Chapter Text
Max arrived at the paddock as usual: team kit on, cap pulled low, energy drink in hand.
He passes a few of the rookies on his way to the Redbull hospitality, an enthusiastic Kimi appearing almost instantly at his side, only to be whisked away by Mercedes staff in less than two minutes, looking absolutely crestfallen as he trotted off. Max made a mental note to track him down himself later.
For now he has bigger concerns.
As he continues toward the lounge, he braces himself for the parade of cameras and microphones already waiting inside.
For perhaps the first time in his career, Max found himself silently hoping the media team had overbooked him. The more commitments they crammed into his day, the better. Interviews. Sponsor appearances. Team content. He'll take it all. Anything to keep him busy.
Busy meant being shuffled from one side of the paddock to the other by his PR manager.
Busy meant less opportunity to run into a certain Ferrari driver.
Busy meant less time to talk to a certain Ferrari driver if he does end up running into him, which is a given.
He’s in the middle of getting briefed on his schedule by his PR manager when he spots said Ferrari driver across the garage, fully engrossed in a conversation with someone.
Immediately, every coherent thought exits his body.
Charles, to his utter luck, looks up at the same moment and directly catches Max staring. His face brightens automatically, easy and familiar, as he lifts a hand in greeting.
Max reacts appropriately by snapping his gaze away so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash.
His PR Manager pauses. “…Max?”
“Yes?”
“You okay?”
“Yep.”
He is, in fact, not okay.
The rest of the morning only gets worse. Every time Charles walks into a room, Max suddenly becomes hyperaware of where his hands are. He answers questions too quickly, avoids lingering anywhere Charles might end up, and abandons everything the second the man wanders into his vicinity.
Charles notices.
Of course he does. Max is not-so-secretly a talker — always had been. Especially with him. Even before they’d gotten together.
Apart from their by-now traditional pre- and post-race debriefs, Max never missed an opportunity to strike up a conversation between interviews, meetings, and media obligations. He’d happily yap Charles’ ear off about his beloved sim rig, some microscopic setup change he’d spent three hours testing, or reenactments of the highlights from his latest gaming stream.
Charles didn’t need the highlights. He’d watched the entire stream from beginning to end.
The point was, Max talked. Constantly. Endlessly. Sometimes to the point where Charles would pretend to be annoyed, only for Max to keep going anyway because he knew perfectly well Charles was listening.
So the sudden absence is impossible to miss.
Ever the sensible man, he doesn’t let it show.
If anything, Charles remains perfectly composed, carrying on conversations as usual and never calling attention to Max’s increasingly obvious evasions.
Only the smallest tells slip through: a slight furrow between his brows when Max cuts interactions short, a longer look than usual when Max gives some halfhearted excuse and disappears.
But every now and then, Max felt his gaze — head tilted slightly, eyes narrowed in quiet consideration, as if he’s trying to solve a puzzle. He doesn’t look upset. If anything, he just seems…mildly curious.
Which might actually be worse.
A curious Charles Leclerc had a habit of leading to things.
Like setting the fire alarm off in his room because he wanted french toast, but the correct way, Max, they don’t know how to make it correct in hotel restaurants!
Or getting them completely lost in Japan once because he wanted to see if he could find their way back without Google Maps.
(“The map is absolutely showing it wrong, Max, I swear we took a left turn by that tree!”
“No, we didn’t.”
“Yes, we did.”)
Or buying matching overpriced doggy suits for Nino and Leo despite Max explicitly telling him not to because he knows the former will end up chewing through his in under 10 minutes. (And he had been right. Nino lasted seven.)
Max had, to his greatest misfortune, always found that persistence oddly attractive. Infuriating at times, yes — and yet, somehow, he’d still found himself falling victim to it.
Maybe something was wrong with him.
Giving credit where it’s due, their relationship had blossomed into something more solely because Charles couldn’t take ‘fuck off’ for an answer. More often than not, it was a game of who could out-stubborn the other between them, always had been — whether they were rivals, friends…or lovers.
So yeah, he’d been charmed by it…up until twenty minutes ago.
Charles’ curiosity is an indicator that he’s firmly set his mind on something.
Which leaves Max with the deeply unsettling feeling that he’s been already seen right through.
At some point, he gets ushered by a media staffer into a camera-filled room and informed it’s his turn for a round of Who’s Most Likely To for the official F1 account.
The questions start off harmless enough.
“Who would ace being a cat and dog dad at the same time?”
Easy. Him.
“Who would survive the least amount of sleep?”
Well. Also him.
But for the sake of the media team he ultimately decides to go with Lando. They’ve survived quite a few wild nights, he can attest to that.
