself very interested on how pretty the floor was. 

“Mate. Seriously. You're always confident about everything you do and now—” 

“I asked him to meet up after the FIA gala.” 

And Max. Still. Hadn't answered. 

They had promised to go back to Vegas, talk about their feelings and decide what to do moving forward. 

Charles knew he was delusional, so he had believed those words and expected everything to go according to plan, but Max had to be just as delusional too. 

They should've known better. Nothing ever went according to plan. 

“Meet up.” 

Right. Carlos was there. 

Traumatized again. 

“Yep.” 

Charles knew his friend was purposefully being dramatic. 

He didn’t mind. 

“You didn’t use those exact words.” 

“Nope.” 

If anything, he loved it. It was simply too funny. 

“Thanks for the mental image. I need to wash my brain with bleach.” 

“I can show you our texts if you want more details.” 

Charles would be lying if he said he wouldn’t miss those silly moments with the Spaniard. 

But he couldn’t start crying again. Those were enough tears for a lifetime. 

“I’m going to crash into both of you on the first lap in Australia.” 

“Good luck overtaking fifteen cars. Or more.” 

Carlos pushed him with enough strength to make him fall. 

Charles was not sorry. 

“Stop jinxing my future! I genuinely have high hopes for us.” 

“Me too. Really, I know you and Alex can do the impossible. But I still need your help.” 

A part of him felt really dumb for burdening Carlos with his stupid issues that could be solved by watching a romcom or listening to Taylor Swift, but it was the first time he ever felt like... that. 

God. He needed to do a lot of introspection during winter break. Preferably while on top of a mountain. 

“Charles. Mate. It's you and Max. He apologizes to you after crashes! You'll be fine.” 

“He apologized to Oscar too. I’m not special.” 

Carlos sighed so deeply he almost deflated. 

“Dios. Te lo ruego. Dame paciencia. You're right, you are stupid.” 

Charles smiled innocently, trying not to dwell on those words. Which, again. Were a joke. Un chistecito, like Carlos said sometimes. 

“Stop panicking and just... go with the flow! If you’re too anxious or anything, Landito and Oscar will be there during the gala. Talk to them about anything.” 

Lando would be there. 

Charles remembered what Carlos had said on Friday. 

You do know that there’s other gay people in this world, right? They told me stuff.  

I don’t want you to have a bad crisis about it.  

Add whatever was going on with Franco— 

No, no. 

Assuming things was wrong.  

God. Charles truly was a mistake. 

“I’ll take it into consideration. Gracias, Carlos.” 

He stood up, fully intending to leave, but the Spaniard grabbed his wrist and forced him to sit back down. 

“Hell no. Now it’s your turn to help me with my crisis.” 

“Oh? What kind of crisis?” 

Carlos took a deep breath. 

“...Okay, so, I might have lied about the Williams curse.” 

“He says they can’t stop all of us if we leave together. And I agree!” 

Oscar, who had recently gotten a new job as a carrier pigeon, seemed to be plotting their escape from that damned gala while he waited for Charles’ answer. 

He had two options. 

He could either traumatize his son and ask him to tell Max he wanted to leave only with him, or he could remain civil and propose a plan of his own. 

“Maybe one of us can fake a... a...” 

Oh God. 

He couldn’t remember the word in any language. 

His brain was totally fried. 

Damned FIA gala. 

Luckily, Oscar was his son, his blood, the inheritor of his lone braincell. 

“Fainting...?” 

“Yes! Exactly!” 

Oscar scooted over to Max’s side to relay the message. 

If Charles had to be honest, the gala itself wasn’t so bad. 

Being forced to sit down for hours was the issue, and he knew his fellow drivers were probably experiencing that same restlessness. 

They drove extremely fast cars for a living. They all craved the speed, the movement, the adrenaline. 

Charles' leg started bouncing. 

The carrier pigeon came back. 

“He says all of us are shit actors. I also agree.” 

“Hey! I'm a great actor, thank you very much.” 

Oscar raised an eyebrow. 

“Proof?” 

“The fake podiums after Abu Dhabi.” 

Only George had noticed he was more than just sad, and he had played it cool. Like he always did. 

No one suspected a thing. 

“Fair enough.” 

Oscar went back to Max. 

Carrier pigeon. 

Oscar Piastri. 

Pigeon. Piastri. 

Piastri-geon? 

Pige-astri? 

Just Pi-geon? 

Hm. 

“Hey. Don't ignore me.” 

“Oh. Sorry.” 

The Pi-geon was back already. 

How efficient. 

“He said you should stop that.” 

“‘That’ being...?” 

Oscar pointed to the Monegasque’s leg. 

Charles looked at Max, hoping that his eyes conveyed the right message. 

He couldn’t just show him the middle finger during the gala. 

The dutchman mouthed something to him, but Charles couldn’t understand him. 

Both men looked at Oscar. 

“I expect compensation for this.” 

Two minutes later, the Pi-geon had the message. 

Charles was making Max nervous.  

He bounced his leg faster. 

Being forced to take even more photos and answer even more questions after the gala ended should’ve been illegal. 

But alas, it wasn’t, and Max had been practically kidnapped by the media. 

To make things worse, Charles was being forced to wait. 

Alone. 

His anxiety was about to make him explode. 

“You okay?” 

Lando had been released from whatever prison he was in, and was kind enough to stay by Charles’ side to lessen his pain. 

“I need to get out of here.” 

“Feel you.” 

Max was holding his trophy and talking to whoever was interviewing him, and Charles couldn’t get his eyes off him. 

He wasn’t being subtle, but he wasn’t interested in that. 

No one truly, honestly, wholeheartedly believed Lestappen, as a romantic relationship, was real. 

His secret was safe. Their secret was safe. 

“I want it too.” 

Lando caught him off guard. 

He was staring at Max too, and it took Charles a few seconds to realize why. 

The trophy. 

The championship. 

The one thing they all fought for. 

“You already have yours. Stop being so greedy.” 

“It’s not the same and you know it!” 

No, it wasn’t. Constructors’ didn’t hold the same weight. 

Unless you didn’t win it. In that case, it weighted as much as a black hole, pulling down on your heart. 

“I need to get out of here.” 

He'd bounce back, eventually. He'd get over the loss, would learn from the experience, and come back even stronger, more determined than ever to get all the trophies. 

Hell, he was sure he’d bounce back way before February. The pattern was easy to recognize. 

But, in that specific moment, he needed to leave, to run away. 

He had to pick his battles. 

“Are you sure you’re okay, mate?” 

It wasn’t even about constructors’, not entirely. 

His body craved things.  

He couldn’t stay still for a second longer, and internally jumping between anxious restlessness and two-slash-third-place depression was unbearable. 

“I don’t know.” 

Lando was his friend. 

Maybe not the closest one, maybe not the one who understood him the most, but he cared for him, and he had witnessed the circus that Ferrari had been after 2019 and how it affected the Monegasque. 

He knew Charles needed a distraction, and something to keep his hands entertained. 

He started tapping on his second-place trophy, knowing that the Monegasque would mirror him. 

“Do you happen to have any clue about what time is it in Argentina right now?” 

Assuming things was wrong, but God was Lando making not assuming difficult. 

Was that the famous gaydar sending its signals? 

“Why should I know?” 

“Maybe you did. You never know.” 

He had to admit that it was an amazing distraction. It was the thing his brain needed. 

A part of him was paying attention to the conversation, but another one was scanning through his memories, looking for more signs. 

“And why do you want to know that?” 

“Because Franco’s not answering me!” 

Lando wasn’t dumb. 

He had to know how those words would be perceived. 

Charles had questions, but maybe the FIA gala wasn’t the right time to get the answers. 

“I didn’t know you were so possessive.” 

“I’m not. I just want to check on him. Is that a crime?” 

“It very well could be. Some people call it ‘stalking’.” 

Charles was almost completely sure he saw his entire life flash in front of him. 

Oscar didn’t apologize for nearly committing involuntary parricide. And Lando-cide, apparently. 

“Oscar Jack Piastri! How dare you try to murder your own teammate?!” 

The Australian only smirked before moving on. 

“Five less hours. Do the math on your own.” 

Lando unlocked his phone and stepped away to record a voice note. 

Oscar bit his lip and directed his attention to Charles. 

“You okay?” 

“Why does everyone keep asking that?” 

Oscar didn’t answer. 

Charles probably looked utterly miserable. 

“I need to get out of here. I'm getting antsy.” 

“You’re not the only one. At least you can leave after your interviews, I have to wait for the team photos and stuff.” 

Oscar was fidgeting with his bowtie. 

F1 drivers were all cut from the same cloth, weren’t they? 

“If you had let me win the championship, you wouldn’t even be here!” 

“But you didn’t raise me to be a quitter. If anything, it’s all your fault.” 

Ouch. 

Oscar had no way of knowing that those particular words had been haunting him for a while. It was a meaningless joke. 

Maybe Charles should stop sucking it up and tell his friends that yes, he had insecurities and no, he didn’t want to hear jokes like that one. 

One day, but not that one. 

“Kids these days. Can't believe you have a championship to your name before me, and even have the guts to bully me about it.” 

“Are you quoting Jos Verstappen?” 

Charles had to bit his lip to avoid laughing. 

No DNA tests were needed. Oscar truly was his son. 

“What did my father do now?” 

Charles wasn’t making it to his thirties. 

Max didn’t apologize for nearly committing a double homicide. 

Oscar fixed his hair before answering. 

“He doesn’t have any championships, but you do. Just like Charles and me.” 

The look in Max’s eyes was one of a cold-blooded murderer. 

The Monegasque had never seen him so offended. 

“Charles is a million times better than my dad. As a person and as a racer.” 

His mind traveled back to the infamous inchident.  

Once Charles learned that the reporters were only recording because they were expecting Jos to beat up Max, it stopped being as funny. 

The fact that Max was used to it made it even worse.  

“Well, yes, but anyone is. The bar is on the floor.” 

Max's eye twitched. 

He pressed his index finger against Charles’ chest. 

“Can’t you just take the compliment?” 

Charles grabbed Max’s wrist, pulling his hand away from his body, but refusing to let go after doing so. 

“But it’s true!” 

Blue eyes sent a spark to green ones. 

“Even if the bar is on the floor, you’re flying thousands of kilometers above it, Charles.”  

Before he got to answer, Oscar coughed. 

His smirk was dangerous. 

“Can you two leave your weird flirting for later, please?” 

Damned media-fueled Lestappen delusion. 

Damned Leclerc teasing genes. 

“We’re not—” 

“Of course.” 

Charles sometimes forgot how much of a menace Max was. 

To make things even worse, he got called for his interviews, and the dutchman blew him a kiss before he left. 

When he stepped in front of the cameras, he knew damn well that people online would lose their minds over his red face. 

By the time Charles was freed, Max had turned into the antsy one, and Oscar had been roaming around, telling people that the champion wasn’t feeling well and asking if he could leave. 

Five minutes later, the lovebirds, as the Australian had jokingly called them, were on their way to their hotel. 

It wasn’t a coincidence that they shared it. Max had arranged everything while Charles was having his breakdown in Carlos’ room. 

Was it a sign for him to stop being so dramatic? Yes. 

Did he care? No. 

No one said a word during their ride. They were both too overwhelmed for small talk, even among themselves. 

Their driver turned up the music, filling the car with a melody Charles was sure he’d heard before. 

He sent Seb a voice note and asked him the name of the song. 

He did his best to ignore the previous messages in that particular chat. 

Poor Seb. He had always been the nicest to Charles, and what had he received in return? A million gay crisis and too many details about Max’s body. 

And he would be getting more in the near future! 

He couldn’t complain, though. He had a nice, loving family, a farm, his bees, and four championships. 

Seb was living the dream, and Charles would be lying if he said he wasn’t a bit jealous. 

Getting married to Max, buying a farm in the middle of nowhere, living on their own and away from the media... 

No. 

No, no, absolutely not. That was too much, even for the king of delusion himself. 

Max, all sweaty and red after working on their farm... 

Charles bit his lip. 

He desperately needed to get back to the fucking hotel. 

“Stop being so impatient. We're almost there.” 

God, he despised being an open book sometimes. Even if it saved him from headaches quite often. 

He really, really hoped Max was completely oblivious to the true extent of Charles’ delusion. 

“You can’t tell me what to do.” 

Max pushed his arm, a smile plastered on his face. 

God. 

What a beautiful smile. 

What a beautiful man.  

Charles was so fucked. 

He allowed himself to daydream for the rest of the trip, trying to keep his thoughts on the wholesome side and not the horny one. He wasn’t that desperate. 

He had waited for years before finally getting a taste. He could wait a few more minutes. 

He was still lost in thought when he stepped inside Max’s room. 

He didn’t see the dutchman coming. 

Charles was pushed on top of the bed, Max falling on top of him... and staying there. 

“Max?” 

“I need to recharge. Five minutes.” 

They shifted around a bit, getting into a more comfortable position. 

Max was breathing heavily against Charles’ neck, the Monegasque’s arms wrapped around the dutchman’s waist. 

It would’ve made Charles’ heart ache if it wasn’t for the reason they were there that night. 

He needed to recharge too, inner battery completely empty after the gala, but there were multiple ways to do so. 

He waited patiently, though. Letting Max set the pace every once in a while wasn’t a crime. 

He was so subtle at first Charles didn’t even notice. 

He slightly moved his head, his lips now mere millimeters away from the Monegasque's neck. 

One of his hands was getting closer to Charles’ hair, the other one near his shoulder. 

Charles' breath hitched. 

Max pushed himself up, straddling the Monegasque’s lap. 

“Charles.” 

Blue eyes met green ones. 

He was looking for confirmation. 

Pierre's words came back to Charles 

If you’re not talking about it, stay away from him.  

“Max.” 

Maybe he was an idiot. 

Maybe he was the stupidest person alive. 

He couldn’t care less. 

Don't make the same mistake twice.  

Max’s lips crashed against Charles’. 

Their jackets were gone in seconds, but the ties took a bit longer. The dutchman was struggling. 

“Wow. Such a pro.” 

“Shut up.” 

Charles only had one objective in mind when he answered. 

“Make me.” 

Max did not disappoint. 

Their lips met again, the kiss growing more passionate every second. 

There was a hand on his hair, and Max was biting his lower lip, and it all felt so good.  

The dutchman unbuttoned Charles’ shirt, not bothering to fully take it off before biting his nipple. 

“Ouch! Where did that come from?” 

“I always wanted to do that.” 

He made it up by kissing it better. 

Blue eyes found green ones. 

“Are you going to the southern hemisphere anytime soon?” 

That was a ridiculous question. 

It should’ve killed the mood. 

“Does Cancún count?” 

It didn’t. 

If anything, Max’s frown turned Charles on so much more.  

“...That is not the south—” 

“You’re asking me if I’m going to the beach, aren’t you?” 

The lack of an answer was an answer on its own. 

“Cancún, for Christmas. Why?” 

Blue eyes stared at Charles’ neck. 

There was a certain type of hunger in them the Monegasque had never seen before. 

There was always a chance he was reading it all wrong, that he was projecting his own desires, but... 

He knew Max. Had known him for years. 

He knew how possessive he could get sometimes. 

The ever-present voice in Charles’ head was telling him that it was wrong, wrong, wrong.  

“Max.” 

But there was another voice, much louder, that asked for more, more, more.  

“Do it. They'll fade.” 

Max’s mouth was slightly open, his lips oh so tempting, his hair a total mess. 

How could a human be so fucking perfect?  

“Are you sure?” 

Max was giving him one last chance. 

One last chance to back down, to leave paradise behind and pretend that nothing happened. 

“Yes, Max. I’m all yours if you want me.” 

There was a softness in those gorgeous blue eyes, a softness that shouldn’t, couldn’t be there, given who they were and what they did for a living. 

It didn’t last for too long. 

“Okay then.” 

Max took his sweet time, kissing and biting and lightly sucking at every mole that Charles had on his torso. 

He closed his eyes and allowed himself to enjoy, no voices, no regrets. 

He sucked in a sharp breath when Max bit the crook of his neck, biting his lip to avoid embarrassing himself with whatever noises his body wanted to make. 

“Charlie.” 

He opened his eyes to a sight he was sure he’d never forget. 

Max was now shirtless too, a few droplets of sweat already glistening on his skin, the infamous nipple piercings stealing all his attention. 

One of his hands was on the waistband of Charles’ pants. 

The other one was on his chest, thumb gently rubbing against a small bruise that wasn’t there before. 

He was a man created by the Olympian gods themselves, who was perfect in every way, who could easily go through all of Charles’ defenses and strike his heart. 

“Are you absolutely sure—” 

“Yes, Max. I want this. I want you.”  

In more than one sense, but he didn’t have to know that yet. 

Words didn’t seem to be enough to reassure him, so Charles lifted himself with one arm, his free hand fixing a stubborn strand of hair that had fallen on Max’s forehead. 

“Are you sure? If you don’t want to, we can—” 

“No, no, I do. I want you too. More than you can imagine.” 

Charles' heart ached, but his hormones were the ones in control. 

There was no going back by then. 

Charles hadn’t realized how touch-starved he was until Max rolled out of bed to get a couple of water bottles. 

Rude! 

They hadn’t even caught their breaths yet, water could wait for a few more minutes! 

Wait, no. 

Charles was... sticky. 

Very sticky. 

Water didn’t seem too bad, if it came with a towel. 

Max had to be a genius of sorts, because he did come back with a wet towel. Hell, he even cleaned up Charles, refusing any help that the Monegasque offered. 

“You don’t have to do that, you know.” 

“No, but I want to.” 

There it was again, that softness in the dutchman’s eyes. 

God. 

He covered Charles with the comforter and cuddled him, his fingers tracing figures on his arm and Charles was so, so, so fucked. 

Couldn't Vegas come faster? 

“Max?” 

The dutchman hummed against his chest. 

God.  

“When are we going back to Vegas?” 

He feared he was ruining the moment, but he needed to know 

If he sounded desperate, it was because he was.  

Max kissed his chest. 

There was no way he couldn’t hear his accelerated heartbeat. 

“When are you free?” 

Monaco, Fiorano, two more days in Monaco, Cancún, back to Monaco, winter training... 

“No idea.” 

He had never, not even once, thought about what would happen if they didn’t talk about it soon enough. 

No point dwelling on it before it even happened. 

They had months, and Max had a private plane. They'd just have to find a date. 

They both sighed at the same time. 

The silence was comfortable, and with Max’s fingers still caressing his arm, Charles was in heaven. 

The sex was good, yes. Really good. Charles thanked his miserable Vegas self for agreeing to go to the party and finally discovering what Max had to offer. 

But sharing those sweet moments... 

