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After lunch, Daniel says he’ll talk about his idea with Max before confirming it with Charles. That, at least, gives Charles some time to process the insanity that he’s agreed to. Still, there’s that awful undercurrent of jealousy when Daniel says he’ll discuss it with Max. Charles would be the first to chew Daniel out if he planned on springing something like this, something like bringing Charles into their bedroom to watch them have sex, on Max without as much as a discussion and setting boundaries. But now, he feels like he’s been set adrift in the Monaco harbour.
Daniel and Max can talk to each other about the idea and their feelings towards it, but Charles is left without anyone to talk to. For any other matter, he would turn to Pierre. Milan isn’t that far, not really, and he knows his best friend is only a phone call away, but it feels like a betrayal of the trust that Daniel has placed in him. The thought settles heavily on him, not anywhere close to the comforting weight of Daniel’s hand on the back of his neck or the warmth of Max’s touch brushing along his lower back when they pass each other in the media pen.
Who is he supposed to talk to about this? He realises, then, that there is nothing for him to talk about. If Max decides that he wants him there, he’ll be a spectator. There are no boundaries for him to set, no anxieties to get off his chest. He will be there to provide the audience that Max allegedly craves.
Yet again, he is a means to an end for Max Verstappen. A way for him to get off. This, he realises, won’t be anything like their night or morning together. He will watch Daniel take Max apart and he will leave before he puts Max back together again. Charles will not feel the heat radiating off Max’s skin when he covers his body with his own, or feel his trembling breath against his shoulder. Charles will not wash the sweat off Max’s body, or massage shampoo into his hair, or hold him when they fall asleep in the same bed. He will not wake up with his legs tangled with Max’s, or watch him blink the drowsiness out of his eyes, or relish the way Max’s body curls around him in the early morning sun, still warm and pliant with sleep.
The place in Max’s bed that he had for one night and one morning belongs to Daniel now. This thought is the one that makes his stomach wrench, the beer he had at lunch curdling in his throat, and he’s hunched over his kitchen sink before he even realises that he’s retching.
He tells himself that something in his lunch just didn’t agree with him, that the beer didn’t settle right in his stomach because he skipped breakfast. That’s all; it’s not that his heart is breaking, suddenly and without warning, it’s not the overwhelming feeling of loneliness or the way that he can’t fool himself this time.
Charles thinks that he can’t possibly lose anymore. His father, Jules, Anthoine. Max was never his to lose, he never really had him. He was a distraction from Max’s feelings for Daniel. He was the last in a long line of drivers who had distracted Max. He was never anything special to Max fucking Verstappen and he was an idiot for trying to trick himself into believing otherwise.
He realises this at the same instant that he realises several things: that he is on the floor of his kitchen, that one of the cabinet handles is digging into his spine from where his back is pressed against the cupboard, that he is crying, and that he has called Pierre.
Pierre is saying his name when he raises the phone to his ear and, when he tries to speak, all he can manage is a horrible shudder, his lungs shaking around a bitten-back sob.
“I’m in love with Max,” he chokes out after a moment. Maybe, if he were anyone else except himself, it would be a relief to get it off his chest. But he is Charles, and speaking it into existence makes it real, and it being real makes him choke around another sob.
“Oh, calamar,” Pierre whispers. The tone of his voice makes Charles want to be sick again. Pierre sounds like he knows, like he knew all along. Charles fists a hand in his hair and wrenches at it. Pierre knows.
He doesn’t want to say it, but the words come unbidden. “You know.” Maybe he wanted it to come out as an accusation. It’s more of a whimper. “You knew all this time.”
“I’ve known you a very long time, Charles,” Pierre murmurs.
And Charles can’t take it. He doesn’t even know what the final straw is. The idea that the only person he managed to fool was himself, the memory of bitemarks and cologne on Pierre’s neck in a club, the way Pierre’s accent curls around the syllables of his name like family, like home, like no one else on the grid can manage. Because Pierre is family and he is home and he has known Charles for so long, even longer than Max, and somehow Pierre’s God has saved him from whatever curse Charles carries that makes him lose anyone he cares for. His phone is thrown from his hand, skittering face-down across the kitchen tiles. Charles can’t bring himself to care. He doesn’t even know if he ended the call.
He sits on the floor for a long time. He doesn’t know how much time passes, just that it’s almost sunset when he finally pushes himself to his feet, barely aware of the pins-and-needles in his legs. When he moves, it’s on autopilot. He washes out the mess he left in the sink before he dares to go near his phone.
