Archive of Our Own

Dedicated to Tina. Thank you for constantly dealing with my fic yapping, for giving me the idea for one of the scenes here, and for being the backbone of several people's lives, including mine.

*

“Can I drive?” Lando claps his hands excitedly.

Max and Charles walk to the bickering duo so loud they could wake a dead man. Max’s hands are occupied with a huge bag of Charles, with a snowboard and skis on top of the older’s shoulder, and a backpack on his back.

He wouldn’t let Charlie carry such heavy stuff, you know.

“Absolutely not.” He joins the conversation as he comes close without even saying hi. “Oscar’s driving.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Lando pouts. 

“Hey, guys!” Charles smiles at them, red and white scarf around his neck, sunglasses on his eyes, holding only the dog leash.

“You never have to change lightbulbs in your turn signals, because you don’t even know how to turn them on.” Max organises the SUV's trunk so everything fits. 

“…That’s not true. I know where they are.”

“Then why don’t you use them, huh?”

“That was once.” Lando defends himself as he kneels before Léo and Nino, then starts petting them. “I do use them normally.”

Max helps Oscar put the ski and snowboard into the storage.  

“Whatever you say then.”

“Osc.” Lando turns to him, irritated. “Why don’t you say something, my dearest best friend?”

“Leave him be, Max.” Oscar locks the plastic box, speaking almost absent-mindedly. “Or we’ll never hear the end of it.”

Valid, when Max thinks about it.

“Thank- wait.” Lando frowns. “That’s so not fair. The trip hasn’t even started yet, and you are already bullying me.”

“C’mon, guys, talk the talk later,” Charles says as he picks up Léo, “someone’s paws are freezing over here.”

“You shouldn’t spoil him as much,” Max notes.

“…I meant myself.”

The oldest can barely contain the smile on his face. “Oh.”

“You know,” Oscar speaks to Lando to calm the moodiness down, “a good driver needs a good DJ. And DJs always ride shotgun. Let’s go.”

Max opens the door for Charles to get in. He does, not without their hands brushing against each other.

As they all sit inside, the gentle quiver of the engine resonates in the interior of the car.

“A new baby, huh?”

Max leans towards Charles, who widens his eyes. He blinks, shocked, ready to push Max away.

“Yeah.” Oscar agrees. “Straight out of a salon.”

“Why Škoda?”

Max’s gaze lingers on Charles’s lips, for a split second, or maybe for way longer. Who knows. Who counts.

“Reliable. Good price.” Oscar shrugs as he shifts into Drive.

“I have good experience with them as well.”

Max fastens the seatbelt. Charles shakes his head at him.

The tyres move on the asphalt.

This is going to be something, Max thinks.

“We could try rally sometimes, Oscar,” Lando says in the front. “You would drive, and I would navigate.”

“It would fit when you cannot seem to shut up.” Max pets Nino and Léo, who settled into the middle seat, safely tucked in with seatbelts.

Lando clutches his pearls. “That was mean.”

“Mean or honest?”

“Sure, Lan, we could,” Oscar says, paying attention to the road.

“Right? We would be so good at it!”

“Of course, we would.”

“Don’t you keep mixing up left and right?” Max tries to get on Lando’s nerves.

It’s successful.

“And you have dyslexia?” Charles adds fuel to the fire.

Oh, he taught him so well.

Lando shifts his knees to the door, dramatically. “You were really searching for each other until you found each other.”

Max exchanges a glance with Charles, whose cheeks heat up.

First time in the car, where he doesn’t want to argue with Lando.

Charles leans against the door, turned to the window, as they leave Monaco. His hand keeps petting his best friend, who sits calmly next to Nino. Max watches a better scenery, though, the best he could have, while the conversation of the men sitting in front of them unravels into a discussion he doesn’t want to be part of.

“You’re all against me...” Lando pouts. “Next time I’m going in my own car.”

Max rolls his eyes at the dramatics.

“It’s so easy to laugh at you when you’re so reactive.”

“You know we love you.” Charles’s knee touches his.  

Max raises his eyebrows at him: Do we?

Charles repeats it: yes, we do, Max.

Lando doesn’t say anything. And it doesn’t take Max long to find out the younger has fallen asleep.

“Max, that was mean,” Oscar speaks up quietly, not to wake the man up.

“Oscar, you know I didn’t mean it that way. We’re just joking around.”

Oscar sighs. “I know, I know. But you know Lan.”

“Okay, sure, I’ll apologise,” Max notes. Oscar adds something, probably, but the way Charles’s lips curl upwards takes all his attention.

It, for sure, is going to be a long way.

*

They stop the car after a couple of hours on the road. Max takes out Nino and Léo and puts them on the ground.

“C’mon, guys. Pee.”

“Okay,” Lando mumbles as he sleepily waddles out of the car. Charles and Max chuckle while the younger duo makes their way to the gas station.

The hustle of the cars on the highway a few meters away from them fills the space, as the dogs shiver in the relatively cold wind. Léo closes his eyes, unhappy about how his hair flows, definitely not in the mood to be here instead of the heated interior of the car.

Because obviously Oscar turned on the seat heater for the doggies, too, what a gentleman.

Max scans their surroundings, but barely anyone is at the gas station. Two people are standing by the door, smoking or vaping underneath the awning, curled up in their coats, and a man is paying inside. It’s refreshing to be unrecognised.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Max notes after a minute or two. “Is something bothering you?”

Charles leans against the car door, lost in his mind, it appears. “I didn’t want to wake Lando up. And now I don’t know what to say.”

If Charles is anything like Max right now, he would rather do something else with his mouth than speak.  

“You’re so considerate.” Max stands next to him. Innocently.

Charles pushes a strand of hair out of his eye. The leashes pull in the older’s hand, but their eye contact stays.

“Standing so close…” Charles’s smirk tugs on the corner of his mouth, “someone may get the wrong idea about us.”

“Wrong idea?” Max asks. “What would that be?”

His second hand brushes against the seams on the outer side of Charles’s thigh, on the side close to the car. Charles tilts his head, though.

“Max… you know what he spoke about before coming here…”

“I do.” Max tips his head towards him to whisper. “You’re not pulling away, though.”

“You’re saying that as if you were happier if I did.”

Max’s eyes drop onto his lips. Then comes back up.

It’s sinister. Teasing.

No one moves a muscle. The goosebumps arising on their skins aren’t from cold anymore.

“Do I look like I’d be?”

Max’s self-control is wearing thin like planks in Singapore. His mind fills with everything he would want to do to Charles, right here, in the car with the dark-tinted windows – he would do such even in public, but Charles is too precious for everyone to see him in the light that Max can. How he would bend him over and spread-

“No, you don’t.” Charles turns to face him. “You look like you want to fuck me.”

Damn, is he really so readable-

“Too bad you can’t.” He smiles sweetly, as if he were receiving a compliment.

Then he does a little spin, not without his hip skimming the bulge in Max’s pants. The older’s breath gets stuck in his airway at the sudden yet welcomed contact, and before he manages to get a grip, Charles bends down. Right in front of him.

Lord. Dear Lord.

Max squeezes the leashes as he cannot stop staring, lips parting, arousal spiking. He’s making his own life harder – not the only thing that is harder right now – but he cannot stop himself.

Charles stands up straight, then, with a pup in hand. He pecks his small forehead and then climbs back into the SUV without even looking at Max.

The older breathes out.

“Your friend’s dad is making me going to lose my marbles.” He notes to Nino, who tilts his head cutely. “Done?”

When Oscar comes to the car, Max lets his best friend in and fastens his seatbelt. He looks at Charles, who is successfully ignoring him, then leans against the headrest, semihard still, as he cannot pull away from the moment from a couple of seconds ago.

“So what did I miss?” Lando asks upon his return.

Max smiles for himself.

“Nothing really.” Oscar turns the steering wheel. “Open the glove compartment, though.”

Lando pulls on the latch. “Oh my god!” His eyes light up. “Osc! You’re the best! Thank you!”

Max puts his hand next to Charles, in between the dogs, who have now closed their eyes. He tucks his imaginary hair back as he keeps thinking about how to catch the latter’s attention, tease him even, without the papayas seeing them.

“Char-”

“Max?” Oscar raises his eyebrows. “Isn’t there something you wanted to say to Lando?”

Charles’ eyes finally find Max’s. The older sighs, telepathically asking if he really has to.

“Yeah?” Lando puts the foil away from the Kinder Egg, surprise on his face.

“I wanted to say I am sorry for the sarcastic remarks.”

“Oh…” Lando wipes the corners of his mouth. “Thank you, Max. That’s… nice.”

“Yeah, no worries.” Max takes his phone. Someone’s breath tickles his ear all of a sudden, though.

“Didn’t you tell me you bent to no one? Not even to me?” Charles teases him. “And then you bow to Oscar so submissively?”

Max will kiss him. Max will absolutely throw away all his inhibitions and kiss and bite the fuck out of Charles, and that is a threat.

“Charles.”

“What, Max?” Charles unzips his sweatshirt a little, revealing the glimmer of his collarbones. “Am I not right?”

Max will explode. God, he wants him.

He agrees with Lando again – they are all taking their own cars next year – because he wants to show that beauty in front of him his place. Shut him up-

“You doing good over there?” Lando turns his neck to the backseats.

Charles’ body twitches. He moves away from Max.

Fucking hell, Lando.

“Shush, doggies are sleeping.” Max whisper-shouts.

“Oh, shoot, sorry.” Lando lowers his tone significantly. “They are so cute, I love them, little sausages.”

“Stuff your mouth with,” Oscar’s little sausage, “the Kinder Egg,” Charles orders him.  

Lando bites into the chocolate. “There must be some Redbull and Ferrari seminars on how to ruin fun.”

“Yeah, we go to a special training on how to handle having papaya men in our asses, George leads it actually.” Max snickers. Although you probably attend these too, when Oscar looks at you like that.

Lando fusses. Oscar looks at Max through the mirror.

Fucking papayas. Cockblocking fruits.

He needs to arrive at the hotel. Box, box.

*

"Hey, Charles?" A muffled voice comes to his ears.

"Yes?" 

"Have you seen Max?" 

Charles closes his eyes, grimacing, not in the mood or capacity to answer questions. His head thuds against the bedpost, frustrated at Yuki's voice. 

"No." 

"Okay, thanks." 

Zipper purrs in the room. Charles swallows the saliva collected in his mouth, his fingers curling at the ruffling sheets. He lifts his head, and his eyes with it.

"Why does everybody need you?" He whispers as a precaution. "Isn't it enough that you carry RedBull to the Championship as a one-man team?" 

Max chuckles, the confidence of a man who’s about to eat on full display. "Does everybody include you?" 

Charles frowns, too proud to say it aloud. He crosses his arms. 

"Oh, c'mon, prince." Max lowers his voice by an octave, teasing. "Did you get mad?" 

Charles stays still, doesn’t spare him even a glance. 

"If I am a prince, then you should do what I want."  

Max comes up, still mischievous. His finger hints at the red hem of his panties "Really? And what is that, your grace?" 

Charles smells Max's cologne on his skin. He closes his eyes, basking in it, suddenly feeling tiny below the man of Max's frame. He spreads his legs.  

"I want-" 

Another knock interrupts him. 

"Charles?" 

The man rolls his eyes. Can he please be dicked down in peace, God-

"We can't find Léo." 

He pushes Max away and barely remembers to put his t-shirt back on, sex all forgotten. "What do you mean," he unlocks the door, "you cannot find Léo?!" 

“He was in the living room.” Oscar clarifies. “And now he’s not there.”

“Like you let him out?!” He sprints to the living area. “Léo! Baby!” He calls out to him.

“We didn’t!” Lando protests. “Every door is closed-,”

“Shut up, merde.” Charles belts at the orange duo. “Léo! Bébé!”

Two pupils bigger than his entire head pop up from behind the coffee table. Charles sprints towards him, then takes him in his arms.

“Mon chéri.” He pets him and throws a stern look McTwinks’ way, heart still beating out of his chest. “You…”

“We’re sorry.” Lando apologises for them both. “We kept calling his name, but he didn’t come out…”

Charles scratches Léo’s coat behind his ears, placing a peck on that empty space where his brain is supposed to be. He turns around and walks to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him to make a point.

“Is he okay?” Max asks tentatively.

“Have I said,” Charles sits on the bed, so relieved, “how fucking tired I am of those papaya bastards?”

“What happened?”

“Nothing.” Charles puts his hands underneath the pup’s armpits and looks at his baby. “Thank God that nothing happened. Because I would kill them.”

“That’s good.”

Léo wags his tail. He licks his mouth, happy to be in Dad’s hold.

“Such a good boy.”

Both boys turn to look at Max with a pleasant and hopeful curiosity.

Max starts giggling at the resemblance between the dog and its owner.

“Both of you, I mean.”

“Fuck you.” Charles retorts as he rolls his eyes.

And as the seconds keep piling up, both realise that the mood is... gone.

*

29^th Dec

“Ready to hit the mountains, guys?” Pierre asks the table as he puts a plate in front of Max.

“Sure thing.” Max hands the plate to Charles. Then passes him salt and pepper and puts a piece of bread next to the scrambled eggs.

“Thank you,” Charles prolongs the last word in the fashion that tugs on Max’s heart every time, and then his knee taps Max’s underneath the table.

Max’s eyes come across George and Alex eating, barely exchanging a word the moment they sat next to each other. He remembers times when they fed each other in that disgusting couple-y ways that make you want to throw up. Guess two years together changes your habits.

Pierre puts another plate in front of Max, which he keeps. He puts ketchup on it, to which Charles frowns.

“How can you eat it like a barbarian?”

