Archive of Our Own

They’re halfway through the most boring driver’s briefing of all time when the smell starts to creep up on Charles.

It’s warm and spiced and too—for lack of a better word—ridiculously horny for a public space. Let alone a shared public space that they actively are not allowed to leave without threat of a monetary fine.

Baby alphas, Charles thinks, derisive and scoffing even in his own brain. Cannot control their scents, daydreaming about some sexy nonsense and stinking up the whole place.

He squints at the powerpoint presentation in front of him that he guarantees no one is paying attention to. Actually…

Grown alphas, Charles thinks, even more derisive, really going for scornful now, not stopping their baby counterparts from being horny in public. None of these alphas ever care about anything.

Kimi, and Charles can tell it’s Kimi now, is a row back and to his right. The scent is starting to make Charles twitch, potent and weaving around the room the way that it is. How no one else has said anything about the literal fuck me pheromones the Mercedes baby is throwing out is beyond him.

He can see Ollie’s shoulders hike up to his ears the longer it goes on. If he turned his head to the left, he could probably see Lando looking distinctly uncomfortable also.

Droning on and on, the monotone voice the presenter speaks in does nothing to help with his discomfort. There is no air flow in this cursed room.

Eventually Charles can’t stand it. Won’t stand for it, actually.

He presses both hands to the table with a sudden, hollow slap. The noise makes Lewis twitch beside him and George jolt on the other side of him.

Charles whips his head around, zeroes in on Kimi who is still clearly daydreaming about fucking during the driver’s briefing.

Which would be fine, if he could just be discrete about it.

“Kimi,” he starts, speaking over whoever is presenting, trying to keep the edge out of his voice, “knock it off, please.”

He speaks in Italian, as to not be even more embarrassing. Carlos and Fernando will know, and Esteban, but privacy stopped being his problem the second he could smell Kimi from three tables away.

Kimi full body twitches, turning immediately, alarmingly red.

Whoops.

His eyes, huge and brown and reflective, like some sort of cartoon character version of a teenage boy, flick to Charles then to Ollie. Then back to Charles.

Dear God.

“I-I am sorry,” he stammers, in English. Which is a choice.

Charles, fully ignoring everyone else blatantly staring at him now, nods. “I know, just less, please.”

Kimi makes a noise that sounds like he’s dying and shuffles low in his seat. At least he doesn’t put his hands over his face. Next to him, Nico Hulkenberg laughs and slaps at his arm. Ugh.

Ollie’s shoulders are more relaxed but he pointedly hasn’t turned around to investigate.

Across the room, Lando huffs. He smells agitated, Charles able to pick up the slight change even from this far away.

The FIA official, sounding resigned and annoyed, asks if they would like a break but looks directly at Charles.

“Yes, that would be nice,” he demures, trying to convey that he would like to blow up this entire room with his mind via only his eyes.

A few of the other drivers who don’t care about whatever is happening—because of course they do not—get up, going for sips of water or to stretch their legs or think horny thoughts away from the 15% of the grid who will actively be affected and get annoyed by it.

Kimi gets up immediately, his chair scraping against the floor, and bursts out into the hallway. Charles doesn’t think he’s crying, but he can’t be sure either.

With a sigh, he leans forward in his seat to look past Lewis at George, who is probably gearing up to say something annoying. They make eye contact and he flicks his head after Kimi, pointed.

George’s expression clears after a few seconds too long and he follows, long legs unfolding.

Idiot.

That’s not fair actually. George may be a bit of a bastard sometimes, but he’s generally pretty smart with things.

Charles will apologize to Kimi for embarrassing him, but first—

He stands up, slowly meandering to the far right corner where Esteban is sitting with Ollie in well meaning Haas solidarity.

They greet each other in French, clasping hands.

Esteban smells familiar, steady. Low key and soothing.

Freshly cut grass and figs and wood that Charles thinks might be cedar. Like childhood and teenagedom and a little bit like Pierre in all the ways that matter. Charles takes in a deep breath and smiles at him when he gets up and lets Charles take his chair without asking.

He sits down beside Ollie and smoothes a hand up the back of his neck. Pets at him in a pantomime of a scruff.

Ollie is sweet and odd and interesting. He is doing better in a Haas this year than most people expected of him, but Charles knows he can do more. Charles wants him to do more at his side, in red, in however many years it will take for that specific wish to come to pass.

Which is why he will grit his teeth and lower his shoulder to check baby alphas who do not know any better. Even the ones Ollie gets along with.

When Charles swipes his thumb under the soft skin below Ollie’s ear, his shoulders lose the tension strung across them just that bit more.

“Sorry,” he starts, “I did not mean to make that—” he waves a hand around, “a thing. But I could not stand it anymore.”

The corner of Ollie’s mouth turns up. He doesn’t look displeased, but sometimes he is hard to read.

“You’re the only one who can get away with stuff like that.” His words don’t sound bitter in the least. Ollie actually sounds a little impressed. It’s also the truth.

Charles gets away with a lot because he is a male omega in an alpha dominated sport. Combine that with being generally kind and respectful to most people who deserve it, he can admit that he does get away with many things that others may not.

He also knows what he looks like. He’s not stupid. And he uses that, like everything else, to his advantage. If you have the tools, might as well be the carpenter.

Humming, he raises his eyebrows. “And I will do it for us every time.”

Once he’s confirmed that Ollie is settled and has made brief but unimpressed eye contact with Lando, he sets out to find wherever the Mercedes pair has gone off to.

Charles finds them not even a few seconds after looking, the two of them tucked next to each other on a bench a few meters away. Big and small, George slicked back and smooth where Kimi is fluffy. They’re both wearing the stupid silver puffer jackets.

No matter how well something like that works, Charles would never, ever wear it. Over his dead body.

Approaching slowly, he waves George away with a wiggle of his fingers. It makes George roll his eyes back into his head, but he complies all the same.

Even after knowing each other and being relatively friendly for many years, something about George occasionally rubs Charles the wrong way. Possibly the fact that he doesn’t immediately acquiesce to the things that Charles occasionally asks of him.

Mostly the fact that he’s tall and opinionated and kind of stuck up.

And a beta, so more immune and hardy to the difficulties of secondary genders. There’s a tinge of envy there, he can admit.

Charles usually wields being an omega as a weapon. Not a sword, necessarily, more so a shield. One he can both protect himself with and also bash into the heads of people who attempt to use their own weapons on him.

But he can admit to being jealous of how rarely George is affected by things like this.

Although George is wildly affected by a great deal of other things. Particularly Max, which usually makes Charles feel better.

Slumping down next to Kimi, he breathes for a second without saying anything. There is no spicy, sharp smell of arousal anymore. Only embarrassment and a touch of shame, turning the slightly herby tinge of Kimi’s scent even stronger.

He smells like a garden in the summer. Basil and lemon. Fresh and earthy, herbal.

Charles tugs at the sleeve of his bizarre jacket, a probing yet gentle sort of overture.

“Sorry for that,” he says, even though he isn’t. Not really.

“No,” Kimi bursts out, reaching for Charles then realizing what he’s doing and immediately stopping. It’s sweet. He wouldn’t really mind if Kimi followed through, either. “No, I’m sorry.”

When Charles glances at him, he looks like he means it. His giant eyes are glittery, but he may just always sort of look like that. His hair is clearly mussed from running his fingers through it in agitation.

Now he feels guilty. He can’t imagine the stress Kimi is under, a child thrown into a car and to the wolves of Formula One, caught up in so many expectations. Just like Max many years ago. Charles bops his shoulder against Kimi’s, leans in and purposefully relaxes.

He lets his own scent go content, pleased and purposefully lacking the sharp burrs of concern and agitation he knows he was throwing all over the place only ten minutes ago.

He doesn’t talk to Kimi much, but maybe he should start.

“I could tell what you were thinking, practically.”

Kimi groans, hunching over, but careful to not move so much that he jostles Charles away from him. He’s so embarrassed Charles can feel the heat coming off him in waves.

“I am not mad at you,” he makes it a point to say, patting at Kimi’s thigh absently. Kimi leans closer, drawn in like a magnet. “Ollie is not either. But be more careful, cucciolo. More aware.”

He can feel the soft brush of Kimi’s curls against his face, bobbling his head in agreement.

They sit quietly for a few more moments, Charles surprisingly relaxed, even with the initial annoyance. He typically doesn’t make much of a fuss about much, but he doesn’t feel all that bad about what happened here, especially with how relaxed Kimi now seems beside him.

Eventually he lightly slaps at his own thighs, bumping against Kimi again.

Actively not wanting to, he murmurs, “Let’s go finish this.” and tries not to smile too much when Kimi trails eagerly after him.

The rest of the meeting is relatively uneventful, after that.

Charles has always had a particularly heightened sense of smell.

It started before he even presented. Barely a preteen, he routinely got terrible headaches around a hormonal, puberty-ridden teenage Lorenzo, Charles laid out flat and forced to bed for the few days before and after his brother’s dysregulated rut cycle started.

He was always sensitive, melting into a puddle of goo when his mum was pleased and happy with the three of them. Prickly and weeping and agitated the second any of them got in trouble. Even when it wasn’t him, but especially when it was.

For years, everyone said he was dramatic. Histrionic.

Prone to tantrums and unable to regulate his extreme sense of competitiveness. It lent itself well to karting, to racing as a whole, but made him wildly sensitive.

No one realized it fully until after he himself presented. He couldn’t express how certain scents affected him. Wasn’t able to verbalize how strong everything was, all the time. How loud.

Mostly because he didn’t know everyone else navigated the world differently until he could talk about it more.

An overly developed sense of smell, his childhood doctor had told them, after Charles had thrown up and had a panic attack at a classmate’s birthday party a few months after his presentation. Keen abilities to detect changes in scent pheromones and the corresponding emotions of others.

He can still call back the feeling of that party, thirteen years old and halfway through a piece of birthday cake. His mind spinning in circles as the world blurred and all the scents from the kids and siblings and parents whirled into one giant overwhelming wall of sensory input. Until he had to go outside and retch in the bushes and call his brother to come pick him up, weeping and biting indents into his lips, plate of cake clutched in his sweaty hand.

Charles is good at a great many things. He has many skills and talents and he isn’t even being overconfident.

Silly PR games, qualifying his god forsaken car in the top three more often than it deserves, suffering under a personal, emotional toll and still performing well. Playing a few instruments. Chess. Giving bland supportive statements after a bad race without swearing. DNFing a race and not throwing his helmet at the ground as hard as he can. Not cracking open like an egg under pressure.

There are even things where he knows he needs improvement on, like receiving a better car from his development team each year, for one.

Humility, he slyly adds, for another.

He would also like to be better at padel. Non-racing sports in general, maybe. Football is not one of his strong suits, unfortunately enough.

Charles does not need to be great at smelling. There is no reason for him to be so sensitive to the scents of others. He would actually prefer to be worse at something, for the first time in his life.

There is little to be done about it except to continue on, as always.

Thankfully the sensitivity doesn’t turn him into some blushing omega mess. Usually.

He thankfully doesn’t find alpha scents to be more powerful than anyone else’s. He is equally affected by everything, for better or worse.

It mostly gives him headaches, overwhelms him.

Panics him a bit when too many scents mix together or when someone smells too much or feels a certain way too strongly. If he is familiar enough with someone’s scent, he is able to tell whether they were in a certain location previously and can generally determine how they were feeling when they were there.

Like some sort of bloodhound. At least that’s what Arthur says, to which Charles is not appreciative.

He is very highly attuned to the emotions in others, against his wishes. Charles thinks it may be why he is so well liked, because he is forced to take into account these feelings demonstrated as scent changes and is able to change his own behavior accordingly.

That, and because he can’t stand to not be well liked. People pleaser through and through, until he gets too agitated to bother.

He couldn’t not pay attention to his senses even if he tried. There is not much to do about it.

F1, and motorsports in general, are not necessarily omega supportive environments.

That is not to say Charles is actively discriminated against, he must make that clear. He has a seat on a prolific team, he is well regarded in the community even without a championship to his name, he very rarely has difficulties traveling and maneuvering through this world.

Some supporters of other drivers call him names so cruel he would never be able to imagine them himself, but his fans have always backed him to the fullest extent. Sure, he has been called an omega slut more times than he can count, but he isn’t losing sleep over what Twitter users with Fernando Alonso profile pictures are saying about him.

The rules are the same for everyone. Everything applies to everyone, we race as one, or whatever.

Most of the rules were made with alphas in mind a long time ago, at the very start of it all. A scant few have been added over the years for betas. They have not changed much.

Charles is protected by many of these rules, but left reeling by others.

F1 does not require blockers of any kind, as it interferes with natural alpha bodily processes that impact performance. Or something. Some drivers take suppressants but it is a personal choice rather than a requirement.

This just means that there are smells everywhere. Constantly. Competing and melding and rushing over him in a wave almost everywhere he goes.

Not to mention the sights and sounds and the general circus of it all. F1 is overstimulating to a regularly sensitive person, let alone someone burdened with too much like he always seems to be.

But Charles is fine.

He has coping skills that he utilizes routinely. Mostly. After nearly fifteen years of dealing with the same problem, he knows what to do to keep himself afloat. That, and an iron will to appear as though he is actually coping the rest of the time is enough.

Sometimes the scents are simply a lot.

He gets headaches at the end of long days, gets aggravated easier by all the alpha posturing always coursing through the paddock, gets angry and whiny and weepy by the end of bad weekends when it’s just he and Andrea trying to course correct and his emotions and feelings are impacted by everyone else’s.

There are drivers he prefers to be near and ones whose scents aggravate him further, same with team principals, journalists, and persistent fans.

It’s fine. No one really knows, except his core group of people. Fred, he supposes, who takes care to remain neutral and steady whenever they interact. Who asks the mechanics on both sides of the garage and back at the factory to wear blockers, regardless of who his teammate is.

It’s fine, he thinks, despite all the instances where it isn’t. It is part of who Charles is—son, brother, Ferrari driver, omega, Libra. Competitive to a fault. Highly sensitive to scent.

The complete package, he thinks derisively.

He can still race.

And he does, well. Often.

Two days later and another race win to his name and the only thing Charles can think about is the fact that Max smells so good, so pleased, that it makes him a bit weak in the knees.

Out of direct line of the cameras, they’re huddled next to each other a few paces away from parc fermé, loitering as George grandstands about his race during his interview.

The words are out of his brain and into the space between them before he can even stop it.

“Stop smelling like that,” he hisses, trying to speak out of only the side of his mouth.

Max’s own mouth drops open. His eyes, which had previously been crinkled in happiness as he spoke rapidly and intensely at the side of Charles’ face, narrow almost comically.

“Like what?” he asks, incredulous.

Charles could kill him. Charles will kill him.

Oh, if they get into a fight here, within spitting distance of George’s lengthy second place interview and in full sight of the press, it will be the end of them both.

Charles sneers, then schools his face into neutrality. “Like you are so happy.”

Scoffing, Max turns fully to look at him. It makes the joyfulpleasedwarm scent curl even tighter around Charles, like a vine. His thighs shake, from both the exertion and the innate omega delight of having an alpha around who is so, so happy. “You want me to stop smelling happy?”

He says it with such a stunned look on his face that it makes Charles backtrack.

Again, whoops.

He is being rude for what Max is interpreting as absolutely no reason. He’s got no idea that Charles’ thighs are shaking, that his brain is pulsing behind his eyes, that the sharp, aching, tart scent of Lando’s P4 from pole conversion is weaving around the bodies crammed in the paddock and making Charles’ inner omega desperate to comfort him.

Everything is so much. It blurs together in its muchness.

The noise he’s used to, the crush of bodies he’s unfazed by. The shouting and the constant questions and the overfamiliar touching are all commonplace by now, have been for years.

He likes being touched by his team after a race win. Sometimes it’s a little too much but at that point his brain usually goes offline and he can float in a pleased, happy space of victory rather than abject depression. The pats to his shoulders and his helmet, the tight grip of his family and friends and the engineers, it all makes his omega purr in overwhelmed satisfaction.

Charles likes to be liked. He likes to do well. Everyone knows this. The fans have been poking fun at his praise kink for years.

It’s less preferable when it’s other people, other teams who congratulate him with too much force and the underlying scent of jealousy and displeasure overtop their pleasantries. Journalists who ask probing questions that wipe the smile off his face, rich celebrities who want to touch him. To have a piece of him, even for just a moment.

But god, the mixture of competing scents. That’s what pushes him over the edge.

The paddock is a swirl of happiness, distress, excitement. Every feeling that could possibly be felt is here and Charles internalizes it all.

If he breathes any deeper than the shallow panting he’s currently doing, he could probably smell the absolute ecstasy of the Tifosi a few hundred meters away.

But what he just demanded of Max isn’t particularly in line with how he usually acts.

Charles, admittedly, can be a bit of a bitch. Even without the whole sensitivity to scent leading to routine overstimulation thing. And the weight of multiple legacies on his shoulders while being part of a team who can’t deliver him a consistently good car thing.

And all the other things.

He is histrionic and over-dramatic and extremely sensitive. Charles is all of those things and more, but he’s also pleasant most of the time.

And he likes Max, also most of the time.

So he pivots. Both conversationally and literally.

Turning at the hip, he looks at Max—all clear blue eyes and ruffled hair and pink cheeks. Charles wants to pinch them.

Directness is what he responds best to, so it is what Charles will give him.

“Why are you so happy?” he asks, trying to sound curious instead of agitated down to his core. “You did not win.”

It makes Max smile, which doesn’t make any more sense than anything else either of them have said so far.

He leans closer, bumping their shoulders together through their race suits. It makes something low on the back of Charles’ neck tingle. “I’m happy for you, jackass. Even if I wish it were me, it will be nice to see you on that top step.”

All the aggravation spools out of him, there and then suddenly not. The scent swirling around them suddenly making sense, everything falling into place.

Max is happy for him.

He blinks, surprised. Then blinks one more time at Max’s big mouthed grin.

“Oh,” he mumbles, trying to keep looking at Max and also monitoring where George is in terms of finishing his interview so he doesn’t get caught unawares. Without meaning to, he sways closer.

Max’s scent is so nice. Warm and layered and nuanced. he smells like pancakes when he’s particularly happy. Bright, a little syrupy, with vanilla mixed in. Sweet, almost. Odd, for an alpha. A little like something deep in the forest too when Charles focuses, sturdy trunks and surety and the steady confidence to grow for years and years, and the air before it rains.

There is a word for it in English that he doesn’t remember. He bets Max would know, if he asked.

“You are ridiculous,” he says, trying to stop himself from smiling. Max clearly sees it, because the happy scent spikes, turning pleased and self-satisfied. Max has always enjoyed making people smile, Charles would know.

Merde, he can feel the way it relaxes his tense shoulders. Everything else gets just that bit clearer with Max at the forefront, the way it always has.

It’s been this way since they were kids back in karts. Before they presented, only a few weeks apart—Max first and Charles following behind, like always. Even when Max made him the angriest he’s ever been in his life—and he’s talking pure undiluted rage the likes he hasn’t felt often since—he still calmed down the swirling, chaotic mess that is his omega when overstimulated.

It’s bullshit, is what it is.

