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Max finds him in the hotel pool at one in the morning, only a handful of hours before they need to wake up for the final race.
“It’s dangerous to swim while sleepy. You could drown,” he comments, leaning against the wall.
Charles jolts, the water splashing around him as he spins around. His wide eyes harden once he registers who Max is. Max didn’t expect anything less.
He gets it, kinda. After not even finishing in Melbourne—after having to sit through the Italian anthem and a crowd of cheering Ferrari engineers—he didn’t want to see Charles either. Normally, Max would just leave him alone after a bad race. It’s not good for them to meet when one of them has lingering resentment from the track.
But. This weekend feels different. Like leaving Charles to simmer in his own thoughts will only make things worse. And Max had a feeling Charles would be awake, and he was right, which means his initial worry was probably right too.
His sandals squeak as he makes his way over to the edge of the pool. Charles wades away as if he can avoid Max in a completely empty and silent room, but the pool isn’t that big.
Charles turns back around and huffs, “I do not want to talk, Max.”
“Okay,” Max says. He toes off his sandals. “We don’t need to talk, then. I’ll just dip my feet in the pool and relax.”
“I am serious.”
“So am I,” Max counters. The water is warm, artificially heated to the perfect temperature, as he sinks his legs into the water up to his knees. Of course, a hotel chosen by both Red Bull and Ferrari is no slouch when it comes to amenities. “The water is nice.”
Charles shoots him a withering look over his shoulder. Most people would probably crumble against it in an instant. Charles’ face is so—pretty, Max would almost go so far as to say inherently innocuous, and so when he’s angry like this, it’s particularly biting.
Like when your usually cuddly lap cat abruptly decides it no longer wants to be held, and tries to claw your eyes out. Max would know.
But Charles isn’t a cat. Fortunately. Unlike Max’s cats, Max can actually speak the same language as Charles, most of the time. Even if Charles doesn’t want to talk.
“Do whatever you want,” Charles says after a long moment. He looks away again, stretching his arms over his shoulders in a slow stretch. Cool, casual, and so utterly fake Max has to hold back a laugh. “I will continue what I was doing.”
The muscles of his back ripple as he launches himself into proper swimming form again. God, he really is pretty. And, underneath that pretty veneer, quite strong. The flex of his biceps don’t lie.
“And what was it you were doing?” Max asks.
“Swimming, obviously.”
To his credit, he does put in a good few laps around the pool. The splashing he creates drenches Max as he swims by, presumably on purpose, but Max refuses to move. He just shucks his shirt off and lets the water warm his skin instead.
After four laps, Max begins to kick his feet. “You normally don’t stay up this late,” he comments idly. “It’s not good for the body to stay up when you aren’t used to it.”
“What can I say,” Charles says dryly, coming back up for air. “I am full of surprises.”
Max hums. “True,” he agrees. “I do like that about you.”
Charles just snorts. He does another lap, but as he attempts to pass by this time, Max dives in and grabs him by the middle, two arms sneaking around his waist. The element of surprise helps him fend off Charles’ surprise kick.
Albeit, honestly, Max thinks Charles should have expected this. Did he really think Max was going to sit and watch him swim for an hour until they both grew bored? Maybe Charles is sleepy.
“Max!” Charles gasps, affronted. His attempt to elbow Max in the stomach doesn’t entirely miss, but Max is used to being thrown around inside cars at 350 kilometers an hour. Charles elbowing him doesn’t do much. “Max, let me go.”
“No,” Max says without missing a beat. “You’ll leave.”
“Yes, because you are being annoying,” Charles says, with emphasis. “I do not want your pity, or your pep talk, or whatever it is you think I need.”
“I don’t pity you, and you know I’m no good at pep talks,” Max says. He buries his face into the back of Charles’ neck and breathes in the scent of chlorine. There’s no flowery tinge to his hair; he didn’t shower before swimming. Makes sense. “And it’s not all about you, Charles. Maybe I came here because I needed something. Ever think of that?”
“Well, then that is just selfish,” Charles counters. He stops kicking, finally, but he makes a show of crossing his arms and not giving Max an ounce of affection back. “Not even thinking about what I want.”