Max shovels a bit of the mix onto the top of the bread slice. Then dips it into the ketchup.

“I am not as poised as you.”

“Yeah, one can see that,” Charles responds, but chuckles. “At least you’re cute while you do it.”

George raises his head from his breakfast. His eyes switch from Max to Charles, telepathically sending question marks to the men opposite him. And he isn’t the only one, as the air molecules appear to stop.

Charles continues to eat, as if he didn’t just compliment Max, hoping that everyone can forget that happened.

But Max will never forget. He feels like a teenage girl when her crush glances her way, kicking his feet and jumping in the air.

“It’s so delicious,” he changes the subject.

“Yes, it’s incredible,” Pierre compliments Yuki’s cooking, when Oscar comes to the kitchen.

“Where did you leave the other papaya?” George resumes his breakfast.

“Lan doesn’t feel too well,” Oscar takes a plate.

“His ordinary stuff or…?”

“Ordinary stuff.”

“Poor dude,” Yuki says. “If I were so limited in what I eat, I would throw myself off a cliff.”

Oscar nods. “Yeah… I wish I could help him, y’know… but there isn’t much.”

“Hopefully it’s going to get better soon,” Max says.

“Do you think he will go skiing with us today?” Yuki turns the stove off.

“We will see.” Oscar starts eating.

Max takes a napkin. He brings his chin with Charles’ index and middle finger to his direction, which earns him raised eyebrows from the younger. Charles’s eyes follow the trajectory of Max’s hands.

He wipes the corner of his mouth, where a bit of pepper has stayed.

It’s not intimate. At all.

The cutlery of the group rings against the plates – it’s the only reminder that the bubble they have created is unreal. Max’s world stops spinning for a while as they keep staring into each other’s eyes, with Max’s arm on the top of Charles’s chair.

“Thanks, Max.”

“No problem.”

Totally normal. Nothing more than just a friendly wipe of the corners of his mouth. He definitely didn’t dream of using his own lips instead of the tissue.

No one notices the energy shift – or if they do, they don’t acknowledge it aloud, not even George’s yapping mouth. Charles seems to have moved on from the moment, as he dives into his breakfast again, but Max cannot, when he’s pining for another second of closeness.

He hates that they didn’t get to fuck last night.

“Lando, good that you’re here,” Max speaks up, which ultimately leads every head to turn to him. “Yuki made scrambled eggs. You want some?”

“No, thanks, I am not hungry,” he replies. “But I am sure they are delicious.”

“Yeah, no worries, dude.” Yuki sends him a sympathetic look.

“So, when are we leaving to go to the slope?” Max asks the table.

“10 minutes?” George looks at his watch.

“10 minutes?!” Charles clutches his pearls, as if he just called him a slur. “I haven’t gotten ready yet.”

“You’re already so stunning, you don’t need anything else.” Max compliments him, putting their – Charles’ and his own – plate into the dishwasher.

“Yeah, I know, but skin cancer doesn’t really see my beauty as a protection.”

George rolls his eyes at the two. “You are ready, babe, right?”

“Ready as ever.” Alex gets up. Yuki and Pierre also do, clearing the table.

“I’m going to join you later, guys,” Lando says, as he takes a glass and fills it with water.

“Yeah, me too,” Oscar says. “I wanna call my parents.”

Everyone knows that is not the reason. They start to gather their things, feeling ready for the mountains. Yuki brushes his teeth while Charles puts on sunscreen, smearing some on Max too, because he cannot get sunburned either (Max couldn’t give a bigger shit through the excitement). George and Alex put their jackets on and then take each other’s hands as they’re first out of the door, not waiting those 10 minutes, when no one really cares about deadlines and set times.

It’s a vacation after all.

Max pushes Charles’s foot inside the ski boot. He clicks the latches. “Feeling good?”

Charles puts his gloves on. “Can you tighten it better?”

Max does.

“Thank you.” He gives one of his signature smiles to Max, who looks around the hall, studying to see if there are no sets of prying eyes.

Then leans in for a kiss.

“Max…” Charles’ tone hints at a minor reprimand.

“No one is here, c’mon.”

Charles hits his shoulder as lightly as a feather, as if his lips don’t love the attention they are getting.

“Please.”

Charles sighs. He wants to give in hard, but-

“Max, not here.”

“Okay, then…” Max zips Charles’ jacket, a bit sad he didn’t manage to steal a peck. Then hides Charles’ ears underneath his balaclava.

“You got everything?” He raises his voice’s volume to normal, as if nothing happened since… nothing happened.

“I think so. You have the ski passes in your wallet, right?”

Max nods.

“And… our ski pass?” Charles lowers his voice, emphasising the word.

“Charlie…” Max arches one of his brows. “You know how cold it is out there, right?”

“I mean, the restaurant on the top has bathrooms, right?”

“Really?” Max smiles.

“Well, since you’re so important,” Charles gets up and takes his skis, “and everyone keeps interrupting us here, I am afraid we don’t have any other option.”

Max taps his butt, once, twice.

“Okay, then.” He takes the ski, impatient like a child. “Can’t wait then.”

As soon as they leave the dammed cabin, their ways separate…

*

“Hello, I am sorry, are you Charles Leclerc?”

Charles turns around as he stands next to the cableway house at the top, shivering beneath his jacket. There are two women with skis in hand, one shorter, one taller.

“Yes, yes, I am.”

The taller, blonde woman in a burgundy jacket, visibly stunned to have met her, probably, favourite driver, gives him a nervous, genuine smile.

“Can I have a picture, please?” She asks politely. Her question is rounded with an accent he cannot quite place – probably slightly Eastern European?

“Sure.”

She hands the shorter one her phone and stands next to Charles, both posing for the photo.

“Thank you so much. And good luck with the upcoming season.”

Charles thanks her back. And as they leave, it dawns on him.

Anyone could spot them. They are fucking celebrities, for fuck’s sake.

Are you sure that they would? There isn’t going to be anyone else in the stall with them.

He takes out his phone.

Really, Charles? Are you going to give up that easily? Imagine Max’s dick-

He opens the messages under Max’s name.

Charles, please, Max would make you feel so good with his fingers inside-

‘The bathroom was a bad idea. We gotta find a different way’

The grey bubble appears on the screen. He scans his surroundings to see if there isn’t a set of curious eyes over his shoulder.

‘Noted’

‘Can’t wait for you tho’

Charles smiles sheepishly.

‘Me neither’

‘If we see McGays outside, maybe the cabin is empty’

‘I’ll be on the lookout for them then’

‘Same’

Charles puts the phone into his jacket pocket, frustration bubbling under his skin, hopeful about a notification popping up on his watch.

What a wasted opportunity.

*

Charles fixes his bra strap, then throws a look at his reflection in the mirror.

Wearing nothing but his underwear, the black colour greatly accentuates his golden tan. The skin of his chest and hints of nipples shine through, as the bra with thin straps has cups that are just lace. It clips on the front – Max’s preference. The panties are in the same style, seamless, with the hem ending underneath the budge of his belly, barely covering anything in the front and definitely nothing in the back.

Max will absolutely love it. Stare at him as if Charles were divine. And then whisper all the praise that comes to his mind, while fucking him.

Gosh, he cannot wait to be wanted.

…he just hopes that the hair won’t be a problem. If he hadn’t done everything in such a hurry, maybe he would have packed the razor with him. But no, he’s a stupid, stupid idiot, who makes mistakes this trivial and then-

Three knocks ring in the room.  

Charles’ smile appears on his face. He puts his t-shirt and sweatpants on, as if he didn't drape himself in hundreds of Euros worth of lingerie, as if he didn’t care how the latter saw him, and hops to the door in thirst crawling underneath his skin, the insoles of his feet tapping on the hardwood floor. He takes his sweet time, though.

“Who is this?” He acts like a fool, wrapping a strand of hair around his finger.

“Charles…” The man behind the wood admonishes him in a low tone. The hair on the nape of Charles’s neck stands up.

Yeah, I bet you cannot wait to fuck me.

“No, Charles definitely cannot be behind the door when that’s me.” Charles keeps control of the situation in his hands; maybe the older is the top, but Charles’s grip on the reins never falters.

The other man snorts confidently and authoritatively, and Charles’s breath shudders.

“Prince, you know who it is.”

“Oh, do I?” Charles keeps stretching the time like a bowstring. “Perhaps I don’t. And perhaps you’re a stranger.” He leans his back against the door.

“And I was taught not to open the door for strangers.”

“I am not.”

“That’s exactly what one would say.” He responds lowly, his voice a liquid desire. “If you’re not… say three things you like about me.”

There are a couple of beats of silence on the other side. Charles’s bottom lip gets stuck between his teeth, thrill running deep in his veins. He wants to savour it, enjoy it, bask in it.

He wants the latter to earn the right to Charles’ body.

“First,” the man jumps on Charles’ game – as always, “it’s the way you push me to the finish line.”

Oh, yes.

“Secondly,” he adds, and his words are as thick as a spoon of honey, “I love the way you milk the absolute best out of me.”

Charles smirks. His stomach tightens around itself.

“...And the last one?” He raises his voice.

“Last one…” The man pauses, which tethers Charles to the edge. The silence starts sparking like electricity around him, pressing into his lower belly, until he’s just pure excitement. 

“…Thirdly,” he speaks lowly, articulating every word to be heard clearly by the latter’s delicate ears, “I absolutely love the curves. The rear wing. The roar of the engine.”

The door opens. Max’s eyes collide with Charles’.

“Are we talking about racing now?”

Max is leaning against the doorframe, which carves the line below his bicep into his skin. The black collar of his t-shirt is wrapped tightly around the base of his neck, and the chandelier throws shadows onto his thick nose, which is Charles’ favourite saddle.

And then there is the stormy gaze. It freezes every molecule of Charles’ body.

Deadly. Gripping. Intense.

“Is it important?” Max stands up straight. The darkness of his pupils pulls Charles into a land where the line between hell and heaven blurs. “Can’t it be both?”

The deep groan-y tone itches Charles to drop onto his knees and give his body and sins for the fellow racer to handle. It is Max’s hand that he would let wrap around his soul, his arms he would let carry him to death itself, his fingertips that he would let float through him until there isn’t an inch of skin that wouldn’t whisper Max’s name.

“Can I come in?”

Max asks, respectful in all the right ways and disrespectful in all the rightest ones.

“Only if your intentions are as dirty as the air behind my Ferrari.”

Max steps inside. The door locks behind him.

“How would I know...” The air around them is too heavy for them to gulp down into their lungs. Max’s gaze keeps the thrill in Charles’s bones, intensifying the adrenaline coursing through his veins. “... when it’s been a while since I was in that.”

Charles’s jaw tightens.

“Beware of your tongue, Mr Verstappen.” Charles raises his head, never backing down. “Or you will not be in anything.”

Max crosses his arms on his chest, his tongue wetting his own lower lip. His step makes the floor underneath him vibrate, and such reaches Charles’s core.

“Still talking about racing?”

“Of course.” Charles’s lip twitches innocently and devilishly at the same time. “Or did we get away from it, Mr Verstappen?”

Max shortens the distance between them. His body grows taller, towering, ready to conquer, and Charles’s pores have no choice but to raise into goosebumps. The quiet dominance under kicks Charles’s knees, his brain whispering to him to let go and obey.

Charles tilts his head instead, feeding off the way Max stares him up and down like a starving lion. There is so much enticement in the abyss of his pupils that Mr Verstappen would sacrifice himself for him in a heartbeat and thank Charles that he finally gave his universe meaning.

“You are so stunning.” Max breaks the silence with the compliment.

Charles remembers what is underneath his sweatpants and loose t-shirt. He quietly thanks him.

Max lifts the shorter’s face with his index finger, not forcefully, but it is a demonstration of the power Charles allows him to hold. Charles keeps his eyes locked into Max’s, not submitting; not even when the older’s thumb strokes the bottom lip of Charles’s, and an unbearable wave of tension creeps up his spine.

Max’s voice is a velvety whisper. “Want me to show you how winning a Championship feels?”  

“Fuck you.” The latter growls like a dog.

Max pulls his lip to the side at the jealousy displayed in Charles’ knitted eyebrows, and the grasp on his chin almost makes him choke out a moan.

“It’s not me who’s going to get fucked tonight, though, is it, prince?”

Then his lips grab Charles’. Possess him.

Charles moves back against the latter, matching his rhythm, his clit contentedly purring at the contact. Max brings him even closer, the palms of his hands on his cheeks, his body hot against him, as his lips keep claiming ownership over him; it's a calculated, steady force that leaves Charles searing for more. He’s stripped to nothing but need, yearning for pleasure only the man in front of him can permit him to feel.

He doesn’t show it, though, not even when Max’s touch descends from his face all the way to his behind, leaving a trail of unresolved desire in its wake. He gives the muscle there a small, firm squeeze and then lifts him, for which Charles’ legs envelop him like a snake and hold onto him; it makes the latter itch for the way Max will devour the sight of his curves in the lingerie exactly like a man stranded on a desert.

The bulge in Max’s pants pokes against Charles, which makes his mind crawl into places barely anyone has dared to explore. Max’s tongue darts out, sliding in Charles, tasting, perceiving.

Someone knocks. Once.

« Charles ? » 

“Ignore it,” Max mumbles into the kiss.

Charles does, kissing him still, diving into the way Max’s tongue dances-

Another knock. « Charles ?  » 

“For fuck’s sake,” Charles curses. He pulls away from the latter’s lips. « Quoi ?! » 

Max walks to the bed with him. He presses Charles’s pelvis onto him, and Charles is about to go insane at the image of-

« Le chauffage dans la chambre, le mien et celui de Yuki, est tombé en panne. » 

Charles raises his brow. Max does too.

