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Look, it is not like Charles had much choice. He was not the only one complaining about that, he knew, he lurked around the internet too much to know he was not the only one tired by the fact Max Verstappen wore that stupid Red Bull hat every day.
To be fair to Max, he never wore them when he was at home or out with friends or whatever. But giving 85% of his time was passed inside a race track, he could not blame people for thinking he slept with the damn thing on.
Charles wore one himself a lot too, it was unavoidable during certain protocols and, you know, the sun. It helped them a lot to block the sun. They were athletes!
However, Max Verstappen took it too far. And the more Charles read about it on the internet and started to recall things on his mind, the more he understood the deeper meaning of such clamour. They not only wanted to get rid of all caps for the sake of getting rid of the ugly thing, they mostly wanted to look at Max’s hair.
And Charles had to give it to them. That was a fucking view. One he had, more than anyone, the most opportunities to see and admire; Max freeing his great hair around, that is. He dated the man after all. Albeit secretly but he could confirm the Dutchman did not wear the thing to bed, for sure. Nor to the bath.
(He tried to keep it on during sex once. Charles kissed him stupid and threw the thing away at once.)
So see, people were claiming for his help with the matter. They might want to obsess all over Charles’ property and it might have clocked him the wrong way some things he read about Max with his sandy, wild hair. Still. At any rate, Charles could be a bastard, but he was not cruel, if he could give a glimpse of his boyfriend to please them, he could try. It was only fair.
First, he needed to assess the situation.
He was with Max in Red Bull’s facilities, inside his room. He had to sneak in, no biggie, they were kinda used to it. With said hats in hands, by the way, a long pile of them on the desk for poor Max to sign. And somehow he was wearing one just like, while it was just the two of them, and it was night. Was Charles so used to seeing him that way that he never realized how absurd that was? Huh… interesting, Charles noticed, resting on the little sofa beside the desk.
“Babe,” Charles called for Max, who sat in front of the table, a task in hands, very focused.
“Yes?”
“Can you lend me your hat?”
And Max did not stop to wonder what on Earth could Charles possibly want with Red Bull merch, so he simply and wordlessly threw one from the pile on top of Charles’ lap. It landed exactly where the Dutchman wanted and that was not what Charles meant.
“The one you are wearing, Max,” he explained.
That made Max stop. “Why?”
And Charles shrugged. That was reason enough to Max, who was known to indulge Charles shamelessly in many things. He took the thing out and again threw it to Charles, this time aiming it at his face. The Monegasque caught it mid-air, glaring at Max, who smirked in return before going back to signing.
Having the Red Bull cap at hands and Max in front of him, blond hair Max, soft, shiny, thick locks Max, beautiful, his lover, it clicked. They were right, strangers on the internet were right, this was always much better. What was wrong with Max? Perhaps he could prove something.
“Hey,” Charles called for Max again. “Look at me.”
The Dutchman sighed and turned his head. His Charles, lazy, lazy Charles, all spread out on the tiny sofa, had his most cheerful smile in place while wearing Max’s Red Bull cap. 33 suited him. As did navy blue.
Max fought back a smile. “You switching teams?”
“Already did that for you, baby.” He clicked his tongue and winked. “But not changing Formula 1 team just yet. How do I look?” And he posed.
Max snorted. “Dumb. More than usual.”
Charles frowned, he was getting off track here but Max’s possessive streak was hot at its best and annoying at its worst, so really, that did nothing for him? He needed to prove that another time. Anyway, that was a good response, Charles took the opportunity to say his mind about the cap.
“You are right, it is dumb. Your hat is quite ugly,” he said, taking the piece out and making his way to throw it on the bed.
“My hat is not dumb,” Max defended, incredulous. Charles wanted to cut him and say, yes, it is, but Max was already speaking. “Your dumb face makes it ugly.”
Charles referred to laughing at the absurdity of their conversation and how defensive Max got. “My face makes everything look fantastic and you know it.” When Max did not agree with him (internally, Charles knew he did), the Monegasque continued, softer this time, “sorry, mon amour, I did not mean to make fun of your hat.”
Max perhaps wanted to give in and smile lovingly at Charles, only, contrary to the expected, he looked very unimpressed at his boyfriend, and dryly said, “if you are not gonna use it, give it back to me.”