Max scratching his head in Vegas, waiting for him to fall asleep before going back to the party, their casual dinner in Qatar, his arms around Charles’ body while he cried after losing the championship... 

And now this, taking care of Charles after ahem, taking the time to cuddle with him and making sure he was doing okay...  

“How are you feeling now?” 

Max was so kind, so caring, so... 

Loving. 

“Fine. More than fine.” 

Any doubts that Charles had about what the dutchman really wanted were starting to disappear. 

No man cared that much about a pretty face and a pretty body. 

And some of his own problems, his insecurities, that annoying voice that never left him alone, were starting to disappear too. 

Thanks to Max..  

“That’s good to hear.” 

Love was a strong word, but it wasn’t enough. Damned English language. 

Love, amore, amour.  

in Spanish, according to Carlos, amor.  

Liebe. Seb had taught him that one. 

“How do you say ‘love’ in Dutch?” 

Clearly, he wasn’t thinking straight. 

He just blurted it out, making Max freeze. 

Stupid.  

“What?” 

“Love. The word. In Dutch.” 

It wasn’t tense per se, but something in the air had changed. 

Maybe it was dumb. Meaningless. 

Maybe it was exhaustion. 

“Why do you want to know?” 

“Can’t a man want to expand his linguistic horizons?” 

Semantics aside, he truly wanted to learn even just the basics of Dutch. 

It was the least Charles could do if they were spending the rest of their lives together. 

“Liefde.”  

“Sounds an awful lot like liebe.”  

Max pulled away from him only so he could stare right into Charles’ eyes. 

“Really? I hadn’t noticed. Wow. Incredible discovery.” 

“Hey! Don't bully me!” 

Charles crossed his arms to get his point across. 

Max didn’t even attempt to be subtle when he checked his arms out. 

“It’s been... how long since my debut? How many years of the entire paddock calling Dutch an angry mix of German and English?” 

Nope. 

Charles wasn’t answering that. 

He rolled his eyes, trying to end the conversation. 

Trying and failing, which he should’ve guessed. Max never gave up so easily. 

“How do you say it in French?” 

“There’s no way you don’t know that.” 

Everyone knew how to say ‘love’ in French. Along with ‘baguette’ and ‘croissant’.  

“I don’t.” 

He already knew the direction the conversation was going. 

He answered anyways. 

“Amour.”  

If Max blushed harder, Charles pretended not to notice. 

“Sounds an awful lot like amor. Checo taught me that one.” 

No, no, no, no.  

That was a line no one should cross. 

No one. 

Not even the Max Verstappen. 

“You did not just mention another man while I’m naked on your bed.” 

“He’s married and has children. You can’t seriously be jealous.” 

He fully intended to answer, to defend his pride and demand compensation. 

Charles’ phone rang, breaking the spell that surrounded them. 

His eyes widened once he saw who was calling. 

“Antonio? What's—”  

“Where the hell are you?”  

Max raised an eyebrow. 

He didn’t speak Italian. Charles felt a bit bad for leaving him out. 

“At the hotel, with Max. Why?”  

“Max? Verstappen?”  

That one, he could probably recognize. 

The dutchman closed his eyes and sighed. 

“He wasn’t feeling well. Didn't Oscar tell you?”  

“No? God, Charles, we were worried—”  

Max snatched the Monegasque’s phone from his hands. 

Charles’ life flashed before his eyes. 

“Hi, Antonio, congratulations again to you and the team on Le Mans! I was having a panic attack, so cut Charlie some slack.” 

His voice sounded so different from before, even though he was still speaking English. 

Charles' jaw hit the floor. 

He knew Max tended to lie to get out of uncomfortable situations. It was second nature to him. 

He just didn’t expect him to be so... casual, maybe, with his excuse. 

It wasn’t something to joke about. 

“Shit, dude. That sounds serious. Are you feeling better now?”  

“Sort of. I'm used — ” 

“Can you give me back my phone, please? Thank you!” 

He sounded way more sarcastic than he intended. English things he would never understand. 

Max complied, though. He gave him his phone back. 

The little bit of magic that was left in the room disappeared. 

He switched back to Italian just in case. 

“Sorry. I couldn’t just leave him alone.”  

“Go help him, but we’re leaving in half an hour.”  

Shit. 

Too much time had passed, and he hadn’t even noticed it. 

He ran a hand through his hair. 

“Okay. See you in a bit.”  

He immediately rolled out of bed after ending the call, looking for his clothes in the mess that was on the floor. 

Max scooted closer to the edge of the bed. 

“What are you doing?” 

“We’re leaving in half an hour. That's what mezz’ora means, for future reference.” 

Again, much more sarcastic than he intended. 

The stress was getting to his head. 

“Half an hour?” 

“Yep.” 

And he still had to go back to his room, maybe change into more comfortable clothes, pack all his skincare and makeup, make sure everything was in place... 

Half an hour wasn’t nearly enough. 

And Max knew that. 

“Why don’t you fly with me? We can leave whenever we want to.” 

If only life was that easy. 

He couldn’t just leave the Ferrari boys behind. Besides, he had a carefully planned schedule he wanted to stick to. 

“I’d love to, but I don’t have a choice, Max.” 

The dutchman looked like a wet cat, for the lack of a better description. 

An angry wet cat. 

“So you’re just... leaving. Okay then.” 

Charles didn’t take it personally. 

After so many years by his side, he knew damn well that Max wasn’t acquainted with sadness, only anger. 

He always pushed people aside, hoping that they got fed up and put distance between them. 

A distance that Max didn’t want, but that he was used to. 

Charles also knew why all of that happened, but that was none of his business. He had tried to talk about it, failed miserably and accepted that the dutchman had issues only he could solve. 

The Monegasque looked for every last drop of patience he had left before answering. 

“I don’t have a choice. I'd love to stay here and fall asleep next to you, but I can’t.” 

Max didn’t answer. He didn’t even move from the spot on the bed he was laying on. 

Charles gathered all his clothes and looked in the full-length mirror before getting changed. 

His entire torso was covered in hickeys. 

They weren’t big enough to be a potential problem for Cancún, and the highest one was on his clavicle, right on top of his mole. All of his casual shirts covered it. 

“You’re so smart you make me feel dumb sometimes, Maxie.” 

He hoped the nickname earned him a reaction, but it didn’t. 

Again, Charles didn’t take it personally. 

By the time he finished changing, too much time spent on his tie, Max had finally gotten out of bed and was looking for a comfier shirt. 

“Text me when you land.” 

A part of Charles wanted to be petty, to return the silent treatment and just leave. 

He knew better than to be an asshole. 

“Same to you.” 

He checked his phone. 

Fifteen minutes had passed. He was running out of time, and he needed to leave. 

He wrapped his arms around Max. 

“I had a great time, just so you know. All day, not just now. You made the gala tolerable.” 

Finally, finally, the dutchman did something. 

He put his arms around Charles too. 

“I had a great time too, even at the damned gala. I think Oscar suspects something, though.” 

He thought so, too. 

They could’ve talked about it. 

“I have to leave.” 

Charles hoped his kiss showed Max how much he loved him, and how much he regretted not staying for longer. 

Tears filled his eyes once he closed the door. 

With the spell broken, without blue eyes clouding his judgement, the ever-present voice was louder than ever. 

He was such a fucking idiot. 

Chapter Text

This Must be the Place (Naive Melody) by Talking Heads.  

Are you finally culturizing yourself?  

Oh no, don’t tell me you’re musicalizing your yearning.  

Charles?  

You ask for my help and then ignore me?  

You wound me.  

Shut up Seb.  

I was being fucked into next weekend.  

And now I’m in crying in my plane.  

Thanks tho!! Cool song.  

Poor Seb, always getting unwanted details about the Monegasque’s life.  

Oh well. How to deal with it was his problem, not Charles’. He had bigger issues.  

The plane was silent, everyone but him already asleep after a long day.  

God did Charles want to sleep. His body was in pain, good pain, but his brain was completely fried, and his mind refused to shut up.  

He had fucked everything up, like he always did.  

They hadn’t talked about shit, hadn’t had the time to process that night, hadn’t done anything other than fucking.  

And, well, cuddling for a little bit, but it didn’t really count.  

Charles had been an asshole, Max was mad at him, and all the magic had vanished.  

He knew Seb would text him in the morning, probably call him if he didn’t answer fast enough. The German would reassure him, would help him forget his insecurities, cleanse the negative thoughts from his brain, and Charles would get the balls to talk to Max and move on.  

But, at that moment, Seb was asleep, and Charles was still wearing his crumpled suit, crying with his sad playlist on.  

He knew he couldn’t trust his brain after so little sleep and so many empty hours at the gala, but...  

Since when did he listen to logic?  

He was the master of delusion, a man driven by emotions, hope and coincidences. He believed in everything his heart said, no matter how objectively right or wrong it was.  

He always fucked everything up. Either be races or any kind of relationships, he always made the wrong choices, said the wrong things, fucked up to the point of no return and was left behind picking up the broken pieces.  

Blue eyes crossed his mind.  

The softness in them had disappeared when Charles left, yet they still looked as gorgeous as ever.  

If loving Max was a mistake, Charles wouldn’t mind fucking up every single day of his life.  

But oh did his heart ache once he remembered that would never be possible.  

Unless it was, unless they found a way to make it work, to love each other without the world knowing.  

Love was a very strong word. Maybe Max didn’t love Charles, why would he?  

But he had cleaned Charles up when he didn’t have to, wanting to take care of him and complaining after not being able to.  

Jumping between hating himself for being in love with a man and daydreaming about sharing his entire life with said man would make him explode eventually, and he feared that day was approaching sooner than he expected.  

Why couldn’t his brain just shut up?  

He closed his eyes, trying to get at least a few minutes of rest.  

He still had his headphones on, Taylor’s soft voice reverberating through his brain.  

And the skeletons in both our closets plotted hard to fuck this up.  

He pressed skip, trying to slow down his descent into madness.  

To no one’s surprise, he failed miserably.  

"Stop checkin’ your mailbox for confessions of love that ain’t never gonna come...”  

His mind had refused to fall silent, cursing him with a sleepless flight and a spiral so deep it reached the core of his heart.  

Max would never love him.  

It would be foolish to think otherwise.  

The man had despised him when they were younger, Charles sharing that same sentiment, and the years of tension had evolved as they grew up.  

They weren’t enemies, not anymore, but they were rivals, destined to fight wheel to wheel and spew hurtful words at each other every chance they got.  

Just like Esteban and Pierre after Brazil, their nights had been nothing more than a result of hormones, adrenaline and pent-up tension, a safe-enough way of fulfilling their natural needs after such a hectic year.  

It wasn’t, and would never be, true love.  

The rain hitting against the car window was enough of an omen to confirm his suspicions.  

They weren’t Maxie and Charlie, two friends traveling through life together, exploring the limits of what they liked and what they wanted without judgement.  

They were Max Verstappen and Charles Leclerc, the Lion of Milton Keynes and the Sun of Maranello.  

Even if, if, for reasons Charles wouldn’t possibly understand, reasons that only confirmed his status as a man who lived off delusion, if Max were to love him back, the world they lived in didn’t allow relationships like theirs.  

Charles should’ve listened to Pierre, should’ve taken a step back and let his love dissipate, should’ve avoided getting hurt.  

If, if, if, should’ve, should’ve, should’ve.  

If my mom had balls, she would be my dad.  

He didn’t chuckle, not like he would have at any other moment.  

Exhaustion finally got to him as he opened the door to his apartment  

He couldn’t help but text Max about his safe arrival, not wanting to break his promise and worry the man.  

Leo was sound asleep on his tiny bed, so Charles tiptoed around his apartment, filling a glass with cold water before going to his bed.  

He didn’t bother changing, arms too heavy to do so.  

He hated himself in the morning, but what else was new?  

His body was begging for food, his empty fridge a huge problem he was in no position to overcome.  

He did have coffee, though, but first, he needed a shower.  

He hadn’t forgotten how his body looked like, so he made himself a favor and turned off the lights, the few rays of sunlight peeking through the small window being his only source of light.  

Showering in the dark wasn’t the hardest task he had ever completed, but he had one teeny, tiny problem.  

His heart always won the battles against his brain, yes, but his dick had the most wins on its tally.  

And when he accidentally looked in the mirror, towel wrapped around his waist, droplets of water still on his skin, he couldn’t help but think that the hickeys the dutchman had left behind looked so fucking hot.  

Max would never love him, but he could very well fuck him every once in a while. And if that was the only way Charles could have him, he could live with that and learn how to coexist with his pain.  

He rushed back to his room, grabbed his phone and went back to the bathroom.  

He messed up his damp hair even further, lowered the towel enough to be tempting, and took a selfie.  

[ ① Photo]  

Didn't know you were an artist, but this is a masterpiece.  

;)  

In his defense, he enjoyed being a menace.  

If Max would haunt his heart until the end of times, the only thing Charles could do was return the sentiment.  

Yes, he was technically making it a competition, in a way. What about it?  

He'd learn to balance his life and heartbreak, eventually, but in the meanwhile, he had coffee to make and a day to fill.  

Leo was still asleep, so Charles opted to postpone his run and sat down in front of his piano.  

It had been a while since he practiced, his time simply not being enough, but with the season over and a few free days before he went to Fiorano for Carlos’ farewell, there was nothing stopping him.  

His fingers moved on their own, his subconscious stronger than any potential choice.  

He was expecting literally everything but ‘champagne problems’, but who was he to complain?  

Max had asked about that song not too long ago, his shocked face funny enough to pull Charles out of his drunken, post-race misery.  

He couldn’t help but wonder if his shock had an explanation other than alcohol. Kelly and Max had broken up earlier that year, could it...  

No, no. Max had already talked about it, clarified that he had broken up with her, not too long after the Miami race.   

“One for the money, two for the show, I never was ready, so I watch you go...”  

Leo barked next to him.  

Charles immediately abandoned his piano and picked him up.  

“Oh, hi, baby. Good morning.”  

The dog barked again before trying to jump off his dad’s hands.  

Like father, like son, Leo was a menace.  

“No, you can’t walk on top of the piano!”  

His whole face got licked in retaliation.  

Nothing that Charles wasn’t used to.   

His baby was clearly antsy, needing his morning run and some love.  

Charles left his phone behind the closed door.  

He had grown up in those streets, he didn’t need a map to get back home, and emergencies were highly unlikely.  

A few people recognized him and asked for photos, although everyone seemed more interested in Leo than his father.  

Not that Charles would complain. He loved his dog, and he loved that the world loved him too.  

Love.  

Max didn’t love him. He couldn’t.  

He would never be free from his chains, would he?  

He cut his run short after his stomach grumbled, his Leo begging for breakfast too.  

He had enough dog food for a lifetime, but human food?  

His fridge hadn’t been magically filled while he was away. He only had coffee, one single can of lentils and half a portion of uncooked pasta.  

Triple headers, plus subsequent FIA galas, would be the death of him one day.  

He ignored his stomach and went back to his piano, coffee in hand, choosing one of his songs this time.  

AUS23 flooded his home, his feelings from that particular weekend coming back to him.  

By that day, all the numbness after 2022 had nearly disappeared. As much as he despised failing, as much as he despised pain, it was a feeling, and it had been welcomed with open arms.  

He would never be free from the fingers pointed at him, the harsh words cutting through his skin and leaving scars that would never fully heal.  

Even if he knew who was to blame for most of his failures that year, he still had made mistakes, that had been used as ammo every time he dared to complain.  

He had tuned out the voices out as much as he could, celebrated the second places almost like they were championships, but the damage had been done.  

Two full years had passed, and Charles couldn’t stop himself from taking full responsibility every time something went slightly wrong.  

A fleeting thought crossed his mind, last night’s spiral coming back to him, but he ignored it to focus on his piano.  

Leo was sitting next to him, calmly listening, no longer the hyperactive puppy from earlier that year that tried to bite his shoes every time he pressed the pedals.  

Life wasn’t so terrible.  

And he jinxed the hell out of it.  

His phone rang from his bedroom, breaking the calm atmosphere into smithereens.  

Statistically speaking, it had to be Seb. The German must’ve been worried after Charles’ texts.  

But no, statistics had failed him, because it wasn’t Sebastian Vettel the one videocalling him.  

It was Pierre Gasly.  

“This better be urgent.”  

“Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc.”  

He froze halfway to his walk back to his piano.  

Pierre never, never called him by his full name.  

“What did I do now?”  

“Ignore me? Why do you have a phone if you’re not answering it?”  

Oh, he was just being dramatic.  

Nothing to be worried about.  

“I was playing the piano!”  

“All morning?”  

No, he wasn’t being dramatic, it was so much more than that.  

It wasn’t even that la—  

Oh.  

“Oh.”  

It was already lunchtime.  

And Charles hadn’t even finished his coffee.  

Had he really woken up that late?  

“Sometimes I feel bad for always having the braincell.”  

“As you should.”  

There was a sizzling sound on the background, so Pierre had either left his stove unattended, or...  

“Hi, Yuki!!”  

The Japanese man took a few steps backwards, appearing into frame with a wooden spoon on his hand.  

“Hi, Charles! If you disappear and make Pierre so stressed he forces me to cook lunch again I’m kidnapping your dog!”  

He didn’t protest. The poor guy had been an involuntary witness of multiple of Charles’ crisis, courtesy of Pierre’s refusal to be away from either of them.  

And if they were calling, if Yuki was making lunch while Pierre chewed on his nails, something had rung the alarm bells.  

They were concerned. Seriously concerned.  

“Noted, but what did I do now?”  

He hadn’t texted Pierre yet, his thoughts too muddled to be put onto writing.  

Either it was a sixth sense, or someone had spilled something.  

“Disappearing! Lando said you didn’t look great at the gala, and when I looked at your Airbuds, all I could see were sad songs. You listened to the ten-minute version of All Too Well twelve times, Charles. That’s two hours.”  

Ah, shit.  

He had forgotten he had downloaded that app, that Pierre could see every song he listened to.  

He had no way of avoiding that conversation, but he didn’t know where to start.  

Heaven took mercy upon him, making his stomach grumble loud enough to be heard all the way to Milan, even without the videocall.  

Pierre raised an eyebrow.  

“Have you eaten anything in the past twelve hours?”  

“Does dick count?”  

Pierre's phone fell to the floor.  

Both Charles and Yuki burst out laughing.  

“No, it doesn’t count, but what the fuck! What did you do?”  

“Didn’t you say you didn’t want details the last time?”  

If looks could kill, Charles would be a dead man ten times over.  

As much as he wanted to keep the humor up, he knew he couldn’t escape.  

Pierre had called him. Videocalled him, which meant Yuki hadn’t been able to reason with him.  

And if even Yuki was concerned...  

