Chapter Text
Miami had been Daniel's idea.
It sounded good in theory; chill at the beach during the day, party all night along the boulevard. He’d hooked them up with some DJ friend of his who had a spare house on the beach and Max just shrugged and booked the flights.
Turns out no amount of house music or pink drinks with little umbrellas in them can scratch the itch sitting under Max’s skin. He’s not sure why, can’t put a name to the feeling, but two days in to the trip he’s restless, blood thrumming with the need to do something, be somewhere else. He doesn’t blame Daniel, who seems to know everyone here and slots into the scene like a missing puzzle piece. It’s just- he doesn’t know, but something is off.
It’s almost funny then, when he wakes up on the third morning to the sound of someone ringing his doorbell repeatedly.
“What the fuck,” he mumbles, staggering out of bed.
The ringing doesn’t stop once he’s awake, so he hurriedly pulls on a pair of shorts and pads out to the hallway.
“I’m coming, Jesus Christ there’s no need to keep ringing- oh.”
Standing on the porch of his rented apartment, in Florida, is Charles Leclerc.
He looks- well no one’s ever said Charles Leclerc looks bad - but he doesn’t look great. Shadows under his eyes stark against the bright Florida sunshine. Max’s brain snags on the small details; the two-day stubble scattered across his jaw, the carefully unbranded navy t-shirt, similarly bland cap pulled low over his features.
"What-" Max starts, because seriously- what the fuck. Charles cuts him off before he can finish.
"Do you want to drive to Daytona?"
It comes out in a rush, words tripping over one another. Charles looks faintly embarrassed, shifting on his feet, but there’s something else there as well. A tinge of desperation maybe.
Max frowns, figures this is already one of the weirdest mornings of his life, so what the hell.
“Sure, come in.”
…
“Do you want something to drink?”
Max isn’t even sure what he has to offer, but it feels like the right thing to do in the circumstances. Not that there’s a playbook he knows of for what to do when your lifelong rival, tentative friend, shows up halfway across the world unannounced looking like he wants to run away.
“I’m okay,” Charles says, quiet. He’s still fidgeting, hands settling in his pockets for a moment before removing them, playing with the hem of his t-shirt. It’s making Max feel on edge, too.
“Okay I’ll just-” Max gestures vaguely towards his bedroom- “Grab some things, then we can go.”
Charles nods, still standing in the middle of his kitchen. Max really wishes he’d just sit down or something. He looks like he’s ready to bolt at any minute, like one of those zebras Max has seen in late night nature documentaries.
Max leaves him there anyway, at a loss as to what to do about any of it. Retreats to his room and tosses his phone charger and some spare clothes into a bag. Daytona’s not far from here but he’s pretty sure that’s not the whole story, and he figures- better safe than sorry. Especially when Charles is involved.
Max hasn’t seen him since the paddock in Spa, after the race. Even then there’d been this weary slant to his shoulders, shadows under his eyes. Max had thought about texting but, what would he even say. Sorry mate, your car is shit and your team is a mess. It’s not your fault. Even worse would be the truth. Come back. I miss racing you.
Either way Max had hoped he’d sleep it off, get some rest over the break, but now here he is in Florida, not looking any better and proposing some vague road trip that probably means something in his head but looks nothing short of crazy from the outside.
And Max is going with him. Figures. He kind of wishes he had even pretended to put up a fight, but he’s always been easy where Charles is involved.
Sighing, he grabs his phone to call Daniel, because much as he’s sure he won’t mind, Max can at least pretend to not be a total asshole for bailing.
"What?" Daniel answers on the third ring, sounding half asleep.
"Charles is here," he says, by way of greeting.
"Really?" Daniel sounds immediately more awake. "I invited him, but I figured he wasn't up for it after, well-"
Daniel trails off and Max makes a strangled noise. There’s too much in that silence, they both know it.
"Yeah well he's here now. And we're uh-" Max makes a face, not sure how to explain it without sounding completely insane. "He wants to go on a road trip, I think."
"You think?"
"Well, it's Charles. It's never entirely clear."
Daniel laughs. "Try to sound more whipped, I dare you."
"Fuck off," Max groans, suddenly feeling not at all guilty about ditching Daniel for a few days. "But yeah, I might head away with him for a bit, if that's cool with you?"
"Of course," Daniel sounds delighted. "Who am I to stand in the way of young love?"
"I hate you."
"No you don't. Anyway Heidi’s getting in today and we were thinking of taking a trip, don’t stress about it.”
“Yeah okay,” Max says, still not sure how exactly he ended up in this situation. He blames it entirely on the brunette currently standing in his kitchen.
“Go,” Daniel’s voice is softer now. “Have fun. You both need it.”
…
In hindsight Max should’ve seen it coming. Or something like it. But it’s not until he’s standing on his porch, duffle bag in hand, that he realises the full gravity of the situation he’s found himself in.
Sitting in the driveway of Max’s rented house is a bright blue Ford Mustang.
He glances at Charles immediately, unsure if this is some sort of cosmic joke, but Charles is looking straight ahead, jaw set.
“You-” Max stops himself, tries to find the words. Delicate, he thinks. Must tread carefully.
“This is a Ford,” he settles on.