The screen is badly cracked, just not badly enough to hide the messages that await him. Several missed calls from Pierre, too many messages for his tired eyes to read properly; he skims them, picking out call me please and Carlos went to your house, said there was no answer and going to fly to you if you don’t get in touch.
Charles hadn’t even realised there had been a knock at his door. He supposes he had never told Carlos where his spare key was located. There are some messages from his teammate too, less panicked than Pierre’s, suggesting that his friend hadn’t told Carlos what had happened. Yet he came to check on him anyways? That makes even less sense to Charles.
Pierre, he guesses, feels some kind of obligation towards him after so many years of knowing each other; Pierre knows that Charles’ family can’t take another loss, another heartbreak. Maybe Pierre feels it’s his job to ensure that nothing happens to Charles. Carlos has no such obligations. They are teammates, yes, maybe friends on a good day - but for Carlos to come to his house in an attempt to check on him and reach out when he didn’t get a response?
Charles scans the messages quickly: everything okay? I came over but seemed like you were out or asleep? I don’t know any details but if you want me to message Pierre and tell him you’re okay, just text me. Tacked on at the end, almost as an afterthought, is we don’t have to talk about anything if you don’t want to, but I’m here if you do/don’t/whatever. Charles can almost muster a chuckle at that.
He tells Carlos that he’s fine and that he will message Pierre, but offers no further explanation. Carlos’ reply comes through immediately: glad you’re alright, cabrón! Let me know if you need anything. He must have caught Carlos at a good moment while he had his phone in hand for such a quick response. As he moves to tap into his messages with Pierre, his eyes catch on awaiting messages from Daniel and Max.
If there were anything left in his stomach, he thinks he could be sick again from how quickly his gut wrenches itself into knots. It’s been mere hours since he met with Daniel. He can still back out. His thumb hovers for several breaths over Daniel’s name before he opens the conversation, his mind already made up. He’ll tell Daniel to ask someone else, that he thought about it and it’s not his thing, that he’s sorry for being fickle.
Max is in! Can’t wait.
He’s an idiot. Charles is a fucking idiot. Can he still let Daniel down, after he’s already spoken about it with Max?
He opens his messages with Max before he has the chance to talk himself out of it. He doesn’t know what he expects to see, but the text on his cracked screen sends him reeling.
I’m really excited to see you again.
And what is that supposed to mean? How on earth is Charles supposed to respond to that? Does Max mean that he has missed Charles? They never spend time off the grid together, except for the obvious occasion. The text is carefully worded, in the same way that most of Max’s messages are. Max never really says what he means over text. A simple you did good today never means what it appears to upon first glance. It means you performed well and I’m proud of you and you should be driving like this all the time and I hate Ferrari for what they’re doing to you and you have to do better than that to beat me. Charles has been translating messages like that since they were children. He has never had to decipher a message like this.
Really excited. That could mean anything from I’ve missed you to I’m into the idea of being watched to finally, something new. Charles’ experience in understanding Max has never felt so lacklustre. And see you again. Does Max want to see him off the grid in future, does he want to be friends? Or is it purely sexual? Does he want Charles back in his bedroom once again, to see the fire in his eyes when he sees Max being taken apart?
Does he know that Charles might just break at the sight of Max and Daniel together?
Max’s birthday rolls around both too quickly and far more slowly than Charles expected.
It takes Charles two days to convince Pierre that he’s fine, that he doesn’t need to fly out to Milan, that Pierre doesn’t need to come to Monaco. He doesn’t know if his friend believes him. It seems unlikely, if he can judge anything by the amount of times that he opens his texts with Pierre to tell him everything, only to see the other driver already typing. But a message never comes. When Charles texts him first, Pierre replies immediately, but his friend isn’t the one to break the silence.
On the morning of Max’s birthday, Charles doesn’t wake to Daniel’s text. He has been awake for hours, staring at the ceiling as he lay in bed, watching shadows move in the light pouring through his shutters, still left open from the previous day. By the time he has enough brain power to think and move again, the sun has risen and the street outside his house is already alive with people going about their day. When he finally moves to sit on the side of his bed, wincing slightly as he feels the tension in his shoulders and neck, he finds the message from Daniel already on his cracked screen, hours old and bracketed by notifications from various group chats.
Most of the group messages are directed towards Max, wishing him a happy birthday and planning a night they can go out for drinks when most of them are in or around Monaco. The message from Daniel is the only one he really cares about though: We’re gonna have dinner in the apartment rather than go to a restaurant. If you don’t have anything planned already, do you want to join us? I’m cooking!
Before he can even start to think about how he will reply, his phone vibrates with another text. Charles’ heart stutters when he sees Max’s name at the top of his screen: Are you still asleep?
