Archive of Our Own

“I love you.” 

Charles freezes with his beer halfway to his mouth. He blinks heavily at the TV screen, where their latest race is on mute so they can dissect it without the commentary annoying them. 

He repeats that in his head to make sure he heard it right. 

I love you. 

Max said it so simply. So easily. Maybe he doesn’t mean it in the way Charles has immediately assumed. 

He tries to unstick himself, letting an easy smile pull up his mouth. 

“I love you, too, mate,” he says, even though he doesn’t think he’s ever actually said that to a friend before. Not like that, at least. Some casual love ya’s, maybe, though typically he shows his love in other ways. 

He says it to his maman a lot, and to his brothers, but he can tell from the sad smile that Max gives him that he didn’t mean it in a brotherly way. 

Well . . . Fuck. 

“No, Charles,” Max says gently. 

Panic claws up Charles’ chest. If Max doesn’t say it, then nothing has to change. Charles really can’t have this hanging between them, can’t have this out in the open, because he can’t lose Max. He really, really can’t. 

But if Max says this, if he admits that he feels for Charles in a way that Charles doesn’t, can’t, return, then what happens to them? What happens to the friendship that they’ve painstakingly created? They’ve worked so hard for this, for what feels like forever, and now Max is the best friend Charles has. 

Maybe one of the best friends he’s ever had. 

Max can’t ruin it like this. 

“I mean that I’m in—” 

Charles shoots up onto his feet. “Do you want another drink?” 

Max sighs. Loudly. Then he stands, too. He hesitates before he reaches out to clasp his hand on Charles’ shoulder, which makes Charles’ heart thump erratically. 

He never hesitates. Max always just touches, takes whatever he wants, and Charles has always loved that about him. Everything is easy between them, even these little touches. 

This is exactly why Max can’t say anything. 

“Charles. Please, just—I know you probably don’t want to hear it, but I’m so . . . I’m so tired, Charles. I’m tired of keeping it to myself. Please, just—can I please just say it, so that I can . . .” 

Charles clenches his jaw. He doesn’t want to hear it, but he supposes he can understand why Max needs to say it anyway. 

Max keeps talking before Charles says anything either way, bulldozing through like he does with everything. 

“I’m in love with you.” 

Well, fuck. 

Charles takes a deep breath. He’s let down a lot of people before, but none of them ever meant as much to him as Max does. He thinks he’s always been kind in the past, but as he thinks through all of his I’m sorry, I’m not interested’s and I’m flattered, but I’m not really looking for anything right now’s, he realises that none of it should be said to Max. Max deserves so much better than that. 

“Max, I—” He clenches his jaw again, rubbing his sweaty palm against his jean-clad thigh. “You know I’m straight.” 

Max nods once. “Yeah, I know. Believe me, I feel so fucking stupid.” 

Charles shakes his head quickly, immediately, reaching up to curl his hand around the forearm of Max’s hand that’s still on his shoulder. 

“You’re not stupid,” Charles says. His voice quivers. 

“I am,” Max insists, rolling his eyes skyward. “Trust me, I’m well aware that I’m an idiot for falling in love with my straight best friend.” 

Charles winces, then drops his hand. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, because there’s nothing else he can think of to say. 

Max drops his hand too, then shoves both of them in his front pockets. Through the denim, Charles can tell his fists are clenched. 

Charles doesn’t even know where this came from. He knows that people make fun of Max for how clingy he can be with Charles, that people online make jokes like get someone who looks at you like Max looks at Charles or no-one is taking Charles away from you Max. It always makes Charles a little uncomfortable, because he doesn’t like people reading into things that aren’t there, but he didn’t think it was real. He never thought that Max loved him like that. 

Hell, for as much attention as Max gives him, Charles gives it right back, and he’s not in love with Max. Pierre jokes that they’ve become codependent, that he can never see Charles anymore without Max being one step behind him, but Charles’ response has always been the same: he and I are the same. 

Charles doesn’t know where they fell out of lockstep, but clearly, somewhere along the way, they did. And Charles completely missed it. 

Any why now, anyway? When they’ve just been watching a race, talking shit like they usually do? Nothing is different about tonight, so why is Max blowing up their friendship like this? 

“It’s fine,” Max says, shrugging his shoulders. Charles doesn’t know how unrequited love can be fine. “It’s not like I thought this was going to go any differently.” 

Charles’ heart pangs terribly in his chest. “I mean if I could—because you’re obviously—so if I was then I’m sure that I’d . . . you know?” 

Max gives him another sad smile. 

“Does that help?” Charles asks, a little desperately. He wants that sad smile to go away. 

“Not really,” Max admits. “But I don’t think anything would. I just . . . need to get over it.” 

Get over him. Max needs to move on to some other guy, because he’s currently in love with Charles and can’t have him. Charles has never liked breaking hearts, but this is by far the worst one yet. 

Fuck. 

“But we’re still okay, right?” Charles asks, so desperately that Max looks at him strangely. “This isn’t going to change anything?” 

Max hesitates, lips pursed together. Charles feels like his stomach drops through his ass. 

“Of course, Charlie,” Max says anyway, then sits back on the lounge. “Should we keep watching the race?” 

Charles stares down at him, watches as Max leans forward to pick up his beer and take a sip. 

It’s almost like nothing has changed. 

Charles sits down beside him, exactly where he did before, and realises that there’s more space between them than usual. Their knees aren’t bumping together, there’s no warmth from Max’s thigh. 

Max sat away from him. 

Fuck. 

Since Max publicly came out, almost two years ago, he’s become a different person. 

Charles has known Max longer than almost anyone in the entire world—aside from Max’s family, really. He’s seen every single iteration of Max that there’s been: 

The happy kid, when he was just getting started and racing was fun. 

The confused, ansty kid, when his dad started to put pressure on him and racing became a competition. 

The angry kid, when losing races meant getting hurt. 

The determined teenager, when he was leaving all of them behind to go to single seaters before the rest of them. 

The restless, hungry teenager, when he got to Formula One and was desperate to make his mark. 

The settled man, when he won his first Championship and the weight he’d been carrying was finally lifted after twenty years. 

And, now, the man who is so at ease with himself. So confident. 

Max always turned heads, though it used to be in a bad way. Now he does because he commands attention. Even when he’s being silly, he lights up the entire room with how settled he is. He says what he thinks, and whatever he says is almost always right, too. 

He’s shaken off the shackles of his childhood, and has become the only person that Charles knows that genuinely loves himself. Not in a self-centred, egotistical way; in a I know who I am and I’m okay with it way. 

Charles both envies and admires it, but mostly, he aspires to it. 

Seeing Max walk into the paddock with hunched shoulders is so against everything that Charles knows about Max that it makes his chest ache. 

He did that to him. 

Charles didn’t press on the flight to Canada, because he didn’t want to know the answer. Even though Max is clearly trying to keep his promise of nothing will change, evidenced by the text Charles got a few days ago letting him know what time Air Max would be leaving Nice, there’s just something about him that isn’t sitting right. 

Charles doesn’t know how that’s fair. 

He’s the one who had that . . . revelation dropped on him. He’s the one who’s been dissecting their entire friendship over the last few days, wondering what, exactly, he did to make Max love him. 

“How many groundhogs will die this weekend, do you think?” Charles asks a little desperately as they walk into the paddock together. He wants to cling onto their friendship as tightly as he can. 

Ferrari tried to get Charles to stop sending so much time with Max publicly after he came out, because the fans started to dissect every single interaction Max has with any guy that crosses his path, but Charles had gone one weekend trying to keep his distance and then told Ferrari to go fuck themselves. 

By now, it’s such a common sight that it doesn’t get much of a reaction from anyone. Charles still feels like he’s being watching like a hawk, a bead of sweat dripping down the back of his neck despite the mild temperature. 

Do they all know that Max confessed to him? Can they see it on their faces? Do they know that Max loves him, that all those fans were right all along? Do they think Charles loves him back? Do they think he’s gay, too? 

Fuck, he needs to get a girlfriend as soon as possible. He’s never had trouble pulling, but he hasn’t had a steady girlfriend in more than a year. Maybe he’ll go to Ferrari and see who’s on their rotation of PR approved relationships right now. 

“Ten, at least,” Max says, hitching the straps of his backup over his shoulders. 

Charles gasps loudly, turning to Max with wide eyes. “Ten? What, are we committing a groundhog genocide?” 

“I think we’re missing a few zeros from that number for it be a genocide,” Max says. “I think ten falls into a serial killer category.” 

“I bet Carlos hits the most,” Charles says, even though he doesn’t remember who hit the most last year. 

“Dinner Sunday night that Lando hits the most.” 

Fuck, should he go to dinner? After a weekend of strict dieting, they always get something crazy on their drive to their airport. But will it give Max the wrong idea if he goes? Will it encourage his feelings? 

What if Max wants to go out? What if people see? Will they think it’s a date? 

He needs a girlfriend, like, yesterday. 

“Or not dinner?” Max says, voice wavering a little with his uncertainty as he glances at Charles. “Do you have plans after the race or something?” 

“Uh, yeah,” Charles says, even though he doesn’t. 

Fuck, why did he say that? Max looks just as surprised as Charles feels—he hasn’t had plans after a race in years, not since he and Max made their post-race dinner a standing da—no, hang out. 

“Yeah, I forgot to tell you,” Charles continues, digging his grave even further. “I’m, um, I’ve got a PR thing. I can’t fly with you back to Nice, either.” 

Jesus Christ, now he has to find another flight. He hasn’t done that in years, either. 

“Oh, okay,” Max says, blinking at him. “That’s fine. Well, regardless, I still bet Lando.” 

Charles has to pick through his brain to try and find the thread of the conversation, barely able to remember what even started this. He doesn’t know what that’s fine means. Charles hasn’t skipped dinner-and-flight in years, and now suddenly it’s fine that he’s got some stupid (fake) work thing? Does Max even care about keeping things normal? He said everything would be fine, but this doesn’t seem fine. 

“Right,” Charles says, because he can’t think of what Max is talking about. “I bet . . . Lewis?” 

Max raises a brow. “I thought you were betting Carlos?” 

Oh, that’s right. The groundhogs. 

“I change my mind, I bet it’s you,” Charles snarks, putting his hands on his hips. 

“Okay, so you think I’m a serial killer, got it,” Max says seriously, but there’s a little smile on his mouth that makes Charles feel warm. “Alright, I better go. Good luck with the sharks.” 

Charles rolls his eyes. “You know, you’d have a better time with the media if—” 

“—I stopped calling them sharks, yes, you’ve said. As always, I—” 

“—won’t stop,” Charles finishes, rolling his eyes again. “One day they’ll—” 

“—eat me alive, I know, Charlie. Fuck ‘em.” 

Charles laughs, then reaches over to shove Max’s stomach. Max lets out a loud, exaggerated oof and stumbles away from him. 

“If one of us is a serial killer, it’s definitely you,” Max says, turning away from him to wave over his shoulder. 

Charles laughs quietly, rocking on his heels, then turns towards Ferrari only to be met with Pierre standing there. 

“Pear!” Charles greets, reaching out for a hug. 

Pierre hugs him back, a loose thing with a quick slap on his back. They let go quickly and easily, and then Charles is faced with a calculating look on Pierre’s face. 

“You and Max seem fine.” 

Charles’ smile dips momentarily, and then he pushes it back up. 

“We’re normal,” he says, shrugging, like he wasn’t just scared that they aren’t normal. 

He should’ve known better than to tell Pierre what happened. He was just so confused, and needed to talk to someone, to see what they thought. 

Turns out, Pierre was surprised that Charles was surprised. Then he asked what Charles said, and got a weird look on his face when Charles said he’d told Max he’s straight. 

“Hm,” Pierre hums, which is pretty much what he said when Charles told him what do you mean what did I do, I told him I don’t feel the same because I’m not into men, Pear. “Normal is good.” 

Charles nods, and wipes the sweat from the back of his neck. “Walk with me to Ferrari?” 

Pierre falls into step beside him, bag clunking on his back. Charles wonders what the Hell is in there. 

“Max didn’t seem normal,” Pierre says after a moment. “He seems . . .” 

Charles feels the muscles of his shoulders go tense. Yes, he seemed to Charles, too. He hates that even Pierre can see it, because that means it’s real. 

“I feel for him,” Pierre continues. “Unrequited love sucks.” 

Charles tenses further. “It’s not my fault,” he says, a little too angrily. “I didn’t want this.” 

“Chill, mate,” Pierre says, glancing over at him. “I know it’s not your fault. I know you wouldn’t hurt him if you had another choice. I’m just saying, it still sucks.” 

Charles picks at the skin around his thumbnail, where pain is sharp when he touches it. He’s been pulling at it a lot the last week, and it only takes a moment for him to feel blood on his fingertip. 

“Yes, well. He knew that I don’t . . . So. I didn’t do anything. If he’s being weird, it’s not because of me.” 

Pierre glances over at him again, so Charles keeps his eyes straight ahead. He doesn’t want Pierre to see anything on his face—if there’s anything to even see. Which there isn’t, because none of this is because of Charles. If Max had just kept this to himself, then none of this would be happening. 

“Ah. So, you’re being weird, too, then.” 

“I am not,” Charles snaps, rubbing at his thumb even harder. 

“I get it,” Pierre says, completely ignoring Charles. Asshole. “If you really didn’t know, I’m sure you’re feeling pretty confused.” 

Charles stops in his tracks, hand fisting in the shirt at Pierre’s hip to pull him to a stop, too. 

“Of course I didn’t know,” he says harshly. He doesn’t like the implication that he was just walking around, purposefully hurting Max. He would never hurt Max. “How should I have known, anyway? I know Max is gay but I’m—like, I love women. They’re so hot, Pear. How am I supposed to know what it looks like when a guy is into you?” 

Pierre raises a brow. “Pretty sure it looks the same no matter the gender.” 

Charles huffs. “You don’t get it.” 

“Not really, no.” 

Charles eyes him critically, releasing his shirt. “Are you—” 

“Jesus, Charles. No. But you’re being really weird about this. Are you, like . . . Like, do you have a problem? With Max being gay?” 

Charles stares at him. 

Does he have a problem with Max being gay? Is he fucking joking? He was the first one to be seen with Max after he made his Instagram post, despite everyone and their mother telling him to keep a bit of space. 

Obviously he’d gotten a little scared when the Internet subsequently exploded with theories and analysis about their relationship, and Ferrari got into his head about being associated with the gay driver, because obviously it makes people ask questions about you, too, Charles. Charles didn’t want anyone asking questions about him, so he’d listened the next weekend, kept his distance, but the kicked puppy looks Max kept shooting him felt even worse than all the theories about Lestappen, and so he’d stayed close to Max and never looked back. 

But, like, anyone would be scared with that. If the entire Internet thought they were gay, anyone would second guess the relationships that make that speculation worse. Charles isn’t—he’s not homophobic or anything. He’s an ally. He’d go to Pride, if he could. And he always defends Max when he gets shitty comments. 

“No, I don’t have a problem,” Charles hisses. “Don’t even say that.” 

Pierre looks at him, and looks at him, and then steps away. “Alright. See you later, Chick.” 

Charles glares at his back as he goes. 

The pictures hit Twitter while Charles is mid-flight back to Nice. 

He’s on a commercial flight, because he had to lay low and couldn’t risk Max hearing that he’d hitched a ride with someone else. Of course that means that he has none of his usual comforts; no shower, or huge TV playing a movie that he and Max have chosen. 

The seat is still nice and big, so at least there’s that. Not as nice as a private plane, certainly not as nice as the big bed in the back of Max’s plane that he and Max rotate using, but he’ll live. 

He’s curled up on the lay-flat seat, phone propped up on a scratchy airplane pillow, scrolling mindlessly. He’s just refreshed his timeline again, because he’s seen everything, and that’s when the pictures load. 

So fucking many of them. Blurry, but so obvious. 

Max, being held under his ass by some guy double his size. 

Max, head thrown back as a different guy is pressed up against him. The guy’s head is bent down, face obscured, but his hands are on Max’s waist so it’s not hard to guess he must be kissing Max’s neck. 

Max, hair mussed, eyes bright, being led down a hallway by the hand of the guy who looks like the one that was kissing him. 

Max, outside the club, with a different guy’s tongue shoved down his throat. So many variations of that picture; the guys hands up the back of Max’s shirt, Max’s hands in his hair, Max laughing as the guy is leaning in for another kiss. 

Fuck. What the fuck. 

There’s a weird, buzzing, hot feeling in Charles’ chest, near where his heart is. 

Max is out there hooking up with a guy. These photos are so recent that he’s probably still with him. Back to a hotel in Montreal by now, which, like. Fuck Charles, right? He told Max he was going to be indisposed on Sunday night, and Max didn’t even think to offer him a later flight? When he’s supposedly staying in Montreal later, too? 

And now he’s, like. Having sex with this random guy. When he has feelings for Charles. He said he’s in love with him. 

That’s just not right. Charles doesn’t like to get involved with the guys that Max dates, or hooks up with, or whatever he does, but it just doesn’t seem like a nice thing to do to have sex with someone when he’s in love with someone else. It seems like a mean thing to do, actually. 

So, like. Obviously Charles has to step in here. Max isn’t treating people with kindness, so Charles needs to say something. As his best friend. 

He swipes out of Twitter and opens WhatsApp, quickly clicking on Max’s name. It’s at the top of his list, because Max had sent him some post-race memes about all the groundhog murders, as well as a crying emoji because they’d both lost the bet—Gabi had hit the most groundhogs. 

Charles Leclerc

You’re still in Montreal?

There are pictures of you everywhere btw

Belatedly, he realises he didn’t say anything about how mean Max is being. Whatever, he can do that when Max replies. 

He stares at the texts, the way both ticks go blue but it doesn’t say read, and bites his lip. Max always reads his texts immediately. Charles loves how much time Max has for him. 

Not right now, apparently. No, he’s so busy publicly hooking up with some random guy—guys, plural!—that he can’t even read Charles’ texts. 

Charles bets that guy isn’t even a good lay. Not that Charles would know how to make gay sex good, not that he even wants to know, but, like. Objectively. 

He presses his finger into his thumb, the one that’s still unhealed because Charles keeps picking at it, and feels the sting. 

Or what if something is wrong with Max? Charles doesn’t like the look of that guy, maybe he’s . . . hurting Max? Max always answers him, and now it’s been, like, two minutes and he still hasn’t opened it. 

Charles should probably check. He should absolutely check. This could be an emergency. 

He opens the Find My Friends app, and zooms in as far as he’s allowed. Max’s dot is sitting right over the hotel they both stayed at, so he’s definitely taken that guy back to his room. Charles pictures it, the room, the one he spent all of Friday night at. 

Usually he’d end up staying the night on the couch, because he and Max would talk shit and talk racing for so long that Max would inevitably offer to have him stay so he didn’t have to walk back to his own room or traverse town to his own hotel. This weekend, Charles called the night early and Max didn’t argue. Nor did he offer to have Charles come over on Saturday night. 

So, okay, Charles isn’t as familiar with Max’s room as he might typically be, but he’s familiar enough. He knows what the couch feels like and how unused the kitchen is and what the bed looks like all made up. 

It’s probably not made up right now, though. No, it will be all messed up, with the sheets crinkled in the way Max doesn’t like, and probably dirty and sweaty and, God, there’s probably . . . fluid . . . everywhere. 

No, Charles should definitely call. Just in case there’s something wrong. 

He clicks the little phone button then holds the phone to his ear, the rumbling of the airplane making his chest vibrate. The phone rings and rings and rings, which isn’t a good sign. Max always answers. 

Just when Charles is sitting up, wondering how he’s going to convince the pilot to turn the plane back to Montreal because his best friend is clearly in trouble, the line connects. 

“Charlie, hey. You okay?” 

Charles goes still. Max sounds—he sounds—

“Are you fucking kidding me?” 

The extra voice is deep and exasperated. Charles’ blood runs so cold a shiver goes up his spine. 

“You have company?” Charles squeaks out, louder than he intended. 

“Yeah, but—shit—it’s fine. You okay? Is your PR thing fucked?” 

“You are literally getting fucked, why the Hell did you answer the phone?” 

Oh, God. Max is getting—this random guy is—and he sounds so . . . 

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Charles says, trying to cool himself down by throwing his blanket off him. The dim, blue lights of the cabin are making Charles feel lightheaded. “I’ll go, I’m sorry.” 

“It’s—seriously, I’ll be one fucking second, just stop moving—Charlie, it’s fine. You didn’t say if you’re okay?” 

Charles’ heart throbs painfully. He’s so . . . sweet. Such a good friend. 

“Yeah, I’m—I’m fine. Just, uh, bored. I saw pictures of you with your, uh . . . guy. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.” 

Max laughs, a breathless little noise, and then groans. The noise is a broken thing, clearly from pleasure. 

Charles yanks at his collar, trying to get in a breath. 

“I’m fine. I’ll—oh, fuck, no, wait, don’t—shit, Charlie, I’ll see you back in Monaco, yeah?” 

“Yeah, okay, see—” 

“Such a brat, answering the phone while I fuck you like—”

The line disconnects with a beep.

“—you,” Charles finishes lamely, phone falling into his lap. 

Max is getting fucked. Right now. He’s in his hotel room in Montreal, where he didn’t even tell Charles he was staying tonight, letting some guy just. Do that to him. Is Max underneath him? On his hands and knees? Is he riding him? 

Max is probably good at it, whatever he’s doing. He’s good at everything. And there’s probably that flush on his cheeks, the one he gets after a race, when his face is so pink and his skin is dotted in sweat and his lips are parted as he tries to suck in a breath—

Charles shifts in his seat, uncomfortable with where he’s thoughts have gone, and realises he’s hard. 

Shit. 

Why is he hard? When did he even get hard?

No, okay. It’s just . . . a natural reaction. To hearing sex. Even if the sex is between two guys, pleasure is pleasure, right? And it’s not exactly a secret that Charles hasn’t gotten laid in a while. 

He really needs a girlfriend. 

“Hallo.” 

Charles looks up from his kart, brows furrowed. 

“Bonjour,” he greets softly, looking the boy up and down. 

Charles recognises him from the race, but not from before that. He has blonde hair and blue eyes and chubby cheeks that are splotched with red. 

“English?” the boy asks, shifting on his feet. 

“A little,” Charles says back. His English isn’t great, but it’s probably good to practice. He doesn’t know what language the other boy was speaking, but Charles definitely doesn’t know it. 

The boy nods. “You are good.” 

Charles sighs. If the boy has come to gloat about his win over Charles, then he’s going to fake being worse at English than he is. 

“You won.” 

The boy shrugs. “I travel lots. To race. Boys do not, uh . . . they not usually are so . . . close. To me.” 

Oh. Charles straightens up a little bit, shoulders pushing back. He thinks that was supposed to be a compliment. 

“I fast,” Charles says, pleased. 

The boy nods again, smiling a little. “Very fast. How?” 

Charles beams at him. “No brakes!” 

The boy stares at him, blinking, and then bursts into laughter. Charles smiles even wider. 

“You?” Charles asks. “You brake?” 

The boy nods, then goes around Charles to stand in front of his kart. He reaches over the frame to put his hands on the pedals, one on the accelerator and the other on the brake.

“Turn it on!” he says. 

Charles frowns, glancing over his shoulder to see if he can spot his papa. He’s not supposed to turn the kart on without supervision, even when it’s on the trolley. 

The boy gives an impatient huff, then reaches blindly over the steering wheel to press the start button. The engine roars to life, helped by the way the boy presses down on the accelerator to get fuel running down the line, and then he takes his hand off the throttle so the engine quiets down into an idle. 

The boy jerks his chin over his shoulder towards the track, and says, “For turn 1.” 

Charles watches his hand as he presses on the throttle, the engine roaring again, smoke coming from the exhaust. It screams as the boy presses the throttle flat, rear tyres spinning and the trolley shaking slightly. Charles looks up at the boy’s face, to see if he’s concerned, but he’s not. 

“Watch!” he says, nodding down at his hands. 

Charles looks down. 

Abruptly, the boy releases the throttle, pressing onto the brake hard and fast. The wheels screech to a halt, but before the engine revs go down, he releases the brake and starts to slowly increase pressure on the throttle; after only a few seconds, he pushes down harder, and the engine starts to scream again. 