The words rattle in his ears anyway. Charles Leclerc is driving a Ford. It feels blasphemous, or something. Max has never been religious but he figures that’s how it works. Crisis of faith, screaming at the heavens, yada yada. He’s seen enough movies to know this means things are bad. Capital B Bad.
Charles shrugs.
"There are other good cars."
Max squints at him.
"What? I can admit it."
"You don't usually," Max says, before he can think better of it.
"Yeah, well." Charles glances down, frowning. "Things can change."
Right, that's not ominous at all.
"Do you want to-" Max starts, sliding into the passenger seat. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"No."
Cool. Okay. Definitely not worrying. Max taps his fingers on the dashboard. Charles shoots him a dirty look which he ignores because- if Charles is going to be weird and cryptic then Max is allowed to fidget. It feels like the lesser of two evils.
In the enclosed space the silence feels louder now, interrupted only by continuous buzzing noises from Charles’ pocket. Sighing, he pulls out his phone and- without so much as glancing at the screen- turns it off, chucking it into the back.
He turns to Max. “Can you pull up the directions?”
“You-” Max looks pointedly between Charles and his now silent phone- “can’t?”
“It’s broken,” Charles says, looking him straight in the eyes with a challenge that Max recognises all too well; say something, I dare you.
Max isn’t going near that one, so he unlocks his own phone and shuts his mouth. It’s not his business either way, whatever it is Charles is trying to avoid. He has a suspicion though.
“Turn left up here,” he says. “You’re heading towards the highway. We should get there in about three hours.”
Charles hums affirmatively, gaze fixed on the road.
Max stares, he can’t help it. The raw flashes of honesty from earlier are masked now. Eyes now hidden behind sunglasses, jaw set, Charles seems an entirely different person. Aloof and unreachable.
Max feels slightly unmoored, casts around for something to talk about that isn’t the weather. Charles is usually easy to talk to, but their conversations are always situated firmly in the world of racing. Revolving around braking zones and tyre warmup and corner entry; racing, racing and more racing. Over and over, rinse and repeat. Until the season is suddenly finished and Max isn’t sure how to get Charles to smile at him in any other context.
Now he gets the sense that Charles maybe doesn't want to talk about racing at all. But he's driving them to Daytona so maybe that’s not quite right. Maybe it's just certain racing adjacent things he doesn't want to talk about. Things that are red, for example.
Charles can be surprisingly hard to read, when he wants to be.
“How’s Miami?”
Charles interrupts his train of thought, saving him from having to decide on a safe topic of conversation.
“Loud,” Max says, without thinking.
Charles lets out a soft laugh at that, and Max figures he’s doing something right, if Charles is laughing. Wonders how he can get him to do it again.
“I thought it’d be your kind of holiday,” Charles muses. “Lots of parties, good weather.”
Max shrugs. He’d thought the same, originally.
“I don’t know, I guess I just wasn’t feeling it.”
“I figured, seeing as how you agreed to come with me.”
Max glances over at that, studying Charles’ side profile. There are a million questions rattling around in his head. He wonders if he’s allowed to ask any of them.
He swallows, chooses something that feels like safe ground.
“Why did you ask me?”
Charles frowns, biting his lip. Max’s gaze snags on the indent, flash of white teeth against soft skin.
“I don’t know,” Charles admits.
Max laughs, soft, and Charles turns to smile at him.
“Why did you agree to come with me?”
“I don’t know,” Max grins, echoing his words.
It’s a lie, and they probably both know it, but Charles just smiles. It feels like a win.
…
As Charles drives Max fiddles with the radio and considers the facts of the situation. There are two things he knows for sure, the rest is just speculation.
The first is that Charles isn’t going to win the championship this year.
It’s not, like, mathematically impossible yet, but they both know it. The car just isn’t there, isn’t anywhere near there, and Charles- brilliant as he is- can only do so much. It makes Max’s head hurt when he thinks about it too much, so he tries not to. Focuses on his own driving instead. At least until he’s lying in bed alone at night and can’t shake the image of Charles’ vacant stare, the hollowness behind his eyes.
The second thing is that Charles hasn’t signed a new contract with Ferrari. Not yet, anyway.
It’s kind of hard to ignore. What started as whispers at the beginning of the season have grown in volume and intensity, until he can’t move in the media pen without hearing about it. It doesn’t have to mean anything, but it feels like it does.
He supposes now he can add a third set of facts to the list, which is that Charles is here, driving them to Daytona, and he’s not answering his phone.
Max stopped taking maths lessons when he was fifteen but he understands how statistics work. How causation and correlation are different, and independent events can be explained by entirely unrelated things. Only this is Charles and Max knows him in the way that he knows himself, and he knows that very few things in Charles’ life are unrelated to racing or Ferrari. Not like there’s some fucking looming red shadow following him everywhere but- yeah. He thinks these facts matter.
Championship- Ferrari- whatever the fuck this is.
Causation, or whatever.
…
They reach Daytona around midday. It’s hot out now, the kind of dry east coast heat that sears your skin and sets the tarmac shimmering. Max is glad of his sunglasses, squinting under the bright rays. He reaches into the backseat to grab a cap, spots the garish Red Bull logo and thinks better of it. Not that it would matter here, he reckons, but it still feels a little too obnoxious.
When he glances back Charles has already started walking towards the stadium where it looms ahead of them; vast and imposing, so utterly foreign yet familiar at the same time.