Now, that was harsh. He was not in a good mood apparently, having to sit there doing something he loathed which was PR stuff; not that having Charles being a little bitch with a goal in mind helped much, that could not be easy. He needed a new approach.
Charles silently put the hat on the table and Max promptly wore it back. What was it? He knew Max was not ashamed of his hair or anything, he took great care of it, his hair smelled delicious, and he did not mind when he was not covering it. That was during his offseason time, though, so perhaps he was insecure about his appearance in front of the cameras?
“Maxy,” Charles purred. “Do you know that I love you and think you are extremely handsome?” Max didn’t even dignify Charles with a response, only hummed in response. So Charles pressed on. “I think your hair looks amazing no matter what, too.”
The blond started to stretch, popping the bones on his spine. “I know it does,” he agreed.
Ah well… That was good. Honestly, that theory was lame, Charles knew from the beginning.
There were many ways this could go, really.
“How many of those do you own?” Charles asked, pointing with his feet at the lot.
“I own very few, the team owns the rest,” he answered. He finally looked in Charles’ direction. “You must own a lot of them, too, Charles, why the questions suddenly?”
He owned very few of them? What was that supposed to mean? That was just not true, no way Max used the same hat all the time. He needed to find out more about the system in place.
Charles shook his head. “Nothing, baby, just curious. I will let you get back to your work.”
He sent him an air kiss just in case.
During the minutes of silence, Charles kept his sharp gaze on his boyfriend’s figure. Would it be possible that on Max’s contract, there was a clause on how many hours a day he had to use merch? Was that why he was wearing them exceedingly?
For real, he would not put it behind Red Bull Racing to do something of the sort...
“You are staring,” Max said, without looking up, at the same time Charles wondered out loud, “Are you being forced to use them?”
“What?” Max halted.
“What?”
Max looked at him funny. “What are you on about, Charles? Jesus.”
Quick, think of something to distract him. So Charles bit his lip and opened his legs a little. Like a dame showing her ankles, only sluttier. “Nothing,” he murmured, the epitome of innocence. “I am bored, just thinking that we could…” and slightly looked at the bed against the other wall.
Which was enough to make everything on the Dutchman’s brain stop functioning. Gosh, he was so easy.
He yelped when Max threw himself at him on that very tiny sofa.
.
.
Was he on a mission? Yes, Charles was on a mission alright. He would be the internet’s lord and saviour. He would convince Max to quit caps! But he wanted to do it without Max knowing, little by little easing the way hats made their way to Max’s hands. No mentions of insecurities or whatsoever, he would simply notice the wonderland a head not wearing any caps could do to a person.
Which was easier said than done, mostly because while he could ask Max to take them off when it was just the two of them, he needed him to do the same during GP weekends, in front of the cameras so everyone could see and stop judging his boyfriend’s sense of fashion. And that complicated matters, firstly because he and Max tried to be very careful with their interaction in front of people so as to not tip anyone off of their affair. Secondly, Max made it harder by appearing magically with a new cap the minute Charles turned his back for a minute.
He tried different tactics each time. Once in the cool-down room, he accidentally poured his water all over Max’s belongings. The man infuriatingly used the hat anyway, allegedly the cold water chilled the fabric against his head, making it pleasant to wear. Whatever, Charles would not have won that one, they had to use a special cap on the podium anyway.
Some other times he plain stole the thing, although not in plain sight--but he doubted he was being as careful as he thought he was. He went to hug Max once and knocked the thing out of his head on the way.
“Oops,” he said, without apologizing.
When Max tried to reach for it, Charles’ grip on his arm tightened and he animatedly pointed at something on the grandstand to show Max, distracting the Dutchman.
Silly things like hiding them became common, troubling Charles in the process of being creative and slick to lie through his teeth each time. The lying part was easier.
Once, after one grandiose celebration between Red Bull driver and crew, people were crowding Max, jumping around, and brave Charles approached the mass simply to tap his hands against the top of heads until he found the one that belonged to his boyfriend. He threw the cap up, far away as possible before untwining himself from the people. He could see Max looking around, hand on his hair, searching for the person who messed with him.
When they were alone, it was the easiest, Charles had all kinds of excuses to play with Max’s hair, to kiss him and run his fingers straight through the locks of hair, to take them off without any explanation.
