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He is woken by his phone ringing.
He doesn’t check who is calling before he answers, again - just mutters a gruff, “Allo?” down the line.
“Charles!” The way that Carlos pronounces his name makes his lips twitch upwards into a smile and he relaxes back into his mattress. If there was terrible news, it wouldn’t be Carlos calling to tell him - if someone was hurt, it would be Pierre; if his contract with Ferrari was being made to kneel for execution, it would be Binotto. He hums in acknowledgement and Carlos repeats his name, “Charles, I must tell you this.”
He can’t help but laugh softly. The excitement in Carlos’ voice is so infectious, Charles can already picture his expression. “It must be important for such an early call. What is it?”
“I am sorry for this earliness, I couldn’t help it,” Carlos enthuses on the other end. He says something in Spanish that is too fast for Charles to catch, but it sounds like a curse. Charles looks towards the digital clock on his nightstand, the one which came with the house - 0617. He understands, now, why Carlos might be cursing. “I needed to tell someone and it could only be you. You know of me and Lando, how should I say, going to bed with each other?”
Charles’ breath hitches in his throat and he doesn’t know why. Because Carlos felt like he was the only one he could tell? Despite the fact that they’re only teammates? Because Charles didn’t have even an inkling that Carlos and Lando were sleeping with each other? He knows that Lando and Carlos were teammates before Carlos signed for Ferrari, he knows that Carlos came to his house when Pierre was worried about him - but it washes over him like the chill of an ice-bath. Has he spent all this time oblivious about everything Carlos does outside of racing? Has he spent all this time assuming that Carlos thought of Charles as nothing but a teammate and his main competitor, when he could have had a friend?
“I- I didn’t know,” Charles manages to choke out. He feels like he’s being crushed between his mattress and comforter, so he sits up and runs a hand over his face, pushes it into his hair after just to feel the slight grease that has gathered through the night. “You and Lando? I mean, I am not surprised, but for how long?”
Carlos huffs the beginnings of a laugh. “Abu Dhabi,” he says, and Charles does not ask which year. He is unsure if he can take it. “You really did not know? Perhaps we got away with it.”
“I am not exactly the most perceptive driver on the grid,” he states. To his own ears, his voice doesn’t sound as weak or shaky as it had before. He can only hope it sounds the same to Carlos. “What about you and Lando?”
“We are together now,” Carlos whispers through the phone, as if he is scared of being overheard. “We spoke about it last night. I love him, Charles- and he loves me. That is crazy, no?”
Charles feels himself smiling, even though Carlos cannot see him. The tension has suddenly been washed off his body. “It is not that insane, idiot,” he says. The French pronunciation of the insult slips out just as easily as it does with Pierre. “This is wonderful news, Carlos, really. I am so- ah, English, it fails me now. I am happy for you. And Lando! And that you trusted me with this news. So, so happy.”
Carlos makes a strange noise, distorted over the line, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Of course it had to be you, cabrón. You are my friend, my teammate- you, of course, understand it.”
“Do I?” Charles’ mouth runs faster than his brain; the words are spoken before he even has time to think them.
“Of course,” Carlos says, sounding almost confused. Charles wonders where he is, if he’s in Madrid, or Monaco with Lando, or somewhere across the globe between races. Really, he should know these details about his teammate. He supposes he never bothered to learn. When Charles doesn’t speak, Carlos continues, “Well, I hope you don’t mind me bringing it up, but you and Max…”
Charles pauses, considers, and takes the safest course. He gives up the racing line, leaves space for the overtake that is sure to come. He feigns ignorance. “Max is with Daniel, non?”
“Yes, well, but you went to bed with him.” Carlos’ words do not carry a tone of hesitation or question. The possessiveness in Charles’ heart positively fucking sings.
He has to swallow before he speaks, willing some steadiness into his voice. “I did. We did.”
“You do not understand me,” Carlos says immediately, and Charles can’t interpret the tone of his words. “I know you did. It is, if it is okay to say, obvious.”
After a moment of silence, Charles finds the words to speak. “It is not very obvious to anyone else.”
Carlos actually scoffs, a sound that makes Charles’ stomach drop. “Anyone else is blind. Dios mío. For such intelligent athletes, how do you say in French, idiot,” he says, butchering the French pronunciation. Charles can almost laugh, but he doesn’t correct Carlos, just lets him continue. “I see the way you look at him. Most importantly, the way he looks at you. All this time, it is, ah, unbearable. I have seen Instagram videos, you know, of you two as children. My God, just go for it.”