Max jogs to catch up, locking the car behind him. Charles has stopped a few metres away from the entrance, in front of a bronze statue of a man. He looks like a driver, left arm raised to the sky in victory. There’s a bouquet of flowers on the pedestal.
“Who’s that?” Max asks, joining him.
“Dale Earnhardt,” Charles replies, pointing at the plaque. "Holds the record for most wins here, out of anyone. Thirty-four across a bunch of different series."
“Oh yeah,” Max nods, “I’ve heard of him. Wait, didn’t he-”
"He died here."
“Here,” Max echoes. Suddenly the flowers make more sense. “When?”
"2001,” Charles hums, tilting his head. “Last lap of the race. Makes you think."
Charles, he thinks, has done his research. Seems to know a hell of a lot about this. Max wonders what that means.
"I found out recently,” Charles continues. “He won at Talladega in '94. Same day as Imola, dedicated the victory to Senna and everything. Then he dies on track himself, seven years later. It's weird."
Charles’ voice is even, disinterested almost, except he’s holding himself carefully and Max has gotten pretty good at spotting his tells.
“It is weird,” Max concedes. “Statue is similar, even.”
He thinks of Ayrton, cast in bronze, immortalised under the Italian sunshine. Charles shifts beside him and Max shivers in the Florida heat.
Why? He wants to ask. What’s this about? Charles doesn't drive like someone who's scared of crashing. Never has, despite everything. But-
Max thinks of the times he's seen Charles flinch, when Arthur's on track. He thinks, maybe .
There's this story about a man who was obsessed with plane crashes. He memorised every detail; the hows and whys, who got out, who didn’t. It seems like a weird hobby, on the face of it, except there’s a pretty straightforward explanation. Turns out his brother was a pilot.
"Come on,” Max says, his eyes never leaving Charles’ side profile, cast in sunlight. “Let's go inside."
…
There’s a museum inside which Charles makes a beeline towards. It’s a Wednesday afternoon, so it's not exactly busy, but no one gives them a second glance. Charles visibly relaxes once he notices, and Max has never been more grateful for America’s obsession with closed-wheel racing.
“They keep the winning cars on display for the year,” Charles drags him towards a display near the door. “Race condition.”
Max eyes the bright pink livery of the car on the left, Meyer Shank’s winning entry from the 24 hours this year.
“Honda engine,” Max points out, because he can’t help it.
Charles rolls his eyes. “Acura, it’s not quite the same.”
“It’s basically the same,” Max huffs, grateful they can do this , at least.
Max follows him through the hallways, enjoying the sort of hush that falls over the place. It’s very American, the concept of a ‘Hall of Fame’, but he can’t deny there’s something compelling about it nonetheless.
He still doesn’t miss the way Charles’ eyes flicker, almost imperceptibly, to the red car in every display.
“Penske,” Charles says, running his eyes over the red Corvette. “This was his first car I think. Raced the Rolex in ‘66, it says here.”
Max follows him, but his gaze lands on the car sitting next to it, far more famous than the first Penske. The winner of that race and so many after it.
“GT40,” he murmurs. Feels like if he says it too loudly he might invoke the wrath of some ancient Italian god. He usually would’ve said Charles- because Charles is Ferrari in his mind- but now Charles is just standing there quietly, studying the car.
“Daytona ‘66 winner,” Charles reads from the plaque. “Kind of underselling it, don’t you think?” He frowns, crouching down to get a closer look.
“Was that Miles or McLaren?” Max asks, watching as Charles studies the wheel rims.
“Miles,” Charles answers, his voice low. As if he can’t decide whether he should be whispering, like they’re talking in a church.
Max tears his gaze away from Charles, follows his attention to the car in front of him. Baby blue and battered, almost unassuming. No one could ever mistake it for their Italian rivals, anyway; angular and blunt where the red car was smooth and stylish. But that was always the point. A culture war of sorts that permeated their actual on track battles. They never wanted to be Ferrari, they just wanted to beat them.
Max knows which camp he falls into, he thought he knew where Charles fell as well. Now he’s not as sure.
Charles completes his 360 inspection of the car, seemingly satisfied. He turns to look at Max, something unreadable and intense in his gaze.
“Want to go see the track?”
…
The sun is oppressive, beating down on the tarmac as they walk out onto the track. Despite the vast stadium before them and the weight of history beneath their feet, Max finds himself watching Charles instead. It’s not an unusual phenomenon.
Charles is smiling, gaze flitting around the bends, over the curve of the banking and up towards the imposing grandstands. The sun seems to catch in his hair, messy and unstyled, colouring the strands molten gold in a certain light. He grins, turning to look at Max as they walk around.
“You know,” Charles says, walking backwards as he talks. It shouldn’t be as endearing as it is. “When they race the Rolex here it's winter, so more than twelve hours of the race are in darkness. They turn down the floodlights and everyone is packed into the stands, all through the night.”
Max closes his eyes, imagines he can hear the roar of the crowd, the smell of gasoline and burnt rubber.
When he opens his eyes the sunlight is blinding and Charles is grinning at him, walking further along the track. Max blinks and lets his gaze drift away from the boy in front of him, taking in his surroundings properly.