“Pierre’s and Yuki’s heating got broken.” He explains. « Et qu'est-ce que cela a à voir avec n- moi ?! » 

Max’s nose presses into the small spot just below Charles’s jaw.

« Peux-je dormir ici ce soir ? » 

Charles pushes his eyes shut. His hormone-infiltrated heart drops.

This can’t be real.

“What?” Max’s lips are dangerously near his artery.

“He wants to sleep here.”

Max stops. Charles can feel his body shudder in protest.

Same, Max.

Max’s head falls onto Charles’s shoulder, unwilling to let go of the latter. His thumb strokes his iliac bones as softly as if the movement could etch the image of the latter like this for later.

“I am sorry,” Charles whispers. Max sits on the bed, disappointment written all over his face.

“Not your fault.” He responds but doesn’t hide the sadness.

Charles gets up from the bed. What has he done to deserve such terrible punishment? Why can’t he have at least a bit of peace?!

He just wants to be fucked. Banged. Bonked. Shagged. Stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey, if you will.

« Et sais-tu où Max- oh, hi, there you are, Max.“ Pierre says, as the door gets unlocked and opened, oblivious to the energy he interrupted. “Can Yuki sleep in your room tonight?”

Max cannot say no since intrusive questions would follow – questions they have no excuses for. Saying the truth is not an option either.

“Sure.” He forces a smile. “Sure, he can.”

“Alright, I’ll tell him.” Pierre disappears, dropping his bag on the floor of Charles’ room.

The duo looks at each other with the same tired expression. Max’s annoyance reaches a new high.

“Why couldn’t they ask those dumb McTwinks?” He whisper-shouts, his erection pushing on the seams of his jeans still.

“Because Yuki is your teammate and Pierre is my friend, and because those orange bastards are not in a good mood today.” Charles sits on the bed. He rubs his face.

“I am going to kill them, dear Lord…” Max scratches his forehead. “Okay, so… how about… we do it in the bathroom…?”

Charles’s poor, horny brain gives it a thought. Then shakes his head. “You can hear everything there…”

Max stands up from the bed. He walks lazily to the door, ready to leave, his smile making it onto his face. “…And you wouldn’t be able to shush yourself up, huh?”

Charles is not impressed.

“Is my dick that good?” Max continues.

Charles throws his pyjama t-shirt at him. Max catches it, still chuckling.

“I can’t believe I am sleeping with you…”

“And you like it too.” Max sticks his tongue out. Charles’s fist hits his chest.

Pierre comes in. The two put an appropriate amount of space between them.

“Thank you so much, guys, really.”

“Or… you know… if you want to be together,” Max offers, “you can be in mine, and I can sleep here?”

“Oh, no, we wouldn’t want you to move.” Pierre smiles at him politely. “I can survive a night without Yuki.”

Yeah, but we can’t survive a night without Max fucking me, so how about you fucking get the hint and stop being fucking polite for once and just use the offer merde-

Max wants to slap himself. Slap Pierre. Slap the broken heating.

“Ok-ay…” he breathes out. “Well, Charles, thank you for… for talking to me. A nice discussion we had…”

Charles nods, his tongue drifting across his teeth. “Yeah, the pleasure was mine. Hopefully… we will finish one day.”

“Finish it, yes.” Max nods too. “Well, then… good night, guys… sleep well.”

“You too!” Pierre says avidly.

“Yeah, you too…” Charles waves at Max awkwardly.

And so, Charles will once again rub one out in the bathroom. Great. Just… great.

*

30^th Dec

The cabin is filled with the smell of warm teas and soft laughter. The entire group is set around the dining table, with different types of bread cut into neat pieces and various toppings spread on it for everyone to enjoy.

Max bites into his butter on toast, deep in his mind, when he keeps trying to come up with ways to fuck Charles, finally, when other men now occupy their rooms than just them.

Why must they be so wealthy to be able to afford such a huge cabin? If they weren’t, Max and Charles could share rooms from the very beginning, and the heating definitely wouldn’t break-

“What about the heating?” He asks a bit suddenly and puts more cheese on his plate.

George raises his eyebrows at the question, which says more than his words could.

“I called the company earlier,” Pierre replies. “They should repair it today.”

Ja. JA! JA! (Yes. YES! YES!)

“What? You want to get rid of me?” Yuki jokes. 

“You snore, mate,” Max responds, as if that were the reason. He looks into George’s eyes. “Trying to get my beauty sleep over here.”

The tall Brit doesn’t buy it, of course, he doesn’t.

“I don’t!”

“You do.”

“Pierre isn’t any better.” Charles joins their banter. And Pierre shakes his head.

“As if you’re not used to it. Have you heard Léo?”

“How dare- wait, where is he? Léo?” Charles looks around the living room. “Bébé, où es-tu?”

His eyes study the kitchen. When he finds nothing, he gets up, confused, when his four-legged friend usually pleads for snacks at the table.

A soft animal panting is heard from the front of the couch. Charles raises his head, and once he locks eyes with the source of the sound, he freezes. Max does too.

Nino is absolutely shagging Léo. He’s going at it like there would be no tomorrow, banging him like a beast. Looking pleased and smug. Shamelessly. Cuz they are animals. 

As if they were mocking their owners.

Some of the boys gather to get a look at the concerned duo. George quirks his eyebrows as he casts a long glance at the men. A lot of things are spoken in the moment of only animal whimpers; Max would like to utter a note about owner-dog resemblance, Oscar thinks about what a perfect moment this would be for them to finally tell the group about their (the human’s) relationship and Charles...

Charles gets hit by the realisation.

Even Léo. Even my dog is getting taken into a pound town.

A wish crosses his heart – that it was him instead, getting obliterated by Max.

The first person to break the ice is, of course, Lando. “Well... that’s what I call a coming-out.”

Charles slowly turns his head to him. And then decides not to entertain this circus and walks out, respectfully waiting for the dogs to finish.

For fuck’s sake.

*

“Max~?” Charles’s head appears in the door in the late afternoon.

Max hums in response.

“How does a snowball fight sound? With the rest of the group?”

He throws his phone into his pocket. There is a familiar naughty spark in his eyes as he slowly turns his head to the door. 

"Snowball fight?" 

He ambles to the door. Charles blinks once. 

"Yeah?" His waist is envelopped with Max's arm. 

“I have better ideas…”

His lips cradle Charles’ neck. The latter tips his head to one side, making space for the older, who takes an interest in that small piece of skin underneath his ear.

He sighs as loudly as ever, and his head drops to Max’s shoulder, defeated.

“Max… someone might see us…” He hums, yet not in favour of the latter stopping. 

“Do we care still?” Max chuckles, his nails caressing his forearms. “C’mon, Charles… Yuki and Pierre’s heating is solved… We have time…”

He spreads his legs, caging Charles between his own, pulling him closer. 

Charles’ eyelashes flutter as he lifts his head, not really keen on moving away. He shouldn't want this, though. 

“I already… promised George and Alex that I’ll go…”

He presses his pelvis to Max’s sweatpants-covered thigh and lets out a shuddered breath.

“Mistake.” Max hisses, fascinated. “Can’t you say that you changed your mind?”

“I shouldn’t…” Charles rubs his forehead, his chest heaving, as his lower lip gets stuck between his lips. "This is... bad." 

Max smiles at him, devilishly, as Charles continues to grind against him as if his body had a mind of its own. 

God, it feels so fucking good. 

“We must stop this.” The younger whines quietly, as he drowns his own lust.

“We?”

Charles nods. Eagerly.

While rubbing his pussy on Max’s leg.

“So… what now, hm?” Max asks, then his hand finds the crook of Charles’s ass, supporting all his actions. “What are you going to say-?”

“Guys!” Yuki bursts through the door.

Charles jumps away at the intrusion.

“Snowball fight! Let’s go!”

The Monégasque frowns, the unsatiable desire still painfully obviously screaming in his abdomen. He barely casts a glance at the latter when he follows Yuki outside the room, tired and hopeless.

He reaches the living room when he sees the two papaya men chilling on the sofa, Max behind him. His need is still haunting him like a shadow only Max can see, biting his neck. 

“We’re going for a snowball fight. You’re going with us?” He asks calmly, putting on a show. 

“Sorry, guys.” Lando turns from his phone to them. “I… I don’t feel so well today.”

The rest of the group exchanges a bit of awkward glances, as some feel inclined to stay inside, not to push Lando out.

“But you can go, of course. Have fun.” 

Max nods. “Okay, well, we’re gonna go.”

The group moves to the small hall, too tiny for them all, even without Oscar and Lando. Charles’s shoulder brushes against Max's, which could be mistaken for an accident.

Max hopes it isn’t.

Pierre discusses God-knows-who with Yuki, while George and Alex are getting dressed. Max hands Charles his own gloves when Charles’s are too wet from the afternoon still.

“And what are you going to wear?” The younger asks, concern in his tone.

“Don’t worry about me, alright?” Max winks at him, taking Charles’ cold, wet ones.

Charles does anyway. In silence. But he does. 

As soon as they are out the door, the night surrounds them. The Moon is beautifully round in the sky, as if it were watching over them. 

Charles makes a ball of snow. Throws it at Max. 

He ducks. Not quickly enough.

A look of sheer disapproval and how dare you makes the Dutchman's jaw go slack.

“You little-” Max bends down.

Charles starts to run. The piles of snow increase the difficulty of such escape, though, as he makes his way into the field behind the cabin. He giggles as he hears the crunching of the snow of the boots of the others, who have employed their whimsy and started the fight at the same time as the Lestappen duo. The events from his bedroom keep creeping into his aroused mind, yet he doesn’t allow himself to show it. Max doesn’t either.

He grabs a handful of snow, not even bothering to make a ball and turns, just in time to be hit by one of Max’s right into the chest. He throws his own back, which misses Max by mere centimetres, giggling into the night.

Yuki hits him from behind. Then George from the side.

“Hey! That’s not fair!” He complains, but his words are dimmed by another hurdle of snow heading towards him.

He throws one back at Yuki, then attacks Alex, as it becomes a mash of people and white, which melts on their jackets.

And life is worth the struggle.

He grins at Max, who keeps obliterating him – but only with snowballs. The Dutchman is beaming into the night's darkness, interrupted by the faint light from the cabin’s kitchen, happiness written into the wrinkles around his eyelids, his fingers reddening from the cold, his blonde hair neatly gelled. A handsome gentleman. A man.

Too good to be true. To be real.

The snow in his hair turns liquid, as he laughs when Max has to wipe his face again – he doesn’t throw it like that on purpose, he’s just that bad at this, don’t blame him.

“I am sorry.”

Max gives him an honest, open smile. “Yeah, definitely, you are.”

“Oh, c’mon!” Charles tilts his head. “You have to believe-”

“Oh, I have to.” Max pats down another ball. “Who are you to order me around, huh?”

“Well, didn’t you call me a prince?” Charles teases; he steps back. “Wouldn’t that mean that you must obey my orders?”

The snow is cold on his pants.

“…or… do you only bow to Oscar when he asks you to apologise to Lando?”

Max sneers. Then hits his shoulder.

“You’re a little shit.”

Charles’ tongue darts out.

“You’re saying this, and yet you love to deal with me.”

And Max cannot disagree without lying. 

Charles takes a step back and stumbles, his butt hitting the pile of snow. Max reaches to catch him, but it’s too late.

“You okay?” Max’s care wraps around his words.

“I am fine.” The tips of Charles’s mouth raise as the last bits of giggles escape his quivering torso. “C’mon, Mr Verstappen, join me.”

Max does, lying in the soft yet firm block of snow beside him.

The entire sky opens to them. The Moon is illuminated by the Sun, which casts its warmth onto the other side of the planet. Such light makes the tips of the forest, which stands around the edges of the field, appear black, yet the sky is grey and full of stars. 

Charles pushes his arms and spreads his legs several times, making an angel in the snow. He turns his head to the latter, smiling genuinely.

The universe shifts for Max. 

The wind dies down a little as he moves his arms, too. Out of the corner of his eye, the vastness of space absorbs him, and the world shirks.

It’s the same one he has always wanted to conquer. Stand on top of. 

One could say he did - he has won a Championship, four at that. He has always wanted more, though, greedy and selfish in ways that all racing drivers are, always chasing something uncapturable, impossible. Fastest lap. Pole position. 

But looking into Charles’s eyes, it all fades. It is only him and... soft, pure love. The angry, prying hunger dissolves into kindness. Into intimacy. Into longing. It's so tender, it appears feeble, as if even a single beam of light could shatter it into a million pieces. It needs to be cradled, packed into cotton candy and clouds, cuddled like a newborn. 

Suddenly, Max finds himself... not wanting anything. Being like this, with the man who grew through his ribs without him taking notice, in freezing cold, away from cameras, is enough for him. And even if bits of want do spill into his soul, the vision is plain and straightforward - it's Charles. 

Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc. 

If he dared to dream of a perfect future, there would be a cottage in the mountains with a forest behind, wood cut and hidden for long dreary winter under a roof, with Charles sitting on the countertop in the kitchen, feet dangling next to the drawers, arms wrapped around Max's neck, fingers locked, gazing into Max's eyes. And smiling. Laughing. He needs Charles laughing, filled with even the stupidest of joys, and preferably with one that Max brought him. 

The feeling that blooms underneath his pecks is so delicate and so... humane. It's raw in the way that he feels himself made out of atoms and molecules from the beginning of the universe. Perhaps the people who believe in fate are at least partly true, because Max would bet all his money the entire universe got created only for them to live this moment - since this is the second that his whole life falls into place. 