Who knew what kind of scenarios those two had been overthinking about. After 2022, everything was possible, and Charles couldn’t really blame them.  

So he sucked it up, tried to keep his face neutral, and spilled.  

“I asked Max to meet up after the gala. We ended up leaving early, spent some nice time together, and I fucked everything up afterwards. I couldn’t fall asleep on the plane, and...”  

If his voice broke at the end, no one mentioned it.  

Pierre's gaze softened.  

“Fucked up how, exactly?”  

He was well-aware of the Monegasque’s tendencies to spiral, and he knew what to do to get him back to real life.  

But Charles didn’t answer.  

Putting his feelings into words still wasn’t an option.  

Yuki walked back into frame, wooden spoon still in hand.  

“Maybe you should eat something first.”  

“My fridge is empty. It’s depressing.”  

Two pairs of eyes stared at him from his screen.  

Even Leo barked in agreement.  

“Fine, but you do not get to judge me for this. I don’t have a private chef.”  

He ignored the surprisingly-still-not-a-couple's protests before boiling some water on his electric kettle and pouring it on the smallest pot he had. It saved him time, okay?  

According to the package, he needed to wait only eight minutes for his pasta to be done, and he desperately searched for something other than lentils to add to it.  

No butter, no cheese, not even oil.  

Triple headers would definitely be the death of him.  

“You were right, this is depressing.”  

“Shut up, Yuki. I'm doing my best.”  

It wasn’t really a joke, but it was perceived as one.  

The eight minutes were filled with small talk and Leo’s need for attention, and the four of them ate together, Yuki’s homemade ramen looking much more enticing than Charles’ depression lentil pasta.  

If Pierre hadn’t called, Charles would’ve ignored his hunger until it was impossible to do so, and would’ve eaten his depressing meal depressingly alone. And, even though the Frenchman couldn’t read minds and had no magical way of knowing it, he still had noticed the very small signs Charles had left behind.  

Pierre cared so much about him.  

Charles couldn’t be more grateful for him, even if Yuki was attached to his hip around seventy percent of the time.  

“So...”  

Putting his feelings into words still wasn’t an option, but he had to try.  

For Pierre.  

God. Charles had immense amounts of introspection to do in top of mountains that winter.  

“Do we have to kill him?”  

“No! No. He didn’t do anything, I was the problem.”  

Only one glance between the childhood friends was needed to read each other’s minds.  

Yuki sighed, already knew what was coming.  

“It’s me, hi, I’m the problem, it’s me.”  

“At tea time, everybody agrees.”  

The Japanese man groaned, lightly pushing Pierre’s arm.  

“Neither of you can sing, so shut up. What happened, Charles?”  

At least one of them was sane enough to stay focused.  

Charles sighed, trying to recall the events of the previous night as best as he could.  

“I was the one who asked to meet up, and I left almost immediately after. He wanted to cuddle and shit, but Antonio called me because I was late. I guess I lost track of time.”  

They had lost track of time, but it didn’t matter. Charles should’ve been more attentive, since he was the one on a schedule.  

Maybe it would’ve been fine if he hadn’t been such an asshole.  

That's what mezz’ora means, for future reference.  

What the fuck was wrong with him?  

“And I may have said some not so nice things. Whoops.”  

“Things like...?”  

Pierre raised an eyebrow.  

Yuki took a sip off his water.  

Knowing Charles’ tendencies to overthink, it wasn't a surprise that neither of them believed him.  

“Nothing important, but I wasn’t the nicest. I begged him to fuck me, did the deed, treated him like shit and left just like that. He gave me the silent treatment while I was getting changed, and I can’t blame him for it.”  

Surprisingly, it was Yuki who said the uncomfortable truth. Pierre didn’t even have the time to process Charles’ words.  

“And... have you talked to him about it? Maybe it isn’t as serious as you think.”  

Critical hit.  

Maybe it wasn’t as serious as he thought.  

Max had offered a solution, deflected like he always did and always regretted when that solution didn’t work, asked to be informed when Charles got home and had even kissed the Monegasque back before he left.  

“I haven’t talked to anyone. But I may or may not have sent him a thirst trap.”  

Pierre looked up, asking God for mercy.  

“Remind me why I still talk to you.”  

“Because you love me very dearly.”  

Charles didn’t miss how Yuki’s eye twitched, but he chose to ignore it.  

He also ignored how Pierre intertwined their hands, neither of them reacting weirdly to it.  

Whatever was going on with those two wasn’t his problem. Yet.  

“Talk to him, for fuck’s sake. Stop overthinking stuff.”  

Charles was incredibly grateful for Pierre.  

That didn’t mean that his advice was always welcomed without complaints. He'd rather die than admit he was wrong.  

“I can try.”  

God, he really hoped he was wrong.  

Even if it was a mistake, he wanted Max to love him back.  

Yuki, bless his soul, got tired of the slightly uncomfortable silence and spoke up.  

“We’re not getting anything else out of you, are we.”  

“Nope.”  

Too much introspection for a day not spent in the mountains.  

Besides, after a good night’s sleep and some food, nothing seemed as bad as he thought.  

He knew he shouldn’t have trusted his brain. Oh well.  

Pierre cleared his throat, stealing all the attention.  

“Okay then. Now that I have both of you here, there’s something I need to tell you.”  

Having recently graduated from the George Russell University of Drama, the Frenchman squeezed Yuki’s hand and stared straight into the camera.  

“I’ve been thinking about getting a hair transplant.”  

There were a few seconds of absolute silence.  

And then, laughter.  

“A hair transplant? Why?” 

“Why not? The stupid helmets are making me bald.”  

Only then did Charles notice that Yuki wasn’t laughing.  

Oh, no.  

He was terrified.  

“Just get a massage or something! Or get scalp oils!”  

He was taking it very personally. Charles would’ve paid millions to witness that scene in real life.  

“Not all of us are blessed by genetics, Yuki! Some of us have to pay for nice hair.”  

“Mate. You need to shave your head for that. You’ll end up bald either way.”  

That thought hadn’t crossed Yuki’s mind yet, apparently.  

He groaned and rubbed his temple with his free hand, the other one still trapped under Pierre’s.  

“I will not be seen in public with a bald man, Pierre. Transplant or me, you choose.”  

Whatever was going on between those two was about to become Charles’ problem.  

He had his own demons to deal with, though. A blond, Dutch, blue-eyed demon that he needed to talk to, specifically.  

“Can you two leave me out of this, please?”  

The maybe-a-secret-couple looked at each other.  

“Go talk to your man, I’ll talk some sense into mine. Good luck!”  

Yuki ended the videocall before anyone else could react.  

Charles couldn’t help but chuckle, replaying the entire call in his head.  

Maybe Yuki and Pierre were right. Maybe it wasn’t that serious.  

Max could love him. Did he? Well, Charles didn’t know. He'd have to ask.  

He was not asking, not until they went to Las Vegas. But, meanwhile, he could dream.  

The ever-present voice refused to fade away, but Charles knew better than to trust his mind.  

He had a lot of unread messages. Andrea, Joris, Arthur and Lorenzo, Antonio, Lewis, Carlos, Seb, and...  

Max.  

You're playing with fire, Leclerc.  

One message.  

One singular message, and Charles was fighting tooth and nail against his instincts, the urge to rip all his hair out too strong to handle.  

He could always ask Pierre about that hair transplant, right?  

The mental image of his friend with a shaved head was enough to make him snap out of it.  

He answered with a simple wink emoji, debating whether or not to bring up how things had ended the previous night.  

Heaven took mercy upon him again, because the dutchman replied almost instantly.  

I just landed in Nice.  

Are you free tonight? We can have dinner at my house.  

Oh.  

Well, that was...  

Unexpected.  

At least he could confirm that Max didn’t hate him.  

Either Heaven was being generous that day, or the dutchman was also overthinking everything, because a new message came through.  

I promise it’s just dinner.  

Between friends.  

Friends.  

Friends.  

Friends.  

Frie—  

Fine by me.  

Do I bring something?  

Beer? Wine? Vodka?  

No, wait, I’m not financing my enemies. No vodka red bulls.  

HAHAHA hey!  

Please, Charlie, we need the money, we’re so fucked.  

Don't bring anything, your presence is enough.  

Friends.  

Max didn’t love him.  

Bald Pierre popped into his mind, frowning at his stupid train of thought.  

God.  

Maybe he really needed professional help or something. Everything in his brain was just wrong.  

He tuned out all the voices and sat down in front of his piano again, his baby already waiting for the concert.  

His subconscious chose ABBA this time. Chiquitita was one of Leo’s favorites.  

Getting to Max’s house without being spotted was much easier when he walked there, dressed like a regular guy and avoiding the main streets.  

No fancy cars, no Ferrari merch, just normal clothes and his sunglasses... and Leo, hidden inside the giant pocket of his oversized hoodie.  

He couldn’t leave his baby behind, not after being away from him for so long.  

Max didn’t seem too surprised.  

“Oh, hello, cutie. Didn't know you were coming too.”  

The baby licked Max’s hand when he tried to pet him.  

Both men laughed.  

Leo tried to jump off Charles’ arms, so his dad gently placed him on the floor.  

“I brought him his own food, so you only have to worry about us.”  

He grabbed the tupperware filled with kibble and the can of wet food from his pocket.  

Max raised an eyebrow.  

“Is your pocket magical or something?”  

Charles rolled his eyes, refraining from answering.  

If he had to be honest, Leo was a peace offering. With the dog roaming around, exploring the house and interacting with the three cats, any uncomfortable silences could be easily filled.  

Less than a day before, they were intertwined under the sheets, and now they had to act like nothing had happened.  

Or not. Maybe they’d talk about it, clear the air, whatever.  

Either way, there would be silences.  

Or not.  

Bald Pierre made yet another appearance.  

“So... what are we having for dinner?”  

He hoped Max didn’t notice how he couldn’t stop fidgeting with his rings.  

Despair was yet again making him act like a teenager, nervous about the smallest things.  

Couldn't he bounce back to his usual self faster?!  

“I was thinking pizza. And I was also hoping that you ordered it.”  

Charles raised an eyebrow.  

Max avoided his eyes.  

“They’re nicer when you speak French instead of English.”  

That wasn’t entirely true. Monaco had always been a paradise for foreigners, the locals were used to it.  

Some of the French people who worked there, however...  

Not all of them, of course. On the contrary, the assholes were a very small minority, but they stood out.  

But Max didn’t have to know that. If he hadn’t realized it on his own, it wasn’t Charles’ problem.  

“Well, of course they are! Les personnes comme tu sont un problème.”  

The Monegasque could almost see the gears turning inside Max’s head, trying to decipher what he had just said.  

And Charles had been benevolent! He spoke calmly and slowly, making himself easier to understand.  

“How am I a problem?”  

“You moved here forever ago and tu ne parles toujours pas français.”  

Max clearly couldn’t translate that one. Not fully.  

He grabbed his phone and offered it to Charles.  

“So... Are you—”  

“I’m not ordering anything until you apologize for ruining my country.”  

Charles put his hands on his waist and narrowed his eyes.  

Max's eye twitched, probably considering murder.  

“I am soooo sorry, Your Majesty, Prince of Monaco, for being the only reason your country is ruined. Can you order the pizza?”  

The Monegasque waited a few seconds before finally grabbing the phone and dialing his favorite pizza place.  

It didn’t take him too long, and the girl taking his order was, indeed, very nice.  

Nice enough to deserve a few compliments.  

Max might not understand French, but flirting crossed all language barriers.  

Charles was playing with fire, and he didn’t mind getting burned.  

The daggers the dutchman’s eyes were throwing at him had no effect whatsoever, though. He knew he had the upper hand.  

“Anyways, where are your kids?”  

“Somewhere.”  

Max pushed Charles towards the sofa, deviating from their trip to get a few beers from his Red Bull mini fridge.  

The Monegasque sat down, a sort of eerie feeling wrapping around his body.  

His eyes scanned the room.  

It had been a while since he last visited, but he could tell some decorations were missing.  

There weren’t any toys, or crayons, no high heels next to the door, no noise except for the two men’s breaths.  

The house was too big, too empty, even with Leo running around.  

It wasn’t a house designed for only one person, and it showed.  

Blue eyes met green ones.  

“You noticed.”  

Max rarely allowed himself to be vulnerable, yet there he was.  

His shoulders slumped, his face fell flat and he started fidgeting with his bracelets.  

“I was thinking about moving out.”  

The house was too big, but it was Max’s house. Had been for ages.  

He couldn’t just leave. It felt wrong.  

“Don’t. You could throw house parties in here.”  

That made Max smile. Given how much he hated talks like that, Charles counted it as a win.  

Given how much he hated talks like that, Charles knew it was already over.  

So much for communication and vulnerability.  

“Really? When?”  

“Next year, after I get my second win here. We can even sneak into your room in the middle of the night without anyone noticing.”  

He couldn’t be crossing a line if the lines were invisible, right?  

Max blushed a little. Another win.  

“What makes you think you’re winning against me?”  

“My amazing qualy skills, your terrible car and how insufferably difficult the track is.”  

And the apparent lack of a curse. The curse had been broken. No more Monaco curse.  

In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, amen.  

“Wow, you two have something in common!”  

“We have a lot in common! We're insanely beautiful, powerful, make you think of pillows...”  

Not even twenty four hours had passed.  

Charles was getting burned that night.  

“You’re right, I should smack a pillow to your face, so you finally shut up.”  

“Or you can push my face against the pillows instead.”  

Blue eyes burned with a passion Charles had never seen before, not even during their... adventures.  

“Remind me next time.”  

The lines were invisible, but they still had some decency left.  

They both knew there were a few things they needed to discuss as soon as possible, and two nights in a row was more than greedy.  

Besides, that night was just a dinner between friends.  

It didn’t hurt as much with the dutchman by his side, with his brain finally quiet.  

They hadn’t labeled anything, so what was wrong about being friends? Nothing.  

They were friends. It wasn’t a bad thing.  

They changed the conversation to Max’s community service, a safer topic that they hadn’t discussed during the gala.  

The peace didn’t last for long.  

When the pizza arrived, Charles rushed downstairs to get it, coming back with a smirk on his face only to annoy Max.  

Teasing came naturally to them.  

“You don’t get to complain, Maxie. You made me order knowing how I am.”  

“You’re a terrible person, Leclerc.”  

It didn’t hurt. Didn't even sting.  

It was, after all, just a joke, and Charles knew it.  

“Learn French and order by yourself, then.”  

Max leaned forward, face dangerously close to the Monegasques’.  

“Why don’t you teach me? It can be our secret.”  

Charles licked his lips, ready to get burned into ashes.  

“Maybe I could. When no one is looking.”  

He could feel the heat radiating from them, the fire growing larger with each second that passed.  

And then, Max pulled away.  

Just a dinner between friends. Right.  

It still didn’t hurt, but Charles knew better than to trust himself.  

He'd regret everything later, his skin melted and his nerves raw and exposed.  

But that was a problem for his future self.  

He had a pizza to eat, a few more beers to drink, and four babies to feed.  

Leo already had his mix of kibble and wet food served on a plate, while the mini Verstappens fought each other for the big bowl, ignoring the other two.  

“Jimmy! Sassy! Leave Donut alone, he’s too small to fight. Donut, this one is yours, dummy.”  

Max voice had never been softer, immeasurable amounts of love pouring with each word.  

He truly adored his cats, his little family.  

The kids obviously didn’t listen, though. Jimmy and Sassy refused to leave Donut alone.  

At least Leo was enjoying the drama too. He was wagging his tail so hard Charles feared he’d start flying.  

“Sassy! Stop that!”  

“Do they do this often?”  

“Every single night.”  

The house was much livelier with all the added feline chaos.  

And, of course, Charles had to fuck it up.  

“Why do you call him Donut and not Donatello?”  

Sensing the tension, the three cats finally stopped fighting, finally choosing their designated bowls.  

Max sighed, and when Charles extended his hand to pat his shoulder, he pushed it away.  

“P wanted a cat named Donut.”  

He was such an idiot.  

“Oh.”  

“Yep.”  

He was an idiot, yes, and the answer would probably hurt like hell, but Charles was a good friend.  

He had seen how hurt Max looked after Miami. He had asked back then, and gotten no answer other than a glare.  

Enough time had passed since then.  

“Do you regret it?”  

“Hm?”  

It would hurt like hell, but Max deserved to talk about it with someone he trusted. And yes, maybe Charles wasn’t the right person, but no one else dared to ask.  

“Leaving Kelly. Do you regret it?”  

Surprisingly, Max didn’t deflect, didn’t ignore the question. Not immediately.  

“No. It wasn’t the same anymore, hadn’t been for a while. But I miss having a loving family and not...”  

Charles bit his lip, but before he fucked up even further, Max found his eyes.  

“Do you regret leaving Charlotte?”  

Ah, an eye for an eye, although the exchange was not fair at all .  

But it was fine. Max had no way of knowing.  

Two years had passed and Charles had never allowed himself to talk about it, not even with Pierre.  

It was wrong.  

He took a deep breath.  

“I don’t know if I ever loved her.”  

The confession left Max rightfully confused.  

The Monegasque couldn’t help but count it as another win.  

“What do you mean?”  

It was wrong, it was a mistake, and Charles should’ve left his delusions, his selfishness behind long ago.  

He should’ve kept his secrets to himself, but Max’s eyes found his.  

Blue wasn’t his favorite color, but it was his biggest weakness. Always had been.  

“I don’t know if I liked her. I don’t know if I do like women or not. I never thought too much about it.”  

He had, actually, but he didn’t like the conclusion he reached.  

He must’ve been wrong, surely.  

“What even was the point, you know, if I knew I’d end up with a woman even if I didn’t want to? Did I really have a choice?”  

Who cared if he wasn’t happy? He had a destiny to fulfill, to get married and have kids, because that was the norm.  

Anything else was a mistake.  

Charles already made enough of those.  

“Did. Not do.”  

Typical Max, focusing on the minor details.  

But it wasn’t so minor, was it?  

“Do you think we have a choice, Max?”  

Deep down, Charles did.  

He was the master of delusion, after all.  

Even if it wasn’t with Max, maybe...  

Maybe.  

“There’s always a choice, Charles.”  

Right then and there, he had so many choices.  

The ever-present voice was pushing him to pick the Molotov of feelings, to go back to cats and pizza and act like nothing happened.  

The ever-present voice couldn’t win when Max was there.  

“I realized I didn’t love her that way after I crashed in France. I realized a lot of things that day.”  

“Like what?”  

He closed his eyes, memories replaying over and over again.  

It lasted mere seconds, a blink of an eye, but when the car spun, so many puzzle pieces fell into place Charles wasn’t sure he knew who he was.  

That scream would haunt him forever.  