“I’m not known for being selfless,” Max points out. Charles just snorts, shaking his head. The movement makes his hair tickle Max’s nose. “I had a feeling you were up. And I was right.”
“Okay,” Charles says, tone entirely neutral. “And?”
“And… I mean, does there need to be an ‘and’? I wanted to see you.” Max laughs. “It is late, and I was curious.”
“Your curiosity has been sated,” Charles says. “Now what?”
“Now I get to hug you, of course.” Max tightens his arms around him briefly, giving him a little squeeze. Just a reminder that he’s there. “And admire your body.”
Charles sputters, a noise between a scandalized gasp and a wounded animal. He squirms, and Max gives him enough leeway to turn around, their chests pressing together.
“One in the morning before a race,” Charles mutters. “Ridiculous.” But he sounds more pleased than anything. He loves attention. See—Max knows him well.
“You’re the one who decided to take a swim where anybody could walk in,” Max says. “I bet there’s some hotel intern watching us on the cameras right now.”
Charles pales, and reality hits him like a truck judging by how he begins trying to break free again. For real, this time. “I did not even think about—”
“Relax,” Max soothes. “Japanese people are very modest, you know. I doubt they vigilantly watch the cameras in the pool—and if they do seem to know something, I’ll bribe them to keep it secret.” He’s not entirely serious, but he could be. He would, if he had to.
“You do not have that much power,” Charles says, narrowing his eyes. “... Do you?”
“Charles.” Max chuckles, nudging their noses together. “This is a hotel for athletes. I’m sure they are used to people wanting privacy in here.” He’s being honest, too; he wouldn’t be so stupid as to jeopardize their private lives unless he thought he could get away with it. Which he did.
“Bribing the hotel staff.” Charles sounds like he’s in a mixture of disgust and amazement. “Max Verstappen, practically a blackmailer.”
“I’ve been called worse.” Even worse by Charles himself. “You should know by now that I can be convincing.”
“Really, Max, this of all weekends is not the weekend where I want to come out—”
“Yes, yes. I don’t want that either,” Max says dryly. “Having our relationship overshadow my comeback. I can’t even imagine.”
Charles eyes him for a long moment, then bursts into laughter. Not his characteristic giggling, though—a full-body, stomach-clutching bellow. The intenseness of it startles even Max.
“Your comeback,” Charles repeats. “Only you could think missing one race would require a comeback.”
“Is it not?” Max asks evenly. His hand slides down Charles’ back, resting over his tailbone. “I was gone last race, and now I’m back. A comeback.”
“I think a real comeback would require at least two races to be effective.” Charles’ laughter dies down a little, and he tucks his face against Max’s shoulder. “Maybe the solution is to miss this race too. Then come back in China.”
“You would like that, wouldn’t you. One free place up,” Max teases.
“Not even a little,” Charles says, his voice muffled slightly. His lips brush Max’s collarbone as he speaks, just the barest amount. “I think that would make me feel worse.”
“Oh, so you admit you’re feeling bad?” Max asks, snatching the opportunity. Charles stiffens, and Max chuckles. Hook, line, sinker. “Was I not supposed to say that out loud?”
Charles’ little smile turns into a pout, as evident by his pursed lips pressing to Max’s throat. He must be able to hear Max’s pulse thrum under his skin, steady but quick. Charles tends to have that effect on him.
“I really, really do not want to talk, Max. About this.” Charles’ hand moves to rest flat on Max’s chest. “Especially not from you. It will not help me.”
Max tries to turn his head to catch a glimpse of Charles’ face, but Charles just hides himself more. All Max can see is his wet hair and a bit of scruff on his cheeks.
Charles continues, quieter, “I’m sorry. I know that is not what you want to hear.” He sounds genuinely apologetic.
“It isn’t,” Max admits. “But it makes me feel like shit when you apologize for things that aren’t your fault, you know.”
“I know.” Charles stands up and breaks into a grin, though it doesn’t meet his eyes. “That’s why I do it.”