It's right. Correct. It's supposed to be. 

And it's so stupid, right?

"It's going to be freezing tomorrow," Charles speaks up as he points up into the air. "Look at all the stars. It's going to be so, so cold." 

One could never be cold with you next to them, Charlie. 

Max doesn’t say such aloud, no. He just smiles and seizes his waist in his arm. 

Charles's gaze is locked on the vast space that makes humans feel tiny and indifferent. With the latter by Max’s side, though, such a thought doesn't dare to creep in at all. There is meaning in the universe when the latter is so close. 

Max keeps staring at the man next to him, as he whispers: "It's beautiful. Indescribably." 

And he means every letter.

Boots crunch under someone’s boots.

“Hey guys, let’s head back.”

A hint of disappointment sparks in his chest; Max wouldn’t mind freezing to death if it meant this moment wouldn’t end.

He helps Charles stand up, though, then cleans his jacket of the snow, selfishly enjoying the excuse that he can touch the latter even in public – because there is nothing wrong with assisting your friend that you’re on a winter trip with, right?

And then they leave the space where core memories were made.

“Hey, guys.” Charles comes into the kitchen with his face all red, and Max follows him. He unwraps his scarf from around his neck.

Lando’s cheeks are glowing with a light shade of pink as he stands suspiciously far from Oscar, who leans against the kitchen top. “Hey, had fun?”

“Yeah, ‘t was great.” Charles shivers. “But so, so freezing.”

“Should I start tea for y’all then?” Oscar joins.

“For me, only if we have rum.” Max chuckles as he also takes his outer garments off, but the intimacy of the previous moment still gushes out of his abdomen. “Gosh, I thought my balls would freeze off.”

“Don’t be dramatic.” Charles shakes his head as he rubs his pale fingers together, but thinks what a shame that would be. Want me to hold them for you later?

Max walks to the bathroom, but Charles sprints past him. Max grabs his sweater and yanks him back, trying to overtake to get to the basin first.

“Hey!” Charles frowns when such a strategy works. Max giggles at him, soaping his own hands up, pushing Charles’ hands away from the water. The latter fights back, as his competitive nature shines through, spraying a bit of water on Max’s sweater.

Max smears his wet hand on Charles’ torso.

“HEY!” Charles puts his cold fingers on Max’s face. And Max’s giggling resonates in the bathroom.  

“Like children, aren’t you?” George waits in line.

“Shush.” Charles hands Max’s towel to Max.

Then moves it away. Max reaches for it. Charles hides it behind his back.

“Charlie…” Max says, devilish smirk on his face.

Charles throws it across the room. It lands-

It lands on George’s face.

Then plops onto the floor, revealing the taller, completely, utterly done.

“Sorry.” Charles apologises in between his giggles. And George would avalanche him with curse words, but he reckons it would be useless.

Max takes it from George’s feet and finally wipes his hands dry.

Lando takes out mugs, a jar of honey, and all the boxes of tea they’ve brought. The kettle clicks gently as the men sit around the table and start a wild discussion about the snowball fight, and Oscar pours it into the mugs, then starts a new round.

“Pierre, that fall was nasty. Are you sure you’re okay?” Yuki asks.

Max pours himself a shot into the mug and adds one to Charles’ too. “Yeah, your knees are old, you should be careful, you know?”

Charles giggles. Max’s heart throbs in his chest.

“Hey, bro, I am only like a year older than you.” 

“Yeah, pushing thirty. Those knees are practically gone now.” Max brings those two to the wide table, where the rest of the travellers sit, while Yuki takes another two – for himself and Pierre.

“Fuck you.” Pierre throws a tea bag at Max. He moves out of the way. It lands on the floor next to him.

“I’m gonna… I’m gonna go to the bathroom and sleep, okay? I am a bit… unwell,” Oscar announces to no one in particular and then leaves without another word. 

Max tilts his head at the quick disappearance of the usually composed man.

“Lando, did something happen to Oscar?” Alex asks.

Lando sits in his designated chair, everyone turned to him, studying his silent features.

“No, it… I don’t know.” He scratches the back of his head as he limits his words only to those.

“He looked… distraught. You sure nothing happened?” Yuki inquires.

Lando shakes his head; his face is the same shade as Oscar’s before he left. He fondles his fingers on the table.

“I don’t know, okay? It’s Oscar. He’s probably just tired.” He spits out more excuses that no one really believes.

“Okay, then.” Max ends the conversation as he sees it’s not going anywhere anyway. He then turns to Charles. “Is it good?”

“How much alcohol did you put in there, Jesus?” A wrinkle forms between Charles’ eyebrows. He takes a spoonful of sugar. “Trying to totally obliterate me, huh?”

Yes.

But not like that.

“I poured us the same shot; it isn’t that strong.”

“You’re crazy.”

Yeah, for you, prince...

*

The lock clicks shut.

Their eyes lock, too.

Max’s lips crash into Charles’ like a car into a wall. His hands grab, take and roam, shamelessly, selfishly, as if Charles whole was only his.

Cuz tonight it’s true. 

Charles pushes onto him, a desperate mess of moans the prince is, as they keep kissing, biting, and fighting for air without pulling away. Max’s grip tightens on his ass, squeezing it, which makes Charles shudder.

“Fuck, Max,” his voice is tangled with sin, as he looks up at him, his fingers meddling with the zipper.

“Oh, baby, you want my cock that badly?” Max pushes Charles onto the bed.

“Shut up.” Charles undoes Max’s pants, his face reaching for his lips. Max leans closer, capturing his lips on his own, so hot, he doesn’t know how he could survive all those failed attempts.

“God, I need you in me. Now. Yesterday was late already.” Charles says in between the small breaths, when Max starts taking off his own. “If someone,” he kisses Max again, “interrupts us again, I am going to run them over next race.”

Max widens his eyes. Then smiles. Like a little shit that he is.

“Ovulating, Charles?”  

Charles frowns. He kicks his thigh, missing his dick, though.

“Fuck off.” He grabs Max’s cock, which is already hard and dripping. “And stop acting as if you don’t want me, too.”

“Oh, your grace, I could never.” Max kisses his neck. Charles tilts his head away, biting his lip. 

“Calm down, Charlie.” Max drops his voice an octave lower. Charles’s skin is covered in goosebumps, all the thrill pooling in his belly. He’s a vortex of need, just the primal biology of a man.

“Max… I am literally going to go insane.”

Max could listen to his name spoken like a prayer forever, and it would travel right to his groin every time.

“Max, please. Fuck, please.” 

Charles raises his pelvis, though, and Max pushes his pants and panties down. Charles’s pussy is glistening in the light of the lamp at the nightstand. Fucking delicious.

Max starts kneeling.

“No.”

He raises his eyes.

“You know what I want,” Charles growls sternly. “And it’s not your tongue.”

The smile on Max’s lips grows slowly.

“You think you are in charge here?”

“Max.” Charles spreads his legs, jaw tight, a threat. “You are gonna fuck me. Hard.”

Max takes a step and then opens his bag next to the bed. He rummages through it, unhurriedly, as if he had all the time in the world, his eyes glued to the intensity of bottomless Charles. His own heartbeat out of this planet, arousal travels inside his veins straight to his hard dick, as he finally finds the packet of condoms.

“Oh, my fucking God, Max.” Charles groans, throwing his head back. “Are you a fucking sloth?”

Max’s chuckle echoes in the otherwise quiet room.

“You don’t dictate anything here, Charlie.” Max brings one of them to his teeth. He bites down on it, and the plastic packaging tears up.

“Really?” Charles raises one corner of his mouth.

“Really.”

Not an answer he was looking for. 

He pushes two fingers inside his mouth and drags them out, saliva making his lips glimmer.

Then a moan, a guttural, messy moan erupts out of him, as he buries his fingers deep inside his pussy, pressing them right onto that spot that makes his eyes roll to the back of his head. His toes flex at the pleasure, at the relief.

“Ah, merde,” he whimpers, as he jerks his pelvis forward. His gaze delves into Max, whose frown is etched into his cheeks.

“You-,”

“I told you what I want, didn’t I?” Charles keeps his fingers buried to the hilt inside him. “If you can’t-”

“Don’t you dare interrupt me.” Max glowers. His tenor sends vibrations to Charles’ skin. “Take your fingers out.”

“Or?”

“Or I am not fucking you at all.”

Charles throws his head back and laughs. Straight-up fucking laughs.

“Sure,” he says when he stares ahead again. “As if you could live without my cunt.”

“Charles-,”

“I am not finished.” Charles interrupts him. “The entire fucking trip, you eye-fuck me and imagine how tight and wet I’d feel around your cock if you bent me over the dining table or the kitchen counter. And now you’d be able to let the opportunity go?”

“I am pretty petty.”

“And pretty stupid then.”

Charles takes his fingers out. Then puts them back into his mouth, tasting himself.

Max sucks in his bottom lip, as a few seconds of silence fill the buzzing air between them. His eyes come across every millimetre of Charles that is presented in front of him.

He really is an idiot. Transparent, prideful idiot.

But not that big of an idiot.

He undoes his pants, letting them fall.

“Turn around.”

Charles does.

“Bottom up.”

Charles does.

Max grabs Charles’ hips. His breath is hot against Charles’ cheek, his scent wrecking his nostrils, as the closeness overwhelms them both.

“You’re lucky,” Max’s deep voice is barely above a whisper, “that I am so obsessed with you.”

He doesn’t see the victorious smile on Charles’ face.

“And you’re lucky,” Charles speaks back, while Max lines himself up, “that you fuck so good.”

And then… Oh, merde.

His entire world starts to make sense. Thank God that Max isn’t that petty, because-

“Oh, shit, you’re so… ah, so big, fuck.”

Max smirks cockily as he fills Charles’ entire hole with his cock.

“Better than your fingers, prince?”

“Fuck.” Charles is burning from the inside. “Y-yeah.”

Max studies the ridges of Charles’s back muscles – being buried inside him is the most beautiful vantage point. He glides the tip of his index finger along the latter’s spine, seeing the small quivers of Charles’s torso, the way his breath hitches in his throat, the way his cunt spasms around him.

“Mm, that’s my pretty boy, huh?”

“Max,” Charles whimpers, “p-please.”

“Can barely live without my dick filling you up, right, prince?” His desire clouds his judgement before he can even grasp the reins of control. “Such a slut for it.”

His hips jerk forward. Hard.

Charles bites his lip.

“No, no, my pretty prince,” Max orders him. “You’re gonna be loud. You wanted this. Remember?”

He snaps his hips again, his own groan stuck in his throat.

“Remember how you begged for it? Like a fucking cat in heat.”

Charles nods. His back arches as Max’s cock is ripping him in all the right places.

“I want those fucking papaya losers to hear you.”

He curses at the pleasure drifting inside him.

“I want Carlos in fucking Monaco to fucking hear you so he knows what he will never have.”

A drop of sweat rushes to the latter’s forehead.

“Ah, Max, ah.”

“That’s right.” Max squeezes Charles’ hip harder. “So slutty. So wet for me.”

“F-for you.” Charles moans loudly, the litany of sinful sounds banging against the walls of the room, as if there was no one else, too high on sex to feel shame. The tension inside him coils harder, gripping him so tight his vision goes black at the edges when Max’s tempo gains speed.

It’s a competition. A race. Two winners at the checkered flag.

Charles buries his face, which twists in pleasure, into the pillows, and Max bottoms out, a deep, low growl making Charles’s cunt drip with slick. The room is ignited, burning hotter than air combusted; Charles’ brain is in a haze, only one thing on his mind.

Max’s fingers dive into Charles’ scalp and then grip his hair brutally, as the rhythm of his thrusts doesn’t subside.

“Look how well you take my cock.”

He pulls on the strands of his hair in between his fingers, yanking Charles’s head.

“As if you were made for it.”

A high-pitched wail tears out of Charles, a mix of fervour and pain that builds up inside him. Precum leaks out of Max at the sound; when the way Charles wraps around him is delicious, like a snake, venomous and dangerous. Addictive. Damaging.

“Kut, Charles.” He moans, chasing their orgasms like a pole position, mad and possessed. Charles’s nails dig into the bedding, needing to hold onto in the turmoil of the vigorous rhythm of the beast whose cock moulds his cunt.

“M-max,” he whines his name on what feels like the brink of consciousness, when Max pushes his head back into the pillow so hard that breathing gets impossible. Who needs air when fucked by Max Emilian fucking Verstappen, right?

“What a mess you make,” Max says, barely knowing English anymore.

“What a mess, you are.”

“Max, c-close.” Charles mumbles, tears in his eyes, not knowing whether to cling to the thrill or run away from it.

Max doesn’t give him a choice, though, no – Charles is going to take it. Moan about it.

Be a good bitch for Max about it.

“Are you gonna come, hm?” Max asks, bathing in the possessiveness of the man who is his tonight, the squelching sound resonating inside the room. “On my cock, hm?”

Fuck yes. That’s MY cock that you’re gonna orgasm all over.

Charles nods, his body giving out, as he focuses on all the heat in his clit. Max keeps the tempo going, their skin slapping against each other, keeping the latter full and stuffed to the brim.

“Ah, M-,”

Finally. His words dry out on his tongue as his entire body convulses. The bliss rolls out through his torso to the tip of his toes, making him freeze and shut down entirely, his walls spasming around Max’s cock, which throbs at the feeling.

“Oh, kut,” the latter groans, pounding the man through it all, until Charles is a mess of overstimulation and shaking thighs.

It doesn’t take any more thrusts until Max spills while inside the condom. His body gives out, and his vision goes away with it, as he whimpers and then stops altogether.