The curve of the banking seems endless, bleeding upward into the bleachers and towards the sky. Max feels small in the face of it. A great racing colosseum, carved from the earth itself. Giants walked here, the asphalt seems to say. Cracking under the midday Florida sun.
Not for the first time, Max wonders why they’re here. Charles has made it clear enough he doesn’t want to talk about certain things, but he seems content here in the bowels of this vast amphitheatre. Green eyes lighting up as he takes in the track before them.
Max wishes he knew what any of it meant.
“Come on,” Charles says, shaking him out of his thoughts. He's grinning, looking over his shoulder. “Race you to turn two.”
He's waiting, like he doesn't know Max's answer. Like it's even a question. Like they haven't been at this thirteen years and he doesn't know that the answer is always, always going to be yes.
Max would've simply taken the head start.
…
It’s after lunch by the time they’ve finished exploring the track, so they eat in the small cafe next to the visitor centre.
It reminds Max of being back in karting. Eating at whatever run-down cafe was closest to the track, where the smell of petrol seemed to permeate everything and the soup was never hot enough. They don’t serve soup at this cafe, though, because it’s summer in Florida, and Max is twenty five now and doesn’t need to thaw his frozen fingers after he races.
He buys a sandwich instead, pays for Charles' food as well which earns him a funny look. As if it means anything. As if they're not multi millionaires. As if- yeah. Charles thanks him anyway, with a soft smile, and leads them to a table by the window overlooking the track.
They eat in relative silence, Charles humming softly under his breath until the tune is stuck in Max’s head with no words to accompany it. He kicks him under the table, gently, in retaliation. Charles grins, smirking around his sandwich and kicks him back. Like Max isn’t the only one who feels transported back to their twelve year old selves.
“This was fun,” he says, finds that he means it.
It should be weirder, he reckons, because he has no idea what’s going on here and Charles is being vague and obtuse, but it’s not. The weather’s easier to appreciate when there’s open road ahead, and Charles- when he’s not acting like a half-wild horse that might bolt at any minute- is pretty good company.
“I told you,” Charles says, even though he didn’t. Not in any words Max is familiar with, anyway. He thinks he’s probably going to have to roll with this one.
“So,” Max asks, “What are we doing next?”
Charles grins at him across the table, trouble glinting in his eyes. Max should be worried, really, but Charles looks ten times more alive than he did this morning and he's finding it hard to feel anything other than relieved. He blames that on what happens next.
"How do you feel about Indianapolis?"
And like- Max hasn't got a fucking clue what's going on here, but it's Charles, so.
"Yeah sure, why not."
…
Max sends Daniel another text, because he is a functioning adult and knows he can’t just disappear for days without a word. He thinks of Charles’ phone, abandoned in the backseat and wonders who- if anyone- even knows he’s here.
“I can drive for the next while,” Max offers as they head back to the car. “If you want?”
Charles shrugs, tossing him the keys. “Sure, but I’m picking the music.”
Charles spends the next hour giving terrible directions and screwing up Max’s spotify algorithm. Max makes him turn on the car’s sat nav, for the sake of their friendship and what remains of his sanity, but he lets the music slide.
They don’t talk much, but it feels relaxed. Charles is singing along softly to French music that Max can’t understand, periodically pointing out features in the passing landscape. Charles has a nice voice, which like, Max kind of knew- what with the piano playing and all that- but he’d never heard him sing before. He likes it, catalogues the new information away as if it’s something precious.
The traffic picks up around Jacksonville, and it's late by the time they clear it. It's dark outside by the time they stop, across the border into Georgia, somewhere south of Atlanta.
Charles found a motel while they were sitting in traffic, using Max's phone to call ahead. Max tries not to feel weird about it, does anyway.
They're both hungry and tired by the time they check in. The lady at reception tells them there's a 24 hour gas station just up the road, so they drop off their bags and head out in search of food.
The night air is warm and sticky. Storefront illuminated despite the late hour, casting the world in artificial light. Max takes a deep breath, letting the cool breeze of the air con drift across his skin. He glances at Charles, features flashing neon under the glow of the vending machine.
He feels young, like a kid on summer holidays. Long days stretched out ahead of him with nowhere to go; all scabby knees and sweaty skin and tan lines under his t-shirt. It's odd, to feel nostalgic for a childhood he never experienced. Not like that, anyway. He blames it on the movies.
There's something strange, either way, about shopping for snacks at 1 am at a gas station in Georgia with Charles Leclerc. He feels like he's stumbled upon an alternate universe, like nothing that happens here is actually real.
He grabs three cans of Red Bull and feels Charles' eyes on him.
"What?"
He wonders, briefly, if it's too on the nose. If chugging cans of Red Bull in the passenger seat might be breaking one of the unwritten rules of this trip.
The first rule, he thinks, of the Ferrari-Induced Crisis roadtrip is that we absolutely don’t talk about the Ferrari-Induced Crisis.
But Charles just laughs and brushes past him, grabbing a full case from the bottom of the fridge.
"Three of those will only last you until breakfast, there's room for these in the back."
…
Charles claims the bed near the window, flopping down on it dramatically before Max has even shut the door behind them.
“At least take your shoes off first,” Max scolds, smiling quietly as Charles rolls over, huffing.
“What?” Charles asks, blinking at Max upside down from where he’s hanging over the edge of the bed.
“Nothing,” Max says, too fond. “I’m going to use the bathroom first.”