He checked his social media to see if his efforts were being praised, and some people were picking up the increase of appearances Max made with no hat on.
Still… it was tiresome. The man had the ability to have one in hand in no time after whatever scheme Charles put in place. He thought he had only Max to blame, but the Dutchman actually had the help of the Red Bull personnel to keep his stock of hats high.
Honestly, would Charles sneak inside Red Bull and burn them all? Probably. Should he? Doubtfully, even if tempting.
He felt swimming against the tide, always the dramatic.
Someone was sure to be cultivating them, an entire farm of 33 Red Bull caps. They were limitless, it seemed. Charles recalls an instance where Max decided to give away his cap to a fan in the middle of the paddock, his press officer beside him as they stopped briefly to talk to the fan. Charles swore he looked away one second and suddenly the press officer made a new hat out of thin air as it appeared on her hand, and immediately gave one for Max to wear.
What the fuck, Charles rubbed his eyes. She did not have a cap on her hands before. And if she had, that was also madness? Like did Max make the poor woman run all day behind him with a collection of the thing in hands?
Max needed help… And so did Charles. He needed an insider.
.
.
When he approached Max’s press conference officer, Vicky, smiling politely at her, she wasn’t charmed.
“Leclerc.” It was her greeting.
“Hi Vicky,” he said timidly. He suspected why Vicky was wary of him. Perhaps, only perhaps she had caught him and Max fooling around Red Bull’s garage once? Charles was not sure.
She cut the chase and went straight to the point. “I don’t know where Max is.”
“Oh, I am not here to see Max,” Charles answered quickly. Were they that obvious? He supposed they were, since she caught them in the act.
“That is a first.” And she smiled.
She was mocking him. Charles slit his eyes. “I want to speak to you, actually.”
“Yes? How can I help you?”
And Charles did not think this through. What was he going to say to her precisely? Please, help me get rid of Max’s hat? Please stop offering him new ones like you are offering him drugs? The truth to it was that there was no way to ask for her help without giving themselves away.
Well, screw it, right? She caught Charles on his knees once, there was little dignity left.
“You know how you keep Max’s obsession with hats well-fed? Could you please not do that anymore?” he blurted out. Yes, all at once, so he did not have time to take it back.
So he explained how people on the internet were thirsting after his boyfriend and at first he was really jealous of the entire situation but he started to see their point of view and even share their concerns and beliefs. You see, Max with no cap is a rare sight, think of it as spotting a unicorn in the wild. You need to approach it slowly so as to not scare it, and be humbled in its presence.
He just wanted to make unicorn sightings something more common.
Vicky looked like she wanted to be anywhere but there as Charles waxed poetics about Max’s hair.
“So you see, I need your help,” he finished.
“You are truly unbelievable, Charles,” Vicky declared, albeit stunned by his craziness but nonetheless charmed by his determination and clumsy words. His intentions were good. The Monegasque smiled proudly at her tone of voice, sooner or later everyone caved, his charms were unbeatable. She looked fondly at him. “I see what Max sees in you.”
That took Charles by surprise, and heat rose to his cheeks quickly.
“Thanks?” he offered, faltering.
She rolled her eyes, spell broken. “Yeah, yeah,” she waved her hands dismissively, “I’ll see what I can do.”
.
.
Having Vicky on his team sure helped him; not by much (“He requests them, Charles, there is so much I can do”) but it was still welcomed. The thing was, he thought he could wear Max down and win in the end by the sheer force of his stubbornness. Charles should have known better that if someone were to match his temper, it would be his boyfriend. How could Max not notice the positive side of not wearing a cap every so often? Did that thing have to be glued to his head all the time?
Charles ought to simply shave his head and be done with it. No hair, no complication.
But imagining anyone else near those golden hair strands drove him insane. Plus, running his hand through that hair was so nice, it was incredibly suave and luscious. He could venture his hands all over Max’s scalp relentlessly if the man let him.
He could not give up. The point was… Charles was running out of ideas of how to steal those things without Max noticing. He was mostly okay with the fact he was caught on camera once or twice dismissing hats, but whatever.
