Archive of Our Own

Max had always liked the idea of soulmates.

Not that he’d ever admit to it, he’d brushed off the idea countless times because, Well it just happens, right? Nothing to put any thought into.

Secretly, the thought of having someone there, someone perfect, who would love him despite his flaws and match him in every way was thrilling.

Everyone ended up with their soulmate eventually. It could take years sometimes, but it was practically inevitable. Very few people never ended up together.

Those cases always managed to hit the news, bodies would be found in apartments, their soulmark turned black, broken. Not completing a bond was dangerous, always would be.

The bond could break after completion too, usually only if a partner died. There were occasions where people changed so drastically they were no longer compatible, but again, it was very rare. Fate was good like that, consistent.

Max had never really had the privilege to see a good soulbond in action. He’d seen people happy and about with their partners, sure, but never particularly in depth.

His parents weren’t soulmates. When they were younger they’d thought they could make it work, that their love could be stronger than whatever unexplainable force would ink people’s skin.

It wasn’t.

Max carried the scars to prove it.

His father hated the idea of soulmates. He wanted to make his own choices and control his own fate.

Privately, Max had always believed his father wasn’t made for love. He didn’t carry it, he couldn’t give it out.

He could take it, though. He could sap other people like a parasite, breaking them down slowly until he was strong enough to live without them, and they were weak enough to fade away.

Max’s mother had left before she snapped in half, taking Victoria with her.

Max had watched through a window, clutching a scrap of his mother’s dress, wondering why he hadn’t been taken too.

He knew, of course he knew. He knew about the training and the karting and his father’s relentless need for success.

But he also knew the other reason. He’d heard it in whispers that carried through walls and the screams that echoed throughout the house that wasn’t a home.

His soulmark.

An outline of the val d’argenton race track.

In Jos’ mind, indisputable proof that Max was made for this life. That Max would meet his soulmate through racing, Max was born to race.

Jos didn’t care about Max’s soulmate, he didn’t want Max to have a soulmate. He wanted Max to focus on his career.

But his mother did. His mother wanted Max to find his soulmate and stay with them, she wouldn’t be able to stand if Max made the same mistakes she did.

Max felt the same, really. He wanted to find them- him, he’d had some discoveries in his late teenage years- and live with someone he could trust next to him.

So he stayed. And now he’s in F1, so really, it all paid off.

Except now he's 27, a four time world champion and fulfilled. The only thing he doesn’t have is a soulmate.

Which is fine, it’s hard to come by them, especially when you’re well known.

Some people like to have their soulmarks on show and flaunt them to everyone, showing their pride in their love and their partner. Some people are more private and keep it hidden, particularly after some gruesome true crime documentaries about stalkers drawing fake soulmarks to try and bind themselves to people. Which is exactly why anyone even close to celebrity status keeps theirs firmly hidden.

Max was no different, he’d usually apply a thick slather of covering creams and powders to his side, just in case. Usually he’d be fine without it, but it was so much easier to be allowed to take his shirt off in public, or readjust his fireproofs without making sure he was covered from all angles.

Very few people actually knew about his soulmark, it was just the way things went instead of a conscious choice. But it weighed on him just a little. Reminded him how difficult it would be to find the one when he was so private.

He tried to do small things.

He took visits to the track every year, sometimes he wouldn’t even race. Just there to take it all in.

When he was younger he got twitchy every time he raced there. It just felt special, he couldn’t let anything go wrong. He relished in every victory like it was a championship because it felt like a championship.

He could feel his mark flare, the pink colouring of a searching bond rippling.

He smiled fondly.

He could remember clashing with Charles on track. He could remember the righteous anger after getting pushed off track into a damn puddle.

Charles, of course, covered up his crimes with a smile that everyone fell for all too easily.

He always did that, even now. Brushing off incidents with the media that Max knew he’d be ripped apart for had he done the same. He should mind it, he should care about how unfair it all is that Max isn’t allowed to do all the things Charles is.

But he gets it. Charles just gets special privileges. Media gave him far too many perks for his perfect PR smile and his gorgeous face, and he was gorgeous. He was so gorgeous. But Max always liked their history.

The way they spent so long growing up together in karts that they just know the way the other thinks, like it’s instinct.

He’s been able to pick up on all the little things, even if he wasn’t actually trying to. He’d been in stores more than once and thought, “Charles would really like this.”

Sometimes he would buy it for him, shove it into his hands at their next race whilst he said hi. He was rich, he could do nice things for his friends, so why wouldn’t he.

Charles always ended up paying him back for it one way or another anyway.

Either in Brazil, where Max had gotten so drunk he couldn’t remember up from down. Charles had found him mid way through the night, drinking a glass of apple juice which they definitely didn’t have on the menu. But again. Special privileges.

He’d stayed by him the rest of the night and drove them both back to Max’s hotel. He did all the small things, like making sure Max brushed his teeth and putting a bucket next to his bed. He even called to order room service in the morning. A simple slice of toast because he knew anything else would be too much for Max’s hungover stomach. Whole grain because Max still had to stick to his diet.

Max ended up using the bucket, and the water and painkillers on the side. He only just had enough energy to get the toast from outside his door and choked down the first two bites before his body remembered that he did actually like food so he could eat it properly.

When he texted Charles to say thanks, he just asked if there was anything else he could do for Max.

Or when he presented Max with a suitcase full of chocolates, straight from The Netherlands because he had just been passing through and thought Max might like some.

It was no wonder, really, that media was so nice to him. He was just such a thoughtful person.

The bus was loud as it rolled around the track.

Everyone seemed to have something to talk about, which made sense. George had just found his own soulmate, Max was happy for him. He’d said so, briefly, and then walked away. The normal thing to do.

Charles was apparently, not normal.

He’d drawn George into one massive conversation, both chattering excitedly about soulmates behind him.

Which made sense, really, the entire world knew Charles loved soulmates. He’d spoken about it in interviews and team chats, usually trying to be brief, but his love shined through.

Max remembered when Charles got very drunk and they spent at least an hour talking. Or really, Charles spent it talking, Max mostly listened with a few mhms and oh yeah?s thrown into the mix.

Charles wanted to find his soulmate, he wanted to spoil them with all the lavish gifts he could get his hands on, he wanted to spend nights by their side and evenings curled up together on the couch. He wanted to come back after a difficult race and collapse into his lover’s arms, and see his house so full of life and love.

It sounded nice, something Max might want for himself, even if he was more private about it.

He liked to believe it would happen. Love would find him, his soulmate would find him.

Just not yet.

Fernando continued talking very heartily about something. Max wasn’t listening, he’d tried he really had, but it just droned on and on and Max’s attention ended up fading into the conversation behind him.

“I’m just so happy for you, mate. It sounds perfect, I can’t wait to find my own.” Typical lovesick Charles. It was sweet just how much he cared about it.

“Thank you! I look forward to meeting yours, I’m sure she’ll be just as gorgeous as you,” George said it as a joke, but also not really. Charles was gorgeous, he was handsome and strong and he had so many defined lines he could’ve been carved from stone.

It made sense he’d get an equally as gorgeous woman.

Probably with a striking yet soft face, perfectly symmetrical. Small waist, long legs, dainty laugh. Yes. Charles would get a beautiful woman.

Charles laughed good naturedly. It sounded slightly closer to his PR laugh than anything else. “Of course, my soulmate won’t be anything other than perfect.”

Max was never one for daintiness. He liked men and he liked them strong and confident. But Charles liked women, so he guessed it made sense.

He’d also never been dainty himself, too many harsh lines and vicious tones. His shoulders were far too broad to be wrapped under an arm, and he stood at that awkward height where he wasn’t considered tall, but he couldn’t complain about not being tall. No, he couldn’t be tucked away anywhere.

Not that he even wanted to be, why would he want that? Sure, it probably would’ve felt warm and comforting and pleasant but he didn’t need that.

He’d always been able to grow under pressure, his fathers iron grip had done wonders for his racing and Jos had been very vocal about how he didn’t need care bestowed upon him to do well. He’d just grow soft and pliable and he’d lose.

Max couldn’t afford that.

Maybe now he could. He’d achieved all he needed to, he’d proved himself time and time again.

Charles could probably never be with someone even remotely close to Max, not that it mattered anyway, because Max didn’t like Charles, and Charles didn’t like men. But if he did Max wasn’t exactly the pleasant type of person who could give Charles a break from racing. He wasn’t made for Charles.

Not that it mattered.

“That’s P2, Max. P2.”

That was fine, Max could work with that. He’s just overtake P1 for the win, easy.

“Max! Good quali?” Charles asked, grinning at Max as he hopped out of his car.

Max felt a flutter of excitement. If Charles was P1 that meant he got a battle tomorrow.

“Good enough, See you on track tomorrow?”

Charles laughed, a proper, playful one, “In my mirrors, maybe.” He teased.

Yeah. Charles would get a great soulmate.

Max was still giddy after the race, it was great.

He couldn’t remember the last time he was so happy about a race he didn’t even win, but there was something so thrilling about spending almost every single lap wheel to wheel, fighting it out with Charles.

Everything was clean and perfect, and they got a picture finish, Charles brilliantly pulling his Ferrari just inches in front of Max’s RedBull.