It goes on like that for a while, easy and lighthearted, with him occasionally pretending he’s thinking deeply about a particularly ridiculous question when he is, in reality, thinking about the most discreet route back to the parking lot.
Until—
“Okay,” the host says cheerfully. “Next one.”
Max already doesn’t trust her tone. He straightens slightly in his chair.
The host leans forward conspiratorially.
“This one’s a little spicy. Who would secretly be the best at embracing domestic life?”
Max freezes.
What kind of question is that? Is he filling out a Hinge profile? What the fuck does ‘domestic life’ even entail?
But the second that thought finished forming, he realizes he’s made a terrible mistake. His brain, unhelpful as ever, doesn’t even hesitate. It jumps straight to the same image it has been replaying against his will for days:
A hand on his jaw, an absentminded kiss pressed to his lips. Short and sweet.
Bye, champion. Text me at the airport.
Max feels it happen in real time — the heat creeping up his neck, the way his ears go faintly warm, the absolutely humiliating awareness that his entire face is probably changing colour in HD under studio lighting.
He stares at the host like she’s just spoken in Morse code.
Behind the camera, he can hear people shifting, waiting for him to answer.
Max is suddenly hyperaware of everything: the lights, the lens, the silence stretching too long.
Finally, he says, “…are we on Love Island or what?”, as he shoots a pointed look behind the camera while subtly readjusting his cap, trying to play it off like nothing happened.
The room erupts with laughter.
Max keeps staring forward, expression carefully neutral.
Unfortunately, while he’s busy trying not to think about Charles, his eyes betray him.
Just for a second, he lets his gaze flick sideways.
And there, behind the camera line, half-obscured in the waiting space for the next turn, Charles is standing. He's already looking back at him, smiling — fond and oblivious. Their eyes meet and Max sees more than hears him laugh softly under his breath, barely audible, but unmistakably amused.
Max fixes his gaze back on the host.
His ears are still on fire.
“That’s just a ridiculous question,” he decides to add on, because silence feels worse.
“Is it though?” the host shoots back, delighted.
“Yes,” Max says immediately. “More importantly, how should I know that?”
Another wave of laughter.
“Okay, okay,” the host says, still grinning. “But if you had to guess—hypothetically!”
Max stares her down. If looks could kill, she’d have already evaporated on the spot — cue cards and all.
The host’s smile dims slightly as the silence stretches on, now looking a little nervous.
Fuck this stupid fucking game.
“Fernando,” Max says flatly. “Next question.”
“You’re hard to catch today.”
Max promptly chokes on his Redbull.
He coughs violently, throat burning, as he turns around to find Charles in front him, still in Ferrari red, sunglasses perched on his nose.
“I— what?”
They’re standing off to the side of the paddock, mostly alone except for a couple mechanics passing by. Charles must’ve just wrapped up his own game segment.
Max feels painfully aware of every inch between them.
Charles steps closer, enough that Max catches the familiar scent of his cologne beneath the smell of fuel and hot asphalt.
“I said, you’re hard to catch today, mister.” His mouth twitches. “Been trying all morning.”
Max tenses, hackles rising. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Charles blinks.
“I mean...” Charles tilts his head a little, studying him. “Feels like I haven’t seen you at all today.”
And annoyingly, because he’s Charles, the look isn’t accusing. It’s genuinely puzzled.
Max shoves a hand into his pocket. “Busy day.”
Charles pushes his sunglasses up into his hair.
“That busy?”
Max feels his eyebrow twitch in annoyance.
“Yes, Charles. That busy.” he hears the edge in his own voice and can’t seem to stop it. “Believe it or not, I’m here to do my job too.”
“Woah”, Charles chuckles, lifting both hands up placatingly. “I know that. I was just saying”
He looks away for a second, scratching at the back of his neck somewhat awkwardly.
“You promised me dinner and at least one episode tonight, remember.” He glances back at him, something hesitant in his expression. “We still on for that, yes?”
Fuck.
No, Max does not remember, he’d actually forgotten all about that.
They had plans.
Max was going to take him back to his hotel, they’d spend the evening together. Dinner and the show Charles had spent months begging Max to start watching.
The only thing he can do is nod, schooling his expression into something neutral. “Yeah!” he says, wincing at the crack in his voice. He clears his throat. “Yeah. Of course, we’re good.”
Charles lets his arm fall back, the sunny smile returning to his face.
“Good.”
Silence settles between them.
“You sure everything’s okay?”
Max groans. “Charles.”
Charles stares at him another second before huffing a small laugh through his nose, unconvinced. “Okay, okay. Keep your secrets.”