He was doing the man a favour, mind you, so Max was lucky he had a good car to compete in and always be close to Charles during qualifying and podium celebrations. More than once Charles got to their little table after qualifying, saw Max’s hat (plus a towel, water and his watch there) and sneakily knocked the hat on the ground. Sometimes Max noticed the thing was on the floor, others he was too pissed off to squat down and pick up, or too exhilarated to care.
The times Charles’ insistence paid off, he could smile at his boyfriend and at the camera, thinking people at home were glad they were seeing a capless version of Max Verstappen. You are welcome, world.
This time though, there were no shenanigans. He looked Max up and down as he approached Charles, right after someone else got pole and he and Max completed the top 3. They were waiting for the driver to speak to official media, and Charles had enough.
He hastily took the Red Bull cap off Max’s head.
“Hey!” the Dutchman exclaimed.
Charles pretended to analyze the thing, turning it around in his hands (he had confirmed a long time ago they did not come with glue in it). Max was taming the mess of hair on top of his head as Charles flipped the cap around, and the Monegasque had a hard time keeping his eyes at bay.
“Your cap looks bigger than mine,” he commented offhandedly. Because it did, and because he had to stall.
“That is because it is a flat brim hat,” Max explained.
Charles rolled his eyes, yes, yes, that made it even uglier. Why couldn’t Max see it?! Charles wanted to say he looked stupid because of it, but that was not true. The hat was stupid on itself and Max was amazing, yeah. Charles was stupider, it seemed, because he said:
“I kinda want one for myself.” And he might have looked at Max through his long lashes and the sun creeping at Max’s shoulder might have made him wink.
If Max was surprised by his advances, he did not show.
“Is that so?” Max marvelled. His rosy lips formed a cheeky grin. “I did not know you were a fan.”
“How come? I am your biggest fan,” Charles quipped, eyes shining.
“You want it autographed as well?” he offered, voice slow and promising, offering something entirely different in the process.
Charles focused on his parted lips, red cheeks from the heat, dishevelled blond hair, and he swore he could simply eat the man.
The camera decided to pan to them at that moment so yeah, they were potentially flirting on the official broadcasting now.
“Of course, you can sign it later for me, can’t you?”
Max looked down at his hands, clutching the hat. He had no intention of giving it back to him, but the Dutchman did not know that.
He let his gaze lazily slide up to meet Charles’ eyes. “Keep it, it’s yours,” he smoothly said. Bastard. “A present to the president of my fan club.” And definitely winked at Charles before walking away. It was his time to be interviewed.
Charles was hot all over, he was blushing furiously cause fuck they did that in front of the cameras and, as he looked down at the stupid hat on his hand, it was worth it.
.
.
During another opportunity, he was on the TV pen with Pierre and Max, himself completing the podium. That was a race win, it was too much at once so he had good excuses to forget about his obsession to make Max appear decent. Mia was close to him while he waited for his time with a Brazilian reporter. He crossed his arms and finally had time to look for Max again.
The Dutchman was, to Charles’ surprise, with no cap on. His insistence was finally paying off!
He wanted to wave at the man, but in time remembered some camera would catch him in action. Well, settle for dreaming about the man it is, then.
Next to Max, as per usual, appeared Vicky. She looked directly at Charles, and relief quickly soothed her expression. She tapped the blond on the shoulder, directing him to the next interviewer. Having distracted Max, she came in long steps to where Charles was with Mia.
Mia was friends with her and even she looked a bit puzzled. Charles was bracing himself for some bad news.
“What is it?” she asked Vicky.
The woman gave them both no response, simply got close enough to block any curious eyes and hurriedly shoved a Red Bull cap into Charles’ hand. What the fuck. His eyes winded.
“W-what?” Charles panicked.
“This is my last one, I have nowhere to hide it now if he asks for it. Suit yourself.”
And left. Just like that. Why was she speaking in codes, for crying out loud. They looked pretty stupid.
He supposed she was helping him and since it was his plan and his responsibility, he had to find a way.
“Where are you going with a Red Bull hat?” Mia asked by his side, making his head turn around in whiplash, a deer caught in the headlights.
“Nowhere,” he answered quickly, giving her a withering smile. To accentuate his craziness, he opened his fireproofs briefly and hid the cap inside his overalls. He patted the place until the hat slid to his belly. Fuck, that still looked awkward.
“I won’t even ask, Charles,” Mia said in the end.
He cringed. She better not get involved, indeed.