They both finished far, far away from the rest of the grid. Two greats, even if many people refused to admit Charles was one of them, fighting for the finish.

Max couldn’t have told you who got third, he spent the entire time in the cool down rambling on about the race with Charles, and then the entire podium eyes locked firmly on each other as they got drenched with champagne.

One of his favourite races, for sure. So much so, that after his heart rate had calmed down, and he’d showered, he’d gone to visit the Ferrari garage.

They were quite busy trying to shove the entire Ferrari garage into one photo, Charles propped up into the air by three different people. Their grins were unmatched. Max understood the feeling, his own hadn’t left either.

The moment the photo was snapped, several bottles of champagne were popped open and Charles was surrounded, soaked to the bone with the alcohol.

He was laughing too hard to try and avoid the spray, nothing but pure joy lighting up his face. The camera kept clicking, Max couldn’t help but think about how perfect those photos must look.

As the bottles ran out, Charles ducked away from the hands patting his back and jogged over to Max.

His eyes flickered down, watching how his drenched shirt stuck to his abs, outlining them in detail.

God, he really did look perfect. Max could only dream of looking that good.

“Hey, Max! What are you doing here?” Charles beamed, squeezing his shoulder briefly.

“Just wanted to say congratulations again, that was a great race, mate. Certainly haven’t had one like that in a while.”

If anything, Charles’ grin got wider, showing off his dimples.

He thoughtlessly pulled Max into a tight hug, and spoke directly into his ear, “Thank you! It was, of course, very fun. I’m glad you were there with me, you know I love our battles.”

Max held on tighter, just slightly. Not even noticeable. But he loved being close with people, even if he knew he should separate himself from Charles now, because it was getting weird.

Charles grasped him by the shoulders as he pulled away, but letting him get far. He looked him up and down, which did not make Max blush, and if it did that was only because it was an entirely natural response.

“Sorry, mate,” He laughed, “I probably should not have hugged you, I’ve made you all wet now!”

Max hadn’t even thought of that, “All good, it’s nothing that can’t be washed.”

They were smiling like they were kids again, sharing a secret inside joke. His heart soared, this day was perfect. 

“See you next week, Max!” Charles called as he turned back to his team.

Max yelled his own goodbye as he stood watching, just for a moment.

Charles gripped the hem of his drenched shirt, pulling it off in one graceful move.

There was a pink outline of the Val de Argentina circuit on his side.

Max’s heart dropped.

Charles was his soulmate.

Charles, who will only ever dance with women in the clubs, Charles who doesn’t like men.

Charles, who’s perfect and gorgeous with Max.

Oh fuck.

Charles loved soulmates, he wanted to find his own so desperately, but Charles didn’t love Max. Charles couldn’t love Max.

Surely that meant Charles could never get the soulmate he deserved. The soulmate he’d dreamed of.

Max had ruined one Charles’ biggest life goals. He’d destroyed something his soulmate cared about, a person he was meant to love and cherish and be absolutely perfect for and he just wasn’t.

The thought came crashing in all at once, like a tidal wave of realisation knocking him to the ground.

Charles couldn’t know.

Charles could never know; he’d be destroyed.

And it would be Max’s fault.

Max would lose everything with Charles. He’d lose the friendship, the rivalry, the talks, the laughs, the camaraderie, the casual touches, the feeling of knowing someone so intrinsically you could predict their very thoughts.

Charles would hate him, and terribly, painfully, Max would understand.

He’d always hoped, tragically, that somehow, despite all of his flaws, his soulmate would love him.

He knew he wasn’t perfect, he was far from it, couldn’t even see it in the distance. But there had always been a hope in his mind that fate wouldn’t care. That he’d still be loved, be someone’s.

But he couldn’t. He wasn’t dainty and pretty and soft, he was cut from hard rock and anger, destined to be nothing more than a racer.

He wasn’t even meant to be gay. 

He should’ve just listened to his father.

He felt lightheaded as he clambered into the car RedBull had called for him. Some sort of pop song was coming in over the speakers, quiet enough so the driver could think they were being polite, loud enough that Max couldn’t zone it out.

The annoyance was over shone by the indescribable ache in his chest, he felt so empty.

Charles texted him once he reached the hotel, it was barely legible, just a mix-match of drunken spelling mistakes and emojis. He wanted to know if Max was going to join him in the club. 

He wanted to. He always loved a party, and he’d especially like to be able to get drunk and forget about everything but he couldn’t. The thought of seeing Charles again right now sent more spikes through his heart.

He told Charles he had an early flight the next day. He didn’t. The AirMax tracker would know that too, not that Charles would care enough about him to look.

Charles responded with an array of sad emojis, Max felt grateful that he was clearly already at the club. He had company, hopefully company that would make sure he was well looked after. 

Later, he was scrolling through instagram and saw the glowing pink icons of people’s stories. Despite everything in him screaming it was a bad idea, he checked them.

A multitude of photos taken in a club, bright pounding lights and Charles.

Charles, surrounded by friends and then surrounded by women.

Charles had mentioned before that he could never get into a proper relationship, he’d feel too guilty. He’d feel like he was cheating on his soulmate.

But he was human, and he wanted to have fun. He’d had more one night stands then Max had kisses. And it was fine. Max understood. And there were never any feelings involved, he knew that.

Maybe it would be better if there had been. Maybe then Charles wouldn’t care so much about his soulmate. Maybe then the disappointment wouldn’t be so great.

He dared to look at his side as he got changed.

His mark was no longer pink. It was white. Perhaps a little dark.

He didn’t want to think about what that meant.

He tried training but everything just felt off.

He couldn’t hold his plank for very long at all, he collapsed into the mat before getting anywhere near his PB.

It was fine. It was just a bad day.

Race week didn’t start until Thursday anyway.

It’s worse by then.

He has to be careful every time he stands up, too quick and he’s leaning up against the nearest wall, desperately trying to stop his own spinning head.

Social media is fucking minefield. It’s like every time he scrolls he gets blasted with pictures or videos of Charles. Charles laughing, Charles overtaking, Charles with Max.

And it hurts.

It hurts so much he’s not sure he’ll be able to stand it if it gets worse.

“Max!” Charles yelled, far too happy after dealing with three hours of cameras.

“Charles,” He said, trying to push some of the same enthusiasm into his voice even when it felt like his heart had stopped beating and his breaths weren't coming.

Clearly, it wasn’t as convincing as he hoped and Charles’ face flickers into some painful mix of confusion and concern before going right back to his regular charm.

Thoughtlessly, Charles drags him into a hug, wrapping around him tightly.

A series of phantom pains shoot through his heart, making him tense. It was fine. It would be fine. 

Charles strengthened his grip, and Max found himself easily sinking into it. He shouldn’t have, he knew that. But once Charles found out they’d never do this again.

Max would never get the privilege of being friends with him. He had to soak up the care whilst he could, even if it felt like a fundamental betrayal of Charles’ trust.

Charles pulled away, far too soon. “See you later, Max?”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

Max won.

Charles came second, although they never really had the chance to fight.

For once, Charles wasn’t his main focus.

Somehow, miraculously, Niko Hulkenberg had managed to fight his way onto the podium.

Max had raced with Niko for forever, and he knew first hand that nothing could ever overcome the joy of a first in Formula 1.

At the podium, he wasn’t sure he’d ever heard louder cheers. He wished he could join in and do something more than the regular round of applause, but he always found that people got feisty over podium etiquette. He’d probably have some people mad that he’d never done that for their driver.

Although, he made up for it. He was very pleased with himself when he gave Nico his first taste of champagne sprayed directly into his eyes.

The plan had been to go home.

The plan had been to order a kebab, pass out and go straight back to Monaco the moment he woke up.

Charles didn’t care about his plans.

Charles:

You live in Monaco

You can go back anytime

You won!!!

You need to come out with us!!

I know your teams celebrating, our’s is too

It’ll be fun!

You didn’t even celebrate last week, I was drunk and looking for you and then I found out you were gone!

You have to come to this one Max

Max?

Are you ignoring me?

You cannot start ignoring me when I win the argument, Max.

I know your seeing this Max

Max:

Seriously?

Charles:

-sent attachment, location-

Be there at 8 Max

Max:

Fine.

Charles:

😊

He folded easily, he knew. But Charles and his special privileges always seemed to get their way.

In an admittedly mild act of defiance, he got there at 8:40, it was meant to be 9, but again. Folding easily.

Charles had clearly enjoyed himself a little too much, and slung an arm over him practically the moment Max entered.

“Hey,” He slurred, his entire side pressed up against Max’s.

Max could feel the warmth flood his own cheeks because holy shit.

“You’re late.” He said, prodding an accusing finger at Max’s chest, staring at it a little too hard.

It was a wonder he’d managed to get this drunk in only 40 minutes.

“Traffic?” He suggested.

“It's a five minute walk to your hotel,” Charles said, a playful look of anger on his face.

And he was right. It was a five minute walk to his hotel.

His hotel that was different to Charles’.

So if Charles wanted to know which hotel he was staying at, and how far away it was he would need to ask, which meant that Charles cared enough to-

He was getting ahead of himself.

Charles was trying to be a good friend, he probably didn’t even find out intentionally.

Charles suddenly snapped his head to the side, a grin alighting his features, “Joris! I’m going to go and say hi. Go get a drink, I’ll find you later, okay?”