“It was my mistake. I fucked it up. And yet some of the reactions were... calmer than in Monaco.”  

There was disappointment, of course.  

But he was allowed to be disappointed, to tell the world he had fucked up, that he had made a mistake, that he was a mistake.  

Yet every time the strategists failed him...  

The ever-present voice sounded an awful lot like a certain team principal.  

“I was blamed for it. I should’ve known better, should’ve realized they had messed up and stay out. I wasn't allowed to be frustrated, and I had to assume all guilt and make the team look good. But when I crashed on my own, ‘oh well, things happen, try to do better next time!’”  

All of those were known facts, at least partially.  

His lecfosi still asked for public apologies to that day, even though the team had already been... cleansed of all negative energies.  

Ferrari had changed for the better, but Charles would never forget.  

“I also realized that I didn’t hate you.”  

Green eyes found blue ones.  

Green eyes had stared at the podium, had heard the Dutch national anthem, and instead of pure hatred, he had found something else.  

No, he hadn’t found it.  

“I finally uncovered a truth that I subconsciously had hidden.”  

It had been too much to handle.  

The anger and disappointment from his crash, the added weight on his shoulders from every time the team messed up, the realization that he wouldn’t be a world champion that year, and...  

“I couldn’t keep lying to Charlotte, it wasn’t fair for her. I never told her why, never told anyone, so... congratulations? You're the first one to know I’m...”  

Charles hadn’t noticed he was picking the skin around his nails until Max grabbed his hand to stop him.  

His stomach twisted itself in so many different ways Charles wasn’t sure if he’d survive the night, and the butterflies weren’t helping.  

“Anyone?”  

A gentle thumb rubbed against his own.  

He tried to kill the butterflies, to no avail.  

It was wrong.  

Wrong.  

He had to settle down eventually, have a family, yadda yadda.  

Screwing around with other men was, well, not ideal, but allowed if it didn’t mean anything else, if it was only temporary.  

“Pierre knows I like men, has known for ages. But when I... realized, I bottled it up, just like everything else. It was too much, I guess. It took me a while to start feeling things again. I don’t know if it makes—”  

“I get it.”  

Their hands were still joined, so Max squeezed it.  

The butterflies grew bigger.  

“Like a void that eats you from the inside, right?”  

“Exactly.”  

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but the pets did work as a sort of distraction like Charles originally intended.  

Donut walked towards them and meowed.  

“He knows you’re sad and considers it unacceptable.”  

The kitten meowed again, so Charles picked him up and put him on his lap.  

Leo ran towards him and sat on top of his feet, a weird habit of his no one would ever understand.  

Jimmy and Sassy didn’t want to be left behind, apparently, because they climbed the sofa and sat down next to Charles.   

“Wow. Everyone considers it unacceptable. Can't a man be sad from time to time?”  

“No. You can’t.”  

Leo barked in agreement, earning a chuckle from both men.  

Max closed his eyes and sighed.  

“I’m sorry about yesterday. I knew it wasn’t your fault, that you didn’t have a choice, and I was still a bitch about it.”  

“Wow. The Max Verstappen apologizing to me? Miracle.”  

He got side-eyed, and he couldn’t say he didn’t deserve it.  

Even Sassy side-eyed him. And she was a cat. 

In his defense, he had just cut his chest open and ripped off his heart for Max to see. If he didn’t add the tiniest bit of humor to the situation, he’d end up crying, and that was not the plan.  

“I’m sorry too. I was a bitch too.”  

With so many animals around him, Charles couldn’t really move to hug Max like he wanted to.  

Luckily for him, they had spent years next to each other. The dutchman couldn’t read his mind, but he could guess his thoughts pretty well.  

Arms wrapped around him, the angle a bit awkward to avoid crushing Donut.  

For those few seconds, Charles’ mind was in complete silence.  

No voices, no regrets, no pain.  

Max pulled away and stretched.  

“So... pizza.”  

“Pizza.”  

Dinner wasn’t as tense as Charles thought it would be. They talked about anything that crossed their minds, the tv on the background to “help Max with his French”, as the Monegasque had teased.  

The two beers turned into four, then six, then a seventh one shared between them.  

Charles knew he had to go home.  

It was getting too late, and even though he didn’t have any responsibilities until he left for Fiorano in a few days, he didn’t want to mess up his sleep schedule.  

“I should—”  

“Stay.”  

The house was too big, too empty, and even though it had been his choice, Max couldn’t take it.  

Even if he never said it out loud, even if he avoided the conversation by asking about Charlotte, Charles knew.  

Between all the races, the drama, the media and the stress, Max had never gotten used to his new normal.  

It had to be killing him.  

Three and a half years of history, three and a half years of love, of a small family, of waking up next to someone and moving her things away when there wasn’t enough space on the table, of buying new toys for her daughter whenever he got the chance.  

Charles couldn’t fill that space. They hadn’t gone back to Vegas, hadn’t talked about anything yet.  

But, at that moment, even if he couldn’t say it out loud, Max needed him.   

The dutchman misinterpreted his silence.  

“If you want to, you can sleep in the guest bedroom, I just—”  

“We can share your bed.”  

Charles needed him too.  

With Max next to him, his brain kept quiet. No spirals, no anger, no concerning messages to Seb or Pierre, no crying himself to sleep.  

All tension disappeared from Max’s shoulders.  

“Okay then. The cats are sleeping with us, by the way.”  

Charles assumed so. Donut refused to leave his lap, there was no way he’d ever get rid of him.  

“Leo too. He's clingy.”  

“They say that pets are just like their owners...”  

Charles rolled his eyes and pointed at the three cats.  

Instead of getting offended, or answering with another jab, Max grabbed his phone and snapped a photo.  

Charles tried his best to look good. Enticing, even.  

Not that it took a lot of effort. He knew how he looked.  

“Can I upload it to my private account?”  

“Why couldn’t you?”  

It was a very obvious rhetoric question, the potential answers almost too depressing for that night.  

Very few, trusted people followed Max there, but what if...  

“I’ll tag you, so you can repost it and mess with Pierre and Carlos.”  

A bald Frenchman popped into his mind.   

“Did I tell you that Pierre’s getting a hair transplant?”  

Max's face was hilarious.  

Any remnants of their recent feelings were now gone, the gossip demanding another shared beer.  

Minutes turned into hours, Charles helped clean up, Max washed the dishes, four little babies followed them to the bedroom and they all jumped into bed after the two men changed into Max’s pajamas.  

The Monegasque sighed.  

“You owe me an explanation, by the way.”  

The dutchman raised an eyebrow.  

“About Kelly. You can’t avoid it forever. Not with me.”  

They were minutes away from falling asleep and Charles was still playing with fire.  

A different kind of fire, yes, but fire nonetheless.  

“In Vegas.”  

It didn’t burn.  

It didn’t hurt.  

Not with Max’s arms around him, his face centimeters away from Charles’.  

“Sleep well, Maxie.”  

“You too, Charlie.”  

Their goodnight kiss was short but sweet, no voices interrupting it.  

Chapter Text

Charles woke up to the smell of freshly-brewed coffee and bread being toasted. 

There was a tiny body pressed to his side. Judging by the purrs, the size and the proximity, it had to be Jimmy. 

Charles stretched as much as he could without disturbing the child and rolled out of bed. 

Sassy was in front the door, her eyes piercing through the Monegasque’s skull. 

Something something pets being similar to their owners. Charles was slightly hungover and not awake enough to think yet. 

He won the staring contest, though. The cat moved away, letting Charles leave the room without making a fuss. 

That one was a big victory. 

He tiptoed out of the room just in case the princess changed her mind, made a quick stop by the bathroom and finally, finally followed the heavenly scent. 

Max turned around when he heard Charles’ footsteps. 

“Good morning, sunshine. Looking good.” 

In typical Max fashion, there was a hint of sarcasm in his voice. 

Charles rolled his eyes. 

“I look amazing and you know it.” 

He didn’t get an answer, at least not a verbal one. 

Max did not like coffee, yet there he was, offering Charles a cup first thing in the morning. 

“Thanks.” 

He added the dutchman’s blush to his list of mini-victories. 

They sat down on the sofa, coffee and juice in hand, toast and fruits already on the small table. 

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable at all, Charles too sleepy for conversations and Max too focused on watching Donut and Leo. 

Or, better said, making sure that the dog didn’t destroy the house while the kitten followed him everywhere. 

Blue eyes glowed every time they settled on the dachshund. 

How could a human being look so goddamn cute while doing nothing?  

“Should I get one?” 

It took Charles another sip of his coffee and around three business days to answer. 

“Are you trying to turn your house into a farm?” 

The dutchman rolled his eyes, but it was hard to take him seriously with his pupils shaped as hearts. 

He wanted Charles to be the voice of reason, to answer honestly, even if he thought it was a bad idea. 

A dog could be a lot, yes, but... 

The house wouldn’t feel as big. 

“Yes, Max, you should definitely get a dog. Leo needs more friends.” 

The Monegasque was so weak for that smile. 

Leo zoomed past, Donut still following. 

“How long have you three been up?” 

Max raised an eyebrow. 

“An hour, I think. Why?” 

“Why didn’t you wake me?” 

Leo was... particular about his morning routine, and it varied depending on where he had fallen asleep. 

If he slept on the Big Human Bed, he always demanded cuddles, kisses and a bit of playtime before breakfast. Then, he peed on his designated spot, asked for more cuddles and got the zoomies if he didn’t get his morning walk. 

If any of those steps was ignored, he’d get cranky and whiny, especially if Charles wasn’t around. 

He must’ve been a lot to handle, yet Max had let him sleep. 

“Was I supposed to wake you up?” 

Charles was still not awake enough to explain the routine in detail. 

He tried looking for the right words, to no avail. 

“Uh... Well... Leo is... Leo.” 

The vague hand gesture said enough. Or so he hoped. 

Max smirked, eyes still shaped like hearts. 

“He tried to kick me out of bed, Charles. And then jumped into the sofa and cried until I cuddled with him.” 

Maybe, just maybe, Leo was too spoiled. And who was the one to blame? 

Oh well. Charles didn’t regret it. Not at all. 

“Yes, he needs his morning cuddles. And then food, and—” 

“I know. I handled it. But I think he knew you needed the depression sleep.” 

A small conversation about his deepest, darkest secret didn’t justify depression sleep! He had gotten all of that the night before, immediately after his flight. 

“Come on, I was fine.” 

“Seb texted me and told me you were being cryptic.” 

Well. 

Charles had kind of dug his own grave, hadn’t he. 

After hanging up with Pierre and Yuki, he had answered the German’s messages, trying not to worry him further. 

He had completely forgotten that Seb knew him better than he knew himself. 

His answers hadn’t convinced him, and he had informed Max about it. 

Motherfucker. 

“That’s why you invited me over?” 

The dutchman refused to meet his eyes. 

There was a faint blush staining his cheeks. 

“Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe it’s only one of the reasons.” 

How much did Max know? 

How much had Seb told him? 

Did it even matter? 

They had both apologized, briefly talked about it and moved on. Simple as that. 

It was all in the past, and as for the other reasons... 

“Oh my. You wanted to see me.” 

Charles winked. 

Max's entire face turned red. 

“No, but you owed me cuddles.” 

“You sound like Leo.” 

Charles’ ankle got kicked, and he couldn’t say he didn’t deserve it. 

“I’m taking that as a compliment. This baby is the cutest.” 

Said baby still had the zoomies. At least he was smart enough not to crash into anything. 

And Donut was still following him everywhere. 

“Wait until he starts biting your toes. He won’t be as cute then.” 

Leo stopped on his tracks, turned around and barked at Charles before resuming his marathon. 

What a spoiled brat. And who was to blame for that? 

Max couldn’t help but laugh. 

“Sassy used to scratch my arms so much Checo was worried about me. I can deal with toe bites.” 

The way Max’s face dropped when he mentioned the Mexican split Charles’ heart in half. 

Playing with fire was becoming second nature to him. 

“How is he doing?” 

Max and Checo were good friends. The couple of the year too, apparently. 

Knowing that his teammate was leaving and not being able to talk about it yet... 

The dutchman couldn’t be just mad. He had to be minutes away from burning down Milton Keynes. 

Charles didn’t mind getting burned if it meant Max had an outlet for his emotions.  

“He’s fine, I guess. Everything has been talked about, they just need to sign some shit and choose his replacement.” 

Only one glance was enough to understand. 

His replacement had been chosen months, and possibly more than a year ago. 

“I’m getting an angry call from Pierre, aren’t I?” 

Max kicked the table, not hard enough to break it, not even to spill his juice, but enough to get rid of his anger. 

“I’m tired of this fucking shitshow, Charles.” 

The Monegasque wasn’t a stranger to Max’s wrath. He had witnessed it, had suffered it, had learned how to handle it... more or less. 

So he didn’t say anything. 

Not yet. 

“If he wasn’t performing because he wasn’t good enough, oh well, that’s life, but this is Red Bull’s fault. The car was shit! Not even I could fucking drive it sometimes!” 

The table got kicked again, and that was Charles’ sign to slow down the spiral before Max got genuinely upset and said or did something he’d regret. 

How, he didn’t know yet. 

“Checo has been complaining about the car for forever, most of his failures weren’t his fault! And what does this fucking team do instead of fucking listening? They kick him out!” 

According to a lot of people, Charles was a menace. 

There was a smile on his face, a smile that was everything but innocent. 

Max's eye twitched. 

“No. Don't you dare.” 

The Monegasque’s smile grew bigger. 

“Charles. No.” 

Blue eyes threw daggers at green ones. 

“Charles Leclerc.”  

“Checo has been saying the car is fucked. I have it printed out.” 

The hit Charles got on his arm didn’t hurt. 

He burst out laughing. 

“Are you dumb? Stupid? An absolutely fucking idiot?” 

“Yes, to all three.” 

Max hit him again. 

It still didn’t hurt. It would never hurt. 

“Stop that! You and I both know that’s the best part of that fucking show.” 

Sometimes, even the one and only Sun of Maranello found himself quoting that exchange while making dinner. And he had absolutely nothing to do with it. 

“The only good part, you mean.” 

“Debatable. My interviews are pretty damn cool.” 

Max didn’t even bother answering, which was weird enough to be concerning. 

“So... what’s next?” 

“I don’t know, Charlie Bottas.” 

It was Charles’ turn to hit Max. 

On his arm, very lightly, more of a push than a hit. 

“Dumbass.” 

Of course, Max retaliated. 

“Idiot.” 

They only managed to lock eyes for a second before bursting out laughing. 

“God. We're acting like little children.” 

Sassy had come out of the room and was staring from a distance. 

Even Leo had stopped his marathon to judge them.  

“About damn time. Didn't get the chance when we were actual kids.” 

Ah, there it was. The blunt reminder that they weren’t average people. 

Charles instinctively reached for one of his rings to fidget with it, but there were none. He hadn’t gotten changed yet. 

His mouth found his cuticles instead. 

Except that a hand immediately stopped him. 

“Don’t do that.” 

Max's eyes were fixed on him, making Charles’ heart skip a beat. 

“It’s not a big deal.” 

“It could be if you make it a habit. Look at Lando.” 

Charles grimaced. 

It was kind of an open secret that Lando struggled much more than he wanted to admit, slightly ironic considering how much he talked about the importance of mental health. 

No one blamed him, though. No one wanted to be a hypocrite, and at least he opened up about it sometimes. 

So the entire paddock intervened whenever Lando bit his fingers. Casually, without making a fuss, but it was their way of showing they cared. 

Charles didn’t have those habits. He preferred drowning in his feelings until they consumed him. Which, well, wasn’t healthy, but it wasn’t frequent. 

There was nothing to worry about. 

“I’ll be fine. One more week of hatred and depression and I’ll be back to my normal self.” 

It probably wouldn’t even last a full week. The worst had already passed, and the only thing that mattered now was the future.  

“That is not normal.” 

“Right, because you of all people know what ‘normal’ means.” 

He didn’t mean to sound so harsh. He didn’t mean to get so defensive. English was just a shitty language. 

It didn’t matter. 

The damage had been done. 

“I do know what it means. I am incredibly self-aware too. I know when my bullshit doesn’t make sense. You should work on that.” 

There it was again, that fucking bluntness that Charles despised sometimes. 

“Max.” 

“Don’t try to play dumb, Charles. Are you seriously telling me you believe it’s normal to spend two weeks in absolute misery every time something goes wrong?” 

It wasn’t every time! He had just lost the fucking constructors’ championship which, in his humble opinion, was a big deal. A pretty fucking enormous deal. 

And, well, that argument in Rwanda hadn’t helped. He was allowed to feel heartbroken, right? 

“It’s not about that, idiot! I’m tired of losing, for fuck’s sake! You of all people should get it, but I guess you forgot what it feels like.” 

He knew the dutchman was worried, and that the only feeling he was familiar with was anger. He didn’t take it personal. 

Yet there he was, making it personal. 

Making it hurt. 

Max’s face morphed into something Charles couldn’t quite describe. 

“No, you fucking dumbass, I haven’t forgotten! But I don’t ghost everyone for days and listen to sad music on repeat when it happens!” 

“No, but you get so fucking ang— wait, how do you know what I listen to?” 

Max didn’t have his Airbuds, and Seb and Pierre would never share those things with anyone. 

“I don’t know, maybe because I pay attention to you?” 

Oh. 

Oh.  

“For fuck’s sake, Charles, we’ve known each other forever. You always put on your headphones when you have bad days, even when we were kids. It wasn’t hard to figure it out.” 

Despair was once again making him act like a teenager, because there was no way he was blushing over that. 

He tried to play it cool by rolling his eyes. 

“Okay, and? It makes me feel better. It makes me feel understood. Why are you so worried about that?!” 

Max didn’t have to say anything, because Charles already knew the answer. 

Charles was starting to get annoyed. 

He had one bad year, and everyone believed he was a minor inconvenience away from overdosing or something. 

He was fine, goddamnit! Worse things had happened to him, and he had lived through them! Not survived!  

Losing in 2022 had been heartbreaking. No one gave up heaven willingly. 

And not only had he lost heaven, he had been sent straight into hell, Satan himself making sure he regretted being born. 

But that was it. There was no Satan anymore, only an angel dressed head to toe in rosso corsa, an angel who couldn’t go back to heaven no matter how much he tried, but refused to give up. 

“God. You don’t get it. You'll never get it, but it’s okay. No one does, not even Carlos, or Seb, and Lewis won’t if we lose again this year. But things are better now, Max. I am doing better. I just want to win, nothing more!” 

Ferrari was more than just a team, or a family, or even a “religion”. 

Ferrari was Ferrari. 

It was the only thing that every single driver wanted, even if they said they didn’t. They all wanted the glory, and they all broke when they didn’t get it. 