Lap finished. Podium achieved.

He lays his head onto Charles’s back, using his erratic breath as an anchor to come back to the real world. He’s still intoxicated on Charles, breathing in his scent, as he plants a kiss on his spine.

“Fuck, Charles...”

Charles lets his head fall between his shoulders. “Yeah... fuck yeah...”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes. You?”

“Me too.”

Max is unwilling, but he pulls out of Charles. The other exhales shakily, as he’s trying to collect himself, while the feeling of Max inside him still lingers on his walls. 

“You want water? Or... anything?” Max’s voice is full of concern, preparing himself for the fact that the only moment he can get close to Charles is coming to an end.

They are now just picking up the debris from the race tyres.

“No, thanks. I’ll go...” Charles stands up with his legs still barely usable. He gathers his clothes on the floor, quickly and quietly as always.

“I am so glad we finally did it.” He gives Max a small, yet genuine smile.

“Yea... me too,” Max responds, supporting himself on an elbow. “It was great.”

His smile shows on his face as well. Something inside him, though, weighs heavily on the thought of Charles’s absence next to him.

Charles agrees. “I’ll be happy to do it again.”

“Me too.”

“You really... don’t wanna stay?” Max asks, because he has to.

“You know the rules, Max.”

Max does. Which is the only reason why he doesn’t protest.

“Yeah and...” Charles turns when his hand is on the handle, “sorry for the hair.”

“What hair?”

Charles gesticulates something vague, as if to help him explain. “My hair down there. I didn’t have time to shave before leaving Monaco and didn’t pack my razor, so I’m sorry if...”

Max just throws a stare at him. Long. Emotionless.

“Charles... do you really think I have time to think about such details when it’s you who I am fucking? C’mon, be serious here.”

Charles’s jaw goes slack a little bit – a mix of surprise and wanting to respond. Instead, heat crawls to his ears.

And Max’s heart itches to push his lips onto Charles’s. Because perhaps only then, Max could teach him how to see himself through the gaze of someone who carries him underneath his eyelids every second of his life.

“Good night, Max.” Charles’s voice illuminates the night gently before he vanishes behind the door, not waiting for the latter.

“Good night, Charlie,” Max speaks up anyway. He has nothing else left.

He has nothing else left...

*

31^st Dec

“Can’t sleep?”

Oscar almost jumps at the sight of Max drinking his water in the kitchen. He touches his chest, breathing out.

“Oh my god, where did you come from?”

“I was just standing here, mate.” Max smirks, calm. The way his insides tremble, though…

Oscar imitates Max’s action. He clears his throat. “Yeah, sorry.”

“Hey,” Max switches the topic, as he cannot bear his own demons, “what happened between you two, papayas?”

“Like Lando and me?”

“No, George and you.” Max deadpans.

“Nothing.” Oscar ignores it. “Absolutely nothing. Like… what do you even mean?”

Max rubs the bridge of his nose.

“Look, it’s almost 4 in the morning, I really am too tired for these games, but I am not dumb. The rest of the drivers aren’t dumb either. Yesterday you were both weird, Lando was so quiet, and you left quickly and-,”

“Maybe you shouldn’t pry into my business when I don’t do it to yours.”

The air gets sucked out of the room in an instant upon Oscar's attack.

Max blinks at him.

“What?”

“I am not stupid either, Max.” Oscar crosses his arms on his chest. “You and Charles, hm? You two sneak around, thinking how oblivious we all are. Are you in a relationship? Or it’s only sex while you want more, hm?”

Max stays standing, but the turmoil of feelings isn’t restless. His jaw tightens. 

“See how... uncomfortable this is?”

Max lets all the words between them resonate, hoping the latter will feel the guilt that Max would deem fair when he’s being so hurtful. 

As if he had the right to such emotions.

“I asked you as a friend,” Max says after it is clear that silence will not get them anywhere. His voice is calculated. “From a place of concern.” Yet you’re using my personal issues as a weapon. “You berated me for being mean to Lando, when I absolutely wasn’t. And then you pull out this shit?”

Max takes a step closer. Their eye contact intensifies.

“Maybe I lash out. But you're wicked.” Max pushes his finger into Oscar’s sternum, while his pain focuses on the source. “And that’s worse.” Because I know exactly how I could hurt you back, when the man I love belongs to me at least sometimes, while yours isn’t yours, even for a couple of minutes.

Oscar opens his mouth. Max doesn’t let him finish his thought out into the night.

“And you projecting your personal issues onto me isn’t the fashion you think it is.”

Oscar just stares.

And Max, hurt by the fact that the latter used him as a target, just leaves...

It’s absolutely pathetic and appalling. Awful. Embarrassing. Max is a fourth-time world Champion, for fuck’s sake. He shouldn’t even think about this, let alone do it. 

George is right – he is just like a small kid. And the fact that he’s supposed to be a grown adult now at 28 years old doesn't change that. 

But he does it anyway – even though he knows better - he sits on the armchair opposite the bed and just watches. Like a freak. Like a stalker.

Charles’ face looks so sweetly pure when the Moonlight draws shadows on it, illuminating the bones that create dunes of his cheeks, the plush soft pillows of his lips, the walnut, short hair splashed by sleep. The blanket rises and falls rhythmically, as his lungs expand and contract, proof he’s alive. His spindly, molten fingers with neatly cut nails lay next to his face.

Gazing at him like that, Max considers whether the universe was made just to be seen by Charles's eyes. And if that is the case, so be it – what a breathtaking reason that would be, when the man sleeping triumphs everyone and everything in beauty, both of his skin and kind, courageous soul whose roots run deep.

Charles is a flawed human, Max is aware, but every creak of a scar that Charles allows to echo on Max’s skin makes him believe in goodness on Earth. It’s magical, surreal almost, how only a body to someone can signify and bring up so much in another.

But it’s so stupid too; every feeling bubbling under his skin is so profoundly dumb.

Charles would never love him back, never give him more, even if Max begged on his knees. Or prayed. Or won last season. 

Or... did anything.

Yet Max would give him the world – Charles would not even need to ask. Max would die for him, live for him. He would heal for him, be better for him.

He would even join Ferrari for him.

He would buy him that cottage and cut the wood. He would repair the roof and paint the porch. And if Charles didn’t want to live there, he would sell it and buy an apartment in Monaco. But no matter what, he would make him bathe in the kitchen light anyway and then make him laugh too and then pull him closer, so close that they would spill into each other, seeing the stars they are made of.

God, there isn’t an alternative universe in which he wouldn’t want to give love to Charles. And not being loved back in this way loses all significance when Charles’s soul glows in his eyes.

Charles could call, and Max would be there. Or just message him. Just say it... or whisper it, or even just utter it, and Max would rush in like one of the fastest men on the Grid that he is. 

Not even the speed of light is the limit for Max. 

Charles shifts on the mattress, curling deeper under the duvet, restful and tranquil, like the earliest sunset above the mountains behind the cabin. Max freezes for a second at the thought of being caught, but when Charles keeps sleeping, he relaxes his shoulder again.

So, so stupid.

And Max is too, amidst it.

*

Charles opens the bathroom window, letting a bit of fresh air in while brushing his teeth. A knock wakes him up from his inner-mind slumber.

« Salut, peux-je te joindre ? »  (Hi, can I join you?)

Charles makes a space for Pierre at the basin, which the man understands as an invitation. He puts a bit of toothpaste on the toothbrush.

« Vous avez l’air très bons ensemble. » (You look really good together.) Pierre mumbles. « Tu et Max. »  (You and Max.)

Charles is so taken aback that he doesn’t even want to slap him yet. He frowns instead.

« Quoi ? »  (What?) 

« Hier, pendant la bataille de boules de neige. »  (Yesterday, during the snowball fight.) Pierre clarifies. Charles only hums.

« Êtes-vous ensemble ? » (Are you two together?)

« Non. »  (No.)

« Tu le veux pas ? » (You don't want to?) Pierre asks, looking at Charles, who tries to avoid as much of this conversation as possible. « Max est un bon mec, t’sais. »  (Max is a good guy, y’know.)

Charles is aware that Max is everything Charles could want in a man – handsome, funny, gentle. He’s got those mesmerising eyes, sturdy shoulders and a soul that transcends space in terms of kindness. Charles looks up to him in a way – there’s something breathtaking about the fact that, despite all the hardships in his life, he managed to find the strength to overcome the violence he was taught.

« Ou c’est pas vrai ? » (Or is it not true?) Pierre questions.

Max knows how to love him without Charles ever needing to explain it to him. He knows how to get onto his nerves in the exact correct way that riles Charles up, then knows when to brake. He knows the precise praise that will make Charles sink to his knees; he knows when he can afford to be playful and whimsical and when to get serious.

« Okay, arrête. »  (Okay, stop.) Charles spits out into the basin. He rinses his toothbrush under the faucet, his ragged breath making him try to leave the conversation as soon as possible.

« Je veux simplement dire qu’il y a longtemps que tu as quelqu’un. » (I only want to say that it has been a long time since you have been with anyone.)

Charles grabs his bag with toiletries. Then casts a long glance at Pierre.

« Merci de me le rappeler. »  (Thank you for reminding me.) He notes as he makes his escape from the bathroom.

And as the door clicks behind his bedroom, alone now, he tries to remind himself that it is just sex and that he wants it this way – that’s what they agreed upon anyway; secret sex buddies is the name of the position in their non-written contract.

...Although he sometimes lies awake at night and replays that Max remembers Charles’ order from the bakery on the corner of Grimaldi and Princess Caroline’s streets - buttery (plain) croissants, when the ones with the apricot jam are a war crime, and how Max always opens the car door for him and eats the more burned toast, while claiming he prefers them that way when Charles knew that couldn’t be true-

Before he gets to shake in his shoes from fear, he takes his phone from the nightstand.

Max drinks his coffee, eyelids heavy with tiredness as the cold wind blows his hair on the terrace. He didn’t even need to wake up – he hadn’t slept at all after the encounter with Oscar, who missed breakfast, luckily. Because even if he hadn't, he wouldn’t have known what to say to him – Oscar is the one who should be apologising after all.

Lando was a disaster at breakfast. He’s annoying when he’s a constantly yapping drama queen, but his pickle face is even worse.

His phone vibrates in his pocket.

‘What are you doing after lunch?’

‘Not much’

‘Another round then?’

And before he even thinks about whether it is a good idea… Max’s hands stay on the jut of his hips, as their lips fight for air, too hot to slow down. He sucks in Charles’ bottom one roughly, making his mouth part. His tongue darts out, ready to take everything Charles is willing to give him, diving in, oversteering, as they keep cruising, or so it feels, overwhelmed by Charles’ perfume, by his soft skin, which shrouds the firm, powerful muscles.

Charles’s elbows rest on his shoulders, breath heaving, head spinning. His jaw falls, ordering Max to use him further, to which the latter obliges. The younger arches his back, pushing his pelvis further, aching for much more than just making out.

Max leans away, and their gazes spill into each other. There is enticing darkness in Charles’s eyes, as the ebony of his pupils is full of stars like the night sky they reside under. Huffs of rapid and heavy breaths jerk out of Charles’ lips, which are so swollen and wet and so crimson they resemble the colour of blood. He’s spent, as if he just finished a race.

This Charles is Max’s favourite. Exhausted. Trembling.

Against him. For him. Because of him.

Almost his.

“Merde.” his hips stutter on him. “Fuck me, Max.”

“Charles.”

“C’mon, Max.” Charles chuckles, all mysterious despite his apparent demand. “I know you-”

Max grounds him with a hand around his neck.

“No, Charles. My pace today.”

Charles’ eyes roll to the back of his head as Max’s fingertips dig into his pulse. He exhales shakily, as his own wraps around Max’s wrist to steady himself in reality, but he finds himself slipping, as all his insides were viscous.

His spine loosens at the warm wave of breath of the latter on the outer shell of his ear, and Max’s teeth gently graze all the nerve endings that bellow at the tension coiling tight inside of him, his vision narrowing around the edges.

“Let me take care of you,” his tone caresses the thrill that oozes from Charles’ veins, “your grace.”

Charles is a prideful bastard; they are both familiar with the need to have everything in the palms of their hands, just like when there are thousands of horses pushing them towards the last lap. The hunt for absolute control is both a prerequisite and a consequence of the passion one has to carry to make it in such a sport that demands everything and gives you more back.

Max’s hands on Charles's body feel safe, huge, sound. He breathes out, as his mind drifts into a place no one but them is, when the man tilts his head as if to direct him to a land, where he lets go. And so, when Max returns to face him, Charles’ eyelashes flutter – vacancy takes place of the usual pensiveness Max belongs to.  

How freeing it is that he can be absolutely anyone and anything under Max’s touch, and the latter’s stare will still lock him in his devotion?

“That’s right.” Max purrs. “Good job, baby.”

In such a moment, it is Max’s hand that he lets wrap around his soul, his arms that he lets carry him to death itself, his fingertips that he lets float through him until there isn’t an inch of skin that doesn’t whisper Max’s name.

“Please.” He says breathlessly. “Please, Max.”

“Don’t worry, prince,” Max whispers. “You’re going to get everything you want.”

Then leans in, almost kissing.

“And so much more.”

Max clashes their lips again, calm storm embodied, like sea waves hitting the rocks until the water is just white, pure foam. He keeps his grip around the latter’s neck, his other hand finds the crease just below his ass, as Charles’s back gets propped up against the wall. The coldness of the object behind him stands like a stunning opposite to the heat Max’s body radiates, but he can barely pay attention as the man devours him as if he is going to go insane without it.

Max pants when they stop. Charles tries to pull him back, but his fingers engulf his blonde hair instead, as his bottom lip gets stuck between his teeth.