“Uh, yeah. Okay. See you then.”

Charles grinned even wider, this time at him, “Perfect!” He said and ran off, weaving through to crowds to a part Max couldn’t even see.

The club was fine.

The drinks were far too overpriced, not that it mattered to him. He’d had some nice conversations with people, the music was nice.

Hulk had come over with a beaming grin on his face, drunk enough to pour vodka directly into Max’s mouth and drag him over to dance.

It was more fun than he’d expected it would be, Niko never usually got too drunk anymore, he’d grown more responsible, in his words. It had been a while since Max had seen him like this.

Nico grabbed his hand, twirling him around as they both broke out into laughter. The club was far too packed for Max to even step back, let alone be spun around. Somehow it worked though.

They traded shitty dances like they were children again, and collapsed into giggles every time the moves didn’t quite work out. The moves didn’t quite work out a lot.

Eventually, Niko had run off in a quest for more drinks, not that he actually needed any more, but Niko had an entourage of people quietly watching him out of the corner of their eyes. Niko didn’t need to be responsible and Max certainly didn’t need to manage him.

His own alcohol was beginning to wear away, just like his energy. He found himself sitting by the bar again, contemplating one more drink as his eyes latched onto something across the dance floor.

Charles.

Charles dancing with another girl, pretty blonde hair flowing over her shoulders, bright blue eyes locked firmly onto his. Charles had his hands all over her, brushing over everywhere, pulling her closer.

Max felt his heart quietly shatter.

It didn’t even make sense, he’d seen this before, he knew it happened and he knew why it happened, but never before had it sent such spiking waves of pain through his chest. He felt his entire body constricting so he couldn't breathe.

Charles looked so happy, so fulfilled. Without Max.

And that was good, that was perfect, that meant that Charles would be fine without him. He didn’t need a soulmate, he could make anyone his soulmate.

But god it hurt. It hurt that Max couldn’t be that for him, that Max couldn’t be in that girl’s space.

He knew Charles could live without Max. Max just wished he wouldn’t have to die without Charles.

He could only tear his eyes away when he felt the bile rise up his throat and he sprinted outside.

He collapsed against the wall of an alleyway, painful gags rising up through his throat.

Vomit burned his throat as he wretched, his vision turned dotted and he stood there, head down and gasping for breath.

His mark had turned to a pale shade of grey.

Max wakes up with a headache.

The next day, he wakes up with a headache and a cough.

It’s nothing bad, it’s all manageable. An annoyance at most.

Rupert’s a little more careful with exercises. He spent several long minutes insisting that it was okay and totally normal for Max to feel tired during a season.

Max had been racing for a decade. He knew what was normal for him and what wasn’t. He didn’t say that to Rupert.

He goes into the factory a couple of days later. He blames the jetlag he never gets for his tiredness.

By the time the race comes around he looks dead on his feet, but it’s fine. Nothing’s wrong. It’s just a slight hiccup, he’ll be done with it eventually.

People begin to notice, just a little bit. He gets a few comments about laying off the 3am simulator and countless mugs of tea shoved into his hands. Lemon and honey, because nobody else in the team aside from Rupert actually cares about his diet.

It’s sweet, really, that they care about him so much. He always felt a little bit like RedBull were his family. They’d seen him through all his best and worst moments.

He’d miss them.

He felt a bit miserable during the driver’s parade.

The headache had, helpfully, ramped up, the coughing too. Sleep had avoided him the night before and he was really starting to feel it’s loss.

He knew his undereyes were puffy and purple and his movements were slow and his eyes were tinged red at the edges.

He was getting several glances from people. The rookies in particular were terrible at schooling their expressions.

He was speaking with Nico, congratulating him again on his stellar performance.

And really, it was amazing. Max had gone back and watched it himself, every move had been perfected, not one mistake during his whole race. It was the kind of podium that could feel just as good as a win because he should not have been there, and yet he was.

Hulk threw an arm over his shoulders pulling him in, forcing Max to lean down under his arm.

It felt good, carefree. He was happy for his friend, more happy than he usually gets for other people. He was beginning to feel a little bit better about the whole thing.

Nico reached his other hand over to pat Max’s cheek twice, with a smug grin on his face. It very quickly melted into his regular hearty grin as he laughed, Max joining in.

He looked away briefly, not meaning to make it any longer than a second, when his eyes locked with Charles’.

Charles was glaring.

It pierced through him like a spear, beating the breath straight out of his lungs. He ripped his gaze away in an instant. 

He inhaled shakily, feeling it burn the back of his throat. He folded over with the force of the coughs ripping out of him.

Nico had a hand on his back, trying to steady him but it won’t. Nothing would steady Max. Nothing achievable anyway.

He sombered instantly.

He looked down, avoiding looking at Charles the entire rest of the time, even when his chest ached so bad he could barely breathe and Hulk was giving him odd looks and asking if he’s okay and he’s fine.

It doesn’t even mean anything, it’s only the one person in the entire world who’s meant to fit with him perfectly suddenly hates him and he doesn't know why. He can’t think of a single good reason for Charles to suddenly be death glaring at him out of the blue. He’s not sure what he’s done.

It’s fine, he knew nobody would ever really love him anyway, he should be lucky Charles even spends time around him. It made sense he was one of the rare cases who wouldn’t end up with a soulmate.

What he couldn’t understand, though, is why fate ensured that Charles wouldn’t have a soulmate. Charles had never done anything wrong in his life, it made no sense that he was unlucky enough to end up with someone he could never love.

He’d have to apologise to him. No one deserved this.

No wonder Charles was glaring.

That was when the blood started.

It was nothing, really. Just a drop or two into his hands whenever another aggressive spree of rough coughs arrived. 

He could recognise, distantly, that it wasn’t great. He moved on with his life anyway. It wasn’t like he could do anything about it.

His mark had turned a deeper, firmer shade of grey.

Every underlying symptom he had seemed to amplify. His chest ached constantly, no matter how much Max attempted to soothe it. People had started to pick up on how often he’d rub his chest, trying to push down on it and force away some pain.

He had begun to carry a handkerchief with him to cough into. He needed it to hide the blood, if anyone saw it, he’d be forced to go for check ups. They wouldn’t find anything until they saw his mark, and Max could never let that happen.

He was always so tired, and yet he could never seem to sleep. Occasionally, he could manage to sleep between sessions in his driver’s room. Usually, he’d be picked up by his team to go and do something or go over something.

He knew they’d stopped that. Max had managed to make them concerned enough for them to decide that him sleeping was the most important thing that he could do.

More than once, he’d watch the door cautiously open, as quiet as possible. A concerned head would pop and do a quick scan of the room, always perking back up the moment they saw Max was awake and ready to work.

He didn’t want to think about what it meant that they tried to encourage him into bed more than they tried to pull him into work.

The car had gone downhill somehow, more downhill than it ever should have.

It had left mechanics scrambling, trying to see what went wrong, trying to reverse whatever upgrades they’d put in. Everything they did just seemed to make the car worse.

His free practice sessions were terrible, the car didn’t want to move at all.

The realisation dawned on Max that he didn’t really care.

The car was secondary to him. For the first time in his life he valued something else over Formula 1.

It was just a shame it would mean nothing in the end.

He qualified P4, not the worst. He hadn’t made a single mistake during Quali, unlike every single car in front. He probably would’ve been ahead of them last week, he didn’t even realise that until a reporter said it casually.

The race went far worse than qualification, due to no fault but his own.

GP was just going over gaps with him, going up the chain.

“Hamilton four seconds in front, chasing Lando. Oscar nine seconds in front, Charles 12.”

Max barely had a chance to process it before a fit of harsh coughs came spewing into his mask.

His hand jerked, he tried to correct it but it was too late.

He was in P8.

He ended the race in P7.

He got out of the car slowly, gripping onto the halo harshly. His head was spinning but he could not risk passing out. Not here.

Charles came over from his place in front of the P1 board, patting him on his back in consolation.

Max flinched.

Charles still wanted him to go out, said he could drink to forget.

Max declined vehemently.

Charles insisted vehemently.

Max went.

The alcohol burnt in a way he wasn’t used to, but he drank anyway.

He tried to hide away from it all, but it didn’t last long before Charles was barrelling into him from behind.

He was sweaty and giggly as he slumped down next to Max, talking about anything and everything, just speaking to speak.

Max should’ve known to end it.

Charles, out of the corner of his eye spotted a couple, soulmarks proudly displayed on their forearms, dancing and laughing with each other in the centre of the room.

Charles cooed, turning to Max, “Look at them!” He said, far too loudly, “They’re so cute. They look perfect for each other, soulmates are so great.”

Max’s throat closed up, but a drunk Charles had never needed a response.

“God, that will be me one day, that will be you one day!” Charles said it with a massive grin alighting his face, entirely oblivious to the influx of shame burrowing its way into Max’s skin.

Because that won’t be Max. Maybe, hopefully, it can be Charles. But never Max.

“I can’t wait, I cannot wait. I think meeting my soulmate will be the best day of my life. Then we can dance and laugh and I can buy all the gifts in the world. We can go on dates with flowers and candles. You do not understand how excited I am, Max. It’s my biggest dream- well, one of them. I want a world championship and my soulmate.”