Charles, led by instinct and the ancient thing that curls up in his subconscious, gravitates toward Max like a planet to a star. Charles, when ruled by his rational mind, refuses to give in to anything even approximating feeling relief at Max’s presence.

He keeps himself on a short leash and keeps Max at a healthy distance, except for moments like now, when he can’t.

His head aches and his body is sore and he’s tired and sweaty, but he feels it all less and less the longer he’s beside Max. He isn’t even all that annoyed by having to stand here and wait anymore.

Max grins again, smelling like someone cooking breakfast from a floor away. “So are you.”

The mass of officials starts beckoning him forward, ushering him toward Jenson Button, who looks very happy to see him. He says what he should say, all the right words with the right expressions of thanks to everyone involved. Happy, but not smug. Proud of his own achievements but continually lauding Ferrari at the center of it all.

Charles walks the same line he has walked for years now and makes it to the other side.

Behind him, Max continues his efforts to mimic pancakes cooked in a cabin in the middle of the woods or whatever the hell is going on back there.

They curve together after, making their way toward each other like magnets. Hips pressing tight, crowding close to get their podium picture. George on the other side of Charles politely forgotten until he slings an arm around Charles’ back and brings his sedated, posh lavender-y scent back into their orbit.

Max stays close. Tangy sweetness and old growth forests.

He rests his hand on the slope of Charles’ waist, pale skin juxtaposed with the red of his race suit when he glances down at it. Squeezes closer to him for the picture, quietly muttering something playfully annoyed about photo ops.

The closer they get, the longer they stand next to each other, the easier it gets for Charles to breathe. Full, deep breaths that don’t make his heart race or his head hurt.

With Max beside him, he can take a second to recalibrate. To readjust for what comes next, which is a mad dash back to the garage after the podium ceremony, then back to the hospitality, then the hotel room, then likely out to some party in his honor. Where he’ll drink just enough to not feel overwhelmed then go home to pass out.

His inner omega purrs, delighted, the way it has since he was fifteen. Captivated by Max and annoyed by that captivation more than he could express at that age. Almost more than he can express at this age, honestly.

Max’s hand fits exactly how it should. He smells nice. Visibly likes being close to Charles, what with his overall scent and how he’s trying not to smile, trying to be annoyed at the pomp and circumstance of the circus.

Charles ignores it. Ignores his omega crooning about their perfect mate, the same way he’s always done.

Years and years of this, he thinks, dismissively. Doesn’t it ever get tiring? His subconscious desperately wanting something his conscious mind knows he can’t have. Shouldn’t have.

You would think he’d know better. That his omega would learn and that the tiny flicker of hope and desire and instinct in the back of his head would dampen over the years.

It hasn’t. It doesn’t.

He’s well versed in masochism, he thinks, judging by his longstanding career choices. Charles just wishes he didn’t have to indulge in it in his interpersonal life, too.

You’d also think he would grab the clarity that standing next to Max brings him in the sea of all the other competing scents and sounds by both hands. Covet it, cherish it. Do anything with it aside from brush against it briefly, relief delivered to him at the hands of a world champion for a few minutes at a time during half the weekends of the year.

Charles thinks quite a lot of things, unfortunately enough.

He lets it slip through his fingers instead.

The weeks pass and the season marches on, like it always does.

Charles is everywhere at once and nowhere at the same time.

The weekends blur together and he has extremely good days and extremely poor ones. Ollie touches his shoulder and asks if he’s okay, his accent dipping quietly. He surely can smell Charles’ overwhelm and he does his best to mitigate it, omega to omega, with soft touches and a squeeze to the slope of Charles’ shoulder.

At one point, Andrea has to forcibly shove him into the passenger seat of their car and tell him to shut up as he whines and groans after a media day that leaves him hungry, cranky, and on the edge of a grown-man tantrum. He’d snarled at him earlier, then had to walk it back and apologize within thirty seconds at the blistering look he’d been given.

Mostly because Drea scares him a little bit.

Lewis seemed upset all day too, less chatty than typical. Minimally indulgent in Charles’ attempts to cheer him up. Possibly due to Nico being here this weekend, possibly due to anything else that happens or has happened to him in the course of his life.

He smelled sharp, sour, like a bonfire fire over something plasticky.

They’d both played along well throughout all of their dumb PR stunts and at the fan stage, but the consistent upset scent wore on Charles’ nerves only a few hours into the morning.

He’s nowhere near a heat, specifically timed to next come during the summer break, but he gets weepy and short-tempered that day in a way that feels similar.

Something is missing and his body—his omega—desperately wants him to know.

He puts up a few good weekends all the same, standing on the podium each time, but not winning again.

Max is with him twice, an unknowing shield to the rest of the paddock. The sturdy set of his shoulders and the way he leans toward Charles when they talk gives him a buffer from the sounds and smells of the paddock that feels like sitting at the bottom of a pool. Muffled and peaceful.

It’s like a scent neutralizer spray, Max standing near him. It tapers everything off, all the excess scent-noise, and makes it so he can focus mostly on Max alone.

And also his own feelings, he supposes. But that comes second to the way everything else goes quiet.

They’re walking somewhere, away from the paddock and up into whatever stupid building the podium ceremony will be held in. His face hurts from the smile he pasted on and he’s nauseous, feeling like his entire body is rocking back and forth.

Thankfully seasickness doesn’t happen to him with his fairly active boating hobby, but he can imagine that this is what it’s like.

Max says something, his lisp particularly pronounced, and puts a hand on Charles’ lower back to prompt him into getting onto the elevator when he’s distracted by a passing beta’s extremely anxious and agitated smell. Something is going very wrong for her right now and he can’t even begin to imagine what.

The headache that was brewing behind his eyes dissipates so quickly that it makes him trip over his race boots.

He doesn’t go down completely, thank god. Charles isn’t sure he could come back from that right now. And there’s no cameras back here, which is an even bigger blessing.

The grip around his bicep is tight, Max attempting to right him by wedging their hips together and pulling at his upper body. All of the contact has his stomach settling almost instantly.

It isn’t even particularly comfortable, Max’s fingertips digging into his arm through his fireproofs. Their hipbones pressed together too tightly.

But it feels good.

In the absence of both of the things that were bothering him, combined with the way Max’s concerned scent loops around him, his brain blue screens. Agitation and discomfort disappear completely and leave him suddenly not hurting. Feeling better than his usual, actually.

The whiplash is intense, a full 180. Like losing the rear and ending up facing the complete wrong way on the track.

Charles can’t help it. He loudly exhales in relief, obvious in the tiny space around them.

The two FIA representatives who are managing him and Max don’t even seem to notice, busy jabbing at the elevator buttons and talking about Kimi’s win. He’s sure Andrea would be tutting if he was here, Charles being obvious as hell, but he was left on the ground floor until later when he can poke and prod Charles back into his baseline in the quiet of his driver’s room.

Max glances at him, curious. A question that Charles can’t, and won’t, answer flashes across his face.

He doesn’t stop talking though, continuing his dissection of turn 3 and the crash during lap 37 that gave them a VSC that worked in both of their favors. Charles doesn’t realize he’s edging closer until Max swings his hands around while explaining something he doesn’t need explained and whacks Charles’ chest.

It doesn’t stop him from continuing his rant. Charles takes half a step back, but doesn’t go far, gritting his teeth against how badly he wants to step closer.

The absence of the humming in his brain is so relieving, like dipping into cold water after lying out in the sun for hours. He’s barely following what Max is saying, getting even more distracted by the look on his face. By the focused squint of his eyes and the pull of his plush mouth.

Neither of them moves away. Not even when their shoulders bump together as they exit the elevator, Max’s eyes flicking back to Charles’ face every so often.

It happens again the next weekend.

Max pats at his back in passing, a barely there touch, and the ache in his jaw from clenching his teeth fades so quickly it hurts.

Charles uses every single ounce of his willpower to not whine aloud and trail after him. The pain is gone, but he’s pretty sure more of Max’s scent, his touch, could make everything else go away too.

He’s being obvious. And ridiculous. His shoulders drop whenever Max comes over to debrief after free practices and quali, his mood visibly improved. The tightness in his back, the rigidity in how he holds himself when he’s overwhelmed all smooths out by increments the longer he’s in Max’s space.

Being able to think straight is a blessing, especially right after races when Charles is inundated by the scents of the paddock after being by himself for two hours.

For years, Charles has done well with not indulging in Max, as a concept.

He lauds his accomplishments when directly asked, is appreciative of his skill, has celebrated his championships from afar, because Max is the benchmark they all measure themselves against. But he’s never been like…this. Not so outwardly appreciative of his presence. Eager. Waiting for the next time they interact.

He’s tried really hard to not be like this, in fact.

The relief of Max’s near him and his scent also hasn’t been this impressive in the last handful of years, but Max is consistently closer to him than he has ever been. They’ve mellowed in their relationship as the years have passed, so far out from their childhood contentiousness.

But the stress is also different, this year. New regulations, new team compositions. The looming possibility of his own team change if Ferrari gives him another year of the same old bitter disappointments. Everything feels drawn tight and constantly at risk of snapping.

He is a step away from falling through the ice he stands on if he moves outward in any direction.

Charles isn’t sure how much longer he can hold everything at arm’s length, especially when the simplest gestures from Max, like a touch to the shoulder or literally standing next to him make him feel so much better.

He’s not sure why he’s spent so long suffering, but he’s also not sure how to stop.

Charles likes nesting.

There is no shame in needing it, for him. No one in his family ever insinuated it was anything other than a necessary soothing action. A part of him, something that they experienced and learned with him as the only omega in their immediate family.

It’s critical and necessary throughout various points of his cycle. Scents that he can control, feelings that he can insulate himself in. He likes to nest even when he isn’t stressed, when he’s at home on an off weekend and lazing around. One of the first things he does in a new hotel room halfway across the world.

A practice he enjoys simply for how it makes him feel.

There are items he collects and brings with him to every race weekend.

Like most things, he is both particular and slapdash. No rhyme or reason until there suddenly is, no right way to do things until the wrong way has smacked him in the face.

He likes soft, smooth materials. Silk pillow cases to protect his hair, jersey sheets. He shies away from sherpa because of how it catches on his callouses and gives him the ick.

There’s a comforter he’s had in his apartment for as long as he can remember, one that’s origins are unknown. The perfect thickness to where he doesn’t overheat, the edges lined in a satin fabric that feels good wherever it touches. It smells so intensely like him, like who he is down to his bones, that it barely smells like anything at all.

Then there’s another like it that took ages to find, similar enough that it can be his traveling blanket, that he has Joris lug along to every new location.

Along with that, one of the two knit throw blankets that live on the back of his mother’s couch come with him everywhere he goes. The ones that smell like him and her and Arthur and Lorenzo. Like their childhood home and everyone he’s lost if he thinks about it hard enough. Hands and wrists and necks of his loved ones brushing against it daily, their bodies leaning back on it whenever they sit on the couch.

Each time he sees his maman, she rotates it out for the one that is currently in her apartment without mentioning it. A staple, for him.

Charles doesn’t like the branded F1 team kits in his space, even though they carry the strongest scents of a few of the people he cares about most.

He’s already forced to wear them, itchy and scentless, right out of the package. That’s enough exposure for him. The colors are too bright, unsettling him in a space that relies on calm. Even his beloved rosso corsa.

Right now, in his traveling nesting materials, there are as follows:

A CL16 scarf with his name on it he’d given to Pierre as a marketing joke. Pierre, who had then worn it, tucked close around his neck, on some outing or another. Brought back as an unspoken gift, wound close.

It smells like cedar and the outdoors and a glass of white wine in the summertime. A little like Esteban. And the fancy cologne Pierre has worn for years, the one that is baked into the bones of his apartment in Milan.

Next is a zip-up hoodie, soft to the couch and cream colored, that Lewis had taken off during a day at the factory and left behind.

When Charles had doubled back for it at the end of the night and asked if he could have it for his nest, straightforward in his desire, Lewis’ eyes had crinkled and he smiled that mischievous, quirked little grin and said, yeah man, of course, in his soft, soothing voice.

Warm and smoky, Lewis smells like a candle right after it’s been blown out. Rich and nuanced.

Charles guesses he understands the perils of having an omega teammate and losing articles of clothing better than most people.

Nico Rosberg paved the way for Charles in that aspect long before he stood on the grid in any context.

They don’t talk about it much, or at all

But Charles recognizes the way Lewis moves around him.

He’s calm, most of the time, unless he’s deeply agitated by the state of their team or lightly unimpressed by Charles being annoying.

He touches Charles a lot, softly but firmly. When they hug or touch after time apart, he’s purposeful with his scent, leaving it along his arms and shoulders and on one notable point the back of his neck when Charles was worked up about something or another.

Careful, but still scenting Charles enough for it to linger for hours. Just the way he likes.

Charles enjoys it. It doesn’t feel demeaning or infantilizing. Or horny, even though he catches the way they both look at each other sometimes. An alpha like Lewis, successful and fascinating and beautiful, Charles would never say no if the question was asked.

It’s experience and care and respect and that tiny flicker of interest. He’s always appreciated older teammates.

He gets along well with them, even when he doesn’t. They tolerate Charles because he’s endearing and motivated and passionate and because he hasn’t won what matters yet, and they have.

He knows this.

With Seb and with Lewis, the precedent there for them both takes some of the sting out of Charles performing better than them. It's there, but it’s not as sharp and prickly.

Not like the way it sometimes got with Carlos.

Carlos got his scent all over him all the time with little consideration. Arms around shoulders and back slaps and grabbing at Charles’ thighs. Touchy, quick with his affection and even quicker with scenting. Purposefully or not.

He’s lucky Charles didn’t mind it, that he actually appreciated it most of the time.

All sharp snap of pepper and earthy musk, sun warmed.

A blue button up, wrinkled and unbuttoned, is tucked under a pillow near the bottom of his nest that smells like Carlos when he breathes deep.

There are also pillow cases gifted from friends who know what he likes, smooth and silky so they don’t make his hair frizzy as someone who likes to burrow and roll around like a burrito. Pullover sweatshirts left on couches after lazy weekends, pilfered and tucked into his nest to rotate in and out.

These things move with him, to and from wherever he goes. It’s helpful, having consistency, but being back in Monaco, in his own bedroom with all of his things, feels better than the second place podium finish he ended this weekend with.

His apartment is quiet, both sound wise and scent wise. The floor plan isn’t as open and bright as some of his friends’ with gorgeous, new homes, but it’s easy to navigate. Rooms with doorways, the ability to be cut off and sequestered in his own space, exactly what he needs.

Charles sleeps for close to ten hours after touching down in Nice and sitting passenger princess while Andrea drove them home. He gets out of bed only to shower off the residual scent of the plane and put on clean pajamas, then gets right back into his nest.

The light from his windows has made everything warmer, the scents of his nest mixing perfectly. He’s drowsy, content. If he tried, he could probably sleep for another few hours, but his omega is grumbling, unsatisfied.

Even with how lovely the morning is.

There’s nothing actively missing, when he flops back like a starfish and thinks about it. Deep inhales and focused exhales tell him that. Charles is happy, pleased to be home.

But he knows what would make it better. An addition that would send him even further into comfort and relaxation and would make his nest perfect.

He wants, his brain hums, something of Max’s. Wants it so badly it feels like an ache in his stomach, a warm ball of need he can feel rolling around inside of him whenever he moves.

Which is mostly when he burrows himself even deeper in his blankets, rubbing his feet together like a cricket in the soft socks he put on before he decided to tidy up his nest.

The warm curl of desire inside of him is curious.

Max is something that shuffles forward in his mind when they’re nearby, in close proximity. Charles thinks of him occasionally during breaks and on holiday, but he’s done what he believes is a fairly good job of burying all of the thoughts of him to where he’s the quietest of background hums when they aren’t speaking to each other directly.

He’s been able to follow this thought pattern for years.

But Max has been…touching him a lot more lately. And Charles has been feeling worse regarding his scent sensitivity and subsequently better at the frequent touching and the consistent closeness.

This want is new. Warmer. Sticky and honey-like.

Charles isn’t due for a heat for a while, but it feels like that. The days leading up to it, when he’s melty and warm and wants.

It’s a stupid desire. An impossible one. Rationally, he knows that. But he’s coming off a wonderful weekend and has gotten everything he’s wanted for the last few days. Why not this one last, perfect thing?

Even now, closer and more friendly as they are, there isn’t an easy way to obtain an article of Max’s clothing. Especially something not Red Bull branded. Which Charles outright refuses to even engage with on any level. He has standards. And they’re pretty high, even.

Flopping over and burying his face into a giant throw pillow that he uses as a little spoon as he falls asleep, he thinks critically and carefully.

Charles could ask, he mulls over. He could text, specify exactly what he wants. See if, like many things, Max will acquiesce to this as well. Most alphas he knows would jump at the chance to do something for him, even with the throughline of annoyed rivalry that has always characterized he and Max’s relationship.

A worn white t-shirt, a plain hoodie. He’d even settle for a Verstappen.com staple, as long as it smells enough like Max.

His nest has what he needs scent wise—his maman, his brothers, the closest of his F1 friends, his non-racing friends. But it doesn’t have Max.

Charles is fairly sure he wouldn’t be denied. Max pushes him, has always pushed him. There has never been any leeway given for as long as he can remember on track, but he’s also never outright said no to Charles in any meaningful way off of it.

He’s friendly, in his own sort of way when he wants to be. And kind, innately. Aside from when they were teenagers, during their brief but bright 2022 title fight, and in Austria of 2019, Max has never been outright mean or rude to him. He thinks that Max even might kind of like him, some of the time.

Max would give Charles what he wants, what his omega thinks he needs, if he asked.

With a huff, he snakes his hand out of his nest to slap around for his phone. It’s tucked underneath the other body pillow he uses as a big spoon—Charles sandwiched between two stupidly large pillows like a sardine every night.

Squinting out of one eye, he toggles open his phone.

Charles is in an odd mood, he knows this. Can see it, is able to track it in his own behavior.

Knowing that doesn’t stop him from reaching out. Tapping a text to Max before he even thinks about it, saying “hey” like a weirdo, nothing else at first. Just to test the waters, to see if Max is around.

The last time they texted was two months ago, a question from Max about something innocuous that Charles answered as succinctly as possible and left at that. The time before that was some goofy meme he sent about the two of them and George looking like a three headed dragon, two with intense, focused expressions and one with googly eyes.

Guess which one George was? It had made something sharp and pleased pulse in his chest when Max had sent it to him initially. More proof he’s probably a bad person.

His phone vibrates where he laid it on his chest to wait, Max responding immediately. Which is both surprising and pleasing.

It makes Charles smile into the blanket tucked up around his face, then makes him instantly frown when he realizes he’s doing it.

Mon dieu, he’s being an idiot.

Charles: could I ask a favor from you

There. That’s casual enough that hopefully it won’t alarm Max, but not serious enough that they need to talk on the phone.

Max replies within seconds.

Max: Of course, what do you need?

The warmth in Charles’ belly spreads, slipping up into his chest and nestling there. He wants to squeal and throw his phone out of his bed like a teenage girl. Of course, Max says. Like a favor is a given.

He asks if Max is in Monaco, tapping the bitten edges of his nails against his phone case as he waits. If he is, Charles isn’t sure how he’ll go about requesting for something that smells like Max to add to his nest, but he’s too in this now to not ask. Might as well go all the way.