The boy grins at him, and releases both his hands. 

“To keep the revs up!” he explains, still grinning. “Not go down. Or you are slow. Your turn.” 

Charles looks around again, but can’t see his papa. He does want to give it a try . . . 

The boy moves out of the way, putting his hands on Charles’ shoulders to guide him into place. 

If Papa finds out he did this, he’s going to be in so much trouble. He hasn’t been karting for very long, only a few months, and Papa always stresses that being safe is the most important thing. If he’s not safe, then Papa might tell him that he has to stop and Charles doesn’t want to stop. 

“Your turn,” the boy urges again. 

Charles puts his hands on the pedals. He tries to emulate what the boy did, but he can feel that he didn’t do it right. Braked too long, not hard enough. The revs go down, and it takes a moment for the engine to kick into the higher gear again. 

Slow. 

Charles scowls, and releases his hands. The boy grabs his wrists, putting his hands back, and then covers them with his own, standing behind Charles. 

Without saying anything, he presses down on the throttle, hands trapping Charles’ in place, and goes through the same motions. Throttle flat, abrupt pull on the brake—nothing on the accelerator—and then back on the throttle. 

Charles can feel how smooth he is with it, and wishes he was the same. If he practices . . . 

“The back?” Charles asks as the boy reaches over to flick the kill switch. The engine dies, leaving silence between them. “It does not . . .” 

He mimes the back kicking out with his hand, and then, for dramatics, he makes his hand flip over and imitates an explosion. The boy laughs, which makes Charles’ chest feel warm. 

“No turn while you brake,” the boy says. “When you pressing on the throttle again, you turn. No slide.” 

No slide and crash and explosion. Good. 

“Okay, I will try,” Charles says. “Merci.” 

The boy smiles again. It makes his chubby cheeks pull up. “I’m Max.” 

“Charles.” 

Max blinks. “Charlie.” 

Charles scowls at him, shaking his head quickly. “Non, Charles.” 

It says it in the English way, so Max understands, which a hard Ch and the s included at the end. He likes it better the French way, but that might be too much. 

“Charlie,” Max says again, this time with such a big grin that Charles knows he’s being teased. Charles’ scowl deepens. “This is where you race? You are from France?” 

Charles stomps his foot on the ground, suddenly enraged. He won’t get his name right, and now he says he’s from France? 

“Monaco!” he says, crossing his arms. 

Max nods, like he doesn’t care that Charles is mad at him now. Stupid boy. 

“Nederlands,” Max says, then chews on his lip. “Probably I will not see you again.” 

Charles’ anger disappears as quickly as it came, disappointment making his tummy turn. 

“But then—I cannot show you—how will I—” His English flounders, upset French spilling from him instead. “Mais si je ne te vois pas, comment te prouverai-je que j'ai appris à freiner ? Comment te battrai-je ?”

Max blinks at him, then reaches out to pat the top of his head. Max is taller than him, which also makes Charles angry. “Is okay, Charlie. Maybe you will still be fast, and I will see you again someday.” 

Charles huffs, still angry. He doesn’t understand why Max doesn’t care whether they see each other again. Doesn’t he want to be friends? 

Well, he will just have to be fast, then. To make sure he does see Max again, and to make sure that when he does, he beats him. 

“Hey, Charlie,” Max greets, bags of takeaway hanging from his forearm. He’s holding Nino’s leash in the other hand, who is pulling with excitement to try to get Leo. 

Charles frowns, opening the door to let Max in. 

“Did you lose your key?” he asks, confused. 

Max glances at him as he passes, then shrugs. “Ah, no, I just—I don’t know.” 

Charles frowns even more at Max’s back, trying to figure out what to say to that. Max has had a key to his apartment for, like, five years, and has been using it to get inside since then. Now he suddenly knocks? 

“You don’t know?” Charles asks, following Max down the hall towards the kitchen. 

Leo and Nino are barking at each other loudly, Nino straining to be let free. Charles snatches the takeaway from Max’s arm so that he can unclip Nino. 

“Hands were full,” Max says, even though that’s not true because they were free enough for him to knock. 

Charles should probably let it go, but it’s sitting in him like a splinter, annoying enough that he can’t just ignore it until the pain is naturally pushed out. Everything is so strange, and he’s sick of it. 

“No, they weren’t,” Charles says, crossing his arms. 

Max huffs, and avoids Charles’ eye. What is with him? 

“I’m just trying to be, like, a normal friend,” Max mutters. “Okay? Please drop it.” 

Charles falters, hands falling by his sides. That’s stupid. If he had a problem with Max randomly using his key to get into Charles’ place, then he would’ve told him by now. He doesn’t care if Max uses his key, and he also doesn’t care if Max just shows up unannounced—which he didn’t today, even though he usually would. He actually texted in advance to ask if Charles was home and if he wanted to hang out, even though he could’ve just looked at Find My Friends and then ordered food. 

And used his key. 

What is a normal friend, anyway? Charles wouldn’t care if his other friends just let themselves in. Not that anyone else has a key, because he only has one spare and obviously Max has it, but if they did then he wouldn’t care. 

Max said nothing would change. Everywhere Charles turns, it feels like that’s a lie. 

“Well, I don’t care if you use it,” Charles tells him, ignoring the tense line of Max’s back as he digs the containers of Indian out of the bag. “Don’t stop on my account.” 

Max says nothing, just moves towards where Charles’ plates are kept. 

“They’re all dirty,” Charles tells him sheepishly as Max swings the cupboard open. 

Max laughs quietly, shaking his head. “You’re crazy. Please tell me you have something in the dishwasher.” 

“Um.” 

Max laughs again, then gets out the smaller bread plates. “This will have to do, then. Do you want to watch the tennis?” 

“You hate tennis.” 

“I don’t mind watching Sinner and Alcaraz.” 

Charles picks the containers up, Max following close behind with the bread plates and some cutlery. Charles spreads all the containers out on the coffee table, sitting on the ground, while Max sits on the lounge beside him. 

Max serves out the curry and greens for them both, while Charles carefully portions out the naan bread and the single onion bhaji they indulge in. One half is bigger than the other, so he gives that to Max because he likes them more than Charles, but Charles takes the slightly larger half of the naan to make up for it. 

Sinner and Alcaraz are already on the second set of their match when they finally get it on; Charles can see Alcaraz won the first set, which makes him glare at the TV. 

“You didn’t want to go?” Max asks, jerking his chin towards the screen. 

Charles shrugs. “Too close to Monaco,” he says, a little regretfully. “Maybe I’ll go to Wimbledon instead.” 

“With all the posh British folk?” Max says. Charles doesn’t even have to look at him to know his face is scrunched up. 

“Maybe I’ll sit with George,” Charles says, keeping his voice as even as he can despite the fact his lips twitch up into a smile. “We’ll talk shit about you the whole time, obviously—” 

“Oh, obviously,” Max snarks, flicking the back of Charles’ head. “You can both lament over the fact that I’m a way better driver than you.” 

“Shut up,” Charles says, glaring over his shoulder. “I’m better than George.” 

“Is that what you’ll talk about at Wimbledon?” Max asks mockingly, flicking his head again. “I’m sure George will love that. Maybe you’ll get a beer dumped on you for your efforts.” 

“George loves me,” Charles sniffs. “It’s you he can’t stand.” 

“Wow, how will I ever recover from that?” Max deadpans, fork scraping against his plate. “Now shut up, I’m trying to watch Carlos destroy Jannik.” 

“Are you trying to get punched? This is an Italian household, Verstappen.” 

“I must’ve missed that on your Monegasque birth certificate—” 

Charles snatches up the remote and jabs the volume up button, drowning out Max’s stupid voice. It doesn’t cover Max’s laugh, but Max does go silent as he eats, so Charles risks turning it back to a normal volume. 

When they’re finished eating, they leave their plates on the coffee table to keep watching. Charles leans back against the lounge, Max’s feet on the ground beside him. By now, Max would usually be touching him in some way; playing with his hair, or his ear, or the collar of his shirt. Charles has always thought that Max doesn’t even realise he’s doing it, seeking out a grounding point of connection between them, and Charles has never felt weird about it. 

Now that Max isn’t doing it, he misses it. 

“Scratch my hair,” Charles demands, picking at the seam of his jeans with his jagged nails. 

It takes Max almost thirty seconds to actually do it, all of which Charles scowls at the TV through, and then finally, finally, Max’s fingers slide through the hair at his nape, fingers lightly scratching his scalp. 

Charles relaxes instantly, humming quietly in his chest, and then puts his head down on Max’s knee. Max scratches him through it, nails gentle against his scalp, so soft and slow and lov—

Wait, is this, like . . . gay? Is this something makes Max feel . . . things? 

Charles’ body goes tense, wondering what they look like right now. Max on the couch, fingers in Charles’ hair, Charles’ head on his fucking thigh like they’re boyfriends. 

Charles clears his throat, and hopes it’s not weird when he lifts his head up. Max’s fingers pauses against him for a moment, but then start again; neither of them say anything. 

Charles has always loved sex. 

Since getting famous, he’s drowned in every type of pussy that exists. Fat, thin, models, engineers, black, white, blonde, brunette. There was a period of his life where he could easily fuck multiple women in one day, though it’s been a while since then. Now, he usually keeps it to one or two a week, if that. 

He realises, as he walks past the bouncer to get into Jimmy’z, that he doesn’t actually remember the last time he hooked up with someone. That’s kind of pathetic. 

Half the room’s eyes are on him as he walks through, and he looks over the crowd to see if anyone immediately catches his eye. He’s surprised to see Pierre and Max sitting at a booth together, talking vaguely seriously; his feet immediately take him over there, and away from his original destination of the dance floor. 

He didn’t know they were friendly enough to talk one on one, let alone actively come out together. 

“Hey,” Charles greets, shouting to be heard over the music. Both of them startle and turn to look up at him. “I didn’t know you were coming out tonight?” 

He says it to them both, but he’s looking at Max. He feels so distant from him these days; once upon a time, not that long ago, Max would barely take a shit without letting him know. Now he’s going clubbing without inviting Charles? And he’s going with Pierre? 

“Hi, Chick,” Pierre says, drawing Charles’ attention away from Max. “What are you doing here? Are you alone?” 

“Yeah, but I won’t be here long. I was just looking for someone to . . .” 

His eyes flick over to Max. Max’s face freezes, for just a moment, and then a smile pulls up his mouth. It looks completely normal, no hint of jealousy or anger or upset. Maybe he doesn’t understand? 

“To fuck,” Charles finishes, though he doesn’t know why. 

Max’s face doesn’t change. 

“I’ll get you a drink,” Max says, pushing up to stand easily. “Tequila and a vodka soda?” 

His usual drinks for when he wants to get loose enough to pull easily, but not so fucked up he can’t go through with a hookup. Is it weird that Max knows that? Does it bother him when Charles hooks up with other people? 

“Thanks,” Charles says, then watches as Max disappears. He still seems completely normal. 

“That wasn’t very nice,” Pierre says, clearly disapproving. 

Charles sits down at the booth beside him, still staring after Max where he’s disappeared. 

“Does he even care?” Charles demands, turning to face Pierre. “He apparently loves me, but doesn’t care that I’m here to find someone to have sex with. Shouldn’t he be jealous?” 

Pierre rolls his eyes, which makes Charles glare at him. “Do you want him to be jealous?” 

“What? No. I’m straight, why would I want my gay best friend to be jealous?” 

Pierre sighs loudly. “The shit that comes out of your mouth sometimes, I swear to God.” 

Charles doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean, but he doesn’t like the sound of it. 

“I’m just saying, his feelings can’t be that deep if he doesn’t even care that I want to have sex with someone else. And, you know, I called him after Montreal, and he was hooking up with some guy! Can you believe that?” 

Pierre throws the rest of his drink back, then slams in on the tabletop. “Not really.” 

“It’s, like, crazy,” Charles says, glad that Pierre agrees. He’s been wanting to talk about this for days—since it happened, really. Because none of it makes any sense. Max hasn’t been caught hooking up with a guy in years, and then he went out and got wasted and papped being taken home? Right after he admitted that he’s in love? “He fucking drops that huge bomb on me, then acts all weird, and then he’s out hooking up with, like, three guys in one night? Does he even know what love means?” 

“Maybe he’s moved on,” Pierre says. His fingers drum on the wooden table, and Charles kind of wants to slap them. 

Charles doesn’t like that suggestion. At all. 

“If he’s moved on this fast, it probably means it was never love, anyway.” 

“Maybe he’s trying to move on. You know, getting over someone by getting under someone else.” 

Charles scowls. Yeah, he fucking heard Max getting under someone else. It’s just obscene. 

“I just think—” 

“You know, maybe this is your problem,” Pierre interrupts, sitting up a little straighter.  “You keep thinking, but all you ever think about is you. Have you been thinking about Max? About what he’s going through right now?” 

Charles huffs. “It’s not like his situation changed,” he says, a little meanly. “He always knew I didn’t lo—couldn’t feel the same. I’m the one who just got dropped in this shit! You know, he didn’t even use his key to come into my apartment the other day? After he promised things would be the same!” 

“I don’t have a key to your apartment.” 

“You can have his, because apparently he doesn’t fucking want it anymore.” 

“I don’t want the goddamn—Charles. I know you’re not one for soul searching, but I really need you to put me out of my misery, here. Can you please fucking think for one second about why you’re so upset about all this?” 

“My gay best friend is in love with me, Pear! What does that make me?” 

Pierre stares at him, face softening. He reaches over and takes Charles’ hand in his, but it doesn’t feel right; not like it does when Max holds his hand. Charles lets him do it anyway, feeling weirdly hot and itchy. 

“Can I ask you a question, Chick?” 

The seriousness of his voice makes Charles flounder for a moment, caught out at the abrupt change of tone. 

“I—yeah, sure.” 

“Do you find men attractive?” 

Charles rips his hand out of Pierre’s. “Fuck off.” 

“No, Charles, I’m serious. Please, just—do you ever look at man, and think they look good?” 

“I love women,” Charles insists. Pierre gives him a sympathetic look, which makes Charles shake his head. 

He knows how that sounds, like he’s trying to cover something up, but he’s not. He does love women. He loves how wet their pussies get, he loves how soft their tummys are, he loves the dip of their waists and the fat of their tits, he loves their lips and thighs and moans. 

“Charles. I’m not questioning what you feel about women. I’m asking if you’ve ever looked at man and thought that he’s pretty.” 

Obviously he has, but that’s not unusual. He just likes when he’s looking at a good-looking person, and he’s not crazy enough to assume that just because someone is a man, they’re not attractive. It’s just objective fact, sometimes. 

Like, okay, Charles can admit that Pierre has nice lips. Charles doesn’t want to go near them, but they’re nice. He also kind of thinks Pierre looks like he’s been punched in the face and it never healed right, but he thinks that of Arthur, too, even though everyone says that he and Arthur look the same. 

He’s heard that people think Max is ugly, but Charles is pretty sure those people are idiots. Max isn’t ugly. It’s another objective truth that he’s, like, hot. Maybe not conventionally attractive, like Charles is, but he’s hot. With the lips and the nose and the eyes and the arms and the shoulders and the flushed cheeks and the way he drives the car. He’s hot. 

“Everyone does that,” Charles says, shrugging. He hopes if he plays it cool, Pierre will actually believe him. 

Pierre nods once, then says, “I don’t,” so calmly and seriously that Charles blinks at him. 

“What? Yes, you do. I’m pretty.” 

Pierre’s nose scrunches up. “Not to me.” 

Charles scoffs, shoving Pierre’s chest. “Yeah, well, I think you’re ugly, too!” 

Pierre sighs at him. Charles feels weirdly like Pierre is disappointed in him, but Pierre started this. 

“Charles. It’s okay if you—like, you know that there are people who like both, right? Or, all. However many genders there are.” 

Charles’ heart starts to pound terribly loudly in his chest, and he has to wipe his brow with his palm because it’s starting to feel really sweaty. 

“Obviously that’s fine, but it’s just not how I am,” Charles says. Fuck, when is Max getting back with the drinks? “I like women.” 

Pierre looks at him sadly, which makes Charles want to punch him in the face and mess it up even more. What is even the fucking point of this conversation? So fucking what if he can admit he sees a good-looking man! That doesn’t make him gay. And, actually, the fact he can admit it and Pierre can’t probably means that Pierre’s got some weird internal thing going on anyway, so Charles doesn’t even know if he can actually trust Pierre to have this conversation. 

Max finally gets back with their drinks, held precariously in his hands, and sits in the booth. 

“The bartender was so hot,” Max whines, which is. Not the first time Charles has heard Max say something like that. 

It is the first time he’s said it since he told Charles he loves him. 

Anger and frustration surge up in him so quickly he can’t keep it in. 

Charles stands, hand slamming on the table top. “We get it, you like men! Fucking good for you!” 

Pierre and Max stare up at him. Charles snatches up the tequila shot and throws it back, then discards the empty glass on the table. He doesn’t look at them as he leaves, shoulders hunched to his ears, trying to take the most direct path to the door that he can. 

He doesn’t really feel like taking anyone home anymore. 

“I heard he tried to kiss Ben after the last round,” Chris says, laughing loudly as Max walks past their group. 

Charles frowns, looking between the mean look on Chris’ face and the carefully blank one on Max’s. He doesn’t get to see Max a lot, only a couple times a year, but he cherishes every time he gets to go head to head with him. 

Even five years after they first met, Max is still the standard Charles is trying desperately to reach. 

Max is just walking past them, ignoring them all, when Chris turns away from their group. 

“Hey, faggot.” 

Max goes still, feet kicking up dirt from how abruptly he stops. Charles frowns even harder; he’s only vaguely heard that word, but he knows it’s not nice. He doesn’t know why Chris is saying it to Max, especially when Max didn’t even do anything. They haven’t even raced yet, so why is he being so mean? 

“Are you talking to me?” Max asks, head tilted to the side. 

His blue eyes are cold, and Charles doesn’t like it. He’s always thought they’re so warm, but now it’s like they’re icy. The flick around the group, passing by each of them quickly, until they settle on Charles for only a moment. Charles stares back, brows scrunched up, and feels sad when Max finally looks back at Chris. 

“Who else would I be talking to? Nobody else here is a queer like you.” 

Max shrugs. “Seems statistically unlikely. Who knows, maybe you’re gay, too. We can go behind the toilet block, I’ll stick my cock up your ass and—” 

Chris shoves Max so hard he stumbles back. 

“H-hey!” Charles shouts, lurching forward to grab Max’s arm to stop him from shoving Chris back. “Stop, stop it!” 

“Fucking disgusting,” Chris says, spitting on the ground at Max’s feet. Charles tugs Max even further, anger curling up inside him at how cruel Chris is being. “You his little boyfriend, Leclerc? A fucking fairy, too?” 

Charles immediately releases Max’s arm, stepping away from him. He is not. 

“Stop being so mean,” Charles says, hands on his hips. “Max didn’t do anything to you! And he’s not a—a—”

“Sure I am, Charlie,” Max says from behind him. “Didn’t you hear that I sucked cock behind the track at the last race?” 

“Stop it, Max!” Charles says, glaring at him. 

“I heard he was ten years older, too,” Christ taunts. “Fag.” 

“Nah, more like twenty. No, wait, how old is your dad, Chris? I didn’t ask when my mouth was full of his dick—” 

Chris shoves him again, face looking scarily red. Max lifts his arm, clearly ready to punch him, but Charles grabs him by the shirt before he can and pulls him back. 

“Max!” Charles gasps. He can’t believe Max was going to punch someone. 

“Chris’ just angry that a queer beat him so badly at the last round,” Max says to Charles, with a weird, angry voice that Charles has never heard before. “Can’t believe he got his ass kicked. But, hey, it’s nice that he’s so happy to accept tenth place again today—” 

Chris lunges forward, and this time Charles can’t stop either of them despite his shouts. It’s still over quickly, because the adults around them notice almost immediately and pull them apart despite the slurs that Chris is still throwing. Charles stands off to the side, red faced and panting and hands clenched into fists by his side. 

He can’t believe that just happened. He’s never seen anyone fight before, even when someone loses and they stomp around angrily. 

“Charles?” 

Charles looks over to his papa, where he’s pushing through the crowd with a worried face. 

“What happened? Are you hurt?” 

Charles shrugs, and glares at the ground. “Chris and Max got into a fight.” 

Papa glances up at the boys, where Chris is still shouting at Max and Max is standing calmly, picking dirt out from under his nail. 

“Max.” 

The entire crowd goes still; even the bluster leaves Chris, whose mouth snaps shut at the booming voice. Max straightens up, hands dropping by his side, nervousness blooming quickly on his face and then disappearing just as fast. 

Charles hates Max’s dad. 

Jos doesn’t say anything as he arrives, looking around the crowd with his scary eyes. Charles looks away when they skate over him, looking down to Max instead. 

Max is staring back at him. Charles’ breath hitches, caught in his gaze, wondering how his blue eyes can look warm again. 

Max is jostled by Jos putting his hand on his shoulder, and then they simply walk away. 

“Charles,” Papa says gently. “What really happened?” 

Charles sighs, then rubs his fist into his eye. He’s so tried, even though the heats haven’t started yet. Qualifying sucked yesterday, because it was raining and cold and Charles barely made the top ten. 

“Chris called Max a bad word,” Charles confesses, leaning forward into his papa and resting his head on his tummy. “Max tried to punch him.” 

Papa’s hand settles at the back of his head, running through his hair. Charles wishes he’d scratch his head, like he does at home. 

“You know there are sponsors here this weekend,” Papa says calmly, gently. Like Charles doesn’t already know. He’s well aware that this is an extremely important weekend for him; that if he doesn’t secure some money, he might not be able to race anymore. “You can’t get mixed up in those things. The sponsors will get scared.” 

Charles sighs heavily. “I know, Papa,” he mutters. “It wasn’t Max’s fault.” 

“Max is lucky, because he’s got his father to help him,” Papa continues. Charles glares at the ground; he doesn’t know if he’d say Max is lucky to have a father like Jos. “But you can’t afford to get mixed up in these things, okay? These sponsors don’t want risk. They want a kid who is fast, but who doesn’t get up to anything off the track. Someone they can take into the future.” 

“I know, Papa.” 

Papa takes a breath, then kneels down in front of him. Charles chews the inside of his cheek. 

“And they don’t want anyone with . . . rumours,” Papa says, a little slower. “They want someone who will . . . who will marry a nice girl, eventually. Have some kids. No controversy about their private life, nothing that tarnishes the brand.” 

Charles frowns at him. “What?” 

Papa sighs, and lifts his hands to curl them around Charles’ wrists. 

“People can be very mean about boys like Max,” Papa says, lips pursed together. “Boys who . . . who like other boys.” 

Charles yanks his hands out of Papa’s grip, staring down at him. He doesn’t know what Papa is trying to say, but he doesn’t like it. 

Does he know what Charles thinks about sometimes? That sometimes he finds boys just as pretty as girls? Charles knows it’s not normal, because nobody else ever talks about it and obviously couples are always a boy and a girl so they can have babies. 

“Max isn’t like that! He’s—he’s—”

“Hey, Charles, it’s okay,” Papa soothes, grabbing his hands again. “It’s okay. Whether Max likes boys or girls, it doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with him. Or with anyone who likes that.” 

There’s a very intense look on Papa’s face, and Charles doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like this entire conversation. 

“I don’t understand.” 

Papa sighs. 

“Sometimes, the world isn’t a very nice place,” he says. “People judge other people for things that are out of their control. Max . . . he has a very difficult path ahead of him, Charles. People will keep saying very mean things about him, because of who he loves. And it’s not fair, but it’s going to haunt his career. Maybe, one day, when the world is nicer, things will be easier for him. But, for now, he would be better off . . . pretending. And . . . and you are, too.” 

Charles mouths that word, pretending, and wonders how that has anything to do with him. He doesn’t love anyone weird, even if he sometimes has thoughts. But they’re just thoughts, Charles would never do anything about them. He doesn’t even want to. 

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” Papa asks, very intensely. 

Charles blinks at him. 

“But I do like girls,” Charles says. “I’m not pretending.” 

Papa gives him a smile. “Okay. Great. That’s good. Sponsors like girls, too. Especially when you marry one.” 