When the Dutchman passed in front of him on his way out, he smiled sweetly, looking dashing and lovely. Charles sighed, then rolled his eyes when Vicky gave him a thumbs-up behind Max’s back.
Did he proceed to endure the entire press conference with that thing bothering him inside his overalls? Yes. Did Max stay the entire time free of hats? Also yes.
Charles was leaving the press conference room with Pierre, chatting. Max left in a hurry, nodding at Charles as to say ‘I will text you later’. He would, and they would find a way place to fuck each other’s brains out. He won, so he had the preference to choose what they would do in bed. Plans were being formed when Pierre cleared his throat.
“Why are you smiling like that?”
Couldn’t Pierre give him a break? He just wanted to celebrate. “I am just happy, can’t a man be happy?”
Pierre arched his eyebrows, not buying it. “Sure, let’s go with ‘happy’,” the Frenchman emphasized the word with air quotes.
“You know Pierre,” the Monegasque stopped, mockingly judging his best friend from head to toe, “you are very judgmental for someone who claims to be French.”
Pierre barked a laugh. “Oh, Charles, how I missed your nonsense. I will just get some water, wait for me here.”
He saw the man marching to a person offering drinks, and both of them entered a side room, possibly to get some glasses. Charles began to feel the heaviness of his bones dragging him to a place to sit. The chair was comfortable and he finally, finally had the opportunity to open his overall and take the cap out. Damn, that thing was hard against his abdomen all afternoon. He took his own Ferrari cap and messily ran his fingers through his hair, already dry and sticky from sweat and fake champagne. He closed his eyes, resting his head against the wall, feeling content. Pierre took longer than expected; Charles got himself on his feet when he listened to footsteps finally approaching, the Frenchman thanking the personnel.
He tamed his hair one more time and put his hat back on, getting up. “Let’s go, I need to take a shower.”
Pierre was bringing a cup of water for him too, sweet as ever. Charles almost jumped out of his skin when the man started to have a fit, choking on the water he was having for himself.
When he had some air in his lungs again, he spat, “why the hell do you have a Red Bull cap on?! Are you trying to start a PR nightmare for yourself?”
That was when Charles noticed the cap he had on his hand was his own, red, Ferrari logo, while the one on his head, blue, bigger, straighter, was Max’s. He took it off as if the thing was on fire, and threw it on the floor.
Pierre looked up at him like he had two heads.
“Holy shit,” he hissed, looking at the thing lying on the carpet. He should probably pick it up though, Max wouldn’t like it… When he looked up, Pierre was also looking at the cap, he was stunned, and also a bit afraid. Suddenly, his eyes comically widened, pointing at it.
“And it has a 33 on it!” he gasped like he was in a soap-opera.
Charles was about to ask why the number would make any difference, when yeah, being Max’s made it worse.
“Fuck,” he breathed. His heart was pounding, he would not know enough words in English or any language for that matter to explain that one to the media. “Thank you, Pear.” And settled for silence since he had little shame.
Pierre looked at him expectantly, waiting for some explanation. He soon thought otherwise, sighing.
“You know what, I don’t wanna hear it, God only knows what is going on between you and Max. But please, Charles, keep it in your pants. Literally.”
What? “It has nothing to do--” but Pierre turned around and left the building.
Great.
.
.
So yeah, he was starting to have a collecting of RBR caps with him, some were the original blue, others were bright orange (he could NOT get seen with that one), and as Max was having fun with designs this year damn him of all years to do that, Charles could say he was the only person around to have one of each.
He did not have the courage to throw them away, which was worse, and a failure of his character. He vowed to burn them all, Goddamn it, and now he could only imagine Max’s face if his precious hats were to be burned. So with no real courage (he had the spite, at least) to dispose of them and not knowing what else to do, he might have started to keep them inside his motorhome. Hell, he had a bunch of them. And they started to appear all over the place! There was Charles eating something and bam!, a pink cap was beside the microwave.
(The pink one was actually Charles’ favourite… He wore it sometimes when no one was around, it was very cute. He took some great selfies wearing it, and some wearing only it. One day he would send the pictures to Max and make him drool a little.)
In the end, he lost track of how many he stole and had no idea what to do to them.
They were multiplying by the numbers by the look of it, too.