But then he shifts closer and alarm bells start blaring inside Max’s head.
Charles proceeds to reach out a hand and—
—gently flicks the brim of Max’s cap.
“But you know you can tell me anything, right, baby?”
The words are harmless, spoken with the easy affection Charles reserves only for him, the familiar endearment slipping out without a second thought.
And maybe it’s the proximity, or the way Charles is looking at him as he says it, or the fact they’re standing in public where Max can’t think and can’t breathe and can’t get away from any of it.
Whatever it is, the next thing he knows he's opening his mouth before he can stop himself.
“Don’t call me that.”
The words come out harsh and mean, far meaner than he intended.
Charles freezes, smile faltering, and immediately takes a small step back, hand retreating like he’s been burned.
Max catches the movement and instantly wishes he could grab the words out of the air and shove them back into his big, stupid mouth.
For a second neither of them says anything.
The noise of the paddock fills the space between them — distant engines, voices, the clatter of equipment being wheeled somewhere behind the garages.
Charles is staring at him, perplexed, green eyes shining with a mix of worry and confusion.
Max’s stomach drops. He hadn’t meant for it to come out like that. Hadn’t meant for it to sound sharp enough to hurt. He watches, wide-eyed, as Charles slowly lifts a hand to adjust his sunglasses.
“Well alright,” he says, trying for a light tone.
Max scrubs a hand over his face.
“Charles—”
“No, it’s okay.”
“It isn’t.”
Charles gives a small shrug, but the confusion is still written all over his face.
“I didn’t realize it bothered you.” He pauses, waiting for him to say something, to confirm or maybe deny it, but Max continues staring stubbornly at the ground.
The words had landed with embarrassing accuracy. Just not in the way Charles probably assumes. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He doesn’t know what to say.
Sorry I snapped at you. I’ve been losing my fucking mind for a week because you kissed me goodbye and now every time you look at me my brain turns off.
Not exactly a conversation to have in the middle of the paddock.
Charles watches him struggle through several failed attempts at speech.
Eventually, he sighs.
“Max.”
Against his better judgment, Max looks up. Charles is staring intently into his face, a hint of worry slowly etching itself into his features.
“Did something happen at home?”
“…No.”
“With your family?”
“No.”
“With the team?”
“No.”
Charles pauses.
“Well.” He attempts a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m kind of running out of options here.”
The question hangs between them. Is it me?
Yes, Max wants to say. It’s always you.
He tightens his grip on the Redbull can, the metal crumpling and snapping back into shape with a signature sound.
He doesn’t voice his thoughts.
“You are acting a little strange,” Charles says softly.
“Thanks.”
“I mean it.” Charles says, no trace of humor in his voice now. “You barely looked at me all morning. Now this.”
Because if Max looks at him too long he starts remembering the exact pressure of Charles’ mouth against his.
Max drags a hand down his face. “Can we not do this here?”
That makes Charles pause.
“Then where.”
“I don't know. Just— later. At the hotel.”
“So you can ignore me again?”
The question isn’t angry. Just painfully sincere. Like he’s genuinely trying to understand.
And suddenly Max feels like the biggest asshole in the world. Because Charles is standing here trying to fix a problem he doesn’t even know exists.
“No.”
Charles’ eyebrows fly up. “No?”
“No, of course not. Just…” Max exhales. “We’ll talk tonight. I promise.”
Charles studies him.
The silence stretches.
Long enough that Max wonders if he’s going to push.
Then, unexpectedly, Charles sighs, shoulders dropping as he does.
“Okay.” He sounds resigned, like he's choosing not to fight him on this when Max clearly isn’t ready to be met halfway.
Charles drags a hand over his stubble, the gesture almost a little lost.
Then, because apparently he is incapable of staying upset with Max for longer than thirty seconds, he offers a small smile. “Later, then.”
He points at him.
“And send me the license plate this time. I spent ten minutes trying to get into the wrong rental car in Barcelona.”
“Charles—”
“And drink something that’s not a Redbull for once, mamma mia." he adds, exaggerated and silly. Max can tell the casualness is forced.
Then he reaches out.
For one horrifying second Max thinks he’s about to touch him, pulse spiking.
Instead Charles only catches the edge of his sleeve and gives it a brief, teasing tug.
“See you later?” he asks.
Max swallows.
“Yeah.”
Charles searches his face for another second before nodding.
“Bye, Max.”
Then he’s gone.
Max is left standing there as he watches him disappear into the crowd.
Has Max ever claimed to be a man of his word?
Because he’s not.
For the past ten minutes of the car ride back to the hotel, he’s been quietly constructing increasingly desperate plans that don’t involve outright breaking his promise, but all conveniently avoid whatever “talk” is supposed to mean.