Max is in Monaco, at home. When he asks what specifically Charles needs, he buffers for a few minutes. It doesn’t help that Max texts again, a message with only his name and a question mark that makes whatever warm thing is lining Charles’ belly light on literal fire.

He bites the bullet, wanting to avoid an incident, and sends back the most casual text he can come up with.

Which is basically “Could I have something of yours to put in my nest please” with the prayer hand emoji and multiple “e”s at the end of please, because he thinks it’s funny and it takes the edge off the seriousness.

Max doesn’t reply for multiple minutes, in which Charles starts planning his own disappearance from society. And also Max’s death, when it gets to minute number three.

All plans for imminent disappearance and murder are cancelled when Max replies.

Max: Absolutely

He sends another text before Charles can respond.

Max: What do you want? I can bring anything

Bring anything, Charles mouths to himself. He didn’t think at all about how he would get the item Max would give to him.

Max would come here? That might be a lot.

But also, it could be a lot in a very good way. He’s too busy thinking about Max in his space to pay attention to the double and then triple texts coming his way.

As he taps back into his phone, Max has offered a variety of different items. A jacket that Charles is unfortunately familiar with and finds fairly ugly, plain t-shirts, a pajama shirt. An Alpha Tauri sweater that Charles wouldn’t be caught dead wearing.

The jacket is too rough of a texture, not soft enough. And it’s been outside. Charles says this, and Max thumbs up reacts his message which makes him snort. He doesn’t even acknowledge the offer of the sweater.

He appreciates a shirt, but Charles thinks that he would like something more substantial. Something he could curl up in, if the desire struck him. He politely asks for a hoodie, not RBR branded. Then ends his message with a heart, for panache.

Charles is rubbing the rasp of his stubble against the silk of his pillow case unconsciously when a text comes through that makes his eyes bug out of his head.

Max: Leaving now, should be there soon

Be there soon. Be where soon?

What the fuck.

Does Max know where he lives?

Does he know where Max lives?

How soon is soon? He’s pretty sure if Max lives where he thinks he does, it’s about a ten minute drive, but what if he’s already left?

Charles sends back a simple “okay” with a thumbs up emoji to cover up the fact that everything is very much not okay.

His place is a mess. Charles himself is a mess.

Half of his suitcase is dumped onto his living room couch and the other half is sitting in the hallway. He and Andrea had two glasses of wine each during dinner after getting in last night, and the bottle and the glasses are sitting at his kitchen island, probably making him look like an alcoholic.

Leo hasn’t been picked up from his maman’s yet, but he guarantees there are five hundred dog toys spread out across the living room. Charles is pretty fucking sure he took his coat and shoes off in the entry way and left them there in a pile like he was raptured or something.

Staggering out of his bed and leaving the comfort of his nest behind, he starts picking up as much random bullshit as he can and shoving it into where it maybe possibly goes. His suitcase is kicked into his spare bedroom, everything dumped into it in a mortifyingly huge pile. He may as well just throw every pair of shoes he owns in the trash with the way that he can’t get them all into his coat closet.

The kitchen is a lost cause and he leaves it as such, hoping that Max won’t want to come in for a drink of water or afternoon tea or something. Charles doesn’t even know.

He can hear the elevator ding through his door right as he’s dumping the last of the fifteen cups that were spread around his living room into the sink.

There are a few somewhat hesitant knocks on his front door and everything in Charles twitches to attention.

As he’s dashing on socked feet to open it, Charles realizes he spent the whole fifteen minutes of Max saying he’s leaving to him arriving at Charles’ front door cleaning up his kitchen and living room and not changing out of his second pair of pajamas for the day.

He opens the door in his work out shorts and giant hoodie, half of his hair smooshed to the side of his head while the other sticks straight up. Charles is frantically trying to smooth it with one hand as he swings the door wide with the other, but gets distracted by Max standing there, red-cheeked and trying to pretend he isn’t panting.

The cloud of rainpancakesearthsyrup floods into his apartment, making Charles blink dazedly. It’s so fucking good. He can’t help but gasp a bit, surprised.

Max takes a final deep, almost heaving breath and shoots his arm out straight in front of him, a dark blue hoodie clenched in his fist. “Here.”

Charles doesn’t reach for it. He eyes Max, the sheen of sweat along his hairline, the fit of his relatively but not egregiously skinny jeans.

“Did you—did you run here?”

Max grimaces a little, then shrugs. “Brought this for you.”

Charles, fool that he is, melts. He wants to coo at Max, wants to pull him into his apartment and lead him to his nest to wind around him and not let him leave. Ever, possibly. But at least not for today.

He stomps on that thought as hard as he can, trying to be normal and disciplined. But mostly he just keeps looking at Max.

It’s sort of lovely to be able to engage with him when Charles isn’t inadvertently using him as a filter for every other scent on the face of the planet. Max smells so nice and Charles’ head doesn’t even hurt in the first place, so the niceness only serves to make how good he’s feeling bump up to feeling even better.

“Thank you,” he says, primly. He reaches for the hoodie and Max lets go immediately, not moving from where he’s haunting Charles’ doorway.

Charles gives no explanation for this interaction. Max doesn’t ask for one.

Before he can even think about it, he’s bringing the hoodie up to his nose and burying his face in it. Taking a deep inhale makes his eyelids flutter, eyes rolling back into his head.

The innate Max scent of it is so strong, but it also smells a little bit like Max’s cologne, which makes him want to start purring. He doesn’t, but god, he wants to. It takes some effort to stop it, if he’s being honest.

Standing in his doorway, Max makes a choked sort of noise that has Charles snapping back to attention. Jesus fucking Christ, he’s acting like an idiot.

Without thinking about it, he casually swings the hoodie behind him, hiding it behind his back. As if Max is going to take it back because Charles visibly showed that he was an omega for five seconds.

“Would you like to come in?” Might as well be a good host, Charles thinks, even if he’s wearing pajamas and probably doesn’t have a single edible thing in his apartment. He might have a sleeve of crackers, if he’s lucky. And orange juice. Or champagne.

Max’s hand goes up to rub at the back of his head sheepishly and Charles can’t help but track the hem of his short sleeve, where it gets tighter at the motion and highlights his bicep.

“Uh, I’d really like to, yeah, but my sister is actually in town. At my place.”

Charles squints, trying to parse that through Max’s unsteady breathing. “Like right now?”

“Yeah, now. With my nephews. And my mum.”

“What? Max!” Charles can’t help but flail his hands, eyebrows doing something undoubtedly insane. “Why are you here!”

“Because you asked,” Max shrugs again, even pinker in the cheeks now. But he smells happy, satisfied. Charles can also smell the nerves underneath the satisfaction. “But I gotta go. Let me know if you need anything else.”

Charles would like to hug him. To fall into his arms and press against his chest and rub his face into the slightly damp crook of Max’s neck. He doesn’t, instead he grips the hoodie tucked behind his back tighter and smiles so brightly it kind of hurts his face.

“Thank you, really. I appreciate it very much.”

And he does. He really, really does. He’s going to roll around in his nest with this new addition for the rest of the day. And it’s going to be great.

Max waves kind of goofily, still out of breath, and turns on his heel. Charles watches the breadth of his shoulders as he disappears down the hallway back toward the elevator.

The air in his entryway sort of smells like him, even after he closes the door.

Which is no excuse for Charles slumping back against it then sliding to the floor, his entire face pressed into Max’s hoodie.

He’s being indulgent, undisciplined. Every bit of this social interaction will probably come back to bite him in the ass later. But god, it’s so worth it.

Taking in deep, open mouthed lungfuls of Max’s scent, Charles shudders, making a noise like someone letting all the air out of a balloon.

He needs to get back into his bed. Right now.

Charles feels guilty for it, later. Kind of.

A little.

Ashamed is probably a better word for it, but not enough so to not do it in the first place. And again, later that night. And once more, the morning after.

He forces himself to wait until he gets into his nest to put the hoodie on. Cleaning his kitchen, dumping his clothes into the washing machine, and eating half of the sleeve of crackers all happen before he does what he really wants to do.

Which is frantically tugging the hoodie over his head and then immediately getting scent drunk from it.

The distilled Max-scent is unreal. He must’ve been actively wearing this hoodie before he gave it to Charles, that’s how strong it smells. Or he scented it so intensely that even the thought makes Charles blush, alone in his fucking nest.

Being able to put it to his nose and breathe in sends his omega into overdrive, all of the pleasure receptors in his brain lit up. And Max isn’t even fucking here.

He’s so stereotypical. Rolling around in his nest with Max’s hoodie on getting him so keyed up that he has to touch himself, slick between his thighs practically seconds after getting into bed.

Dipping his fingers into the wetness, Charles teases at the hard nub of his clit, throbbing from him rubbing his legs together, surrounded by Max’s scent. He’s got to, there isn’t any other option.

He forces himself to think about nothing at all, not to daydream or fantasize or even think near anything concrete aside from the bliss of rain and pancakes and Max.

Tucking his fingers up inside himself, he can’t help but whine.

He ducks his chin into the hoodie collar, rubs torturously slow circles against his clit while he fucks himself with his other hand.

It’s all he can do not to moan Max’s name, which is absolutely egregious. He’s alone in his apartment for fuck’s sake, carrying on and whining about an alpha who barely wanted to look him in the eye until 2023.

But. The same alpha who has been so unknowingly helpful over the last few months. The last few years, even. Who touched his lower back a few races ago so easily, whose eyes squint when he smiles at Charles.

The mere thought of him smiling at Charles while he’s wrapped in his hoodie is enough to get him there. Pathetic.

Charles comes so hard he has to lie spread eagle in his bed for a few minutes. Fingers still inside of himself, blinking at the ceiling.

He needs to get a grip. Immediately.

With noodly limbs, he finds his phone and squints at it. There is a new email from his press officer, a training schedule for this week from Andrea. A text from his maman. And a heart emoji react from Max to his “okay thumbs up” text from earlier. He clearly got home and reacted to it, sent about 15 minutes after he left Charles’ apartment.

Whatever that means, Charles huffs, smiling to himself.

He needs to wash his hands, put some sort of real food into his body, then do an entire laundry list of other semi-important to absolutely critical tasks in the next few hours.

Instead, he flops over onto his stomach, pulling the hood of the sweatshirt over his head.

Charles can’t always smell his own scent very well—which is an absolute joke compared to how well he can smell everyone else—but the combined, instinctual mix of he and Max’s scent in his nest has him wiggling a hand between his body and the mattress, down between his legs to touch himself.

Again.

It comes to a head a few weeks later.

Max isn’t stupid. Categorically the opposite, actually.

He’s built to recognize patterns, analyzing everything available to him when properly motivated, and Charles has been nothing but predictable lately.

Practically melting into Max’s touch. Not exactly seeking him out, but never rebuffing him either. Visibly relieved when they touch. Going loose and relaxed at his presence in a way Charles isn’t able to hide.

All of these smaller behaviors add up to a literal beacon for anyone to see something isn’t totally right, let alone an alpha who has known him for two decades. Who has seen him at his best and his worst, but never exactly like this.

Charles is tucked in the far corner of the hospitality area, nursing a green tea and trying to work up an appetite for anything at all.

His heat is closer now, a month or so away at most, and he’s uncomfortable. Itchy in his skin and irritable in a way that’s unfair to everyone around him.

Andrea keeps having to cuddle him. Antione took a picture of him during Thursday’s media day that made him almost burst into tears because it highlighted his very slight double chin, even though it was an objectively good picture. He got so overstimulated during a fan stage event last night that he had to sit in his driver’s room, knees to his chest, for twenty minutes after.

None of the instinctual need that swells during his heat has come through yet, he’s just in the weepy, agitated, emotional pre-phase that comes and goes in the weeks before.

Charles is a goddamned wreck, is what he is.

As he’s gotten older, his heats have gotten progressively worse. Needy and emotional and desperate, Charles has gone through them alone the last handful of cycles, which probably doesn’t help.

He’s spent enough of his heats with partners. Beta girlfriends in his first few years of F1 who took the edge off but never really satisfied him. An alpha girlfriend a few years ago who satisfied him significantly more. He adored her, but it petered out with his hectic schedule and her desire for more than he could realistically give. A mutual alpha friend a handful of times in the last few years—his first alpha during a heat in his adult life—who knotted him so well, repeatedly, until he saw stars and passed out in the makeshift nest he built for them, covered in his own slick.

Embarrassing, but satisfying nonetheless.

Charles knows what he likes, always has.

And what he likes during his heats is an alpha who will dote on him, worship him. One who will press him into the mattress and stuff him full until everything else goes quiet. Who will sweep him up into their arms after, clean him off, bundle him into a nest and rumble pleasantly until he falls asleep.

He likes that even outside of his heats.

But that’s not always an easy feat to find and he categorically refuses to use any cycle sharing services, especially not with the level of fame he’s gotten to now.

The last thing he, or Ferrari, needs is a sordid tell-all about Charles Leclerc’s heat preferences. He’ll be unintentionally celibate for a bit, thanks so much.

This upcoming heat isn’t going to be a smooth one either. Weeks before the break and him already feeling like this means it’s going to be brutal. A recipe for disaster.

He’s sitting with his head in his hands, phone tossed on the table. Sweating through his team kit in the perfectly balmy weather, exhausted and off-kilter. The back of his head is throbbing and his canine teeth fucking hurt.

Oscar had smelled kind of tense earlier, during the brief interaction they’d had while badging into the paddock, and that tension hasn’t fully dissipated from his body yet. It definitely seemed like something personal, but he’s not sure he and Oscar are close enough for something like that yet.

He should probably talk to Lando about it, but that would be inviting more drama into his life than he’s currently prepared to handle.

Plus, Lando always gets mean when he’s stressed, and Charles surely can’t deal with that right now.

Hunched over as he is, at least the nausea caused by being in the paddock with thousands of people has gone away a little bit.

Charles smells rain before he can even really process it, the sweet tang of pancakes undercut by the clear worry Max is blatantly projecting from multiple meters away.

He’s not sure if Max is headed toward him or past him until the goofy white sneakers Red Bull makes he and Isack wear appear in his vision underneath the table.

“Are you sick?” Max asks, voice raspy. When Charles rolls his head to the side to look at him, his eyebrows are drawn tight. “You’re freaking me out, mate.”

The way he completely forgoes any sort of greeting makes Charles huff a laugh.

“Sick?”

“You look,” Max waves his hands around, trying for tactful and missing, “not well. And you smell weird.”

Okay, rude. Charles, head still resting against his hands, scowls at him. Tracking the expression on his face, Max blanches, then backtracks. “I mean, good. You always smell good. Just not like you normally do.”

Hearing that he smells good makes his own eyebrows smooth out, warmth blooming in his belly. Standing next to him, Max’s scent ticks up at whatever change he can smell in Charles’. A lovely, laughable little feedback loop.

Ridiculous, he thinks to himself, finally heaving his head up from the table. He’s probably got the grated pattern of the fake wrought iron pressed into his face. Whatever.

Max’s presence is already soothing the persistent itch across his shoulder blades, the prickle that’s been haunting him for the last few days.

He gets distracted, tracking the slow spread of relief across the entirety of his body as he takes in deep lungfuls of Max’s concerned scent. Now that he’s upright, Max reaches out and squeezes his shoulder once, twice. The same unconscious pattern he always uses to get Charles’ attention.

Trying to look Charles in the eyes, Max ducks down closer. The proximity makes his scent even stronger, sends shivers racing down Charles’ spine. “Are you going to throw up?”

“What? No,” Charles scoffs. He moves to shrug Max’s hand off his shoulder but decides he’s fine with it there. Leans into it a bit, even.

With a heavy sigh, Max throws himself into the chair next to Charles. He drags it in close, finally taking his hand away. The absence lessens the relief, but not enough for Charles to really be all that cut up about it. Max is close enough and smelling like he cares about Charles enough for that to soothe him.

His internal complaining tapers off when their knees press together under the table.

“Seriously,” Max says, speaking low and quiet. “Is something wrong with you?”

Charles sort of assumes he’s going to ask about two weekends ago. He knows that was weird, even for an omega in Max’s broad circle that he’s known for years. But they aren’t close in that way, in any way really, and Charles should never have asked.

But he did. And the hoodie that Max hand delivered to his apartment is tucked under his pillow back in his hotel room right now, as they speak. It still smells like him, too.

Charles has slept better this race weekend than he has for months. He’s pretending he doesn’t know why that is.

He’s also gotten off more times in the last two weeks than he typically does. He absolutely knows why that is, but he’s not looking at it directly.

“My heat is coming up,” he offers, needing Max to know that he isn’t dying or something equally as dramatic. “I’m fine, just feeling a bit off.”

He expects Max to get embarrassed. To duck his head or turn away, the way most alphas do when heats are brought up by omegas who aren’t their own. Charles isn’t disappointed by the flush on his cheeks, but he looks earnest when he hums an acknowledgement.

“That sucks.” Blunt, but Max looks like he means it. “Makes sense, but still sucks a lot.”

Charles nods, trying not to slump over against Max’s shoulder. At least their knees are touching. Max is wearing shorts, the heat from his skin melting into Charles’. He doesn’t feel as overheated and itchy anymore.

He kind of wants to crawl into Max’s lap. Nuzzling against his stubble would probably feel incredible. The spread of Max’s big hands against his lower back would fix him, surely.

“Yes, a hazard of the designation, I suppose.”

Max’s nose wrinkles cutely at that. Charles wants to bite the tip of it, then pop a kiss on top of the sting.

Definitely acting insane, but at least he doesn’t feel terribly sick anymore. He might be able to eat something now.

“Well, I wanted to make sure you weren’t dying.” Typical Max, saying what needs to be said then making himself scarce. “Good luck this weekend. See you on the podium later, I bet. Below me, but still.”

“One can only hope,” Charles replies, trying not to push into the touch like a cat when Max claps him on the back as he stands. “To the podium bit, not the beneath you bit.”

That’s a blatant lie. Beneath Max is very much where he wants to be.

He doesn’t want Max to leave, but there’s no non-embarrassing way to get him to stay. And Charles isn’t in the business of purposefully embarrassing himself. Most of the time.

As he leaves, Max winks in an overly dramatic fashion. It’s significantly better than how Charles’ winks look, and he’s aware of it.

It makes him laugh, tossing a wave over his own shoulder.

The soothing effect from being near Max for even a few minutes doesn’t fade and Charles feels better. More ready to take on the rest of the weekend.

Except he doesn’t see Max on the podium later.

He doesn’t see anything anywhere near the podium later.

Ferrari is as Ferrari does and he ends up P7 and absolutely fuming for it. The race is atrocious and his P3 to race lead conversion is all for fucking nothing by the end of the race.

Another shitty strategy call that shouldn’t surprise him even now, but still does. Pit wall exchanges that leave him chafing, aching. Furious. He gets out of the car so tense, his teeth creaking in his mouth, his scent so viscerally potent, that the usual crowd of people around parc fermé are actively repelled by him.

It would make him laugh, the way that people move out of his orbit like he’s a polarized magnet. It doesn’t though, because he’s pretty sure he’s angry enough that he isn’t ever going to laugh again.