Charles continued, rambling on drunkenly; a continuous stream of just how perfect his soulmate will be, and how much love Charles has to give and Max is a sinking ship.

He is a sinking ship and he is surrounded by a sea of guilt and it’s pulling him down and down. He can’t breathe, he can’t think.

“I’m going to the toilet,” He said abruptly and ran off without a second look.

Charles had left by the time he got back.

He expected it, obviously. But still, there was a small, screaming part of him that wished. Wished Charles would’ve stayed back, wished Charles would care, wished Charles would love him.

It was stupid.

He wanted it gone. Everything would be so much easier if he didn’t need to balance the pain and heartache with stupid what ifs.

He’d told Charles he wouldn’t drink. Truthfully, he didn’t really want to. He didn’t want the hangover or the dizziness or the lack of control. He ordered the drink anyway, and all the others that followed.

The weight of the alcohol didn’t help like it was supposed to. It just made everything that felt wrong feel worse.

His head ached, his chest ached, his mark ached.

He didn’t really know how the tears started, but soon enough he was stumbling to a quiet corner, tears flowing freely down his face, choking back sobs as he collapsed down into a lonely seat.

It was just too much.

His soulmate, his person, destined to hate him.

He wondered if Charles would still call the couple cute if it had been two men. He wondered if Charles just didn’t like men, or if he’d hate Max for liking men.

He’s mostly sure he wouldn’t. Charles had never made that sort of comment before, even mildly. But Max had been to enough clubs with him to know his preference. Men have tried, of course. It’s Charles Leclerc, anyone would try, Charles hadn’t even given them a chance. Brushing it off with a quick apology or excuse.

Max wasn’t an option to Charles. Maybe Charles wouldn’t hate him initially, but once it all set in, and he realised he’d never get a soulmate. Then, Max would surely be hated.

Not that Max planned to let him find out.

Max would rather die than let Charles find out.

Max would die so Charles didn’t find out.

The thought settled into his blood like ice. It was the one thing he’d been avidly avoiding because if he started thinking about it, if he really realised, then he wasn’t sure how he’d cope.

“Are you okay?” 

He looked up to see a girl, probably early twenties, staring at him with concern. She placed a delicate hand on his shoulder, a small comfort.

He probably should’ve realised he was crying in a very public place.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, wet and weak.

The girl scoffed, hooking her leg around a stool behind her and pulling it closer so she could sit next to him.

“Obviously not, come on. Talk. If it’s bad enough to cry in a club, it’s probably something you need to get off your chest.” The hand had moved to his thigh, the closeness felt nice.

“I- It’s just-”His own stuttered half-sob cut him off. “It’s… It’s a soulmate thing.”

“Ah,” The girl said, nodding like that meant everything made sense. “You’ll find them eventually, these things need to happen at the right time.”

“I already have,” He sighed.

“Does she know?”

“He.”

He nodded his head at Charles, dancing and surrounded by girls. He looked thrilled.

He lets out another broken sob just looking at him.

“He doesn’t know,” He whispers, and it’s those very words that break the damn. He folds over, face covered by his palms and his shoulders shook, “I can’t. I can’t tell him, he- he’d hate me.”

The girl- and he realised now that he doesn’t even know her name- collects him into his arms, letting him press his face into her collar as violet sobs force his way from his throat.

He is going to die. He is going to die and it’s going to be soon and he gets no choice.

The universe set him up to die.

His heartburn came back tenfold, and it’s stupid, he thought to himself. Heartburn is a stupid name because it didn’t feel like his heart was burning. It felt like it was being compressed constantly, pressure building up inside until it was finally ready to burst.

And he knew it would burst soon.

“You need to tell him,” She said quietly. “If not… There’s nothing worse that could happen from telling him.”

And she was wrong, so wrong. Because Max will die, but he could die with Charles still caring about him.

The girl got collected by her friends as Max dried his tears, he watched through the window as they piled into an uber together. She had good friends, Max was happy for her.

He left when he saw Charles making out with and grinding up against another blonde girl.

That night he didn’t sleep. He laid awake in a cold sweat, staring at the ceiling and shivering no matter how many layers he wore.

His soulmark got darker.

He covered it up as much as possible, it was uncomfortable to have such a startling reminder of his own mortality.

Of his own worth.

Because he clearly wasn’t worth enough to be loved, and that was fine. He’d always known, really. He’d been loved before, but he never felt loved.

His mother loved him, then she left him. His father was never capable of love in the first place. His first boyfriend came home leaping in joy to tell Max all about how he met his soulmate, and they’d have to break up but Max should be happy for him because Max loved him. He had probably millions of fans, they all screamed from the top of their lungs about how much they loved him, but none of them actually knew him.

Why would his soulmate be any different?

Not even the universe could fix him.

It was cruel, the way he could see Charles looking at him with concern with every passing weekend. The way he always hovered just a little bit more, maybe scared Max would collapse over his own two feet.

Max hated how he’d come to that.

He hated how Charles seemingly trying to make sure he was okay just made it so much worse.

He tried to separate himself from Charles, he really did, but god it was like an addiction.

Every time he declined an event, or sat slightly further away from him it hurt. Sharp, shooting pains overwhelming his nerves, all because he didn’t want to hurt himself anymore by being with Charles.

Because the universe hated him. So of course being with Charles hurt just as much as being away from him. Every small touch or dimpled smile that had always made him melt now made him burn.

The only time he could ever truly get away from some of the pain was when he, miraculously, wasn’t thinking about Charles. That was increasingly rarer though. Max always thought about him.

He thought about him every time he tried to sleep and the restless energy took over, leaving him to curl into himself as shiver and pain hit him time and time again.

He thought about him when he had casual conversations with people, always wondering if he’d say the same thing if Charles was around, or if he’d laugh at Max’s jokes too.

He thought about Charles every time he’d had the energy to actually get himself a proper meal. If Brad hadn’t actually prepared something and put it in his fridge, Max wasn’t eating.

He couldn’t eat much anyway, he felt nauseous just looking at his plate of food. It was bad, he knew. He had a strict diet, perfectly attuned to him to keep him fit, muscular and healthy.

He just couldn’t do it, especially not after he finally psyched himself up into eating a full meal, just to throw all of it up, uncomfortably hunched over the toilet, gagging so hard his already frail throat began to bleed again.

He’d cancelled on his trainer more times than he could count, each time citing one of the same excuses. It was becoming an issue. It felt like he knew.

“Max?” He said tentatively after they finished a very poor session early, “I don’t mean to pry… But are you alright? You’re not doing the greatest right now.”

Max tensed, guilt washing over him, “Sorry,” He choked out, “I’ll- I’ll get over it. Try harder. Then I’ll be able to stick to it.”

Brad frowned, “Max that’s not why I asked. I don’t care about you doing your workouts properly, I care about you. And- and I hate to say it, Max, but you look like hell. I don’t know what happened, and I can’t know unless you talk to me. At the very least I want to know that you’re getting better.”

Oh.

He’s not used to people thinking like that.

“I’m fine, it was just a bit of a rough patch. I’m getting better,” The lie sits heavily on his tongue, but Brad looks so relieved he can’t bring himself to backpedal, “Thank you, though. I appreciate it.”

He’d never been sentimental like that, he liked to appreciate people quietly. Maybe through gifts or time but he’d always felt so uncomfortable just telling people how much he cared about them, and now suddenly it was just slipping out of his mouth without him being able to stop it.

He supposed it was for the better that people knew before… anything happened.

He knew it would be somewhat soon, he was losing himself already. Bit by bit.

He would wake up after a fitful sleep freezing, like he could never be warm again, his entire body would wrack with shivers so harshly that sometimes just the force of it alone would be what woke him up in the first place.

He’d always be covered in several layers, even when they travelled to warmer countries, he’d just be so cold. It got him odd looks for sure, but he couldn’t think of another way.

A numbing sort of sadness had taken over. Every conversation it felt like he wasn’t truly there, his smiles slapped on for the sake of appearances, even when it must’ve been obvious there was no substance behind them at all.

He’d begun to deteriorate. People were starting to talk.

Lewis had come over, a patient smile and a warm hand over his shoulder. He’d been taken to a closed off quiet corner, probably a secret gem that nobody who hadn’t been working for two decades would know of.

He asked if Max was okay, said he knew that championship stress could be a lot.

Max told him he was fine, and he wasn’t stressed about the championship.

He didn’t say he wasn’t sure he’d make it to Abu Dhabi.

Lewis still told him to come and talk to him if he needed anything. It was sweet, really. And probably telling that he’d gotten so bad Lewis thought he needed an intervention.

RedBull was concerned too. They were always concerned, but now it had gotten bad.

He could tell in the way they glanced at him, or how they stood huddled together in their hushed conversations that they were worried.

Their undefeatable champion wasn’t getting better like he should’ve been. He’d overheard one too many conversations about pulling him out of the car.

He didn’t want them to.

If he was still racing, he could be around Charles, maybe have a few conversations with him. And maybe, just maybe, he could win again.

Charles by his side, just like in Karting, they could 1-2, Max wouldn’t even mind if he was the 2, he just wanted Charles to see the best parts of him. There was always the chance that Charles could think of him happily then, instead of hating what he took from him.

His mark had turned a frightening shade of gray, it was closer to charcoal than storm clouds.