“I cannot go for it, Carlos,” he mutters helplessly. He repeats, “Max is with Daniel. They are together and they are happy. I have seen them, yesterday, when I went to Max’s apartment for his birthday, they are so happy. I cannot get in the way of that.”
There’s a hum, low and considering, on the other end of the line. “This is true, yes. If they are happy together. But you were together before him and Daniel, yes?”
He sighs. “We were not together. It was just… just sex. For him, at least.”
“Not for you,” Carlos says, and it isn’t a question. “What about you and Daniel?”
“What about me and Daniel?” he mutters heavily. Guilt and shame pool hot in his gut - Carlos has called with happy news of his relationship with Lando, and Charles is only dragging him down.
Carlos continues, “Do you like Daniel also? There are relationships that are not limited to only two people, you know.” He says the word in Spanish, and it’s similar enough to the French - polyamoureux - that Charles knows the word that Carlos is trying to find. “Why don’t you talk to them?”
I’ve tried, Charles wants to say. I have tried and every time I do, I fuck it up and say something awful or agree to something stupid, he wants to sob through the phone. What he says, really, is: “You are right, Carlos. I will try. Congratulations with Lando, again - I have to go, I’m sorry. Congratulations.”
When he ends the call, he realises that he has lied again; he has no intention of trying.
He had no intention of trying.
When an aggressive knock on his door rings out throughout the house, hours later, he realises that the decision has been taken out of his hands. His brothers, his mother, Pierre - they all have keys to his house, they wouldn’t bother knocking. He considers ignoring whoever is at his door, when a fist thuds against the wood again and he realises he has no choice.
As soon as he opens the door an inch, Max shoves it open the rest of the way. No sooner than the door is closed, Charles is shoved against it with such force that it knocks the breath from his lungs. That, he considers, could also be blamed on Max’s mouth, hot over his own.
“How fucking dare you,” Max pants against his mouth, his hands rucking Charles’ shirt up to spread his palms over his stomach.
“How dare I?” Charles hisses. He doesn’t push Max away like he should, just kisses him back, slides a hand into his hair and pulls until Max keens. He kisses Max again, gasping against his lips, “Why are you here? Last night wasn’t enough?”
Max lets out this helpless little whimper and rocks his hips against Charles’. That’s enough to jolt Charles back to reality, and he shoves Max away, rage bubbling in his chest.
“Charles-” Max breathes, and Charles just steps away.
“Don’t,” he hisses. He drags the back of his hand across his mouth, trying to rid Max’s presence from his lips, trying to lose any of the evidence. “Don’t, Max. Fuck. What the fuck?”
He’s becoming increasingly hysterical, he can hear it in his own voice. Max just kissed him, and he let it happen. Max just cheated on Daniel with him. Charles thinks he might be sick.
Max tries to close the distance between them. When Charles backs up, Max reaches for him.
Charles isn’t proud of the crack that rings out through the room when he slaps Max’s hand away. He’s going to throw up, he can taste the bile in his throat.
“Don’t fucking touch me!”
“I’m sorry, Charles, I’m sorry,” Max whispers, stricken. He holds both of his hands up and takes a purposeful step away from Charles. “Look, look at me. I’m not touching you, I won’t try again. I’m sorry.”
Charles sucks in a breath, but it’s too much- he retches around his own air, and races for the sink to throw up the late breakfast he had only half-eaten. He can’t stop gagging, his breath coming too quickly to get the air back into his lungs. When he finally manages to take a shuddering inhale, he’s exhausted. He feels like he could collapse.
Max hasn’t moved an inch when Charles looks at him over his shoulder, but he looks agonised, his hands balled into fists in his shirt. “Charles,” he whimpers, and he can see now that Max has tears rolling down his cheeks. “Please, please, I’m sorry, can I just- Please, I need- I can’t.”
Maybe it’s because Max sounds like he’s actually in pain as he all but sobs the words out, but Charles takes a step towards him and whispers, “What is it?”
“I just- I just want to hug you,” Max cries, “That’s all, I’ll never try to touch you again, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-”
Charles takes him into his arms a second later, cradling Max’s head against his shoulder as he lets out a harsh sob.
“I wasn’t thinking, I’m sorry,” Max pleads.