Charles is throwing off fury in tangible waves. His team gives him the grace to not show up as he stalks back to the Ferrari hospitality after being weighed and slogging through his post-race interviews.

Andrea has made himself scarce, Bryan didn’t even bother coming to find him before the debrief. Fred had made a pitiful face at him from across the garage and disappeared, likely because he knew that approaching Charles right now would get him yelled at.

He feels like he’s shaking apart.

The garage had smelled like disappointment when he walked through it earlier. Maybe not at him specifically, but enough generally to make him spiral.

Everything feels like his fault. This entire season, each mistake he makes feels so much more amplified. The car is almost there, so Charles has to be even better. And he isn’t.

He’s so sensitive to the culpability of this godforsaken sport, even when it objectively isn’t his fault. Always feeling so responsible. It mixes with the despair and the anger and makes him feel like his heart is about to burst from his chest.

Even in a season with a better car, he’s left with this. Nothing to show for it. P4 in the driver’s championship and another year part of the way gone.

Lewis didn’t do much better than he did. After Charles slams his driver’s room door in a fit of childish rage, he can hear him puttering around in his own, talking with someone. Through the walls, he smells unhappy but not despondent. Resigned.

Charles needs—he needs something.

He gets up, desperate to move.

Without changing out of his race suit, he heads for the paddock, hoping that there are less people around now that the race is over and the podium ceremony is finished. He’d rather eat concrete than go to their debrief, but he’s got a bit of time to wallow before that and he’d like to not do it here.

Naturally, nothing is ever easy.

He isn’t expecting so many people outside of the Ferrari hospitality, which is stupid of him.

There are fans and photographers and a handful of people he can’t identify and doesn’t care to. All he wants, all he needs, is to be alone. For a few minutes. Without Lewis’ resignation and Ferrari’s lost hope and all the other feelings rolled together in his head.

A blonde woman who smells too sharp, almost antiseptic, comes up and pats at his arm, simpering apologies for his race. Another person grabs at his other hand and their scent goes angry and bitter when he pulls away, tugging his wrist from their grip.

Charles truly cannot bear to be touched right now.

Tears burn in his eyes and he does his best to give the group a weak smile, sidestepping past them.

Mumbling apologies and mindless platitudes about how he really has to go and can’t stay, he turns and pushes through the thinner part of the crowd.

A few camera flashes flicker in his peripheral, which he doesn’t love. He knows he looks terrible, eyes puffy and red and mouth slashed in a downward turned line.

The group of people waiting around grows as other passersby stop to see what everyone else is looking at.

He’ll be damned if what they’re looking at is him even a second longer.

The scents get more complex the more people stop—curiosity and jealousy and surprise— layered over each other until they fold back into a wall of scent noise in Charles’ brain. His heart is really racing now, pounding in the back of his head.

He thinks he mumbles an apology to a journalist trying to talk to him, but when they bump shoulders he flinches back. Being touched right now hurts. Everything kind of hurts.

His heart, his head, his whole body.

Charles can tell he’s starting to breathe too fast. Beginning to lose his grip on himself. Too much sensory input and not enough time between being furious at the state of his race and panicked by twenty some people’s broadcasted feelings.

He has to get out of here.

Someone shouts when he pushes past them, taking off into a run before he realizes it.

The paddock is a blur, the tears in his eyes close to overflowing. His stomach cramps, angry at him for moving when all he wants to do is lie down somewhere dark and quiet. Nausea gives way to his heavy breathing, throwing off his rhythm as he gains speed.

There’s nowhere to go in this fucking place where someone isn’t. As he tears past hospitalities, people point and say his name and he needs to get away.

Not paying attention to where he’s going and focused solely on skittering out of the paddock like a panicked deer, he slams bodily into someone hard enough to knock the wind right out of him.

It’s a brief reset, the dread clenching his brain in its fist loosening for a second.

He doesn’t hit the ground, which is impressive. There are hands on his arms which make his omega hiss, hackles rising. Being touched right now feels like sandpaper against his skin.

They don’t smell as awful, no overloading feelings, not as thick and heady as everybody else. But his brain can’t grab onto anything. His thoughts are moving too fast for anything to stick, there’s nowhere to grip in order to catch his slippery mental train before it goes barreling off the tracks.

Charles needs to get out. He has to go.

Warm hands come up to his shoulders, steadying him. Charles blinks through the daze and it’s Max.

He can’t catch his breath well enough to smell him. To have his scent make everything feel better.

Somewhere deep in the recesses of his brain he knows that it would, if Charles could just take a deep breath. But he can’t.

“Hey,” Max says, sounding surprised, then immediately concerned. “Charles, hey.”

There’s no time for whatever this is, even if it would probably help. Charles can’t stop here, starts pushing past Max, trying to get away, away, away. Somewhere small, somewhere quiet and dark, that’s what he needs.

Max says his name again, voice actively worried now.

When Charles makes to dart into the fray again, he follows, the barest touch of rain at the back of Charles’ mind. He grabs Charles around the wrist to get him to stop, the touch firm.

He flinches, he can’t help it. But when his brain stutters and stops and resets, he relaxes a bit. Stops trying to pull away.

“What’s happening?” Max sounds serious, to the point. Alpha-like in a way that soothes the skittering animal of his brain. “Did someone say something to you? Charles, tell me what happened.”

He can't. He wants to, in the far away rational part of his mind that’s still attached to his consciousness. The area that trusts Max. But he can’t.

Charles keens, a terrible little sound. It makes Max straighten immediately, surveying their surroundings. The way he looks around, obviously instinctual, loosens something clenched tight in his belly.

He might throw up, he thinks. There are people around, their conversations blurred in his ears. He can still smell them.

“C’mon,” Max mumbles, tugging him away. An arm is slung around his back, tight to his body. Max’s other hand closes around his elbow, steadying.

They start walking at a normal pace, sedate and not drawing any more attention to the fact that Charles is about to vibrate out of his skin.

A few turns that he can’t track, a door he doesn’t recognize, Charles has no idea where they’re going. He isn’t right, not fully in his body, but Max is taking him somewhere and he trusts that. Each breath brings a little more of the pancake-rain smell into his brain, beginning to wipe out everything underneath it.

His breath is coming heavily. The only reason he hasn’t started crying yet is the last shred of self-preservation that whispers about maintaining his image and not weeping in the goddamn paddock.

Max leads him into what he’s pretty sure is a gender neutral bathroom in a suspiciously un-branded hospitality area. Flicking the lock, he turns to Charles once they’re inside.

He gets one actual good look at him and his eyebrows furrow.

The hold on his wrist tightens, Max’s fingers tight against his scent gland overtop his race suit. The shock of calm that comes from it feels so good that it almost feels worse.

Tears start slipping down his cheeks now that he’s no longer in public, too fast for him to stop them. It gets worse when he starts to hiccup, bending forward over himself like that will protect him from whatever is happening here.

He’s out of danger, his omega tries to remind him. He never was in any danger, he tries to tell it, but that’s a lost cause. The back of his brain whispers a pleasant refrain of reassurances that Max is here, he brought Charles somewhere quiet and secluded and scentless. He’s not out there, he’s in here. It’s safe.

That doesn’t do enough, he’s barreling toward a full panic attack. Whimpering, he digs both of his hands into the hair at his temples and tugs.

“Hey, no, come here.”

Max pulls him close, cradling the back of his head. Loosening Charles’ fingers, he replaces his own hands on the sides of his head and brings him into the crook of his neck.

The concerned scent, rain intensifying and pancakes going slightly burnt, swells. All of the emotions swirling in his brain go quieter.

It helps, but Charles also just needs to fucking cry.

Today was awful. He feels bad as hell, from the very start of the day. The start of the weekend, actually. Something fucked up is happening hormone-wise and he’s careening toward what’s going to be a terrible heat. Then the pit wall fucked up his race and everyone touched him and nobody ever takes responsibility and he’s reached the point of what he can successfully handle without tears.

Max shushes him, one hand slipping out of his hair to rub his back.

“Tell me what happened,” he says, mouth pressed to the side of Charles’ head. There’s no trace of alpha command in it. Just that firmness.

The words come out staccato, past his gasping breaths. He’s speaking directly into the collar of Max’s shirt. At least he had the foresight to change out of his race suit.

“It was too much, everything.”

He hums and nods, the motion bringing Charles’ head with him. Starting to speak, Max begins to say something about the race.

“No—the scents, after. Everyone smelled so much.”

It’s nonsensical to Max, but to Charles, it’s everything that happened distilled into a sentence.

Pulling back, Max looks at him closer. The hand cupping his head slides down to hold him by the nape of the neck. Which, god, helps a lot. “What do you mean?”

“Everyone—” his voice hitches embarrassingly, “everyone smelled so disappointed in me. And angry. Then I left to get some air and everyone smelled so strongly and I couldn’t—get away from it.”

Max’s thumb presses into the dip behind his ear, close to his mating gland but not close enough to make Charles’ body startle. If anything, it relaxes him even more. He slumps forward until their chests touch.

“Explain it to me.”

Still hiccuping, Charles goes to swipe at his eyes, too rough. Max nudges his hand, sweeping the tears away with his other thumb.

He exaggeratedly breathes in and out, his chest bumping against Charles’. Not saying anything about following his breathing, Max models the breath pattern he wants Charles to follow. Which is better than giving him any outright directions. Easier and less aggravating to his omega, who doesn’t love being told what to do in most scenarios.

“I have, I don’t know, I do not remember the medical term for it in English. Overactive scent receptors. Everything is so strong for me, all the time. I am too sensitive.”

Saying that he’s sensitive out loud makes him cry again, harder this time. It’s true and he fucking hates it.

He’s overly emotional. A big baby. Undeserving and dramatic, always weaponizing his feelings.

Max has both hands cupping his face now, slightly rough calloused hands rubbing at the tears trailing down his cheeks.

They’re almost the same height, Max maybe a centimeter or two taller than him. Instead of asking for more information, he looks directly into Charles’ eyes and waits. Even when Charles glances away, unable to fully turn his head with Max holding onto him like this.

Not making eye contact helps.

“Sometimes, it hurts. It is so much when there are too many people feeling things strongly. And that is all that we do, a lot of the time. Feel strongly. Nobody is casual or reserved.”

There are some drivers who are better at managing their feelings and emotions than others, and in turn their scents. But where they can do so, their fans typically can’t.

“It makes me sick.”

Max opens his mouth, but he cuts him off.

“No, not sick in a real way. Well, sometimes in a real way. Mostly just uncomfortable. I get a lot of headaches. I’m overstimulated half of the time and it makes me agitated and short tempered. Sometimes mean because it overwhelms me.”

“Jesus, Charlie,” Max mumbles, looking sad.

He nods pathetically.

“Do other people know?”

“My team, my family.” He shrugs, leaning his hips against Max’s. “Fred. You, now.”

Max makes a soft noise in the back of his throat at that.

“There’s nothing to be done about it, it’s like this. Blockers aren’t mandatory and I understand that. I have to cope.”

It’s pretty bleak. But it’s also his reality and has been for years. And at the end of the day, he still performs well regardless.

Most of the time. Not today, perhaps, but usually.

“What helps?” Max is rubbing circles into the sensitive spot underneath his ear, the brush back and forth soothing like a metronome.

He wants to say that this, this right here helps, but that would be far too revelatory after the show he just put on.

“Familiar scents and people. Deep breathing exercises. Longer stretches of time with fewer people around. Strategic entry and exit to the paddock.”

Max nods like he’s taking note of everything, filing it away in his mind.

Charles can’t help it. He’s exhausted, wrung out, and too scraped raw to pretend otherwise. He feels his face go pink as he comes to the next logical answer. Dipping his face a touch, he nuzzles into Max’s wrist without really thinking it through first. The scratchy team kit quarter zip isn’t a particularly nice feeling on his face, but the gesture feels good to do itself. “You.”

“What?”

He doesn’t sound necessarily surprised, more like stunned.

“I do not know why, but your scent is particularly helpful. Sort of like a buffer. It blocks everything else out when we are close together.”

Max looks quietly awed when Charles pulls away from unintentionally scenting the cuff of his fireproofs. “Really?”

“Most people add to the noise. You do not.”

They look at each other for a beat, Charles long-suffering and Max bewildered.

“I can’t explain it. Don’t make me try.”

He has a few suspicions, but he won’t be voicing them now. Not in a random bathroom in what he’s pretty sure is the empty paddock club. Probably not to Max, ever.

They’re touching from hips to chest now, a long line of comforting heat against the front of Charles’ body.

“For how long?”

“Since we presented,” Charles shrugs. “It’s always been this way.”

“And you never said?” Max sounds confused, pulling his lower lip into his mouth and biting at it. Charles is way too close to him to be looking at that right now.

“What was I supposed to say?” he asks, sharp and prickly. “Oh yes, hello, Max Verstappen, my childhood mortal enemy, will you come stand by me so I don’t throw up behind the bleachers after the podium ceremony because my head hurts from the smelly crowd?”

“I—yes, no—”

Charles interrupts whatever he’s about to say. “It’s fine. I’m dealing with it.”

“It isn’t fine,” Max says, deliberate and final. “Let me help you.”

That sets Charles off. He isn’t in a space to be pitied, despises it when it comes from people he doesn’t know or care for. Hates it even more when it’s from people who know him, who have watched him become who he is and suffer what he’s suffered.

He snarls without meaning to, the sound discordant in the quiet of the bathroom, trying to pull back from Max’s grip. Max’s scent immediately goes contrite, regretful.

“I do not need your help. I have never needed your help.”

Categorically untrue, mere minutes ago he needed Max’s help more than just about anything and then he got it. And it was nice.

This might be the quickest he’s come down from a near panic attack in ages. It’s absolutely the fastest his head has stopped hurting from being oversensitized. He doesn’t feel much of anything now aside from bone deep exhaustion.

Max raises his hands in surrender, leaving the back of Charles’ neck cold. That isn’t really what he wanted, but he also can’t abide by pity. “No, no, you’re right, that’s not what I meant.”

He’s annoyed, actively and completely, by the insinuation. But Max smells sorry enough without saying it that he’ll hear him out.

Charles can’t help but roll his eyes, even if the motion hurts with how sore they are. “What were you meaning?”

“You don’t need my help, but I’d like to make you feel better sometimes if I could.”

Scoffing, Charles is about to go on a rant about special privileges and omegas in sport and Max Verstappen thinking he’s the end all be all of everything, when Max interrupts him.

“Could I scent you? Would that help?”

Charles’ mouth drops open.

“You want to scent me?” He sounds shrill. Disbelieving, because he is.

Max nods, trying to channel calm and sedate but looking a little eager around the edges. What is going on?

“Right now?” he asks, absolutely sure he’s misunderstood. “In this family bathroom?”

“Now, later, whenever you want.”

Carte blanche is far too much for Charles to process. He focuses on the only thing he can, some days: other people’s reactions.

“People will know! They will smell you on me!”

Now Max is the one to roll his eyes into the back of his head. Charles can feel the exaggerated movement, they’re standing so close. “I don’t care about that.”

That is not news to anyone, least of all Charles.

“What do you care about?”

Almost immediately, Max answers, “You not looking like you’re about to throw up all the time.”

It shuts Charles up fairly effectively. Especially when Max continues.

“The last few races you’ve looked, okay, not awful, but very close. Something hasn’t been right and I could tell and I don’t like it.”

So cut and dry. As if it’s easy for Max to identify what he doesn’t like, say it outloud, and propose a solution.

A solution which is scenting Charles in this gender neutral family bathroom, where he took him to have a crying fit in peace.

“Will it help?” Max asks, blunt. “If it’ll help, even a little bit, to have my scent on you, we should do it.”

It would help. Objectively. Probably a lot, with both how he feels right now and how he’ll probably feel later this evening.

Incidental scenting happens all the time. Casual touches, close proximity. It’s a byproduct of having secondary designations, being people, engaging with others on any level. Deciding purposefully to scent is different. Feels like something more, something actively chosen.

What’s the point of resisting? Why deny himself something he wants? That Max is so willingly offering, no less.

Giving in is almost easy. Not quite, there’s something inside of Charles that continues to resist. But it’s quieter, easier to ignore.

He sighs, dropping his shoulders and rolling them back. He put up such a fight for so long, for years, it feels like now that he looks back on it. What was all that fight even for?

Because Max is here, he got him into this small space without a second thought, and he’s warm and sturdy and asking about what helps.

“Okay, yes, scent me.”

“Only if you want me to,” Max counters, eyeing him critically. As if Charles would say yes to something like this without really meaning it.

“Max,” he says, with a touch of a growl. The noise makes Max’s eyes go big in his face. His omega preens. “Please scent me.”

It comes out exasperated, impatient. But now that Charles can have, he wants. And he’d prefer not to wait.

Max makes a little surprised noise then jolts forward like he’s been shocked. Moving purposefully and somewhat frantically, like Charles is going to take it back and says actually, no, don’t touch me, the warm hands that were cradling his face return. One on the side of his neck, laid over his mating gland, the other gripping tight at his hip over his race suit.

The touch alone feels so good it makes him whine quietly in his throat, tipping forward with abandon.

“Careful,” Max mumbles, drawing him closer.

He leans in, keeping Charles’ head still, and brushes their stubbled cheeks together. It rasps oddly, but he doesn’t mind.

Especially not with how he immediately feels better. Looser, more physically present in his body.

Pancake sweetness and the fresh smell of rain wash over him at such a concentrated consistency it makes it hard to blink. He makes some sort of embarrassing sound, pitching closer.

It’s different than smelling Max when he comes and goes during race weekends. Different still to the soft, thoughtless touches Max has given him over the years.

Quietly, Max rumbles a bit, somewhere deep in his chest. The subtle vibration and noise has Charles melting, pressing even closer.

He’s thorough with it. Dragging the entirety of his face across Charles’ cheeks, chin, and the easily accessible parts of his neck. The care put into it, how soft Max is being, how deliberate, makes Charles tip his head to one side, baring his throat. The sensitive curve of where his neck slopes into his shoulder tingles with how badly he wants to feel Max there.

But, fuck, the stupid combined collars of his race suit and fireproofs are in the way.

He could fix that, right now.

“Hold on, let me—“ Charles struggles to un-Velcro and unzip the top of his race suit, scrambling at the closures and trying to get his fingers to work when all he wants is to align the entirety of their bodies together and not move.

“Not going anywhere,” Max replies, now particularly focused on the side of Charles’ head. Dragging his cheek back and forth and sending up a cloud of his scent. It’s a curious feeling, definitely poofing his hair up a bit from the static it’s generating. Kind of tickly.

After a few agonizing seconds, he works the top of his race suit down and stretches the collar of his fireproofs low. It reveals the sensitive skin there and Max wastes no time pushing his entire face directly into the opportunity Charles has given him.

He can feel him inhale, deep. Like he’s savoring it.

The first brush there feels like being shocked, but it immediately sweetens into something softer, better. There isn’t a trace of pain or anger or sadness in the entirety of Charles’ body at this point. Every ache he had is gone.

It’s good. So fucking good. This is exactly what he needed.

Especially when Max sweeps over his mating gland, unintentionally or not. He mumbles an apology when Charles makes a garbled, gasping sort of sound, but he absolutely does not need to apologize.