There is nothing to ‘talk’ about, he just needs to get over himself, and that's it. End of story.
Across the center console, Charles sits comfortably in the passenger seat, phone in hand, none the wiser to the inner turmoil unfolding inside Max. Every once in a while, he reaches over to turn up the radio, humming softly along to whatever song happens to be playing.
No mention of their previous conversation. Max knows he's waiting. Patient. Quiet. Certain Max is going to crack eventually.
A poke in his thigh pulls him from his thoughts.
“Wanna get the food now or order in?”
Max pretends to think it over, dragging out the pause just a little too long, before rationalizing that they might as well just grab it on their way. He'd agree to anything to extend the car ride a little further right now.
Charles gives a thumbs-up and resets the GPS to the by now familiar italian place they always end up ordering from in this city.
Thirty-five minutes later, Max is pulling the car into the hotel driveway. He kills the engine and gets out first, already reaching into the back seat for their bags, handing them straight over into Charles’ waiting arms.
A valet lingering by the car steps forward to accept Max’s car keys with an easy, practiced smile.
The hotel is quiet and upscale, all glass and warm lighting reflected in polished stone. They move through the lobby together, Charles politely greeting a staff member in his usual charming manner, the employee returning it without batting an eye at the sudden appearance of another world-famous racing driver in their building.
Max follows suit a beat later, murmuring a greeting of his own.
They step into the elevator. It’s one of those mirrored ones from floor to ceiling, catching them from every angle. Max can see Charles beside him, the steady rise of his chest, can smell the faint scent of his cologne.
Can see himself beside Charles, mere inches between them. The way they keep accidentally meeting each other’s eyes in a dozen different reflections.
And unless Max is completely imagining things, Charles’ gaze keeps dipping lower.
Almost instinctively, he licks his lips.
He watches Charles track the movement with his eyes before snapping them back up.
That’s when the plan slowly starts forming in Max's head, devious and corrupt and brilliant.
He lets out a heavy breath before he can stop himself, far too loud in the enclosed space.
Charles catches his eye in the mirror immediately, the corner of his mouth curling upward.
“Long day, baby?”
The pet name slips out sweetly, dripping with affection. Then Charles visibly winces.
“Sorry.” A sheepish smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I forgot. About earlier.”
Max’s stomach twists.
"No, it's—"
He drags a hand through his hair, suddenly finding the ceiling fascinating.
"It's fine," he says quickly.
Charles studies him for a moment.
“It is?”
“Yeah.” Max clears his throat. “I don’t know why I reacted like that. Really must’ve been a long day.”
“Ah.”
Charles nods slowly, still watching him.
Max forces himself to not look away. Not that there's anywhere else to look.
Fucking mirrored elevators.
Then Charles' expression turns sly. “So what I’m hearing is you like the pet names?”
Of course that’s what he’d choose to focus on.
“I don’t care what you call me, Charles.”
Yes, very good, Max. Excellent job sounding like someone who doesn't care.
Charles raises an eyebrow.
“No?”
“No.”
Charles’ grin widens.
“Good to know, mon trésor.” He winks, stupid french accent rolling off his tongue. “I might get creative.”
By the time they reach their floor Max has made up his mind.
The second the door to his room closes behind them, Charles gets barely enough time to set their bags down (somewhat) safely, a surprised sound escaping him as Max pushes him up against the nearest surface and crashes their lips together in a bruising kiss.
Charles tries to get a word in, struggling to keep up with the force of it, but the second he opens his mouth, Max takes it as an opportunity to slip his tongue in, exploring the inside of his mouth with vigor.
His hands loosen slightly from where they’ve been gripping Charles’ face, one sliding down to bury itself in his hair, while the other circles around and settles on his shoulder.
He pushes them off the wall and slowly tries to steer Charles into the direction of the bedroom without breaking up the kiss.
Charles doesn’t even seem to register it at first, too busy letting out small throaty groans into his mouth, eyes closed in bliss.
But eventually the lack of air catches up with them, and Max is forced to break away, dragging in a sharp breath once they part.
The pause gives Charles a moment of clarity too, breathing hard as he tries to collect himself, the effort becoming considerably more difficult when Max angles his head down and starts pressing slow kisses along the line of his jaw, down to his throat.
They bump into the oversized hotel couch, Charles throwing out a hand to steady them before they can fall.
“Jesus— What has gotten into you?”
Max pauses for a moment, fingers tightening in his hair, only to shift his attention back to the spot just below Charles’ shirt collar, and proceeds to suck a dark bruise into the skin there. Charles lets his head fall back, angling it to give Max better access.