Charles looked at them suspiciously one day, wondering if it was possible they were reproducing inside his motorhome, little 33 hats babies. He shuddered.
Nevermind he was fed up with the situation, his post-race brain was already slow on the uptake. He was tired, he tried his finest and P4 was the best he could achieve that day, and he needed to rest. Max on the other hand was particularly in a good mood for someone who was only P3.
(“I finished the race, Charlie,” he had explained earlier, smiling brightly with his trophy in hand. He was cute. Charles shrugged, okay, he could give that to him, he supposed, since they were in Italy.
“I want to celebrate later,” and winked. But all Charles could focus on that minute was not the prospect of being fucked, but the ugly hat pooling the sweat on Max’s hair along his hairline, and how good that hair would look wild and matted.
He sighed again. He would never win that battle, would he? “I will see you later, then.”)
He was waiting for Max to knock on his door so they could go out together. He felt himself closing his eyes briefly.
A knock on the door. Charles opened his eyes promptly and shook his head. He needed to get a grip otherwise he would never hear the end of it were for him to fall asleep in the middle of sex.
“Knock, knock, Charlie,” Max’s muffled voice came from behind the door.
Charles rolled his eyes. He was still in a good mood. That was weird. He was weird. “You are weird,” said Charles as he opened the door.
“It is good to see you too, love,” the blond greeted back, kissing the Monegasque on the cheek. He made his way inside the motorhome, very much used to the mess Charles could make.
Having Max in the middle of his habitat would always warm his heart, the stark contrast of what their relationship used to be. He loves him so much, his tired brain could come up with a sob any minute now because of it.
The Dutchman was also aware of the state Charles could get sometimes, so he sat on the sofa and started to untie his boots as if nothing was amiss. Including the fact one of his RBR hats was behind the sofa.
“I want to take a shower first, Charles. Join me?”
Charles sighed heavily, pouting a little. “You go ahead, Maxy, I showered already.”
Max huffed a small laugh, infatuated with Charles’ mood. “Schatje, I know you are tired, but let’s go out to eat. Please?”
The brunette was nodding a long way before Max could ask. “Of course, love.”
And see, he should have said ‘go ahead, I will take your spare clothes for you so you don’t have the chance to get inside my room and find out the stock of 33 Red Bull hats I have been hiding from you’. His melted brain, however, saw Max getting up, kissing him gently on the lips before murmuring ‘I won’t take long, baby’ and making a beeline to Charles’ bathroom.
Charles sagged back, daydreaming about whatever in the minutes of peaceful silence that followed as Max quickly showered.
Before much longer, however, the silence was broken by Max was exclaiming “‘what the fuck, Charles?” from the end of the corridor.
“What happened?” Charles swiftly got up and made his way to his room and, fuck, saw the door ajar, Max on the threshold, wearing his towel, water dripping on the floor, glaring at the pile of hats on Charles’s bed.
It was a respectful collection, you know. Various of the traditional ones, at least one for each of the commemorative ones. It had been a long season, he noted.
He fidgeted with his hands and stopped alongside Max on the doorframe. Yep, that was it.
“Surprise?” he offered, weakly.
“Charles, what the hell is this?” he sounded a bit amused, the idiot.
He had half a mind to say to Max the Dutchman should be glad Charles was keeping up with all the hats he left behind when he visited, but both knew that one wouldn’t stick, Charles was the messy one of the relationship.
Now, Charles could probably bullshit his way out of that one still; yes, even that one. Yet, he was hungry and strained and the masterful plan of his would land him in a big problem with Ferrari soon.
“Look, Maxy, you know I love you no matter what?” he started, candid.
Max only groaned, stopping him there. “Don’t start you flattering, it won’t work this time.”
“Just let me finish, you ogre!” Charles said, stumping on the floor. “Look, I did not do this because I find them ugly or anything,” he lied, “I am just trying to look out for you!”
“That makes no sense,” Max replied flatly.
Fucker. Charles was trying to mind his feelings! Why was Max wearing only a towel in such a critical situation anyway? Charles was having a hard time ignoring his boner amidst this confusion.
“Just tell me already, Charles,” Max pressed on, his ‘I’ll know if you lie’ tone, “I noticed you have been taking my RBR caps away, I wasn’t sure before but voila.”