He brushes his teeth in silence, tries not to listen to the sound of Charles moving around on the other side of the door. It's not weird, it shouldn't be weird, or maybe it should be. He's not sure what to think, other than he's painfully aware of Charles' presence just outside.
He's gripping the sink, he notices, too tight to be casual. Sighing he loosens his fingers, takes a deep breath.
This is fine.
Charles slips into the bathroom after him and Max crawls into bed, suddenly exhausted.
He listens to the sound of running water, a faint humming. Hears the click of the door, rustling as Charles climbs into bed and flicks off the light.
“Goodnight,” Charles’ voice is soft, impossibly loud in the quiet of the room.
Max smiles, even though Charles won’t see it in the dark.
“Night Charles.”
…
In the morning they get breakfast in the cramped diner attached to their motel. It’s loud and smelly and all the food is overly salted. No one even glances in their direction. It might be the best meal Max has had in years.
Charles takes a bite of his eggs, glancing out the window. His hair is still damp from the shower, and he smells like cheap shampoo and expensive cologne. He looks younger in the morning. The last traces of sleep clinging stubbornly to his features. He looks a hell of a lot better than he did yesterday, when he showed up on Max's doorstep.
“So,” Max clears his throat. “We probably won’t reach Indianapolis until the evening, if that’s okay with you?”
Charles nods. “Sounds good, we can do the track in the morning then.”
“Cool, okay,” Max frowns at the map, taking a sip of Red Bull. “How do you feel about Nashville?”
Charles squints, drumming his fingers on the chequered tablecloth. “Is that the music place?”
Max nods. “We’ll be passing by, could stop for lunch?”
Charles hums for a moment, considering. Max watches him, he’s not sure why but he gets the feeling Charles might want to avoid big cities. As if there’s a hope in hell anyone in Tennessee is going to recognise them.
But Charles is about as predictable as rain on a Sunday, and so as soon as the thought crosses Max’s mind he nods, smiling.
“Yeah why not? It could be fun.”
…
Charles drives in the morning, following the road north, fingers wrapped loosely around the steering wheel. Max fiddles around with his phone, listens to the staticky hum of the radio and tries not to stare too much. Charles is quiet, gaze fixed on the road, features shielded behind dark sunglasses. Max lets him, figures Charles will talk when he wants to. He hopes it’s temporary, hopes this wall Charles is putting up between himself and the world doesn’t include Max. He supposes it means something that Charles is here with him, either way.
They reach Nashville in a few hours, Charles pulling into a carpark near the centre.
“Walk around for a bit?” Max suggests. They’ve been driving for long enough he feels the need to stretch his legs. Plus it’d be nice to see some of the city. “We can get lunch then.”
“Sounds good,” Charles nods, locking the car. “Lead the way.”
A quick google search leads him downtown, towards Broadway. It’s busy, even for a Thursday afternoon. Streets filled with tourists and party-goers and not entirely sober groups of bachelorettes pouring out of stretch limos.
It’s bright and loud and sort of tacky, but in a harmlessly fun kind of way. It’s not Monaco, anyway.
“Max,” Charles says, eyes wide as he takes in the neon signs in front of him. “What the hell is a ‘honky tonk’”
“I-” Max frowns. “I have no idea.”
They eat lunch in an overpriced tourist trap of a cafe, which claims to have fed Elvis, the Rolling Stones, and the Beatles, despite only having been open since 2010 according to Google. The jukebox doesn’t work, much to Charles’ disappointment, but the food is decent and Max is hungry enough that he doesn’t care much either way.
A waitress comes over to check on them, smiling a little wider when she spots Charles. Max can’t blame her, really. He wonders, briefly, what she sees when she looks at Charles. If she notices the smile he flashes is a little too perfect, all Disney prince around the edges, media ready. When he really smiles, Max thinks, it’s too toothy to photograph well. Too many flashes of the wild and reckless teenager he grew up with peeking through the gaps.
Max likes that better, for what it’s worth, but who’s he to judge. She probably finds it charming.
“You eating the rest of your chips?” Max asks, for the lack of anything better to do with his words.
“Mhmm,” Charles nods, around a mouthful of salad. “Don’t you dare.”
Max steals a chip anyway, Charles glaring at him across the table. He waits for a joke that doesn’t come, something about breaking the weight limit or slowing him down or Red Bull catering. Something banal and stupid and normal . Charles just looks away, glances out the window. Max tries not to read into it.
”Hey,” Charles says, eyes flitting between groups of party-goers. He grins, pointing to a group of women fully decked out in cowboy hats and boots.
“Can we go shopping next?” Charles suggests, a glint in his eyes. “I want one of those hats.”
“Of course you do,” Max says, takes the opportunity to steal another chip. He’s no pushover.
Two chips seem like a pretty bad trade twenty minutes later, when Charles drags them to a gift shop next door. It’s loud, and filled with fake leather merchandise and more fringed crop tops than any city could reasonably need. Charles seems delighted, making it his mission to find the gaudiest neon cowboy hat possible, complete with glitter and sequins. He tries one on, laughing, and turns to Max.
“What do you think,” Charles asks, grinning. “Do I look good?”
Max rolls his eyes.
“Like you don’t know you look good in pretty much anything.”