By some miracle, Max had managed to pull off a P2 in qualifying. He had barely even realised it when he dragged the car over the line, he was thinking too much about getting out. The cockpit was too cramped and hot and cold, the constant turning was too much for his head.

He’d practically collapsed into his congratulatory hugs, far too tired to hold his own weight up and far too delirious to notice the worried looks being passed over his head.

He didn’t care anymore. He really didn’t.

Max is so tired.

The car is burning but he is so, so cold.

Charles is keeping a constant pressure on him, switching positions every couple of corners and it should’ve been great, it should’ve been thrilling, except Max can’t keep his head up and his vision is fuzzing with black creeping in on the edges and every corner feels like he’s falling.

The car locks up, Max is too slow to correct it.

The left wing of the RedBull crashes into the Ferrari, sending them both spinning.

Max and Charles are both out of the race.

The pain hits suddenly and it’s the most alive he’s felt in months.

Marshals surround him and Max has no idea when they got there but they pull him out of the car, hands pressed against his waist so he doesn’t fall.

His head is throbbing and he rips his helmet off so maybe he can try and relieve some of the pressure but his hands get forced away from his own head before he can actually do anything.

His legs are shaking as he stands and the marshals don’t seem like they’re letting go of him anytime soon.

Charles.

Charles crashed with him. He crashed Charles out.

He snaps his head around to find him, desperately hoping he wasn't hurt. Max could never forgive himself if he’d hurt Charles.

The moment his eyes meet Charles’ he wishes he’d stayed home today.

Charles is glaring.

Harsh fiery eyes pointing straight at him, before they turn away.

Max’s legs give in and his side burns. Pounding, splintering pain shoots through his entire body, he’s never been more grateful for the marshalls because he would not be stood up otherwise.

They guide him to a car and he watches Charles stare resolutely ahead as he marches away.

It takes a monumental effort to get back to the garage. He’d somehow managed to wave off all the medical staff eager to take a look at him, he half regrets it every time he stumbles into a wall when his eyes fade close.

He feels weak, like all his strength and energy had been left behind in the crash. Or maybe it had been left behind outside the Ferrari garage, when he first saw his soulmate’s mark.

His soulmate, who’s race he’d just ruined.

Ferrari was doing better this season, no doubt, but race wins were still hard to come by. Max was under no illusions that a win meant more to Charles than it did to him.

And he’d taken that from him.

Ripped it straight from his grasp all because he couldn’t correct a lock up.

Media is hell.

He can barely think straight anyway, it doesn't help that he can feel Charles’ suffocating anger in the pen with him.

He doesn’t know what answers he gives but he knows they’re shit.

He looks like hell too, he always does these days.

His face is gaunt and pale, making the dark circles under his eyes even more prominent. He’s let his hair grow far longer than usual, too tired to get it cut. He looks pitiful, really.

He finally gets back to his driver’s room and he lets himself fall down onto the bed.

It’s bad. 

His breaths come to him in a struggle, he’s desperately gripping at his chest from where he’s hunched over the side, feet firmly planted on the floor, trying to somehow breathe but it’s not working and it’s just so horrible.

He’s freezing and he just wants to rest a little. His team knows not to bother him, they think he’s moping after a dnf.

Fists pound on the door and he almost starts crying.

He doesn’t even know if he can stand up, let alone hold a conversation.

He hauls himself up, stumbling over to the door and pulling it open.

His heart clenches as he comes face to face with Charles, no less angry than earlier.

He barges past Max without a second thought, briefly knocking him unstable before he musters up enough energy to keep appearances up.

“What the fuck was that,” Charles seethes, locking his eyes on Max in a way that’s far too predatory.

Max was entirely lost for words as Charles steamrolls on.

“Are you fucking stupid? Just turning straight into me? Did you seriously think you were going to be able to overtake on the outside? Jesus, Max, I know you’re all cocky and egotistical, but you’re not fucking magic. You can’t just do shit like that, you’ll get us both killed!” He spits his words like venom. They hurt like venom would, too.

Max can’t get a word in, he’s not strong enough to shout.

“You know what your fucking issue is? You’re dangerous. You’re not just aggressive, you're suicidal. You don’t even deserve to be here, if that’s the shit you’re going to try and pull, quit.” He snarls, turning around and forcing his way back through the door again, slamming it shut behind him.

Then there’s silence.

Max feels hollow, like something integral had been ripped away from him. His chest hurts, it hurts so much he can’t deal with it, he can’t breathe, he actually can’t. He tries to wheeze in breaths but it doesn’t work, just puts him into more coughs that he doesn’t have the energy or air for, blood comes out, dribbles out of his mouth and suddenly he burns.

Everything burns, bright and overwhelming and deadly. And it hurts, it hurts so much and he doesn’t know what to do.

Charles, his soulmate, hates him.

He didn’t even need to tell Charles they were soulmates and he’s already hated.

The realisation isn’t sudden, it’s a cold that slides into his bones, fusing with his flesh. Reminding him. 

Because it doesn’t even matter that he’s a man. He’s Max and that’s so much worse. 

He’s aggressive and brutal and he’s not a winner. He’s not good at the only thing he ever had to his name. And he’s not good enough for the only person who’s built to like him. Love him.

His mark lights up in more pain than he thought possible and he crashes to his knees, clutching at his side in a vain attempt to relieve any pain at all. But it’s not like that, it’s soul-deep. The pain is more than just nerves and pressure; it's rooted in his heart.

A fit of violent coughs erupts from his throat and there’s blood, so much blood. It’s on his hands and his floor and it’s stained so deep into his skin that he knows he’ll never get it off.

With weak, shaking hands he manages to rip his shirt off  and he gasps.

His mark.

It’s black.

Not even just a dark gray, there’s nothing.

A sob escapes him and an animalistic sort of desperation claws up his throat.

Officially unwanted, because how could anyone want him.

And he’s going to die. Alone in his driver’s room, he is going to die cold and unloved.

He doesn’t want to die. He’s not done yet. He hasn’t lived anywhere near a full life. He’s spent so many years where his only thought and focus was racing. Nothing more. He wants to know what life would be like outside of that. He wants to live.

But he won’t.

And maybe he deserves it. Everything he’s ever done has somehow ruined Charles’ only dreams. A soulmate and a championship.

Every win, every championship has taken away from what could’ve been Charles’, today even, he managed to take Charles’ win from his hands, take 25 necessary points away from him.

And his soulmate.

The soulmate he’s dreamed of getting to love and spoil, and he’d never get the chance to because Max is Max.

He doesn’t want to die but this can’t be fixed. 

Max can’t be loved.

Frantically, he scrambles for his phone, he needs to apologise.

He needs to apologise for so much and Charles needs to hear it because he can’t just let Charles spend decades searching, never getting into an actual relationship because he’s searching for the one. He needs to tell Charles.

Tears are running freely now, more aggressive at the thought of losing everything, but his fate was set in stone. He dies in every universe, but maybe in this one Charles can be happy.

His vision is almost gone and his body can barely support him, but it doesn’t matter. Finding Charles’ contact is instinct.

The phone rings, and then it rings some more and Max can’t handle the thought of Charles not answering.

Had he done it? Had he finally scared Charles off to the point where he won’t even be able to explain himself on his deathbed?

But something, even in a small way, is looking out for him today, and Charles picks up the phone.

“I’m sorry,” he sobs, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry Charles, I- I wish it could’ve been  different, I really do.” He heaves in raspy breaths, trying to muffle the sound of his cries.

“Max? What-”

“I swear, I swear I didn’t want it to be like this, I’m so sorry. I wish you could’ve had a better soulmate. Someone who you could actually love. I’m sorry, I know you wanted it and I can’t give it to you, I’m sorry. I was meant to be better, I really was.” He’s not even sure if he’s making sense, Charles probably isn’t listening anymore.

“Max-”

“But-but you’re free now!” His voice is uneven and warbly, even just saying it is horrible, “You can date anyone you want, someone you actually like. I mean, you could- you could have anyone, Charlie. You’re perfect, you don’t need to worry about that.” He’s sobbing properly now, harshly. He’s hiccuping every couple of words but he has to get them out. He has to say everything before his time runs out.

“I’m so sorry, Charlie. I love you.”

Charles tries to say something, to yell over him but Max hangs up anyway.

Charles doesn't deserve this. He doesn’t deserve to be paired with Max and he certainly doesn’t deserve to hear him die.

Because that’s what happens now.

The final step in the process.

He lets one more choked sob fall past his shaking lips and his world falls black.

Charles is storming through the Ferrari garage, not stopping to so much as smile at the people around him when he overhears just a snippet of a conversation between two annoyed mechanics.

“If Verstappen’s so fucking good how come he couldn’t corrext his steering when his tires locked up?”

Charles pauses. Just for a moment.

Nobody had told him that.

No one had told him that his tires locked up. He thought Max did it intentionally, in some bold, egotistical overtake.

An uncomfortable wave of guilt washes over him.

He’d overreacted.

He’d gone to Max’s garage to yell at him for something that’s not even really his fault, when he was already looking upset and carrying the same underlying unsteadiness he’d had the whole weekend.

Hell, not even the whole weekend. Max has been deteriorating for a while.