Damn?! “Have you?!”
“Yes,” Max agreed simply, hands on his hips. Ah, his torso was so nice. “I gathered you might be selling them online or something, not building a fucking cult.” Max looked at the hats with a guarded expression.
“Why would I do that? That is crazy!”
Oh. Oh. That was actually not a bad idea. Sell them, that is. Fuck, he could have gotten rid of all of them sooner and none of this would have happened. He did not dare to say to Max his initial plan was to burn them all.
“Well, why are you stealing them in the first place? That is crazy,” he sensed.
Nothing left but the truth, it seemed.
Charles gathered Max’s hands in his and was as straightforward as he could be.
“Baby, I mean it when I say I love you no matter what, but Max, you have to stop using these ugly hats so often!”
The mix of confusion and exasperation painted the Dutchman's face before he settled for defensiveness:
“I don’t use them--”
“Yes, you do! You know you do!” Charles asserted, laughing lightly. (At least Max didn’t refute the ugly part.)
“And what, to stop that you have been hiding them from me?” he inquired, incredulous. When Charles nodded like a child caught doing something wrong, the blond rolled his eyes just as warmth filled his voice. “You are so dramatic. You could have gotten into serious problems with Ferrari for it. Why didn’t you simply ask me?”
Charles had a pained expression on his face. Ah yes, that sounded much simpler.
“I was trying to be mindful, you seem to like them so much,” he relented lamely.
“Charles, I am just used to wearing them, nothing special about it. Like my watch, you see it all the time with me because of sponsor obligations,” he explained.
“But… Are you sure?”
Max chuckled, getting closer. “Of course I am.” When Charles still looked unconvinced, he held his shoulders. “There is no personal, obscure reason why I use those caps, Charles, I promise you. Whatever you might be thinking, it is not true.”
The Monegasque smiled back and hugged his waist, bringing them close together, chest against chest, warm and porcelain skin against his shirt. “I am sorry for lying to you,” he said against his neck.
Max pecked him on the nose, hugging his ribs firmly. “No worries, it was kinda fun seeing you coming up with excuses to steal them, actually.”
Was that a good time to explain to Max about the strangers on the internet? Probably not. Nonetheless, Charles was keen to make him see the ulterior motive as to why RBR caps were a sin.
“You know,” he muttered, bringing one of his hands to cradle Max’s jaw.
“What?” The tip of Max’s tongue was moistening his lips, making Charles almost whimper.
“I am just thinking you should wear it less often during the season,” he husked sensually. Blue eyes penetrating green ones. “I prefer to see your hair, I love it so much, Max. I want to see it all the time, that’s why. You look gorgeous when you are on that podium, right after a victory, your hair a mess, so fucking sexy.”
It wasn’t exactly on Charles’ plan to charm him to have his way. Yet, how come he did not do that immediately?
And might be that Max was dizzy with arousal, still he managed a word out.
“You think I don’t see what you are doing, Charlie, but I don’t care. Whatever you want, babe, whatever you want,” he mumbled incoherently.
Charles would hold that against him for sure, but for now, he was too occupied untying the towel from Max’s waist.
“I love you, chéri, you are perfect for me, thank you.”
To crown it all, they walked entangled until Max’s leg hit the mattress and Charles pushed him to the sea of caps. Now, that was a good way of using them, he rated, most interested in the naked, defined body in front of him.
“Fuck, there are so many,” he complained as he took one from poking his back.
Charles climbed on his lap, kissing those lips open to deepen the kiss.
“I told you they were too much,” Charles panted.
He tore the rest of them to the ground to help Max get comfortable. Only Max’s hand stopped his hand, holding his wrist when he caught the orange one. He smiled wolfishly and suddenly the temperature was way hotter.
“You know what, you could wear the orange one now,” he suggested languidly, twirling his eyebrows.
Max was so predictable. Charles was right about this, as always. He let go of the cap. Theory proved. He laughed freely and boldly, getting close and pulling on Max's hair just in case.
“The pink one is cuter, baby,” he said against those plump lips, the weight of his body deliciously over Max’s. He decided to grind back to get a moan out of him, and Charles promptly muffled them by kissing him. “I had some fun with the caps, by the way. I can show you later,” he promised, winking.
His boyfriend growled and hungrily kissed him back.
fin