“Oh, you—” Max can’t help but laugh, even if he is feeling a little put out. Like he’s leaving something unfulfilled, even if he has no choice but to trust Charles’ words. It’s not like he can make Charles talk, or even that there’s anything to discuss.
Maybe Max should have planned some talking points before searching for Charles, but—sue him, he was impatient and he wanted to see him as quickly as possible.
He is selfish; Charles is right about that one.
“I just don’t like seeing you sad,” Max tries again, letting himself pout. Charles likes it when he pouts. He calls it cute.
“We had a conversation like this a few weeks ago, didn’t we?” Charles muses, his hand moving up, up, until he can cup Max’s jaw. “Except it was reversed.”
“Very observant,” Max murmurs. He covers Charles’ hand with his own, swiping it like a cat, and brings it to his lips. “Except I didn’t punish myself by staying up all night.”
“I am not punishing myself, Max.” Max sends him a disbelieving look, and Charles gives him a light scowl in return. “I’m not. I could not sleep, that’s all.”
“Come back to my hotel room,” Max asks. Begs, if he’s being honest with himself. “Not to talk. Just to sleep.” Just so he can hold Charles, at least. But saying that would sound pathetic even for him.
Charles sighs. He tilts his head in a way that reminds Max of a puppy—combined with those big, watery eyes of his, he might as well be one.
“I’m sorry, Max, I just…” He trails off, unsure of his own words. “Not tonight. I cannot, mentally.” His words are so stilted, almost apologetic.
Cannot. It’s so formal. The lack of contractions kills Max sometimes; it’s a quirk that never fails to make him smile. The heady endearment in his chest manifests as an urge to lean in and do something extremely inappropriate given the fact they’re in public still.
Max can’t just leave him here. Even if Charles doesn’t want to sleep in the same bed with him tonight, Max won’t back down that easily. Charles, for all of his pouting, doesn’t want to be alone. He would have already left if that was the case.
“When did you come down?” Max asks.
Charles seems taken aback by the sudden question. He shrugs and drops his hand back to his side. “Maybe… an hour and a half ago?” he guesses, uncertain.
Max snorts. Figures. “Okay. C’mon. Not to my room, just to get out of the pool. You’re all pruney.” He tugs on Charles’ arm, dragging him back to the edge of the pool.
Yes, Charles must be more tired than he’s allowing himself to let on, because he doesn’t fight being guided out of the pool.
They waddle over to the locker room; Max picks up his discarded clothes and shoes on the way. The locker room is sectioned off from the rest of the pool, hidden behind two sets of doors. Naturally, it’s also empty. And there’s no cameras.
Max drops his clothes on the bench and turns to face Charles. “Will you shower upstairs, or—”
He doesn’t get to finish his sentence, not with Charles on him, crowding him against the wall, one hand winding around Max’s neck to draw him into a kiss. Max’s noise of surprise is swallowed by Charles’ lips.
There’s something like strawberries on his tongue. He must have eaten before swimming. Max can picture it vividly: Charles curled up in his room, despondent, ordering room service in an attempt to make himself feel better despite the strict diet plans they’re on for race weekends. Then, when it only made him feel worse, he grew restless and wandered the hotel until he ended up here.
Max doesn’t pity Charles, per se. Not as a competitor, because ultimately, even Max has to deal with confusing cars and shitty team decisions sometimes. He’s just better at dealing at it than Charles is—that’s nothing for him to feel guilty over. But as his friend, as someone who cares about Charles’ wellbeing…
It’s human nature to be concerned for the people he loves, and Max is only human. Even if people say he doesn’t seem like it.
Max has already accepted they’re not going to be talking. Maybe that’s okay. Maybe what Charles needs really is just to let off steam, and nothing more. Max gets it. Whatever gets Charles to stop stewing in negativity in his own head, Max is up for it.
After his initial surge of aggression wears off, Charles’ kisses go from sloppy and wet to lazy and chaste. Slightly weak, even, like the burst of energy sapped what little remained in his body. Max holds him up by his lower back, and Charles sags against him.
Their lips are still touching as he speaks, “Join me?”
“Join you? Join you where?” Max hums questioningly.