He says it teasing, offhand, but Charles freezes for a minute, something flashing across his face. Max swallows, feels caught under the fluorescent gift shop lighting.
“Is that so?” Charles asks, the ghost of a smirk toying at his lips. Max hates him so much. Except for how he doesn’t.
“Don’t be dumb Charles,” Max says, wishing he sounded less fond.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Charles says, turning to walk further around the store.
He keeps the hat on.
…
Max drives after lunch, they’re getting closer to Indianapolis now, only a few hours away. He wonders what will happen when they get there. Wonders if Charles even knows.
Charles is watching him, out of the corner of his eye. Max glances over, after the third time it happens, but Charles doesn’t look away. In the fading sunlight his eyes look darker, molten brown around the edges. He’s watching Max carefully, eyes tracing over his face. Max has no idea what to do with that.
He thinks of Charles staring at him earlier. Too-loud pop music, harsh lighting and the smell of fake leather, and the look in Charles’ eyes. Amused and- pleased , maybe. Max swallows, watches as Charles’ eyes dip to track the movement.
Max looks away quickly, fixing his eyes on the road. He wonders if he’s going crazy, feels slightly hysterical.
“We should,” he clears his throat, voice scratchy. “We should find a hotel.”
Charles nods slowly, starts fiddling around with Max’s phone. Max exhales, flexing his fingers on the steering wheel.
“We can stay in the city,” Charles says, eventually. “Drive out to speedway in the morning then?”
Max nods. “Yeah, I don’t know much about the city really.”
Charles hums, typing away. “I mean other than racing there’s not much going on. Seems to be some decent restaurants, oh and it says here-” he frowns at the text in front of him- “the third largest cemetery in the US?”
“That’s a weird thing to advertise.”
“Yeah,” Charles frowns. “I think we’ll skip that one anyway.”
Max wonders if it's odd, how they’re both pretending they don’t know about half a dozen drivers currently living in the city. He supposes it makes sense, because reaching out would involve explaining what the hell they’re doing here, and he doesn’t have an answer for any of that.
“I’ve found a hotel,” Charles announces as they’re reaching the outskirts of the city.
Max nods, loosening out the kink in his shoulders. “Lead the way then.”
…
The hotel is nice; marble floors and chandeliers in the lobby when they check-in.
“Splashing out are we?” Max jokes, nudging Charles as they head towards the elevator.
“Shut up,” Charles grumbles, but the tips of his ears are tinged pink.
They drop their bags, Max eyeing one of the large double beds like it’s the best thing he’s ever seen. The minute the thought crosses his mind his stomach grumbles in protest, loud in the quiet of the room.
Charles laughs at the sound, loud and bright.
“Food?” He suggests.
“Food,” Max agrees, grabbing a jacket.
The summer air is mild as they walk through town, light breeze tickling the edges of Max’s face. Charles is quiet beside him, falling into step easily. He looks different here, out of context, shoulders loose and hair messy. He looks like Charles. Just Charles, not Charles Leclerc. There’s a difference, Max has learned over the years.
Indy’s a nice city, quiet, with something of a one-track mind. Everywhere they pass there’s signs for the speedway, billboards and memorabilia. It’s a city that lives and breathes racing, right down to its very core. No one even looks at them. It’s wonderful.
The people are friendly enough, waiter smiling at them when they stop at a small local place for food.
“What brings you to Indy?” He asks, dropping down a jug of tap water.
Max swallows, darting a look at Charles.
“Uh-”
Charles jumps in. “Visiting the Speedway.”
“Ah,” the waiter nods, smiling. “That’s what most tourists are here for.”
Max nods, watching Charles carefully.
“Do you follow the racing?” Charles asks, smiling politely.
“On and off,” the waiter shrugs. “Never miss the 500 though.”
Charles smiles, ignoring Max’s questioning stare.
“It’s something special,” he agrees, nodding enthusiastically.
“Did you watch the race last year?”
Charles coughs, hiding a smile behind his hand. “I- yeah, most of it. I was a bit busy with work but managed to see the highlights. Crazy race.”
A bit busy with work . Max is going to kill him.
“It was nuts," the waiter agrees, oblivious. "I was happy for Marcus though. Good kid, you’d meet him around sometimes. Always has time for everyone. Good driver too.”
Max nearly chokes on his water. He shoots another glare across the table at Charles, who simply grins back at him, like he’s having the time of his life. Max isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.
“Yeah,” Charles nods, turning back to the waiter. “He deserved it.”
Max kicks him under the table and Charles seems to take the hint.
“I mean he seems like a really nice guy,” he continues, still smiling. “On TV anyway.”
The waiter nods, nonplussed, and leaves them to it. The minute he's out of earshot Charles crumbles, giggling hysterically.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” Max groans.
Charles laughs, eyes sparkling in the dim light.
“Ah Max, when will I get the chance to do this again?”
And this, this could be terrorising unsuspecting waiters in a rundown restaurant in Indianapolis. But it could also be this- the freedom of open road and anonymity. Nowhere to be and no one to tell them otherwise.
Max smiles, taking a sip of water. “Fair enough.”
Who is he to say no to that, anyway.
…
Charles showers first.
Max can hear the running water, loud in the quiet of the room, setting something in his stomach on edge. He fiddles around, flicking through local TV channels until it lands on a baseball game he can’t follow. Not that he’s paying much attention either way. He’s finding it hard to shake the image of Charles’ face, intense and unreadable, watching him earlier this afternoon.