Charles nods slowly. He’s only twelve, he doesn’t really want to get married yet, but it would be nice someday. He can have what Maman and Papa have. 

“Your entire career depends on this, Charles,” Papa says, and finally stands. “Nothing can tarnish the brand.” 

His entire career. If he doesn’t get a sponsor, he won’t even be able to continue karting, let alone get to single seaters. He wants to drive in F1 so badly. More than anything in the world. 

“Okay,” Charles repeats. He was never going to go anything anyway, but he’ll make sure now that he doesn’t do anything weird. Nothing that can make there be rumours about him like there are about Max. “Nothing can tarnish the brand.” 

Max is sitting on Charles’ bed, scrolling on his phone, while Charles gets ready. 

“Blue? Or green?” Charles demands, holding out both hangers. 

Max glances up from his phone, barely glancing at the button ups that Charles is holding out. 

“Uh, green,” Max says, then goes back to his phone. 

Charles sighs heavily. “Did you even look?” 

Max groans loudly, then drop his phone onto his chest. “I don’t really know what I’m looking at. They both look good, I’m sure.” 

“Ugh, aren’t gay people supposed to be good at this?” 

Max scoffs loudly, then picks up his phone again. “Charlie, when have you ever known me to be good with fashion?” 

Basically never. Charles has always been the one to care about it, but Max has eyes. He should be able to see whether Charles looks good or not, especially because he has feelings for him. 

“I just think the green is too dark?” Charles says, shaking the hanger around. 

“Then why do you own it?” 

Charles huffs again. “But is the blue too . . . ah, look at me?” 

“When have you ever cared about that?” 

“Why are you even here if you won’t help?” 

“You asked me to come?” 

Right. He did do that, in a fit of rage because he missed him terribly. He feels like he hasn’t seen Max in weeks, even though technically he has. It just all still feels so weird and stilted, and he hasn’t had a chance to just hang out with Max like they used to in days. Even though he’s going out for a PR event, he knew there would be a solid couple of hours where he was getting ready and Max could chill with him. 

They’ve done this before, quite a few times. Charles is trying desperately to remember what it felt like before the confession, but he can’t. 

“I need help,” Charles says, shaking the shirts again. 

“What is this even for, again?” 

“APM dinner.” Charles sighs, dropping both hands by his sides. He shoots Max some pleading eyes. “Come with me?” 

Max laughs at him, not even bothering to look up from his phone. “Not on your life, pretty boy.” 

Charles’ heart stutters and trips over itself. “You’re so mean to me.” 

“You’re mean for even asking. Trying to get me to come to a PR dinner, are you kidding? That’s my worst nightmare.” 

“You hate me,” Charles declares, turning his back on Max to stomp back into his closet. There’s a smile on his lips as he hangs his shirts back up, trying to find a nice, white pinstripe shirt. “You’d come with me if you really loved—” 

He breaks off, hand paused where it’s just left the hanger. 

Max doesn’t say anything for a long moment; Charles’ hand curls into a fist as he drops it by his side, trying to stop it from shaking. 

“Sorry, Charlie, not even that can get me to come with you to a PR event,” Max says. His tone is light, and Charles can’t tell if it’s forced or not. “Maybe if there was ice-cream.” 

“I can totally buy you ice-cream!” 

“Ah, you know, I think I should probably head off, actually.” 

Max appears at the door to closet, hands in his back pockets. There’s an easy smile on his face, but now that Charles can see him, he can tell from the look in Max’s eyes that he is forcing it. 

Fuck. 

“You only just got here,” Charles protests, turning his back so he can go through his clothes again. He can’t see that look in his eyes, because it makes his chest ache. The metal hooks scrape loudly against the rack as he pushes shirts to the side. 

“Guess I just don’t really feel like watching you get ready today.” 

What the fuck does that mean? Charles is trying his best here. He knows things have been weird, that’s why he fucking invited Max around. He’s trying to make time for him, for their friendship, but now suddenly Max isn’t? What, he’s got better things to do? 

“Fine,” Charles says, voice short. “If you want to go, you can go.” 

He hears Max sigh quietly, but neither of them address it. Max doesn’t offer to stay, and Charles doesn’t beg him to. 

“Alright,” Max says. “See you later. Hope it goes okay.” 

No text when you get home. No call me if you need me to fake an emergency. Not even a keep track of the worst conversation so I can laugh about it later. 

Yet again, Charles doesn’t understand why Max promised everything would stay the same if he was clearly lying. 

Dinner is fine. 

It’s more lowkey than Charles would have expected from a sponsor event, but he supposes that the point of this particular event is supposed to be appreciation, not marketing. 

Arthur is there, too, obviously, and they chat for a few minutes when they arrive. Very quickly, though, Arthur gets on his nerves, pointedly saying, “Who pissed in your lunch?” while staring Charles up and down. 

“Fuck off,” Charles seethes, probably far beyond what the situation requires. He’s just not in the fucking mood for Arthur’s shit. 

Arthur simply rolls his eyes and then disappears, and Charles only sees him again from a distance. 

Instead, he’s sat down next to Marley Anderson, APMs newest ambassador. Charles remembers her from his childhood, because he had a poster of her as a Victoria’s Secret angel during one of the many runways she did with them. She’s by far the most famous ambassador APM has signed, so Charles suspects that this dinner is actually for her. 

And, of course, she’s brought her movie star husband with her. He’s definitely the most famous person in the entire room, and Charles is kind of star struck by them both. 

He’s got no earthly idea why they want to talk to him, but they do. 

Charles wishes Max were here, because he’d hate having to make small talk with famous people, and that would make Charles laugh. He pushes the thought away as soon as it comes, because apparently he’s not good enough for Max to spend time with anymore, and that’s totally fucking fine. 

“So,” Marley says, the stem of her champagne flute held between her fingers. She looks beautiful, and somehow has made it look effortless. Charles knows he shouldn’t really look, especially not with her husband sitting right next to her, but he doesn’t think he can really be blamed for it. He’s pretty sure she’s looking back, anyway. “I watch F1, you know.” 

Charles raises a brow. He would say she doesn’t seem the type, but if he’s learnt anything over the last few years of the meteoric rise of F1, it’s that he’s got no clue what the type of person who watches is anymore. 

“You do?” 

“All my life,” she says, with a deep sincerity. “I’m Finnish, even though America has almost taken away my accent.” 

He didn’t actually know that, honestly. He can’t say he knows much about her, aside from that she looks phenomenal in lingerie. Now that he’s actually met her, he should probably try to broaden his knowledge slightly. 

“Ah, let me guess,” he says, trying to let an easy smile curl up his lips. “You were terribly mad with me for replacing Kimi at Ferrari.” 

Marley shrugs, fingers slipping up the stem of her glass. “Kimi wasn’t even mad at you, how could I be?” 

Charles pauses, genuine surprise making his brows raise this time. “You know Kimi?” 

“Of course I do,” she says, like she’s surprised he’s surprised. Charles takes a sip of his whiskey to hide his chagrin. “Fucked him once, too.” 

Charles chokes on his sip, liquid immediately burning the back of his nose, and has to press a napkin to mouth to try and hide the worst of his cough. Marley laughs at him, and Rich, her husband, looks just as amused. 

When Charles looks at him, however unintentionally, he shrugs. “I was there, too. Nothing I don’t know about, mate.” 

Charles realises that Rich hasn’t spoken that much when the American accent slides past his ears; even though Marley made a joke about it, her voice still has a smooth, European edge to it. 

“That’s more than I needed to know about Kimi’s sex life,” Charles says, when he’s recovered slightly. 

“Would you prefer to hear about the time we fucked Lewis?” Marley asks, head tilted to the side, blonde hair falling over her shoulder. 

Charles barely stops himself from choking again. 

“So, you watch F1,” Charles says with a wavering voice, trying to find some even ground.

Neither Marley nor Rich seemed particularly uncomfortable with the conversation, but he’s pretty sure he shouldn’t be talking about sex with them when Charles used to wank to her posters. God, Max would be having a field day with this turn of events. He’d never let Charles live it down. 

Marley launches into a much more safe version of the conversation, and Charles is pleasantly to surprised to realise that she actually does watch. More than that, she seems fairly well informed, and when he tries to talk around certain topics, because the last majority of people don’t know what he’s saying, she comes back with such technical questions that he eventually stops trying to use plain English and just talks freely. 

Rich sits quietly beside her the entire time, never really interjecting once. Charles barely notices his lack of addition until Marley slips away for the bathroom, giving Rich a kiss on the cheek before she leaves. 

Charles purposefully doesn’t watch her walk away, not even after he sees her short dress ride up her thigh when she stands. 

“Do you watch as well?” Charles asks, hoping he doesn’t sound awkward. He’s been monopolising the man’s wife, for God’s sake. He hopes it hasn’t come across as odd. 

“When I have time,” Rich says, shrugging one shoulder. Charles vaguely remembers that he’s on a press tour for his latest movie right now. “But, honestly, I mostly do it for her. She fucking loves it.” 

Charles nods. Five years ago, he swears it would’ve been the other way around, but he’s not going to complain. 

He considers asking Rich about his movie, because conversation isn’t really flowing like it was with Marley, but then he slides into Marley’s abandoned seat and lowers his voice. 

“She wants to fuck you, you know,” he says. His eyes are intense, but not angry. 

Charles doesn’t really know what to say, or do. He’d noticed, kind of, in the way he always notices when people appreciate him, but he’d just assumed it would be a passing thing and they’d part ways at the end of the night. She’s sitting next to her husband, for God’s sake. Charles isn’t that fucking brazen, and he never has been, not even at the height of his sex phase. 

“Uh,” Charles says, not sure where to take the sentence. 

“I do, too,” Rich then adds. 

That makes Charles flinch back. Does he seem like he would be . . . Do they think that . . . What do they know? What do they assume? What does everyone else here think? Do they all think that Charles would—that he likes—because he obviously doesn’t—

“No worries if you’re not into that,” Rich says, shrugging. “I can just watch. I don’t really care.” 

Charles’ mouth parts with a little pop. That’s . . . 

“Think about it,” Rich says, finger circling the lip of his glass. Charles tries not to look at it, how big his hand is and the way he presses it into the rim so delicately, but he’s struggling to focus through his shock. “We have a room here. No strings, mate, and no-one will ever know.”

“But—but she’s your . . .” 

Rich shrugs again. “I’ll be there, obviously. Trust me, this is not our first time doing this. We know what we like, and we like to have fun. If you want to join, you’re welcome to.” 

Charles has had threesomes before, obviously. He’s had a lot of them. 

They’ve always been with two women, though. 

He doesn’t know why he’s so tongue tied, but it’s like he can’t force any words past his lips. “I—I don’t . . .” 

“No pressure,” Rich says, and slides back into his own seat. “If you want to, we’re in room 1876. Come up after dinner is over.” 

Charles doesn’t know why, but he commits the room number to memory.  

Charles groans loudly, pushing up on shaking arms. His entire body is sweat-slicked; he feels like he just did the Singapore GP. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, trying to catch his breath as he pulls the condom off. 

Behind him Marley laughs breathlessly. Charles tries not to catch Rich’s eye from where he’s sitting in a chair at the end of the bed, touching his cock. He doesn’t want to know if he came from watching Charles fucking his wife. 

He doesn’t. 

“God, I love athletes,” Marley says happily. The bed creaks loudly as Charles stands, trying to find a bin to put the condom in. “The stamina is unmatched.” 

Charles tries to ignore the implication that they do this enough that they have favourites—it’s not like he didn’t know, considering the conversations they had downstairs. It’s just—he feels a little . . . 

Whatever. 

“Where’s the bin?” he asks eventually, giving up on trying to spot it in the room. 

“Bathroom,” Rich says as he stands. 

Charles glances over his shoulder at them as he heads towards the bathroom, watching as Rich pulls Marley to edge of the bed and pushes his cock into his wife’s cunt. From the way she moans loudly, Charles knows she’s got to be sensitive. It’s barely been two minutes since he was inside her. 

He discards the condom quickly, pointedly not looking at their shared toiletries scattered all over the bench top. It makes him feel like he’s missing something—someone. Charles doesn’t really want to think about who. 

When he gets back out, Marley is moaning as loudly as she was with Charles, jolting against the bed with each of Rich’s thrusts. Charles doesn’t really know the protocol here, but he’s pretty sure he’s supposed to get out of here as soon as possible. 

Does he say goodbye? Does he just get dressed and leave? 

“Cha—ah!—arles,” Marley calls, then moans loudly. “Fuck, baby, that’s so good—don’t leave!” 

Charles blinks. 

Don’t leave? 

What the Hell? 

“Come watch,” she urges, which is. Wasn’t Rich supposed to be doing the watching? Charles isn’t entirely sure what he’s supposed to get out of staying, except for mild guilt about fucking someone’s wife. “Charles, come, come on—fuck, baby, more, more.” 

Charles wavers on his feet, then decides, fuck it. It’s not like it’s a bad way to spend some time. Maybe he can suck Marley’s tits while she gets fucked. 

With that thought in mind, he wanders back over to the bed, sitting on the edge beside Marley. She reaches out for him immediately, hand skating down his spine, and then over his abs to circle around his soft dick. 

Alright, then. 

“Kiss,” Marley demands. 

Charles blinks down at her, wondering how he’s going to manoeuvre himself down to kiss her while still looking good, and then suddenly Rich’s hands are holding his jaw, yanking Charles’ face to look up at him. 

Fuck. 

Charles’ cheeks immediately heat up, and something hot and weird turns in his tummy. 

“No, I—I’m not—” he stammers out, but doesn’t finish the sentence. 

“So?” Marley demands, then moans loud with a particularly hard thrust. “It’s for me.” 

If it’s for her . . . That’s not gay, right? It wouldn't mean anything if Charles kissed a man right now. Wouldn't say anything about him, wouldn't put anything in danger. It wouldn't even matter, because the only three people in the world who would know about it are him, Marley, and Rich. 

And he's not homophobic, no matter what Pierre implies. He is an ally. He can kiss a man to give a woman pleasure. 

Maybe Rich can see on his face that he’s okay with it, or maybe he doesn’t care, but a moment later, his lips are pressed against Charles’. 

It feels strange. 

Not bad, Charles can admit. Just different. His face is bigger against Charles’, takes up more space. His beard scratches against his skin, making it feel a little tingly. When Charles reaches out to steady himself, he doesn’t his the soft skin he expects, but hard muscles. The fingers that were holding his jaw tighten, and suddenly, Charles can feel just how big Rich’s hand is on his face. 

How big he is in general. So much larger than Charles. 

Rich could pin him down, he thinks, a little dazed when an insistent tongue pushes his lips open. He could push him onto the mattress and cover him entirely, and Charles wouldn’t have to do anything. There would no pressure, no performance, someone would take care of him for once. Maybe it would feel nice. Maybe it would feel safe. 

Rich pulls back, and then nips at Charles’ chin. 

Charles feels weirdly breathless. He kind of wants to pull Rich back in, wants him to shove his tongue down his throat again, wants him to actually press Charles into the mattress. He doesn’t have a word for all of these feelings, but he does know that his thoughts are making a weirdly anxious pit start to feel heavy in his chest. 

“That’s so hot,” Marley says. 

Charles forgot she was there. 

Rich gives him another kiss, this one quick and chaste, and Charles sits still and dazed as he does it. When he pulls back, he starts to fuck his wife in earnest again. 

“Thought you weren’t into guys?” Rich says, with a weirdly teasing tone. He nods down at Charles’ lap, and when Charles looks down, he can see he’s getting hard again. 

The anxiety rackets up another notch. 

“You are?” Charles asks, because he can’t stand to have Rich’s attention on him right now. 

“I’m a purveyor of fine bodies,” Rich says, then leans down to grope one of Marley’s boobs. “I don’t care what genitals they come with.” 

“So much talking,” Marley groans, then slaps her hand out towards Charles. It hits his waist, then his stomach, and with surprising strength she presses down on his abs. 

Boneless, Charles lays back down beside her. Like this, he’s staring up at Rich. Every time he fucks into Marley, the bed shakes. Rich shifts, and then suddenly his thigh is hitting Charles’ knee every time he thrusts. 

It’s big. Hairy. Feels nice. 

Charles can’t take his eyes off him; the bulge of his traps, the dips and mountains of his biceps, the valleys of his abs. Looking up at him like this, Charles’ body lightly shaking as the bed moves, it’s a little bit like he’s getting fucked. 

He reaches down to his cock, wondering whether he’s getting harder. He can’t really feel anything right now, his body a little funny and off. Except when he touches his dick, there’s an undeniable bolt of pleasure. 

When Rich grins down at him, a wolfish, handsome thing, Charles’ cock jumps in his hand. 

Fuck. Holy fuck. 

He doesn’t really understand what’s happening right now. He doesn’t know how he went from fucking Marley to whatever this is. He also doesn’t understand whether this is normal or not; it doesn’t feel wrong, he feels good. Turned on. 

Does that not happen to everyone? If another man was in his position right now, would he have stayed? Would he be hard? Would he be staring up at Rich and wondering what it feels like if he was Marley, getting fucked for a second time? 

Charles has no idea. He doesn’t fucking know what’s normal. 

He just feels good, and he lets himself feel good. 

Like Rich said, nobody has to find out. 

Charles stares at himself in the mirror of his bathroom. 

The problem is that he doesn’t feel any different. He feels entirely the same, if slightly more confused.

He pokes at a bruise on his collarbone, and he can’t remember whether Marley or Rich left it. He doesn’t know if it even matters, which is what’s so confusing. 

Charles isn’t stupid. He knows he’s not the only person in the world who could possibly be experiencing attraction in the way that he does. Rich himself had said that he’s simply a purveyor of fine bodies. 

It’s more that Charles doesn’t really understand that other people don’t feel this way. His entire life, he’s assumed that everyone finds everyone attractive. That there are always things to be admired about someone, passing thoughts to be had. He never really considered the possibility that there are people out there who don’t feel that or think that. 

But now that Pierre has said he doesn’t think about it, and now that Rich had pointed out that he got hard kissing him, he thinks that maybe this isn’t normal—or not what the majority of people experiences.

He just doesn’t really know what to do with it. He doesn’t know how to untangle his feelings. 

If people don’t experience this, then why does Charles feel this way? If he’s attracted to everyone then why has he never noticed before? Why has he never wanted to have sex with a man? Why does he only ever feel attraction towards women? Why do women feel safe and easy, while men always feel off limits? 

Is any of it even real? Was it just a one time thing? Now that he knows he has thoughts, and that other people don’t have those thoughts, can they be replicated? If he gets another man above him, would he want them to fuck him? 

Or maybe it’s just all in his head. Maybe these things he’s feeling were just circumstantial. It all got tied up into knots in his head because he was fucking a hot woman and a man just happened to be there. 

But maybe it’s not in his head. 

Maybe Charles does like men. 

He doesn’t really know where that leaves him, aside from fucking terrified. 

Charles calls Max over, because that’s what he does when he gets confused and upset and needs a hug. He calls Max. 

Max always comes, and the weirdness between them hasn’t changed that. Thank God. 

Max arrives an hour after Charles called him, with a bag of takeaway in one hand, Nino and a bottle of tequila in the other. 

“It’s a stupid lettuce bun burger,” Max tells him as he puts the bag on the kitchen counter. “And some sweet potato fries. Felt like this might be an occasion where we needed a treat.” 

Charles doesn’t know how Max could tell that from his text, which just said can you please come over whenever you can? but he’s grateful for it anyway. 

He still doesn’t use his key, but Charles has much bigger things to worry about than that. 

They sit on the lounge together, like they always do, but Charles actually has clean plates this time so Max makes them eat off those. When they sit down, Max takes his usual spot. 

Charles sits a little further away. 

He feels weird under his skin, and even though he’s desperate for a hug and a cuddle from Max, he doesn’t know if that’s something he can ask for now. It’s best to sit away from him right now, so Charles doesn’t humiliate himself by bursting into tears and begging Max to hold him. 

Max’s shoulders tense when Charles sits, and then relax. 

Charles doesn’t know how to get them back to normal, but somehow, it feels like an easier problem to tackle than whatever the fuck is going on with his sexuality problem. 

“How was dinner the other night?” Max asks as he reaches over to pick up Charles’ remote. 

They haven’t spoken since Max ditched him before the APM dinner. In the very recent past, they’d barely go ten hours without talking, and that was usually only because they were sleeping. Now, it’s been almost ten days. 

It’s felt like a huge hole in his chest and his life. Everywhere he turned, he just wanted Max. 

“It was fine,” Charles says, shrugging. It seems mean to tell Max he hooked up with one of his fellow ambassadors, even though he really needs to tell someone about all these weird thoughts and feelings he’s having. “You would’ve hated it.” 

“Did you get to meet Marley Anderson?” 

Charles chokes on his own spit, and has to press his fist against his chest to breathe normally again.

“You know Marley Anderson?” 

Max shrugs. “She was on a poster in my childhood bedroom.” 

Charles feels fucking insane. “What? But she—well, she’s a she.” 

“My dad put it up,” Max clarifies, a little wryly. “When he was trying to convince me women are hot. That was before he realised that I’m outrageously gay and not even the ‘hottest woman alive’ could change that. Never took it down, though.” 

Charles feels sad, the way he always does when Max talks about his childhood and his father. Even though he was there for it, even though he saw it, he doesn’t like the reminder that it’s all Max has ever known. 

“Why?” 

Max looks up at the ceiling, a contemplative look crossing his face. “Guess I was also trying to convince myself women are hot. Everyone always told me that I should just pretend, so. I tried to pretend.” 

Guilt claws up Charles’ stomach, making him sick with it. He hates that he was part of that, part of the people who tried to tell Max to deny such a large part of himself. 

“It didn’t work?” he asks lightly. They’ve never actually talked about this before—not since they were kids. 

“Nope,” Max says, popping the ‘p’ harshly. “Tried to jerk off to her poster once. I was soft as cooked spaghetti.” 

Charles laughs at that, unable to help himself. It’s a startling visual, even if it’s actually really sad. Charles doesn’t want to think about that part of it. 

He tucks his feet under him, then shoves his hand under his thigh so he can pick at his toenail nervously. 

“You always knew you were gay, right?” Charles asks, and hopes it sounds casual. 

He can’t tell Max everything, not before he figures it all out, but he figures he can at least get some insights. Maybe if he understands how other people experience attraction, he can understand his own feelings. 

“Always,” Max says. There’s an odd tone to his voice as he says it, one that Charles can’t quite place. He hates that he doesn’t know; he once thought he knew every single version of Max that there is. This last month has proved that that’s not the case, that there was a huge part of him Charles had no clue about. “Girls just . . . I don’t know, do you really want to hear this?” 

Charles shrugs, hoping to play it cool. “If you want to tell me.” 

Max takes a deep breath, then reaches for the remote to mute the TV. He leans back against the back of the lounge and folds his hands over his stomach. 

They’re big. As big as Rich’s, even though Max’s body is much smaller. 

“In a weird way, it probably helped that my parents were so dysfunctional,” Max says, staring up at the ceiling. “I had no hetero relationship to aspire to. Think was normal. I always knew my parents didn’t belong together, so I didn’t confuse that with any expectation for myself. You see a lot of het shit in movies and stuff, but I was never really into media. Too busy with racing. Then all the boys were talking about girls, and everything they were saying—like that they’re pretty, that they wanted to hold their hands, kiss them, none of that interested me. I only wanted that with the boys at the track.” 

That makes sense, Charles thinks. He never really had thoughts like that, so it doesn’t help, but it makes sense. 

“You were the first gay person I ever met,” Charles confesses quietly, though he doesn’t know why. “I didn’t even know they existed until you.” 

Max shoots him an amused grin. “Like I’m some endangered species of alien.” 

Charles feels his face go hot. “No, I—I’m serious. I had literally never heard of the concept. All my parents’ friends were straight. All my classmates had a mum and a dad. I’d never seen it in movies, or shows, or music. I didn’t know it was a possibility until suddenly everyone was saying it about you. And I was like, wait, what? That’s a thing? No, that’s not a thing.” 

Max softens. His hand twitches, like he’s going to reach out to Charles, but he doesn’t. 

“That makes a lot of sense,” he says slowly. “You were weird about it. Not like the other boys were, they were just homophobic, but you were just. Weird.” 