“Not that I’m complaining but— fuck, maybe we should—“
Max ignores him, one hand slowly sliding down his chest until it slips under his shirt and catches on the waistband of his Calvins, all while moving his lips leisurely against Charles’ skin.
“Max, baby, hold on a second—”
Max nips lightly at his throat, fingers finding the zipper of his jeans but before he can get any further, a hand closes around his wrist.
“Max.”
Max reluctantly pulls himself away from Charles’ neck with a disgruntled sound.
“What.”
“I love the enthusiasm, chéri, really, I do. But I thought we were going to talk?”
Max levels him with a look.
“Do you want me to suck your dick, Leclerc, yes or no. Five seconds.”
He watches as Charles’ eyes threaten to fall out of their sockets.
“I—”
Before he can get a coherent thought out, Max dives back in, kissing down his throat, biting and sucking at the sensitive spot under his jaw.
He hears Charles suck in a breath, feels his hands settle on his hips, the grip almost tight enough to leave marks, as he tries to keep his composure under the onslaught of arousal.
“I mean, I suppose it can—“ Max licks a broad stripe up his throat. “Merde— I suppose it can wait a little. Mh, fuck.”
Max smirks as he slowly lowers himself down to the floor, knees hitting the carpet with a dull thud.
He’s a fucking genius.
Near midnight, Charles starts getting ready to leave.
They have rules about staying over during race weekends now, after one too many fines for being late to meetings—which, Max would like to add, is mostly Charles’ fault, considering he takes thrice the amount of time to get ready than Max ever does.
The rest of the night had slipped by easily.
They’d spent most of it sprawled out on the couch, finally getting around to watching the long-awaited show.
Max had made himself comfortable against Charles’ chest, tired and sated, half-dosing in the warmth, while Charles diligently fed him snacks he couldn’t indulge in himself.
“Meal plan, mon cœur,” Charles had insisted, shooting the vending-machine-sized bag of chips a longing look. “You know I can’t.”
Max wasn’t sure what meal plan could justify a Formula One driver refusing a handful of chips, but he lets it go just in case Charles gets any ideas about putting him on it too.
(He doesn’t know Charles would rather die than suggest any diet that might cost him the soft curve of Max’s waist or, God forbid, the solid weight of his thighs. He's not a psychopath.)
Besides, he supposes the diet is clearly doing something right, having firsthand experience with exactly how much muscle is packed underneath team kits and expensive knitwear.
The show had been surprisingly good, too. Though Charles had seemed far more invested in explaining every plot point to him than actually watching it.
Now, standing by the door, he was still talking.
Max leans against the wall a little off to the side, Charles’ phone and wallet in hand, listening with half an ear as Charles rambles about the next episode.
He’s been trying to leave for nearly ten minutes.
“—love her character, trust me. You will never guess the plot twist.”
Max hums in agreement.
He doesn’t mention that he’s pretty much figured out who the killer is within the first twenty minutes and has already googled it to confirm his suspicions. Knowing Charles, his impatience is probably not going to be received well.
“Anyways,” Charles says, shrugging into his jacket. “No watching any spoilers.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Good.”
Charles starts patting his pockets down, clearly looking for something.
“Shit, have you seen my—“
Max pointedly clears his throat.
The sound cuts Charles off mid-rummage and makes him look up, finally registering the quiet weight of Max’s stare and the phone and wallet already sitting in his hands.
“Oh.”
He holds out a hand, fingers wiggling in a give it here gesture.
Max wordlessly offers up the phone. Charles takes the device with a small, grateful hum, then pauses again, outstretched hand lingering just long enough to make it obvious he’s waiting for more. Max doesn’t budge.
“I believe the wallet’s mine too, love.”
Max lifts an eyebrow, idly dangling it between his fingers.
“Is it? Don’t see a name on it.”
Charles lets out an amused snort. “Should I help you look?”
Rather than answer, Max only tips his head in challenge. Closing the distance between them in one small step, Charles reaches for the wallet — only for Max to pull it out of reach at the last moment.
Charles tries again.
Max just lifts his arm higher.
He shoots him an exasperated look.
“Really,” he says flatly, though the smile tugging at his mouth gives him away.
He looks unfairly good despite the late hours, relaxed and a little rumpled, shirt casually unbuttoned at the neck, a couple of fading red marks peeking out, courtesy of Max.
Compared to him, Max looks thoroughly done with the day, slouched in shorts and an oversized white T-shirt like he’s ready for bed.
The blond flashes him a toothy grin and flips him off, making Charles huff out a laugh as he steps back, clearly conceding defeat.