His thumb presses on it, and Charles relents, letting it enter his mouth. He sucks on it gently, and a small whine flees out right to Max’s ear, to which his lower abdomen screeches like slicks on asphalt.

The older keeps staring at the latter, as if he were the night sky, infinite and magnificent, as if when he saw him, he would find a competition to his passion for cars. Lord knows that when his lips cradle his, his heart beats just like when the light turns green and away they go.

“You’re so gorgeous, Your Highness,” he whispers with barely any millimetres between them – his breath tickles Charles’ used lips. “I cannot believe I get to have you like this.”

Charles manages to give a small, exhausted smile at the compliment – and there is really no difference between such and Charles crushing Max's heart in the palm of his delicate hand until there’s just a pool of blood underneath them.

Max raises him, and their shadows on the wall collide their lips again, messy yet calculated, obsessive and obsessed, impatient yet slow. Charles’s knees strangle his hips now.

Life used to be so simple when he thought that high speed and rumbling engines were going to be enough to make him feel alive. And then Charles complicated the trajectory of his fate so breathtakingly that Max forgot how racing could ever suffice.

He lays him down on the bed as softly as if Charles were a statue made of porcelain, and his mouth doesn’t part ways with him even when the zipper of his sweatshirt purrs into the room, as Max tugs on it to free every inch of Charles’ skin for his own gaze to see.

His own only.

“Look at yourself, prince.” Max caresses Charles’ chest and then his belly, as his hand travels to the hem of his t-shirt. “So ethereal.”

A soft whimper creeps into the creases of the shorter’s lips, as the sentence makes the glow inside his chest brighter, then his sweatshirt vanishes in the corner of the room. Max’s tongue strokes his pulse, which catches Charles breathless, as he can only lie in the covers and live it all, forgetting the world behind the four walls, as if it never existed.

Max’s hand is heavy on his abdomen as the fabric of the t-shirt reveals his torso right above his pants, while his teeth scrape the muscle of his neck. His breath is loud in the empty silence, at every detail of Max’s touch, when he’s shredded into nothing but need and want; Max loves making him fall apart piece by piece, and Charles loathes it, yet at the same time-

“Ah,” he tips his head back, as Max sucks in on that tiny bundle of nerves right underneath his ear. Max grips Charles’s hip roughly, so it would leave a mark for a couple of days, smiling, satisfied with himself at every reaction he drags out of the man underneath him.

The only time he pulls away is when he discards Charles’ shirt. He blinks. Ogles shamelessly.

The lion inside him grits his teeth.

“Fuck.”

A smirk tugs on the corner of Charles’ mouth. He opens his eyes to gaze at Max from underneath his eyelids.

“You like it?”

Charles sees that Max does – but hearing it never gets old, not when he bought the set specifically for him.

Max rubs the lace in between his fingers.

Like it? L.I.K.E?

Max would get tortured for merely a chance to even breathe the same air as Charles, covered with a red plastic bag for shopping. This? This is a reward for which he lacks knowledge of how he deserved such; he must have been a saint in the life before this one. 

He lets the fabric slide, feeling the defined texture that covers Charles’ chest. Mesmerised. Turned to stone upon the sight, he notices the clip in between the cups.

The thought of Charles purchasing it with him in mind sends him spinning into orbit.

“How could I not, prince?” He says, devouring the sight in front of him as if Charles finally gave him the air he was gasping for. “You’re the most beautiful person in the entire universe.”

Very, very insufficient sentence for the heaven he has found when Charles entered the Paddock of the Grid for the first time.

Charles smiles – with his dimples in his cheeks.

And Max falls in love all over again. For the thousandth time.

He breathes out, as if he couldn’t watch the way Charles’ lungs expand anymore; it is too much, when the entirety of his torso is scorching like a star and exploding like the death of one. He pecks his lips and then deepens it again, every kiss a cure to all the wounds of humankind.

Charles’s hand twists into Max’s hair, and then he scratches his scalp gently, the softness in between his fingers. It swallows Max like a black hole, and all the lust tangles all his senses. His mouth continues downwards, leaving wet, hot pecks on his neck, collar bones, bathing in the growling fervour that grips him so sharply it is almost painful.

He has always been a masochistic bastard, though.

As he reaches Charles’ sternum, his eyes again find the latter’s. Purposeful. Hazy. Fascinated.

“God… I don’t even wanna take it off.”

Charles’s chuckle seeps into his bloodstream like medicine. Max’s muscular shoulders tense underneath his touch.

“No need to call me God.” He jokes.

Max’s thumb makes a small circular motion on his nipple through the lace, which erases the smug in Charles’ cheeks in an instant, his heavy breath exchanging it instead.

“Maybe you’re not…” he buries his lips in the valley between Charles’s abs, as he towers completely transparent over the man he devoted his being to.

“…but you make me believe in Him.”

Charles’ smile widens into a toothy one, as his heartbeat accelerates into speed not even his SF knows. The tension inside the marrow of his bones swells, weakening his knees. 

Max unzips Charles’ pants, and them glides them down, inch by inch, as his misbehaved mind already runs ahead – to Charles with pleasure seeping into his mouth hanging open, toes and knuckles curled, dripping on his tongue. Consumed. Sinful.

A vision, which, together with the lacey hem of Charles’ undergarments, leaves him feeble.

“And if there really is a God…” Max’s voice keeps the low, deep growl, stripping himself of his own dignity and standing metaphorically naked before the latter, “…I am going to remind Him.”

He pulls slightly on the seams of the latter’s trousers, eyeing every tiny twitch and reaction of the latter. The textile strokes the top of his thighs, as he is slowly uncovering Charles’ beauty, accentuated by the intimacy of the yellow light of the lightbulb.

“Of what?”

The bulge of Charles’ lower belly, right above the second piece of the lingerie set, dips underneath the weight of the small, intimate peck Max plants there.

“Of why He created hell.”

He leers at the latter’s curves clad in nothing but ebony lace, savouring his insatiable hunger that awakens every time he touches the flesh of the one he yearns for during lonely nights.

“…And why both of us belong there, my fallen angel.”

The Earth’s gravity strengthens.

“Max, God, ah.” Charles whimpers. “Please.”

Max bites the cotton on Charles’s iliac bones. He pulls it down slightly, uncovering only a small portion of the main price.

“Please, what, prince?”

Charles drips with more than just fervour. “Need you.”

Oh, prince, you have me in ways you don’t even dare to dream of.   

Max’s hands come across the universe of Charles, his skin a galaxy, the entirety of his veins nebulae, his birthmarks stars, his scars craters on the Moon. Vast. Everlasting. Remarkable.

“Such a needy prince,” he muses. “But I guess royals are always greedy.”

“Max, please,” Charles begs breathlessly again, not knowing what for, not knowing why. “Please.”

He sobs out almost, a tear slipping onto his cheek.

“You’re going to get me, Your Serene Highness. Be patient.”

Charles wants no such thing. He covets for Max to undo him until every piece of him bursts like a supernova, until he is just an eruption of molten magma.

Max caresses the inner skin of Charles’ thigh gently, hands barely brushing over the stretchmarks that adorn His Grace. Then grabs one end of the bra with his teeth and unhooks it skilfully, letting it open.

Charles’ chest uncovers in front of him. He licks his lips, wetting them, as he dives into one of the buds – biting, sucking them until they go hard. The motions travel to Charles’s belly, or so it seems when a desperate moan echoes in the room, igniting Max’s senses. The younger’s skin is warm and trembling under the blade of his tongue, as he hooks one of his thumbs beneath Charles’ panties, neglecting his clit, his pussy, leaving the latter in shambles. He’s intensely aware of how wet they are – Charles is – yet he cannot bring himself to touch him there, trying to usher them to that edge where they are born again.

He kneads Charles’ ass cheek, as his lips envelop Charles’ areola, his teeth grazing the bundle of nerves that make the latter arch his back, chasing more. Max doesn’t give him that, which would be described by Charles as la torture if his mouth could speak more than just an intangible swirl of syllables.

A small whimper, perhaps a French word, reaches Max, who smirks at all the responses he elicits in the latter.

“Ik vind het heerlijk hoe je dijen voor mij trillen, Charlie.” Max pulls his panties down another inch, revealing more of Charles’ pubic bone.

Charles opens his eyes for theirs to meet – and when they do, Max’s head starts to spin at the mix of sexy and cute caused by the latter’s hair being disrupted by the involuntary moments on the pillow.

"Ik vind het heerlijk om je op mijn tong te hebben." 

Max plants another – a thousandth, probably – kiss, now on the birthmark on Charles’ sternum. Then he lays another above his belly button. And the last one below it.

“Huh?”

Charles bends one of his knees, fingers curled on the bedding, his empty mind still waiting for the English translation. Lying almost naked in front of a clothed man, worshipped like a deity, makes his stomach twist enormously, and he is too far gone to pretend such isn’t true.

"Maar het allerbelangrijkste is dat ik van je houd. Met mijn heel hart en hele wezen." 

Max’s stubble is rough on his abdomen. His teeth grab the little bow right in the middle of the hem of his undergarments, and then, with his eyes nibbling into the latter’s, as if there was nothing more crucial to look at right now, he slides... and slides... and slides down. His hefty shoulders dip as he continues to take it off, competitive in eye contact. Like with anything and everything. As if racing for some trophy would be scribbled into his DNA – Lord knows it is.

Max’s and Charles’s egos collide more often than their cars do.

Two prideful assholes in one bed.

A catastrophe. A tragedy.  

Beautiful one at that.

Max stops at his ankles.

And then… Charles wins.

It’s easy when your bullet is your opponent’s pleasure, and you can fire the gun just by spreading your legs. And letting him see.

The silence grows louder as Max’s breath speeds up, its heaviness resonating deep. Charles’s slight smirk grows when his knees fall apart further, letting the man relish the sight.

Max does. For fuck’s sake he does, hard, as if this is the last thing he was allowed to witness before the universe dies. His pupils dilate until the sea of his blue vanishes, metaphorically dropping to his knees, and it doesn’t matter how many times he has seen Charles like this.

It’s magical and enticing and-

“C’mon, Max. Are you just going to look?” Charles says then gulps, as if his throat hasn’t gone dry since Max stole his breath for the first time today.

“You’re lucky that-,”

“No, Max.” Charles jumps into his speech, cocky as ever. “You are.”

And there isn’t an atom in Max’s body that could disagree with such a statement.

He wraps his arms underneath Charles’s thighs, the palms of his hands resting on the top of his pelvis, as he keeps staring up at the man.

And then he licks Charles’s clit.

A deep moan rumbles inside the man’s chest as he sags his spine and closes his eyes. Final-

“No, Charles.” Max’s voice is a steeled blade.

Charles’ entire body freezes, as if staying still would make the reprimanding, rough tone in Max’s voice disappear.

“Eyes on me.”

Outside, Max appears calm like the other side of the Moon; inside, he can barely contain himself, starving for his pleasure to release.

“You wanted this so badly...”

Charles whines, loud and almost painful. 

“...so now you’re going to watch.”

And Charles would bellow at him every single curse word in all the languages he has acquired the knowledge of.  

He doesn’t defy, though. 

Max’s gaze is a smite to the gut.

“Good boy.”

Max’s tongue loops around his clit, and then he presses the tip of it on there, Charles’s body lighting up like a dashboard of an old car. A moan he doesn’t even try to keep inside his mouth makes it out, which causes Max’s cock to twitch inside his pants, as he keeps savouring the latter. His mouth is hot and wet against all the sensitive spots of Charles.

Their stares keep each other chained, while Charles’ pleasure spikes until it reaches temperatures even the Sun would be jealous of. Max suck on his clit gently, as if he still had the energy to tease the man, whose fingers are pursing the duvet.

All of this – his hips, his stretchmarks, his pecks – is almost enough to make him the happiest man on the planet.

Charles’s heels dig into Max’s shoulder blades as he struggles to catch a deep breath – he cannot afford for Max to pull one of his teasing bullshits and stop just as he is about to hit the summit. He strangles the man between his thighs, not caring if Max can perform basic human functions.

“Merde.” He whimpers, needy and thrilled. And Max would respond with an enraging and smart comment if he wasn’t drowning in Charles’s cunt.

His finger tethers on the edge of Charles’s pussy. The shorter’s spine arches when he is closing his eyes for a second before his poor, dumb brain reminds him to open them back up, since Max's mouth would definitely come to a standstill otherwise.

“Max~” he moans, chasing after the win. He scoops his pelvis further onto the man, trying to explain to him how much he craves Max’s finger inside him. Max only hums, though, which sends an electrical shock through his entire torso.

“Please. Max, fuck, please...”

Max smirks, then the blade of his tongue flicks Charles’s clit. His fingertip dips into his pussy just barely, so gently that Charles doesn’t know if it’s real or just a fragment of his desperate imagination. 

“Need... Max... shit, I need...”  

“Hm?”

He whines beautifully instead of using his words. Max propels his nose into Charles’s folds.

“I don't know what you mean, prince,” he whispers against his pussy cluelessly. His pupils scream with darkness, intense and formidable, gripping Charles like a vice. He’s haunting him, finding satisfaction in devouring him like a predator.

Like Max E. Verstappen.

That’s what the E in his middle name stands for. Eerie.

“Want you inside.” Charles murmurs, too spent to express it better.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” Max bestows a peck on Charles’s clit tenderly. “I dictate the pace today, don’t I?”

Charles swallows audibly. “Yes.”

“Good.” Max taps his bum comfortingly. “Then act like it, Your Highness.”

Charles doesn’t like this – Max stopping, Max not obeying, Max not fucking him. It’s the only flaw that Max has.