People have only seemed to notice it recently, but Charles has watched him for far longer than that. The way he put more weight onto the walls he leaned on, the tension he carried himself with, the incessant coughing.

Max wasn’t doing well.

Jesus, and Charles had just screamed at him whilst he stood there and took it, not an ounce of the fire that he should’ve had.

God, he feels awful.

He wants to go back and apologise, but Fred is there suddenly and he’s got a meeting to go to.

He’d have to go back and apologise later.

Charles lets out a steady breath of relief when he sees the call come in.

Max isn’t mad at him, he wants to talk things out over the phone, maybe explain that his tyres locked up, nothing else.

He accepts the call and his heart drops.

The very first thing he hears is Max’s wheezing, broken voice. He was crying.

And suddenly there’s an influx of guilt and fear.

And then Max starts speaking.

He doesn’t understand, not at first.

Max is apologising and he sounds heartbroken and pained.

Charles gets the sickening feeling that this isn’t about the race.

“Max, what-”

But Max bulldozes on, and Charles is too shocked to speak. This is not the Max he knows.

“I swear, I swear I didn’t want it to be like this, I’m so sorry. I wish you could’ve had a better soulmate. Someone who you could actually love.”

Charles’ breath gets caught in his throat.

If Max is saying- if Max-

Oh god.

“Max-” He interrupts, scared now, really fucking scared but Max doesn’t seem to hear him, he just doesn’t stop and Charles needs him to, Charles really needs him to.

Max hangs up and the only thing Charles can feel is terror.

He doesn’t wait a moment longer, he takes off in a sprint towards the RedBull garage, towards Max. He’s never been more grateful for his strict training schedule.

Because Max sounded bad.

His soulmate- because that’s the only explanation for his panicked ramblings, shouldn’t ever sound like that.

Not whilst telling Charles about their mark.

And Max knew. He must’ve. He’d had no opportunity to see Charles’ mark any time recently and he made sure to keep it secret.

How long had he known? How long had he not told Charles?

It’s the rules, the weird, archaic rules of the universe, you tell your soulmate.  

And if you don’t…

Max had been deteriorating.

The thought is sharp and sudden and true.

Max had been slowly falling away, getting worse and worse and Charles had chalked it up to something more menial. Not this. Never this.

His own soulmate.

His Max.

And Charles wanted it, oh god he wanted it, but not like this. Never like this.

He doesn’t bother knocking, he just shoulders his way through the door.

He’s going to be sick.

He collapses to his knees next to Max, who’s laying on the floor shaking with stuttering breaths. He looks so much more pale than he’s meant to be, it’s horrifying.

Max’s eyes are closed.

He delicately presses two fingers to Max’s neck, like any touch will hurt him and he prays.

The heartbeat is there but it’s slow. Far too slow for even an athlete.

The water already building in his eyes threatens to spill as he takes in the rest of Max’s form.

He’s curled into a loose ball, hand clenched firmly over his side.

Charles knows what’s on that side. It’s on his side too.

He carefully lifts Max’s hand and the damn splinters apart.

It’s black and it’s his.

Max has his mark, Max is his soulmate.

And he’s dying.

He doesn’t think, he doesn’t have time to, he just acts.

He throws his jacket over Max’s bare torso, hoping to cover him up even just a little bit, maybe stop the shaking. Max gets hoisted up, cradled in his arms before he takes off in a sprint towards the medical centre.

He knows this will make headlines but he doesn’t care that’s his soulmate and they need to spend the rest of their lives together.

“I’m so sorry,” He whispers under his breath, muttering nonsensically to Max’s unconscious form as he runs.

“I’m so sorry. I’ll fix this, I promise. Hang on, Max, please.”

He kicks open the door and instantly there are eyes snapping to him, annoyed before morphing into shock.

Everything kicks into action quickly, a hoard of staff surround him leading him to a room and firing questions at him.

A man presses his fingers to Max’s neck in the very same way Charles had, “He’s breathing.”

He hates the fact that was ever in question.

“Do you know what happened?” Someone else asks, it takes him a moment to even realise he’s the one being asked.

He feels water build in his eyes as he whispers out, “Soulmark.”

Their eyes wince and he hates it. There has to be a way. There has to be.

He can’t let it end like this.

“Do you know who his soulmate is?” They question, and they’re all staring straight at him because obviously none of them know. Max wasn’t dating anyone, hadn’t for years. He’d never publicly had a soulmate.

Charles wishes he’d known earlier.

“Me.”

There are badly hidden gasps and eyes shooting up to look at him. His own despair is drawn all over his face.

“Were you aware?”

He shakes his head solemnly, the tears come, but they’re silent. They stop asking questions and push them both into a room, laying Max down on a bed and rushing to stick needles into him.

Charles gets pushed down into a chair next to him, he doesn’t even think before grabbing his hand and holding it, rubbing his thumb over the back.

The staff stands up looking ready to leave, but that can’t be right. It can’t be. Max isn’t fixed yet, he’s still pale and sick and dying. They’ve barely even done anything.

“Where are you going? What’s happening with Max?” He asks, it would be a demand if his voice wasn’t so fragile.

He wishes it was a demand.

That’s his soulmate, he refuses to let them slack on his treatment.

A doctor looks at him, pity in her eyes, “There isn’t much we can do in these situations, unfortunately. Our medicine isn’t stronger than the bond. The only thing we can do is wait, and see if the body responds.”

Charles’ arms are trembling. He hadn’t noticed before, it must’ve been the weight of carrying Max for so long. Or maybe the adrenaline come down, but he certainly didn’t feel like he was lacking adrenaline.

Maybe it was just fear.

He turns back to Max, barely registering the sound of the door shutting, leaving them alone.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers.

“Fuck,” His voice is choked, “I’m so sorry. You need to get better Max. You need to wake up and I can show you how much better I can be. Please. Whatever the issue is, we can fix it.”

He wishes he had more time, he wishes he knew.

There was so much to process and no time.

“You know,” He says, uselessly, because it’s not like Max can hear him, but saying it means something to him. It helps him sort out his own spiralling thoughts, at least, “I always made a point of not going anywhere near men. It just all felt… Too real. I cared too much. And that was bad. I felt like I was cheating on my soulmate.”

He moved his free hand over, resting it over Max’s mark. His soulmate’s mark.

“And, fuck, I guess I’ve only realised it now, but I think that may have been your fault, Max. I always thought I was just dedicated to the sport, and you were too. And you were good, still are. I thought I was just so focused on you because I admired your racecraft, and I wanted to use it to be better myself. But I don’t think that was all of it. Not now, anyway. There were a few times I thought about it. Us. But it felt so… deep, I didn’t dare think about it anymore, because that was exactly how I should be thinking about my soulmate.”

He sighs. Max stays as lifeless as ever.

“I-I don’t know why you kept this from me,” He tries very hard to keep his tears back but it’s so hard. Especially talking about this, “I.. could guess. I really don’t like any of my guesses, and I’m so sorry you felt like you needed to hide it. I promise, for the rest of our lives you never need to hide a thing from me. I will do anything to keep you happy and healthy. I’m going to take care of you. The moment you wake up, I’ll be by your side.”

He meant it.

Max would be lucky if he ever had a moment alone again.

“I love you, Max.” He says, and he feels lighter, “I think I always have.”

He presses a kiss to Max’s hand, settling into the chair. He’s prepared to stay for as long as necessary.

It’s a different kind of pain watching Max in that bed.

He hasn’t slept yet, it’s too difficult. The thought that he could wake up and Max would already be awake, having woken up alone, was too much.

The thought that he could wake up and Max wouldn’t.

He couldn’t deal with that.

The very same Max who he’d watched from the sidelines, subconsciously finding his traits in all of his partners, who he’d tried to distance himself from when they were younger because he felt so bad that he was thinking of another person like that when he had his own soulmate.

He hated himself for yelling at him.

Yelling at Max when he was so vulnerable, causing everything to collapse so badly.

Causing the black mark.

The death mark- as so many had coined it. Because people died. Their mark turned black and that was it. Max would get through it though. Charles must’ve reached him just after he lost consciousness. He had a chance.

Max would wake up.

And until then, Charles would keep talking to him, whispering apologies or telling him how much he loved him. He had to make sure Max knew, if the last words anyone had ever heard him speak were him apologising and saying how he wasn’t good enough for Charles, acting like his death would be a burden lifted for Charles, then Charles could never forgive himself.

Max was his soulmate, and he will never let someone speak badly about his soulmate.

Even if Max is the one he needs to stop.

There’s beeping.

It’s constant and it’s annoying.

It feels wrong, somehow. Out of place.

He feels out of place. Surrounded by darkness and this beeping.

He doesn’t want to be here.

Consciousness comes slowly, with it comes the inexplicable feeling of warmth.

It brings comfort, he’s not sure why. It feels nice enough though.

Something about it gives him the strength to twitch his eyes open, after who knows how long of darkness.

Instantly there's blinding light shooting into his face, he clenches his eyes shut again to avoid it, giving himself a moment more before daring to try again.

He’s in a hospital bed.

There’s an IV stuck into his arm and a clinical smell in the air and on his right-

Oh fuck.

Charles.

Clarity hits him suddenly, painfully, and he knows exactly why he’s here.