He slides one hand down to squeeze Charles’ ass, pulling their hips flush together. Charles makes a small noise in the back of his throat, pressing even closer. He’s pliant and soft against Max, loose-limbed in a way that speaks to how drained he must feel.
“You know what I meant.”
“I do.” Max punctuates it with a light nip to the skin just below Charles’ ear. He loves how Charles shivers at that, can never get enough. “But I want to hear you say it.”
“Max...” It’s almost a whine, caught somewhere between exasperation and arousal.
Max pulls back just enough to meet Charles’ lidded gaze. He looks thoroughly debauched already and they’ve barely done anything. It’s such an enticing look on him that Max can’t resist stealing another quick kiss, just because he can.
When he finally relents, Charles is blinking at him slowly, dazed. After a few seconds, he finally manages to find his words to huff and demand, “Join me in the shower.”
Max never takes it for granted when Charles is direct. “There, was that so hard?” He smiles, brushing his thumb over the jut of Charles’ cheekbone.
Without waiting for a response, he leans down to hook his hands under Charles’ thighs, lifting him easily. Charles makes a small ‘oof’ sound but otherwise goes willingly, wrapping his legs around Max’s waist as Max carries him towards the showers.
There’s a row of private showering areas with curtains, and Max ducks into the first one, kicking the curtain aside. He pushes Charles up against the tiled wall, crowding in close to keep him pinned there with his body weight. Charles arches into him with a soft sigh, burying his face in the crook of Max’s neck.
Somehow, Max musters the wherewithal to reach out blindly and turn on the shower. The water sputters to life, icy cold at first before gradually warming. Steam starts to curl around them as Max slides one hand up under the back of Charles’ swimsuit, greedy for the feel of soft skin.
Charles makes an approving noise at that, tilting his head to capture Max’s lips again. It’s hungry, even messier than the last. All teeth and tongue fueled by pent-up frustration and desperation rather than any real finesse. Max gives as good as he gets, licking into Charles’ mouth with a low groan.
They’re both still dripping wet from the pool, but the hot spray of the shower quickly soaks them again, their hair plastering to their foreheads. Max pushes the shower head away from them so it keeps the room warm but doesn’t end up choking them. He has a feeling they won’t actually be showering for a few minutes yet.
Charles huffs a breathless laugh, fingers clutching almost painfully at Max’s shoulders. “You better make sure nobody saw us just now. After this, you are going straight to the front desk to make sure.”
“Even if they did, it’s not as if we were doing anything dirty in the pool.” Max plays with the drawstring on Charles’ shorts.
“Just two rivals hugging while being half-naked,” Charles deadpans, somehow managing to sound superior even as he squirms shamelessly against Max. “You are right. Nothing strange at all.”
“Of course I’m right,” Max says, dragging his lips down to mouth along the tendon in Charles’ neck. He can feel Charles’ pulse fluttering wildly beneath his tongue.
“Too arrogant,” Charles says half-heartedly. He sounds utterly wrecked already, voice gone low and syrupy-thick. Max could get drunk on the sound. “You said you want to make me feel better, so show me.”
That’s all the encouragement Max needs. With a low growl, he walks them the few steps to the bench built into the shower stall and lowers Charles down onto it. Charles goes easily, legs falling open in a shameless invitation as Max settles between them.
Max takes a moment just to look his fill, gaze roaming hungrily over Charles’ compact, powerful body, flushed pink from the heat of the water, muscles standing out in sharp relief. So gorgeous it makes Max’s mouth water.
When their eyes meet again, Charles is watching him with a heavy-lidded, knowing look. Like he’s aware of every single indecent thought currently running through Max’s head and loving every second of it.
Max hopes so. He hopes Charles knows how badly he wants him. He’s not ashamed of it.
“Let me…” Charles starts, voice hoarse, then seems to lose his train of thought. He tugs ineffectually at the waistband of Max’s swimsuit, rearranging himself so he can crouch in front of Max.
Max leans back just enough to let Charles the fabric down over his hips. It pools on the shower floor and he kicks it aside carelessly, finally as bare as Charles is.