Yeah, he probably was weird. He doesn’t really remember, but he imagines it was much more meaningful for Max than it was for him. “They were mean to you, but I couldn’t understand why.” 

Max goes silent, and then turns to face Charles a little more fully. 

“I always liked having you as my friend, you know,” Max confesses quietly. “I know we weren’t really friends, that we only saw each other a few times a year, but whenever I saw your name on the run sheet I always thought, Well, at least there’s Charles. At least I’ll be safe with him.” 

Charles’ heart pangs terribly. He wishes he could go back in time, wishes he could have stayed that safe person forever. He hates that he wasn’t, that he fucked up so badly and ended up making Max think he was like all the other boys. 

“It really hurt my feelings when you—” 

“I’m sorry,” Charles blurts out, because he knows what Max is going to say, and he doesn’t want to talk about it. He wishes it never happened. “I’m really sorry. My dad, he said some shit that day you got into a fight with Chris, and I just. I didn’t question it.” 

Max sighs, and looks up at Charles from beneath his lashes. 

Charles is struck with the thought that Max is pretty. Is that a new thought? Has he always had it? Is it normal? Would other boys think it? Or is it because of . . . is this, like, a symptom of . . .

“It’s okay, Charlie,” he says. “We were kids. I’m sorry I took it out on you for, like, ten years.” 

Charles laughs a little. 

He always knew that Val d’Artengon was because of that day. Even though it has pushed them both towards a terrible rivalry, Charles is glad to be vindicated. 

“It was just an inchident,” Charles says, trying to keep a straight face. 

Max laughs, loud and bright, and the weird mood disappears. Charles is pretty sure Max’s smile could power an entire city with how bright it is. 

“Well, anyway, I did meet Marley,” Charles says, pulling his legs out from under him. He’s not sure he got what he needed from that conversation, but he’ll be able to mull it over later. Pull and pick and tease it apart until he’s aligned everything he can to his own experience. “And her husband.” 

“Oh, he’s h—” Max stops himself, then glances at Charles. “Am I allowed to talk about that, yet?” 

“Talk about what?” 

“Last time I tried to say a guy is hot, you bit my head off.” 

Oh. Right. 

Charles still doesn’t really like it, but he supposes he can’t stop Max from admiring other guys. Charles isn’t his keeper. 

“It’s fine.” 

“Well, then, he’s hot. His biceps always looked so good in the superhero costume.” 

Charles blinks. 

He noticed Rich’s biceps, too.   

Jesus Christ. What does that mean? 

“Is that what you like?” Charles asks, before he can stop himself. He doesn’t even know why he’s asking, but he keeps fucking talking anyway. He can’t help but think back to those pictures from Montreal, when Max was with guys so big he looked tiny. “When a guy is bigger than you?” 

“Sometimes,” Max says. “Sometimes it’s nice to just be, like, pinned down. It can be so hot.” 

Charles’ mind fills in the blanks; Rich standing over him, biceps bulging, the bed shaking as Charles gets fucked up it—

“But sometimes it’s nice to be the one doing the fucking,” Max continues, then glances at Charles. His cheeks go a little pink. “To take care of someone. I like—looking down at them. Their face while I—” 

Oh. Oh, he’s thinking about Charles. He can tell from how flushed Max’s face is getting. 

Charles’ brain spirals further; instead of Rich above him, it’s Max, face flushed like it is now, panting heavily, sweat slicked over his skin, thrusting into him, moaning and praising him and telling him how much he loves him—

“Interesting,” Charles says, because he can’t think of a single other thing to say. 

“Is it?” Max laughs. “Why are you suddenly so interested in my preferences, anyway?” 

Charles wets his lips. He can’t tell him the truth, obviously, because Charles doesn’t actually know what the truth is. 

“We’ve never talked about it before,” Charles says, shrugging. “Was curious. I know what my other friends like.” 

“Yes, well, that’s presumably the same thing as you,” Max says, a little wryly. “I can’t exactly shoot the shit over pretty girls because of the previously discussed spaghetti cock.” 

“Still, I wanted to know,” Charles says, pretending that this is all aggressively normal. It’s totally normal to want to know what friends like. “Maybe I want to set you up or something.” 

A queasy look passes over Max’s face, which is almost the exact same feeling that passes through Charles. He doesn’t really know anyone good enough for Max, not even his friends. 

“I don’t need any dates at the moment,” Max says. His voice wavers a little, and then he clears his throat. “Thanks, though.” 

“But you’ve been seeing people,” Charles presses. “That guy in Montreal.” 

Max swipes his hand through his hair and purses his lips together. Charles doesn’t like the look on his face. 

“I’ve been fucking people,” Max corrects. 

Like there’s been more, ones that Charles doesn’t know about. He realises he’s never known about Max’s hookups. He hears about his dates, sometimes, though it’s been a long time since he dated. But casual sex? Never. 

How many men has Max had sex with? Charles is suddenly filled with a burning desire to know. 

“Honestly, Charlie, it’s fine,” Max continues. “I don’t need a boyfriend right now.” 

Like Charles’ friends aren’t good enough for him? It doesn’t matter that Charles only just thought the same thing, it doesn’t sit right with him that Max apparently thinks the same. That he doesn’t even want to try. 

“It’s probably for the best, anyway,” Charles says, words clawing up before he can stop them. “You know, considering.” 

Max stiffens. “Considering?” he asks, with a weird tone. 

Charles nods anyway. “You know. Considering your . . . feelings.” 

Max lets out a little laugh, but it doesn’t sound like his usual one. There’s no amusement in it, not even a tiny bit. 

“Right. That. Of course. How could I forget?” 

Charles chews on his lip until it burns. He has a sick desire to poke at this a little more, to pull the scab back and see what’s underneath. He should know where Max is at with that anyway, shouldn’t he? So he can know when things are going to go back to normal? So he doesn’t have to keep second guessing everything. 

“What’s, um. What’s happening with that, anyway?” Charles asks, fiddling with the seam of his jeans. 

Max stares at him sharply. “With what?” 

God, he doesn’t have to say it, does he? 

“The feelings,” he says, a little impatiently. “Are they still there?” 

Max takes a deep breath and looks away from him. Ridiculously, Charles realises that they’re in the same position they were that night. Sitting on the lounge, side by side, in Charles’ living room. 

“Yep,” Max says, voice shortly. “Still there.” 

Oh. Well. 

That’s . . . 

Cool. It’s good to know. 

“What’s, like, the timeline, do you think?” Charles asks a little awkwardly. He’s never had to do this before. 

“Shorter with every second this conversation continues,” Max mutters, then sighs loudly. He presses his palm into his eye, and avoids looking at Charles. “I don’t know, Charlie. I’m—I’m trying. Okay? I promise. I’m sorry if you’re—um, uncomfortable.” 

Charles shakes his head quickly. “No! No. Just, you know. I wanted to know when things will be normal again.” 

Max goes entirely silent, staring at the muted TV. Charles doesn’t really know how to push anymore, not without making the sick look on Max’s face even worse. 

“I don’t know,” Max says eventually. “I’m trying.” 

Charles doesn’t really know what that means. He doesn’t like how it feels, either. Surely if Max just tried harder then they’d both feel better? 

“Well, what are you doing?” Charles asks, picking at his jeans even harder. “Maybe I can—I can help.” 

“Thanks, but no thanks.” His voice is hard and tense.

Charles is a little insulted; Max is the one that dragged him into this, but now he doesn’t want to accept any help? Why did he even tell him, then? 

“I can,” he insists. “You’re the one that had no problems telling me about this.” 

He doesn’t even know if that’s true, he realises. He doesn’t know how long Max has had these feelings, how long he’s kept them inside. He doesn’t know if Max struggled with it, whether he tossed and turned over whether to tell Charles, if he felt embarrassed or ashamed. If he knew how much it would hurt when Charles inevitably turned him down, or if he prepared himself for it. 

What else did he do, before he told Charles? Did he try other ways to get over him? Was it his first option, or did he exhaust a whole list before he dragged Charles into it? 

“Wow,” Max mutters, shaking his head. “Fucking—wow. The fuck does that mean?” 

“Just—everything was fine before you said anything!” 

“I wasn’t fine,” Max says harshly, then stands from the lounge. He backs off behind it, like putting even more distance between them will help. “I was fucking dying, Charles. You don’t know what it was like, trying to keep it inside every time I saw you. It was humiliating. Look at Max, the fucking idiot who is pining over his straight best friend. I had to do something.” 

Charles frowns at him. Every ugly feelings he’s had over the last month is boiling up together, like when pasta cooks too long and the water suddenly froths up and tries to spill out. Charles is tired of trying to keep the lid on it. 

“Yeah, and then you ruined everything in the process,” Charles says. 

He doesn’t recognise the mean tone to his voice, and neither does Max, if the surprised look on his face is anything to do by. 

“Ruined everything,” Max repeats. His voice is a weird mix of disbelief and acceptance. 

“Everything was perfect before,” Charles insists. He can’t stop now. His fingernails are hurting from where he’s pulling at his jeans so hard he can feel a thread has some loose. “We haven’t spoken in ten days, Max! Don’t you miss me?” 

Max scoffs, then runs his hand through his hair. “Don’t even—of fucking course I do. God.” 

“Then why are you doing this?” Charles demands, pushing up to kneel on the lounge. He crawls a little closer to Max, and is infuriated when Max takes two steps back. “All this space, I don’t want it! You promised everything would be the same.” 

“But it’s not the same, is it?” Max explodes. His hands fly through the air, cutting in front of him viciously. “I’m fucking sorry that I’m trying to get over you, that it’s—that it’s hard. I’m trying my best here.” 

“You need to try harder!” Charles says, hand slapping against the back of the lounge. He feels deranged as he stares at Max, his longing and missing all choked up inside him. “This isn’t what I want.” 

“What about what I want?” Max asks, and his voice cracks terribly. “What about what I need? I—I can’t live like this forever. Be your little lap dog, at your beck and call whenever.” 

Charles stares at him, eyes feeling like they’re about to fall out of his head. “What? Max, what? That’s not—I never—that’s not how I see you! You’re my friend. You’re my best friend.” 

“But we don’t act like best friends, do we?” Max says harshly. “I—I act like I’m your boyfriend. My last boyfriend, the one I said I broke up with? I lied. I didn’t break up with him. He broke up with me, because he said I already had a partner. There was no space in my life for him, because I already had you.” 

Once, when Charles was younger, he was on the back of his papa’s trailer trying to find some tools and he slipped and fell to the ground. The breath punched out of him so hard his entire body hurt, and he couldn’t catch it. The panic that had filled him made him hot all over. 

This feels exactly like that. 

“You’re not—” 

“I know I’m not, Charles,” Max says, just as hard. “That’s the fucking problem. I’m not your boyfriend, and I need to stop p-pretending. So don’t ask me to keep going like that, not when it’s—when it’s breaking my heart.” 

Charles eyes hurt. He can see it now, so clear on Max’s face. 

He’s always been so good at hiding things. He’s hidden behind a tough guy act for as long as Charles knows him, and he forgets, sometimes, just how sensitive Max can be. He feels everything so damn deeply, but always pretends he doesn’t. All his bravado, the way he’s never afraid to call someone out—Charles forgets that the true hurts, the things that burrow deep under his skin, are always hidden. 

Charles isn’t sure he realises, until right this second, that Max is in love with him. 

He doesn’t just like him. He doesn’t just want to have sex with him. He probably wants—God, he probably just wants to hold his fucking hand. He wants to kiss him, wants to come home to him. Wants to blend their little animal family. Maybe he wants to get married. Have children with him. 

Wants to hold Charles, be held in return. 

And Charles is breaking his heart. 

Max is in love with him, and Charles is hurting him. 

“I don’t—I don’t want that, Max,” he says, voice small. He doesn’t know how to fix any of this.“I don’t want to hurt you. I just want things to go back to how they were.” 

“Well, they can’t,” Max snaps. Charles falls back on his heels, the wind knocked out of him. “I can’t be this fucking pathetic forever. I want—I want to actually love someone who loves me back someday, which means I need to get over you. I can’t keep feeling so sad all the fucking time. So, just. Please. I’m giving you everything I can. Please stop asking for more.” 

Charles takes in a deep, wavering breath. 

Max wants someone to love him. Max doesn’t think he’s loved. Max might be breaking Charles’ heart, too, but Charles doesn’t know how, or why. 

He just knows that his heart hurts, and it’s Max’s fault. 

“I wish you never told me.” 

Max freezes. 

So does Charles. 

He can’t believe he said that. He knows how mean it is, to say that his feelings matter more than Max’s. To imply that Max should’ve just kept suffering, just so that Charles didn’t have to. So he got to stay happy and comfortable, while Max was silently miserable. 

The terrible, awful truth, is that he means it. He really does wish Max never told him. 

Max turns away from him, shoulders hunching forward. Charles hates seeing him that, without his confidence, so tense and sad. 

“Max,” he starts, voice wobbling. He doesn’t know what to say; he can’t lie, but he doesn’t want to keep being the reason Max is sad. This whole situation is his worst nightmare. 

Max turns back to him, cheeks flushed. He roughly swipes his face with the back of his hand, and Charles feels like he’s going to throw up as he realises that Max is crying. 

He’s the worst person in the world. 

“If I’d known you were going to be so cruel about it, I wouldn’t have,” Max says, rounding the lounge to swipe up his phone from the coffee table. “God, you can be such an asshole.” 

“Wait, Max,” Charles says, pushing up from the lounge as Max turns away. He doesn’t want him to leave. He wants to fix this. “Don’t go, please.” 

Max doesn’t turn back to him. He simply bends down to pick up Nino, holding him close to his chest the way he only does when he’s sad and doesn’t know what to do about it. 

“Bye, Charles,” Max says as he opens the door. 

“No, wait,” Charles says, panic making him trip over his own feet. He doesn’t like the way Max said that, like he didn’t just mean it about right now. Like he means goodbye forever. “Max, wait!” 

The door slams shut. 

Charles knows Max is here, but he hasn’t seen him all weekend. 

He hasn’t seen him since the trackside fight at the last round, actually. 

It’s silly, but Charles misses him. They barely know each other, but Charles likes to think they’re friends. They’ve always been friendly. Charles would never dare tell Max, but he brags about him to all his friends back in Monaco.

About the cool karter with the Formula One dad. Who is so fast, but who Charles beats, sometimes. 

He thinks Max likes him, too. He calls him Charlie and brings him apples and gives him advice after qualifying or the heats. Sometimes they push pretty hard on track, but Charles likes that. It makes him better. 

By this point in a weekend, he would usually have seen Max. 

Qualifying was today, so Charles knows Max is here. He’d seen his kart, and knows Max is starting from pole. 

He puts his hands on the wheel of his kart, pushing up onto his tiptoes. He just doesn’t understand why Max hasn’t come to find him yet. 

“Where do you think he is?” Charles asks his papa impatiently, trying to peer around him. 

“Who? Pierre?” 

Charles grunts with annoyance. Obviously not Pierre, he’s seen him, like, a thousand times. “Max! He hasn’t come to say hello.” 

Papa pauses, then straights up. A whine pushes out of Charles’ throat, because now he can’t see anything. 

“Why don’t you go find him?” Papa suggests slowly. 

Charles brightens up. He usually waits for Max to come to him, but he supposes he doesn’t have to. He can definitely go and find him. “Can I?” 

“Of course. Come back quickly though, we need to finish our prep.” 

Charles races off quickly, eager to find Max. It’s been almost six weeks since the last round of the Championship, which is basically forever. 

He goes over to where he knows Max’s spot in the field is. He doesn’t want to speak to Jos, so he makes it look like he’s just walking around while shooting glances towards Max’s kart. Jos is working on it on his own—no Max. 

It’s weird, he thinks. Max has never complained about the fact that his dad pretty much always refuses to work on the kart alone, but he knows it annoys him, sometimes. That while the rest of the kids are hanging out, Max is stuck with his dad. 

Charles wanders around for a bit, going over to the out-grid and then to the canteen. He tries to find some of Max’s other friends, but realises he doesn’t know who they are. If Max even has any of them. 

The only other idea Charles has the bathroom block, so he goes over there with a heavy heart, as a last attempt. 

Maybe Max doesn’t want to be found. Maybe he doesn’t want to be friends anymore. Charles doesn’t like the way that thought feels. 

He slinks into the boy’s bathroom, shoulders tense, and looks around. The cubicles are empty, and there’s nobody here. 

“Max?” he calls out anyway. 

Nothing. 

Sighing, Charles leaves the bathroom. He probably needs to go back to his papa, anyway. He’ll be wondering where he is, worried or upset that he’s taking so long. 

But where could Max be? It’s a karting track, it’s not like there a thousand places for him to—

Charles’ wallowing is cut off by the sound of a boy laughing. He glances up, then immediately presses himself against the wall, trying not to be seen. 

He hasn’t spoken to Chris since the incident at the last race, either. Charles doesn’t really know why he was ever friends with him; he’s so mean. He said so many terrible things to Max, things that he’d repeated to his papa on the drive home to find out what they meant. 

His papa told him never to say those things to someone else. Charles doesn’t know why Chris think it’s okay to be so cruel. Especially to Max, who’s never done anything. Charles knows him—Max wouldn’t hurt a fly. 

Chris isn’t alone. He has a group of three other boys with him, talking loudly in their own language and laughing as they come back from around the back of the toilet block. Charles can’t understand what they’re saying, except for one word: 

Verstappen. 

But Max isn’t with them. A weird feeling starts to sink in Charles’ tummy. 

He waits until they’re gone, and then quickly sneaks around the back, glancing over his shoulder to make sure they don’t come back. 

“Max?” he calls softly, when he gets around. 

There are trees and shrubs everywhere, and he can barely see anything. He pushes one to the side, trying to get a little further back. 

“Max, are you here?” 

“Charlie.” 

Charles freezes, hand on the brick of the building. Max sounds terrible. He sounds like he’s in pain. Charles still can’t see him. 

“Max?” he says again, a little more frantically. “Where are you?” 

He hears a cough, and then a whimper. Charles pushes past the bush, desperately trying to see where he could possibly be hiding. 

“G-go away.”

“Max, what? No, where are you! What happened?” 

There’s no answer, but Charles can hear Max’s stuttering breath, now. He must be getting close. 

He shoves over to the next bush, peering over it, and sees him. He’s got his back against the wall, head bowed down low, and each breath he lets out has the ghost of a whine on it. 

Gasping, Charles circles the bush and then gets to his knees in front of Max. 

“Max,” he whispers, voice full of fear. 

“Go away.” Max’s voice is small and pitiful. 

Charles is absolutely not leaving. 

He waits Max out, on his knees in the dirt, trying not to cry. He hopes his papa doesn’t come looking for him before Max tells him what happened, what’s wrong. 

Or maybe he should go and get an adult? He can tell Max is pain, even though he doesn’t know why, so shouldn’t there be a parent here to help? What if it’s serious? He could have really hurt himself back here. 

“Max, should I get your—” 

“No, don’t.” 

Max lifts his head; Charles falls back on his ass. 

His lip is split. There’s blood leaking from his nose. One of his eyes is bright red and purple and swollen shut. He’s clutching his ribs, and struggling to breathe. 

“Oh, my god,” Charles breathes. “Max. Max! What—how—who—” 

“Who do you think?” Max whispers, his lisp catching on the syllables even more than usual. “Chris is mad the fag out-qualified him.” 

Charles sucks in a sharp breath. “Don’t—don’t say that—you’re not—” 

“I am,” Max says, a little harshly. It looks like he’s trying to glare at Charles, but it doesn’t really work through one eye. “I do like boys, Charlie. They’re right. Well, not about—I did kiss a boy in Genk, but he—he kissed me, but he told everyone that I kissed him and that he didn’t want it—” 

Charles breathes in deeply, trying to shake off the weird ache that’s settled in his chest. 

“Max, I . . .” He doesn’t really know what to say, or what to do. He wants to give Max a hug, but he can tell from the way Max is holding his torso that his ribs have been hurt. Charles remembers how painful it was last year, when he bruised his on the edge of his kart seat. “You need the doctor.” 

Max sighs. “No. Just go away.” 

Charles presses his lips together, and fists his hands in the material of his racing suit over his thighs. 

“But—but you’re hurt—” 

“I’ve had worse. I’m fine. Just need a minute.” 

“Chris has done this before?” Charles breathes, horrified. “Max—” 

“Not him. My dad.” 

Charles doesn’t even realise he’s on the verge of crying until a sob bursts out of his throat. He lurches forward, forgetting about Max’s injuries for a moment, and wraps his arms around Max’s shoulders. His fingers scramble against Max’s back, a poor imitation of the way his maman rubs his back when he’s sick. 

After a moment, a hesitant hand lifts around his back, loose over his waist. Max leans his head into Charles’ chest, and Charles has to brace his knees against the ground so he can hold Max’s weight. 

Hot tears track down Charles’ cheeks, and he can’t stop them. He doesn’t even know if he wants to. He sniffles and sniffles, still trying to rub Max’s back a little. 

“Charlie,” Max whispers eventually. “Ribs are hurting.” 

Charles lets out a pathetic little bleat of remorse, immediately falling back down to his knees. “How can I help? What do you need?” 

Max looks at him through his single eye. The other one, the purple one, somehow seems even more swollen than before. Max isn’t going to be able to race tomorrow, Charles realises. 

“Ice,” Max says after a moment. “A wet paper towel, maybe. Need to wipe the blood off.” 

Charles nods quickly. He can definitely get paper towel. Ice is a little harder, especially if he can’t tell anyone, but he’s pretty sure his papa has a pack in his cooler. Charles hopes it hasn’t entirely melted by now. 

“Okay, just—just wait here. I’ll be back.” 

Max makes a little noise, but Charles pushes up onto his feet quickly. He doesn’t know what the noise is supposed to mean, anyway. 

Ice first, he thinks, as he shoves his way back to the front of the building. That will be harder to find, so he should do that first. 

Even though he knows his papa will ask a lot of questions, he goes back to the trailer. He's probably worried, and Charles needs to buy more time anyway. And, the more he thinks about it, than more sure he is that there is an ice block in the cooler.

When he gets back to the trailer, he's panting heavily.

“Charles!” Papa says, clearly worried. “You’ve been gone so long!” 

“Sorry,” Charles says. He should've spent more time thinking of an excuse, but all he can think about is getting back to Max as quickly as possible. “Um, do we have any ice?” 

Papa’s brows shoot up. “Ice? Did you hurt yourself?” 

“No, no,” he says quickly. Max will be so mad if Charles gives it away. “Just, um. I’m hot.” 

“Charles—” 

“Papa, please,” he says. He's on the verge of tears again, and tries to suck them back in so his papa doesn't see. 

Papa looks at him, with a face that Charles knows means he's going to ask questions, but he doesn’t. He just sighs, and then goes to the truck. Charles follows on his heels, shifting around anxiously. It feels like it takes forever for Papa to dig around in the backseat, but eventually he comes back with a half melted block of ice. 

“Wrap it in something first,” Papa says. “So it doesn’t burn. When you . . . try to cool down.” 

Charles nods frantically. Wrap it in something. Got it.

“I'll be back soon,” Charles promises, then turns on his heel to speed off back to the toilets. 

He goes inside first, hurridly ripping some paper towels out of the holder. He gets a whole stack, some to wrap around the ice block, then shoves the rest under the tap. When they're soaked through, he finally goes back to Max. 

Max hasn't moved from where Charles left him, back against the wall. Charles gets to his knees again, trying his best to make sure nothing ends up in the dirt by keeping all his supplies close to his chest. 

Max lifts his head. Somehow, the bruising seems more brutal than it did originally, and his eye is now swollen completely shut. Charles tries not to gasp, but doesn’t think he manages it. 

He fumbles with the ice and paper towel, trying to wrap some of it around the ice block, when Max reaches out for the wet towel. 

“Need to clean up first,” he says, then lifts it to his split lip. He grimaces, clearly in pain, but keeps wiping anyway. 

“I can do it,” Charles offers quietly, shifting around on his knees. 

Max looks at him through his single eye, then says, voice gruff, “You’ve got more towels.” 

Charles chews on his lip as he picks up another wet one, because Max is right, he does have more, and then carefully swipes it under Max’s nose. It’s not bleeding anymore, but the blood has started to dry and doesn’t come away as easily as Charles thought it would. He frowns, then presses a little harder. 