Charles has one hand intertwined with his own and the other resting over Max’s soulmark. It looks awkward, but somehow he’s fallen asleep like that. His resting looks uncomfortable too, he’s rigid in a chair, head pressed against his own shoulder. He’ll probably have some pretty serious neck pain once he wakes up.

The realisation that Charles knows settles over him like tar.

His shirt is ridden up so that Charles can have a hand on the skin itself, which means he’s seen it.

Seen the mark connecting them both.

His breath hitches, Charles is going to hate him. Charles already hates him, actually. But now he’ll have even more reason to.

Charles was never supposed to know, Max was supposed to die and he was supposed to die as Charles’ friend. He doesn’t have a plan for this.

He doesn’t think he could deal with Charles hating him, he really doesn’t.

Maybe he won’t? He’s still here after all, and Max is a little too hazy to think about that in depth but it has to mean something.

But no.

Even if, miraculously, Charles didn’t hate him yet, he would. Eventually, it would happen. Max had never been loveable.

Maybe he could leave now, escape before Charles woke up and he would never need to find out.

He can’t tell if running is the coward's way out or the only way to save himself.

Either way, his drug-addled brain takes the chance.

He tries to shuffle away just slightly but Charles is shooting awake instantly, wide eyes locking onto him.

Max tenses, suddenly feeling entirely exposed.

Charles’ entire body crumples.

“Max” He breathes, and it sounds like salvation. It’s so laced with relief he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

Max can’t even think about getting a word in before Charles is on him. Hands cupping his face, brushing all over him.

“Max, oh my god. Are you okay? Are you hurt? Do you want me to get someone for you? Non, don’t answer that, I’m calling the nurses anyway. I’m so sorry, Max. Please tell me you’re okay.”

The words spill out of him endlessly, matching his frantic movements.

Max lays completely still, frozen in awe.

“Max?” Charles asks, again., “Say something, please, baby.”

Against his will a bright blush covers his cheeks.

“Yeah, uhm. I’m- I’m fine.”

Charles looks partially relieved, yet also seems to not believe him one bit.

“Okay. Okay.” He reaches over and presses a button on the side of the bed. “The nurses will be here soon. I was meant to press that if- once you woke up.”

The slip of the tongue makes Max wince.

He should be dead.

It’s a surreal feeling, really. He was dying, he’d had months to come to terms with it and that still wasn’t enough.

He doesn’t feel the bone deep exhaustion like he’s meant to. Nor does he feel the constant, aching pain he’d gotten used to.

Charles had slumped back down on the chair next to him, now seemingly refusing to take his eyes off of Max, or remove his hands.

“Max,” He begins, and Max has never heard him sound more unsure of himself, “I… I just wanted to say, that I’m sorry.”

Max opened his mouth to protest immediately, but Charles cut him off.

“No. I- I really am, Max. I’m really fucking sorry Max, I wish you’d told me. Not that it’s your fault!” He hurriedly corrects himself, even though it is Max’s fault. All of it is Max’s fault.

“I- It’s just I wish I’d made you feel like you could trust me with that.”

Max looks at the ceiling, averting his gaze.

Charles very clearly feels guilty, he doesn’t need to apologise, but it’s nice anyway.

Max wonders when the shoe will drop. When Charles will say that he’s so sorry Max almost died, but he also doesn’t want to date Max.

He wants to wait a bit more, maybe see if he can get away with feeling loved a moment longer, but he knows it would be stupid.

At least if he takes a turn for the worst he’s already in a hospital.

Slowly, carefully he sits up. Charles is instantly there at his side, propping up pillows behind him.

His head feels slow, like it’s full of water. Nothing really registers like it’s meant to.

“I- uhm. Thank you, Charles. But, uh, you know you don’t need to stay with me, right?” he winces, rapidly continuing  before Charles can get a word in, “I know you’ve probably got your own stuff to do, and it can’t be nice just sitting here waiting for me. I’ll be fine, whether you stay or not. And…” He clasped his hands together, nerves taking control, “I’ll also be fine if you don’t want to do the whole soulmate thing. I know I’m not what you expected.”

His eyes are downcast as he says it, completely missing Charles’ hurt expression.

“Max,” He says, taking Max’s hands back into his own, “No. God, no. Never. You’re my soulmate, there could never be anyone more perfect. Of course I’m staying with you. Fuck, Max, I’m never going to leave your side again. You and me, always. I want everything. Whatever you’re willing to give, I want it.”

He sounds so sure of himself, not an ounce of doubt or shame and fuck, Max is just feeling so hopeful.

Maybe it’s whatever drugs he’s being pumped with, maybe it’s the way Charles is looking at him with those pleading, sincere eyes, or maybe it was that warmth flooding through his entire body, surrounding him in comfort.

“Really?” He asks, because surely it can’t be true, but he wants to try anyway.

Charles cups his face between his hands, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear, “Yes, mon cœur. Of course.”

The look Charles is giving him is the same one he saw back in karting.

They’d been 9, Max had come second, Charles first. Jos had yelled at Max loud enough for the entire trailer park to hear and pretend they weren’t eavesdropping in.

He’d been locked out of their trailer home in the cold the moment Jos finished.

Charles found where he was moping by the track, he’d wanted to talk about the race. He congratulated Max. Max got second and he was congratulated. He lost and yet Charles spent a good 15 minutes going over all their overtakes and just how perfect Max had been with positioning.

It was freezing in his ragged hoodie, yet with Charles he felt warm.

Charles has always been warm.

Even now, with his unfailing kindness and gentleness despite how torn up he seems by it all.

They stare at each other for a long moment, Max can feel the blush lighting up his cheeks.

“Can I kiss you?” Charles asks, sounding more hot and bothered than his face was letting on.

“Yeah,” Max breathes, entranced.

Charles leans forward, painfully slowly, giving Max every chance to back out.

Their lips meet and suddenly the warmth is back tenfold. Max melts into it, letting Charles guide the kiss.

They pull away for breath far too soon, Charles staring at him in awe.

“Fuck. I love you so much, Max.”

Max’s eyes shoot up to meet Charles’, they show no regret whatsoever.

Charles grins, leaning forward to plant another kiss on Max’s lips.

“So much.”

“I love you too, Charles.”

This is not the night Max had planned for himself, but he’s so glad this is how everything panned out.

There’s a gasp to his right, and Charles exclaims, “Max! Max! Holy shit! Look!”

He follows his eyes and oh.

Max’s shirt never got pulled down after Charles took his hand off, his mark is still on display.

Except it’s not black. It’s not even gray.

It’s a bright, colourful purple. On his hip.

A completed soulbond.

Max had hoped, god he’d hoped that he’d get one one day. But he’d never truly believed he would.

“It looks like a fastest sector,” he mutters. The purple was exactly the right colour.

Charles barks out a laugh, loud and unexpected, “I was going to say it looked like a mix of our colours, but I think I like that better.”

“That too,” Max agrees, “Probably the better comparison. I don’t think the soulbond was able to form very quickly.” Not after the months of hiding.

Charles pressed a firm kiss to his cheek, “Nothing wrong with it taking a little longer to marinate. Just, you know. Never ever do that again, please. I want to know everything.”

“Everything?”

“Everything. There’s not a single detail about you that I want to miss, I don’t care how mundane it might be. I have to know you the best, prove to everyone that I’m good enough for my perfect soulmate.”

“Shut up,” Max muttered, smile growing fast.

“Charles, really, I’m fine,” Max insists.

Charles just scoffs, keeping his hands firmly around Max as he helps him into the Ferrari, “And? I’m helping you anyway. I’m not taking any risks with you.”

Max sighs, secretly enjoying it all.

Charles has very suddenly become insanely protective over Max since he realised they were soulmates. It was overwhelming at first, but privately it makes him feel a little warm and cared for.

Charles had promised him he would do anything for Max.

Max is beginning to realise he was dead serious about that.

He still isn’t sure how to feel about Charles trying to buckle him into the damn car, like Max didn’t have hands. He supposes it’s sweet, and right now he’s too high on meds to stop him.

Charles is smiling to himself as he does it too, so at the very least it’s making him happy.

“So,” Charles says slowly as he drives them towards the airport. Max hates whenever he starts a sentence like this, it always sounds menacing. “I’ve been thinking…” He continues, entirely ominously.

“Yeah?” Max prompts, because Charles really isn’t getting anywhere like this.

“We’re soulmates. And now that we’re dating- are we dating?” he cuts himself off, “I don’t want to rush you into anything. Whatever you’re happy with right now is fine by me, don’t even worry about it. Um, but if you did? If you did want to, I would love to take you on a date? Only if you want to though, of course.” Charles says, and it’s probably the least smooth Max has ever seen him.

It makes him laugh a little, which then, of course, makes Charles turn to stare at him with big, enamoured eyes instead of the damn road, because for some reason he couldn’t get enough of Max’s laugh.

He says it’s because it sounds pretty. Max knows, with a sliver of guilt, that Charles is just happy that Max is alive and well enough to laugh.

“Road, Charles. Before you crash. And I would like that very much- to date, I mean. And to go on a date with you.”

Charles turns his eyes back to the road with a massive grin, tapping at the wheel with barely contained excitement.

It was sweet, and also clearly not the point of whatever conversation he had started.

“So… What were you going to stay earlier?” He prompts.