Charles lets out an appreciative hum as he looks his fill, gaze raking over Max’s body with undisguised hunger. His clever fingers trace the soft but firm plane of Max’s stomach almost reverently. Max doesn’t care for the aesthetics of muscle-building as much as Charles does, but Charles seems to like his body more than enough regardless.
“You are ridiculous, you know that?” Charles murmurs, low and heated. He gives Max’s length a single firm stroke, then drops to his knees. Max sucks in a deep breath, holds it.
Charles looks up at Max through his lashes, eyes dark and molten. His plush lips are already parted invitingly as he pumps Max’s length, drinking in the way it makes Max’s breath stutter.
“Charles,” Max says, and the name morphs into a strangled curse as Charles leans in to mouth along the rigid line of Max’s cock, hot breath gusting over the flushed, aching flesh.
Max has to grit his teeth on a whimper at that first exploratory touch of Charles’ lips. He tangles one hand in Charles’ damp curls, not pulling yet but just holding on as Charles starts pressing openmouthed kisses along his entire length.
“Christ, Charles,” Max manages to grate out, watching avidly as Charles lavishes him with attention. “Your mouth...”
Charles hums in response, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure zinging up Max’s spine. He swirls his tongue around the swollen head in a deliberate tease, lapping up the beads of precome gathered there.
Max curses again, louder, his fingers tightening fractionally in Charles’ hair. Charles just smirks up at him through those ridiculously long lashes before finally, finally taking Max into the slick heat of his mouth. Not too far, but more than enough to make Max involuntarily moan.
Charles has one of the most talented mouths Max has ever had the pleasure of experiencing, and he never fails to put it to good use. He works Max’s cock with single-minded focus, hollowing his cheeks to suck hard, taking Max deeper with every bob of his head.
“Fuck, yes,” Max hisses out between clenched teeth, hips giving an abortive little thrust he can’t quite contain. His free hand scrabbles for purchase on the slick tile wall behind Charles, trying to anchor himself. “Just like that, Charles, fucking—”
Charles just makes another of those pleased, rumbling hums around his mouthful. He sucks Max even deeper in response, letting his length nudge against the back of his throat.
Max allows himself to get lost in the push-pull rhythm of it, the hot suction and skilled kitten licks, the way Charles’ lashes flutter against his cheekbones as he works. He keeps up a stream of heated praises that make Charles moan hungrily around his cock.
He’s so caught up in the dizzying sensations that he almost misses it at first—the slight shift in Charles’ demeanor, the restless twitch of his thighs. But then Charles is squirming more insistently, the hand not braced on Max’s hip coming up to paw at himself.
Max huffs out a breathless laugh, tugging lightly at Charles’ hair until he pulls off with a wet pop. “Greedy,” he accuses.
Charles just groans, pupils blown wide with want as he looks up at Max beseechingly. His eyes are dark and pleading when he meets Max’s gaze.
“You can go harder,” he says, squeezing his free hand around his own length.
Max feels a fresh surge of heat at those breathy words, at the way Charles is squirming restlessly on his knees before Max. He’s visibly aching for it, insatiable in the most delicious way, the fucking minx he is. They have a race in less than fifteen hours.
“Yeah?” Max husks out, voice gone low and throaty. He tightens his grip in Charles’ hair just enough to make him whine. “You want me to fuck your throat proper?”
Charles nods frantically, lips parting on a shuddering exhale. His hips give a tiny abortive thrust, like he can’t quite control the movement.
“Yeah,” he says. He surges up onto his knees, braced on Max’s hips as he mouths hotly along Max’s length again. “Yeah, I do.”
Max shudders at the pleading rasp of Charles’ voice, the way it seems to reverberate all the way down to his core.
Charles pushes himself further into Max’s grip as Max’s fingers tightened in his hair. A soft whine escaped Charles’ lips as Max’s cock nudges against them, precome beading at the tip.
“Open up for me,” Max says.
Charles readily obeys, parting his lips to allow Max’s length to slide back into the velvet heat of his mouth. He hollows his cheeks, sucking firmly as Max began to rock his hips in a slow, controlled rhythm.