But, for Charles, Ferrari was different.  

Charles was Ferrari. 

He had, after all, the longest contract in history with the scuderia . He was il predestinato, the Sun and the Prince and the Light of Maranello, the delusional kid who wasn’t a kid anymore. 

He couldn’t put his feelings into words, and no one else had ever been in his position. 

He was alone with his feelings, with his yearly mountain introspection, with his sad songs he related to but not that much, with his dog and his bed and his depressing lentil pasta. 

And no, Max didn’t get it, and everything that had happened to him and between them was worrying him further than he should be, and they had just woken up and were still a bit cranky. 

It wasn’t the right time to have that discussion. 

Charles took a deep breath. 

“I want to fight with you. Wheel to wheel, no mercy, bending the rules so much the stewards have a heart attack every weekend and we end up ripping each other’s hairs off. But that’s it , Max. I. Am. Okay. I’m much stronger than any of you think, idiot.” 

He took a gamble. 

He grabbed Max’s hand and squeezed it. 

It was his turn to deviate the conversation. 

“Are you okay? It's been a hectic season.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? I won the championship. Partied a lot after it. Don't know if you remember.” 

He didn’t take the bait, although the blurry memories made it impossibly hard. 

“You keep avoiding conversations. That is my job. You're supposed to be angry and smash heads against walls.” 

Max bit his lip, avoiding the Monegasque’s gaze. 

“Vegas.” 

Charles blinked thrice. 

“You can’t play that card for everything.”  

“I can, and I will. Some things need time.” 

That was unusual enough to be concerning. 

Max rarely needed time. He simply said what crossed his mind, no filter, no regrets. 

Hell, it wasn’t just concerning. It was scary. Or, at the very least, eerie. 

Just like the silence. 

“Where’s Leo?” 

They hadn’t noticed the dog had left the room, too lost in their... not argument, but... heated discussion...? 

And, usually, silence and Leo didn’t mix well. 

The two men exchanged looks and rushed to the bedroom. 

“Leo...?” 

More silence. 

Charles noticed one of his shoes was missing. 

“Oh shit.” 

He looked under the bed. 

The dachshund was there... 

...Chewing on one of Charles’ socks, the laces of his shoe already destroyed. 

“Lord, please, give me patience.” 

He wasn’t just talking about Leo. 

He could wait until Vegas, no matter how long it took. He simply hoped he got there in one piece and not spiraling too much. 

As he berated Leo (while cuddling him, thus making his lesson useless), as Max laughed about them, Charles couldn’t help but hope for a future just like that, probably fucking up his previous wishes. 

His life would never be that easy. 

“Who are you texting?” 

“Your mom.” 

Charles was really, really lucky Carlos Sr was on the other side of the garage when he wiggled his eyebrows. 

Carlos Jr alone was enough of a threat. 

“I’m going to push you off a cliff.” 

“Good luck with the angry Italians.” 

Said Italians could be heard all the way from the garage if the wind blew in the right direction. 

They weren’t angry, but they were close. They could be next to the drivers in seconds. 

And as much as they loved and appreciated Carlos and all the work he had done in the past four years, they would probably commit war crimes for Charles. 

And the Spaniard knew that. 

He diverted the conversation back to where he wanted it. 

“For real. Who are you texting?” 

“Why are you asking like you don’t know?” 

Who else could Charles possibly be talking to, with that smile on his face? 

He knew damn well he wasn’t being subtle at all. He knew damn well he would get teased to oblivion by all the mechanics, even if they didn’t know who was making him smile like that. 

But Carlos knew. Carlos knew a lot.  

“So... how did... that go?” 

Charles smirked, more than ready to mess with the Spaniard for the last time as teammates. 

“Do you want to see?” 

“...Do I?” 

Charles opened his gallery and looked for the photo he had sent Max the day after Rwanda. 

His body was covered in hickeys, the towel looked like it was about to fall from his hips, and he was showing off every muscle in his body. 

Carlos closed his eyes and took a deep breath. 

“Can I say something really mean and potentially offensive?” 

“Since when do you ask for permission for that?” 

The Spaniard locked eyes with Charles. 

There wasn’t a drop of humor in his words, only seriousness. 

“Slut.” 

Well. 

He couldn’t argue against that. Not really. 

But he wasn’t giving up without a fight. 

“Are you jealous I’m getting laid and you aren’t?” 

“Mate. I have a girlfriend. If anything, I’m doing way better than you in that area.” 

He also couldn’t argue against that. 

He still opened his mouth to answer, but someone laughed near them. 

It wasn’t directed at either of them. It was just one of the mechanics joking with another one. 

It was a reminder that they weren’t alone, and Charles was not coming out to the team just to defend himself. 

His eyes scanned the room, searching for Fred. 

He locked eyes with the team principal before pointing to Carlos, then to himself, and then to the door. 

Fred raised an eyebrow, Charles shook his head and both of them nodded. 

“Your ability to communicate without words astonishes me.” 

“Thank you, Carlos. You're so sweet.” 

The Spaniard rolled his eyes, but he followed Charles outside. 

There was a half-hidden spot they usually escaped to, away from the fans, the mechanics, the judgement. 

For the last time, Charles and Carlos sat down on their safe haven. 

“So. Yes, you have a girlfriend, but I have a four-time world champion in my bed. And he makes me coffee, cuddles me and tells me nice things.”

“...Cuddles? Max? Max Verstappen?” 

Charles seriously considered gathering all the Italians nearby and ask them to dispose of Carlos’ body. 

Would they nail him to a cross once he confessed he was defending their enemy? Maybe. 

He didn’t really care. 

“Why does everyone forget he’s actually a nice guy?” 

“That’s not what I mean! He doesn’t seem like the cuddly type, that’s all!” 

Well, Charles did remember watching a video of Max saying he didn’t like cuddling, but it was absurdly old. Daniel-in-Red-Bull, awkward-unhinged-teenager-Max, Charles-Sauber-debut old. 

His opinion could’ve changed in all those years! 

Anyone who knew Max, who took the time to know the real Max and not the villain that the media and Netflix painted him as, would know that he was an incredibly sweet and caring person, though. It shouldn’t be surprising. 

Charles shrugged, with a smile on his face so the Spaniard knew he wasn’t mad or anything. 

“Well, he is. We're a perfect match.” 

Carlos rolled his eyes, already used to the Monegasque’s antics. 

“So... are you two... something?” 

...Ah. 

Well. 

Yup. 

Digging his own grave was becoming a habit. 

“No.” 

The ever-present voice tried to take control, but Charles pushed it away. 

“And that’s fine. I can wait until we find time to go to Vegas and figure this out. My life doesn’t revolve around him.” 

He meant those words.  

He still didn’t know if he’d make it to Vegas in one piece, but he had so many other things to think about. 

Besides, it was Carlos’ last day at Ferrari. 

Once they both went home that night, they wouldn’t be teammates anymore. Only on paper. 

Charles was already over their losses that year. He wasn’t sad anymore, let alone depressed. 

He was more determined than ever to make 2025 their year. 

He made the mental note to text Max later. 

The two drivers exchanged looks. 

There were a million things they could say, a million things to discuss, but it wasn’t the right time. 

They had to go back inside. 

The Spaniard stood up first, offering his hand to the Monegasque. 

He accepted the help. 

“Good luck with Lewis.” 

Charles rolled his eyes. 

“Good luck in Williams.” 

Carlos rolled his eyes. 

Neither of them would admit it, but the four years they spent together had their perks. 

They both know they were holding back tears. 

They weren’t best friends. They had their disagreements, their clashes, their arguments and fights and everything in between, but they also had so many good times together. 

Joint podiums and private planes, perfect weekends and chess matches, shared pain and healing hugs, a shoulder to cry on and reassuring words. 

Carlos would be a few meters away, in his blue, cursed car, held together by tape, history and delusion. They could still fly together, have dinner together, see each other on track under very specific circumstances, but it wouldn’t be the same. 

A part of Charles was grateful for that, and he knew Carlos shared that feeling. 

That didn’t make the farewell hurt any less. 

They walked back to the garage, the Monegasque taking a step back when everyone in the team hugged their chili for the last time. 

If anyone noticed Charles casually scrubbing his red eyes, no one mentioned it. 

 I told you so.  

Hehehehe.  

I might need more context.  

I'm ready for next year.  

I'm going to kick your ass sooooo hard, Maxie.  

Good luck catching up to me.  

Pffffft.  

Good luck catching up to your teammate.  

Try not to crash into each other too much!  

I want to win by my own merits, not by your mistakes.  

Glad you’re feeling better btw.  

<3  

The sunlight bathed Charles’ body, his eyes closed and his right hand mindlessly scratching Leo’s belly. 

The hot sand surrounding him, the sound of the sea crashing against the shore, the aftertaste of a mojito, all of those things helped him turn off his brain and just... 

Relax. 

No cars. No teammates. No annoyingly hot blonds or annoyingly orange papayas. 

“They look like twins.” 

“God. Yes. Take a photo.” 

Just two annoyingly annoying brothers. 

Charles opened his eyes, lowering his sunglasses only so he could properly stare at Arthur and Lorenzo. 

“I can hear you two.” 

That didn’t stop Arthur from taking the photo. 

Charles had to admit that being in the exact same position as Leo was a little bit funny. Like father, like son. 

He sat up, knowing that, if his two brothers were interrupting his peace, they had been kicked out by the girls. 

Girl talks were more than understandable, especially considering Lorenzo and Charlotte’s engagement and all the wedding details they needed to discuss. And even if there wasn’t an engagement, they had every right to chat without the brothers. 

That was fine. Okay. Valid. 

The fact that those talks interfered with Charles’ much-needed peace wasn’t fine, okay or valid. 

“So... are you telling us or not?” 

For a man who was the oldest among the three, Lorenzo could be the most childish sometimes. 

The day before traveling to Mexico, Charles had looked into the mirror and cursed his past, horny self for asking Max to give him hickeys. 

All of them had faded, except for the one in his collarbone. It was barely visible, yes, but he was spending a week and a half in the beach. With his family.  

Lo and behold, they had all noticed. Jade and Charlotte had side-eyed him, and Pascale had asked him if he had been safe. 

Fine. Okay. Valid. 

Arthur and Lorenzo could not stop asking him about it. Especially Lorenzo. 

Was it because Arthur knew it was a... sensitive topic, or simply because the oldest was more annoying? 

Either way, Charles’ peace was nonexistent. And he did not want beach-introspection. Beaches were for relaxing, mountains were for introspection. He had a system, and he didn’t want to mess it up. 

“Only if you get me a gin and tonic.” 

Lorenzo didn’t suspect a thing. Why would he? 

Arthur, on the other hand... 

He knew half of the story, and with that small hint, he was dangerously close to figuring out the other half. 

“Isn’t it a bit too early to get drunk?” 

“It’s five o’clock somewhere.” 

Charles grabbed his phone, ignoring the unread messages from the reason his peace was actively being disturbed. 

The widget with the countdown to Australia was right under a perfectly-timed seventeen. 

“It’s five o’clock here. Afternoon cocktails.” 

The three brothers exchanged looks. 

A few games of rock-paper-scissors later, Charles, Leo and Arthur stretched their arms and patiently waited for Lorenzo to come back with their drinks. 

The private beach was almost completely empty, and the families they were sharing the space with were hundreds of meters away. It was the safest place Charles could ask for in that moment. 

“Are you really telling him?” 

Charles looked at his brother, who was focusing almost too much into smoothing Leo’s hair. 

He couldn’t blame him. It was quite a strange, slightly uncomfortable situation after all. 

“It’s about time.” 

He wanted to bottle it up, to feign ignorance to his own feelings and keep pretending that he was perfectly straight, definitely not in love with a man, especially not his childhood rival. 

It was wrong in so many levels. 

But maybe, just maybe, talking about it out loud and having someone else tell him that it was, indeed, not wrong would help him shut that annoying voice up. 

Deep down, he knew it was mistaken, that his sexuality was okay, et cetera. Hell, he had talked about it with Pierre more than once, whenever the Frenchman opened up about his own, similar insecurities. 

A part of him felt stupid for letting that voice exist, but he couldn’t help it. 

It was about time he did something about it. 

Lorenzo came back, balancing the three glasses with ease. 

They all took a few sips of their drinks before two pairs of eyes landed on Charles. 

He closed his eyes. 

“I’m gay.” 

He tried to keep his cool and casual act, but he faltered. 

His voice broke a little. 

“I swear I tried, but I’m just... not into women. Not at all.” 

He only opened his eyes when he felt a hand on his shoulder. 

Arthur already knew, but his smile was still healing. 

“Okay.” 

Charles turned his head around, finding Lorenzo’s eyes. 

He was smiling too. 

“It doesn’t change anything, Charlie. You're still annoying, and we still love you.” 

That reaction was more than expected. 

It did lift a weight off his shoulders, but the worst (or, maybe, best) was yet to come. 

The hickey was completely gone by then, but he still pointed at his collarbone. 

“And that was Max Verstappen’s fault.” 

Arthur choked on his drink. 

Lorenzo's jaw was on the floor, burying itself on the sand. 

He completely ignored the youngest’s unstoppable coughing, and stared directly into Charles’ eyes. 

“Four-time world champion, Red Bull’s Max Verstappen?” 
“That one, yes.” 

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t enjoying the situation. 

He was a master of mischief after all. The god of menace and trickery, who created chaos whenever he went to, both on-track and off-track. 

He couldn’t help but smirk as Arthur hit his arm. 

“So, in Abu Dhabi...” 

“Yep.” 

Lorenzo raised an eyebrow, his jaw still cohabitating with microplastics and seashells. 

“Wait, what?” 

Charles briefly described the events that happened during that FP1 and post-season testing, sparing the horniest details. It'd be too much to process for their weak hearts, and he didn’t like the idea of being an only child. 

Two cocktails were finished in record time, and a lot of toes were bitten by a certain jealous baby who wasn’t getting any attention. 

Lorenzo picked up Leo and scratched his belly to avoid losing his feet. 

His older brother instincts must’ve kicked in, because his gaze softened almost too noticeably. 

“Does he make you happy?” 

Ah. 

Charles wasn’t really expecting that question, and he didn’t really have an answer. 

Obviously, Max always made him happy, in a lot of different ways. Even in that fateful flight after Austria all those years ago, Charles had been happy about having the talent and a rival to have those kinds of arguments with. 

Did it make sense? No, not really. Not to anyone else, but he knew that Max got it, and that he felt the same. 

But, aside from that... 

Did Max make him happy? 

Charles had taken off all his rings, too afraid to lose them at the sea, so he started picking on his cuticles. 

A recent memory made him stop. 

“We’re not... it’s... it’s complicated. But yes, he makes me happy.” 

Arthur groaned, rubbing his face. 

“...Oh my god. You're in a situationship with Max Verstappen. You're about to become even more insufferable.” 

Charles gasped dramatically. Two could play that game. 

“I thought you loved me.” 

“Both things can be true.” 

Lorenzo didn’t say anything, he just swirled his straw around his nearly-empty glass. 

“And you still haven’t followed him on Instagram.” 

That was a low blow. 

His brothers were filthy traitors, who only wanted to get reactions out of him. 

The worst part? He was too much of a drama queen not to do so. 

“I’m not doing that unless he follows me first. Who does he think he is? Who does he think I am? His fan? God, no.” 

Arthur elbowed him, earning himself a few growls from Leo. 

Charles had raised him well. He adored his little guardian. 

“I mean... if you let him, you know, do... that... you kinda are his fan.” 

“No! If anything, he is my fan. He initiated everything the first time.” 

Max had invited him to the party, not-so-subtly asked him to go to his room, kissed him and taken the lead. 

And he had gifted Charles a blue keychain the morning after, while keeping the red one. 

“...The first time.” 

Charles sighed and stared at the sea, not being able to ignore the obvious glaring from both of his brothers. 

Hell, even Leo was judging him! 

“We might need more drinks for this.” 

A few rounds of rock-paper-scissors later, Arthur took the three empty glasses and walked back to the bar. 

They had a private beach almost entirely to themselves, nearly-unlimited alcohol and the whole afternoon ahead of them. 

Chapter Text

“Viva México!”  

Really?  

What else did you want me to say?  

Hola mi México querido?  

Is that how you say it?  

I think so.  

Literally anything else would’ve been better, idiot.  

I'm not taking Instagram advice from a guy who literally never posts.  

Especially not from one who doesn’t follow me.  

?????  

YOU UNFOLLOWED ME FIRST.  

Lalalala.  

Can’t hear youuuuuu~  

Max?  

Son of a bitch.  

Three rings. 

That was all it took for the dutchman to pick up. 

“Unblock me. Now.” 

“Why should I?”  

Charles glanced at his son, who was sound asleep on top of the hotel bed. 

Perfect. 

“How else are you getting Leo pics?” 

Max didn’t answer. Judging by the tapping sounds, it looked like Charles’ plan worked. 

“Happy now?”  

“Very, thank you!” 

Talking with Max had never been exactly difficult, but ever since Vegas, it had become even easier.  

Minutes passed, without either of them noticing until Lorenzo knocked on Charles’ door. 

“Dix minutes, Charlie.” 

Oh, fuck. 

The Monegasque put his phone on speaker and walked towards his closet. 

Why on Earth had he packed so many shirts?! Even knowing he was taking it off after seconds, picking one was impossible! 

“I know that one. Ten minutes? Until what?”  

“Until I have to leave for the beach. And your French still needs work if the only thing you understand is ‘ten minutes’.” 

Why did he have so many white shirts? 

Ah, fuck it. He picked one at random. 

“But I bet you don’t know how to say it in Dutch.”  

“Why would I? It's not the language of the country I live in.” 

Charles’ hand stopped on its way to the first swimsuit he saw. 

Max was silent. 

Too silent. 

“You know it’s a joke, right? I don’t—” 

“Yeah, yeah. I was thinking about how happy you looked after Monaco.”  

Damned Max Verstappen and his Dutch bluntness. 

It was Charles’ turn to stay silent. 

“Cat got your tongue?”  

“Shut it.” 

It took every single drop of self-control he had not to ask the infamous question. 

What are we?  

Aside from a mistake, of course.  

Charles dropped his phone. 

“You good?”  

“...Yeah.” 

He had been keeping it at bay. 

He had been relaxing. 

Hell, he even had the balls to come out without collapsing. 

“Charlie.”  

“I’m fine, I’m fine, just... my brain surprised me.” 

Yet there it was again, that annoying, stupid, painful voice. 

“Surprised you how?”  

He could tell Max. 

He could open up, talk about how he knew being gay was okay but he didn’t feel that it was, and he didn’t know why and it was killing him.  

“I don’t have time for that. The beach is waiting for me, and I have to get changed.” 