“You should go to the marshals,” Charles says as he finally gets some blood off. “Chris should get disqualified.” 

Max scoffs, and drops his red-stained towel in his lap. “Yeah, because that will help. I’m not looking to give him another reason to beat me up.” 

“But this isn’t right,” Charles insists. “You can’t even race tomorrow now!” 

Max rolls his eye, then grunts in pain. “Yes, I can. I will. And I’ll win, too.” 

“Max,” Charles gasps, staring at him with confusion. He won’t be able to get his helmet on, let alone see well enough. 

“Just drop it, Charlie,” Max mutters, and shoves Charles’ away to wipe much more aggressively under his nose. 

“I’ll go to the marshals myself,” Charles says, and retaliates by grabbing Max’s wrist to pull it away from his face. He’s gentler as he goes back to wiping the blood. 

“You won’t,” Max says harshly, but he doesn’t try to clean himself up again. “You can’t. I’m—I’m dealing with it.” 

Charles doesn’t see how that’s true, but he doesn’t want to make Max angry when he’s hurt. Instead he just sighs loudly, so Max knows he’s annoyed, and then continues to work quietly. When his face is finally clear of blood, Charles carefully wraps the ice block up in some paper towel and then holds it out. 

He wants to put it on Max’s eye for him, but he doesn’t want to hurt him. 

Max is looking at him with his intense blue eye when he lifts the ice up to his face. Charles stares back, fiddling with his fingers in his lap. 

“Thank you,” Max says eventually, shifting around in the dirt a little. He grimaces, hand coming up to clutch his ribs, and then drops it back down. 

“It’s okay.” 

Charles doesn’t have much else to do or say, but he doesn’t want to leave Max alone. He’s pretty sure he can still convince him to go to the marshals if he does it gently enough. 

Just as he’s worked up the courage to try and tell him again, Max speaks. 

“Everyone keeps telling me that I’m gross and unnatural,” he says softly, averting his eye to the ground. “That I’m . . . wrong.” 

Charles furrows his brow. He doesn’t really understand. He’s not sure he gets why Max apparently likes boy, and he definitely doesn’t understand why people are saying it’s wrong. 

“What do you think?” Max asks, eye flicking up to him for a second and then back down. “Do you think I’m, um. Gross? Wrong?” 

What does he think? Charles doesn’t think anything. This is just all so confusing, but he knows it’s not right that those boys have done this to Max. He doesn’t know who else is telling Max that’s unnatural, but he wishes they’d stop. 

But he doesn’t know how to make them stop if Max won’t tell anyone. 

He only knows that his papa told him that life would be hard for Max because he likes boys. Charles doesn’t think life needs to be hard; he doesn’t think Max needs to make it harder for himself.

“Can’t you just pretend?” Charles asks, thinking about what his papa said. Pretending would be easier, and will get him more sponsors anyway. 

“Pretend? Pretend what?” 

“That you don’t like boys,” Charles says, frowning at him. Obviously that’s what he meant. “It would be better.” 

“Better,” Max repeats. His voice has gone a little flat, and Charles doesn’t like that. 

“Just—they would stop being mean to you. And it will help you get more sponsors.” 

“Sponsors,” Max says, and this time his voice is angrier. “So you do think it’s wrong.” 

Charles frowns, and shakes his head. “If you have, um, controverse then nobody will give you money. So you should just pretend. It’s not that hard to not like boys. And girls are pretty!” 

“Oh,” Max breathes, and then shakes his head. “Fuck you, Charles.” 

“What?” Charles says, alarmed, as Max pushes himself into standing up. Charles scrambles to follow him, hands hovering around him as Max struggles to breathe. “Max, wait, what did I say?” 

Max doesn’t answer, just throws the ice pack to the ground at his feet. 

“Fuck you,” Max repeats, much more angrily. “I really thought that you . . .” 

He stalks off, shoving away Charles’ hands as he tries to grab his arm. 

“Max!” Charles cries out, frustrated and annoyed and scared and hurt. 

“Don’t fucking follow me,” Max says, and disappears around the corner of the bathroom block. 

With nowhere else to turn, Charles goes to sex. 

He starts with women, obviously, because that’s what he knows. There’s no point trying to figure anything out if he doesn’t start with his baseline; his control group. 

He goes for the type of woman he likes: shorter than him, dainty, soft spoken. He eats her pussy, sucks her tits, fucks her pussy. He doesn’t have to think of anything else while he does it, focuses only on how good it feels. 

And it does feel good. No spaghetti cock. 

It’s a good start. He branches out a little, finding some women who don’t fit into his typical style: bigger, broader, more willing to push back against him. Some of them ask to peg him, but he declines. 

He likes fucking them, too. 

So, okay. Definitely still into women. Having sex with them, at least. None of them really make him want a relationship, or even a second round, but that’s fine. He can work his way up to figuring relationships out. 

Trying to find a man is harder. Not because he can’t find them—now that he’s looking, he’s really looking. 

Somehow, men are fucking hot. Charles doesn’t know how he never realised it before.

Logistically, however, they’re harder to have sex with. Because Max is out, Charles is pretty sure it wouldn’t be huge news if it got splashed on the internet that he hooked up with a guy. Ralf Schumacher’s coming out barely lasted a full news cycle, for God’s sake. 

The thought is still terrifying, though. He doesn’t even know anything for sure, so he can’t risk this experiment ending up online. 

In the end, he decides the safest route is to hire a sex worker. He carefully selects one from the catalogue, some guy that’s smaller than him that exclusively bottoms. Right now, Charles can’t really touch the idea of bottoming, especially not for some random person. 

He’s incredibly nervous going to meet the guy at a pre-arranged hotel room, and he almost calls the whole thing off at the last second. The guy arrives before he can, and then suddenly Charles is looking for every excuse he can to not start anything. 

“Hey, we don’t have to have sex, you know,” the guy, Angelo, says. 

Charles laughs helplessly, shoving his hair back from his forehead. “Isn’t that what I hired you for?” 

Angelo shrugs. “People just want some companionship more often than you’d think.” 

Charles doesn’t want companionship. He wants to figure out what the fuck is going on. 

“I’ve just, um. Never done this before?” 

Angelo looks him up and down, clearly incredulous. “You’re a virgin?” 

Charles huffs. “No, fuck—God. Kind of, yes. With men.” 

Understanding crosses Angelo’s face, and he sits down on the edge of the bed. “Okay. We can go slow. Have you ever kissed a guy before?” 

Charles goes to shake his head, and realises it’s a lie. He kissed Rich. Liked it, even. 

Slowly, he nods. 

“Okay. We can start there, if you want?” 

That’s safe, Charles thinks. Easy. Wouldn’t ruin his career if it got out—fuck, not that he’s trying to think about that. He doesn’t even know why that’s something he’s worried about. The agency and Angelo have signed NDAs. 

They start slow, kissing on the edge of the bed, until Angelo starts to move his hands down to Charles’ hips. Charles tenses, and then relaxes as the fingers pull at his belt. 

Despite his anxiety, it all feels exactly the same. 

He gets his cock sucked, and likes it. He fucks a tight hole, and loves it. Angelo’s voice is fairly high pitched, not as deep as Charles’ own, but Charles still knows he’s fucking a man. 

No spaghetti cock. 

He doesn’t think of a woman once, but still comes so hard he has to lay still on the bed to catch his breath. 

Whatever else Charles is all tangled up in, he can’t really deny it any longer: the things he thinks about men are not things that everyone thinks. What turns him on, doesn’t do the same for others. 

That’s that, then. He likes men, too. 

“I fucked a man.” 

Charles waits with baited breath as he lets Pierre sort through that. 

Pierre whips his head around, eyes wide. 

“Like, five men, actually.” 

“At the same time?”

Charles laughs, and shakes his head. He can almost forget that for the second race weekend in a row, he’s walking in without Max. Pierre is his moral support through it, because last weekend he’d tried to walk into the paddock alone on Thursday morning and almost had a panic attack. 

Max still won’t text him back. 

“Separately. Turns out it feels pretty much exactly the same.” 

Pierre hums, hands swinging by his sides as he walks. 

“I assume, based on the fact that you’re still not talking, that none of these five men were Max?” 

Charles stops dead in the middle of the paddock. 

“What?” he chokes out. “N-no, no, Pierre, Jesus. We’re—we’re just friends.” 

He pauses, and bites his lip. He doesn’t actually know if they’re even that anymore. 

“It was probably too much to ask that you’d had that many realisations,” Pierre sighs. 

Charles doesn’t like the implication. That he’s into Max. 

He’s not. Charles knows it for sure, because he’s been thinking about it. He’s been thinking about it so much. 

Everything would just be so much easier if he had feelings for Max. Now that Charles understands what he’s feeling, he knows that Max is hot. He’d, like, have sex with him or whatever, if they weren’t who they are. 

And even Max said they act like boyfriends, which Charles, begrudgingly, agrees with. Pierre is his second closest friend in the entire world, and he’s so many miles behind Max it’s laughable. Charles would never be that desperate for a cuddle with Pierre. 

So, his relationship with Max is different. It’s always been different. 

But even knowing all of that, Charles doesn’t feel any differently about Max than he always has. Charles can acknowledge that the way he’s felt about Max is a bit different to how he feels about everyone else, but Max has always held a special place in his heart. As his friend, then as his rival, and now as his best friend. 

Nobody understands him like Max. There’s nobody he understands like he does Max. 

It’s just always been like that. Since Charles was a child, this is the way he’s felt about Max. It’s never changed, never wavered. He’s scoured every memory he has of him, to see if there was ever any change. If his feelings might have turned romantic without him realising it. 

Nothing. 

So, no, Charles isn’t in love with Max.

He feels guilty about it, but he supposes there’s nothing he can do, just like there’s nothing Max can do about his situation. 

“I’m not in love with Max,” Charles says. He can hear in his voice just how weary he is. 

Pierre gives him a long, contemplative look. “I never said anything about love.” 

Charles laughs humourlessly, shaking his head and rubbing his eye with his fist. God, he’s so fucking tired, and he didn’t tell Pierre so that he could get the third degree over Max. 

“Don’t play dumb, make me think I just came up with that all on my own,” Charles mutters. “That’s what you were thinking.” 

Pierre doesn’t say anything, just continues to stare at him. Charles knows he’s waiting him out, and, honestly, he needs to talk to someone. Max is usually—always—his someone, but Max isn’t talking to him right now. 

Max probably isn’t the best person for this conversation anyway. He can’t even imagine how hurtful it would be for Max to hear that Charles does like men, just not Max. 

“I thought about it,” Charles confesses, starting a slow walk towards Ferrari again. He shoves his finger underneath his sunglasses to scratch under his eye. “Max. If I feel . . . But, I just don’t, Pear. It doesn’t feel like the other times I’ve been in love. I don’t—he’s just Max, you know?” 

Pierre hums, then holds his hands behind his back. 

“It would be easier if I did love him,” Charles continues, because he’s been thinking it for weeks—almost since Max told him, actually—but he can’t force it. Max doesn’t deserve that, anyway. “But I . . .” 

He sighs, and scratches his eye again. He hates that he sounds like he’s on the verge of tears, even though he is. This just all fucking sucks so much. 

Yet again, Charles wishes Max never told him. They could be walking into the paddock together right now, laughing and joking like always. Instead, Charles doesn’t even know where Max is. They haven’t spoken in weeks. Charles misses him, in a way he’s only ever missed his papa and Jules. 

It’s ridiculous. Charles knows Max isn’t dead. 

He’s just as unreachable right now, though. 

“Let’s get a coffee,” Pierre says as they come to a stop outside Ferrari. 

Charles stares at him, then at his hospitality. He has time, technically, but not a lot. And he’s also already had an espresso this morning, before he left the hotel, so it seems a bit crazy to go for another already. 

“Uh—” 

“Charles.” Pierre levels him a hard stare over the top of his own glasses. 

Charles sighs, then follows him. 

They’re both quiet as they go over to a little coffee cart and stand in line. Charles gets a matcha, deciding against more coffee, but it’s a lot of milk so he gets the smallest one he can and then pushes the straw around so the ice all clinks together. 

Pierre sips at his espresso quietly, looking at everyone passing them by. 

“Tell me what you feel for Max.” 

Charles glares at the table top, and pushes his straw around even harder. It’s a paper one, so if he keeps going like this it’s all going to fall apart before he even has the chance to drink anything. 

“I’m serious, Chick. Describe it to me.” 

Charles slumps in his chair, resting his elbow on the table. He doesn’t even know where to start. Everything he has to say about Max feels stupid. Inadequate. If he says that he only ever feels truly happy when he’s with Max, Pierre will laugh at him. 

“I don’t know,” he mumbles. 

“Yes, you do. Tell me. I remember when you guys were just getting close again a few years ago, when you finally got over all your shit. It seemed like everything just clicked between you both.” 

Charles nods slowly. “Well . . . yeah. We were friends, kind of, when we were kids. Then all that shit happened, you know, with that other kid? You remember, when Max got hurt and he had to pull out of the final round of the Championship and his dad got the other kids banned from competing again.” 

“I remember,” Pierre says softly. 

Charles sighs, digging his knuckle into his cheekbone. He doesn’t really like to talk about that time; it was all so awful. Charles has carried around so much guilt over it all. 

“I was there, the day he got hurt,” Charles confesses. Pierre looks at him with clear confusion. “I was the one that found him. And we . . . some shit was said, and I basically told him that he should pretend to be straight.” 

“Chick,” Pierre says quietly, reaching over the table to put his hand on Charles’ bicep. He lets him, even though he doesn’t get any comfort from it. “Come on. You were a kid.” 

Charles shrugs, pretending that it doesn’t matter, even though it does. “Yeah, well. Max was just trying to find someone safe. He was a kid, too. He trusted me, and I told him that he should just pretend to be something he’s not.” 

Pierre squeezes his arm. 

“Anyway, that’s why we weren’t friends anymore after it. Getting to try and be friends with him again a few years ago just felt . . . Good. Right. I missed him so much. Like, he’s my person, you know? We just get each other.”

Pierre nods. Charles realises that might be a little hurtful, considering Pierre was his best friend in all the years before he and Max reconnected, but he doesn’t look hurt. 

“Yeah,” he agrees simply. “You do.” 

 Charles slumps a little further down. God, he can’t believe he messed this all up a second time. He wishes he’d never opened his stupid mouth, never said such hurtful things to Max. He should’ve just sucked it up, let Max do what he needed to do, given him time. 

“He makes me so happy,” Charles says around the lump in his throat. “Like, no matter what is happening, just seeing him makes me feel better. Nothing can ever be wrong when I’m with Max. He just always knows what to say. And when he smiles at me, I feel perfect. Everything is perfect. He’s perfect. And when he’s sad, it makes me so angry. Like, how dare anyone make such a perfect person sad? He just deserves good things, all the time, and I love when I’m the one who gives him that.” 

He chances a glance up at Pierre, to see if he’s laughing at him, but he’s not. He has a perfectly even face, and even nods encouragingly at him. 

“Sometimes I look at him and I wonder why he’s even friends with me,” Charles murmurs, staring back down at his drink. There’s condensation around the outside now, and he drags a finger through it, drawing a little frowning face. “Why does he even like me? He could have anyone in the world, but I’m who he picked. It makes me feel so special.”

“You are special,” Pierre says gently. 

Charles immediately shakes his head. “Not like him. He’s—oh, my God, Pierre. You don’t even understand. The way his brain works is just so interesting. I love racing, but he’s just on another level. It’s amazing. And he’s so smart, he understands things so quickly. We always watch races together, and he makes me such a better driver. And that’s another thing! Racing him is so cool. Like, I never get to go as hard as I do with Max, because I just know what he’s going to do. Like we’re telepathic. And he’s so kind to me. He remembers what food I like to eat and he can tell just from looking at me how I feel, and he’ll just. Come around and play video games with me until I feel better. And then when he gives me a hug, it makes me feel so safe. Sometimes I think being in his arms is the best place in entire world, even better than being in an F1 car. Do you think that’s crazy?” 

Pierre is giving him a weirdly fond look. “Not really. Honestly, it’s the most sane thing you’ve said in months.” 

Oh. Well. Good, then. 

“Now tell me what you like about me.” 

Charles pulls a weird face at him. “What? Mate.” 

Pierre huffs loudly. “Indulge me, Charles.” 

Charles sighs, but leans back in his chair and looks up at the sky. He can’t really say he’s ever thought much about what he likes about Pierre. He’s just always there. A good buddy. Always keen for a drink, or a chat, and he indulges Charles more than most. 

“Um, you’re a good listener?” 

Pierre actually laughs out loud. “You’re an idiot,” he says, but it’s still fond. “I’d be offended, if you were talking about anyone but Max.” 

Charles winces. Right, okay. He did maybe say a few more things about Max than he did about Pierre. He tries to think a bit harder, because he does love Pierre, too. 

“You call out my shit,” Charles adds. “But you love me anyway.” 

Pierre nods. “Yeah, I do. And would you say being in my arms feels nice? Doesn’t even have to be best place in the world. Just, is it nice?” 

“Why the fuck would I be in your arms?” 

Pierre stares at him. 

Charles stares back. 

“Charles.” 

“Pear?” 

“I think the better question is, why are you in Max’s arms?” 

Charles stares at him. 

Pierre stares back. 

“Well, because I—because he . . .” He trails off, brows scrunching together. 

A terrible, knowing feeling starts to rise in his stomach. He feels a little queasy as a thought starts to half form. 

“Pierre,” he whispers, horrified. 

Pierre gives a sympathetic wince. “Yeah.” 

“No.” 

“Yes, Charles.” 

“But—but—I would know. I’ve been thinking about it!” 

“You’ve been trying to see when things changed. I don’t think they have.” 

Charles pushes back from the table, trying to suck in a breath. 

He isn’t in love with Max. He isn’t. He would know. There would have been some revelation, some point where he’d looked at Max and felt it. 

“I think you’ve been in love with Max since the day you met him,” Pierre says gently. 

Charles’ breath wobbles. His body shakes. 

“B-but it doesn’t feel like every other time I’ve been in love,” Charles says, swaying in his spot. 

Pierre shrugs. “Maybe you weren’t in love with them. Maybe the only person you’ve ever been in love with is Max.” 

Oh. 

Oh, no. 

Now that it’s been brought to his attention, Charles sees it. 

God, he fucking sees it. 

The fact he hasn’t a girlfriend in more than a year, because he got annoyed that the last one was taking away from his Max time. That he’s compared every girl since to Max, letting her compete not with other women, but with Max. If she was going to be in his life, she had to be better than him, to justify why he might possibly reduce spending time with Max. 

The fact he was jealous Max was hooking up with other men. 

The fact that he got fucking hard while Max was having sex!

Literally every single person in his life asks what’s up with him and Max. Oh, I haven’t seen Max lately, is everything okay? Have they really be so codependent that even random mechanics from Lewis’ side of the garage are concerned? 

Nino’s toys are mixed with Leo’s in his apartment. He’s got some special mayonnaise that he imported from the Netherlands in his fridge because apparently Max can taste the difference. There are clothes in his closet that he has no idea which of them owns. 

He’s pretty sure Max was right. They already were acting like boyfriends. They’ve been dating for, like, three years, and Charles had no idea. He just put Max through complete torture with his obliviousness. 

Charles misses him. Terribly. His entire body aches with the need to be close to Max. 

This is all his fault, Charles knows it is. He wants to fix it, but he doesn’t know how. He doesn’t know if he even deserves to have Max forgive him for the terrible things he said. 

God, he was awful. Only ever thinking about himself, what he wanted. Never about what Max needed. 

Charles knows now that he doesn’t want Max to move on, that he wants to be in a relationship with him, but he didn’t know that before. He just let Max suffer and suffer, demanding that he move things along, as if Max had any control over that. Just to make Charles more comfortable. 

And telling him he wishes he never said anything? 

He understands Max entirely, now. 

His feelings for him are so big, so strong, he just wants to shout it from the rooftops. He wishes everyone in the world knew about it, because it’s just such a perfect feeling and people should know. People should know that Max is loved wholly, completely, entirely. 

Max should know he’s loved like that. 

And he said—God. He told Charles that he just wants to be loved back. He thinks he’s not loved back. Probably thinks that Charles is like everyone else; can’t take the love that Max has to give, only ever takes and gives nothing back. 

That thought makes Charles so upset that he cries in his bed for almost an hour, Leo nudged up against him like he’s trying to fix Charles’ broken heart. 

He has to tell him. 

He really, really has to tell him. Even if Max has . . . moved on. Or is still angry at him. 

Charles just has to be brave, like Max was. 

Charles twists Max’s key around in his fingers, biting his lip. He wants to just go in, like he used to, but he doesn’t know if he has the right anymore. 

He understands what Max meant, now. About how they don’t act like best friends, that he needed to put some distance between them. Charles doesn’t have a key to anyone else’s house, not even his mother’s.

Standing in front of Max’s door, unsure about whether he’s even allowed to use the key, makes Charles realise he doesn’t even want the stupid thing. He wants them to live together, wants to crawl inside Max and make a home there and then never leave. The key isn’t too much: it’s not enough. 

It’s not even a new feeling, Charles just never knew what it was before. God, he’s been so blind. 

Charles shoves the key in the front pocket of his jeans, then knocks quickly against the wood. He shuffles around while he waits, toe dragging against the floor. He can hear Nino yapping, and then Max’s feet against the ground. 

The door opens, and there Max is, in grey sweats and a white shirt with a stain on the collar. There are bags under his eyes, and his hair is greasy and flat. He looks terrible. 

Fuck, he’s so hot. Charles wants to—

Jesus Christ. He wants to kiss him. That’s what this fucking feeling is, the same one he always gets, some weird pininglonginghopeful monstrosity. 

He’s so fucking dumb. What the fuck. 

“Charlie,” Max says softly, hand tightening around the doorknob. 

“I checked Find My Friends,” he blurts out, fiddling with the bottom of his shirt. “To see if you were home. And, you are. So. I came.” 

Max nods a little, like that makes sense. The only other person Charles even has on Find My Friends is his maman. He tried it with Pierre once, and he told him to go fuck himself. 

“Yeah. Okay. Do you . . . want to come in?” 

So relieved he might cry, Charles pushes past Max to get inside. He has to get in quickly, before Max can change his mind and remember how angry he is with him. He scoops Nino up as he goes, as some emotional support, and pets from his head to his tail as he stands in the living room. 

Max doesn’t sit down, so Charles doesn’t either. 

“How are you?” Charles asks. Mercifully, he doesn’t stumble over his words. 

Max, however, doesn’t take kindly to his question. His face twists down into a scowl, which is an expression Charles never wants to see on his lovely face. 

“Feelings are still there, if that’s what you’re asking. Sorry it’s taking too long for you.” 

Charles hates himself for the relief he feels. He knows Max is being purposefully facetious, but it’s nice to get the confirmation that he still loves him. Charles hasn’t fucked this up irreversibly—not yet, at least. He just needs to get through his confession, and then everything will be fine. 

God, how did Max do this? When he knew he was going to get a no? He must have felt terrible. 

“No, I—it wasn’t. I just haven’t seen you in so long.” 

Max softens, just a little. “Sorry. I know. It’s just been . . . hard.” 

Charles nods eagerly, then wonders if it’s too eager. Okay, fuck, less nodding. More sympathetic. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, a little lamely. “I miss you.” 

Max chews on his lip until it goes white, then releases it and sighs. “Yeah. Me too, Charlie.” 

Charles rocks on his feet. This is going good. 

“Um, so,” he starts, petting Nino a little harder. “I’ve been doing some thinking. About us.” 

Max’s face screws up again, like he’s sucking a lemon. “I really don’t want to talk about—” 

“No, no, it’s not bad,” Charles says quickly, trying to backtrack a little to get that look off Max’s face. “Uh, I think. Anyway, I was thinking about what you said, about what normal is for us and—” 

“Charles, please. Can we not? I think I’ve reached the peak of my humiliation over this.” 

Fucking Hell, does Max always talk so much? 

“Please, just,” Charles sighs sharply. This is so hard. “I’m trying to say that I like it. Our normal.” 