Max groans deeply at the sensation of Charles’ lips sliding along his shaft. “Fuck—yeah, just like that. Take it all for me.”
Charles’ eyes slip close in blissful concentration as he focuses on relaxing his throat to accommodate Max’s thick cock. He swallows around the bulbous head each time Max pushes deeper, earning him a gratifying hiss of pleasure.
Inch by inch, Max feeds more of his rigid length into Charles’ mouth until his nose is buried in the coarse thatch of hair at the base. He pauses there, letting Charles adjust to the full stretch of him before withdrawing almost all the way.
“You’re so good at this,” Max slurs, swiping his thumb over Charles’ spit-slicked bottom lip reverently.
Charles just blinks up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. He sucks Max’s thumb into his mouth with shameless hunger, hollowing his cheeks obscenely around both his cock and his fingers.
A punched-out moan tears from Max’s chest at the lewd sight.
“I’m not going to last long,” he admits. Charles only shrugs, urging Max forward with a pointed push on his tailbone. Max hisses, his thumb sliding out of Charles’ mouth, and then he snaps his hips in a sharp, powerful thrust that drove his entire length into Charles’ willing mouth in one go.
Charles makes a strangled noise around the sudden intrusion, eyes flying wide as he fought not to gag. But after a moment, he settles into it, sucking Max down as best as he can, sloppy noises coming from deep in his throat.
“That’s it, that’s it,” Max babbles, fingers tightening almost painfully in Charles’ hair to hold him in place. “Take it all, let me use that gorgeous mouth of yours.”
He sets a punishing rhythm, fucking roughly into the wet heat of Charles’ mouth. His thrusts are deep and unforgiving, shoving his cock against the tight clutch of Charles’ throat with every snap of his hips.
Charles takes it beautifully, as expected, saliva pooling at the corners of his mouth as he gasps for air whenever Max pulls back. His throat works convulsively around Max’s cock, the vibrations of his desperate whines sending sparks of pleasure lancing up Max’s spine.
“So good, so fucking good,” Max keeps going, head tipped back. “Made for my cock, aren’t you?”
A ragged moan is all the response Charles can muster around his mouthful. He’s utterly lost to it, eyes dazed and unfocused, a trickle of saliva escaping the corner of his mouth.
Heat coils low in Max’s belly, the relentless tightening of his impending climax. His hands quake as he grips Charles’ hair, restlessly fisting it, using it as leverage to keep himself balanced.
Fuck. He really isn’t going to last, huh.
He pulls out until just the tip of his cock rests on Charles’ lush lower lip, giving Charles a momentary reprieve. “You want it down your throat or on your face?”
Charles drags in a ragged inhale, mouth gaping open.
“Down my throat,” he rasps out, already leaning in to chase the taste of Max’s cock with his tongue. “I want to swallow it all.”
A full-body shudder rocks through Max at those filthy words dropping from Charles’ ruined mouth. He lets out a guttural groan, fingers flexing in Charles’ hair.
“There we go,” he says, hauling Charles forward until his cockhead nudges insistently at the slick, swollen part of his lips.
Charles complies instantly, letting his jaw go slack to allow Max to shove back inside in one rough thrust. He makes a show of swallowing convulsively around Max’s cock, his back arching. Max fucks in deep, burying himself in Charles’ throat, and holds him there as the first pulse of his climax hits.
“Fuck, fuck, Charles, god, ij bent echt iets bijzonders—”
Max’s words break off into a tight cry as the dam finally breaks. Pleasure rockets through him in white-hot waves, the tension in his belly snapping like a frayed wire. He fists his hand tight in Charles’ curls as he empties himself into that welcoming heat, hips jerking erratically.
Through the roaring in his ears, Max is vaguely aware of Charles swallowing him down with desperate, hungry noises. He takes everything Max gives him without faltering, like a man dying of thirst finally allowed his fill.
By the time the aftershocks finally start to fade, Max is trembling finely, chest heaving like he’s run a marathon. He slumps back bonelessly against the tiled wall, legs threatening to give out entirely.