“Fine, I’m leaving.” He turns on his heel with a flourish. “Keep the wallet,” he says over his shoulder, pretending to be annoyed. “See if I care.”
Now, if you’d asked Max later, he still wouldn’t be able to explain what karmic entity possessed him in that moment to blurt out the next sentence.
“What, I get no goodbye kiss this time?”
Charles pauses halfway out the door.
“What?”
“What.”
They stare at each other: one with a confused smile, the other frozen in horror.
Before Charles can say another word, Max shoves the wallet into his chest and promptly slams the door in his face.
He’s left standing in the empty hotel hallway, staring at the closed door in stunned silence. He looks down at the wallet clutched awkwardly to his chest like it might offer him some explanation.
When it doesn’t look like he’s going to get any, he lifts his gaze back to the door.
The door, unsurprisingly, remains closed.
Charles blinks.
Then raises a hand and knocks twice.
“Max?”
Silence.
“Max.”
A beat passes.
Then, muffled through the door:
“Your Uber’s gonna be here in five minutes between.”
Charles stares at the wood panel in front of him.
“…My Uber?”
“Your Uber,” Max repeats, sounding suspiciously like someone speaking through clenched teeth. “Five minutes.”
Shaking himself out of his stupor he knocks again.
“Can you open the door?”
“I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“I do.”
“Well, luckily only one of us is inside the room.”
Charles rubs a hand over his face.
“Max.”
“Charles.”
“Open the door.”
“Have a safe trip.”
Charles lets out a disbelieving laugh.
“What is happening right now?”
On the other side of the door, Max is standing with both hands clamped over his face, regretting every single decision that has led him to this humiliation ritual.
He’d like to be very clear: this had not been part of the plan.
The plan had been excellent. Flawless strategy.
But the execution had gone catastrophically wrong at the very last lap.
“Max, seriously.”
“No.”
Charles knocks again, this time hard enough to rattle the frame.
“People are going to think I’m harassing you,” he grits out through his teeth.
“You are harassing me.”
“Max.”
“You should leave.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“Your Uber—”
“I do not care about the Uber, Max.”
More silence.
Through the wood, he can practically feel Max digging his heels in.
Unfortunately for him, it has long since been established that Charles is persistent.
“Open the door.”
“No.”
“I’ll start yelling.”
Max snorts immediately.
“Oh yeah? Do it.”
He knows damn well Charles would rather throw himself into ongoing traffic than make a public scene.
“…”
Max waits it out patiently.
“Okay,” Charles admits. “I will not start yelling.”
Max snorts. Of course he wouldn’t.
“But I am considering knocking until hotel security gets involved.”
The smirk is wiped off Max’s face instantly.
“Charles.”
“Open the door.”
“Be reasonable.”
“I am being reasonable,” Charles says. “Unless you’d rather have this conversation in the paddock tomorrow.”
Max groans loud enough to be heard through the door.
Charles smiles despite himself.
When he speaks again, the teasing tone is gone. “Come on, Max…” he says gently. “Please?”
Several seconds pass. Charles can hear movement inside, some shuffling around, like Max is torn between opening the door and escaping through the window.
Another second.
Finally, the lock clicks.
The door opens a few inches.
Charles stares at him.
Max stares back.
Then Charles is pushing the door open the rest of the way and stepping inside.
“Hey—”
Ignoring him completely, Charles walks past and sets the wallet down on the nearest table.
Max watches with growing alarm.
Charles turns around.
“What,” he gestures vaguely towards the door, “was that?”
Max swallows.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I panicked.”
Charles’ eyebrows disappear into his hairline. “Panicked.”
“…yes?”
“About me… kissing you?”
Max wishes a meteor would crash through the ceiling and and strike him down.
“No! Well— no!”
“Okay?” Charles’ brows knit together. “Then what?”
Max drags a hand down his face. No point dancing around it now — he might as well just say it.
He braces himself for how utterly stupid he’s about to sound.
“Well, you— a week ago I was leaving for the GT3 circuit, remember? I was at the door about to go, you were talking on the phone, and I was going to say goodbye and you just, just kissed me… at the door,” he finishes his rant, fizzling out awkwardly at the end.
“Yeah, I do tend to do that occasionally, Max,” Charles says drily, having no idea where the other is going with this.
Max gestures helplessly. “Well, why!?”
“Wh—?” Charles echoes, now completely thrown. “What do you mean, why. Because I wasn’t going to see you for a weekend and I wanted to kiss my boyfriend before that?” A pause. ”Did that… upset you?”
“Yes!”
The word cracked through the quiet.
“Oh.” Charles’ expression drops.