“Yeah, you made that super clear last time,” Max cuts in, all hard and harsh again. “I get it. You like it when I pine after you. Fucking Hell, Charles, you’re a real piece of work.” 

Indignation flares up Charles’ spine. So maybe this isn’t coming out exactly right, but Max doesn’t have to be a dick about it. If he’d shut up for two seconds then Charles could just get it out. 

“No, that’s not what I’m saying,” Charles says, then has to take a deep breath. He doesn’t want to confess his feelings in the middle of an argument. “I’m trying to say that I’ve been reflecting on our relationship, and I understand now that it’s different.” 

Max blinks at him. “Oh.” 

Okay, that’s good. Charles is managing to steer this back a little bit. 

“Yeah. But I . . . I don’t want it to change. Because—” 

“Oh, for fuck’s—I can’t believe I actually thought you were going to say something meaningful.” Max presses his hands into his cheeks, which are flushing red. “I think you should leave.” 

Charles is in love with the most difficult person on the planet. What the fuck. 

“I’m not leaving,” Charles insists. “Christ, Max, shut up!” 

“No!” Max snaps back. “Do you even understand how much you’ve hurt me? I really thought the worst part of all this would be you turning me down, but somehow, that’s been the easiest part. You’ve been such as ass, and I don’t care how much I love you, but I’m not putting up with this anymore.” 

“I have not,” Charles hisses back, even though he has. “I was just surprised, okay! This was a lot to deal with.” 

“What was a lot to deal with? You didn’t have to do anything! All you had to do was turn me down, and that was it. Instead you’ve been so weird.” 

Charles’ mouth drops open. “I’ve been weird? You’ve been weird! You never want to see me anymore!” 

“Because when I do, you’re weird! I don’t need you to treat me with kid gloves.” 

Charles is completely gobsmacked. “What?” 

“You didn’t come with me after Montreal. You took your head off my lap. You attacked me for daring to say that bartender was hot!” 

“Because you love me,” Charles seethes, and barely stops himself from stomping his foot. Max shouldn’t be admiring random men, not when Charles is right there, ready and waiting for Max to admire him. 

“Exactly,” Max says back, just as furiously. “You find out I love you, and all of a sudden you’re acting like being near me is going to make you gay by association.” 

Charles flinches back from him. 

An old thought floats past his brain, don’t tarnish the brand, and Charles realises that he was thinking that. Wasn’t he worried about exactly that, when they arrived together in Montreal? Wasn’t he worried that suddenly everyone would know? Didn’t he spend hours paranoid about what new lestappen theory people would come up with, even though literally nothing had changed? 

Hasn’t he gone to extensive lengths, to make sure nobody knows about his experimentation? 

“Oh,” Max breathes. “Oh. That’s what you thought, isn’t it?” 

This conversation is spiralling out of control. Charles needs to right this ship immediately. 

“Max,” he chokes out. “Max, wait.”

“Right. Okay. So you don’t care if I’m gay, but you care if people think you’re gay.” 

Charles flinches back again. Even Max saying that makes an anxious knot pull at his stomach. He wishes it didn’t, logically he knows it doesn’t matter, but it’s like there’s some voice whispering in his ear, telling him that people can’t think that. People can’t know. That it would ruin him. That it’s safer to pretend. 

“Sounds like you have a fucking problem with people being gay, Charles!” 

No, no, no. This conversation isn’t going right. This isn’t what Charles is here for. 

He wanted to tell Max he loves him. He would have even settled for just fixing their friendship. He can’t make this worse, he needs to make it better. 

“I’ve just been so confused,” Charles starts, wanting to be honest. “I didn’t—no, I think I did think that, but I—” 

“You need to leave.” 

Charles swallows heavily. “Max, please. I haven’t even said what I came here to say—” 

“I think you’ve said enough, Charles.” 

He’s never heard Max sound so cold before, not towards him. Even at the height of their rivalry, Max sounded heated, or angry, but never cold. 

Charles knows when he’s lost a fight. He doesn’t even want to tell Max like this anyway. Fuck, he doesn’t even know if Max would believe him if he did say it. 

With stinging eyes, Charles puts Nino on the ground and drags his feet across the room and back towards the door. He shoots a pleading look over his shoulder, hoping he can give this one more try because he just feels awful, terrible, and he wants this behind them already

Max isn’t looking at him. He’s already disappeared, probably into his bedroom or the sim room. 

Charles’ shoulders drop, but he leaves before he can make this any worse. 

If things were cold before, now they’re outright hostile. 

The only times Charles sees Max are when he’s glaring at him from across the paddock, but at least that’s better than the nothing he was getting before. 

Charles has tried to text Max, but Max isn’t even reading them. He tries to call, but gets sent straight to voicemail. He hasn’t dared go back to Max’s apartment, though at this point he’s going crazy enough to consider it. 

He tries to corner Max in the paddock, but he’s ridiculously good at avoiding him. 

They’re scheduled together for media day in Spa, which makes Charles excited because Max can’t avoid him there, except when he gets there he sees Isack, not Max, and finds out that Max forked over the fine money so that he didn’t have to attend the press conference. 

Charles is barely coping. He can’t sleep, he can’t eat. All he can think about is Max, which is annoying everyone at Ferrari. 

Everyone knows that something is terribly wrong, but every time someone asks, Charles doesn’t know what to say. 

Yeah, I’m into men, now. Yeah, no, I’m, like, totally and completely cool with it. So weird that I couldn’t tell before. Also, I’m in love with Max. Don’t tell anyone though. 

Pierre isn’t any help: he just keeps telling Charles he has to try harder, as if Charles doesn’t already know that. 

But try harder how? He can’t make Max talk to him, or read his texts, or listen to his voicemails, or read the cards in the million fruit baskets and flower bouquets he sends. At this point he’d slide a letter under Max’s door if he thought he’d actually read it. 

Charles just has to force his hand. 

He has to make Max listen to him. 

He finds his chance three days later, during the race. 

Spa is always tense, so later Charles blames the intensity of the race for his behaviour. The temporary insanity he experiences is certainly due to pressure, just not the pressure of the race. 

Max is ahead of him in P5, making a valiant effort to make his way to the podium though if the rest of the season is any indication then he’s not going to get much farther than this. Charles has a better chance—certainly of overtaking Max’s Red Bull—but as Max’s rear wing gets closer and closer, the podium isn’t what he’s thinking about. 

All his life he’s felt like the Moon to Max’s Earth, circling him endlessly, staying in his orbit. Now an asteroid has hit him and knocked him from his rightful place and he’s spinning out and out and out, disappearing into space where he’ll doubtlessly break up into a million pieces. 

Max is perfect. He’s where all life lives. 

Charles will be damned if he lets them be nothing. He’d rather Max be his bitter rival before he lets him be nothing. 

At least then Max would look at him. At least then they would be talking. 

Yes yes yes, Charles’ body screams as he gets closer and closer. Mine mine mine. 

He can tell Max is pushing hard to get away from him, even without Bryan telling him Max is pulling faster sectors, but Charles doesn’t give up. It’s going to fuck his tyres, but he doesn’t care. 

Mine mine mine. More more more. 

He closes in on Max as they fly down the Kemmel Straight, and knows Les Combes is the best place to try for an overtake. He wants it, he wants it so badly, to be right beside Max finally, finally. Even though it would be easy to just do it on the straight, Charles doesn’t want something so easy. He wants it to be hard, he wants to earn it, he wants Max to think he did well. He wants Max to tell him he did well. 

They pull up into Les Combes side by side, tight through the chicane, but he knows Max isn’t fighting. Max is going easy on him. He wants to get away from him so badly that he’ll let Charles overtake? 

Absolutely not. Charles would rather die. 

He purposefully goes slow enough towards Bruxelles that Max can’t not try to overtake, even though it’s really not a great spot for it. It’s tight, so fucking tight, but Charles is so happy because Max can’t ignore him now. They’re wheel to wheel, the other side of Max’s car on the grass, and Charles grins into his helmet. 

Charles doesn’t let him go as they go towards Pouhon side by side, and it’s like Max has finally found his fight; he crowds into Charles as they get into the entry of the corner, trying to push him wide, but Charles doesn’t back down. 

He doesn’t back down, because he loves Max, and Max needs to look at him so Charles can feel alive again. 

Except—

Their wheels bang together, and Charles struggles to catch the snap, car swerving dramatically over the grass. 

Yes yes yes mineminemine. 

He’s a few seconds behind Max again, and Charles knows there aren’t enough laps left in the GP to catch him again. He knows it was dirty, that he should’ve just done the overtake five corners ago, definitely that he shouldn’t have tried to go where two cars don’t fit, but he doesn’t care. 

Then—

Max’s car slows down, down, down, and suddenly Charles is flying past him. He looks into his mirror, watches as Max pulls off to the side and then disappears as Charles takes the next corner. 

He jabs his radio button. 

“What?” 

“Looks like a puncture from the contact,” Bryan tells him. “You are P4.” 

Oh. A puncture. That’s—

Charles is frowning when he gets out of the car, still P4. That really didn’t go the way he wanted. His battle with Max was supposed to last much longer than that; ideally, it would make Max want to debrief with him, but he’d take some angry glares across the paddock. 

He looks around, trying to see if he can spot Max, and it takes him a moment but then he sees him, barrelling straight towards him. 

Max is coming over. He looks furious, but he’s coming over, they’re going to talk, finally, yesyesyesmoremoremore—

Max shoves his shoulder. Hard. Charles stumbles back, hand flying up to the now empty space on his shoulder. 

Max touched him. Even that furious touch makes Charles’ heart sing. They’re not nothing, they’re something. 

Charles has descended into complete humiliation and madness, and the worst part is, he doesn’t even care. 

“What the fuck was that?” Max hisses. “Are you trying to piss me off? Congratu-fucking-lations, it worked!” 

Charles takes a deep breath. He has one shot at this conversation, and he needs it to go well. 

“Can we talk?” he pleads, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Please?” 

Max falters, surprise crossing his face. It’s quickly replaced by anger. 

“Oh, I know you’re fucking joking right now,” he seethes. “You did not ruin my race because you’re an impatient bastard.” 

“I didn’t mean to ruin your race,” he says quickly. 

“Could’ve fooled me. You slowed down.” 

“So that we could battle!” Charles says, not even bothering to deny it. Max knows him and his racecraft too well. “I just miss you.” 

Max lets out a loud, pained gasp, hands fisting his hair either side of his face. He looks a little crazy, with a weird, dazed look in his eye. Charles falters, wavering slightly, fighting the urge to take a step back. He knows that look, remembers it from their childhood, and knows that what’s about to follow will break his heart. 

“There is something seriously wrong with you,” Max snarls, hands dropping but his sides. “But, hey, you’re one step closer to getting your wish. I don’t know how I ever fell in love with you.” 

Then he turns on his heel and storms off. 

Pierre flies home with him, bless him. 

Charles tearfully gets completed smashed, even though the flight is less than two hours. Pierre scoops him into the taxi and then into his apartment, and stays for the next three days. Charles wants to consume his bodyweight in ice cream, but can’t because it’s a double header, so instead eats two crackers a day, listens to sad music, and cries. 

A lot. 

He’s never been a huge crier, but for some reason he just can’t damn stop. 

They’re due to fly to Hungary tomorrow morning, the last GP before the summer break, and Charles honestly doesn’t know how he’s going to face the media. And Max. 

He especially doesn’t know how he’s going to face Max. 

Pierre disappears Wednesday evening for a few hours, which makes Charles feel even more alone than he did before. It’s ridiculous, because it’s not like they’ve been doing much besides Pierre giving him sympathetic pep talks, but without Pierre in the house Charles feels Max’s loss even more acutely. 

When Pierre gets back, he comes straight into the bedroom, where Charles hasn’t moved since he left. Charles peeks over the blanket edge, rubbing his wet cheek with the sheet, and sees Pierre sitting crossed legged on the mattress. 

“So,” Pierre says, hands in his lap. “You haven’t been entirely honest with me.” 

Charles blinks. 

“You told me that Max refused to hear you out,” Pierre says, with a weird tone to his voice. “You didn’t tell me that you told him you like having him as your lap dog and also that you’re homophobic?” 

Charles shoots up so suddenly the blood rushes from his head. “Did you see him?” 

Pierre’s brows raise up beneath his hair. “So you did say that?” 

Charles groans, face dropping into his hands. God, he seriously fucked up. 

“No, I didn’t, but he—that’s what he thought I was saying. He was going on about how our normal is that he pines after me and does whatever I went, and when I was trying to tell him I love him I said I liked our normal.” 

“Jesus, Charles,” Pierre mutters, shaking his head. 

“I just meant I like how close we are!” he says, then bites his lip. “Were.” 

Pierre sighs, then reaches up to press his fingers into his temple. He looks entirely exasperated, which makes Charles bite his lip even harder. 

“Did you really see him?” 

Pierre sighs, then opens his eyes. “Yeah. We’re friends.” 

“You are?” 

That’s news to Charles. He’s been trying to make them friends for ages, but they both seemed to decide that everything that happened between them as teammates was insurmountable. Now suddenly they’re friends? And Charles doesn’t even know? 

“Wait, is that why you guys were out at the club that time?” 

Pierre nods slowly. “Yeah. He reached out about six months ago, and we’ve been talking.” 

Charles’ lips part. What the Hell? Why didn’t they tell him? 

“He wanted some advice on what to do about his feelings for you,” Pierre admits after a moment. “Then I think he just liked being able to talk about it with someone. We talk about a lot of different things now, but when he needs to talk about you, he calls me.” 

Charles feels weird at the thought. He knows that Max needed to talk to someone, and who better than someone who knows them both well, but he doesn’t like the idea that they were talking about him behind his back. Even if the subject was actually Max’s feelings. 

“He’s not angry with you,” Pierre says gently. Charles scoffs out loud, because he’s pretty sure Max is furious with him. “No, he’s not. He’s just . . . he’s so upset, Charles. He thinks he’s ruined your friendship by telling you.” 

Charles falters, and twists the blanket around his fingers. 

It wasn’t Max that ruined anything. Charles did get weird about it all, second guessing his every action to try and minimise the impact. As if anyone could even tell what had happened, as if he was suddenly more likely to be seen as gay. 

“Does he really think I’m homophobic?” Charles asks, slumping down a little. 

He’s a little hurt at the thought; that all their years of friendship haven’t given him at least a little credit. 

“I don’t think so,” Pierre says softly, and reaches over to still Charles’ fidgeting hand. “I think he just doesn’t know what to think. Or do. He’s not really thinking clearly. He’s . . . he’s heartbroken, Charles. I don’t think he realised you turning him down was going to hurt this much.” 

Charles falls forward, crawling a little so he can shove his head in Pierre’s lap. He misses Max playing with his hair, but in the meantime, he’ll force Pierre to do it for him. Pierre’s hand settles at his temple, and it makes Charles sniffle. 

His hands aren’t as big as Max’s. 

He misses him so goddamn much. 

“Why won’t he just listen to me?” 

Pierre pets his head, and Charles sniffles again. He’s such a fucking mess. 

“He doesn’t want to be hurt anymore,” Pierre says. “But you’re not going to hurt him, are you?” 

Charles shakes his head. He doesn’t know if he’s going to get to have Max at the end of all this, especially not as a partner, but he definitely can’t bear to hurt him anymore. 

“Just give him a little bit of time,” Pierre advises, fingers gentle on his scalp. “When the dust settles, he’ll listen.” 

“But what if he moves on?” Charles asks, fingers tightening in the blanket. 

“He won’t,” Pierre says, voice so sure Charles wonders how he could possibly know that. “You’re the love of his life. He won’t.” 

Charles wants to believe that, but . . . Max is the love of his life, too. Risking Max moving on makes him feel like his heart is being stabbed, but maybe he owes Max the time. If he can’t say anything right, if Max isn’t even willing to listen because he’s so blinded by his hurt, then maybe it just isn’t the right time for them. 

As much as that thought hurts, Charles just needs to wait. 

He can be patient. 

“Can I ask you something, Chick?” Pierre asks, pushing his hair back even more. 

Charles nods, hoping he’s not getting tears all over Pierre. 

“Why did you freak out? Did you really think people would be able to tell?” 

Charles sighs, burying his face in Pierre’s leg. He’s been trying to think it through, but he just doesn’t know. He doesn’t why he’s fine with Max being out, but the thought of doing it himself makes him feel sick to his stomach. 

He just . . . every time he thinks about it, a balloon of dread swells in his stomach so fast he feels like he wants to pass out. It gives him the oddest sensation that he can’t have both—racing and his sexuality. 

“I don’t know,” he mumbles. “I just. What if it affects my career?” 

“It didn’t affect Max’s.” 

Charles scoffs. He knows it did—knows that sponsors did pull away from Red Bull for a while, and that he’s been privately but strictly warned by the F.I.A not to talk about it on or around the Middle Eastern races. 

“I mean he still has a career,” Pierre amends. “You would, too.” 

“Max is a Champion,” Charles mutters, exhausted and anxious even just having this conversation. 

Pierre hums, then brushes his hair again. “I’m not saying it wouldn’t be difficult. I just don’t think it would be the disaster you seem to think it is.” 

Charles doesn’t know if that’s true, and that’s the point. What if something happens, and suddenly he loses support? Sponsorship? His seat? He wouldn’t be able to survive it. 

He can’t have controversy. 

“Max made it easier for you, I think,” Pierre continues softly. “Now that he’s out . . . I don’t think it would matter as much anymore.” 

Charles doesn’t know if that’s true, either. 

“My dad used to tell me that I can’t do anything to tarnish the brand,” Charles confesses on a whisper. “I’ve always followed that advice. What if . . . what if . . .” 

He swallows heavily. 

Pierre hums, and then settles his hand on Charles’ shoulder. 

“If Max told you that some brand wanted him to get a girlfriend so that they would sponsor him, what would you say?” 

“He’s mine,” Charles snaps, hand fisting in the blanket. 

Pierre sighs. “Okay, yes, fine, but that aside. Would you think that’s fair? For them to demand he hide his sexuality? Or would you tell him that he doesn’t need their money anyway?” 

Charles slumps down. It’s different with Max. He’s . . . he’s Max. A four time Champion, the most admired and wanted driver on the grid. He can afford to be picky. 

Charles can’t. 

He doesn’t say anything, because he doesn’t want Pierre to twist his words either way. 

“Max isn’t going to force you to come out,” Pierre says finally, when it becomes clear that Charles isn’t going to talk. “But I don’t think he’ll be happy if you’re constantly worried about what everyone thinks of your relationship. If you won’t do it for yourself, try to work on it for him.” 

If it’s for Max . . . 

Charles bites his lip. He can do anything for Max. 

First, he needs to actually fix their relationship, and for that Charles just needs to be patient. 

Charles can’t be patient. 

Media day makes him antsy, all the brief flashes of Max making his skin crawl with the need to be next to him. 

Mineminemine his body sings, making him drift towards Red Bull’s hospitality more than once. 

Talking to Pierre has helped a bit. Given him some direction, allowed him to untangle the knotted strings in his mind of where he went wrong with Max. He realises now that there are few things he needs to fix and communicate to Max: 

1) He really doesn’t care that Max is gay. Actually, it’s perfect, because now they can be together. 

2) He did get weird about maybe also being seen as gay. But now he knows that’s what he was feeling, and he’s even pretty sure he understands why. If it’s for Max, he’s going to work on it—he wants to work on it. He’s definitely not going to let it come between he and Max again. 

3) He also likes men. Charles doesn’t really know what his label is, honestly doesn’t yet really even understand the difference between bi and pan and if either applies to him, but he’s not really sure it matters. Not right now. What Max needs to know is that Charles is attracted to men. 

4) That he’s in love with Max. It’s last in his mind because even though it’s the one he longs for the most, fixing everything else seems important. He needs to rebuild Max’s trust before they can get to that. 

He’s yet to figure out how to go about showing all these things to Max. He knows what Pierre said, about giving Max space, but he’s worried that if he lets this fester then the wound will become so infected it will spread to the entire body of their relationship. 

Clearly, he can’t start by saying that he wants things to back to how they were, or that he liked it. Max doesn’t understand what that means from Charles’ side, so he thinks he actually has to start with proving to Max how much he appreciates him. Whatever he does, it needs to be big. He’s always been prone to shouting his love loudly, and now that his love is so big, it needs an appropriately large gesture. 

And he really needs to fix the homophobic thing. Like, yesterday. 

Charles gives Max space all through media day, and even through Friday. 

He knows he’s shooting Max pathetically longing looks, because he sees pictures of himself come up on his feed, but he keeps to himself. 

Saturday spells his doom. 

By some miracle, Charles qualifies P2, beside George on pole. 

Max qualifies P3. 

He’s buzzing with the need to get close to Max as they step out of their cars. Max gives him a quick glance as they climb out, but doesn’t stop to talk to him. Instead, he goes over to George, which is so shocking Charles trips over his own feet. 

Max would rather talk to George than him. Their relationship is in even more trouble than Charles thought. Charles glares at them both, unable to help himself, guilt and grief and frustration all boiling up in his tummy. George doesn’t even seem happy to have Max talking to him, which is so annoying. How doesn’t he know by now that he’s lucky to be at the receiving end of Max’s explanations? 

Charles sucks through the straw of his bottle a little too harshly, glaring over at George while he does. George catches sight of him, and gives him such a bewildered look that Charles glares harder. 

Max gets called for his interview first, which distracts Charles from his glaring while he stares at Max’s ass as he walks away. 

Charles wants to bite him. 

And his waist! Has it always looked like that? He’s pretty sure he would’ve noticed by now if it did. It’s obscene, such a defined slope from his broad, delicious, hot shoulders—

“There are cameras on us, you know,” George says from beside him. 

“Shut up, George,” Charles mutters, sucking from his straw again. 

“Just saying, you probably shouldn’t be looking at his ass like that unless you want a thousand clips of it on Twitter.” 

Charles chokes on his water, releasing the straw from his lips to glare at George. “I wasn’t—I’m not—” 

George shrugs. “It’s a good ass. Don’t blame you.” 

Charles hopes George burns in Hell. “Don’t look at it!” 

George laughs in his face, then turns away from him. Charles is wondering how to make a person combust with just his mind when Max comes over. He looks reluctant as he joins them, like he’s walking to the gates of Hell—where only George should be going, thank you very much—but then he pushes his shoulders back and hands the mic over to Charles. 

Charles tries to make their fingers brush, but Max whips his hand away as soon as possible. 

Fine. Whatever. In a moment George is going to go for his interview and then Max is going to be trapped alone with him. 

The interview is the same as always, so he can go on autopilot while it happens and use most of his brain power to look at Max. George has an infuriatingly cocky grin on his face as he talks to Max, much more involved than he was earlier. Charles tries not to glare, he does, but he knows it doesn’t work because George’s grin only deepens when he catches Charles looking. 

Then, finally, when the interview is done, Charles is left alone with Max. 

“Hi, Max,” he murmurs, chewing on his cheek as he blindly passes the microphone off to George. 

Max smacks his lips together, then says, “Hey.” 

No Charlie, but that’s fine. At least he got a hey. 

“P3 is impressive,” Charles says, because if there’s one thing Max can’t resist talking about, it’s racing. 

He doesn’t say that P3 is good, because they both know only pole is good, but it is impressive. Red Bull are really struggling this year, so it’s good to see Max in the top five, let alone top three. 

“It all came together when it needed to,” Max answers a little blandly, like he’s being interviewed. 

At least there’s no shouting. Yet. 

“Do you want to watch last year’s race together tonight?” Charles asks hopefully, even though he hadn’t actually been thinking about it. It just . . . came out. Max’s shoulders slump a little, lips pulling down, and Charles immediately backtracks. “No, no, I’m sorry. I’m trying to be patient, I’m sorry. Forget I asked.” 

Max sighs again, then rubs his flushed cheek with his palm. Charles tracks the movement, looking at the way the pressure leaves a little more red behind. 

“Not tonight.” 

Charles swallows the lump in his throat, trying to find a little bit of hope in that. Not tonight means maybe another time, right? 

God, are they going to go the entire summer break without talking? Charles was going to go with Max to see his family in the Netherlands, and then they were going to go yachting down the Riviera for a few days together, and then they were probably going to pretend to spend some time apart but then Charles would call Max and beg him to spend time with him and Max would come over and not leave for a week. 