The door to the bathroom opens with a soft click, and Max stands up, grabbing his toothbrush.
Charles brushes past, too close. He’s tied a towel around his waist but his chest is bare, Max swallows, tries to focus on anything else. Charles pauses, catches him staring. He’s so close, a droplet of water clinging stubbornly to his collarbone, heat radiating off him from the hot water.
Max flexes his fingers, breathes in deep for a moment. Inhale, exhale. Charles is watching him, expression unreadable under the dim lighting.
"I-" Max clears his throat, stepping away. "I'm gonna-" He gestures vaguely in what he hopes is the direction of the bathroom door.
Charles nods, already moving away to rummage in his suitcase, leaving Max to wonder if he imagined the entire exchange.
Max closes the bathroom door with shaking hands, turns the water cold as it will go, and tries to breathe. The cold helps, calms his racing thoughts and shaking hands. Blinking, he stands under the spray too long, watches the skin of his fingers wrinkle until he feels his heart rate return to normal. Self-control, or whatever.
Charles is already asleep when Max emerges from the bathroom, he turns off the light, quiet, and climbs into bed.
He falls asleep quickly, dreams of dark hair and fast cars.
…
They drive out to speedway in the morning. The air is cool and fresh, in a way that promises heat later. Charles is drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, soft and rhythmic.
Max glances out the window as the city gives way to the outskirts. It’s hard to believe this sleepy stretch of suburbia is home to one of the greatest spectacles in racing; years of history and heartbreak hidden behind neat detached houses and elm trees.
They park up and make their way to the track in silence. Charles has a nervous sort of energy to him this morning, more impatient than he was in Daytona. He ignores the displays on the way in, making a beeline for the track itself.
Max follows him, wonders when it became a habit. Maybe sometime between the ages of twelve and twenty five.
He’s never been to Indy, but he’s seen the track on TV enough times he thinks he could recall it in his sleep. Still, stepping out onto the hallowed tarmac he feels his breath catch, in spite of himself.
“Oh.”
He read somewhere once, that the Indy 500 is the largest annual non-religious gathering of humans on Earth. He’s not so sure about the non-religious part. Pour that much faith and prayers into one small stretch of road surely it has a right to call itself a cathedral. But that’s not the point. Looking around, it’s easy to believe.
“What do you think?” Charles asks, following his gaze.
"It's mental," Max says, because he's never really trusted ovals. Feels unnatural, like you're trapped on a hamster wheel, no open road in front of you.
"It's amazing," Charles breathes out, eyes lighting up.
Max can see it then; Charles, glorious and unburdened under the midwestern sun. He thinks it'd be something pretty special to watch. Just Charles and a car, nothing else. Nothing but raw speed and a healthy dose of insanity.
"You think you'd like to do it?"
"Maybe, one day," Charles grins, climbing up the banking.
"You'd win," Max says, and Charles turns to stare at him.
"What?" He shrugs, it's the truth. "In a spec series, nothing to hold you back. Of course you'd win."
No Ferrari to hold you back.
The comment hangs there, for a minute, itching to be heard. Max swears he can feel a prickle on the back of his neck, like any minute he'll turn around and the ghost of Enzo Ferrari will be standing there, glaring at him under the Indianapolis sunshine.
Ferrari, he thinks again. Just to taunt himself. Like Beetlejuice. He wonders if he's going crazy.
"Maybe I would," Charles concedes, shaking Max out of his stupor. It's reassuring in a way, that Charles hasn't lost sight of his own abilities despite the clusterfuck around him.
He smirks at Max. "Since you're too scared to race ovals."
It sounds, in Charles' own complicated way, like a promise. You're the only one that could ever catch me.
"I'm not scared," Max protests, though he does glance at the banking under him in suspicion. "I just don't like them."
Charles laughs, like he sees right through him.
"You can admit it, we're the only ones here."
They are. It’s early and quiet enough that they’re the only ones out on track, nothing else around but the spread of asphalt and Charles beside him. It makes him feel young, and reckless.
“Race you to the bottom,” he grins, returning the challenge from Daytona. He doesn’t wait for Charles’ answer, takes off running instead. They’ve been at this long enough he knows Charles will catch up.
They’ve been at this long enough he should’ve expected it too, when Charles barges into him, tackling him around the waist and sending them both tumbling to the ground.
“You fucker.” He’s laughing, trying to wrestle himself free.
“You had a head start!” Charles is grinning, trying to scramble up but Max sticks out a leg to trip him and he falls back to the ground.
“Prick,” Charles mutters, but he’s laughing.
Max imagines he can feel a disapproving stare, the racing gods shaking their heads; two kids messing in a cathedral. But Charles’ eyes are sparkling, laughter ringing loud as he lies back on the tarmac, and Max finds he doesn’t really care much, either way.
…
Eventually Max wanders off to walk around the track some more. When he returns Charles is still sprawled out on the banking, eyes closed, basking in the sun. His nose is going to burn, but Max isn't his mother.
On a whim he takes his phone out and snaps a picture.
When he glances back up Charles’ eyes are open, watching him. Like he sensed Max’s presence.
“Ready to go?” Charles asks, stretching lazily. If he caught Max staring he doesn’t mention it.
