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End of the season, soaked in sweat and champagne, Max is tired but happy.
Charles has that wild, joyful look on his face that makes Max wary, but it's better than the unfiltered fury he's used to seeing. Max doubts he'll be smiling when he comes back from the stewards, but he'll enjoy it while it lasts.
Not for the first time, Max is struck by a bizarrely out-of-character desire to be closer to Charles.
He isn't sure why or how the distance between them became so pronounced. He isn't even sure if it's appropriate to go in for a handshake any more.
It's why he's surprised when he feels Charles' grip on the nape of his neck, strong and brotherly. "What a year," he laughs, way closer to Max than he expects.
He turns, trying to work out what Charles is playing at. He's met with a genuine smile, elation dancing in his rival's eyes, directed all at Max.
It makes him feel an odd sense of pride. It's them, against each other, yet always together. Always fighting, but side by side, and no one else comes close to understanding the intensity of it.
"Bring on the next," Max replies ruefully. If anyone will understand the need to keep racing, the monotony of time wasted outside of the car- it's Charles. He's wasted too much energy on hating him. In this moment, he's at peace with what's to come. And whatever reckless, dirty moves Charles will make on him over the course of their careers, he'll remember this moment in which it almost felt possible for them to be friends.
"You should go and be with your team and family. You'll spend enough time with me, wheel to wheel, next year," Max tells him in good humour, feeling slightly at a loss for what else to say.
Charles moves impulsively when he brings their lips together, with one hand cradling the back of Max's head, eyes closed as though there is something romantic about it.
As soon as his brain has chance to catch up, Max jerks away, reflexively wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Charles pales.
It pisses Max off that not only is unplanned, unexpected kissing something Charles considers to be appropriate, he's also making Max feel guilty for not reciprocating.
"Don't push your luck, mate," he mutters, more embarrassed than angry. A relieved grin spreads across Charles' face. Even Max can't stop the corner of his mouth from twitching up into a smirk. While they're so different in so many ways, they share this madness.
Going by the strange, warm feeling pooling in the pit of his stomach, his 'desire to be closer' includes as close as physically possible.
You were right, dad, Max thinks dully. Your son is a fag.
This- whatever Charles just tried to initiate- is a road he doesn't want to think about going down. It's a road he never dreamed would be compatible with his career; something his father convinced him was disgusting and depraved. But it's just one more thing to bring them closer.
"I'll see you, Max," Charles says mildly, as though he didn't just try to make a pass at his closest rival and perceived enemy.
"Yeah, see you," Max answers pointedly, before Charles can see his face get too red, raising his eyebrows in disbelief.
He once dreaded racing Charles, fighting him for championships, growing old as his rival. He's too chaotic, too unpredictable, and the way the press demonises Max, and lionises Charles, is infuriating.
Now he welcomes it. Tables turn. Theirs will go down as some of the greatest battles in F1 history, and it's nice knowing that no matter how controversial he might be, Charles will always one-up him in the end.