“Oh! Right! Um, so as I was saying, we’re soulmates and we’re dating,” His voice jumps as he says it and his smile grows just a little, “And I was thinking that maybe… Maybe you should move in with me? Or I could move in with you! Or we could get a new place together! I don’t mind, of course. I would just really like to be with you, especially as you’re still recovering and I would hate for you to be alone during that. I want to take care of you. If you want.”

He’s not sure Charles breathed at all during that.

The warm feeling that is slowly starting to become familiar spread over his body. The doctors said that he should be able to start feeling some of Charles’ emotions through their bond soon too. Apparently it just takes a little longer to come after all the time spent not connecting the bond.

He reaches a hand over, grasping the one resting between them, “I would love to, Charles.”

Charles’ shoulders drop, his smile gets somehow even more beaming, “Really? Perfect! Oh, I can’t wait. It’s going to be so great, Max. Trust me.”

Max smiles, dropping his head against the passenger window. He was so grateful to have Charles. He still couldn’t believe it was actually happening, that Charles hadn’t outcasted him the moment he found out.

Charles had majorly freaked out the moment Max mentioned it, and then freaked even more once Max started talking about why he did everything.

He’s pretty sure Charles has put impossibly more effort into loving him since then.

He’s just too perfect.

He gets broken from his musings by a bunched up jumper getting handed to him.

“Here,” Charles says, arm outreached, waiting for him to take it.

“Oh, thanks, but you can keep it. I’m not that cold.”

“For your head, chéri. So you can go to sleep.” 

Oh.

That made more sense. His meds made him far too tired far too quickly, he was very much already in the process of drifting off.

With the car’s rumble, Charles' hand in his, and the feeling of rightness that came with having his soulmate with him, Max’s eyes flutter close quickly.

He’s pretty sure he felt Charles pressing a kiss to his hand before he drifted off.

He doesn’t even remember going back to his own apartment, he’s actually pretty sure he never did.

One day he just woke up, and he was in their apartment. Charles’, technically, but now it’s theirs.

The cats were running around with Leo, Max had his own trophy wall right next to Charles’, even if he still kept his World Championship trophy on his mini fridge in his streaming room.

If his chat wanted to know why he suddenly had a piano in the background of his streams, that was none of their business.

Things were hazy at first. He spent most of his time asleep, usually with Charles’ hands wrapped around him, fingers digging in just to check he’s still there.

He always found some way to stay around Max in the first few weeks. Either sat next to him in bed, balancing his laptop on one thigh so Max could use the other as a pillow, or just moving his desk around so he could watch Max sleep on the couch as he took work calls.

It was stupidly sweet. Max was stupidly lucky.

He can’t believe he gets all of this now. 

It all feels so right. Like he’s spent his entire life on the move, and now he’s finally come home and he can just melt.

It’s perfect.

Charles knows for certain that he hasn’t yet managed to ingrain into Max’s head just how much he loves him. He knows those insecurities run deep- and he’s pretty sure he knows who to blame too.

Either way, he’s going to beat them down into dust no matter how long it takes, because his soulmate should never feel self conscious.

It hurts like a knife to the chest when they finally sit down and actually talk about why Max kept it all a secret.

The thought that Max thinks so little of himself that he was willing to die before he was willing to believe that Charles would love him, or hell, that Charles would not hate him is one that keeps him up at night.

One too many times he’s pulled Max onto his chest pressing kisses to the tufts of hair just to check he’s still there.

He loathes the thought that Max has to be on meds, but still, he’s grateful for them every time they send Max to bed early, and Charles gets to keep an eye on him for just a little longer without Max getting flushed at all the staring and moving rooms.

Leo must’ve picked up on his stress, or maybe he just cares about Max as much as Charles, because he always makes sure to follow Max into whatever room he goes to and bother his way onto Max’s lap.

The cats are coming around to the thought of sharing their space with him too. Jimmy dared to sit next to him when Max wasn’t an option, Sassy sat on Max’s lap whilst he was sat on Charles’ lap. He was stared at the entire time, he still can’t figure out if it was assessing or glaring.

“Are you okay?” Charles practically yells, running so fast his socks make him skid across the doorway.

Max moves his headset back, “Yeah? Why wouldn’t I be, is everything okay?”

“What- But- Are you sure?” Charles asks, still looking far too concerned.

“Yes? Charlie, what is this?”

“But- the bond. You felt upset through the bond, why were you upset? Do you want anything?” 

Oh.

That makes a bit more sense.

The bond had finally started allowing emotions to slip through, except clearly it needed some more time to regulate so Charles didn’t think Max was dying every time he got mildly annoyed.

“My Fifa pack was bad. I spent like 20 real euros and it was shit. That’s why I was upset, nothing else. And I was barely even upset.”

“Oh.” Charles says, blinking. “Oh okay, so nothing else then?”

Max grins. He can’t believe he ever thought Charles wouldn’t care about him, considering he spends every waking second being as attentive as possible. “No. Nothing else. But thank you for checking in.”

Charles looks relieved, “Ok. Good. Do you want anything anyway?”

“Cuddle on the couch?”

“Fuck, I love you so much.”

“Max? Baby, what are you doing?” Charles asks carefully.

“Packing?” Max says, like it’s obvious.

Which, yeah, it’s obvious. There’s a suitcase on the ground and he’s piling clothes into it. But he shouldn’t be.

“Why?” He asks slowly.

Max hit him with an unimpressed look, “The race? In a couple of days?”

Charles fiddles with his hands, thinking up the best way to say this, “Max, love, I thought you weren’t going to be racing this weekend? You’re still not at your best.”

“Well yeah, but I’m coming to watch you,” His voice turns a lot more unsure suddenly, “Unless… You don’t want me there? I can stay here. If you want.”

He looks downcast and Charles hates it.

“No no no!” He rushes to correct, “I would love for you to be there, of course. I just… I’m not sure it’s the best idea? For you? The planes and the travel and the jetlag, and then staying in a room that isn’t our own. That would be a lot of stress, no?”

Max pouts- which he insists he doesn’t do, “I’d be okay. I just really want to be there. I don’t like being away from the track for too long. I feel better, anyway.”

Charles wishes he could make it work, he really does. “What about when I’m racing? What if something happens and you need me, but I’m in the car and I can’t answer any texts or calls. Do you even plan to stay in the hotel room? Actually, if you came to the paddock you could stay in my driver’s room and then people at Ferrari could help. Maybe I could get Joris or Andrea to stay with you or something…” He’s just thinking out loud at this point, but it makes Max snort.

“Charles, I'm not going anywhere near that awful red.” Charles cannot believe the audacity to say that whilst wearing his Ferrari hoodie, “And I don’t want to be asked questions anyway, I’ll stay at the hotel. If anything goes wrong- which it won’t- I have the entire RedBull garage willing to help me. I can probably convince Laurent to get one or two of them to stay with me if it would help soothe your worries.”

He forgets that Max basically has an army on standby at any given moment, it works in his favour now.

“Baby are you sure you’ll be okay? I don’t want to take any risks.”

“Schat, I’ll be more than okay. And you can come home to me in the evenings.”

Max goes to the race.

Charles wins, and it’s only because the faster he finished, the faster he could go back to the hotel and to his soulmate.

“Max? Where are you?” Charles calls, kicking the door shut behind him before Leo can try and make his big escape again.

“In here,” Max yells, sending Charles off to the living room.

He almost melts when he walks in to see Max curled into a ball on the couch, surrounded by cats and pillows and blankets.

“Oh, you’re so cute, baby.” He coos, watching Max both blush and frown at the affection.

“I’m not cute, I’m a fully grown man.” He grumbles.

“A fully grown cute man, you look so perfect, chéri.”

Max groans loud enough to scare off Donut, which then causes a chain reaction to scare every pet away into the next room.

Charles ignores it, collapsing down onto the couch next to Max, “I bought you a little something today.”

“Charles,” Max scolds, “You have to stop spending money on me.”

He snorts, “Amour, I’m a millionaire. I can spend money where I want to. If I look like I’m losing too much I’ll get my manager to talk to Vogue or something.”

Max only sighs. He’s thrilled his boyfriend and soulmate is attractive enough to be on Vogue's front cover and important enough to be able to do it on his own terms. He just wishes he were a bit more careful with money sometimes.

Charles grabs a bag, Max stills as he realises it’s from Cartier.

He’s presented with a little red box and Charles is grinning like a lunatic.

“Open it!” He urges.

Max does and gasps. He’s not into fashion, he never knows the latest trends, he doesn’t really care about branding, but still. He knows that right now he’s staring at the infamous Cartier love bracelet.

And it’s engraved.

“Can I put it on you?” Charles asks, gorgeous, hopeful eyes beaming so bright.

“Yeah,” Max says, a little breathlessly.

Charles beams brighter, placing the two halves together, hiding the 

Amore mio, per sempre- CL

From prying eyes.

He screws it firmly in place, pressing a kiss to the back of Max’s hand when he’s done.

“There. Now you’ll always be mine.”

Max laughs, ignoring the water in his eyes and launches himself at Charles, brushing one hand into his hair and kissing him hard.

Charles reciprocates with equal fervour, but both of them have smiles pushing at their lips, not allowing for a proper kiss.

Max doesn’t care. He gets to have Charles forever.

His Soulmate.