…
"Where are we going now?" Max asks, when they get back to the car.
"West," Charles says, like that's a whole answer.
"Why?"
"It's what you do," Charles shrugs. "You go west."
"Okay," Max says, because sometimes Charles is like this. Says things all poetic like they're gospel, like anyone has a clue what he's talking about.
What you do when what happens? Max could ask, but he thinks he might know the answer. And he doesn't want to touch that with a ten foot pole right now.
"Do you have a destination in mind, or?"
Charles is quiet, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. Max waits. He wonders when he’ll stop treating Charles like a skittish animal. Maybe when Charles stops acting like one.
“I want,” Charles says finally, “To drive the corkscrew.”
It takes Max a minute, because Charles seems determined to avoid using full sentences today.
“Laguna Seca?”
“Yes,” Charles says, a challenge in his voice. Like he’s daring Max to say something. To call him out on all of this.
But Max has learned a thing or two over the years, and he knows better than to rise to the bait when it’s Charles doing the baiting.
He shrugs, pulling up directions. “Sounds good.”
…
Charles relaxes once they start driving west, the tense line of his shoulders gradually loosening out. It’s weird, and it makes Max wonder what’s east, that he’s running from. Because call it what you want- and Max will call it a lot of things out loud to avoid voicing the obvious- but this looks and feels a hell of a lot like running away.
"I didn't realise how different it would feel,” Charles says, over lunch in a diner somewhere in southwest Illinois. “Where nobody knows us."
Max watches him carefully. He wonders if Charles has any idea what it's like, to exist outside of the goldfish bowl that is his life. An existence narrowed down between the Italy Monaco border, where everyone bleeds red and your business is national news. Flags flying after a win and knives sharpened after every loss. Where excellence is expected and the weight of history runs so deep it drowns anyone who tries to swim against it.
Max doesn’t really know what to say to any of that, so he steals one of Charles’ chips, knocking their legs together under the table.
Charles smiles at him, and it feels like enough.
…
They stay in a motel in northern Missouri, an hour or so east of Kansas. It’s quiet, nothing around for miles, no sound but the hum of the air con and faint clicking of late summer cicadas.
Max lies in the darkness, staring at the ceiling. He can hear Charles tossing and turning a few feet away, restless.
Sighing he turns on the bedside lamp.
"Charles?"
"Can't sleep," the muffled voice sounds frustrated.
Max looks over at him, in the dim light it’s hard to make out his features, but there’s a tightness to his posture that gives him away. He looks exhausted, and more than a little anxious. Max isn’t not sure what comes over him, then, maybe it's the late hour, he's really fucking tired. Maybe he's more worried about Charles than he'll let himself admit. Either way he finds himself shuffling over.
"You could-” He swallows, clears his throat. “There's room here, if that would help"
A beat, then;
"You don't mind?"
"I mean,” Max shrugs, “I'm not getting much sleep as it is."
"Sorry." Charles’ voice is quiet.
Max sighs. "Don't be sorry, come here."
He hears movement, the soft padding of feet, and then feels the bed dip beside him as Charles crawls in. It’s big enough that they don’t touch, entirely, but the heat of his body bleeds into the mattress, crawling up Max’s own body until he feels warm all over.
He figures there's time to freak out about this in the morning. Right now he's tired and Charles is warm beside him. He can feel his breathing evening out, soft huffs of air across his sternum. He falls asleep with the motion.
...
They wake up the next morning tangled together, Charles draped across his chest, breathing softly. Max freezes, scared to move and startle him, cause him to pull away.
“Morning,” Charles says, soft and clearly awake. He doesn’t sound freaked. Max relaxes.
“Morning,” Max replies, sinking back into the warmth.
Charles smiles, stifling a yawn. He doesn’t pull away.
…
It’s early when they get on the road, the sun still fresh in the sky. The morning air is cool as they stop to grab coffees, soft breeze whipping across Max’s face. Charles pulls a hoodie over his head, shivering slightly. His hair is getting long now, starting to curl at the edges. Over the past few days Max’s hair has been getting blonder and Charles’ skin is freckling. But they’re on a road trip, so that kind of feels like the point.
“Here,” Charles says, handing him a takeaway cup. His jumper is just over the edge of too big, hems falling over his wrists. His hair is fluffy and dishevelled, eyes bleary with sleep and Max aches with the desire to touch. Isn’t sure if he’d be allowed.
“Thanks,” he murmurs. Their fingers graze as he takes the cup.
He leans against the parking lot fence, sipping at his coffee as Charles fiddles with the map. The trees are tall and thick here, but they’ll taper off soon, leaving flat open planes in their wake. They’re heading west now, further and further into the wilderness. He stretches, takes a deep breath and lets the fresh air fill his lungs. It tastes an awful lot like freedom.
Max thinks of the restless look in Charles’ eyes, the tense line of his shoulders last night. He gets an idea.
"Will we be passing through Utah?"
Charles frowns, looking at the map. "We can, yeah. We'll have to head south at some point, but we can do that after."
"Let's do that so," Max says.
Charles is watching him curiously. "What's in Utah?"
“You’ll see.”
Max grins, watching the morning sun catch on Charles’ features. It’s early, and there’s open road ahead, they’ve got time. They’ve got this.
“Come on, let’s drive."