He can’t remember the last time he felt so settled. So physically and mentally present in his body, even if he’s only being held upright by Max’s hand on his hip.

They’re both quiet, except for Charles’ uneven and Max’s measured breathing.

“Better?” he asks, back to rubbing his face against the side of Charles’ head. His hair is going to look wildly fucked up, without a doubt.

“Much,” Charles agrees, no hint of a lie. He thinks he could race again right now, if they put him back into the car. Another full two hours. Maybe a run after, then a nap.

When Max pulls back completely, he looks ruffled. Cheeks pink and hair in disarray, his pupils are blown in a way that makes Charles want to hum and curl into him.

The hand on his hip moves to his shoulder, Max holding him securely in place. He shakes Charles back and forth a little, a barely there movement that belies how seriously he wants Charles to take what he’s about to say.

“Let me know if you need anything at all. And I will help.”

Charles shrugs, appreciative but also knowing enough about who he is as a person and how well he responds to offers of assistance to agree outright.

“Maybe I will do this,” he hedges, assuming that he won’t. But two weeks ago he asked for something of Max’s for his nest, which was a request for help in its own, odd way. One that was granted, too.

And he didn’t take off in the opposite direction earlier, when Max grabbed him mid-meltdown.

So he might be maturing as a person.

“You will, right?” Max’s voice is stern now, no nonsense, which has Charles’ mouth curving into a smile. Big bad mad Max. Pushing Charles into some weird scenting compromise. “Promise me?”

“Yes, fine, I promise. If anything gets to be too much, I will text my direct competition crying for help and he will scurry over to fix me.”

He’s aiming for self-deprecating, but Max is smiling like he’s serious. Big and bright, pulling at the freckle on his lip. Charles has to squint at him a bit.

“I will, whenever you need.”

“Okay, yes, we are in agreement. I need to go.” A glance at his watch tells him he’s approaching being late very, very quickly.

Max nods, reaching out to help him right his fireproof collar, getting his hands in the way when Charles does up the zip. He has to bat Max’s fingers away, all four of their hands unnecessary for such a simple task. When he focuses back on Max’s face, he’s giving him a look that’s both hesitant and amused.

“You should, uh, probably fix your hair.”

When he turns to look in the mirror, the entire left side of his head is fluffy and sticking straight up in the air as predicted. Max is laughing under his breath next to him, ruffling his hands through his own hair.

“Oh my god,” he groans, “you made me look ridiculous.”

“Sorry,” Max says, but he doesn’t sound it. “Couldn’t help it.”

Charles can’t help it either, he laughs. It’s a little manic, but mostly amused. Cathartic, if he looks at it closely enough.

He’s dipping his fingertips into the faucet to try to fix his hair as he shoos Max away.

“Go now. You should leave first.” When Max doesn’t move, he flicks the water on his fingers into Max’s face, pleased by the scrunched up look of distaste. “I will see you later, probably.”

He’s huffing a laugh to himself when Max says goodbye, slipping out of the bathroom door.

When he looks back up at himself in the mirror, he’s smiling too big for this to mean anything good.

The effects of Max scenting him don’t lessen after.

He thinks they might get a little stronger even, as he sits in their grim post-race debrief. Usually, an hour in like they are, he gets a headache right behind his eyes that throbs in time with his heartbeat. But now, he feels fairly alright.

Lewis gets agitated at one point, needling at Fred in his confident but not arrogant way, and no one’s emotions sweep over him like a wave that takes him under.

There are obviously feelings and scents circulating through the room, Charles simply isn’t absorbing them. They don’t change his very make up. It’s thrilling.

Charles makes it through the paddock, out into the parking lot, through the hotel lobby, and into his room without a hitch. Andrea looks at him suspiciously, but says nothing. He’d twitched his nose when Charles had turned back up earlier after disappearing, but remained knowingly quiet.

The solid, centered feeling lasts throughout the flight back home, too. Max tucked into all the spaces between him.

He may be in trouble, he thinks, but this particular piece of it isn’t a problem.

In fact, it’s the very same solution Charles has known it was since the beginning. The one he has gotten so good at ignoring.

He’s no longer sure he can ignore this, not with how aligned everything feels.

Which is exactly the issue.

Summer break grows increasingly closer and Charles gets increasingly sensitive.

A few days after Max’s initial scenting the effects had fully worn off. Charles can get a semblance of the feeling back when wearing the hoodie Max gave him, but nowhere near the real thing.

He manages, the same way he always does.

The sensitivity increases, his feelings easily hurt by the slightest bit of constructive criticism. He’s good at hiding it, but when he’s alone he starts spiraling. The thoughts come at him from all angles and swirl down the drain into the tangled mess that is his brain pre-heat.

And god, he’s so fucking horny.

A strong breeze can get him going. Lewis palms the back of his neck as he passes by at the factory during their two week long break and Charles feels himself get slick. Which, Jesus Christ.

He spends even more time getting himself off, the collar of Max’s hoodie stuffed into his mouth. Thinking about things he’s refused to even edge near in his own head, it’s easy to bring himself there.

Charles is careful as they return to the circus to make sure he’s not the one broadcasting fuck me pheromones in driver’s briefings, but he’s not sure he’s succeeding. Sitting a row behind Max and staring blatantly at the breadth of his shoulders doesn’t help either.

He’s not even that much bigger than Charles, he just looks nice in the shirt that he’s wearing. Very broad.

Carlos gives him a very specific look over the top of his sunglasses from across the room that he very pointedly ignores, choosing instead to think about every embarrassing thing he’s ever done to shake the horniness loose. There’s a very long list, so it’s easy to get lost in that semi-harmful pastime.

At least he’s not wearing sunglasses indoors, he guesses.

After last race’s misfortune, he needs to be prepared for this weekend. Thinking about Max giving him beard burn against his neck isn’t going to help with that.

So he compartmentalizes. He and Andrea focus on his coping strategies. He spends way too long bouncing tennis balls and skipping rope in the sunny areas between the hospitalities. The media aspects drag along as they always do, giving him headaches and making his stomach hurt, but he doesn’t reach out to Max to fix it because he doesn’t need to be fixed.

Charles is fine. He’s always been fine. And he will continue to be fine, regardless of him knowing that there is someone not even one hundred paces away who could quell every discomfort he feels in a few seconds.

He maintains this position until Max—smelling sharp and overly static, like the air before it storms—stalks past him when he’s poking at his lunch at the front of the hospitality.

The sweet pancake smell is pushed down low, almost non-existent.

He’s angry at something, clearly. Charles has heard mutterings about a possible Mercedes transfer brewing over their time between races. There’s been a lot of talk about GP’s eventual move to McLaren too, insinuations that he’s sure Max has seen online. Maybe even been asked directly about.

His agitation is potent. Charles’ belly cramps in response, which is an absolutely egregious reaction to his coworker being pissed off.

Forcibly quieting his omega, he watches as Max walks past him and barely makes eye contact, shoulders hunched and feet slapping on the concrete.

He gives it a few minutes, sipping at his unsweetened tea and picking at his cuticles.

Charles has decided that he doesn’t need scenting as a cure all this weekend, but there’s a possibility Max might need it instead.

And wouldn’t that be kind of him? Mutually beneficial scenting between rivals, Charles returning the favor after the embarrassing meltdown two weekends ago.

Mulling the thought over for another minute or two, he pictures the way Max’s pupils eclipsed the ring of blue when he pulled back after scenting the everloving hell out of him in that bathroom.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he sends Max a text.

Charles: could you come
Charles: I don’t feel well

That might be laying it on a little thick, but he needs to make sure Max knows this is serious.

He isn’t expecting a reply very quickly, what with Max stomping through the paddock with an almost visible storm cloud over his head post-media, but he gets one right away.

An affirmative answer, a question about where, and when, and if he would like a snack. And if so, what he would like.

Cute, he thinks, smiling down at his phone like an idiot. He answers all the questions, forgoing a snack, and starts the walk back to his own hospitality to wait in his driver’s room, hunched over his own knees on the uncomfortable little couch like a gargoyle.

Max sneaks in with little fanfare about fifteen minutes later, opening the door and poking his head in to make sure Charles is inside. The dark RBR blue sticks out like a sore thumb among all of Charles’ red.

Has Max ever been in the Ferrari hospitality before? He probably has never had a reason to be. The fact that he’s here, in enemy territory, for Charles is wildly satisfying.

He brings with him a wave of scent so calming that Charles practically melts into a puddle on the uncomfortable couch, even if Max is still riding the edges of being annoyed.

Standing near the door, stupid Red Bull can-shaped water bottle loosely held in his hand, Max looks deeply out of place. A little uncomfortable even, under all the frustration.

He’s so sweet sometimes, without even meaning to be. Charles’ omega coos, wanting to pull him close and never let him leave.

Gathering himself, because this isn’t about him, he sets his plan into motion.

“Sit with me,” Charles asks, aiming for polite but landing solidly in demanding. He gestures to the relatively small space next to him on the couch.

Max sits like he’s a puppet with his strings cut, flopping next to him with a huff.

Ozone and wet earth curl around them both, only the tiniest edge of syrup threaded through it. Charles has been exposed to an annoyed and angry Max enough times in his life to be familiar with the scent of an oncoming storm, but they’ve never been this close together in the throes of it.

He doesn’t mind. Even bothered and upset as he is, Max smells good. Makes Charles feel calm, content. There’s an urge to soothe hovering in his chest, his omega needing to bring the pancake smell back.

“What can I do?” Max asks, big blue eyes looking at Charles plaintively. There’s something to be said there about needing to feel useful, about worthiness being tied to performance, but Charles isn’t in the business of psychoanalyzing anyone but himself.

And he’s not even really good at that.

“Stay here for a bit,” Charles hums, thinking about what he wants and how he can get it.

What he’d like is for them to be closer than they are right now, their thighs pressed tight together on the couch. If he shifted closer, their shoulders would touch too.

Instead, he pats at his lap.

Max looks confused at first, gaze bouncing from Charles’ face to where his hands are on his thighs.

“Lie back, please.”

Confused, Max asks, “How will that help you?”

It’s adorable that he still thinks this is about Charles.

“It will make me feel better.”

That’s an obvious truth, though the trick to it is that making Max feel better will also make Charles feel better. Yet another clever little evolutionary feedback loop.

The mere idea of Charles feeling better is enough for Max, apparently. He shuffles down the couch, gently putting his head in Charles’ lap.

Satisfied, he can’t help but preen. Perhaps he has more of a hold over Max than he expected.

Max obviously centers himself, taking a deep breath and slowly exhaling. His legs hang off the edge of the couch, head pillowed in Charles’ lap. Within seconds, he smells more content, relaxed. A little excited, even.

The released pressure, a storm passing over instead of touching down, relaxes Charles too. He settles back into the couch, as comfortable as he can get on what is essentially a glorified futon, and gets his fingers into Max’s thick hair.

The first stroke has Max making a soft, startled sound. Charles has to hide his smile when he tilts his head back to look up at him curiously.

It takes a bit of finesse to brush out the gel in Max’s hair, which quite frankly is an affront to God with how stiff and curtailed it makes him look. He thinks that Max looks best with his hair long, touching the tops of his ears. And with his scruffy beard.

Charles winds small chunks around his fingers, scratches at his scalp, drags his fingertips across his blessedly full hairline.

Against him, Max goes boneless. That deep, low rumble starts up again, Charles breathing deep in response.

Smiling dopily up at him, he’s not scent drunk the way Charles gets, just lax and happy.

“Of course you are good even at this,” he mumbles, folding his hands over his belly. Charles has no idea what that means, but he chooses to take it as a compliment.

The feelings bouncing between them are slow moving and unconstrained—relaxation and pleasure and a bit of sleepiness. Charles wishes they were in his nest, then bites down sharply on his own lip when he realizes that he’s thinking it.

Unsure if he’s smelling whatever confused longing Charles is experiencing or if he feels Charles go tense against him, Max catches one of Charles’ hands and brings it to his face to swipe against his wrist.

The prickle of his beard and the softness of his mouth are such opposite textures, goosebumps rising along his arms and the soft hair on the back of Charles’ neck standing up.

Max’s mouth opens a little bit, his breathing slow and measured, and he feels the warmth against the scent gland on his wrist.

It lights him up from within, a burning sort of heat flooding out from his core.

The casual intimacy of it is dizzying, the creeping closeness of his heat making everything feel even more sensitive.

Charles is pretty sure that Max’s mouth on the inside of his wrist would turn him on even if he was six months out from his heat.

He does his best not to lean into the feeling, the warmth. Under no circumstances can he get wet with Max’s head in his lap, not with his face so damn close to his cunt.

Gently, he pulls away, settling his hand in the crook of Max’s neck. No longer in easy reach of his mouth. Charles goes back to petting at him, stoking the relaxed scent until his heart rate slows.

“Are you better now?” he asks eventually, the amusement evident in his own voice. They’re probably both late for something at this point, but his phone hasn’t rang and no one has come to find him, so he’s choosing not to worry about it.

Max’s eyelids flutter open. He takes a second to think through Charles’ question, then immediately frowns.

“Are you better now?”

“I was fine the whole time,” he returns, loftily. In actuality, he did have a small headache and there was a tightness in his upper back between his shoulders that had been there for two days. Both are gone now. “You were the one that was so agitated in public. Everyone can tell when you get pissed off, your scent is so loud.”

“So? That’s their problem.” Max is trying for grumpy, but with Charles’ fingers in his hair, he’s solidly missing.

“And mine.”

This makes Max pause, suddenly sitting up. He leans on his elbow, turned toward Charles. The movement sets him off balance, tipping toward Max.

“Does me being angry hurt your head?”

“No,” he says, firm. That’s not what this was about. Charles can and will manage himself. He does not need Max doing it for him. “You’re allowed to have your own feelings, regardless of how they are affecting me.”

Thankfully Max’s big feelings typically don’t affect him. Even when they were at their most hormonally dysregulated and furious at each other, Val d’Argenton and beyond, Charles never felt pushed off balance by whatever Max was experiencing.

Usually he was pissed the fuck off right back.

“I know that,” Max says, with a roll of his eyes. “But does it change how the buffer works, if I’m upset?”

“Not that I’ve noticed,” Charles returns, fiddling with a bracelet on his wrist. “But I’ve never really stopped to think about it, either.”

“Okay,” Max says, slumping back down into Charles’ lap. “Good.”

“What would you have done if I said yes?” he asks, curious. He huffs when Max pushes his head back harder into his thighs, antsy for his hands back in his hair. Like a cat, never asking outright but blatant about what he wants. “Never gotten angry again?”

“No, I probably couldn’t do that even if I tried. The people here piss me off too easily.” Max says it so simply. It’s probably freeing to be so open with the media about how royally fucked up your team and their stupid car is. Charles can only daydream. “But I’ll make more of an effort, I guess.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Don’t have to do fuck all. Still will though.”

Charles smiles to himself, gazing down at Max’s dumb face, his eyes closed like he’s about to fall asleep.

With how thoroughly he’s breathing in Max’s relaxed scent, he thinks he’ll be able to ride this sense of calm for the next few days.

He loops a lock of Max’s hair around his pointer finger and tugs. When he does it a second time, Max grunts, flopping a hand onto Charles’ thigh and digging his fingers into right above his knee.

It shouldn’t get him hot, but it does. Charles tries to think chaste thoughts, as to not beam how fucking horny he is directly into Max’s brain with his scent.

That’s enough of this, then.

“Alright, time for you to go. I’ve been cured and I’m sure someone is looking for their lost champion.” Pulling at Max’s hair again, he releases it and taps gently at his forehead. “You cannot be found with me when the time comes.”

Max hefts himself up. He looks like he’s moving in slow motion, with how laid-back he is.

Reaching out without warning, he cups the back of Charles’ head with one hand, then uses his opposite to swipe his wrist over Charles’ neck.

Unprepared, Charles’ eyes roll back into his head at the direct hit of Max’s calm scent. What the fuck.

To make matters worse, Max twists his pointer finger in the hair at the nape of Charles’ neck and tugs in a pantomime of what he did to him earlier.

The force makes his head bobble backward, then forward.

He can’t stop the noise that comes out of his mouth at the feeling. Charles already knows that he likes his hair pulled, but that’s not particularly something he’s ever felt he needs to share with the class. Let alone with Max.

Sticky, aching warmth spreads further, his edges going blurry. He’s way too close to his heat for whatever this is. Pressing his thighs closed, he snaps his mouth shut and glares up at Max.

“See you later.”

Max is smiling too big to be innocent, his eyes crinkled shut. Charles should punch him in the dick.

He doesn’t. He squirms, trying not to actively rub his thighs together.

“Yes,” Charles says weakly, “see you.”

Max disappears, off to do whatever he needs to do before getting into the car. His scent, calm and strong and no longer restless, lingers in the air.

God.

Hopefully Charles has time to make himself come before free practice.

Thankfully, Charles qualifies well.

P2 at one of his less favored tracks. His engineers are pleased, everyone smelling excited and ambitious. The car feels good, Lewis is happy, Fred is quietly enthusiastic.

Things should be looking up.

Instead, he and Oscar are standing a few car lengths away as Max and George growl at each other.

Apparently they made contact and fucked up their final hot laps, tumbling them both down the ranking in Q3 to sit neatly next to each other at the bottom.

George smells quite frankly disgusting, lavender overpowering with how upset he is. It’s leaking everywhere, beta or not. Thick and synthetic smelling, he leans over Max, getting right in his face as he waves his hands and looks generally agitated.

Max shoves forward, all lightning strikes and ominous thunder, helmet held tight in his grip.

Charles wonders if he’ll throw it.

He isn’t particularly worried about them resorting to putting hands on each other. Max has grown out of that and he’s pretty sure George wouldn’t deign himself to it, but the cameras are definitely getting an eyeful of their argument.

They both smell bad. Worked up, furious in the way that it seems only they can provoke each other to.

It’s not fun, the way it feels like when Charles provokes Max. When he pokes and prods and overtakes him during free practice for the sheer thrill of doing it. This feels mean, hurtful, on both of their ends.

The way the media chomps at the bit to get them to talk about each other, he knows that their PR teams will both be doing damage control for the rest of the weekend.

Their combined scents makes Oscar hum discontentedly beside him in line to be weighed. It must be bad if a more scent-blind alpha is being affected by it. He smells like biscuits usually, chocolatey sweet and nuanced with something nutty. Pistachios maybe. Right now, he smells uncomfortable, which makes Charles feel uncomfortable too.

He tugs his helmet off once he’s done being weighed, trying to keep an eye on the developing disagreement Max and George are continuing to have.

It gets worse, George saying something quietly that makes Max scoff.

The smell of them arguing ratchets up, some FIA representative likely about to step in soon to keep the show rolling.

Charles moves away from them, needing to not be privy to whatever this is, but as he walks past, Max goes motionless. He can clearly see Charles over George’s shoulder.

He clocks the way that Charles scrunches up his nose, looking less than impressed.

Max visibly recalibrates, reeling his angry scent in. The pancake sweetness comes back, but only just. Calm radiates outward, mixing less caustically with George’s too-strong lavender. George goes quiet, confused about the sudden lack of participation.

They still smell gross and the anger makes his teeth hurt, but Max’s return to baseline curbs a bit of it.

Charles doesn’t need that. He knows Max knows he doesn’t need it. They’d both said it not even 24 hours ago.