Charles is up within moments, mumbling something like Max’s name. He shoves Max onto the bench and climbs onto his lap, almost falling over in the process. Max can only catch a little of what he says, “Please, Max, I was so good—”
“Yeah,” Max agrees quickly. He’s still winded from his own orgasm, panting like a dog, his cock sore and sensitive under Charles’ ass, but he pushes aside his own exhaustion to get his hands on Charles. He was good, he does deserve this, and Max likes it when he’s demanding.
Max dips lower to mouth at one dusky nipple, and he doesn’t waste any time before swirling his tongue around the tight bud, feeling it pebble under his attention. Charles whimpers, hips twitching restlessly. Max takes pity on him and reaches down to palm him through his sopping-wet swimsuit. He can tell by the viscosity that some of the dampness there isn’t just water.
“Fuck,” Charles cries out, bucking up shamelessly into Max’s touch. He’s already half-hard, cock straining against the flimsy material. “Max, please...”
Max gives him a few firm strokes through the clinging fabric, relishing how it makes Charles shudder and moan. He loves reducing Charles to this—all higher brain function gone out the window, overwhelmed by pure sensation. It might be his favourite activity after racing.
When he finally hooks his fingers under the waistband and tugs Charles’ swimsuit off, Charles lets out a punched-out groan of relief. His pretty cock bobs up, flushed and leaking against his belly.
“Look at you,” Max murmurs. He curls his fingers around Charles’ length in a loose fist, giving him a few light pulls.
Charles just whines wordlessly, hips jerking in abortive little thrusts, chasing the friction of Max’s hand. His lips are bitten red, hair a riot of dark curls, chest heaving. Effortlessly seductive.
“I’ve got you,” Max soothes him with a hot, open-mouthed kiss, swallowing his desperate sounds. He keeps stroking Charles firmly, twisting his wrist on every upstroke the way he knows Charles likes.
Charles clutches at him almost frantically, kisses turning sloppy and uncoordinated as his pleasure mounts. He pants hot against Max’s lips between kisses, little aborted whines and curses escaping him.
“That’s it, that’s it,” Max croons, nosing along the sharp cut of Charles’ cheekbone. “Fuck, Charles, you’re so beautiful.”
A litany of praise falls easily from his lips—he knows how much Charles loves it, craves that validation. Sure enough, Charles keens at the words, back bowing off the bench as he fucks up into Max’s fist.
Max reaches down with his free hand to fondle Charles’ balls, rolling them gently. Charles jerks like he’s been electrified, a broken moan punching out of him.
“Oh god, oh fuck, Max—” His head tips back, tendons in his neck standing out in sharp relief. “I am… I’m… wait—”
He’s right on the edge, shaking apart in Max’s arms, and Max couldn’t be more smug about it if he tried. There’s a visceral sort of power in undoing Charles like this.
He leans in to mouth hotly at the hinge of Charles’ jaw, biting lightly. “Let go, Charlie. Want you to come for me.”
That’s all it takes. With a sobbing cry, Charles tumbles over the precipice, hips stuttering as he spills hot and wet over Max’s fist and his own belly. Max strokes him through it, murmuring soft, filthy praises, until Charles gives a last, full-body shudder and starts to go lax.
Panting harshly, Charles slumps against him, his head tipped back just enough to meet Max’s eyes. His eyes are at half-mast, pupils blown wide, and there’s a furious flush riding high on his cheeks. Max has never seen anything more gorgeous.
Holding Charles’ gaze, he brings his soiled hand up to his mouth almost reverently, licking a broad stripe across his palm. Charles watches him with heavy-lidded eyes, and Max sees him visibly swallow.
“Jesus, Max,” he rasps out, sounding stunned. As if Max hasn’t just made him come apart at the seams like this dozens of times before.
Max laughs and drags him in for another kiss. He can taste himself on Charles’ tongue, musky and bitter, and it just makes the fire in his belly flare hotter. He kisses Charles until they’re both left gasping and lightheaded, clinging to each other under the spray.
When they finally break apart, Max rests his forehead against Charles’ and just breathes him in for a long moment. Tries to get his raging pulse back under control.