Charles hushes him, even as they both tremble in each other’s arms. “We’ll talk about it in a minute,” he murmurs, the feeling of his own oncoming panic attack slowly subsiding. “It’s okay, Maxy.”
“It’s not,” Max says, his voice hitching on another sob, but Charles shushes him again and he doesn’t try to speak after that.
He navigates them both onto the couch. Max struggles with it; when they had been standing, it was only his arms around Charles’ shaking body but, like this, they’re pressed together from shoulder to hip. Max keeps attempting to make space between their bodies, until Charles pinches his shoulder and mutters, “I have been, quite literally, inside you, Max. We can handle a hug.”
He had thought it would make Max laugh, but he just sobs again, and Charles doesn’t try to make Max laugh after that.
As the time passes, Charles can feel Max’s heartbeat slow, bit by bit, can hear the way his breath doesn’t hitch in his chest as much anymore. “Can we talk now?” he asks gently, and feels Max nod against his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” Max whispers.
Charles lets out a soft hum. “I know you are. You should not have kissed me.”
Max shakes against his chest. “I know,” he says. He sounds agonised by the words. “I told Daniel about us.”
“What about us?” he asks. He hadn’t realised that he was rubbing his thumb against the nape of Max’s neck; it only comes to his attention when he stops, frozen.
“That we fucked,” Max tells him, his tone detached. Not slept together, not even had sex, but fucked. That’s all it was. But Max goes on, “That you took care of me after, and no one before you had done that. That we did it all again the next morning, and you took care of me after that too. That I’ve wanted to take you to bed for years.”
Charles inhales, too sharply to play it off as natural. “What did he say?”
“About which part?”
“Any of it,” he whispers.
Max shrugs slightly. “He wasn’t so surprised. He knew I had slept with a few drivers, he had suspected you were one of them. He said, hah,” he huffs out a laugh that feels out of place, “that you were far too pretty not to take you to bed.”
“Did he?” Charles breathes weakly. He can’t meet Max’s eyes anymore, fixes his gaze on Max’s fingers curled in the front of Charles’ shirt. He can’t make his mouth form the words to ask Max about what he said, about wanting to sleep with Charles for a while.
Max tightens his grip on his shirt. “I think he was worried at first,” he whispers, as if this is a secret to keep just between them. It probably is. “I think, maybe, he thought that he had lost his chance, since I’m in love with you.”
Charles feels like his heart just stops fucking beating. “What?” he asks, his voice trembling, unable to croak out another word.
It doesn’t seem to faze Max, who turns his head to look up at him. “Since I am in love with you, Charles,” he murmurs. Charles can feel Max’s hand trembling against his stomach. “And I have treated you so horribly. I did sleep with other drivers to get Daniel’s attention. I have been in love with him for two years, I thought sleeping with other people would… I don’t know. Make him look at me? You know, though, I haven’t been able to take my eyes off you since we were karting against each other. I thought you’d hate me, or act like it in bed, at least, but you made me feel special-”
“Because you are,” Charles interrupts. His breath probably smells like vomit but, if Max hasn’t fallen out of love with him yet - and, God, the idea of Max being in love with him - then maybe this won’t, either. “Max- fuck, Max. You are in love with me?”
Max’s shoulders hunch up to his ears, the way they do after he’s just spoken to his father, and Charles grips the back of his neck the way that Daniel always does to him in passing. Max relaxes immediately. “How many times do you want me to fucking say it?” he asks, but there isn’t much heat to his words.
“Forever,” Charles chokes out, his free hand settling on Max’s jaw. “I want you to say it every day, for forever. I’m sorry, for what I said to you, about getting on with things, for swearing at you, for shouting at you instead of just talking about how I was feeling, I’m sorry-”
“I didn’t talk to you either,” Max murmurs, “and I should have. I just let you hurt the whole time when I could have stopped it.”
Charles manages to smile. It doesn’t feel entirely fake. “It’s okay,” he promises. “What about Daniel? You love him?”
Max nods carefully. “I do,” he whispers, almost apologetically. “You and him, both. In different ways, I think, but I love you both so fucking much, Charles, I do-”
“I love you,” he says suddenly, because he realises he hasn’t said it back yet. He remembers the phone call with Pierre, when he had said it out loud for the first time and he had felt like the world was ending. Now, it feels like everything is on the brink of settling into place. “Max, I love you. Oh my God, I love you-”
“I heard you the first time,” Max laughs, and he slams his mouth against Charles’ bruisingly. He pulls back before Charles can even make his brain start to respond. Max grins at him and whispers, “But keep saying it.”