But he appreciates it, regardless.

Max comes over to him later, when Oscar, Lando, and Charles are milling around before heading to the press pen. Lando is clearly pleased with his unintentional pole, George fucking up in the final moment and Kimi only a place behind Charles.

They’ll see if Lando can keep it, he thinks, as Max bumps his hip against Charles’. Sliding into the space between him and Lando, he says nothing but radiates something closer to calm. The ache in Charles’ molars fades as he takes a few surreptitious breaths.

The familiar loosening of all his muscles feels great right after getting out of the car.

Lando raises his eyebrows, surely smelling something, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“Sorry,” Max mumbles out of the side of his mouth, “didn’t mean to do all that earlier.”

Charles appreciates the apology, warmed through by it. But it also isn’t necessary. Charles isn’t his keeper, Max can fight whoever he wants.

“You’re allowed to be upset,” he says back, quiet, as Lando pokes and prods at Oscar in what is likely some weird foreplay Charles is fine with not being involved in.

“Yeah, but even I can’t stand it when George smells like that. Can't imagine what it’s like for you.”

“Not nice,” he replies, grimacing. Part of him will always love George. Another part of him thinks he’s a twat that smells like cheap nighttime pillow spray.

“Yeah, I bet.”

They watch as Lando trips over nothing, embarrassing himself. Oscar looks on, amused. It’s probably time for them to get to their interviews, but there’s no rush yet.

“Thank you for noticing,” he says, quieter. “It felt better, once you stopped.”

Max’s eyes crinkle, his mouth curving into a smile. “I’m glad.”

He looks, sounds, and smells like he means it. Charles tries not to let it get to his head.

With a hand pressed against his lower back, Max nudges him forward, past Lando who is now caterwauling about something, and Oscar, who is replying with two to three words every time.

He wants to lean into Max, doesn’t give a fuck about all of the cameras and microphones ahead. His omega is more or less singing in his subconscious, carrying on about an argument stopped for his benefit.

Ignoring it, he takes a final deep breath to carry himself through the rest of today and smiles his goodbye to Max.

Whose hand doesn’t leave the small of his back until Charles fully steps away.

The warmth stays, though. The entire time he’s interviewed, even when he says all of his usual platitudes and hopes.

Charles is so totally fucked.

Free practice the next weekend comes and goes with little difficulties.

The car is fine. Charles survives the crowds and the media events, plays stupid games with Lewis that make them look unserious and petty but are overall extremely fun.

They get lunch together, sitting side by side in the sun.

When they part ways, Lewis daps him up and gives him a squeeze at the back of his neck. It makes him feel a little bit like a hormonal teenager, stunned and flustered by any gesture of affection, but Lewis kind of always makes him feel that way.

Charles walks a fine line of hero worship and various unsuccessful attempts to look cool in front of one of the greats. But he’s fine with that. Lewis seems to like him, for what it’s worth.

He’s forgotten about the brief interaction not even twenty minutes later when he runs into Max. Not bodily this time, thankfully.

Feeling mostly alright this weekend, he hasn’t needed Max to scent him so far. Who knows what the future holds, but as of right now, Charles is only nursing a minor headache and a vague sense of being dehydrated.

He’ll have to manage that, he thinks, as Max walks toward him with a smile. Andrea probably has an electrolyte packet somewhere.

They clasp hands and Max starts in on how his car is doing and what he’d like to change before FP3 later in the day.

Charles nods along, genuinely interested, adding his own comments until Max takes a step closer and freezes.

Confused, he glances to the left and right of them, then back to Max. Who is standing there, squinting at Charles like he’s a particularly complicated puzzle.

“Are you okay?”

At his voice, Max twitches. Then he leans closer and breathes, deep.

What the hell? They’re in the middle of the paddock, for god’s sake.

Charles grumbles under his breath and pushes at Max’s shoulder to get him to back up.

“Are you having some sort of problem? Stop sniffing me in public.”

Max ignores him, predictably. Too quick for Charles to stop it, he steps into his space. With a hand on his shoulder, he bodily turns Charles around, gaze settling on the nape of his neck that’s slightly exposed under the collar of his crewneck.

“Max,” he hisses.

“You smell like Lewis.”

The words are short, delivered neutrally. But Max does not look pleased by this. In fact, he looks actively agitated by it.

He’s starting to smell like it, too.

There’s a tinge to the pancakes, bitter and burnt. The ozoney lean to his scent goes crisp and sharp in a way that feels precautionary.

Charles’ omega hums, rising up inside of him and basking in the change.

“Did he scent you?”

Max is frowning now, his full lips in a pout. Charles can’t help but laugh out loud.

“This is not necessarily relevant to you, no?” Charles is poking the bear on purpose, but he’s always been addicted to the feeling right before doing something dangerous.

Instead of rising to the bait, Max stares at him for a second. He looks Charles up and down, gaze particularly centered on Charles’ neck.

Lewis didn’t even touch him for that long. He’s got no idea how Max can smell him on Charles.

Before he’s able to ask as much, Max snaps a hand out and grabs Charles’ by the wrist. Starting to tug, he marches them away from the pedestrian thoroughfare.

Charles, pleased by the proceedings, doesn’t even protest. He walks with Max, actively laughing.

“Where are we going?” he tries, attempting to pull away from Max’s grip on him. The hand around his wrist only tightens, applying odd pressure to his bracelets there.

They come to a stop in between two of the nearby buildings. Max’s eyebrows are pulled together and each time he breathes in, his nose twitches.

Charles can’t help but find this actively absurd and fully inappropriate behavior cute. Nobody has ever accused him of being right in the head.

He stops laughing when Max presses close, one hand staying wrapped around his wrist and the other going to Charles’ hips above the waistband of his baggy jeans.

Without a second to consider anything, Max drags his entire face across Charles’. Their cheekbones push together a little uncomfortably. When Charles huffs and swats at him, he doubles down, swiping his face down Charles’ neck instead.

“What are you doing?” The edges of Charles’ question tilt up the more Max scents him, warmth blooming in his belly. He cannot afford to get turned on in some random alleyway between buildings in the paddock with Max fucking Verstappen.

Societal norms say he should leave, should turn around and walk right away. His omega says he should get closer, should let Max pin him to the wall and make the scents of everyone else he’s interacted with today go away.

“Fixing it.”

“Fixing what? That I smelled a tiny bit like Lewis?” Max grunts an agreement, continuing to heavily scent Charles and throw off jealous pheromones like he’s getting paid for it. “He only touched me a little.”

“I don’t like it,” Max mutters, letting go of Charles’ arm to bring his own wrist to the nape of Charles’ neck. He slides his inner arm across the short hairs at the back of Charles’ neck and makes a pleased noise.

The direct application of Max’s pancakes-and-rain scent to multiple parts of his body at once sends his omega into overdrive. He has to blink away the blurry, relaxed feeling and focus on how insufferable Max is being about what was essentially nothing. A casual, fleeting touch between teammates.

He can hear his heartbeat in his ears. Preventing himself from resting his entire body against Max’s is a masterclass in willpower.

Satisfied with his work, Max pulls away. He looks completely normal now, like he didn’t pull Charles into a secluded area and cover Lewis’ scent on a whim.

How he was able to detect even the slightest whiff of Lewis on him is another question altogether.

“Seriously?” Charles asks, a hand on his hip. It’s easy to pretend that this childish desire to cover Lewis’ scent with his own isn’t making Charles insanely pleased. Even if this entire interaction was motivated by whatever longstanding beef Max has with Lewis. That’s not anything he needs to be directly involved in.

“All good,” Max replies, turning around and exiting the mouth of the alley. It’s clear he expects Charles to follow him. Which he does. What the fuck else is he supposed to do?

He trundles after Max, a moth to flame.

“Anyway,” he continues, launching right back into set ups and floor heights until they have to part ways halfway down the paddock.

Charles spends the rest of the day warm to the touch.

His headache is gone too, because of course it is.

They’re in the final race of a triple header, the last before summer break and his foreboding upcoming heat, and Charles wants to pull his hair out.

Nothing is wrong. He’s been performing well. The car has stayed good, surprisingly enough. No random changes that fuck up his flow, the set up finally right.

Last weekend he had to argue about a pit stop strategy call on the radio mid-race and then was so agitated after their debrief that he’d texted Max to solicit an impromptu scenting as soon as he could.

Max had agreed, because he agrees almost every time, if he can. Welcoming Charles into his own driver’s room, fully ready to leave the track and dressed down in his khaki shorts and everpresent team kit shirt, he’d stayed. Because Charles had asked.

He’d left that interaction with his neck rubbed pink, needing even more from Max than he usually did.

It helped. Got him through the next few days. But the relief is gone now.

The whininess has gone away too, thankfully. He’s no longer at risk of getting weepy at any perceived sleight. Now he’s just annoyed. And still so fucking horny it makes him want to bite down on something. Hard.

Max, mostly. But that’s because his biceps are so nice and his cheeks are so round, not ever fully growing out of his baby fat softness.

Wanting to bite Max aside, Charles needs to get through this weekend. Then he can spend three days straight in his nest, heat delirious and gagging for it, knotting toy shoved inside of himself and Max’s hoodie wrapped around him.

Then he’ll have a handful of months where he’s operating relatively normally, thank fuck.

For now, the fan stages at this circuit remain way too populated. Way too easy going with how close everyone can get to them, unlike some of the bigger, more attended races. And all people ever want to do is touch Charles. They give him things, which he likes. Bracelets and stuffed animals and dog toys. Little trinkets that carry luck. But they also think they’re owed his attention and his touch, along with his time.

He does his best to be kind and to give everyone at least a few seconds, but if he’s grabbed one more time, he’s pretty fucking sure he’s going to lose it.

The race starts soon and he’s loitering as far away from the pit lane as he can get without missing Bryan’s cue to get into the garage and into the car.

He’s wide eyed in an unpleasant sort of way, head on a swivel. Too aware of everything. Touched out and over cautious of everything creeping up on him. The scents of the pit lane are so sharp they don’t smell like anything at all.

It’s that same blurred, overwhelming feeling, hurtling toward overstimulation.

Charles clasps hands with some of the other drivers, catching up as if they didn’t see each other four days ago in a different country.

Max can’t stop for long, but he reels Charles in quickly, arm around his shoulder and mouth near his ear.

He’s chatting shit about the track, saying something inane about kerbs that Charles has already heard from his team, the heavy warmth of him around Charles’ back. There are at least thirty people in their immediate vicinity and Charles can smell them all, even over the white noise of Max’s scent.

GP calls him over for something after a beat, immediately dragging his attention away. He barely looks at Charles as he says goodbye.

The abrupt departure leaves Charles feeling kind of bereft. He didn’t get what he wanted, emotionally or otherwise, out of that interaction. He barely got to take in Max’s scent and definitely didn’t get any of the focused attention that he’s started to crave.

He’s twitchy as he waits, scanning up and down the pitlane and twisting his rings around his fingers.

It takes Charles what is probably way too long to realize, but he blames that on all the sensory input.

He’s wandering closer to the garage, trying to work out the restlessness in his legs. Turning at the waist, he stretches to the side to try and crack his back and goes abruptly, perfectly still.

One inhale, another, then a third, and everything clicks into place.

Max, in the brief thirty seconds or so that he was talking at the side of Charles’ head about the kerb change in turn 4, had scented across the back of his race suit. Exposed wrist across his shoulder blades.

Over Charles’ last name. Purposefully.

Without looking like that’s what he was doing. Touching Charles in whatever way he could, leaving his scent behind.

He twists the other way, breathing intently. Syrup and the earth deep in the forest catches in his nose when he focuses.

Charles can smell it whenever he shifts, whenever he moves his arms.

It helps, settles him instantly. But it also makes him so fucking hot he almost tips over. Too turned on to be around this many people, in such a crowded place.

God, he can’t breathe.

The scenting over the name across his back feels like a claim. It’s blatant and outright and kind of fucking outrageous, saying something that he’s not sure Max can take back.

His omega croons, rolling over and showing its belly. Baring its throat.

He wants.

Charles’ mating gland pulses.

He has to forcibly calm himself down. Keeping his legs still to avoid running after Max, launching himself into his arms and rubbing his face into his neck, he does a few grounding exercises and tries to slow his heartbeat.

Taking deep breaths through his mouth so he gets the overall effects of the shameless scenting without going scent drunk and stupid in front of his entire team, he breathes. Right after, he’s significantly less high strung. Bones less creaky, muscles more relaxed. It’s appreciated, but also not something they’ve ever talked about.

So far, every time they’ve scented it’s been purposeful and planned. Not bold, out in the open like this.

He likes it, regardless. Is warmed through by Max not being all that preoccupied with someone seeing him doing it, all the eyes and cameras on them.

Charles sets his teeth, takes one final deep, lingering breath, and gets in the car.

Two days later and they’re full circle, Charles sleep mussed and bleary, asking Max to bring him something for his nest.

They’d texted back and forth after the race, Max begrudgingly appreciative of his last lap overtake to secure yet another P2. It’s not winning, but it’s something. Consistent points for the team, a higher standing in the driver’s championship.

He’s got the rest of the season to plot his Mercedes downfall. For now, he needs to focus on getting through the next few days.

Their conversation looped and turned away from their jobs, back to what they were doing over break, how they’ll spend their time.

That exchange was how they got here, Max in his apartment again, offering Charles an old, worn Toro Rosso t-shirt from about a decade ago.

It’s soft to the touch, threaded through with Max’s scent. He wonders if Max would even fit into it anymore, or if it would ride up on his hips whenever he moved.

“Thank you,” he says, pleased as punch. A low buzzing has started in the back of his head, hazy waves of smoldering want.

Charles is fine right now, but his heat will hit him fully in a day or two at most.

Max is blinking at him, staring obviously and unabashedly. Normally it would leave Charles twitchy, self-conscious, but he’s so mellowed out during this pre-heat that he lets him look his fill.

“Yeah,” he says eventually, finally responding to Charles’ gratitude. “Always.”

He doesn’t move to leave, neither of them saying much of anything. Charles rolls the t-shirt up between his fingers, trying to ignore the way the motion sets off a wave of the scent layered into it.

Smells good, his omega practically moans from the forefront of his mind. No longer whispering and subtly guiding him, this close to his heat, his instincts are so much stronger, his omega loud.

Yeah, Charles thinks, I know. That’s the whole point.

Which is why he turns back to his room, speaking over his shoulder as he goes. “Would you re-scent your hoodie?”

Max coughs, sounding like he inhaled and exhaled at the same time. Then says nothing for a beat.

Charles pokes his head back into the hallway, eyebrow raised. Max’s entire face is pink, the blush spreading down his neck to his chest. Charming, Charles thinks, trying to hide his smile.

“Well?”

Juddering into motion, Max steps forward, nodding repeatedly. They meet in the middle, Charles handing over the hoodie and forcing himself not to grab Max’s hand when he reaches out to pull him closer.

Max’s eyes go big when he brings it near his face. Fucking obvious what Charles has been doing in it all these weeks, apparently.

His scent goes warm, molten. Charles, in the state he’s in, can’t help but sigh at the change.

They make extended eye contact as Max rubs the hoodie against the scent glands on his wrists and neck.

The smell he’s kicked up hovers over and around him, getting so deep into his brain Charles doesn’t think he’ll ever get it out. He doesn’t ever want to get it out. He wants to be able to smell Max, like this, always.

This feels more intimate than fucking does, he thinks, almost hysterical. What the fuck are they doing?

Charles is sweating in his t-shirt and shorts, even though Monaco is lovely during this early part of the summer. He’s wet between his legs, but that’s no surprise. Slicking through all of his pajama bottoms for the last few nights, constantly aware of himself. Trying to put off touching himself so he doesn’t get sick of it, sore before his heat even really starts.

He’s not fully there yet, but he’s damn close.

Opening his mouth, he means to thank Max both for the re-scenting and the new item. Instead, Charles blurts out, “My heat is soon. Days, maybe, if I’m lucky.”

I’m usually not, he doesn’t say. But they both know that.

“Oh,” Max says, obviously trying to not look interested.

Ask him, his omega chants, he’ll say yes, you know he will. Ask him, ask him, ask him.

And fuck, Max smells so good. Curious and wanting, the pancake throughline of his scent arching up prominently.

“Would you—”

“I could—”

Charles clicks his teeth shut, watching as Max awkwardly shuffles, rubbing at the back of his neck.

The’re both being fucking weird. But this is also new ground to tread for the both of them. Max knows he’s an omega, has known since it happened, when he flicked his dismissive, scowly pre-teen gaze over to Charles the weekend he came back after his presentation and hummed something non-committal, then tried to kill him on the karting track right after like nothing had changed.

They’ve never been this physically close with the evidence of it between them before. The heat coursing through Charles’ veins obvious in every aspect.

“You go first,” he offers, trying to be polite.

Max looks awkward, cautious. “Do you ever spend them with anyone?”

A little bit of a probing question, but with how Max has been scenting him lately, it’s probably a valid one.

“Not lately,” Charles admits, picking at a hangnail on his thumb. “I had a casual thing with an alpha friend early last year. He was lovely, but that was the last time.”

“Oh.” Max’s face goes pinched, his scent crisp and jealous. A hint of bitterness taking over the sweet tang. Like how he smelled when Lewis scented him. “Makes sense.”

Charles likes it, more than he can possibly put into words. His omega howls internally, gloating over the success. It’s probably indicative of something really not great about him, how much Charles likes that edge of jealousy.

He’s not Max’s, but it makes him feel like he is.

He wants to poke at him more. Stoke that little flame of jealousy. Surprisingly, he doesn’t even have to try.

Max continues, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. “How was it?”

Charles tries not to smirk like a dickhead. “Good. Satisfying. I had only been with beta and alpha girlfriends before. They took care of me nicely, but it wasn’t the same, for me. Having an alpha during it felt different.”

“Good, good,” Max says, although his face looks like he feels anything but good about Charles’ words.

“Are you sure you want to be talking about this?” he asks back, even though he obviously knows the answer.

This is so fun. His omega is delighted, soaking up the attention. Max’s scent is still a touch bitter, but as he stays quiet and thinks over something, it changes. Melts into something warm again. Decisive.

“I could scent you before,” Max says, not answering his initial question. “If that’s something you usually like.”

The mere thought of Max in his home, near his nest, touching him along his scent glands, makes him so hot he can feel sweat prickle along his hairline.

Low in his belly, warmth clenches. Even considering Max in that context has him slick, warm and wet.

Distractedly, he wonders if Max can smell that new layer to Charles’ scent. He both hopes he can and he can’t.

“Scenting would help, yes,” Charles says, then decides to fully send it. “But would you want to spend the whole thing with me?”

Lust, hot and blooming, shot through with surprise crashes over his living room in a wave. It makes Charles’ knees weak.

He swallows, trying to center himself and blink through the way that scent makes him feel.

Voice croaking, Max repeats his question. “You want me to spend your heat with you?”

He sounds like he can’t believe his own ears, but Charles is straightforward in what he wants. And what he wants during this heat is Max.

“If you’re willing,” he replies, with a shrug. Pretending like he won’t die of embarrassment and be quietly, secretly hurt by a negative answer. If Max says no, Charles will have to quit his job and move to Antarctica. No WDC for him, he’ll have to become a hermit. And probably never fuck another human again.

