Chapter Text
Max didn’t expect to browse twitter one day, to see Charles gingerly holding an absolutely tiny puppy in his hands. Shoveled into his hoodie pocket, eyes shiny and expression full of content, Max can’t help the awed gasp that escapes his mouth.
He’s not usually one to fawn over dogs, being a proud cat dad, but the small pup nestled in the comfort of Charles’ clothes was a truly heart-warming sight.
Especially with the tender kisses Charles endlessly gives the little creature, and Max feels an irrational jealousy piling in. If only that were him—-
Gosh, he needs to get a grip.
Without much of an afterthought, Max immediately rings up Charles, greeting his glamorous face despite the tiredness under his eyes. He seems to be sitting on a couch, comfortably sprawled out.
”Hey Max! I have someone to introduce to you,” Charles giggles, angling his camera towards his stomach, where the sight of his newly adopted puppy greets him, nuzzling snugly against the fabric of Charles’ hoodie.
”Adorable,” Max whispers, to the both of them, but only he has to know that. “Is it a he or she?”
”He,” Charles proclaims proudly. “I shall hereby name him Leo Leclerc. Why have children when puppies exist?”
They share a round of laughter, Max fondling over Charles’ ecstatic smile and the innocent puppy resting on his lap. “We’ll have to introduce him to Sassy and Jimmy someday. They’re always kind of protective like that.”
”Mhm,” Charles agrees, gently stroking Leo’s ear with his deft fingers. “Are you a good boy, Leo?”
And as Charles giddily plays with his new puppy, eyes formed into crescents and dimples ever so prevalent, Max cannot resist the wrench in his heart at the sight of the duo. Cuteness overload, indeed.
A minute of comfortable silence fills the ambience, before Charles speaks up again. “So, tell me about your day?”
Max does so, dutily. Because he is never to disobey Charles Leclerc.
—*—
Miami is a breath of fresh air. In a literal sense, but not quite metaphorically. Max can’t even take a stroll around the city without being intercepted every five steps by either an aspiring celebrity or a honestly demented ‘fan’.
It flatters him to be honest, but he also found himself with increasing annoyance with every stop. After his brief walk around the city, which felt more like an interrogation, Max resorted to staying in his hotel room for the entirety of the day.
Instead, he whips out his phone and searches for a contact well on the top of his list.
Maximilian
What are you up to?
Just touched grass, never again
;-;
Chuck Lechair
Good morning to you too
Ferrari has PR duties
I’m not sure how to feel about all this blue…
Maximilian
Oh come on now
Just admit it’s ugly as hell
Chuck Lechair
Excuse YOU, Verstappen
Better take that back right now
(can’t help but agree, never tell ferrari that)
Maximilian
Or what?
Chuck Lechair
No more free ice cream for you
>:(
Maximilian
OKAY I’m sorry alright?
Didn’t have to go so far
Despite his genuine concern for his ice cream supply, Max can’t ignore the fact that Charles has just brought out his first real smile of the day. He can only hope the same goes for the latter.
Chuck Lechair
Fried chicken at 1?
Our trainers don’t have to know B)
Maximilian
Sure
Come over?
Room 116
The heart reaction Charles sends totally doesn’t send Max into a flurry of schoolboy giggles, kicking his feet and consequently the blankets onto the floor.
Later, when Charles appears at his doorstep with a huge take out box, he can’t be bothered to quell his utter infatuation. Especially as Charles starts to scroll through his phone and animatedly show Max every picture of Leo with endless endearment.
Max doesn’t take much for granted. He just hopes nothing can take away his happiness, for once.
To be in second place is to be the first loser , was the saying drilled into his head every since he stepped foot into a cart. That same mentality was what gave him his World Championship, sucking away every inkling of friendliness and content.
As the years progressed, the pressure of being on top slowly eased with the invitation of Charles into his close proximity, distance from his father, yelling matches becoming less and less common, Max can finally admit to himself that it’s alright. That he won’t be abandoned or neglected for a single flaw in his canvas of sheer victory.