Charles’s eyes flush open as Max’s finger finally enters him. He lets out a relieved, fat moan.

“So, so wet.” Max muses again. “For me, prince?”

Charles squirms slightly at the humiliation in Max’s words – it's fatal. Brutal. 

His tongue cradles him again, worshipping Charles to petit mort itself, as his finger presses on that sweet spot.

And in that moment, Charles’s body suddenly gives out, eyes closed, muscle spasming, his orgasm consuming him whole. He squeezes Max’s head in between his trembling thighs, coming on his tongue, underneath his gaze.

“M... Merde.”

Max could come just from the sight, untouched.

He licks his clit again. There is a beautiful glow that clings to Charles’s skin after an orgasm that makes Max not want to ever stop with such encounters.  

“Max...” Charles pants.

Max repeats the small movement, which sends overstimulated Charles spinning.

“You can take it, I know you can,” Max notes.

Charles tries to stop it, squirm out of Max’s fingers, but he can’t, not when he isn’t that in favour of it. His body cannot decide whether it's a good dream or a nightmare, as all his nerves keep themselves alert, as Max licks him again. And again. And then once more.

“M-max,” Charles sobs out, his eyes watery.

“Want me to stop?”

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

Max smirks.

And the universe starts going on, without them, as Max dives in and fulfils the role he believes he was born to fill all this time. His lungs, tongue, nostrils are full of naked Charles – with all the firm muscles laying beneath his skin; of lingerie-wearing Charles – that adorn his curves brutally; of fully-clothed Charles rolling his eyes at one of Max’s shenanigans – that make Max push his buttons more; of competitive Charles – with stars in his eyes; of post-race Charles – with his hair roughed-up and edges of his helmet edged onto his cheeks.

There is something so dangerously comforting in destroying yourself for a person who you deem worthy but will never get close to.

He’s fucking hopeless.

He shouldn’t be such a mess; he’s a grown adult, a sports figure. Yet his heart is full of gasoline, and Charles is holding a match, and fuck, if fire isn’t so lovely to see. To feel. 

His cock throbs in his pants at every sound that Charles spills out of his mouth. The shorter pulls on his hair, and Max groans into his clit, as he continues to thrust in and out with his fingers, sensing how wet the latter is – for him only. Fucking great. Fucking awesome.

“Ah, shit, Max.”

He curls his fingers, while Charles’s nails dig into his shoulder at the pressure in his belly that is building again. Max is making him fall apart, tear himself into nothing but bliss, and in between his moans, he thanks God for sending such a heavenly top to his doorstep. What a privilege.

“C-close.” He moans, the abdominal muscles tensing at the anticipation of the wave that is about to hit him.

In any other universe, Max would slow down and keep the latter on edge until forever. In this one, he keeps the tempo going, not changing a thing, since his cock is begging for attention and has been for a while now.

“Ah, fuck.”

Charles grabs Max’s scalp, needing to hold onto him. 

And again, he lets the sky drain him. And it only took lying on the dagger of Max’s tongue.

Max’s hands leave his body. Charles trembles a bit before he falls into restfulness, exhausted to the last letter of the word. Max discards his own t-shirt, then fumbles with his belt, and its buckle rings into quick breaths of the man, whose eyes are watery from the pleasure.

“You’re so perfect, Charles,” Max says as his clothes vanish in the corner of the room. “If I could, I would freeze time and eat you out over and over and over again.”

Charles closes his eyes, not strong enough to reply. But he isn’t opposed to such an offer.

“Tired?” Max asks, quietly.

Charles gives a little shake of his head.

“You feel up to me fucking you?”

The shorter breathes out, legs spread still.

“Please.” He speaks weakly, as if his voice had left in the wave of the orgasm. 

Max wants to poke fun at him. He gives him a gentle, affectionate smile instead, and leans closer to him, his thumb stroking his cheekbone, when the latter’s so vulnerable.

“Please,” Charles repeats, speech slurred.

“Okay, baby.” Max agrees. “Are you fine on your back?”

Oui, je veux te voir quand tu me baises. (Yes, I want to see you while you fuck me.)

“Please.”

Max lets out a joyful chuckle. He leaves a small kiss on his forehead and then on his lips. Smitten like a kitten.

Foolish. Dumb.

But definitely alive.

And then finally, he pushes himself in. Charles’s mouth parts in a high-pitched moan coming from the deepest nook of his throat, desperate and sweet.

And just like when looking above while lying in the snow, Max feels himself become human. Every carbon atom he is made out of gains weight, every proton of oxygen gains volume in his lungs, every hydrogen finds its root back to nature as a member of the homo sapiens species, only a product of nature.

Charles’s back arches at the pressure that implodes inside of him, the stretch deliciously sharp.
“Oh, merde, Max.”

He swallows all the desire that pooled in his mouth, which is full of Charles still. He thrusts in, slowly, agonisingly, filling Charles to the hilt, so every sensitive spot inside him feels Max’s cock throb at the pleasure that he finds when Charles’ body lights up like fireworks after standing on the podium.

He kisses the man, who leaves his lips open, purring into his mouth at his heart pounding in his chest. He puts his hand on his peck, cupping it, while he thrusts again, the glimmer in his abdomen rushing him into higher yet steady speeds.

“Ah, kut,” he moans, more lost than his companion now, ignoring the way his muscles scream at him to stop his movements when his dick is in charge of it all. He can rest when he’s dead, not when he’s inside Charles.

“Mhp, Max,” the shorter moans, his vocal cords a second from giving out, used, while filthy sounds are filling the room around them. His fingers brush against his own clit as he breathes out, feeling already on the edge of the bridge into a world where nothing but the outburst of stars matters. “Fuck.”

Max shifts into a higher gear, jolting his hips, already so fucking close from the entirety of today. Charles is still heavenly, still divine, still so fucking gorgeous that he cannot believe his own luck, yet there isn’t much space in his pleasure-driven brain to think, to ponder, when the finish line is closer and closer and closer each passing second.

He towers over the curves of the man, whose tongue carries his name and bites onto his shoulder, hard. Charles whimpers at the stinging pain that his teeth left on his skin, while his pussy is memorising every vein.

“Max, fuck, so… mm, so big, ah.”

Kut.

“Shit… close.” Max exhales heavily, eyes closed. It’s too soon, yet he cannot make himself stop this all, when all his genes belt profanities at him.

Charles holds onto the back muscles of the man above as he tightens his cunt around him.

“Come for me, Max.” He moans quietly right into Max’s ear, while they continue to be one body.

And Max whines. Fucking whines as he gets even faster.

“G-good.” Charles praises him, barely knowing what he's saying, as he throws his head back at the pressure in his clit. “T-that’s good.”

And Max throws himself over the edge into the condom, black matter filling the space underneath his eyelids, as the sensation of pure bliss dissolves his body into nothingness upon impact, leaving only the perception of Charles.

He doesn’t wait for anything, as he grabs his hips and turns him over, lifting his hips. His mouth finds all the details that make Charles’ muscles spasm and plays him like a symphony of pleasure.

“My good, pretty boy.” He speaks as he rubs his clit. “So, so undone for me.”

Charles whimpers with his lips buried into the pillowcase, which is muffling it all, working until a surge of pleasure crashes into Charles again, the third time.

An innocent, inconspicuous way for Max to claim ownership…

The silence is defeating, loud, when not even the bed creaks anymore, as Max collapses on the bed next to Charles. As his heart returns to a normal cardiac rhythm, his mind returns to the night of yesterday, while the Sun slowly bids farewell to the French Alps behind the window, letting the dark watch over them again. He ponders about fate and the universe and how beautifully red the clouds wrap around the skyline in the sunshine – if the shade were any darker, it would resemble the colour of Ferrari; the Scuderia, which the most intelligent man he knows is so stupidly loyal to.

The ending of their race doesn’t mean that the older can now help himself and leave the latter on his own, no – his pinkie finger locates Charles’ hand. And Max has no explanation for why his lungs burst every time their epidermises touch, other than this dumb belief: that the stars they came from must have been created together during the Big Bang.

“Max,” Charles suddenly calls out his name, and Max’s heart melts all the icy crust that was implanted there by everyone he has ever loved.

“Hm?”

“Are you mad at me?”

He turns his head at the man wearing nothing but a duvet.

“Me? For what?”

“That… you know, in Abu Dhabi…”

Max furrows his eyebrows.

“I don’t, Charles.”

Charles misses the gaze of the latter, forlornness in his cheeks. And in such moments, Max wishes he were permitted to put plasters on Charles’s wounds.

“…that I didn’t… that I wasn’t fast.”

“Charlie, no… oh my god.” Max lays the palm of his hand onto his now-hidden dimple – it doesn’t make Charles face him, though. “I know how much you wanted to stand on that podium and how much you were fighting for the top there…”

It burns when Max's throat closes up, when all he wants is to scream his lungs out into the pillow, how much love he holds for the man, whose self-doubt is the most useless in the history of such. He wants to take his hand and dig all the deep-rooted cuts to heal them so hard that Charles would never cry again.

Max’s head is a pendulum. Sometimes he sees Charles laugh, and it’s enough. Sometimes they are intimate, and it’s enough. Sometimes he kisses him, and it’s enough.

“I am sorry… I wanted you to win the Championship. So bad.” A couple of tears show at Charles’ eyelid, as he pushes his eyes closed. “You have to believe me.”

Today… Today, there is no such thing as enough.

“Charlie. I know you did.” Max lets out a loving chuckle as he gathers all the gentleness of the world into his grasp. “Look at me. Please.” His thumbs caress his cheekbones.

Charles does so, reluctantly.

“Me losing has never and will never be your fault.”

One of those tears drops onto his cheek.

“We’ll get those McTwinks next season. Especially the shorter one.”

“Don’t call them that, oh god.” Charles snickers and sobs at the same time.

Max gives him a small kiss on his forehead, as he hugs him deeper, letting Charles's tears soak into his skin, which is the closest Charles will allow him to get.

There are two roads he can take.

One views his self-worth and that the only love he can get from Charles is crumbs of what Max deserves. In this state, his being shouts at him to move on, to sprint, to forget. To end this establishment. Max knows there are others who would love him as much as he would love them. And that he’s worthy of reciprocated, freeing love.

The other one, though, encourages him to sacrifice himself for the latter’s happiness. To hand him every piece of love that Max should have saved for himself, but instead, he gives it to Charles because he needs and has earned it through all the hardship he has gone through. And such feels so burning hot, he is melting his skin away and yet the flames keep him warm.

And Max... Max will jump at every opportunity for heat, even if it’s just a flicker of a candle.

Because that is what years of cold do to a person.

As he wakes up from the reality in his head, he notices the calmness in Charles’s features. And although Charles can never find out that Max is familiar with such a sight, as his hand caresses the latter's hair, it is Max’s turn to shed a tear.

A pendulum. That is all his head is.

He always promises himself he will never pick up the phone again. But then Charles calls, and Max runs to him like a lost, abandoned puppy.

Because what if, this time, Charles sees something he hasn’t before, and Max will be worthy?

What if...

What if.

It’s never going to be like in those what-ifs, right?

Max is delusional. Irrational. 

But Charles is... Charles.

Free. Fierce. Funny. Intelligent. Hurt.

And, God, if the broken don’t love broken.

Max will never pronounce such out loud, not when he would lose everything that has taken thousands of seconds to build. And since such is too precious to wreck, he will only moan his name into the light of the nightstand, then wail it into his pillow at nights the Moon is his only company.

His own personal prison. And he’s locked himself there…

*

The men gather behind the cabin close to a snowman the McLaren boys built this afternoon, when it's a minute until midnight. Alex, Yuki and Pierre hold a bottle of Champagne, ‘since they didn’t get to during the season’ Max has jabbed at them in the kitchen, while the rest keep their hands inside gloves, their breathing coming out as smoke into the air.

The mountains look magnificent, lit up by the stars, Charles thinks while rubbing his hands; he isn’t sure, though, if it was worth it to go outside in such cold-ass weather. Max stands next to him and puts a hand onto his lower back in the most friends way possible; Charles is painfully aware of it, doesn’t say anything because in the darkness, he guesses the rest of the group doesn’t notice.

He doesn’t voice his opinion about the view. Max would agree while gazing in a completely different direction from the snow-covered ridges. Like yesterday.

He leans his head against his shoulder and allows the last half-minute of 2025 to be filled with pondering about them. About Max. About their first intimacy. About the lingerie set he bought for him.

About the curse of his. 

Whenever he tried to believe it wasn't the case, life always gave him proof that it, in fact, was the truth.

He is destined to be alone. And in such, find the loneliness that feels like home.

Dad. Jules. Anthoine. 

It’s never a question of if – it’s a question of when. That’s just how destiny works.

He is sweating at the thought of Max looking at him one day without the sparks in his pupils, dreading it more than his own end, more than never putting his hands on the Championship trophy.

Because fuck that. Fuck the victory of tomorrow, when he sees the red flag in the distance. Crimson. Bloody.

The only thing uncertain is whose blood that is.

Max stands in front of him. His gaze finds Charles’s. Because it always does.

And Charles... Charles believes that not letting Max fully in can prolong the man's presence.

Maybe it’s a dumb belief, Charles reckons it is. But he will do everything in his power to postpone that man’s leave, when it will absolutely crash him once it happens. Selfishly.

"Guys, guys! Twenty seconds!" Lando yells out. 

Charles puts the palm of his hand on Max's chest; he keeps staring up into Max’s eyes.

There is so much hope in them.

It shatters his heart.

“I… I want to kiss you, Charles.” Max admits, whispering so he isn’t heard. “Can I?”