He can feel himself growing drowsy now, for real; the afterglow and the steam and Charles’ solid warmth all conspiring to lull him into a state of sleepiness. His body is pleasantly heavy, muscles loose and pliant.
“Did it help?” he chances asking, even though he already knows the answer.
Charles just made a dismissive noise, nosing along the sharp line of Max’s jaw. His fingertips traced idle patterns over the taut planes of Max’s back, raising goosebumps in their wake.
“It always helps,” Charles replies. It’s not much, but it makes Max smile anyways, content with his efforts.
“Going to be exhausted tomorrow,” Max says absently.
“Done worse the night before a race,” Charles murmurs, lashes fluttering. Even now, utterly wrung out, Max feels a faint echo of want at the rumbling timbre. Jesus.
Max forces his eyes to open a crack. “You’re out of your mind, you know that?”
The words hold no real bite, just fond exasperation.
Charles giggles—actually giggles, not like the stiff ones he gave earlier—utterly unrepentant. He’s clearly in a better mood now; there’s a wicked glint in his eyes as he leans in to nip at the hinge of Max’s jaw. “Sometimes.”
Max makes a noise of grudging agreement against Charles’ lips, not caring enough to keep the conversation going. He doubts Charles means he did anything this late, or this intensely, even before they began hooking up exclusively and were still fooling around with other people.
At least, he hopes. He doesn’t know for certain. He doesn’t think he wants to know for certain.
“You’ll have to tell me about it sometime,” Max says, not meaning it at all. He nips Charles’ jaw to show it.
Charles hums. “We should...” he starys, then seems to lose his train of thought as Max’s teeth nick his skin. “Shower,” Charles finally manages, breath hitching.
Max rumbles out a noise of acknowledgement against Charles’ overheated skin. It takes a great effort for him to tear himself away and turn the shower head back towards them. Wordlessly, he pulls Charles onto his feet and begins to lave his skin with the suds, scrubbing in firm circles over his shoulders and chest. There’s something almost ritualistic about the way he kneads the tense muscles of Charles’ back and shoulders, working out the knots of strain.
Charles returns the favour readily enough, clever fingers rubbing away the aches and stiffness in Max’s body. They move in silence, the only sounds their mingled breathing and the patter of the spray against the tiles.
This strange sort of intimacy should feel awkward, maybe. But Max, at least, is utterly at home like this.
Once they’re rinsed clean, Max takes a step back and looks at Charles for a long moment. Takes in the familiar lines and angles of him, still new and fascinating even after all this time.
Charles meets his heavy gaze with that same smouldering intensity, dark eyes roving over Max’s face. Max is lucky they’ve been in here long enough that his whole body has turned red from the shower, or else he might even blush. There’s a sort of quiet longing in the set of Charles’ features, an aching softness that curls into the pit of Max’s stomach.
Max wonders what he’s thinking of. He could just be admiring Max’s features, or he could be mulling over something deeper. The race, his own irritation from earlier, how stupid they are for staying up all night to fuck like teenagers, something in between. It could be of anything, really.
In this moment, Max wants—
It’s a silly thought to have. Wanting is a dangerous thing, especially with Charles. Max didn’t come here to pine, he came here to help, and he succeeded. There’s nothing to want for.
Max reaches out to brush his knuckles over the sharp line of Charles’ cheek. Charles leans into the touch with a soft, contented hum, one calloused palm coming up to cradle Max’s wrist.
“I guess we should return to our rooms,” he says, and gives a small yawn. “Look at how pruney our hands have become. Do you think it will affect our grip later?”
The lopsided smile he flashes Max is disarming. Like a switch being flipped, Max’s own lips quirked up in a matching smile. He gives Charles’ cheek one last stroke with the pad of his thumb before forcing himself to step back and turn off the water.
“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” he assures.
“Well, I would hope so. It would be very difficult to explain why neither of us suddenly cannot hold onto the wheel properly,” Charles says. Which tells Max he’ll be fine—he wouldn’t joke about them being caught if he wasn’t.
“Very,” Max agrees, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop his smile from growing bigger at Charles’ laughter.