Hesitant fingers type out a message - No, I’m awake. Happy birthday, Maxy! He wonders if he left a window open in the night, if a chill in his room is the reason why he’s trembling. But it’s only the end of September; he knows it isn’t cold enough to make him shake like this. This is all Max’s doing.
Thank you! Max’s reply is friendly, yet detached in a way that Charles can’t explain. It’s simply one of those feelings he has when it comes to anything involving Max, the way he deciphers the true meaning of text messages with practiced ease. Another message comes through as his fingers are hovering over his screen, not wanting the conversation to end. He isn’t shocked. Obviously there is a reason why Max would message to ask if he was awake. Are you nervous?
Why would I be nervous? he asks, when all he wants to say is yes, of course he’s nervous, yes, he’s terrified.
Max replies instantly. I don’t know. I’m nervous.
Charles types without thinking. Why? As an afterthought, he adds, We don’t have to do this. It’s about you, I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. Neither does Daniel.
I don’t know, Max says again. I miss you.
He falters. Max never says anything outright over text. That amazing, brutal honesty only comes out when something else has his full focus; in the middle of a race, or after too many glasses of champagne, or when Charles was all over him in his bed. When he is more focused on not crashing through the barrier at 300 kilometres an hour, or on putting one foot in front of the other, or kissing Charles with his entire soul, he says things that he usually wouldn’t. What a blind fucking idiot, or if my father could see me now, or you’re so beautiful, Charles, you are so perfect. This is the most honest Max could be over text, and Charles doesn’t know how to respond.
So he calls Max.
“Charles,” he greets when he answers. There’s a smile in his voice, sounding softer than Charles had expected. “Hi.”
“Hi,” Charles breathes. “I am nervous.”
Max huffs something close to a laugh. “Yeah? Why?”
He shrugs before he realises that Max can’t see him. “I miss you too, I think.”
“We should get drinks,” Max suggests. “Or lunch or- or something.”
“Is that the kind of missing me that you meant?” he murmurs. He feels like he should be ashamed or guilty for asking such a thing, for being this needy on Max’s birthday, on any day. But he just feels empty. He doesn’t know if he can take it if Max meant that he would just like to see Charles off the grid, if he doesn’t long for Charles the way that he longs for Max. Charles knows that he fools himself more often than not - sometimes, it feels like the only way to stay sane - but he doesn’t think he was fooling himself about the way he felt with Max. Maybe he’s always been in love with Max. Maybe he’s loved him since the first time they karted against each other.
Max gives another halfhearted laugh. It makes something poisonous curl in Charles’ gut. “Do you want to come over for dinner tonight? Daniel is cooking.”
“I know. He told me,” Charles murmurs. He feels like he could be sick with the sudden weight of rejection that settles in his stomach. Max does not miss him the way that Charles misses Max. Maybe he needs this, to see Max coming undone one last time, to know it is the last time, to know that he won’t see it again. Maybe, after this, he can follow in Max’s footsteps and fuck his way around the grid to forget his feelings. “Does Daniel know that we slept with each other?”
There’s a beat of silence on Max’s end. “No. He doesn’t.”
“Do you think he should?”
A soft sigh crackles from the other side of the phone, but Charles can’t tell if it’s frustrated or not. “Why should he?”
“Because you’re together now, Max,” Charles mutters, exasperated. “Because, even though he knows you were sleeping with other drivers, he thinks that I am not one of them. Everyone thinks that I am not one of them! Surely that’s part of the reason he asked me to watch the two of you have sex?”
Max scoffs now. Charles’ blood runs cold; he’s pushed too hard. He’s lost the glimpse of Max’s softness. “What difference does it make? I’m not sleeping with you now,” Max hisses. Charles wonders if Daniel is in the next room, wonders when he became someone to whisper about.
“I am aware of that,” he snaps, and he wishes he could take the harsh tone back the second it leaves his tongue. His voice is softer when he speaks again, “I’m just- I am just thinking of your future, Maxy. You and Daniel, together. You don’t want this to blow up on you someday, months or years from now.”
Max goes silent once more. “I understand, Charles, I get it now,” he says eventually. The gentle note is creeping back into his voice. He’s starting to sound the way he did when he first prepositioned Charles, when he first led Charles into his bed. “I’ll consider it. You’re right, I don’t want this to… blow up. Are you coming over for dinner?”
He closes his eyes, hangs his head low between his shoulders, rubs his knuckles over his shut eyelids until it hurts. “No, thank you,” he says. It hurts to say that, too. “I will come over after. Text me what time.”
He hangs up before Max can voice his disappointment, or his relief. Charles doesn’t know which would be worse.