He could’ve, yes, but he didn’t. 

He heard a sigh from the other side of the phone. 

“Can I see?”  

Charles bit his lip. 

Max was too smart not to deduce it hadn’t been a nice surprise, but he was letting the Monegasque off the hook, giving him the chance to pretend everything was fine. 

Charles could’ve chosen not to take it. He could’ve opened up. 

“Can we trust this encryption thing?” 

“I don’t see why not.”  

He couldn’t. He just... couldn’t. 

He tapped on his screen, turning the call into a videocall. 

Max was on a bed Charles didn’t recognize, almost completely covered in blankets, a bedside lamp being the only source of light. 

He had absolutely no intention of moving. 

“This doesn’t seem fair.” 

“I’m not freezing to death just to show you my pierced nipples.”  

Charles rolled his eyes, but he still propped his phone against his water bottle and took off his shirt on camera. 

He did have the decency to step out of sight when he changed into his swimsuit, and the dutchman didn’t complain. That would be just... too much. 

Charles squirted some sunscreen on his hand and smeared it on his arm. 

He swore he didn’t make a show out of it, not intentionally, but he noticed Max shuffling in bed. 

Time to divert the conversation. 

“Was the snow any good today?” 

“I had a lot of fun, but I’ve had better days. My sister won half the races.”  

No. He was not making a show out of it. 

Blue eyes were glued to the screen. 

“So you’re just salty you lost.” 

“Why are you going to the beach so late?”  

Charles shook the sunscreen bottle before applying some to his chest. 

“We don’t want to get skin cancer, you know. And it’s not that late.” 

Max shuffled again. 

No, it wasn’t Max who was moving. It was his phone. 

“Are you taking screenshots?” 

“Christmas present. For me, by me. And you, I suppose.”  

Okay. Maybe, just maybe, everyone online was right. Maybe he was a bit of a whore. 

He still wasn’t making a show, that would be too much, but he did wink to the camera. 

“I was planning on getting you a nicer gift, but if this is what you like...” 

“A gift like what?”  

He had to admit he wasn’t thinking straight. 

Not when Max was still on the phone with him, even though he was in bed and probably more than ready to sleep. 

Not when the voice was silent, even after it slipped back moments earlier. 

Not when he knew Max was taking screenshots of his bare torso. 

“Once I get back home, I have a few free days before I leave for the mountains. You could come home, spend the day together, do absolutely nothing... or anything that you want.” 

Maybe he was a bit too much of a whore. Or maybe he just wanted to be held, cared for, loved.  

Only time would tell. 

“Sure. We can have a candlelit dinner too.”  

There wasn’t a hint of sarcasm in Max’s voice. 

He meant it. He wanted it. 

See, he’s making fun of you. This is a mistake. You should go on a date with that girl who is friends with Charlotte and fix it.  

“Or not. It's up to you, Charlie.”  

“What?” 

Max was frowning. 

Charles hadn’t done anything, and yet, he had still managed to fuck it up. 

“Your face dropped.”  

Oh. 

Sometimes he despised being so expressive. 

“If it’s too much —”  

“No, no, I like that idea.” 

But it’s wrong.  

Charles bit his lip. 

Maybe he’d have to change his system and do some beach introspection, because he wasn’t sure he was making it to the new year if that fucking voice kept coming back. 

And, of course, Max noticed. 

“What’s going on?”  

“Nothing. I...” 

Someone knocked on the door five times. 

It was Lorenzo, and it was time to leave. 

“Don’t worry, mon chéri. I'm fine. It's something I need to sort by myself.” 

The dutchman didn’t look convinced, but there wasn’t enough time. 

His smile wasn’t enough to fix everything that was wrong with Charles, but it did come close. 

“Go. Send me pics.”  

“You can’t tell me what to do, Verstappen.” 

Max rolled his eyes before blowing a kiss to the camera. 

Charles did the same before ending the call. 

Leo was still on the bed, but he was awake and ready to leave. He didn’t even complain about the harness. 

It was almost too good to be true. Something was about to happen. 

When Charles closed his door, he found a smirking Lorenzo waiting for him. 

“You called him chéri.”  

There it was. 

Wait. 

What? 

“No I didn’t?” 

“Oh, yes, you did.” 

Leo barked in agreement. 

Traitor. 

“Why were you eavesdropping? That's rude.” 

“It’s not my fault you took forever! God, I can’t wait to tell Arthur.” 

The eldest, yet the most childish. 

Charles wasn’t surviving the evening. 

He got teased to oblivion on the way to the beach, which was expected. 

The conversation ended abruptly once they spotted the girls, which was also expected. 

He got left alone with Leo and his mom, which was not expected. 

Yes, the two couples enjoyed their cheesy, kissy, couple time, but they never went too far. 

But, for some reason, Jade and Arthur decided to go for a walk at the exact same time Charlotte and Lorenzo announced they were looking for seashells near the shore. 

Subtlety wasn’t an attribute any of the Leclercs had. 

Charles enjoyed the quiet, though, and so did Pascale. They sat in silence for a while, Leo too entertained with the sand to bite toes or make a scene. 

It was nice, and Charles’ brain was quiet. 

Quiet-ish. 

Chéri.  

Chéri.  

Chéri.  

Chéri.  

Chéri.  

“Maman?”  

“Hm? What's the matter?” 

He didn’t have his rings, and Max didn’t want him to mess with his cuticles, so he grabbed Leo’s leash and twisted it around his fingers. 

“I’m gay.” 

In very simple terms, he was fucked. 

Greatly, desperately, annoyingly fucked. With the season over, with everyone on vacation, with nothing to distract him from his thoughts, Charles’ brain was full of Max.  

He wanted, he needed his mother’s advice. And, to do so, he had no choice but to come out. 

It felt wrong in so many levels, even though his parents had raised all their children to be open-minded and respectful. 

She could still have... adverse reactions. Or not. Maybe. 

The silence wasn’t helping with that stupid voice. 

“Oh. I know.” 

That was... 

Anticlimactic. 

“What?” 

Charles was about to have a heart attack. Or a panic attack. Or both. 

“Mother’s intuition. How do I say it...” 

Pascale looked up, asking the sky for guidance. 

“You never clicked with any of the girls you brought home. You were super nice to them, and you looked happy, but something was... off.” 

He had noticed too, but he pretended not to. 

He was happy because he had friends over, exactly like every time they had dinner with Pierre as a guest. As twisted as they both were, Charles had never felt that way towards him, aside from acknowledging he was good looking. 

His mother had noticed he was depressed even before that infamous France crash, it was no surprise she figured out he was gay too.  

“Your papa was convinced you weren’t interested in girls too, but I didn’t let him ask you about it. It was your thing to figure out.” 

Charles took a deep breath, trying to keep his emotions at bay. 

“So he knew. I didn’t lie to him.” 

He should’ve known it would be impossible to hide his tears. 

Pascale wrapped her arms around her son. 

He remembered his mother’s wrath when he confessed he had lied to Hervé about his contract, and how light he felt after signing with Sauber. 

Just like that day, his shoulders had no weight on them. 

“Jules too, if it helps you ease your mind.” 

Of course he did. 

Jules knew him better than he knew himself. Every once in a while, he popped into his dreams to give him the answers to all his riddles, to guide him into a better future. 

“It does. Thanks, maman.”  

His mother squeezed him, no longer holding her son, but a seventeen years old version of him, confused and angry, keeping a deadly secret. 

A secret too big for his heart and no one to share it with, a secret that could easily ruin his life, a secret that would render all the sacrifices his family had made completely useless. 

A secret that Jules was supposed to learn, but never got to. 

A secret Charles had promised he’d take to his tomb, a promise he had broken with Pierre, but couldn’t break with his dying father. 

Knowing that they knew, that Charles hadn’t lied to them before they left, fixed something inside him he didn’t know was broken. 

He let go of his mother’s arms, wiped off his tears and looked up. 

Two birds flew by, two feathers falling onto his hand. 

The message had been received, so Charles moved on. Because, as soon as he cleared his mind, blue eyes popped into it. 

He was very much fucked. 

“...So. There’s... there’s this man...” 

Charles regretted talking immediately after the words left his mouth. 

Pascale's smirk was evil.  

“Oh? What about him?” 

Oh, no. Terrible plan. Terrible idea. 

Buthe couldn’t back down now, could he? 

Charles rubbed his face. 

“I called him chéri, maman. And I didn’t notice until Lorenzo told me.” 

Pascale raised an eyebrow, smirk still on her face. 

“Tell me more.” 

What on Earth had he brought himself into? 

“I don’t know what to do, maman. We're not together, we haven’t talked about anything, but I'm already daydreaming a future together. I can’t get him out of my head, and it’s killing me.” 

That was, for the lack of a better word, the most depressing thing Charles had ever said. 

He rubbed his face again, pressing his palms into his eyes. 

“God. I feel like a teenager. I'm supposed to be more mature than this.” 

He saw stars when he stared at his mum, but he didn’t need eyes to feel her touch on his shoulder. 

Maybe telling her hadn’t been a terrible idea. 

“Oh, Charles, don’t say that. It's your first time experiencing this. Of course you’re going to be confused.” 

Well, she had a point. A very good point, actually. 

Besides, even though it had taken him ages to realize he was in love with Max, he had been feeling that way for years. It was his teenage self the one going through the crisis, not the adult him. 

Charles bit his lip, so Pascale elbowed him. 

“When you said you haven’t talked...” 

“We fucked a few times and never mentioned feelings.” 

He got hit on the back of his head. 

“Charles! Don't use that kind of language!” 

Lightly, of course. It didn’t hurt. 

“But how do you want me to say it? We made love a few times? That's bullshit, maman. There wasn’t any love, just lust.” 

Max had asked about it in Abu Dhabi. He was worried Pascale was like Jos.  

“Are you sure about that?”

Sometimes, Charles despised being so expressive. He wasn’t an open book, he was... 

More than that. 

A book that was actively being written and beta read by many people? 

He needed to find a good metaphor. 

Max would probably help. Hell, maybe, he already had one. He knew a lot of things, and he knew Charles.  

“I don’t know! But even if there was, we...” 

It's a mistake.  

“...we can’t be together. Not until I retire.” 

There was no way on hell, heaven or Earth he’d confess his mother who this man was, even if it complicated things. 

And, truth be told, if, if, they got together and the public learned about it, Max would be fine. He had four championships and dozens of records. 

Charles, though? 

He had the power to send a whole country into a delusional spiral with a single emoji, a pretty face, and... 

Eight wins. 

He knew his worth. He knew his talent. He knew he had been racing during tricky times, with Mercedes and Red Bull too dominant to give other people a chance. He knew he had his own records too, that his tifosi called him il predestinato for a reason. 

But people didn’t care about that. People didn’t care about how shit his car was in 2020, didn’t care about how he sacrificed races for other people’s wins, didn’t care about anything but his statistics, his numbers, his crash in Le Castellet. 

If people found out he was gay... 

Even if Ferrari defended him, like he knew they would, the public wouldn’t let him forget. 

His career would be done for. 

“If you really want him, and he wants you, Charlie, you’ll find a way. I know you will.” 

Yet another great point. Maybe telling Pascale wasn’t a bad idea. 

“And if I want to get over him? What do I do?” 

It’s a mistake.  

God, he wished he could get to the bottom of it. If he knew that nothing was wrong with him, why did he feel that way? 

He had been raised to be respectful towards everyone he crossed paths with. He had been raised to believe God loved all His children, that every choice He had made was intentional. He had been raised to believe He made no mistakes. 

Then why did Charles believe he was one? 

And why did that feeling stop whenever he was with Max? Silly crush aside, there had to be some sort of explanation. 

God. Charles needed to get over him, forget about him. 

They could still meet up, release their pent-up emotions and cuddle afterwards, after intense weekends or too many weeks off. But his heart was weak, it wouldn’t survive years of just sex if he was in love.  

“...You wait until it passes. But I don’t think that’s what you want.” 

Maybe talking to Pascale was a good idea. 

He was an open book that his mom had been reading for twenty seven years. 

“So? What do I do?” 

His mother side-eyed him, which felt almost unnatural. 

“You already know the answer.” 

They had to talk.  

Fuck Vegas, fuck waiting. There was no true reason to avoid it. 

But... 

Ah, whatever. Charles was on vacation. He was relaxing on the beach.  

He could spiral later. 

(He did, every single night after that. But no one had to know about that.) 

December 31st. 

Last day of a hectic year. 

Last day of Lewis in Mercedes, of Carlos in Ferrari. 

Last day of Pierre Gasly being known as a person who had hair, apparently. 

“He did what?!”  

Yuki and Charles rarely talked off-season, especially not on the phone.  

When the Monegasque saw who was calling him, he knew it was an emergency and picked up immediately. 

“He got the fucking transplant! For fuck’s sake, Charles, he’s bald. And he hid it from us for weeks. Why did you leave him alone?!”  

It was worse than an emergency. It was a catastrophe. 

But why was Charles to blame?! 

“Why did you leave him alone, Yuki?” 

“I thought I could trust him! It's part of my job as the infatuated not-boyfriend. You're the one who’s supposed to—”  

“The what?” 

Last time he checked, Pierre and Yuki were not dating. Or close to dating. Or anything that wasn’t just friends. 

Pierre was madly in love, yes, but he was too scared to confess, the consequences too dire for him to tolerate. 

“...Infatuated not-boyfriend? It means, like crazy in love or something like that.”  

“No, no, I get that. But what do you mean by ‘not-boyfriend’?” 

Charles knew better than to assume. Either Pierre had purposefully hidden information, or there was some kind of miscommunication going on. 

He heard a very loud sigh from the other side of the phone. 

“Are you blind?”  

“I’m not, but I’m confused.” 

Another sigh. 

“Forget it. He's bald. What are we supposed to do now?”  

“Does he know you’re his not-boyfriend?” 

Charles expected Yuki to be angry, or at the very least, annoyed. He was pushing his buttons quite a lot, after all. 

But no, he wasn’t. Or, at least, he didn’t sound like it. 

His voice was incredibly soft. 

“Considering he holds my hand every chance he gets, I think so. Don't worry about that, Charles, we know what we’re doing.”  

Maybe, just maybe, Charles was projecting a little bit. 

But why wouldn’t Pierre tell him? Why would he hide it from him? They were almost like family, for fuck’s sake. 

Yuki misinterpreted his silence. 

“I know you really care about him and don’t want him to suffer, but I promise no one’s getting hurt or anything here. It's just... complicated.”  

“That's an understatement.” 

How many countries they raced in considered them illegal? 

How many times did they risk their lives every year, outside of the race track? 

Charles hadn’t done any extensive research. There had been only two more destinations after Vegas, and pre-season testing was still ages away. 

He wasn’t sure if he wanted to do the math, to open Google and spiral even further. 

At least he knew his team would have his back. But Yuki and Pierre? Debatable. 

“Can we get back to the main issue? Yes, he only fixed his hairline a bit, yes, hair grows back, but he’s fucking bald. Bald!”  

Charles couldn’t help but chuckle. 

Whatever was going on between those two was still not his problem, not until Pierre decided to pester him about it. 

Both of them were adults. They didn’t need interventions or anything. 

“At least it’s by choice. It could be worse.” 

“You have a great point. But...”  

But it wasn’t really about his hair, was it? 

“Why didn’t he tell us?” 

There were a thousand million different reasons, and none of them were good. 

A haircut was one thing, but a hair transplant?  

“Is he going through a crisis or something?”  

“Maybe. I can call him to complain about Max and try to pry something out of him in a few days.” 

He knew he’d have something to vent about once he met up with his Dutch nightmare. Vegas or not, Charles wasn’t letting himself be distracted by pretty eyes and soft lips. 

They were having The Talk, like it or not. And all possible outcomes would require Pierre’s support. 

“I like that. Let me know what you find out.”  

Yuki ended the call soon after, midnight too close to him to keep wasting time. 

On January 1st, Pierre posted a photo, his shaved head on full display for the public to see. 

On January 1st, Carlos changed his Instagram bio, tagging Williams Racing. 

On January 1st, Ollie Bearman became a Formula 1 driver for Haas. 

On January 1st, Scuderia Ferrari followed Lewis Hamilton on Instagram. 

On January 1st, everyone’s points went back to zero. 

On January 1st, exactly at midnight, Charles Leclerc started getting his hopes up. 

“Leo, stop biting my shoelaces!” 

To no one’s surprise, the dog didn’t listen. 

Charles moved his foot away from his baby while he tried to dry the dishes he should’ve washed days ago, when he wasn’t running against time. 

In his defense, he had been busy. Adding some finishing touches to his new songs wasn’t an easy task, and it was far more enjoyable than dishes. 

“Leo!” 

He still refused to listen. 

Charles rolled his eyes and let his sponsored shoes get destroyed. He could buy another pair if he wanted to. The dishes were more important. 

Almost on cue, he got a text from Max. 

He was downstairs, and the dishes still weren’t done. 

It wasn’t a big deal. Not at all. Charles could finish later, when Max left. 

If he had to be honest, the only reason he started cleaning was to ease his nerves. He knew the dutchman didn’t really care about stuff like that if it wasn’t his own home. 

Charles picked up Leo and impatiently tapped his foot during the seconds it took for the elevator to go down. 

He barely managed to open the door before a certain spoiled baby tried to jump off his arms. 

“Oh wow. Someone was eager to see me.” 

Max happily accepted Leo into his arms, but his eyes weren’t looking at him. 

Charles couldn’t help but blush. 

“Happy New Year, Max.” 

“Bonne année, Charlie.” 

Leo chose that moment to lick Max’s cheek. 

It was both hilarious and a wake-up call, because they were still very much on the front door, where anyone could see them.  

Max stepped inside and walked straight towards to the elevator, trying to stop a very hyperactive Leo from accidentally turning into puree. 

Charles followed him, phone in hand. 

“Your pronunciation is not that bad. I'm impressed.” 

“Thanks. I've been practicing.” 

Leo licked Max’s cheek again, killing any kind of vibe that might or might not have been forming. 

Charles took a photo. 

“I think he might love you more than he loves me.” 

“I think he just knows you get happy when I’m around.” 

Charles didn’t bother answering. He just opened the door to his apartment, letting Max and Leo in. 

Closing that same door and turning the key twice to lock it shouldn’t have taken him as long as it did, but he was nervous. Sue him. 

He stared at the blue keychain for a few seconds before turning around. 

He didn’t get a chance to even breathe before he was pushed against the door and kissed until he ran out of air. 

Somewhere in the apartment, Leo was barking. 

It took Charles inhuman amounts of physical and mental strength to push the dutchman away from him. 

“Wait, Max—” 

They had to talk. 