 Now Charles is staring down the barrel of spending no time together at all? Is he even going to see Max?

“Okay,” Charles chokes out. His heart hurts terribly. 

Max falls into silence, shifting on his feet, and Charles knows Max inside and out. He knows the shape of his heart and the sound of his breath and the way each tendon lines down his arms. He knows Max in anger and silence and grief, and he knows that there’s something else Max wants to say just as much as he knows he’s not going to like whatever it is. 

“I think . . . I think we should take a break for a while,” Max says. He sounds so broken. “I can’t think when you’re near me, or trying to talk to me. Charles, please. If you’ve ever really loved me, I need you to do this for me.” 

The grid and the fans and the interviewer all disappear around him as Charles’ entire world narrows down to the plea. 

A break. Max wants even more space. 

“Aren’t we already on a break?” Charles asks desperately. He doesn’t know how much more space he can give. 

Max shakes his head. “I need you to stop texting me, and trying to talk to me, and crashing into me, and—and looking at me all the time. I can’t think straight.” 

Charles can’t think straight either. 

“Please, just—I’ll let you know when I’m ready.” 

“When will that be?” Charles asks—demands. He’s already at his wits end. 

“I don’t know,” Max murmurs. “A couple months. I don’t know.” 

A couple months. 

He wants to go a couple months without anything at all. Charles doesn’t think he’s physically capable of that, not without at least getting everything off his chest first. 

He takes a deep breath, trying not to cry. 

“There are things I want to tell you,” Charles says. He reaches out instinctively, trying to touch Max’s arm, but Max takes a step back. Charles almost bursts into tears right then and there, breath wavering dangerously. “If you let me tell you, and you still want space after, then—then I’ll leave you alone. I promise.” 

Max swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, and looks down at the ground. “I . . .” 

Beside them, George finally finishes his interview, coming their way with no care at all. Charles can feel his chance slipping away. 

“Max, please.” 

George comes to a stop beside them, looking between them curiously, but Charles only has eyes for Max. 

Max scrubs his cheek again, and tries to smile. He drops it just as quickly, cheeks gaunt and eyes tired. 

“Sorry, Charlie.” 

Then he turns and walks away. 

Sorry, Charlie, Charles repeats over and over as they’re all taken to the press conference. 

Sorry, Charlie, he said. What does that mean? He’s not going to give him a chance? After everything they’ve been through, he won’t even hear him out? Give him the benefit of the doubt? 

He knows, he knows, that Max is hurting, but what can he possibly think that Charles has to say? 

Charles truly can’t think of anything. He knows that Max has missed a lot over the last few months, that he has no idea how transformative this has all been for him, but surely he can’t believe that Charles is really going to make this any worse? He’s already fucked it up as bad as it can go. 

For the first time ever, Charles is glad there’s a third person sitting in between them on the lounge. He kind of really needs it, needs the buffer between them. 

Listening to George talk about qualifying makes Charles feel borderline hysterical. 

Why is he listening to half-hearted discussion about the tyres? About whether he’ll let Charles’ Ferrari be first into turn one? It’s laughable, and so stupid. 

Don’t they know that Max and Charles’ friendship is disintegrating before their eyes? Don’t they know that Charles’ life-force is being slowly sucked out of him with every second that passes that Max won’t talk to him? 

It takes Charles a moment to realise his name has been called for questions and he has to pinch his thigh to force himself to focus. Even then he struggles. 

“Uh, sorry, can you repeat the question?” 

“It’s about how you’re feeling about the first half of the season,” Tom, the moderator, says. “And whether Ferrari’s performance is aligning with expectations.” 

Charles blinks. That seems like a dangerous question to try and answer while his brain is this muddled. 

“There are still a lot of races ahead,” he says, and then nothing else. He knows he should talk more, because the last thing he needs is speculation about whether he’s going to leave Ferrari, but all he can think about is Max. 

Max Max Max, mine mine mine, don’t let him go, don’tlethimgo. 

“And what are your thoughts on these regulations, now that we’ve had half a season of racing?” 

Charles pinches his thigh a little harder. Racing, think about racing, not about Max. 

Except racing and Max are so entwined that it’s virtually impossible to do so. 

“I think,” he starts, the stops. He wets his lips, trying to get rid of his dry mouth. I think I miss Max so much I feel sick with it. “I think there are certainly still some problems, that hopefully can be discussed more over the summer break, but there still some good aspects. It will be interesting to see what the plan is for next season.” 

Tom gives him a weird look, but Charles can’t really do anything else about it. 

“Okay, and for Max,” Tom says. 

Charles should take a breath, but now he has to listen to Max talk. The rasp of his voice washes over him as Max answers essentially the same questions. He’s much more descriptive, acting like there’s nothing wrong, and that makes Charles hurt more than anything else. 

How is he doing that? How can he? How dare he? 

Ask for a break between them, and then pretend so easily? 

Charles pinches himself harder and harder as the press conference continues. He thinks he might be on the verge of a panic attack, but he can’t do it here. 

He’s desperate for a solution to this mess, and, at this point, he’s considering just grabbing Max as soon as this is done and pressing him up against a wall to kiss him. Wouldn’t that just solve all their problems? He wouldn’t be able to fuck it up with words anymore because there would be no words. 

He would be able to just show Max how much he loves him; would feel a shaky breath against his lips as Max realised what was happening, could feel his smile curve against his mouth, might finally be able to let those words he’s so desperate to say past his lips. 

I love you so much, he thinks, looking at Max from the tips of his toes to the top of his head.

“Charles?” 

Fuck. The pinching isn’t working anymore. 

He switches to folding his hands in his lap, digging his nails into his opposite wrist. The pain bites enough to bring him back down. 

“Hm?” 

Everyone laughs, a weird little chittering. Charles tries to put on a smile, pretending that it’s cute that he’s so distracted when he’s actually on the verge of clawing his own skin off. 

“You’ve been distracted recently,” the reporter repeats, which. No wonder everyone laughed. “Are you feeling the pressure of the season, now that it’s clear Mercedes are the front runner? Have you been considering switching teams?” 

He frowns, a spark of annoyance at the question breaking through his spiralling. “There is certainly space for improvement, and I want to be fighting at the front, but I trust that the team is working hard to make that happen.” 

“And your distraction?” the reporter presses. “Everyone knows that you and Verstappen always have a clean race, so your incident in Spa last week was very unusual.” 

Charles opens his mouth, ready to tell her it’s none of her business or saying a typical sometimes racing is like this, but then he pauses. 

He has been distracted, and sad, and tense, and his incident with Max was unusual. He obviously doesn’t want to air out their dirty laundry to the world, but . . . 

If he’s going to lose Max either way, then he’s going to make damn sure Max knows the truth. He’s certainly not going to let Max drive this distance between them, not when he doesn’t know everything. 

Charles can’t regret letting this opportunity go past him for the rest of his life. He’s certainly not going to let himself wonder what could have been if he’d just managed to tell Max the truth. 

If Max hates him for pushing this, then so be it. At least Charles will know he did everything he could. 

“It’s not racing that is distracting me,” he starts, licking his lips. His mouth feels suddenly dry. “I’ve been having something, uh, personal going on.” 

From the corner of his eye, he sees Max’s fists clench. He has to get this out before Max can stop him somehow. 

“The truth is . . .” Age old anxiety claws up his throat, heart rate spiking. The ghosts of his childhood feel like they’re crushing him, don’ttarnishthebrand, but he can’t live with the weight of this anymore. “The truth is, I’m in love.” 

There. He said it. Finally. 

It feels like a weight off his entire body, the pressure that’s been crushing him finally lifted. He takes a deep breath, the first time he’s getting any real oxygen since Max sat across from him and said I love you, and knows that he’s finally doing the right thing. 

He’s not afraid of people thinking he’s gay. He’s not afraid of them speculating about he and Max. 

He is terrified of losing Max forever. 

“I’m in love,” he repeats, just because he can. “But I really hurt him.” 

Around him, the room goes still. He can almost see it, the way every person in the room freezes was they register the pronoun he used. 

Charles’ palm is sweaty against the base of the microphone. He doesn’t dare look at Max for fear of his bravery disappearing. 

“I don’t know how to fix it,” he admits, unable to stop himself. “And I’m really worried that I ruined everything completely.” 

He clears his throat, dislodging the lump that’s suddenly built there, and summons every piece of leftover strength he has to push out his voice evenly. 

“So, yes, I am distracted. But it’s not racing. It’s personal.” 

He wants to drop his microphone and flee from the stage, because everyone is looking at him, but he can’t. Not yet. 

He chances a glance at Max, sweaty fingers sliding against the microphone. Max is staring at the ground, face pale; he doesn’t look at Charles. There’s a terrifying moment where Charles wonders what Max thinks; whether he realises he means he loves him. 

He can’t say anymore right now though, not in front of the world, so he just has to leave it. He fidgets in his seat, and now he’s looked at Max he can’t not look at Max, so he keeps what are probably very pleading eyes on him until the presser ends. Max doesn’t look up once, a frown getting deeper and deeper as time passes. 

George, bless him, has to field the rest of the questions. Both he and Max are completely useless, so he answers the ones that aren’t even directed at him. Thankfully, it’s not many; with another five questions, they’re free to leave. 

George shoots up, mutters, “Unbelievable,” and then walks away. 

Charles stays seated as everyone around them gets up, hoping Max is going to look at him. Max shuffles a little, then rubs his hand over his face, and finally stands. He swallows heavily, like he’s gathering his courage, and then finally, finally, looks at him. 

“You said you wanted to watch last year’s race tonight?” 

Charles springs to his feet, spinning around the ring on his middle finger. He feels breathless, but finally for a good reason. 

“Yes,” he says eagerly. “Yes, please.” 

Max nods slowly, then bites his lip. When he releases it, there’s a weird look on his face, like he’s hopeful but also like he’s in pain. 

Please, Max, Charles begs with his mind, forcing his hands to stay by his sides. Please please please mine mine mine. 

“Okay,” he whispers eventually. “Text me your room number.” 

Charles is pacing around the room in a tight circle when there’s finally a knock on the door. 

He’s so eager to get over to the door that he trips over the corner of the lounge and goes sprawling. He curses up a storm as he picks himself up, shaking his stinging hands as he pulls the door open. 

“Hi,” he breathes. Max looks good. So fucking good. Since when does Charles like plain white shirts and skinny jeans anyway? 

“Did you fall over?” Max asks curiously, head titled to the side like a dog. 

He’s so cute. Charles has missed him so much. 

“Um, a little. Come in.” 

Max enters cautiously, looking around as if someone is going to jump out and tell him this is all a prank, and he doesn’t relax even when he sits on the lounge. 

“Do you want something to drink?” Charles asks anxiously, twisting his fingers together. “Um, I think there’s Red Bull in the fridge.” 

“It’s fine.” 

Great, now Charles has nothing to do with his hands. He chews on his lip, then tentatively goes to sit on the lounge beside Max. He wants desperately to speak, but he’s so scared of fucking it up again. If this goes as badly as it has the last few times . . . 

“So,” Max says first, rubbing his hand against the back of his neck. “You’re . . .” 

Charles nods eagerly, relieved that Max has taken the initiative. His feet tap quickly on the ground as he says, “In love with you, yes.” 

Max looks stunned, lips parting. A flush immediately crawls up his neck, which is so goddamn pretty. Charles hopes he’s going to be able to lick it tonight. 

“I was going to say you’re into men.” 

Charles blinks up at him, a little sheepish. Right. That would precede being in love with him, obviously. “Oh. Um. Yes.” 

“Definitely?” 

Charles thinks of all the sex he had, the way it never felt any different, how he came on that one guy’s face and got hard again in less than ten minutes, and says, “Yes, definitely.” 

Max stares at him, brows furrowed together. He can see Max trying to work it out, trying to see what’s changed, even though it doesn’t look like he’s going to ask. 

“I like everyone, I think,” Charles confesses softly. He wants to be as honest about this as he can—partly to fix the relationship, but partly because he just wants to tell his best friend about what’s been going on with him. “And I . . . you’re going to think I’m stupid, but I guess I just didn’t realise that not everyone appreciated the same sex. I didn’t know that what I was thinking and feeling means I’m not straight.” 

“That’s not stupid, Charlie, that’s a known phenomenon.” 

Charles should’ve talked to Max about this way sooner. The relief at knowing he’s not the only person like this makes him feel dizzy. “It is?” 

“Yeah, it’s called comphet. Compulsory heterosexuality. It makes you mistake social conditioning for sexual attraction. I think it’s mostly for lesbians, but it basically makes you assume you’re straight because that’s what you get told you are. The pressure of being straight makes you mistake your feelings for people of the same sex, or makes you think that everyone experiences their sexuality like you do.” 

That’s . . . exactly what he experienced. It even has a name—he’s not stupid, he’s not oblivious, he was trapped in a box that he didn’t know existed. 

“Oh,” he breathes out. 

“It can be hard to figure it out,” Max says softly. “I’ve read it can create a lot of anxiety, where things don’t feel right but you don’t know what.” 

Ridiculously, Charles’ eyes burn. He’s been so anxious, for so long, and it’s not gone but god has it lifted. The little knot that’s lived inside him for as long as he can remember is slowly unravelling, and it feels strange but good. He didn’t even know what it was until now, but Max doesn’t make him feel silly for not knowing. 

“It wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t told me about your feelings,” Charles murmurs, then sniffles a little. “And Pierre. He kind of had to hold my hand through it, I was very confused.” 

Max shifts a little closer to him on the lounge, then reaches out for Charles’ hand. Charles grabs it quickly, lacing their fingers together, and fuck. Fuck, Charles doesn’t know how he didn’t realise before how entirely encompassing his feelings are. 

Max’s hand in his just feels so right. 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help,” Max says, thumb brushing over the back of his hand. “I wish I had been.” 

Charles sniffles again. He also wishes Max had been, but he knows how torturous it would have been for him; to help Charles go through a sexuality crisis and not even know if he gets to have him on the other end of it. 

“I’m sorry I made you think I only liked our friendship because it stroked my ego.” 

Max shakes his head quickly. “No, Charlie, no, I—I should have known better. That you wouldn’t do that. It wasn’t fair that I let my heartbreak cloud my judgement so much.” 

“You were going through a lot,” Charles says, even though he had been hurt about that. He knows Max didn’t do it maliciously, even if it did hurt his feelings. 

“Still, I’m sorry,” Max insists, squeezing his hand tighter. “If I hadn’t been such a dick and actually let you finish a sentence . . .” 

Charles laughs, then runs his free hand under his snotty nose. “Yeah, you were kind of annoying.” 

Max laughs quietly too, and squeezes his hand tighter. He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth; Charles’ eyes drop down, to where his teeth are creating blooms of white in the pink of it, and tries to keep his groan inside. 

Max swallows, and Charles’ eyes track down to the column of his throat, thick with muscle and decorated with taut lines. He can see Max’s breath hitch, and when he looks back up, his cheeks have flushed bright pink. 

“You really . . .” Max whispers, fingers twitching in Charles’ grasp. He doesn’t seem able to finish his sentence, but Charles knows what he was going to say anyway. 

“I really,” he confirms, then breathes in so his chest fills with oxygen and bravery. “Can I kiss you? Do you still . . .” 

“Fuck, Charlie,” Max breathes, a dazed look on his face, “of course I do. I’ve spent years trying to get over you, and telling you my feelings was my last attempt to finally do it. And even after all that, even after I got so hurt, I still couldn’t move on. You’re the love of my life.” 

Charles sways on the spot, then leans forward to press his forehead against Max’s shoulder. He feels so overwhelmed at the confession, that Max still loves him but that he loves him so much. There’s nobody else in the world who has ever or will ever love him like Max. 

“Mon cœur,” Charles whispers. “Tu es aussi l'amour de ma vie.”

Beneath him, Max breathes heavily. He hooks his hand around the back of Charles’ neck, fingers spreading on his nape, and then gently guides his head back up. 

“I’ve wanted this for so long that it doesn’t feel real,” Max murmurs, breath fanning over Charles’ mouth. 

He shivers in place, hand squeezing Max’s tighter, the other landing on Max’s thigh to steady himself. He feels so much longing and want that his stomach is like a rock. 

“You won’t hold it against me if it doesn’t live up to expectations?” 

“I thought you were straight, you think I let myself imagine what it would be like to kiss you?” 

Charles smiles, even though underneath Max’s words is something painfully honest: that it hurt too much to let himself want something as simple as a kiss. 

“Shut up and do it, then.” 

Max leans forward the final distance, finally, finally, pressing their lips together. Neither of them move for a moment, just breathing, and then Max brushes his lips just slightly. A terribly wounded noise pushes out of Max’s throat, but Charles feels struck dumb. 

His lips are tingling, and the area around his mouth is slightly prickled with Max’s beard. Warmth curls through his entire body. 

He pulls back, just slightly, nose still slotted against Max’s. 

“Oh,” he breathes, fingers tightening in Max’s thigh. 

“Yeah,” Max agrees, and then uses his hand on the back of Charles’ head to pull him in again. 

This time, Charles moves against him a little more, using his tongue to brush against Max’s plush bottom lip. Max groans in his chest, then opens his mouth slightly wider, immediately making the kisser hotter and wetter. 

Charles never spent a lot of time kissing the guys he hooked up with after that first time; it was more of a means to an end rather than a real exploration. 

It’s so different to kissing a woman. They’re not just undefinable lips; he can feel Max’s beard, can feel the heat radiating off a body broader than his own, is touching the huge, defined muscle of his thigh. 

The nervousness in his tummy washes away, replaced by a nice, simmering heat. 

He pulls his hand out of Max’s so that he can put his palm on Max’s chest, curling around the muscle and the ridges of his ribs. The feeling makes him moan quietly, and then suddenly Max’s tongue is in his mouth. His moan drags out into something louder, a little more obscene; definitely a noise he’s never heard from himself before. 

Max licks up his tongue, leaving a minty taste behind. Charles wonders whether he brushed his teeth before this. Did he know this was going to happen? Did he dare to hope, after Charles made his confession in the presser? 

Charles whines at the thought, and then presses in closer. Max releases his hand, which Charles temporarily mourns the loss of, and then suddenly Max’s huge hand is on his waist and pulling him in. He whines again, and then clambers up, making sure to keep their mouths together as he climbs into Max’s lap. 

Like this, he has perfect access to Max’s body, and runs both his palms up his chest, squeezing his traps for a moment before gliding back down to rest over his abs. He sucks Max’s tongue, and in return Max’s hand fists in his hair, his other arm banding tight around Charles’ waist and yanking him in. 

Fucking fuck. Charles doesn’t think he’s ever been kissed like this before—no, he knows he’s never been kissed like this before. Like he’s being devoured, consumed, like there’s nothing else in the entire world that matters. 

He spreads his legs a little further so he’s sitting properly in Max’s lap, and it makes their hardening cocks rub together through their jeans. He feels the distinct bulge rub against his own, and can’t help but rock into it, moaning deeply when it makes a zing crawl up his spine. 

“Wait, wait,” Max gasps, using his grip in Charles’ hair to pull him back slightly. “Fuck. Let’s—God.” 

“What?” Charles asks, a little dazed, trying to lean in again. He doesn’t want to wait. 

“Just. Fuck. This is—is it your first time? With a man?” 

Charles sits back a little further, blinking heavily, and Max’s face coming into focus. He’s delightfully disheveled, cheeks flushed and lips swollen. 

“No,” he admits, and feels a little guilty when Max’s face flashes with surprise. “I wanted to be sure, before I said anything to you about it. So I experimented a bit.” 

The surprise morphs into wonder as Max blinks up at him. 

“You’re really sure about this,” he says, with what sounds like a little bit of awe. Charles doesn’t know how much more he can say he’s really, really sure, but he supposes he can’t fault Max for wanting to triple check. 

Charles grabs his hand, and puts it right over his cock—not entirely hard yet, but close enough. Enough for Max to feel it, to know that it’s there. 

“Yes, I’m sure that you turn me on,” Charles says, trying to stay still so he doesn’t rut into Max’s hand like an animal. 

Max’s palm presses down, and the pressure makes Charles’ eyes flutter. Fuck, it feels good. 

“Fuck,” Max chokes out, and presses harder. 

Charles twitches a little, trying to get a bit closer. He’ll be fully hard in no time if Max keeps doing that. 

“This just still doesn’t feel real,” Max says breathlessly. His other hand slips under Charles’ shirt at the back, his broad, hot palm leaving a brand of heat on his spine. “You’re everything I ever wanted.” 

Charles reaches out to his face, cupping Max’s hand gently, thumb smoothing under his eye. Even though there are still the physical remnants of how sad Max has been—the bags, the flat hair—there’s such happiness in his eyes. 

“Pierre thinks I’ve been in love with you since we were five,” he murmurs, lifting his thumb up to the corner of Max’s eye. There are little lines etched into his skin, which Charles admires endlessly. That Max has smiled and laughed so much the lines are there makes him so happy. “I think so, too. I’m sorry it took me so long to catch up to you.” 

Max looks stunned, and when he inhales his breath wobbles. This close, Charles can see the way tears well up in his blue eyes. 

“No, I—” He inhales again, and then tips his head forward. It hits Charles’ sternum, so Charles cups the back of his neck and leans his own head down on top. “I’m just so happy. I don’t care how long it took.” 

“I’m here with you,” Charles whispers. “This is real. I’m so sure about you, Max.” 

The most insane thought he’s ever had pops into his head, and he almost pushes it away to revisit at another day, and then he thinks . . . Why does he have to wait? He doesn’t have to think about it, he already knows what he wants. 

“Marry me, Max.” 

Max laughs against his shirt. “What?” 

“I’m serious.” 

He tugs Max’s head back by the hair, so he can stare down at his pretty face. 

“No, you’re not,” Max says, but his voice wavers and Charles knows that Max wants it even if he thinks he can’t—shouldn’t—have it. 

“I am. We’ve been dating for years, isn’t that what you said? We already know how to be partners. The only thing we haven’t been doing is sex.” 

Max blinks up at him. Charles can see his mind whirring, trying to figure out why he should object. 

“What if the sex is terrible?” 

Charles shrugs. “Then we’ll learn to be better.” 

Max’s lips part, and then both of his hands dig into Charles’ waist so deeply it stings. Charles can’t bear to tell him to ease up. 

“You are serious,” Max whispers. 

“I am one hundred percent, would bet my Ferrari contract sure that I want you for the rest of my life. No one else. Marry me.” 

Max surges up, so eager that their mouths miss for a moment, and then Charles tilts his head down and Max tips his up and suddenly Charles is being kissed like he never has been before. Max is desperate with it, nails clawing at his sides, straining his neck like they can possibly get any closer; it only makes Charles dazed and heated, pressing his tongue into Max’s mouth like that way he can finally crawl inside him. 

He can’t help but rock forward a little, just to try and relieve some tension, and it makes Max moan into him. 

Max nips at his bottom lip and guides Charles’ hips into a proper roll. Charles is pretty sure they’re going to have no problems with sex if it all feels like this. 

“Jesus, Charlie,” Max groans into him, words mumbled. “Yes. Yes, obviously. Fuck, yes.” 

Charles laughs into Max’s mouth, joy and delight and relief making his entire body ache pleasantly. 

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” Charles tells him entirely seriously. He would’ve meant it even when he thought they were just friends, but now he means it down to his very bones. “And I would marry you tomorrow. Today. Right now.” 

Every part of his body is made for Max, longs for Max, sings for Max. 

“I love you,” Max rasps out, and then kisses him again. 

This time, Charles gets a proper roll of his hips going; now that Max is appropriately aware of how entirely dedicated Charles is to him, he can finally get dirty. 

“You wanna come?” Max breathes into his mouth. 

“Yeah,” Charles says, close to a whine, and then gets as close as he can so he can feel Max’s bulge again. Fuck, he feels big. Charles wants to see, but he can’t bear to move and find out. 

Instead, he rocks in harder and faster, panting when it sends his pleasure into a burning furnace in his tummy. 

He’d let one of the twinks he fucked hump his thigh, and he’d been so curious about the way the guy had come with a loud cry. He’s never done it from this side before, but Max’s thighs have been crafted by God Himself, so Charles thinks now is as good a time as any to try. 