“Charles, what the fuck?” He tilts his head, confused, but Max keeps talking. “I’m beyond willing. I’d love to, honestly. To help you through your heat, thinking you have to ask, what the hell? Yes, of course. You really want me to be there?”

He’s speaking quickly, like he’s trying to get all of his questions out before Charles can change his mind.

Charles isn’t going to change his mind.

He steps close, twisting the Toro Rosso t-shirt in between his hands. They don’t touch, but he’s sure Max can feel the warmth radiating off of him.

Meeting Max’s eyes feels like admitting something he’s kept close to his chest for years. Charles hopes Max can see that. That he can feel it. How asking for help, for what he wants, letting Max scent him to help with the sensory overload have all been successive surrenders. Charles laying down his weapons and letting him in, one step at a time.

It hasn’t been easy, but at least it’s felt good.

“Yes, you’re the only person I want there.”

Ever again, he doesn’t say, because that might be a lot for where they are right now. But still.

He watches as Max closes his eyes tightly, groaning under his breath. At his sides, his hands are clenched into fists. Charles wants to put his mouth all over him.

“Okay, yes. I’ll be there. Just say when.”

Max’s words come out clipped and short, like he’s holding himself back from saying more.

With a final deep breath that makes his head spin, Charles steps back. He needs to change, to get out of these shorts that are already probably wet enough to belong in the laundry basket.

He needs Max out of his house, or they won’t be leaving it again until later in the week.

“You should probably go now,” he says, trying to be smart about this, “or it’ll start early. And I’m not ready yet, I need supplies.”

“I can bring anything,” Max says, eager. “Whatever you want, I can get it.” Charles doesn’t even bother hiding his smile.

That’s sweet, but Charles has a very specific list of things that he’ll want during his heat. Going through the essentials will settle him.

“Come back in a day, maybe tomorrow afternoon. Bring a blanket from your bed. Maybe a pillow too.” He curves a hand around Max’s shoulder blade and steers him back toward the door. Max goes without much force, led by wherever steers him Charles’ with ease. “I’ll text.”

When they get to the door, Max turns. Grabbing him by the forearm, he pulls Charles close, stilling. His eyes are bright, excited and pleased, and his scent is so warm and happy and aroused Charles can barely breathe through it.

He’s absolutely going to go into heat early.

“Are you sure?”

Max is careful with it, confirming one last time. Waiting for Charles’ answer.

Slipping his wrist through the circle of Max’s grip, he tangles their fingers together and squeezes.

They haven’t talked about anything directly. They probably should. But Charles hopes that his scent, his sincerity, the fact that he asked in the first place, the way that Max’s scent is the only thing that has anchored Charles for years, is enough for right now.

“Very much. I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

The exhale Max heaves out is all relief. Charles can’t help but laugh, amused.

“Now go. Goodbye, Max Emilian. Until tomorrow.”

He ignores the startled gasp and pushes Max fully out of the door.

There are a lot of things he needs to get done in the meantime, and Charles has a bad feeling his timeline has been pushed up by Max practically broadcasting how badly he wanted to get down on his knees for him.

Pushing away from the door, he takes in one last deep inhale of Max’s scent, then gets to work.

It doesn’t even take a full fifteen hours for his heat to come.

Definitely accelerated by all the oddly toned, emotionally revelatory flirting they were doing in his living room yesterday, Charles lasts until about ten o’clock the next morning.

He wakes up warm, wanting. Empty.

Before he can even get out of bed he has to get himself off, face entirely shoved into the Toro Rosso t-shirt. After that, he staggers out of his recently re-done nest and palms his phone.

Texting Max, all he says initially is “Come.” Then he feels guilty about the abruptness, sending a “Please.” with a sparkling heart emoji after.

Like he’s been waiting all morning, Max texts back instantly. Says he’ll be there in about twenty minutes.

Charles purrs, audibly. Fucking ridiculous, but he hasn’t lost it fully yet.

With a last minute tidy of his nest, he makes sure his snacks are in his bedside drawer and his water bottle is filled up. Then he takes a cold shower and gets off again, to the thought of Max showing up soon.

All he can bear to have touching him right now is a pair of soft work out shorts and nothing else. Barefoot, he practically runs to the door when he hears the same knock as a few months ago. Significantly less hesitant this time, which pleases him.

Flinging open the door reveals Max, dressed in grey sweats and an unbranded hoodie. He’s got his backpack on, the bigger one with more pockets and zippers, not the little luxury leather one he sometimes brings to races. At his feet, there’s a tote bag Charles has never seen before.

From here, Charles can see the top half of a blanket. He needs to be touching it, right now.

Max has to bodily shuffle him backwards into his apartment so he can come in. But as soon as he’s across the threshold and the door is closed, Max is taking out the blanket and unfolding it, handing it to him before he can even ask. Underneath is a pillow with a light grey pillow case, exactly like he asked.

Charles chirps, a ridiculously instinctual noise. He wants to put them in his nest, right now, immediately.

“Thank you for coming,” he eventually says, remembering his manners. “For bringing this. And yourself.”

“Nowhere I’d rather be,” Max says, and it sounds true.

They watch each other for a few seconds. Not wary, necessarily. More like attentive, focused.

The simmering, rolling scent coming off of Max is delicious. The rain of him smells warmer, like a storm in the summertime. The syrup is even sweeter, smoky.

Max flexes his hands and Charles feels an echo of it in his belly.

“Come with me,” he says, turning on his heel and leading him to his bedroom. They need to be in his nest, tangled together. Or else he’s going to do something obscene, like lay back on the rug in his living room and spread his legs.

He can feel Max’s eyes on his back as they move deeper into his apartment, but they leave to look up and down the hallways, taking everything in. Max has been here before, but never further than the front room.

There’s a wall of framed pictures on one side that he can tell in his soul Max will be investigating later, when he gets a chance.

Pushing open the door to his bedroom, he hears as Max inhales deeply and quietly rumbles. Charles hopes he’s pleased, that he likes the layout of the room, that the giant pile of pillows and blankets will be comfortable. That he likes how Charles smells.

They stand shoulder to shoulder, Max watching as Charles unwinds the blanket. He can tangibly feel how it sends him deeper into his heat, drops him further. The scent is so strong, Max must sleep with this blanket every night.

He can’t help it. He scents it himself, slipping it along his wrists and up over his neck. Charles pays careful attention to his mating glands on both sides, covering the material in his own scent. It needs to smell like them, like him, when Max takes it home in a few days.

Thankfully, Charles is already somewhat familiar with their combined scent. Max’s hoodie has been a staple in his nest, the t-shirt an added bonus. He’s been rolling around in it, kicking up a storm of scent for weeks now.

Max looks more affected by it, shifting back and forth on his feet, rumbling deeper in his chest. The sound makes Charles’ cunt ache, has him bouncing up onto his tip toes and back down.

Holy shit. Max is here. Charles is firmly in the heat that’s been haunting him for months and Max is right here, in his bedroom.

He can’t believe it, his omega over the moon. Teenage Charles would be shrieking out of embarrassed excitement, all of his adolescent fantasies that he banished into the shadow realm of his brain coming true all at once.

Charles bends over, grabbing the pillow and nudging it into place near the center of his nest. He settles the blanket over top of everything else, a layer to seal off the warmth and their scents once they lie down. Thankfully, it isn’t too thick, perfectly breathable.

When he stands back up, Max is closer than he expected, hovering behind him. Gently, he puts his hands on Charles’ bare hips. The touch makes him jolt, then melt, leaning back into Max.

He can’t help but sigh dreamily, tipping his head back onto Max’s shoulder.

In response, Max tucks his face into the curve of his neck, asks his questions there directly. The touch of his lips against Charles’ neck feels life changing.

The smell of the two of them is all encompassing, surrounding the both of them, that it almost feels like a part of them. Charles’ warmed through from his heat, Max responding in kind.

“What do you like?” Max asks, honest and curious. His scent tightens a bit, going possessive instead of jealous like yesterday. The small distinction makes Charles whine audibly. “What did your other alpha do?”

Charles can barely think in straight lines. He’s not even sure he remembers his alpha friend’s name right now.

He has to take a few deep breaths before he can start, but when he does it’s like he can’t shut the hell up. “I like to be held down. I want to feel your weight, regardless of what position we’re in. During my heat I don’t really like soft, tickly touches. Only firm.”

Max hums an affirmative, listening closely.

Turning in the circle of his arms, Charles looks at him, smiling when he feels Max’s hands on the small of his back. They’re both hot to the touch, Max’s fingertips pressing into the dimples there like a brand.

“After, soft is fine. I like it, actually. To be taken care of. You know how I am, so I doubt you’re surprised.”

Max nods, understanding immediately. He’s grown up with Charles, watched him become the omega he is today. He’s seen the way the world often bends toward him, Charles happy for it to do so.

“I like to be eaten out before I’m fucked.”

At that, Max moans out loud. When he opens his eyes after closing them to take a steadying breath, they’re darker, watchful.

“And after.”

The hands on his back slide around to his hips, gripping tightly.

“Doable,” Max says, sounding more like he’s begging than acquiescing.

“I don’t mind being wet and messy in between waves, but once they start to taper off, I don’t like to be sticky. It makes me restless and not comfortable. I put a stack of towels in the bathroom earlier.”

“Noted. A clean Charlie in between rounds, copy that.”

Charles rolls his eyes, pressing his forehead against Max’s jaw. “There are granola bars in the side table drawer. My water bottle is on top. I likely won’t eat very much, unfortunately, so don’t worry about it.”

“I probably will anyway,” Max answers, thumbs moving in circles against the bare skin of his waist. It feels nice, soothing.

Humming an okay, Charles sways closer. He doesn’t want to talk anymore, trusting Max to intuit what he likes.

“Are you fine with a knot?” he asks. “I can probably time it right to pull out if not.”

Charles groans out loud, trailing off into a whimper. His entire body goes hot, his scent flashing into something bright. “Please.”

He gets even closer, wrapping his arms around Max’s neck and rubbing his entire body against him.

“I want.”

“Okay, fuck, alright,” Max breathes, grip tightening on him. “Knot it is.”

“As many times as you can,” Charles begs, trying to stop himself from hooking a thigh over Max’s hip and grinding into him.

“Jesus,” Max mumbles, before saying something stunned in Dutch. “Knot you as many times as I can, got it.”

He’s never felt this clear headed during a heat. Quite frankly, he’s surprised he can still talk right now with how everything is making him go slow and melty. Usually at this point he’s nonverbal and frantic, needing to come so badly his whole body hurts.

Another perk of Max, he guesses, not looking at it too closely but appreciating it all the same.

A hand leaves his hip, cupping the back of Charles’ neck. Absently, like he’s drawn there, Max’s thumb pets at Charles’ mating gland.

The first touch has every muscle in Charles’ body tightening, winding him tight, but the subsequent circles Max draws there spool him loose. He mewls, unable to help it.

“Tell me one more thing you like,” Max asks, sweet with it. He sounds amused, but serious at the same time. Like he’s enjoying dragging this out, but he’s doing so for a reason.

Charles whines, his ability to form words lost with that first touch against his neck. He shakes his head, tightening his grip against Max’s shoulders. He wants to dig his fingernails into bare skin, wants to leave marks.

Max coos, quiet and cajoling. There’s a hint of teasing at the edges of the sound but it doesn’t bother Charles. In fact, it lights him on fire.

“One more, schatje, then I’ll take you to bed.”

Groaning in exasperation, Charles pulls away, needing Max’s hand off his scent gland if he’s going to be able to focus enough to reply in any meaningful way.

“I like to be kissed. Often. With tongue.”

“You could just say you like making out,” Max counters, huffing a bit, smiling anyway. “Or French kissing, but I’d doubt you’d like calling it that.”

“That’s less romantic.”

“Romantic,” Max echoes, looking very pointedly at Charles.

“Yes, romantique,” he says, agreeing with whatever unspoken thing they’re discussing. His head is in the clouds, but he knows for sure that whatever they’re doing here is romantic. It’s not about just fucking, not simply about helping Charles through his heat.

He doesn’t think all that they’ve done so far has been “just” anything.

They haven’t kissed, now that Charles’ attention is drawn to it. Not during any of the times they’ve scented, even though he’s caught Max paying careful attention to his mouth.

Charles decides to say that, outloud. Max laughs, surprised, and leans toward him.

Grumbling about it a bit, he presses his mouth to Max’s chin, smearing his lips across his cheeks. He already smells like Charles, but he could probably smell like him more.

“Real kiss,” he mutters, pushing at the back of Max’s head to bring it closer.

Their mouths meet, chaste at first, with a tiny little smack. Max’s mouth is full, his lips soft.

Pulling away, he pecks Charles’ cheeks, the tip of his nose. Drops multiple kisses along his eyebrows, which makes Charles squirm. Layers kisses along the slope of his neck, behind his ear. Spends more time scenting the side of his head, fucking Charles’ hair up the same way he did that first time.

Then he comes back, swiping his tongue slowly over Charles’ bottom lip.

He opens up for him, easily. Everything about this heat is going to be easy, Charles giving without any pressure. He wants it so badly that he won’t play hard to get.

This time.

Next go around, he’ll give Max a harder time, make him work for it a bit more.

But now, Charles wants, and he’ll get to have.

Judging by the way that Max kisses him so thoroughly, slipping his tongue into Charles’ mouth to touch his teeth, the roof of his mouth, the insides of his lips, he’ll get to have quite a lot.

Their kisses immediately get wet, clumsy and greedy. Making out, exactly like Max had said earlier. Realistically, it’s kind of gross, sharing spit between them, his chin and goatee wet with it, but his omega is frantic inside him, begging for more.

Max sucks on his tongue and Charles’ knees really do give out this time, their hips pressing together.

He can feel how hard Max is in his sweatpants, hands scrabbling at his hoodie for both purchase and to get him to take it off.

Getting his hands up the front of it, he puts his palms on Max’s belly, delighted by the way it jumps and he pulls away, then comes right back. Shuffling, they both work at getting the hoodie up and off of Max, but having all four of their hands in the mix again isn’t very effective.

With a surprisingly dominant gesture, Max takes both of Charles’ hands in his, squeezing tight and then keeping them held down for a second at his own waist. When Charles gets the point, hot with the gesture, Max tugs his hoodie and t-shirt off, pulling them over his head.

Neither of them are the most cut on the grid, not enough time to focus on their abs or whatever the hell some of the other guys do. Charles is relatively normal looking, his focus more on his arms and neck.

Max is skinny for his height, trim for his build with the diet he’s likely on. But soft in some places.

Broad in others, he’s perfect. And Charles tells him so.

It makes Max blush, insanely enough. Charles wants to bite him, to suck bruises into the soft parts of his hips, his ribs.

He thinks Max will probably let him.

Both of them shirtless now, Charles lines up their bodies from hips to shoulders, delirious with how fantastic the skin to skin contact feels.

Tracing his fingertips through Max’s happy trail, going for the waistband of his sweatpants, he’s distracted by words spoken directly into his ear.

“I’ll be better,” Max mutters, sucking a mark where Charles’ shoulder and neck meet. It’s the same spot that Charles had frantically revealed the first time they scented, desperate for Max to rub himself there.

His hot mouth and sharp teeth feel so good laving kisses there, even better than he imagined.

Charles blinks open his eyes, unsure when he closed them. He’s got a hand fisted in the back of Max’s hair, applying pressure, trying to get him to bite down harder. “Hm?”

A mark, something to carry with him after Max has gone, that’s what he needs. A more permanent one in the future, maybe. At the thought, his omega shakes, going scent drunk and stupid. Begging, pleading for it.

“Than the other alpha, I’ll be better.”

Oh. Yes, Max probably will be. Simply by virtue of being who he is, affecting Charles how he does.

But with a direct challenge, the incentive to compete will likely only work in Charles’ favor.

“You think?” he asks, scratching his fingernails over Max’s mating gland and relishing in the way that he shivers, making a pitiful, sexy noise.

“I know.”

Putain, Charles thinks, trying to redirect any semblance of critical thinking back to his brain and not his cunt.

“Show me then.”

With a grin, Max does.

Interestingly, Charles doesn’t lose himself in his heat the way he always has before.

There’s very little pain, aside from the occasional cramping wave of desire.

Only need. Pure and intense.

After the gauntlet is thrown, Max practically slings him into his nest. He saves a second or two to confirm that he’s allowed to follow Charles’ down, laughing far too loud when Charles begs for him to get into it.

He’s nestled in the softest, most comforting fabrics he owns, safe on all sides with his pillows and his comforter and Max’s blanket.

Even better, Max is on him immediately, lying down on top of him fully. He can’t help but keen, making his own pitiful noises. The pressure is perfect, Max surrounding him completely.

Bullying his way between Charles’ thighs, he kisses him again. Forces his mouth open with his tongue, tries to lick the backs of Charles’ teeth.

Max smells like sex, like heat and dizzying, syrupy sweetness. Like the second after a lightning strike, before the fire starts.

Everything is burning, each place that they touch. And Charles needs.

He says as much, panting open mouthed as Max dedicates even more time to giving him a matching hickey on the other side of his neck. He’s going to be covered in them by the time his heat is over. God, he can’t wait.

“I need, Max, I—” he can’t even string words together, all the languages he knows blown apart by how badly he wants.

Max skims his mouth over Charles’ mating gland and he moans, loud and unrestrained. Fucking hell.

He’s never felt anything like that before—a blissful, sharp ache and an immediate release—and it makes the throbbing ache inside of him spill over.

“Knot me,” he chants, rolling his hips unconsciously. “Please, I need it, knot me—”

Instead of pushing closer, Max pulls away. He’s balanced on one elbow, looking down at Charles with eyes that are almost completely eclipsed by his pupils. Mouth swollen and wet from trailing kisses up the sides of Charles’ neck.

He’s gorgeous. Perfect and incredible and in Charles’ nest. For his heat.

Passing out might be something in Charles’ very near future. He doesn’t want to miss a single second of this, continuing to be so present in his body when usually his consciousness would already be flung to outer space. But he’s not sure how long he’ll be able to hold on.

Taking short, shallow breaths so as to not get even drunker on how loudly Max’s scent is screaming that he wants Charles, he’s prepared to beg again when Max pops a final kiss onto his open mouth then starts shuffling down his body.

“No,” he whines, wiggling and restless. “Come back, your knot, please.”

With a huff, Max presses down firmly on his hipbones, pinning him to the bed. He moans, wantonly, and tests the pressure. Max pushes harder and his eyes roll back into his head.

“Said you wanted to be eaten out first,” Max points out, fingers curled into the waistband of his shorts.

He groans low in his chest at the lack of underwear and Charles makes an insane, stupid gurgling noise. He’s so wet that the sheets underneath him are slick, a puddle through his shorts. They’ve been lying here for maybe a minute or two and he’s already a complete mess.

Charles has been a mess for what feels like weeks, but this is embarrassing.

He tries to snap his legs shut but Max is in between them, tugging at the shorts until they’re down to Charles’ knees.

“C’mon, baby,” Max mumbles, sounding short of breath, “wanna see.”

Giving in is easy. He lets Max take the last shred of clothing off of his body, trying not to shy away at the tangible feeling of his eyes on him, cunt exposed.