Fuck Vegas, they had to talk right there and then. Set the bases of whatever they had going on. Talk about boundaries, and race weekends, and who could they tell, who was off-limits. 

They had to talk, but Charles had missed Max so much, and it looked like it was mutual. 

Blue eyes stared at green ones, waiting. 

“If you give me five minutes to get Leo food and a few toys, he won’t bother us.” 

They could talk later, right? As long as they talked that day, it could wait. 

Max chuckled and set Charles free. 

The prince of the house zoomed past his father at least ten times while he gathered all the supplies he needed, and finally settled down once he got a chewable toy between his teeth. 

Charles ruffled his hair before turning all his attention to Max. 

He grabbed the dutchman’s hand and pulled him towards the bedroom. 

“Are you absolutely sure he won’t—” 

“He knows that he can’t get in if the door is closed. He’s very smart. Now stop talking about my dog, please.” 

Not wanting to waste any time, Charles pushed Max on top of the bed and straddled his hips, getting a smirk from the dutchman. 

“Someone’s eager.” 

“Says the guy who pinned me against the door the second he saw me.” 

Their lips met again, the fire growing bigger by the second. Max's shirt got tossed to the floor, and so did Charles’. 

The Monegasque allowed himself to admire the man in front of him. A body sculpted by ancient gods, his messy hair so soft it didn’t feel natural, his lips plump and kissable, eyes so blue, blue, blue.  

Charles knew he was in love, but god. Max was perfect, and whoever dared to say otherwise was either blind or fucking stupid. 

The pierced nipples were a plus. Charles couldn’t help but graze them, earning a shudder from his champion. 

His champion. His, his, only his.  

“Careful, Leclerc. You're playing with fire.” 

“I know. It's on purpose.” 

That stupidly hot mole on Max’s lip was calling for him, so Charles kissed him again. 

And again. 

And again. 

And again. 

Two professional athletes, who had much more stamina than the average human being, lied in bed, completely out of breath. 

Yes. Charles was a bit of a whore, but so was Max. No doubts whatsoever about that. 

Neither of them was complaining. 

“Are we still having that candlelit dinner?” 

And even though his breath was still unstable, even though he was covered in sweat, even though his entire body was filled with hickeys, Max still wanted to do that silly, romantic thing with Charles, and considered it important enough to ask right there and then. 

“If we figure out how to move, yes. Of course.” 

Neither of them moved a muscle, though. Not for a few more minutes. 

It was Charles who rolled out of bed first, looking for the wet wipes he had conveniently stored in his bedside table. 

“I’m a genius, don’t you think?” 

“Yeah, sure. Absolutely.” 

Charles flicked Max’s arm before helping him wipe off all the sweat. 

It immediately became obvious the wet wipes weren’t nearly enough. 

“I think we need a shower.” 

“Wow. You really are a genius.” 

Charles flicked Max again. 

“Stop bullying me.” 

The dutchman’s smile was everything but innocent. 

And Charles was oh so weak for it. 

“Me? Bullying you? Oh, I would never. You must be mistaken.” 

They kept teasing each other all the way to the bathroom. 

They kept teasing each other while scrubbing each other’s hair. 

They kept teasing each other while they got changed, while they chose what to watch on tv, while they cuddled with Leo on the couch. 

It hadn’t always been that way. At one point in their lives, their words were meant to hurt, to weaken an annoying opponent that made karting so insufferable yet so fun at the same time. 

They grew up. They matured. 

They had a fight over a race that went as far as unfollowing each other, a big deal for two twenty one year olds. 

They made up, and words stopped hurting. So Charles started teasing, and Max teased back. 

And it felt so... 

Right. 

“You alright?” 

“Yeah. Just thinking.” 

Max kissed the top of Charles’ head. 

Why? Just because he wanted to. Because it felt right. Because that was how it was meant to be, Max and Charles kissing each other everywhere when no one was around to witness it. 

...They needed to talk. 

They couldn’t keep avoiding it, keep pushing it for a Vegas vacation both of them knew would never come. 

Charles fidgeted with his rings, the tv now white noise as he gathered the courage to say the words. 

We need to talk.  

“Are you sure you’re okay, Char?” 

That new nickname did nothing to help the lump on his throat. 

We need to talk.  

“Yeah.” 

He couldn’t understand why he was so afraid. 

Max was cuddling him. He had asked for the candlelit dinner. He was the one who made the most advances. 

They had to be on the same page, or at least, close enough. Neither of them would be heartbroken once their talk ended. 

We need to talk.  

But what if they did? 

Charles was a hopeless romantic. He adored giving and receiving affection, all day, every day. Soft kisses after waking up, an improvised brunch in bed, whispered words in broken French and lazy afternoons spent doing nothing but being next to each other. 

Max was... 

Dutch. 

He was quite romantic, and he adapted to his partner’s needs. He gave the affection the other person needed, in the way they liked it. 

He also needed much more space than Charles. He needed occasional distance, a night slept on the sofa once every few months, a day or two without saying a word, only focused on his simulator, or whatever show he was binging. 

We need to talk.  

They weren’t incompatible. Not at all. If anything, sometimes, Charles believed they had been made to complete each other. 

But it wasn’t an easy conversation to have, their careers an added pressure that tangled everything up. 

We need to talk.  

Charles was twenty seven, for God’s sake. He was a grown man. 

Even if his teenage self was present too, he wasn’t the one in control. 

We need to talk.  

“Max—” 

Almost on cue, the dutchman’s phone started vibrating. A lot. 

Whoever was texting him had just sent an entire Bible. 

Max had no choice but to check. There were very few people who would text the Max Verstappen with such urgency. 

Blue eyes stared at his screen, the light on them gone. 

“Max?” 

He tapped his screen. 

“Hi Max! Look what I learned today!”  

Charles allowed himself to steal a glance. 

It was a video of Penelope trying to do a cartwheel. 

“She knows her mother and I aren’t together anymore, but she still wants me to be in her life, even from a distance.” 

The rest of the messages were either photos or more videos, and P looked so happy. 

Max didn’t. 

“Do you regret it?” 

Charles knew he was playing with fire. The last time he had asked, Max had said he hadn’t. 

He hadn’t sound convinced. 

He hadn’t sound convinced, and Charles had feigned ignorance ever since. 

“She left me. Not the other way around.” 

... 

Charles scooted closer. 

“I lied because I knew the press would destroy her. And neither of them deserve that.” 

Max locked his phone and put it aside. 

“Sorry. I shouldn’t—” 

“You were her bonus dad for four years. Of course you’re going to miss her.” 

It was fine. It really was. 

Four years was quite a long time. 

“Of course you’re going to miss them.”  

Max rubbed his face, a sign that the conversation was over. 

“You wanted to say something?” 

Charles forced himself to swallow the lump on his throat, and he wasn’t sure he succeeded. 

“Yeah, well, I forgot. Oops.” 

He managed to keep his voice steady, the years of PR finally proving to be useful. 

He had to focus on his breathing, the realization he just had threatening to making him hyperventilate. 

They couldn’t talk, not yet. Not until Vegas, at the end of the season, after an entire year of dancing around each other. 

They couldn’t talk, not yet, because Charles Leclerc was in love with a man who still wasn’t over his ex. 

Chapter Text

There was a reason Charles was known as the master of delusion.

He managed to feign ignorance during the rest of the night, while they held hands on top of the table, the candles the only source of light.

He managed to feign ignorance while he tried to fall asleep, Max tangled up in his arms and breathing calmly.

He managed to feign ignorance while they had breakfast, a few stolen kisses between pieces of toast.

He managed to feign ignorance until Max left.

And then, he broke down.

He was twenty seven, he was stronger than this, yet there he was, crying over a man.

No. Not a man. The man, the one who had been in Charles’ life for longer either of them could remember.

The one who held hands with him, who cuddled with him, who kissed him, who was still in love with his ex.

Charles had been a blind idiot. The signs had always been there.

He had assumed the house felt too big because Max hadn’t gotten used to it, not because he missed her.

To be fair, P was a big factor. Max had helped raised her, never intending to replace Daniil, but to give a child some extra much-needed love.

They were a family. A loving family.

Kelly had broken it.

Charles didn’t know why, but the reasons didn’t matter. Kelly had broken it, when Max probably didn’t want to.

Max missed her, missed her love, and was probably using Charles as a way to fill that emptiness.

Probably, and not definitely, because Charles was the master of delusion, and still had hope.

But hope alone couldn’t glue his broken heart, nor could it make Max love him.

“You’re catastrophizing.”

Pierre's voice brought him back to reality.

His recently fixed hairline was distracting enough to keep Charles grounded, even if it was through a screen.

“I know.”

But it was fine.

Charles was leaving for the Dolomites in two days, where he’d do his damned introspection, would figure stuff out, and would come back with a clear mind. Like he did every year.

“It won’t be that easy, calamar.”

“Stop reading my mind.”

“I wish I could. It's full of Max.”

It was both a curse and a blessing that Pierre lived in Milan, because Charles wished he could hit the back of his (now shaved) head, but he knew his friend was craving to do the same.

“Okay, but why shouldn’t I be catastrophizing? The worst-case scenario here is the most common. I'm a pretty face with a pretty body. I was literally made to be irresistible and help people forget their exes.”

“You are so humble, Charlie. It’s impressive.”

“Did I lie?”

Pierre rolled his eyes, and Leo considered that a good moment to wake up from his nap and demand cuddles by biting Charles’ toes.

That dog could be way too smart sometimes.

“Yes. You weren’t made to be a replacement, dumbass. And I'm not boosting your ego.”

With his baby on his lap, Charles didn’t feel the urge to cry.

He still sighed, though.

“He chased me, Pierre. He went out of his way to invite me to a party, spilled his drink on me on purpose only to make me go to his room, fucked my brains out and gave me a matching keychain to make me go back to him.”

Even if he wasn’t made to be a replacement, Max still used him as one. Allegedly.

Why else would he agree to meet up, if his heart still belonged to someone else?

“And a few weeks later he stayed with you when you asked him to, held you while you mourned the championship and made sure you survived the night after getting so drunk you started singing the Italian national anthem.”

That was a very good point, one that the delusional part of Charles’ brain kept thinking about.

If he was supposed to be a replacement, something to fill the void Kelly had left behind, why would Max insist on taking care of him? Why would he get mad in Rwanda, over Charles leaving earlier than expected?

But, then again, if there was something between them, why bring up Kelly at all?

Maybe he needed a shoulder to cry one, someone who was willing to listen. Maybe he was still processing everything, maybe he did love Charles, while grieving his lost family. Four years was a long time.

Maybe he just wanted sex, and he knew that Charles needed romantic stuff to survive.

“I don’t want logic right now, calamar. It won’t end well.”

For every argument that Pierre brought up, Charles would have at least three different counterarguments. He had been overthinking for months by then.

He didn’t want to keep thinking. The only thing he wanted was to sleep until his brain forgot about Max.

“I have so many things to worry about, for God’s sake. Lewis Hamilton is my teammate. This year could be our year. This year has to be our year. I can’t waste my time crying over a guy who doesn’t love me.”

“And yet, the next time he texts you, you’ll send him another thirst trap.”

Critical hit.

Charles seriously considered ending the call right then.

“You’re not being helpful.”

Pierre sighed, rubbing his temples.

He was very clearly over it.

“I’m not fueling your spirals, Char. Maybe I'm being too harsh, but you have a thick skull, you know.”

A recent memory popped into his mind, one that he hadn’t paid any attention to when it happened, too busy trying not to cry to do so.

“He called me ‘Char’.”

“...Are you even listening to me?”

No. Not really.

Charles was too out of his mind to genuinely pay attention to what Pierre was saying.

“I called him chéri, on accident, and only noticed when Lorenzo told me. And then, he called me ‘Char’. He never used that nickname before.”

The signals were more than mixed. It was staring to give him a headache.

He knew what he had to do. They had to talk, yadda yadda.

But if Charles heard Kelly’s name one more time, he’d break down. In front of Max.

“Charles.”

Pierre's tone forced him to stare into his friend’s eyes. Even with a screen and a couple hundred kilometers between them, he could be intimidating.

He was being serious.

“You are being way too stubborn right now. It's not healthy, and I’m not enabling it, okay? I love you, I don’t want to see you suffer.”

He knew that.

He knew that going in circles was pushing him closer to an edge he had no wishes to stand on. He knew what to do to solve it, and he was purposefully choosing not to.

Calling him ‘stubborn’ was too generous. Charles was worse than that.

“Sorry.”

Pierre smiled.

He wasn’t mad, just over it. And worried.

“Don’t apologize, calamar. But this is affecting you way more than it should be. Maybe there’s a reason—”

“I’m gay. Like, a hundred percent gay. I don’t like women.”

After God knows how many years by his side, Charles still had the power to startle Pierre.

And it felt so damn good.

He also noticed how the Frenchman’s shoulders slumped, how his face fell flat, but not in a negative way.

He was relieved.

“That explains a lot.”

“I’ll figure it out at the mountains, Pi. I know that this goes deeper than just Max. But I still need to deal with him, the love he still has for his ex and his stupidly good dick.”

Pierre stared at the screen for a few seconds before turning off the camera.

Charles sat in silence as he waited for his friend to finish his de-stressing mini-walk, like he always did when the Monegasque talked too much.

Bald Pierre popped back into his screen, with Simba on his lap.

“I did not need to know that last part.”

“What? He knew what he was doing. That’s certainly a big part of the problem. If he wasn’t—”

“Nope. Don't wanna hear about it.”

Pierre covered his baby’s ears.

Leo stared at the screen and barked.

“You’re just jealous I’m getting laid.”

“Maybe I am.”

That wasn’t something Charles was expecting to hear.

The shock must’ve shown on his face, because Pierre rolled his eyes.

“What’s going on between you and Yuki? He called himself your not-boyfriend the other day.”

It was the Frenchman’s turn to be shocked.

Charles prepared himself for a rant that never came.

“He... what?”

He was surprisingly... unfazed by it.

Maybe he truly was okay with it. Maybe it was the screen, the three hundred kilometers separating them.

Charles was inclined to believe it was the latter.

“We were talking about your hair, and he said that his job as a not-boyfriend was to believe in you, that I should’ve been the one paying attention. Which, by the way, why did you get the transplant without telling anyone?”

It was a not-so-subtle way to get the information, but after so many years of friendship, there was no need for subtlety.

Pierre tried to scratch the top of his head, but Simba licked his arm.

“Because I knew both of you would’ve gotten worried. Yuki would’ve insisted on taking care of me, and you would’ve felt guilty over being in Mexico, even though it was a hair transplant. I could, and did, manage it on my own.”

He wasn’t wrong.

Charles would give up his own life for Pierre. He was his best friend, inside and outside of the paddock.

Even if a hair transplant, a very small one just to fix his hairline, wasn’t the biggest of deals, Charles would’ve wanted to be there.

They knew each other too well, didn’t they.

Simba licked Pierre’s arm again.

“Not-boyfriend, you said.”

“Yes. He insisted you two have it covered.”

The poodle refused to stop licking, no matter how many times his dad tried to stop him.

His patience was wearing thin.

“Maybe we do, maybe we don’t. I'll have to talk to him. Do you want to see Yuki, Simba?”

The dog jumped off his dad’s lap and ran off-camera, barking non-stop.

It was an adorable sight, but it also awoke something in Leo, even though there was a screen between them.

He started wagging his tail almost too quickly, scratching Charles’ arm with enough force to be uncomfortable and not just cute.

He was getting the zoomies.

“Do you want to go for a walk, Leo?”

Pierre and Charles exchanged looks before saying goodbye and ending the call.

Many things were left unsaid, but they had dad duties to attend.

After living his entire life in Monaco, one would assume Charles was used to the hills and walked everywhere.

He was not.

He changed into comfier clothes, picked one of his cars and drove to one of the dog parks to let Leo burn off all his energy.

No one stopped them for pictures. No one asked for his autograph.

Sometimes, living amongst other millionaires had its perks.

Charles decided to go on a walk afterwards, for no reason in particular. He couldn’t quite explain it, but he felt like he had to, even though he had already gone on his daily run.

He couldn’t go too far, though. His car was right there, waiting for him.

Leo barked, pulling on his leash.

“What’s wrong, baby? Do you want to go that way?”

He did, apparently, because he pulled harder.

There was someone in a hoodie not too far away from them, and they seemed to have caught Leo’s attention.

“Leo, don’t bark at strangers!”

The mysterious person looked over their shoulder.

They had sunglasses on, but few messy curls escaped from the hoodie.

Curls that Charles would recognize anywhere.

“Lando? What are you doing over here?”

The British driver turned around and crouched, the dog running straight into his arms.

“Walking. Hello, Leo! Are you behaving?”

The sunglasses did their job, hiding Lando’s eyes from the world, but Charles was almost entirely sure that his eyebags reached the floor.

He had a bandaid over his left thumb.

“He was, until he noticed you.”

Charles looked around.

Not a lot of people were there, and no one seemed to care about the two men and the baby, but they were way too far away from Lando’s house.

Walking.

“You walked all the way here?”

“Yup.”

That wasn’t a good sign.

At all.

“Are you walking all the way back?”

“Yup.”

Even with Leo in his arms, Lando’s voice was so flat, so devoid of energy Charles was mere seconds away from DMing Max Fewtrell for help.

Something had happened.

“Do you want me to give you a lift? I drove here.”

“No, it’s okay, Charlie. I'm fine.”

Something had happened, and he was closing off.

Had it been anyone else, Charles would’ve let them run away.

But he wasn’t giving up. He wasn’t letting Lando, his friend, drown in his misery, not when he knew how much it affected him.

“We should buy ice cream and go to my place. Or yours, if you want to.”

“Charles—”

“Lando.”

The Brit looked straight into the Monegasque's eyes, wrath seething through them.

It disappeared once he realized.

Charles' eyes were still a bit red, slightly puffy.

Crying in a dog park over a man was a new low for him.

Lando took a deep breath and stood up.

“...Ice cream sounds neat.”

They walked in silence towards the car, Leo stopping only once to sniff a pretty big stick.

The ride to Lando’s apartment was also silent.

The universe, God, destiny, whoever was responsible must’ve sensed their moods and offered them some help.

No one stopped them. No one asked for pictures, or autographs, or a video for someone’s little brother.

They bought two tubes of LEC ice cream and went upstairs.

Lando's apartment was a mess.

There were a ton of empty takeout containers on the table, clothes scattered everywhere and a bunch of dirty dishes next to the sink.

“...Yeah. Sorry. Rough couple of days.”

Charles didn’t answer.

He took some of the takeout containers and tossed them in the trash.

Lando opened his mouth, possibly to protest, but Leo barked until the Brit picked him up.

Smart kid.

“Tell me how to help.”

“If you can hold this demon, I can clean up.”

