Chapter Text
That's it. A podium in 2026. Finally.
Max was happy, very happy. Was it caused by George's engine deciding to kill itself and McLaren taking notes from Ferrari's strategy team? Yes. It's a race though, and anything can happen (and it usually did.)
He missed the post race rituals, parking up in parc fermé, showering Lewis and Kimi in champagne, the feeling of being up there was something he longed to feel again, and he did. There was one thing he felt was missing, though.
A Ferrari driver was up there, yes, but it wasn't his Ferrari driver.
It's not that he didn't like or respect Lewis, he did, but it wasn't Charles. It wasn't the boy he grew up karting with, the boy who he's had countless of fights with, on and off track, the now man who pushed him to become better and better every year, lest he fall back and be forced to stare at the rear of the Monegasques' car till eternity.
P4, one step off the podium, that's where his Ferrari driver finished. He heard that Charles was having issues during free practice, sprint quali, quali and now the race, but he still held out hope. If there was anyone that can bring a shitbox onto a podium, it's him.
But he wasn't there. He was over 30 seconds behind Max. Max was the last person the podium had room for and no matter how much he would be willing to bend the rules and fight someone over it, in the end he was still faster than Charles. Charles wasn't with him.
He wasn't one for big celebrations, not anymore, they lose the appeal after winning four world championships. He didn't care about staying behind with his team, he cared about finding Charles.
He wasn't even out of his sticky champagne covered race suit before he went and speed walked over to Ferrari. He got a lot of questionable looks, but no one stopped him, seemingly being too busy with Lewis and his placement.
It felt like an eternity until he reached the door he was looking for. Face to face with a bright red 16, he knocked.
“PUTAIN DE MERDE, I TOLD YOU TO LEAVE ME ALONE!”
“Charles, it's me.”
He heard some shuffling from in the room, before the door opened just a crack.
Charles looked wrecked, red puffy eyes, his race suit still on, hair an absolute mess. Max's first, very unhelpful, thought was cute. His second thought was that maybe coming here was a mistake, that the other driver needed space, he's going to cuss him out, kick him out, and it's going to ruin whatever friendship they have.
“Why are you here, Max,” Charles said, firm but sad. “You got P3, a podium, go out and celebrate instead of rubbing it in my face.”
“I don't want to do that.”
“Then what do you want?”
“I want to make sure you're okay.”
Charles stepped back, clearly shocked. They could be considered friends, yes, but not the type to check up on each other after a race, not the type where one goes intruding in the rival team's hospitality unit to make sure the other is feeling alright. This was a very new development.
“Why?” Charles wasn't sure if he should trust Max, if he can believe the other man is truly here just to check up.
“You finished P4, over 30 seconds behind me, you look like you've been crying and probably throwing things around in your room. That warrants a check in, no?”
Charles stared, analyzing Max. The other driver was nothing if not insanely blunt, he has no reason to lie about this.
With a sigh, he stepped away and opened the door just enough to let Max in. He took the invitation and ran with it, quickly slipping in.
Assessing the room, he was correct about his earlier assumption, the room was a mess, it looked like a whirlwind ran through it. Couch cushions thrown, helmet on the ground, a glass smashed, it wasn't a pretty sight.
Max didn't comment on it, instead he picked up the discarded cushions, placed them back and patted the space next to him. Charles reluctantly obliged, sitting next to the older man.
“So.”
“So?”
“What happened?”
Charles sighed, is this really Max's approach to comfort? Nonetheless, he had a lot of things to say.
“What happened? It's more of what didn't happen. I have been complaining about the car since we first went out in free practice but they refuse to listen! I say the setup is bad, they don't adjust it, I say I want to try something else, they force their own ideas instead of my own, I cannot have anything! I tell them something is wrong and they tell me they cannot tell what it is right now! I needed to tell them to stop talking to me on the radio because they are a hindrance and not a help!”
Charles ranted and Max listened. As he went on, he felt the pressure becoming lighter.
“It is like this, they act like they do not care about me! My own team that I poured my blood and sweat into does nothing to help me! Max I-...I don't know how much more I can bleed for them before I don't have anything else left to give.”
It felt nice, saying this to someone else, even if that person is his rival. His rival that is now in Ferrari's hospitality, in his driver's room, sitting on a couch next to him.
“They don't deserve you.”
“What?”
“Don't act shocked, Charles. We both know you're too good for them.”
That put a halt to his rant.
“But they're my everything. You know why I cannot leave them.”
A beat of silence.
“Yes, I do,” Max said, “But I also don't like seeing you ruin yourself and beat yourself up over a bad result that wasn't your fault. Two things can be true at once.”
“I don't know what else to do, I feel like I need to defend Ferrari with my life, if something goes wrong it always needs to be my fault. Cannot be my team.”
“Even though you know you did nothing wrong and did everything you could to drag that car into the place it ended up in.”
“Yes.”
Max sighed, it's not like he wasn't aware of Charles' devotion to Ferrari, but he still hated just how much the team hurt him and he let it happen.
“Can I…give you a hug?”
Charles tensed, looking at Max. Max wasn't one to offer hugs to anyone but his childre- the rookies. The paddock knew about that, how he was picky with who he touched. Pats on the back and handshakes were okay for everyone, but anything past that and you had him flinching away unless you were one of the few very specific people Max deemed okay to touch. God did he really look that much of a mess that Max pities him?
“Why?”
“That wasn't a no,” and within seconds, strong arms were wrapping around the Monegasque.
His first instinct was to scream at the fact Max's race suit was still sticky from the podium celebrations, but his second instinct had him wrapping his own arms around the Dutchman.
It felt nice, nicer than he ever thought it would, but it wasn't like he was the type to think about what kind of hugs Max gives. But now he knew.
He knew Max was a solid warmth, his arms held him tight, Charles’ face buried in the other man's neck, fitting together perfectly. And now that he knew, he didn't want it to stop. Ever.
He didn't even register when he started crying, all he knew is that suddenly there were tears streaming down his face and he was ugly sobbing in his rival's arms.
Max didn't move away, didn't flinch, instead one of his hands found themselves in the Monegasques' hair, playing with it, trying to do what he can to soothe Charles.
“It's okay Charlie, I got you.”
Charles cried and cried and cried and Max sat there patiently through all of it.
“I- *hic* I'm just so tired Max!”
“I know Charlie, I know. It's okay, you're okay, you can let go, I got you.”
That was all Charles needed. He melted into Max's touch, Max's embrace, he was fully pliant.
Max noticed this, a small smile playing on his lips. He held the Monegasque impossibly close, gently playing with his hair and whispering sweet reassuring things to him.
Charles' crying eventually subdued, leaving his eyes red, puffy, glassy and, in Max's opinion, gorgeous.
Their faces were only inches apart, a dangerous thought crossed both their minds. No one acted on it. The hug broke apart. They were back to sitting side by side.
Charles leaned over, resting his head on Max's shoulder. Max's arm snuck around him, pulling him closer.
They stayed like that for a while, a comfortable silence washing over them. Neither of them wanted to move, they knew if they did, they would be risking breaking whatever fragile thing was going on between them right now.
Charles was the first to speak up.
“Max?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
“Anytime, schat.”