Their combined scents are hot, sharp. The arousal bounces between them, ping-ponging back and forth and growing with each heaving breath Charles takes.

Max spreads him open and he groans like he’s been fucking shot. There’s no teasing. Max digs his fingers into the thick part of Charles’ thighs, tilts him open wider, and leans in with no fanfare. Licking a flat stripe up him, hole to clit, Charles jolts so hard his vision sparkles.

He’s begging in French, he’s pretty sure, practically fucking crying with it. His omega isn’t saying anything, mostly because it’s at the forefront of his mind and unabashedly moaning.

“I could live here,” Max mumbles into his thighs, spreading the slick that’s already covering his mouth and chin. His stubble prickles, feels like little electric shocks. “Right here, between your legs. Just like this. You smell so good.”

With his head thrown back, Charles doesn’t see Max move, but he hears it. Feels the blunt pressure of fingertips at his hole, goes limp in the sheets as Max gets a few fingers in him, the slide easy.

“Home between your thighs,” he continues. When he doesn’t move, Charles braves a glance down at him. Max is grinning, cat got the canary pleased, face pressed against Charles’ hipbone. “Taste even better.”

His big mouth is shiny with Charles’ slick.

It makes him flash hotter, embarrassment tinged with horniness. It’s a heady mix. “Shut up.”

With a smirk, he presses his face into Charles’ pelvis and scents him there, too. The scratch of his stubble against Charles’ own happy trail makes him hiss, startled. Then he melts into it, just like everything else.

Charles curls up, putting all of his damn crunches to use, until he’s sitting upright. Max makes a curious noise, but doesn’t move away when he leans down over him.

Sticking his tongue out, lewd and deplorable, Charles drags it from Max’s wet chin up and over his lips. Licks his own slick off of him with a little flourish, humming.

Max closes his eyes tight and groans.

When he seems firmly back in his body again, shaking his head like a dog and squaring his shoulders, he nudges at Charles’ belly, tells him to lie back.

Then he really gets to work.

Max is good with his hands, even better with his mouth. He keeps up a steady, relentless pace with his fingers, fucking Charles open and slipping the pads of them over the little spot inside of him that makes Charles whimper.

He alternates between steady, even paced flicks of his tongue against Charles’ clit, exactly how he likes, and drenched, shockingly loud sucks. Each time he does that, one of Charles’ legs kick out and he moans helplessly.

Every once in a while, Max will groan into his cunt. Probably due to the way he’s grinding into the mattress beneath him, hips working as he fucks Charles with his tongue.

Hands twisted into Max’s hair, he rocks up against his face until he’s right at the edge.

It doesn’t take much after that, Max rumbling deep in his chest, the vibrations of the sound forcing Charles up and over into an orgasm so full-body that he whites out for a few seconds.

He comes back eventually, blinking stars out of his eyes and twitching occasionally. There are a few seconds where he doesn’t realize he’s making unconscious, tiny murmuring noises. Couldn’t stop them even if he wanted to.

Max is still between his thighs, licking up the slick covering them. Lapping at his hole, fucked soft.

His hair is standing straight up, chaotic from Charles’ hands.

With significant effort, he pets over Max’s head, smoothing everything back down. Charles pays special attention to the soft dip behind his ears, sliding slowly down to his mating gland.

Pressing into it, Max nuzzles into Charles’ wrist. The contact has his entire body singing with pleasure.

“Knot?” he asks, lazy but plaintive. He may have come so hard he lost a few minutes, but the rising wave of longing is stirring in his belly again.

“Anything for you, princess,” Max says, yet another thing Charles is pretty sure he attempts jokingly but means seriously.

Shuffling back up his body so he can press their mouths together, Max kisses him thoroughly. Charles is already breathless but the taste of himself on Max’s tongue makes his heart race. He kind of wants to crawl into Max’s chest and never leave.

What he really needs is a knot, so he says as much.

“You need to be inside of me now, s’il te plaît.”

“So polite,” Max marvels, standing to shuck his pants off, palming his cock the second it slaps free against his lower belly. He’s big, predictably. As if Max needed something else to be cocky—heh—over.

Wet at the tip, Charles wants to get it into his mouth. His omega says something pointed about pushing his face into where his cock meets his pelvis and breathing in deep. Maybe after a few orgasms, he’ll let Charles suck him off when he’s no longer vibrating out of his skin with the need to be fucked.

Max knees back onto the bed, trapping Charles between his arms as he looks down at him. It’s possessive and sweet, careful but with the intent to give Charles exactly what he needs.

“How do you want it, baby?”

“Like this,” Charles says, digging his fingers into the tender place between Max’s shoulder blades to force him downward. He throws a leg over Max’s hip and arches upward.

He’s so slick, even after Max cleaning him up with his tongue, that the slide against the hard length of Max’s cock makes him whimper. Desperation makes him tilt his hips, trying to get the angle right for him to slip right in.

“Yeah,” Max breathes, agreeing, “this is good.”

Grinding against him, he uses Charles’ own slick to wet his cock. Then, because even though he’s giving Charles everything he’s ever wanted and more, he’s still an absolute asshole at the end of the day, he taps and rubs his cockhead against Charles’ clit until he squeals.

Deciding he’s had enough, Charles whines and gets a mouthful of Max’s shoulder. Biting down hard, he makes a pleading noise and thrusts his hips up again.

“Alright, yeah, I’ve got you, schatje.”

The first press of Max’s cock into him takes his breath away. It leaves him panting against Max’s shoulder where he’s got his teeth dug in.

It’s so fucking good, the stretch incredible. Max smells like everything he’s ever wanted and as he pushes forward inch by inch, the longing and desire in his scent grows to a crescendo that is surely going to undo everything Charles has ever known. It’s so loud, how he feels. How they both feel.

The emotions roll around inside of Charles’ brain, get trapped in his chest.

He finally releases his teeth from the meat of Max’s shoulder, making him hiss. Turning his face, he frantically finds Max’s mouth, their tongues tangling as soon as he makes contact. If they could be touching more, Charles would ensure that they could.

When Max’s hips finally touch his, fully inside of him, Charles goes breathless. His chest is heaving and he’s got his nails dug into Max’s back.

“Please,” he begs, falling into French and then into Italian, before going back to English. “Move, need it.”

“Got you,” Max says again, pulling out slow. Each inch of him drags against Charles’ insides, the firm press of his cockhead sending pleasure radiating out into his body as he pushes back in.

He goes slow at first. Measured and even, until Charles makes a high pitched noise in the back of his throat and moans his name like a plea.

“Scent me,” he begs, “again, more. I want to smell like you.”

Max complies immediately, rasping his face over Charles’ neck, his face, his collarbones, the bits of his shoulders he can reach. It ratchets the hotneedywarmdesperate feeling inside of Charles up even higher, causing broken little moans to spill out of his mouth until he’s practically sobbing from it.

The speed and force of his thrusts kick up after that, like he can tell how Charles needs it to be firm and thorough each time he snaps his hips back into him. That he needs to feel it everywhere.

Each thrust sends him up into the wall of pillows he’s lying on, Max tugging him back down onto his cock whenever he slips up the sheets.

He puts up a good effort, trying different depths and angles to his thrusts to see what makes Charles groan the loudest, but Charles is a lost cause. He can tell Max is close too by the way his rhythm slips, chasing after his own orgasm. His first one, because he already got Charles off before this.

He’s going to come soon and the knowledge of it has all of his feelings, pent up for years and years and years, spilling out of him.

“Love you,” he gasps, the words torn out of him. Charles can feel the pressure of Max’s knot starting to stretch him wide. “Oh, love you, thank you so much, je t’aime, yes, please.”

He’s slurring his words, so caught up in getting knotted that he’s barely intelligible, but Max understands him judging by the way he gasps, and then moans, loud.

“Fuck, fuck,” Max is groaning, using his entire body to push Charles into the mattress. “I love you too, fuck. Have for ages, forever.”

He kisses Charles, but it’s more of an open mouthed touch of their tongues than anything really resembling a kiss.

When Max’s knot catches, he mewls loud, his spine arching.

Unlike the first time when his vision sparkled and crackled, this time the pleasure overcomes him in a wave, sending him down to the ground and washing him away with it. Black spots cloud his vision and for a few beats, all he can process with any of his remaining senses is the way Max smells.

Unconsciously grinding into him, Max pushes in harder, making small overwhelmed noises as he comes deep into Charles.

The warmth and the fullness and the wetness of it is tangible. Feeling Max coming, his cunt twitches around the knot inside of him and he shudders into a second orgasm, long and drawn out enough that the first one may not have even stopped.

There aren’t even any words for how he feels, his mind fully blank as he floats. From far away, he hears Max groan his name, feels the way he’s nosing into the curve of his throat. A warm, wet tongue laps at his mating gland and he moans, tightening up around the heavy weight inside of him.

He’s not sure if he’s even on Earth anymore. His omega is placid and serene at the forefront of his subconscious, completely content and fulfilled.

Charles blinks his eyes open and realizes he’s crying. Quiet, utterly satisfied tears.

Max notices after a few deep breaths, making a questioning, crooning little noise.

He dips closer, licks the tear tracks up off Charles’ cheeks, then rubs their faces together.

The feeling that it causes low in Charles’ belly and high up in his heart might actually make him come again, untouched.

“Okay?” Max asks, kissing over the soft skin below Charles’ eyes. He’s sweaty, red in the cheeks, but his expression is completely enamored. Still checking in on him, making sure he’s okay, even now.

All Charles can do in reply is moan.

Shuffling down lower, he spreads his legs as wide as they can go around Max’s hips and rocks upward. The shallow fuck against Max’s knot makes them both sigh, firm hands coming down to his hips to echo the motion again.

“Fuck, you’re perfect. So hot, you want it so bad.”

He does want it so bad. The worst. Charles just got it and he wants it again. Wants it forever.

Nodding against the mattress, Charles whines again. Saying his thoughts aloud, he slurs out that exact sentiment.

“I want it forever.”

Locked together, there’s nowhere for Charles to go when Max tips his hips back and then pushes forward again. How deep he is has sparks flaring in Charles’ vision whenever he blinks.

“I’ll give it to you forever. Nobody else, only me, yeah?”

“Just you,” he says back, frantic to prove it. “Only you, love you, love you.”

He thinks that if Max could, he’d come again at the words. Instead, he repeats it to Charles, showering him with kisses. Then Max slips his hand in between their bodies to rub small, tight circles around Charles’ clit and he comes so hard he blacks out for real.

As everything fades out, Charles focuses on the love and adoration swirling in Max’s scent and lets himself go.

“You’re pretty lucid,” Max mumbles into the back of his neck later that night.

They’ve fucked twice, Max knotting him both times. He came instantly that second time, stretched around him and pinned down against the bed as Max fucked him from behind, tapering off into a moan that started off as a cry of Max’s name.

He’s gotten Charles off more than that though, with his perfect fingers and his talented mouth.

He let Charles choke on his cock too, licking up the combined taste of them both. Sucking him off felt just as good as getting knotted—the heavy weight of him down Charles’ throat, being fully surrounded by his scent.

The way Max had groaned his name when he came will be ingrained into his memories for a long damn time.

Right now though, they’re curled together, hiding under the blanket from Max’s bed, surrounded by the safety of his nest.

Charles hums, deciding how honest he wants to be, even though he thinks Max already knows the answer. Especially after Charles getting knotted for the first time and immediately telling Max he loves him, like some sort of omega soap opera character.

Actually, that’s likely why he brought it up in the first place, the two of them soft and sleepy after a full day of his heat.

“I think it’s you,” he says, even though he knows it is. “This isn’t how my heats usually go.”

“Are you alright with that?”

Max asks it so carefully, like he’s aware of whatever masochistic ritual Charles has gone through with pretending this wasn’t where they were always going to end up. The full spread of his hand against Charles’ belly keeps them tucked close together.

“I like it,” he admits, quietly.

Instead of turning around to look at Max, instead of saying anything else, he searches for Max’s other hand. He’s got one arm wrapped around Charles’ front, the other tucked under his head for Charles to rest against.

It takes a bit of searching, sweeping his palm underneath the actual pillow. When he finds it, Charles tangles their fingers together. Bringing his hand down to his mouth, Charles traces the tip of his tongue along the scent gland on Max’s wrist.

The salt from his skin is what Charles tastes first, but underneath it is the bright freshness of rain and pancakes. Exactly what he wanted. He keeps going, purring steadily into the quiet between them.

Opening his mouth a bit wider, Charles sets the tip of his canines against Max’s scent gland.

He doesn’t push hard, doesn’t bite. Not yet. Just rests his teeth there, listening to Max suck in a startled, understanding breath.

“Yeah?” Max asks, his voice raspy.

“Yes,” he replies back, lips closing softly around Max’s wrist like a promise.

The next twenty four hours pass in a beautiful, orgasm filled blur.

Charles gets on top at one point, straddles Max and looks down at him.

He’s so full, the length of Max’s cock filling him perfectly. He’ll start bouncing when the heat licks up the back of his spine and forces his hand, but for now he’s satisfied with tiny circles and grinds and that deep, deep pressure that feels like it’s touching something inside of him that he’s never been able to reach.

Max looks fucking floored beneath him, mouth open, panting. Sweat dots his collarbone and darkens his hairline. He doesn’t blink, staring up at Charles and groaning whenever he circles his hips.

His palms cradle Charles’ waist but don’t push him into going faster or moving any more than he already is. Eventually, he slips his fingers between their bodies and strokes Charles’ clit until he comes with a quiet cry.

Getting off of him isn’t even an option. Max is hard and hot inside of him and Charles’ heat tears right through his refractory period and leaves him endlessly wanting and able.

When Charles does eventually run out of stamina, when he whines and begs and mumbles useless nothings to himself, Max grips his hips and rolls them.

He tucks Charles under him, hooks his knees over his elbows, and starts to move.

“Made for me,” Max is mumbling, putting all of his effort into these long, even thrusts. He’s talking steadily, not like it’s even meant for Charles to hear. More just for him to do it, to say the words out loud. “Perfect, perfect for me. Knew since we were kids that you were supposed to be mine.”

“Yes,” he moans, his thoughts spilling from his lips without filter, trying to meet the rocking of Max’s hips. “Meant for each other.”

They’re probably mates, he thinks, his legs thrown over Max’s shoulders as he’s knotted a second time. That’s probably why his scent does whatever it does to Charles’ overactive sense of smell. Most likely why everything feels the way it does. Why it’s always felt that way.

It’s absolutely why Charles is still firmly centered in his own mind, a day and a half into his heat. Max’s scent keeping him here, his touch keeping him present.

They’re definitely mates. Maybe they have been the whole time.

Admitting it to himself now that they’ve more or less admitted it to each other is easy.

“Yours,” he says instead, “yours.”

Max shudders against him and comes, long and drawn out and so ridiculously perfect.

Charles loves him more than he can put into words.

“You’ll mate me, right?” Charles asks, when they’re lying flat on their backs and staring up at the ceiling.

The end of the third day has brought most of his clarity back. No longer constantly wanting, Charles feels sated for the first time in weeks.

He ate a granola bar earlier, fed to him in bits and pieces by Max’s hands. That’s a good sign. They also got up to shower, which was an even better one.

After literal months of being on edge, the absence of the persistent wanting leaves him exhausted. But it’s a pleasant, achy sort of exhaustion. Like how he feels after he works out for the first time in a while, when his muscles need to relearn how to hurt in the process of working.

He’s clearheaded and sore everywhere, his cunt hot to the touch and so sensitive he has to lie with his legs spread a bit.

Max is holding his hand, even though they’re touching from shoulder to calf. Every once in a while he squeezes, the bones of their knuckles pressing together. When he’s not ritually tightening his grip on Charles’ hand, he’s circling his thumb over the thin skin between Charles’ thumb and his pointer finger.

“Yeah, of course.”

Like it’s a given. As if it’s something he didn’t even need to think about.

Probably isn’t, if the way they both were begging for it from each other the last three days is anything to go by.

Maybe they don’t need to talk about it much more than that.

“I’d mate you tomorrow if you wanted. Today. Whatever you want, Charlie.”

The words, the sentiment, the truth in his smell make Charles want to cry a little bit. Instead, he brings their hands up to his mouth and nips at Max’s fingers.

“Maybe my next heat?” he hedges, trying to think about the next few months. He isn’t sure he or Max will win the WDC this year, unless lightning strikes down Mercedes, so it could be a nice end to the season. A mating bond, Max in his nest, a knot up inside him.

Love all throughout.

“It will piss off our teams,” Charles points out, not particularly concerned.

Ferrari will let him do what he wants, even if they hate it, and Max is Red Bull’s golden boy. He could kick Laurent Mekies in the gut and probably get away with it, as long as he hauled his car to the front of the grid. Plus, Max won’t be in F1 forever. He has his eyes set on different prizes and is surely going to earn them. Charles hopes he gets to watch.

“Oh, definitely.”

Charles rolls closer, bringing their clasped hands with him. He tucks himself into the curve of Max’s body, resting his face in the crook of his shoulder.

“You do not mind?”

“Not at all. You were mine before all of this and you’ll be mine after.” Max says it with resolute surety, as if they’ve been formally together for years and not implicitly together for a handful of days. “Nothing anyone else can do to change it.”

Caught off guard, he can’t help but laugh. “Did you know that from the beginning?”

He’s curious about Max’s thought process around all of this. It feels like they fell together with Max’s revelation of Charles’ scent sensitivity, with how willing he was to help, but in reality they’ve been orbiting around each other for years.

“I’ve wanted you since I knew what wanting was. Even when you were a tiny track terrorist with the worst haircut I’d ever seen.”

“Don’t say anything about bad haircuts to me,” Charles counters, before he can process what Max actually said.

When he does, he rolls over completely to lie down on top of Max. They put clothes on after their shower earlier, but Max only has on a pair of Charles’ shorts, so all of his skin is available for him to steal the warmth from. With a kiss dropped directly to his mouth, Charles continues down the path they’re going on.

“It will probably be very hard. We do not always get along.”

Max shrugs underneath him, but Charles keeps going. “I am, at times, admittedly completely insane. And you are difficult in a variety of ways. You’ll probably have to scent me a lot, now that I’m used to everything not being fucking awful all of the time.”

“As if that’s such a chore,” Max mutters out of the side of his mouth, ticking his hips up until Charles wobbles on top of him. When they make eye contact after he settles back down, Max looks serious. Like he wants Charles to understand what this all means, where they’ll go with it.

“I’ll scent you every morning and every night if that’s what it takes to make you feel better. And of course it’s going to be hard. But we do hard things all of the time for a lot less. Are you trying to talk me out of being with you or are you just stating obvious things to be difficult? ”

Charles gasps, offended, leaning down to bite at Max’s chin. He laughs, palming over Charles’ ass before pinching the soft skin of his waist.

“I’m not talking you out of anything. You’re mine now, no matter how hard it is or how stubborn you are, mon amour. Don’t go thinking any other ideas.”

The pet name, in all of its truth, falls off his tongue. Easy as anything.

“Glad we’re in agreement.”

Looking extremely pleased with himself, Max’s happypossessivemineminemine scent twines around them.

And it feels like their future.

Charles can’t wait.