Max’s head snaps up immediately. “Not—not like that! Just—” He hesitates.
Charles waits another beat, then tilts his head slightly, as if to say well?.
“Just…?”
After several seconds of opening and closing his mouth like a fish, Max finally spits it out, barely any space between the words.
“I’ve been thinking about it all week.”
Charles goes still.
“…Is that good or?”
“I don’t know,” Max mutters, pacing a half-step like he’s trying to outrun his own thoughts, face a blotchy pink. “I just thought… we don’t really do that. The whole… domestic spiel.”
“Ah.”
Charles nods once, slowly, like that makes any sense at all. “I mean, you’re right,” he admits, a little too quickly, a little too carefully. “But I just thought—”
His ears are going red as well now. Properly red. Up to the tips.
“We could start,” he says, then immediately corrects himself. “Or try. Try to start. Yeah.” The sentence dies awkwardly at the end, hanging in the air.
Max stares at him.
“…start what?”
Now it’s Charles’ turn to look like he wants the floor to open up and swallow him whole.
“The…like, the romantic rituals in a relationship, I don’t know what to call it in english," he says weakly.
Then Max exhales through his nose, something between a laugh and disbelief.
“Rituals,” he says slowly. “Like flowers, dates and anniversaries and shit?”
“Maybe not the flowers, but…,” Charles looks at him warily. “Is that bad?”
Max shakes his head immediately. “No! I just…didn't expect it.”
Another pause.
Charles doesn’t know what to say to that. Because in his head, it had always been obvious. Inevitable, even. That this—whatever messy thing they’d stumbled into at the beginning—would eventually settle into something steadier. Softer. Shared routines instead of adrenaline spikes and slammed doors.
Charles clears his throat.
“So. To clarify.”
Max lets his head tip back slightly. “Oh God.”
“So you weren’t actually upset about the kiss?”
“I guess.”
“You didn’t know what to do with it because it caught you off guard?”
Max stares at him for a second longer than necessary.
“…yes.”
Charles nods slowly, absorbing that.
“Right.”
A beat.
Then, carefully: “Not because you didn’t like it.”
Max’s expression changes immediately, like the suggestion itself is absurd.
“No,” he defends. “Of course not.”
Charles looks down for a tiny second, relief flickering across his face before he smooths it away.
“Right,” he says. “Good. That’s… yeah.”
Max sighs, dragging a hand through his hair.
“I think…” He stops, searching for the words. “I think I’ll need a little time to get used to it.”
Charles doesn’t interrupt.
Max looks away.
“It just felt…” He hesitates. “Like something we weren’t supposed to be doing already.”
Charles opens his mouth.
“Not in a bad way,” Max rushes to add.
The words spill out before Charles can get a chance to speak.
“Just something that feels”—he shrugs one shoulder helplessly—“too good to be true, I guess. So yeah.”
A pause.
Then, quieter:
“If that’s okay with you.”
For a moment, Charles just looks at him.
At the stubborn set of his shoulders. The pink still lingering in his cheeks. The way he won’t quite meet his eyes.
Then he lets out a quiet laugh.
“Si c’est ok avec moi?”
[If it's okay with me?]
Charles steps closer.
“Max.”
Max finally looks up.
Charles offers him a small, easy smile — no teasing this time.
“Of course it’s okay.”
He reaches out, gently taking Max’s hand, fingers threading together.
“We can go as slowly as you want.”
Max’s breath catches slightly at that.
Charles gives his hand a light squeeze. His expression doesn’t change, just remains open and steady. He doesn’t pressure him, doesn’t try to ask for more than Max is ready to give.
“We can start small, yeah?” Charles says.
Then, as if the thought has only just occurred to him, Charles tilts his head slightly.
“Would it help,” he asks carefully, “if we did it more often?”
Max blinks.
Once.
Twice.
Then he snorts, almost hysterically.
“Don’t—don’t phrase it like that, oh my god,” he blurts out, a helpless laugh slipping out as he covers his eyes with one hand. “What the fuck, Charles.”
Charles looks genuinely puzzled at first.
“What? What did I say?”
Max drags the hand down his face, still half mortified.
“What are you even— are you talking about kissing?”
“Well, what else would I be talking about, Max Emilian?”
Charles is blinking up at him with wide green eyes, the picture of innocence.
But he doesn’t quite manage to suppress the faintest twitch in his mouth.
Max stares at him.
Then his mouth drops open in outrage.
“You’re such a fucking asshole.”
Charles finally bursts out laughing.
“I’m sorry!” he says, still grinning, “but you should have seen your face.”
Max tries to shake his hand out of Charles' grip but he doesn’t let him, tugging him closer instead.