Especially since it’s Lando who ends up taking first place, after half a decade, finally quenching the opportunity to see the top step of the podium.
For one, the Brit most definitely deserves it. His mood brightens even more as he realizes Charles is third place; a perfect podium. He can only begin to imagine the night party to come.
As Lando zooms away in his designated car for the podium, Max stands patiently, willing the kart driver to wait just a couple minutes for Charles to finish his media duties. From a distance, he watches how Charles charms the interviewer with such seamless effort, all tousled hair and gleaming smiles.
Charles jogs over with such a false hurry, it brings a stupid smile to Max’s face. Unlike his attitude on track, he’s fine with patience on this occasion. They did promise each other ten to fifteen more years of racing. He most certainly doesn’t take notice of how Charles doesn’t even glance at his designated vehicle, slotting comfortably next to Max.
On their ride to the podium, they greet a crowd of fans with matching waves, conversation settling naturally over them. Finally, a Ferrari that Max doesn’t mind sharing the podium with. Someone Max can knock knees without discomfort and debrief without any worries of whether they’re listening. The human embodiment of perfection in the form of Charles Leclerc.
Being with Charles has always come so easily.
So he just smiles, trying to be subtle about his clear infatuation, as Charles recounts every fumble and each turn and oh, he really just can’t stop. The levels of yapping mastery shared in one small kart were remarkable.
Max’s of course seen the memes online about his apparent penchant for debriefing. He just wants to yell it from the balcony of the podium, that he only does so for people who genuinely like to listen. On that short list of his, happens to be Charles.
They both proceed to drench Lando in champagne. Max follows Lando to a hustling bar and proceeds to down shots equal to his blood. Charles opens his hotel room to greet Max with a bottle of water and medicine in hand.
At every turn, comes the other. Like people always say, there’s a fine line between love and hate. Max thinks he just torched the line into ashes.
——————————————
Charles’ POV (Finally. Just realised how little of that there is)
Two laps towards the end of the race, Charles’ vision was already on the brink of opaqueness. His every limb trembling with such an indescribable sensation of adrenaline, tears clouding his visor as the streets of his childhood zoom past.
None of that can compare to the sheer relief Charles felt as he crossed the chequered flag amongst the sea of red.
His home fucking race. Of the shared laughter on the balconies of his childhood house, watching cars zoom by with glee, entranced by the vermillion of what would be his legacy.
“YESSS!” Charles thinks that’s quite a beautiful testament to his nightmare two years prior. Who knew all their problems could be solved by a balding French man.
And oh, the glory.
Climbing out of the monocoque with shaky hands, the long awaited rapture of crew and fans all around flooded his senses, every direction filled with another smiling face or reverent cheer.
Even media duties could never make Charles’ smile dissipate. There’s a certain type of emotion one feels when they’ve defied all odds. One even the strongest of emotions — sadness and grief — cannot assmiliate. It’s fucking beautiful.
So as he catches Max’s gaze at the post-race interview, those cerulean eyes filled with such vicarious. In his opinion, they’ve come a long way from awkward shoulder pats and dabs.
”Finally, mate.”
Charles just stares back at Max with reverence beyond any trophy. “Yeah.” Then, just out of the camera's reach, he reaches for Max’s hand; a single squeeze, and a subtle wink.
What’s the point of constantly being called attractive if he doesn’t have someone to impress?
His efforts aren’t in vain, as he catched the faint blush dancing across Max’s cheeks.
Just like his dedication towards racing, Charles can’t seem to pinpoint when his view on the Dutchman went from bordering murderous to such deep interest.
So he’d tried to worm him way into Max’s life — to be regarded with more than a lousy handshake.
And it just seems that his plan has sprouted into fruition, as Max tenderly wraps his arms around him in a delicate hug, tousled hair fanning against his neck. The scarlet carnations in his heart sprout into full bloom.
So. He’s won Monaco now. He just has to win over Max.