“Fuck,” Max moans, then grips Charles’ hips. “Be a good boy and come on my thigh.” 

Charles’ whine stutters in his throat and he grinds down, hands fisting in Max’s shirt over his shoulders. 

“What the fuck,” Charles says, even as he presses down harder and tips his head back. 

“Knew you’d like that,” Max says, of course. Because of course Max knows things about himself that he didn’t even know. “Shit, baby, you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” 

Charles comes only a few minutes later, as Max continues to whisper praise to him. He feels like a lovesick teenager as his cock twitches and he comes in his jeans, feeling the warmth of it spread all through his briefs. 

“Fuck, yes, Charlie, you’re so pretty,” Max whispers reverently as he does, fingers dug into his hips. “God, I can’t believe I get to see you like this.” 

Charles whimpers, finally slowing down his rolling hips as oversensitivity makes his dick burn. It doesn’t help that he’s still confined to his jeans, the way they scratch uncomfortably even through his pants, so he shoves his hand between them so he can undo the button and zip just to get a little bit of relief. 

With the hands on his hips, Max pushes him back slightly, eyes locked on the newly revealed red underwear. There’s an embarrassing wet patch on the front now, which makes Charles squirm in place, but then Max reaches out, fingers dipping below the waist band of his briefs. 

“Charlie,” Max says, eyes still trained down, “can I . . .” 

Charles pulls his lip between his teeth, wondering what Max could possibly want to ask. He gets his answer a moment later, when Max slides his fingers down, down, until they’re brushing his softening dick. Charles’ eyes roll back as fingertips glide up to the head of his cock, swiping over the sensitive tip for a quick second. Before Charles can hiss and tell him not to touch too much, Max pulls his hand out of his underwear entirely and then sticks the fingers in his mouth. 

He lifts his gaze as he sucks them down, the blue of his eyes intense and beautiful, and suddenly Charles is struck with the desire to get on his knees. He’s given a blowjob a couple times, mostly because he was curious; one of the workers he’d done it with had been patient and taught him a couple tricks when Charles asked, but he hasn’t really spent time doing it. He’s certainly never gone until the guy came. 

He wants to, though. 

He pushes back until he can stand, eyelids dropped down as Max pulls his fingers from his mouth, and then slowly sinks down to his knees in front of Max. 

“Oh, fuck,” Max breathes, eyes comically wide. “Oh, my god.” 

A smile plays at the corner of his mouth at the words as he reaches out to undo the button and zip on Max’s pants. 

 “Wait,” Max says, as Charles tucks his fingers under the waist of his underwear. “Wait, I—you said you were with other guys. What did you do with them?” 

Charles’ raises a brow. “You’re thinking about the other guys I was with when I’m about to suck your cock?” 

Max groans softly, head tipping back until it hits the back of the lounge. “Just tell me. Have you done this before?” 

Oh. He’s being sweet. 

A little smile makes one side of his mouth tip up. “Yes. I did . . . a lot. Everything.” 

Max lifts his head up, staring down at him with scrunched brows. He mouths everything, like he’s trying to work out what that means—as if it’s not already a clear answer. 

“Anal?” Max eventually asks. 

“Yeah.”  

Max hums a little, and reaches out to brush his fingertips over Charles’ cheek. He can’t tell how Max feels about that, but Charles shouldn’t feel guilty. He was trying to figure himself out without dragging Max into it, and he knows he never would have known anything for sure if he didn’t let himself have those experiences. 

“But I . . .” He inhales deeply, then shifts around on his knees a little, fingers loosely tangling in the legs of Max’s jeans. “I only topped. I didn’t let anyone . . .” 

Max’s fingers push into the hair at his temple, then circle over the top of his ear. “That’s fine. You already know I don’t care which way it goes. If you . . . want to do that with me, of course. Not tonight, obviously, with the race tomorrow.” 

Charles’ thoughts all come so quickly they tangle together in a big mess. He doesn’t care about the race tomorrow, he wants to be with Max like that tonight, now that they’re together and in love and going to get married and Max doesn’t even have to worry about it anyway because—well, because— 

Charles swallows heavily, trying to spit out something he hasn’t had the words for before now.

“No, I . . .” 

Panic crosses over Max’s face, and a meek little, “Oh,” pushes out of him. 

Charles’ eyes widen, and he sits up properly on his knees, bracing his hands on Max’s thighs. “No! No, fuck, I do want to have sex with you like that, and I really want to top you at some point, because listening to that guy in Montreal really—Fuck, you have no idea how much that messed me up.” 

Max winces, and runs his hand over the top of his head. “Not my finest moment,” he mutters, cheeks going a little pink. “Sorry.” 

Charles breathes out, then runs his hands up Max’s thighs slowly, dragging his palms over the dark jeans until his hands are resting just below the crease of Max’s thighs. He purposefully doesn’t let his thumbs brush over where Max’s cock is still hard, despite the conversation. 

“I never let anyone inside me,” he starts again, chewing his cheek, “because I think I was waiting for you.” 

Max blinks, mouth parting and then snapping shut. 

“Holy shit,” he breathes, and then suddenly there are hands under his arms and Charles is being pulled up onto the lounge. 

Max shoves him down onto his back and pushes his legs wide, and then Max is laying between his legs and kissing him again. There is no finesse to it, just a messy push and prod of his tongue that leaves Charles’ mouth wet and hot but god it’s still somehow the hottest thing that’s even happened to him. 

Max rolls his hips like he’s fucking him, making them both moan. 

“Shit, I want you so bad,” Max says frantically, with a dazed look on his face. He thrusts in again, then plants his hand beside Charles’ head. “Fuck, fuck.” 

“You can,” Charles whispers, hooking his leg over the back of Max’s thigh instinctively. He’s never been in this position before, but he doesn’t hate it. Likes it, even. “You can, I don’t care about the race. Max, please. Want you.” 

Max groans, head dropping down as he rolls in again with a weird, hard-aborted move. 

“We shouldn’t,” he says, even though he doesn’t even sound convinced. “The race . . .” 

“I’ve raced through broken ribs,” Charles says, shoving his hands under Max’s shirt to try and work it off him. He can’t believe they both still have clothes on. “It can’t be worse than that.” 

Max’s breath stutters and stops as his shirt comes off, and then he shakes his head again. 

“We shouldn’t,” he repeats, biting his lips. “Maybe just . . . Have you ever fingered yourself? Or had someone else do it?” 

Charles shakes his head. There’s no way they’ll stop at just fingers if they start, but he’s not going to voice that thought to Max. 

“We can start there,” Max suggests, like it’s a negotiation. He’s so dumb. Charles loves him more than life itself. 

“Okay,” he agrees anyway. “And when do I suck you off?” 

Max groans, entire body slumping down on top of him. Charles lets out a big oof at the weight of him, but wraps his arms around his body anyway. 

“I’ve died,” Max announces. “I’ve died and gone to Heaven.” 

Charles laughs, then wraps his arms and legs around Max like a koala, squeezing him tight enough that air pushes out of him, too. 

“I love you,” he whispers into Max’s ear. “You complete idiot.” 

Max sighs, a happy little noise, and then relaxes into Charles’ grip. 

“I love you, too.” 

They do have sex, of course. 

Max starts with one finger, telling him that’s enough for his first time, until Charles demands a second. Max gives in so easily that Charles eventually requests a third, which is what he always did when prepping someone. Max huffs a little more about that, but does it anyway. 

Then—

“Just the tip,” Charles suggests breathlessly, entire body hot and flushed. 

“Okay,” Max says, just as breathless and dazed. 

Charles’ eyes squeeze shut at the feeling of being stretched open by the head of Max’s cock, and he has to take a few minutes to himself to get used to that, anyway. Max valiantly stays—mostly—still, only rocking slightly to keep stretching him out and get him used to it. 

“A little more,” Charles begs, when it stops hurting entirely. “Please?” 

Max groans, and slides in further like he was just waiting for permission. 

“More,” Charles says, feeling like he wants to claw his own skin off with how agonising it is to have almost everything he wants. “All the way, please.” 

Max whines, and says, “Charlie, I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“You’ll be gentle,” Charles says, scratching his nails down Max’s back. 

“I’ll be gentle,” Max repeats dazedly, teeth clenched and arms shaking be Charles’ head. 

He is gentle, rocking into him in nice deep, long strokes, lighting up Charles’ tummy like a wildfire. He’s even happy with it for a while, too, kissing Max lazily and getting to feel the terribly addicting pleasure of pressure against his prostate for the first time. 

Then—

“More, give me more,” Charles demands, pillow overflowing through his clenched fingers. 

“Fuck, you’re bossy,” Max pants, sitting up on his knees but staying inside him. “Is this what you’re always going to be like?” 

“For the rest of your life, fiancé,” Charles promises. 

Charles wakes up feeling warm and happy. 

There’s an arm around his waist, breath against the back of his neck, and a persistent ache in both in his ass and lower back. 

A smile pulls up his cheeks and he turns his head to press it in the pillow. God. He can’t believe he’s waking up next to Max, and that he gets to do it for the rest of his life. 

He presses a little further back, to soak up even more warmth from Max, then reaches down to put his hand over Max’s on his waist, twisting their fingers together. Max is still asleep, breathing deep and slow behind him, and as much as he wants to turn around and see his face, he doesn’t want to accidentally wake him up. 

Instead he closes his eyes again, thumb drawing circles on the back of Max’s hand. He falls back to sleep quickly, feeling warm and safe in his arms, and when he wakes up again it’s to soft kisses lining his shoulder. 

Sighing softly, he runs his hand up Max’s forearm, rolling his body back slightly so that he can see Max’s face a little. Behind him, Max is propped up on his elbow looking down at him. The awestruck, dazed expression from last night is still on his face, and it only gets deeper when Charles meets his eyes. 

“Morning,” Charles says softly, sliding his hand behind Max’s neck to pull him down for a kiss. 

Max hums against his mouth, smiling so wide their teeth click together. 

“Hi,” Max laughs into him. His fingers caress Charles’ belly, sliding up and over his waist, and then back down again. “Fuck, I can’t believe that all actually happened.” 

Charles pulls him down to kiss him again, then uses his other hand to hold Max’s waist. They kiss for a little while, until Charles starts to feel familiar heat pool in his tummy. Then he pulls away, because admittedly is ass is sore and if he gets too turned on he’s going to demand a repeat of last night when he really, really shouldn’t. 

“I’m hungry,” he says, patting Max’s side. “Order me breakfast.” 

“You’re so bossy,” Max says, leaning down to kiss him again. 

“Mm,” Charles hums, giving him another kiss, and then another. “You knew that when you fell in love with me. And agreed to marry me.” 

A slow, beaming smile spreads over his lips, lighting up his entire. “I did agree to marry you.” 

Charles’ own grin matches Max’s as he pushes Max’s hair back from his forehead. “And I will get you a proper ring to prove it.” 

Max gives him yet another kiss, and then pushes himself up off him to sit on the edge of the bed. Charles’ eyes are stuck to the muscles of his back as he reaches his hands above his head to stretch, watching as they ripple and dimple beautifully. God, he can’t believe he never let himself have this—he’s been missing out on this for years. 

“I don’t need a ring,” Max says as he stands, naked ass on display. Charles’ eyes shift from Max’s back to his ass to his thighs and then back up again. “Maybe I’ll get one for you instead.” 

“With a big diamond,” Charles says, though he’s still mostly distracted by the muscles on display. He doesn’t even feel guilty when Max looks at him over his shoulder and catches him. 

“Okay,” Max agrees, with literally no argument whatsoever. 

Charles is really going to have to take advantage of Max’s sweet happiness before he inevitably starts to call Charles on his shit again, because he’s absolutely moving Leo’s huge bed into Max’s apartment even though Max says it’s ridiculously large for such a small dog. 

“I need to call my mother while you order food,” Charles says, sitting up himself. It makes his ass twinge again, so he’s a little more careful as he leans over to get his phone. 

Max was absolutely right about it being a bad idea before the race, but Charles doesn’t care and he never will. Last night was perfect. 

“Everything okay?” Max asks, glancing over at him as he reads the breakfast menu that was on the nightstand. “She’s good?” 

“She’s fine,” Charles says, because of course Max doesn’t know. They haven’t been really talking for months. “I just haven’t, uh. Told her about me.” 

Max freezes, clearly surprised. Charles understands why—there’s not much he doesn’t tell his mother immediately. He just . . .  God, he doesn’t know why he held off, honestly. Probably because he’s been so anxious to fix everything with Max that it fell to the side, even though coming out to her should be a fairly high priority. 

Honestly, he’s a bit nervous. He’s not entirely sure how she’s going to react. 

It’s not like he’s worried she’ll disown him, or throw slurs his way, and he’s grateful for that. He’s never asked Max what his own experience with his father was, but he can certainly guess. But he knows the generation that she’s part of, and he also knows from previous general discussions that she doesn’t really understand. 

Now that he’s with Max, there’s never going to be anyone else for him. What if she gets weird about grandkids or something? Tries to ask him if he’s really, really sure? Or, maybe, because he’s bi—or probably bi, whatever, labels come later—she’ll try to say he has to be one or the other. Can’t like both. That he must like only men because he’s going to marry Max, and try to diminish all the previous relationships Charles has been in. 

“Oh,” Max says. “Do you want me to leave while you talk to her?” 

“God, no,” Charles says immediately. If it goes badly then he’ll want Max to cuddle him. “I just feel a little nervous.” 

Max immediately abandons the menu and sits on the bed again, reaching out to take Charles’ hand. 

“You know you don’t have to tell her if you’re not ready. This is all very new to you.” 

Charles laughs a little, and pushes his hair back from his forehead. “I came out publicly yesterday, Max. I can’t wait that long.” 

“Oh, right,” Max says, cheeks a little pink. “That was insane, by the way. You really didn’t need to do that.” 

Charles shrugs, fiddling with Max’s fingers a little. “I think I did, a bit. My dad . . . When I was younger, he . . .” 

Max looks at him patiently, letting Charles play with his fingers. He doesn’t say anything while Charles tries to figure out what to say. It feels a little weird to talk about his dad in any kind of negative way—both because he’s dead, but also because, well, it doesn’t even come close to Max’s experience with his own father. 

“I told you that he said some shit the day you got into that fight with Chris,” Charles starts. Max nods slowly. “He told me that . . . because you liked boys . . . that things would be difficult for you. And that if you would just, uh, pretend that you weren’t . . .” 

Max’s lips part as he inhales sharply. 

“Oh,” he says, a little dumbly. Charles knows he’s rethinking their day together as kids, reconsidering why Charles said what he said. 

Charles still regrets it, especially because it hurt Max so much and for so long, but he knows that he was just a kid who believed his father when he told him something. 

“He said it would make your life easier,” Charles continues softly. “And . . . and he said it would make mine easier, too.” 

Max’s brows fly up, his sadness replaced by surprised. “He knew?” 

Charles shrugs. “I guess. I don’t know. I didn’t know. I told you that I didn’t even know that boys could like other boys, but I just. I believed him. That it would be easier. He said that having controversy would be bad for brands, that sponsors wouldn’t support me.” 

Max doesn’t correct him, or disagree. He knows that the statement is technically correct, even more so back then, even if it’s fucked up. 

“You changed everything when you officially came out,” Charles tells him, clenching his hand even tighter. “Even for me. And I was still terrified, still thinking about brands and sponsorship but that’s why I had to do it. Because my dad was wrong, it’s not easier pretending. And now maybe there are other boys like us out there who don’t have to go through what we did.” 

Max softens, the hold on his hand tightening. 

“I don’t want to lie and tell you that it will be easy,” Max murmurs. “But it’s not as hard as it was back then. And I do think it all makes a difference. I don’t want any boys beat up behind the toilet block, or told never to be themselves because it’s easier. So when Ferrari complains about it, and when the F.I.A tell you that you’re making their life very difficult, just ignore them all, okay? Remember those versions of us, and what it would’ve meant to us to see someone gay and racing and winning.” 

Charles swallows heavily, throat suddenly tight. He knows it won’t be easy, but he still feels a prickle of fear at the confirmation from Max. 

Then he pictures Max, bleeding and crying behind the toilet block, staring at him with so much hurt when Charles told him he should just pretend. He remembers himself, so confused for so long, going twenty nine years without ever understanding such a core part of himself because he didn’t know it was an option, didn’t understand the way he was feeling because he was always told it was too hard. 

If he’d seen someone like him as a kid . . . 

“Yeah,” he whispers. “For them. For us.” 

Max orders breakfast while Charles calls his mother. They’re both showered and dressed in their uniforms, Max laid out on the bed while he scrolls on his phone and Charles paces at the end of it while the phone rings pressed against his ear. 

“Hey, honey,” Maman greets, the loud sound of clattering dishes in the background.

“Morning, maman,” he greets softly, unable to stop pacing the foot of the bed. “How are you? How did you sleep?” 

Maman hums loudly through the dishes clearly being packed in the dishwasher. “Good, good. You? Are you excited for the race?” 

“Yes, yes,” he says, and chews on the skin by his thumb. He glances up at Max, who gives him an encouraging smile. “Um, so. There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.” 

His mother pauses on the other end of the line, and then suddenly her voice is much closer. “Oh, is everything okay? You’re not hurt?” 

“No, no, I’m okay,” he says, breathing out deeply. He’s trying to squash down his nerves, but they’ve come back with a vengeance. “Uh, I just. Oh, this is so strange to try and say.” 

“You’re scaring me, honey,” Maman says, and he can hear the fear in her voice. 

He just needs to say it. Clean and fast, like a bandaid. 

“I have a boyfriend,” he blurts out, then swipes his hand over his forehead. 

“Oh!” she gasps out. “You and Max worked it out?” 

Charles squeaks immediately, eyes flying up to Max. 

“What?” he mouths, half standing from the bed with alarm clear in his face. 

“Did everyone know before me and Max?” Charles groans with embarrassment, head tipping back. 

Max settles back down again, laughing lightly. 

“I think so, yes,” Maman says, but he can hear the amusement in her voice. 

Charles groans again, then flops down on the bed to stare up at the ceiling. He clumsily puts the phone on speaker so Max can listen in now, then places it on his chest. 

“That’s all you have to say?” Charles asks, chewing on his lip. “You’re not surprised that I’m . . .” 

“If you wanted surprise, you probably should have spoken to me before you came out publicly yesterday.” 

Charles squeaks again. Fuck, he didn’t think she’d have seen that yet. That was probably stupid of him—Arthur or Lorenzo likely saw it and told her. 

“I’m happy for you both,” Maman continues softly. “You’re already wonderful together.” 

His embarrassment is chased away by joy and pride as he glances over at Max. 

“We are,” he says proudly, reaching over to lace Max’s fingers with him. “Um, also. I lied a little bit. I don’t actually have a boyfriend.” 

The silence from the other end of the line is so loud that Max’s quiet laughter feels like a crack of thunder. He curls into Charles’ side, trying to smother his grin into the sheets, which is just so damn cute that Charles can’t help but reach out and poke his cheek with his finger. 

“I’m confused,” Maman says. “What?” 

“I have a fiancé,” he says, then laughs when it’s Maman who is making the little squeak. 

“Surely there was a better way to say that,” Max teases, but he’s smiling so widely that Charles just laughs again. 

“Oh, Max!” Maman says. Charles probably should have told her that he’s there. “I assume this was Charles’ crazy idea?” 

“Isn’t it always?” 

Charles gasps loudly, pretending to be hurt at the implication. From the way Max smiles at him, he doesn’t fall for it for even a second. 

Whatever. Charles has always loved that Max and his mother get along so well; it’s always made him feel a weird kernel of pride when he sees them bonding. Now he knows why. 

“I’m happy for you both,” Maman says. “And you have to promise that you’ll actually tell me when you’re getting married. Don’t impulsively do that, too.” 

Charles’ body relaxes into the mattress as Max’s hand settles on his shoulder. 

“I promise,” he swears, even though he hadn’t even thought about immediately getting married and now he’s kind of thinking that summer break is the perfect opportunity. 

“And Max,” Maman says, “I’m sorry I raised such a silly boy that made you wait so long.” 

Charles gasps loudly, then elbows Max when he laughs. 

“It’s alright, he had some things to work out. I’m just glad we got here.” 

“You’ve always been so patient with our boy,” Maman says, so soft and sweet that Charles feels warm and happy and loved. 

Max beams down at him, fingers dragging over his cheekbone. Charles nuzzles into the touch, eyes falling closed with how entirely happy he feels. Charles is the moon and Max is his Earth, stuck in his gravity and destined to orbit him forever. 

There’s nowhere else he’d rather be. 

“He’s worth the wait.” 

Charles is distracted from his lazy make-out session by a knock on his door. 

He groans loudly when Max pulls away from him, even though his dick is hard and his ass still hurts and his lips are feeling a little chapped from how much they’ve been kissing. 

“It’s your breakfast!” Max laughs as he slides out from under Charles. “You can’t be mad about that.” 

“Can’t I just eat you?” Charles complains anyway. 

“That’s something I’ll teach you about later,” Max says with a cheeky grin as he gets off the bed. 

“Surely eating ass is the same as eating pussy?” 

Max groans as he goes to the door. “I have so much to teach you.” 

“How would you even know!” Charles says, laughing as well. “Have you even seen a pussy?” 

“Are you jealous that I might be better at pussy eating than you?” 

“Okay, spaghetti cock, let’s stop saying pussy now.” 

“Hey, I told you that in confidence! How dare you use that against me?” 

Charles laughs loudly, rolling onto his stomach to smother it into the bedsheets. Max laughs, too, the most perfect sound in the world, and then the sound of the door opening fills the room. 

“Oh!” Max says, clearly surprised. “You’re not breakfast.” 

Charles lifts his head, then pushes onto his arms when he sees Pierre standing in the doorway with his hand covering his eyes. 

“Are you both decent?” 

“Excuse you, why do you think we wouldn’t be?” Charles demands, even though he’s grinning widely. 

“Neither of you called me last night crying, so I figured you’d finally worked it out.” 

Charles winces, a little guilty that they’ve tormenting Pierre while they’ve struggling to figure themselves out. And they didn’t even tell him immediately, though it sounds like Pierre already knew. 

“We’re decent,” Max confirms, opening the door wider as Pierre drops his hand. “And we did work it out.” 

“Finally,” Pierre grumbles, but he’s grinning as he comes into the room and Max closes the door behind him. “You know how difficult this has been for me?” 

“Sorry,” Charles says, and actually means it. “We appreciate it. And you’ll be my best man to make up for it!” 

Pierre blinks at him. “I’ll be your what now?” 

“We’re getting married!” Charles says, grinning and pushing up on the bed to sit on it properly. 

Pierre stares at him for a moment, and then swivels his head over to Max, who smiles and nods. Pierre sighs, and then pulls out the chair at the desk to fall into it. 

“I’m actually mad at myself for not seeing that coming,” he says, but he’s still got that happy little smile on his face. “Congratulations, you two.” 

“Thanks, Pear,” Charles says, much softer. He knows he didn’t make it easy on any of them, and he never would’ve made it this far without his best friend—his other best friend. “Really.” 

Pierre gives him his own soft smile, then says, “Well, I had to do something. I either had Max crying about how much he loved you and how pretty you are and wow, Pierre, did you see what Charles said the other day? But at least he knew about it! You kept being like um, Pear, why does Max want to spend time with other guys why doesn’t he only ever spend time with me and nobody else, ever—” 

Charles throws a pillow at him, and hopes it’s one that’s got come on it. “I take it back, you are not my best man, you annoying, traitorous—” 

“I think he deserves a little gloating, Charlie,” Max says, sitting down on the bed beside him. 

“God, don’t even get me started on the Charlie thing,” Pierre groans dramatically. “You know you’re still the only one allowed to call him that?”

“Yes, because I’m special,” Max agrees. “Hey, Charlie?” 

“It’s just so cute when he says it,” Charles says, pouting at them both. He’s not sure he really likes that Pierre and Max are actually friends now. 

“Twenty five years I’ve had to deal with this,” Pierre says, but he’s smiling again. “But I’m really, really glad you got there in the end.” 

Charles turns to Max, sliding their fingers together. He’s so glad they got here, too. 

“Hey, Max?” Charles says softly, sliding his thumb down the side of Max’s. 

“Yeah?” 

“I love you.”