Max stumbles forward with a huff, ending up flush against him. His hands settle automatically at Charles’ waist, expression still stuck in an annoyed pout.
“Désolé, bébé,” Charles says, sounding entirely unapologetic. “I just couldn’t resist.”
He pushes his lower lip out in a copy of Max, batting his eyelashes at him exaggeratedly.
Max exhales sharply, tension leaking out of him in a reluctant wave.
“I hope you’ll be starting the race from the pit lane.”
“What?” Charles says, entirely unbothered. “You think you’re the only one allowed to make innuendos?”
“My innuendos are pure class. Yours are just shit.”
“Are they, now.” Charles doesn’t let go of him. If anything, he pulls him impossibly closer. “Too bad you're stuck hearing them for a very long time now, hein?”
Then he's lifting a hand and cupping Max’s cheek, thumb brushing lightly over his lip.
Max forgets what he was going to say next.
“Now before I go,” Charles says softly, “let’s say I’d like to kiss you right now. Would you want that?”
Max swallows, eyes darting to Charles’s mouth before quickly returning to his waiting gaze.
He can feel heat crawling up his neck as Charles’ thumb traces another small arc against his cheek.
“Maybe.” He manages at last.
The corner of Charles’s mouth twitches.
“Yeah?”
Max closes his eyes briefly.
When he opens them again Charles is still watching him, a soft, almost awed expression on his face.
Max gives a small nod. He can feel the hand on his cheek shift, sliding gently to the back of his head.
Charles exhales softly.
“Ask nicely, baby?”
Max slowly parts his lips.
“…Please.”
The smile that spreads across Charles’ face is beautiful and helplessly smitten. He looks as if he’s just been given something far more precious than he knows what to do with.
“Viens là, mon amour.” he murmurs, finally closing the distance between them.
[Come here, love.]
The kiss at first is careful, soft and unhurried, almost hesitant in its gentleness.
Then Charles’ grip at the back of Max’s head firms just a little, deepening the angle — not rushing, but turning it into something heavier, more consuming.
Max’s breath catches, then steadies, and he melts into it without thinking, tension from earlier dissolving completely under Charles’ touch.
When they separate, it’s only by a fraction. Their noses brush together softly, eyes still half-lidded as they look at each other, neither quite ready to let go.
For a moment, they just stay like that.
Charles is the first to break the silence.
“For the record,” he says, unable to help himself, “being kissed goodbye and immediately spending a week obsessing over it is one of the most romantic things you’ve ever done.”
Max’s eyes snap fully open.
Trust this idiot to ruin every moment.
He swiftly punches Charles in the shoulder.
“Get out.”
Charles laughs, rubbing the spot with exaggerated offence.
“Think the Uber is still waiting downstairs?” Charles tries, still smiling.
“I don’t know and I don’t care. That’s your problem now, Leclerc. Out.”
“Yes, mon cher,” Charles says gravely, slowly backing up towards the door, “may I at least get my wallet back?”
Max glances around, spots it, and tosses it over in a clean, precise motion. Charles barely has time to react as he fumbles it mid-air, nearly dropping it before finally getting a proper grip.
He coughs into his fist, like that might somehow restore his dignity, then grins up at Max as he slides the wallet into his back pocket.
“Thank you, la lumière de ma vie.”
Max narrows his eyes. “Is this you ‘getting creative’?”
“Mais oui,” Charles says, without hesitation. “feu de mon âme.”
Max wrinkles his nose, unimpressed, then gently but firmly pushes him towards the threshold.
“Well, you’re pretty shit, I'm not going to lie—”
Charles lets himself be guided, still smiling.
“—so just stick to your usual list, schat.”
Charles’ grin widens at the oh-so-rarely used Dutch endearment, eyes sparkling like he’s just won the lottery.
“And here I thought I was being poetic.”
“Yeah, sorry, but no.”
Max reaches for the door handle and swings the door open, clearly trying to usher him out.
Charles steps through, then pauses in the doorway, turning back to look at him one last time.
“Bonne nuit, Max,” he says warmly.
“Night, Charles.”
The door starts to close slowly between them.
At the last second, Charles leans in just enough for his voice to slip through the narrowing gap.
“Try not to miss me too much.”
Max huffs, and shuts the door fully, cutting off Charles’ laughter on the other side.
For a moment, Max doesn’t move.
Then he leans his forehead briefly against the door.
“…Idiot,” he mutters, but there’s no real heat in it.
He’ll be seeing his mug bright and early tomorrow morning—how could he possibly get the chance to miss him?
Except he already does.
Though Charles really doesn’t need to know that.