Charles wants to kiss him so badly, but he puts a hand over Max’s chest, feels his heartbeat thundering against his ribcage. “I love you,” he repeats, just to relish in how his lips move around it, and he says it again in French, in Italian. “Let me shower and brush my teeth, okay? We should talk with Daniel too, yes?”
“We should,” Max agrees. His smile never falters and Charles can’t get enough of it. “Say it again?”
“I love you, Max, je t’aime, ti amo,” he obliges more than willingly. He thinks he’ll never get used to it, to the buzz that fades over his skin every time the words leave his mouth.
Max says it too, in English first, then in what must be Dutch, which makes a whole other kind of thrill rush through Charles’ body. “Come back soon,” he demands as Charles moves to get to his feet.
“You know I will,” Charles tells him. He doesn’t kiss Max before he goes. They should talk with Daniel first, but a hopeful part of Charles thinks that he’ll get to kiss Max as much as he wants after.
Daniel is there by the time Charles showers, brushes his teeth and gets dressed. When he’s downstairs again, Daniel and Max are both on the couch. For the first time, his stomach doesn’t churn with jealousy and heartache when he sees Daniel’s arm around Max and Max’s head on Daniel’s shoulder.
“Hi, mate,” Daniel says when Charles appears in the doorway. His voice is gentle, almost hopeful, and Charles immediately moves to stand in front of him.
“Hey, Dan,” he whispers and, without letting himself overthink it, his hand moves to Daniel’s cheek. “Can I?”
Daniel smiles up at him. “You want to? I get it if you don’t feel the same about me-”
Charles cuts him off with a kiss, pressing their mouths together as tenderly as he can, while Daniel puts a hand on his hip and pulls at him until Charles is almost on top of him.
“That answers my question,” Daniel huffs, almost laughing, and then Max’s lips are on Daniel, turning his head to kiss him. Seconds later, Max is kissing Charles too.
“So,” Charles croaks when Max has pulled away. He feels like he’s been set alight, with how his thighs bracket Daniel’s, with Max’s hand on his chest, with Daniel’s hand on his hip and the other arm around Max.
Max grins. “So?” he repeats, and Charles realises that he hasn’t finished his sentence.
“The three of us?” Charles manages. The words come out as a whisper, he can’t help it - Max’s hand curls around his ribcage as Daniel’s grip tightens on his hip bone, like they’re afraid to let him go.
“The three of us,” Daniel echoes. He’s so much more confident than Charles and, for a brief second, Charles longs to have that confidence. Maybe, once the dust settles around this new relationship that they’re forming, he’ll call up the therapist he had years ago.
“If you’ll have me,” Charles adds, because he knows Max and Daniel are already officially together, because he knows he’s the intruder here.
As if he can read his mind, Max digs his nails into Charles, scratching at his ribs. “We’ve always had you,” he says simply. Charles sees, just for a second, that petulant teenager that he had first met on a karting track. He wonders if everything has always been leading them here and, suddenly, he thinks he might cry.
Charles watches as Daniel’s eyes light up. “Speak for yourself, Maxy,” Dan says, in that low tone where something lewd is bound to follow. “Some of us missed the honour of having Charles.”
He groans softly, voicing complaints that he doesn’t even mean. “You’re insufferable,” Charles mutters, leaning down to hide his face in Daniel’s shoulder. He could kiss Daniel’s neck in this position, could bite at him and suck marks into his tanned skin. He realises, suddenly, that nothing is stopping him now.
Daniel clutches at his hip when he does exactly that, and his voice wavers slightly when he says, “Christ, take me out to dinner first.”
“Maybe you should take me out to dinner,” Charles tells him as he pulls away, pressing his thumb proudly into the bruise he has adorned Daniel’s neck with. “You know, for the honour of having me.”
Daniel cackles out a laugh, and Max takes full advantage of the distraction to pull Charles close, kissing him open-mouthed like it could be his last chance to do it. Charles feels new, something golden filling the cracks that have weighed heavily on his heart for too long.
He’s going to be okay, he thinks.
Max smiles at him, and he realises that he has said it aloud.
“You are,” Daniel whispers, his voice uncharacteristically soft.
He’s going to be okay. Charles isn’t fooling himself this time.