He scans the surroundings of theirs. He shouldn’t let him so close - not when he remembers the hope in Max’s eyes that today he could stay over from every night they were awake together - not when now he sees the same dammed hope for Charles to change his mind about the kiss and about their deal until it is neither secret nor sex buddies, until it’s a full-on marriage certificate.

Perhaps Max doesn’t even realise that this is what reflects in his gaze. But Charles does, and it terrifies him to his core.

“Fifteen!”

Charles bites the inside of his cheek. “I… I don’t know, Max.”

Charles is deeply aware of the fact that Max deserves someone better, someone who isn’t afraid to love him, who’s willing to risk his own heart. And that makes him feel like a dirty, dishonest bitch. Because, despite Charles's craving to be that person, he cannot be such.

His life has always been intertwined with tragedy, and this is going to be one of the greatest ones.

Max nods.

“Ten!”

“Okay, I understand.”

Merde. Merde. Merde. Merde, Max.

Why do you always have to make pushing you away so hard for me?

Why do you always have to make being wanted taste so delicious?  

“Five! Four!”

Is he really so wrong for wanting to be loved, though? Is it – to know someone loves you hard and you don’t reciprocate, yet still enjoy their presence in your life – really such a sin as his mind makes it out to be?

Isn’t it only human? Doesn’t he also deserve to feel loved after all the shit he has been through? 

“Okay.”

“Three!”

“What?” Max raises his eyebrows.

“Kiss me.”

The biggest smile turns on in Max’s face. And Charles loathes and loathes and loathes until-

1^st Jan

Their lips cojoin in the softest kiss they have ever shared. Max lays his hand onto the lower back of Charles’ as his lips stroke the latter’s, slowly, and the time stops only for them, when the rush of the New Year celebration dissolves into the background.

Max presses him even closer, yet that doesn’t reflect in their pace, when their lips gently draw on each other. Max’s gut overgrows with warmth that flowers receive on the first spring day, as his lips keep moving against Charles steadily, lovingly, as if he wanted to remind the stardust that flows through his veins how it felt when the neutrons of the matter their bodies were made out separated at the big bang and then finally found each other again after more than an aeon. Max cannot help but hope the kiss is enough for Charles to experience at least a bit of how his own brain created its own little universe where it’s just them, kissing and kissing and kissing, until the space folds in on itself like a black hole. But it doesn’t matter, since even the death of everything cannot stop Max from falling in love with Charles over and over again until he’s just adoration embodied.

Charles lets the latter continue kissing him, even if the rest of the group must’ve noticed and scrunch their noses at them. His thumb strokes Max’s prominent cheekbones, imagining, longing, aching.

Loving.

Oh, dear deity who made this occurrence possible, how cruel you are for making Charles’s heart crack and spill with love that no one but him will ever feel.

Charles tastes like what Max will never have. Like a fire Max cannot touch but wants to. Like an explosion of stars. Like every single chemical reaction that made their entire fate possible.

Max will be forever thankful for the stairs aligning for their meeting.

Charles pulls away. The proximity remains almost non-existent still, when they hate putting more space between them than necessar-

"I love you." 

Charles turns to stone. Takes a step back. Stares. 

And Max's world comes crashing down, shocked at his own words. 

Charles breathes out a huff of air, the tip of his fingers covering his lips. Max's ones still retain the latter's shadow; his mind and blood are full of Charles, yet his heart beats rapidly when the guilt and panic overwhelm him. 

He fucked up. Hard. 

Kut. 

"No... Max..." Charles says, begging for the latter to change the trajectory of the car that will hit them straight-on once the denial wears off. "No..." 

Max opens his mouth to take the words back; they keep weighing between them, though, as he realises he can't, not without lying. And he doesn't lie to Charles. 

There is a tear at the bottom eyelid of the younger - it shines in the sky full of fireworks. 

"Charles, listen." He reaches to take his hand. The latter moves even further away. 

Fuck. 

“We promised each other, and I broke it, but...” Max’s tear stays on his eyelashes. “…but I love you anyway, to the Moon and further and-”

“No, don’t,” Charles sobs, “don’t say that, Max, please.”

“I am sorry.”

Charles shakes his head. “Max… We... we had a deal.”

“I know.”

“I can’t...”

“I know.”

Charles inhales sharply like a knife that he’s slicing Max's heart with.

“You... I... this... merde.” Charles covers his face with the palms of his hands.

Max just keeps standing there; he cannot stop staring at his own hands that committed a cold-blooded murder of the future he had with Charles.

“But... But I am fine with how we are now.”

Fragments of you are better than nothing at all.

“What?” Charles furrows his eyebrows at him.

“I know that’s all you can give me.” Max gulps, as his throat fills with all the feelings at the chance that he could save them. “And I am fine with just sex.”

“No. Absolutely not.” Charles shakes his head. “You need... You need to move on from me and-,”

“What if I don’t wanna?” Max tenderly wraps his fingers around his wrist. “What if... what if I want you and I don't care about how much of you I can get?”

A single tear slides down Charles’s cheek.

“I cannot let you do that to yourself.” He whispers, voice shattered into millions of pieces.

Max wipes it away with his thumb. “What?”

Charles lets him.

“You deserve someone else. Someone who... someone who will love you, Max...” Charles’s words stand out clearly on the fireworks despite their quiet nature.

“...you’re too good to me.”

“Charles...”

“I am so sorry.” Charles’s sniffle reaches Max’s ears. And Max’s lungs tighten.

“It’s not your fault.”

Another tear cascades down.

“I wish... I wish I could...”

Max’s forlorn smile digs into his cheeks. He brings him closer, hugging him with his hand caressing the soft hair on the back of Charles’s head, and his skin does the thing again - it tingles just like when the proximity of their bodies is gone.

He scans the others standing a couple of meters away. Oscar’s fingers are intertwined with Lando’s.

New year, new way in which McLaren defeated him.

His gaze locks with Oscar’s. They are understanding. Apologetic. As if he wished for Max’s outcome to be different.

Such makes his lungs fill with rage.

...the man I love belongs to me at least sometimes, while yours isn’t yours even for a couple of minutes.

Simply. Simply. Ironic.

“You should hate me, Max...”

If only you knew how deep my love for you ran, you wouldn’t even be able to think this.

“I could never, Charles,” Max says, as honest as a man can be. “Meeting you was the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

Charles pulls away; he faces Max, cheeks all wet. The older takes the zipper of the Monégasque’s jacket and pulls it up, protecting his neck from the danger of cold.

“It’s all okay, Charles,” he speaks up again, using all his strength not to show the turmoil of sadness in the tone of his voice.

It’s killing him; Charles is killing him. And it’s the loveliest, tenderest death he has ever lived through.

He bestows a little, long kiss on his forehead.

“It’s all okay.”

It’s far from such.

*

The engine is humming under the bonnet, the smell of the interior's novelty is floating through the air, and the clouds are travelling through the sky. The atmosphere in the car appears to be still, though, when only the pair on the front seats exchange thoughts in whispers.

Max’s shoulders are heavy, his chest so much that he cannot take a deep breath properly – the weight of all the mistakes he has ever made in his life stays there adamantly. He is sitting next to the man to whom he confessed his undying adoration, yet the space between them is unforgivingly violent.

He glances at him, when his heart still begs. For Charles’s skin. For Charles’s body. For Charles’s love. It's trembling like a coward in the corner, yearning for an alternative reality. If he didn’t-

Shut up, Max. There is no fucking if. There is no alternative universe where you can live through this differently.

You made your bed. Period.

They pass the borders of Monaco, and then Oscar takes a right into their neighbourhood. Max’s eyes drift on the outline of Charles’s nose, taking him in, because for some reason, these minutes feel like the end of something bigger than the trip, and bigger than him.

Than them.

When they come to a complete stop, Max takes the skis for both, though, throws a backpack over his shoulder and grabs the big bag of Charles. The latter holds two leashes in his hand.

“Bye, guys,” Lando says.

Max looks up at him. And for the first time, there is sorrowful bitterness in his own gaze.

Because yes, coming second to the Championship stung. But Lando has gotten the man he wanted, and Max did not...

That shit is a straight-up nightmare.

“Bye, Lando.” His voice is turned down low.

Charles bids farewell too.

“Max?” Oscar calls his name as they start walking away. The older stops but doesn’t spin around to face him.

“I am sorry for what I said that night.”

“Thanks.” Max acknowledges it, yet it doesn’t change a thing. “Bye, Oscar.”

The wind is blowing their hair away from their faces, as their sneakers brush against the asphalt. The villas are awfully quiet this late Thursday afternoon, probably because of the residents’ tiredness after the New Year’s Eve celebrations; the only sound is the tapping of claws on the pavement. The men are walking far apart, as if the lack of touch symbolised the distance between their souls.

Charles's hand digs in his jacket’s pocket to take his rattling keys out. Max registers it quietly, since his weariness doesn’t permit him to utter a word. One of the clouds that is lazily ambling through the azure looks like Charles’s messed-up-by-pillows hair.

There is something beautiful about the intimacy cradled in ache. About the way his heart breaks in the palms of the hands of the man he loves. About the privacy of them.

How lucky it is to love Charles so deeply. How unlucky it is to be so lucky.

They get inside the building, take the stairs until they are in front of Charles’s door. Max barely pays attention, yet his body stops automatically – the plan of the house and the apartment is scripted into his DNA, probably. He puts Charles’s ski and the bag on the floor of the flat, then takes Nino’s leash from the latter’s hand, and his skin blossoms at the contact of their fingers; his body still remembers too much.

And then… then it is time.

“Charles.” He puts all his body’s effort into his words.

Charles’s voice comes out smaller than ever before – it is the first time they speak after the events underneath the night sky. “...yeah?”

“I...” Max’s head drops to the floor as he becomes a stuttering mess. “I... just...” He bites his lip, thoughtfully, barely knowing where he’s going with all this.

But he’s going. And perhaps that is the most important thing.

“I… I just wanted to say...”

Charles stares at him with the biggest portion of hope he could serve him in such a moment.

“I don't regret loving you.”

A tear glistens in Max’s gaze, his mouth full of his heart.

“And I don’t regret telling you. And I know that I ruined our deal and... the intimacy, that I regret. But...” he continues spitting out words that come to his mind, “...but you deserve to know it. To know that you’re worthy of all this. And not just the scrapes I give you, but so much more.”

The only love wasted is the one withheld.

“Max...”

“I am serious, Charles.” The latter speaks again, as honest as one can be, a wistful, melancholic smile in his cheeks. “You deserve such love that you don’t even dare to dream of.”

A tear slides down his cheek.

“I am lucky to have been so close to you. I am lucky to love you.”

And then, absolutely selfishly, Max is aware, he leans closer and plants one more, quick, last peck on Charles’s warm forehead. He savours the fraction of a second, breathing in Charles’s deodorant scent, the bottom of his lungs swelling in contentment.

Although... It’s goodbye.

When they meet in Barcelona at the testing, this closeness will be a sweet history. A fond memory.

He’s going to let him go. But the way the marrow of his bones cracked as Charles grew through it will forever stay with him; in such moments, he felt his ancestors' genes staring at the same Moon and feeling the same things.

He was the most human.

“Bye.” He whispers.

And then turns around, not waiting for a reply, sniffling quietly, as his sneakers echo in the corridor, seconds away from the heartbreak showing on his face. He needs to get home and-

“Max.”

He stops. Keeps his torso away from the latter; he cannot spare Charles even a glance, not when he would fold like a house of cards underneath such. His tongue has thickened in his mouth so hard that he isn’t sure if he can breathe.

“...Yes?”

Clock ticks restlessly somewhere into the silence, which is only disturbed by the rapid beating of Max’s torn heart.

Charles rubs his lips against each other, standing in the doorframe still, and his stomach dips at the figure of the man who... whom he is losing for forever.

If…

If he doesn’t do anything.

Anything that would prolong Max’s footsteps out of his life.

Max blinks a couple of times, and when the time stretches between them, he finally gains the strength to face him. There is a hopeless vacancy in the blues of Charles, which Max still craves to kiss all away, until there isn’t anything in the world other than the two of them.

In the cabin. Or a cottage. Or a bed at the end of the world. Or in the sky, a constellation shining so hard, people will name it in Latin.

Trēs et Sēdecim. Amantes.

Charles’ sadness pulls Charles down like an anchor. He’s just a question, a sentence away from it all.

“I…”

‘Do you want to... come over? To, um, talk?’

‘I love you.’

‘Please, don’t go.’

Max’s tear falls onto the concrete floor, impatience pulling on his heart painfully, when hope is the only thing that holds his insides together. He doesn’t want Charles to let him go, so he begs any creator who might exist to make this universe the one where the main characters overcome it all.

“…yes?”

‘Yes.’

‘I love you too.’

‘I won’t go, ever.’

Charles opens his mouth. He could save them. He could make it better. He could-

Dad. Jules. Anthoine. Max.

It’s four too many.

He cannot let such a catastrophe even take root. He cannot afford to love when loving means losing. 

And hasn't he lost enough already? 

Enough races in F1. Enough competitions with fate; those he will never win, no matter how quickly he overtakes - destiny will always get him by picking people who he holds close and smashing their cars into the walls, until they stay buried between the barriers and debris. Forever.

And maybe the universe was made just to be seen by his eyes. But how magnificent and enjoyable can it be when he’s gazing from Earth up to the sky alone since everyone else has already returned to stardust?

“…Goodbye.”

And Max gives him one of his broad, bleak smiles, when he’s the unluckiest luckiest bastard, whose God doesn’t listen to pleas made in desperation.

“Goodbye, Charlie.” I love you.