Leo was practically glued to Lando’s arms, too still and too calm.

He had no intention of moving.

“The demon wants to be held by you. He's a spoiled brat, he’ll whine if you don’t.”

“Isn’t that your fault?”

Lando got side-eyed.

Shivers went down his spine.

“Just... I don’t know, toss everything inside my room, I’ll deal with it later.”

“Sure?”

Charles got side-eyed.

He finished cleaning the table before moving to the clothes.

To be fair, there weren’t that many, but they were spread out quite evenly. They made the place look messier than it actually was.

The bed was unmade, but the sheets looked clean. One good sign amongst the chaos.

Charles put the clothes on top of a chair, made the bed and went back to the living room.

Lando was washing the dishes, Leo crying beside him.

“Can’t you wait only five minutes? Christ, you’re almost as impatient as your father.”

“I’m a very patient person, thank you very much.”
The Brit dropped the spoon he was holding and turned around, splashing some water onto Charles’ face.

“Don’t do that, you muppet! You scared me half to death!”

“I told you he’d get whiny.”

Less than five minutes later, the table was pristine, Leo was back in Lando’s arms and the ice cream tubs were opened.

Charles didn’t know what to say.

He wanted to ask what was going on, to ask how he could help, to be there and do something.

He also knew Lando didn’t always have the most patience when he had a slump like that.

Besides, he had only accepted the meetup because he had seen Charles suffering too. Maybe he was expecting him to be the first one opening up.

He didn’t know what to say, and he started fidgeting with his rings at the exact same time Lando started picking on his cuticles.

They both broke down laughing.

“Charlie, mate, it’s just me! Why are you so nervous?”

“I could ask the same thing. And don’t do that. Leo doesn’t like it.”

Leo did, in fact, not like it. He pushed his nose against Lando’s hands, trying to stop him.

The Brit looked away and took a deep breath.

“I’m gay.”

It didn’t come as a surprise. Not really.

Charles tried to answer, but Lando interrupted him.

“No. Don't say anything yet.”

He did as he was told and dug into his ice cream.

Lando tried to pick at his cuticles, and Leo stopped him again.

He gave up and began scratching the dog’s head.

“Last year was... tough. Lots of doubts, lots of mistakes, lots of pressure. I thought that winning constructors’ would help, but it didn’t. Not in the way that I needed”

Charles’ mind went back to the FIA gala.

He had been so focused on Max, Max, Max, that Lando had completely disappeared from his radar.

He couldn’t remember if he looked genuinely happy, or if there was something strange in his eyes. The only thing he remembered was...

No, no. Assuming things was still wrong.

“I don’t know. Everything feels like a lot, and I can’t even choose a hoodie without doubting myself. I know it’s just a seasonal slump, that it will pass, but...”

The vague hand gesture said enough.

Even if Lando knew it was temporary, it didn’t stop the pain.

“So, yeah. I'm gay. I thought telling someone I know I can trust would help, you know. One less thing in my mind.”

The small silence was Charles’ cue to answer.

“I’m glad you trust me with this.”

He offered Lando a smile, hoping to get on in return.

“Yeah. You're a good person, Charlie. Thanks.”

He did, but the shine in the Brit’s eyes was still gone.

Charles pushed further, trying not to cross the line.

“Who else knows?”

Lando looked at Leo, who was still stopping him from destroying his cuticles by refusing to stop licking the Brit’s hand.

His smile seemed more genuine.

“In the paddock? Uh, Carlos, Osc, and... Alex suspects, I think. Oh, and Daniel. And Fran. Wow, that’s more people than I thought.”

It took Charles one extra second to realize “Fran” was Franco.

Mildly interesting.

“I thought there was a pattern, but Alex and Franco broke it.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not wrong. It's hard to keep it a secret when you’re crushing on the guy you see all day, every day, every race weekend.”

Oh.

Oh!

Charles couldn’t exactly relate, but he understood.

“All three times?”

Lando looked at him like he was batshit crazy.

“Have you seen them? Carlos and Daniel are almost illegally hot, and Oscar has his charm.”

Charles would be lying if he said he never stole a few glances whenever the Spaniard changed his shirt. The guy was... nice to look at.

But he had never felt anything towards him. And the other two...

“They’re not really my type.”

He got ignored. Rude.

“But that’s not the worst part, Charlie. I'm already over them. It just so happens that I’m in love with a freaking idiot.”

Lando sounded so goddamn desperate.

Clearly, it was something he needed to get out of his chest as soon as possible.

With all the information Charles had, it was impossible not to assume.

“Franco?”

“Fr— Wait, how did you know?”

Charles didn’t say anything. He just shrugged.

Lando had no arguments to defend himself.

“Yeah, well. I've always thought he was cute, but when he got the seat... I don’t know. He must’ve cast a spell on me or something. I can’t explain it any other way.”

He couldn’t help but to tease him. Lando's face was just as red as Charles’ race car.

“Maybe you’re just too gay.”

He got kicked in response.

“Don’t be homophobic!”

Charles could’ve answered with the obvious joke.

He could’ve, but he didn’t. It wasn’t his moment.

“Anyways, we started talking a lot, we had dinner with his manager in Brazil, and two weeks later... he went out with that woman.”

Charles vaguely remembered it. Franco had been spotted going out with an Argentinian celebrity, and social media had exploded.

Lando had been furious.

“It sucked. He was angry, sad, annoyed, everything. And...”

The Brit looked away, staring at the window.

His voice was trembling.

“And instead of feeling bad for him and his privacy, I got jealous. That should’ve been me.”

Charles raised an eyebrow.

Even Leo sat up to judge him, his little paws still stopping Lando from hurting himself.

“Oh, you’re fucked fucked. Down bad.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

Lando rubbed his eyes trying almost too hard to stop the tears.

“It just hurts to know I’ll never be enough for him. I know he’s bi, but that doesn’t mean anything when we’re... us.”

When we’re F1 drivers.

A tale as old as time, a struggle that they both shared, even if Lando didn’t know it.

Yet.

Charles bit his lip, but the Brit didn’t seem to be paying attention.

He took a deep breath and stabbed his ice cream with his spoon.

“At least he’s not going out with that woman. I think I’d jump off a bridge if he was.”

“...Isn’t that a bit too extreme?”

Lando locked eyes with him.

The light still wasn’t back, not fully, but there was something else in them Charles couldn’t quite decipher.

“Charlie. That woman is... insane.”

Fear.

Lando's eyes were filled with fear.

One tub of ice cream got finished while the other one melted, as Lando explained in great detail everything he had read online.

Charles got lost halfway through.

Charles.

The King of Gossip.

Got lost.

“...Wow.”

Lando shrugged.

“Yeah. Fran regrets it, but... I don’t know. He chose her, even if it was only for one night. If it was my only problem, it’d be manageable, but...”

“But it isn’t, and dealing with everything it’s eating you alive.”

They locked eyes again.

The Brit looked much calmer, the weight on his shoulders breaking into pieces and sliding off his back.

His face was still Ferrari red, though.

“Fran isn’t any help either. He keeps flirting with me, but I have no idea what he wants! He has to be confusing me on purpose.”

Lando gently put Leo on the floor, crossed his arms over the table, buried his head there and screamed.

Charles couldn’t help but laugh, even though he knew he was just as dramatic.

He made the mental note to apologize to Pierre later.

You’re catastrophizing.

Lando wasn’t Pierre. Lando didn’t have the context, the full history, the twenty years of friendship that had managed to survive racing.

“If it makes you feel better, I’m in a situationship with a guy who can’t get over his ex.”

Lando wasn’t Pierre, and his perspective could be the one thing that Charles needed to force his mind to stop going downhill.

The Brit looked up.

“...A man.”

Charles nodded.

“I swear to God, if you’re messing with me—”

“I’m not. I'm not into women either.”

Lando swirled his ice cream around, mixing the melted bits into the tub.

“...That’s why you were crying.”

Charles smiled almost out of compromise, the years of PR training now second nature to him.

He retold his story from the very beginning, leaving behind the worst parts of his thoughts and trying his hardest not to put unnecessary blame on himself.

He talked about the keychains, the romantic dinners and the loving words.

He talked about the hesitation, the small arguments, the house that was too big and empty and almost depressing.

He tried to be objective, but God was it hard to. He had too many feelings.

“...So? what do you think?”

He never mentioned who the man was, not wanting Lando to give a biased opinion.

The Brit rolled his eyes.

“Can we, dunno, kill the guy or something?”

“I don’t think Red Bull would appreciate finding a new driver right after firing Checo.”

Realization dawned on Lando, his face going white.

“...Max is still in love with Kelly?!”

Why was that the shocking part?!

“Aren’t you surprised it’s Max?”

Lando shrugged.

The Monegasque had no arguments to defend himself.

“But that can’t be, Charlie. We talked before Miami and he was, like, pissed. I don’t know what she said, but Max wasn’t having it. And they broke up a few days after that.”

That was...

Interesting.

It opened the door for a myriad of new thoughts. Some good, hopeful. Some others, not so much.

Charles bit his lip, and Lando pointed at him with his spoon.

“Can’t believe I’m saying this, but you should talk to him.”

“I’ve been trying to. It's hard when neither of us know how to deal with feelings. And shouldn’t you talk to Franco too?”

“It’s not the same. We're just flirting, you— oooh, that’s why he uploaded that photo with you and the pets to his priv!”

Lando wiggled his eyebrows.

It was nice seeing the light coming back into his eyes, but did it really have to be at Charles’ expense?

“See, you two are already acting like a couple. That's too many steps ahead of us.”

Charles chose to keep his sanity intact and pretended not to listen.

He picked up Leo, who was whining next to his feet, and have him a few kisses.

“Carlos knows, if you want to gossip with him. And I think Oscar suspects.”

“Oh, yeah, he definitely does. He clocked me on his first day at the team, he has an eye for stuff like that.”

Lando went on a tangent about the day he came out to Oscar, which then resulted on another tangent about the day he came out to Max Fewtrell, and suddenly he was talking about new clothes he wanted to buy.

He was almost back at his usual self.

Almost.

Charles knew that, once he left, the Brit would probably order takeout again, sink into a pile of blankets and stay there for the rest of the day. A slump like that couldn’t be solved with ice cream and shared secrets.

It still was a big step forward, and Charles was more than happy for him.

When the Brit closed the front door with a smile, the Monegasque forgot almost everything they had talked about.

And he was, like, pissed.

Maybe Pierre was right, and Charles had been catastrophizing.

Maybe Charles was right, and the worst-case scenario was the truth.

Maybe neither of them was right.

He had to talk to Max and figure out what the hell was going on.

But, first, he’d have to survive his winter training.

Chapter Text

Charles had a system. 

Every year, during off-season training at the mountains, he took a few minutes a day to just think.  

The minutes, usually, turned into hours. The lists of topics he initially made always opened more doors, uncovered sneaky thoughts he rarely paid attention to, that always ended up being part of something much bigger. 

Whenever he talked about it, some people called him crazy. Most people just nodded along. 

It worked for him, so there was no need to change it. 

A gust of freezing air hit his face, so he raised his scarf a little bit, enough to cover his mouth. 

He had no clue how much time had passed ever since he sat down outside of his hotel, but he was nowhere near done with his task. 

The pressure of the championship, the frustration after losing, the never-ending issues with his (now ex) teammate, the less-than-ideal strategies... 

That, he could deal with quite easily. Nothing he wasn’t used to. 

He stared at the distance, the view as breathtaking as always, and forced himself to think about the elephant in the room. 

Yes. He was madly in love with Max. That was clear, undeniable, and way too many people knew about it by then to try to feign ignorance. 

Why did it affect him as much as it did? 

Well, it was his first time experiencing real love. All his previous relationships had been... fake, for the lack of a better word. And first times were always like that, simply too much, too fast, too new. 

Of course he’d doubt himself. Of course he’d overthink every single detail. It was his first love. All his other firsts had been similar!

His mind wandered to the first time he had sex with another man and the panic attack he had afterwards. Listening to the ten-minute version of All Too Well twelve times and crying in a dog park were nothing compared to that. 

A few months had passed since Vegas, and his heart was becoming easier to deal with. No matter the end result, there was nothing to be afraid of. 

Why Max? Well, he was hot, he was a good racer, and he was both blunt and gentle. He checked all the boxes, and Charles was nothing but a man with a big, weak heart. 

It was inevitable, to be honest. 

Hate and love were polar opposites, yet incredibly similar at the same time. 

Charles used to hate Max. It was no surprise he had grown to love him. 

I know that your time will come. You're ridiculously talented, Charles.  

2019 could’ve been the end, but it had been only the beginning. 

And, just like that, he had two less things to worry about. It all made sense! 

What didn’t make sense was Charles’ tendency to hate himself for something he knew was completely out of his control. 

He was a happy guy. Yes, of course, he had his moments, like every human being did, but he wasn’t chronically depressed or anything. 

He was confident, proud of himself, and as mentally strong as a person could be. His numbness during 2022 had been the result of severe stress and one of the worst work environments ever known to man. 

He still blamed himself for everything that went slightly wrong, but oh well. Some cuts simply took longer to heal. 

The sun was setting, and Charles knew that enough time had passed. His friends were probably playing rock-paper-scissors to choose who was going outside to talk to him. 

They had a system. It worked. 

He hadn’t made much more progress by the time Joris sat down next to him. 

“What is it this time?” 

“I’m gay and I hate myself because of it.” 

System! 

It worked! 

Joris gave him a cup filled with hot chocolate. 

His face was completely neutral. It wasn’t a coming out per se, it was introspection. Joris, in that moment, was nothing more than a wall, a stationary object that Charles voiced his thoughts to. 

That wall could talk, though. Its job was to ask the right questions. 

“Do you know why?” 

“I think so.” 

It was annoying, honestly, that the answer was not only the simplest one, but the dumbest one. 

His family had always been accepting and respectful. His friends too, and he refused to talk to homophobic people. 

He hadn’t gone to church in ages, but even when he did, he had never paid enough attention to retain the negativity, if there even was any. He sincerely couldn’t remember. 

His relationship with God was complicated, yes, but he still believed He made no mistakes. 

Sometimes, he was sure he was the only person in the world who did so. 

“The world hates people like me.” 

The simplest reason, the dumbest one. 

People on tv, on the news, in social media, people he didn’t know made him feel that way. 

Because it was unnatural. Because it was immoral. Because God said so, even though He never did, but He surely meant it when He said this or that. 

“I was sort of okay with it until I realized the people who worked with me also hated me, even if they didn’t know it.” 

He had forgotten about it, completely erased it from his memory until he sat down hours ago and began dissecting his brain. 

It had been forever ago, back when he still was just the poor kid with the sad story, with the dead dad and dead godfather, Ferrari’s diamond in the rough who had replaced a world champion. 

Someone had made a joke. Someone else laughed at it. 

Charles smiled and nodded before excusing himself. 

He already knew, by then. He pretended not to, even after ending more than one night with a sore back and an NDA. 

They didn’t work at Ferrari anymore. The team was much more inclusive than it used to be, courtesy of Seb’s insistence. 

The damage had been done. 

“Who would’ve thought that bottling it up for years would backfire?” 

“...Do you want a real answer?” 

Charles rolled his eyes at Joris. 

He had to bottle up his feelings during race weekends. He'd crash the car if he didn’t. 

That was why he had his mountain introspection! To avoid explosions! 

How silly of him, to believe that pretending to be straight would make him feel better, that that particular Molotov wouldn’t light on fire. 

Oh well. He was out to most of the people who mattered, and even had a... friend with benefits? Who may or may not still be in love with his ex? Who Charles was very madly and absurdly in love with? 

“Also, I fucked Max Verstappen.” 

Joris choked on his hot chocolate. 

“You what.”  

Charles couldn’t help but smirk. He adored being a menace. 

“Yep. More than once. We're... a thing. Sort of.” 

Joris stood up and walked towards the hotel. Charles had no choice but to follow. 

It was too late to keep thinking, but it was a start. He'd get to the bottom of it the following day. 

He got rid of his snow clothes, took a quick shower and went to the casino. 

Everyone was waiting for him, their table filled with drinks and snacks that looked too pretty to be eaten. 

Charles loved being a menace. 

“I’m fucking Max. Verstappen. We're fuckbuddies.” 

Drinks were choked on, jaws hit the floor, eyes opened in total disbelief. 

Antoine was smart enough to snap a photo of everyone’s faces. 

“...Wait a second.” 

Antonio crossed his arms, glaring at him. 

A shiver went down Charles’ spine. 

Oh, no. No, no, no. 

He had made a big mistake. 

“Rwanda?” 

Hi, Antonio, congratulations again to you and the team on Le Mans! I was having a panic attack, so cut Charlie some slack.  

“Uh...” 

His lack of an answer was an answer on itself. 

Antonio threw a few napkins at him. 

Charles covered his face with his arms to defend himself. Nope, he wasn’t trying to hide his blush. Not at all. 

“Listen, I wasn’t the one who lied! We were both about to explode. It would’ve been a disaster if we stayed. He was the one who made up the panic attack.” 

The glaring didn’t stop. If anything, it was worse.  

Charles took a deep breath. 

“Sorry.” 

Everyone else was confused as fuck, but there was no way on Earth Charles would explain the entire situation without dying of embarrassment. 

Antonio narrowed his eyes. 

“At least tell me he was good.” 

Yes, Max. I want this. I want you. 

He could feel his face going even redder. It should not have been physically possible. 

“I’m not answering that.” 

Yet again, his lack of an answer said it all. 

“So he was.” 

Charles very casually and nonchalantly stood up from their table and walked to the closest slot machine. 

Why did a casino in a five-star hotel in the middle of the Dolomites have an ancient Egypt-themed slot machine, he had no idea. 

It was incredibly effective. It played Walk Like an Egyptian every time he won something! 

But no amount of shapes and colors were enough to make his blush disappear. Not when he could overhear Antonio talking about Rwanda and the little gasps that followed. 

At least he wasn’t spiraling or anything. 

Joris The Wall was back by his side the third time he fed the machine a banknote with a couple too many zeroes. 

“Don’t turn into a gambling addict.” 

“I’m not. And I’m still on budget.” 

He didn’t get to press many buttons before his balance went back to zero, and it seemed like Antonio was done. 

He went back to the table, the fakest of smiles on his face, trying to hide the shame. 

He didn’t know why he ran away when he had been the one who brought it up first, but that was tomorrow’s problem. 

“We want all the details.” 

He didn’t really have a choice, did he? 

Hours passed between poker chips and stories, drinks and memories, laughter and old text messages. 

Why Max? Because he was everything that Charles wanted. 

But was Charles everything that Max wanted? 

“...I think he’s still in love with Kelly, though, so we’ll see.”