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Charles is the stupidest person Max has ever met in his entire life — and Max has met a lot of people in the (almost!) twenty-six years he’s been alive. He’s been well around the world, to multiple different cities and multiple different countries. When Max was younger, he couldn’t even keep track of all the places he’s visited. Now that he’s relatively older, he has a better gauge on things.
One of those things is how he’s never met anyone like Charles Leclerc in his entire life. It’s a thought and feeling he expresses with both positive and negative connotations, and he’s not too sure which one outweighs the other.
Even if Max has spent more than half of his life knowing of Charles (the same way he knows a lot of the drivers he’s met in his life), he’s only spent the better part of the past six years knowing Charles. There’s something different about seeing someone on karting race tracks, versus seeing them far too often on Formula 1 race tracks, in the same cities and countries every year, and maybe even on the streets during the off-season, because now Max lives in Monaco too.
Sometimes, Max likes to tell himself that living in Monaco wasn’t part of the plan. The other times, Max reminds himself that he never really had a plan: he’ll drive, and he’ll think of Charles, and if those two things meet at one point to intersect, then so be it.
It just so happened that their intersecting point had been Monaco. Max supposes he’ll never really know why, or who’s fault that was.
All he knows is that he has an apartment which he bought for a number with far too many zeroes, and that Charles has his family home, and a place to himself as well. He also knows that only two weeks away from pre-season testing, the knocking on his front door can be no one else but Charles.
Despite the fact that Charles knows he’s welcome inside, whether he knocks or not. But sometimes, Charles likes the act like he’s still a guest, and that he has manners, and that he isn’t familiar with the entire interior layout of Max’s apartment.
Stupid, see?
“Salut,” Charles grins, a timid smile stretching around white teeth, framed with stubble because he never shaves if the only person who’s going to see him is Max. He shoulders his way into the apartment without any further prompting, as if he owns the place.
Max shuts and locks the door behind him, and thinks that Charles might as well. “Il faisait froid ces jours-là, n’est-ce pas?”
Max’s French is as good as it was when he moved to Monaco — as in, not the best, and not the worst. He doesn’t spend enough time in Monaco to polish up on his French, but he thinks that he’s slowly and steadily been improving with Charles’ steadfast help. Max never asks for help, that is, but Charles also never asks if he even wants it, in the first place.
“Le février c’est toujours comme cela,” Max replies, slightly butchered, thick with an accent which isn’t French. But, it’s not bad, and Charles actually understands what he’s saying.
“Very nice,” he hums, looking less surprised than Max thought he’d look. Charles tells Max that he should stop expecting him to be disappointed. He always says something along the lines of how it’s not really possible for him to ever be disappointed in him. “Packing?”
Max joins Charles where he’s making his way to the second floor. Max has his luggage on the bed in his guest room, open with piles of clothes littered around it. Packing would be an understatement. Max hasn’t done a thing, so far.
“Getting there,” he replies, a wry sound around his wry mouth. Charles isn’t looking at him — Charles actually hasn’t looked at him for more than two seconds since he opened the door for the other. “And… you?”
“Carlos does not let me keep packing until the last minute anymore,” Charles tells him. Max doesn’t remember asking about Carlos, but it’s not like Charles is even looking at him to see the minute shift in his expression, anyway. “He had video-called me everyday until my packing was completed.”
“Carlos seems to be taking better care of you than you are of yourself,” Max blurts out, before he can help it. The words sound kind of sordid on his tongue — they had tasted a bit sordid coming up his throat, too. “How is—how is he?”
Finally, Charles turns around. They’re still standing in the threshold of Max’s guest bedroom. Charles leans his shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. Because it’s February, Charles isn’t wearing short sleeves; Max can’t see his arms, and he’s only a little grateful for the lack of distraction.
“I do not truly believe that you would like to talk about Carlos, right now,” he chimes. One corner of Max’s mouth is tugged down — he’s a bit too candidly read when it comes to Charles. “And I did not come here to talk about Carlos, either.”
“Well, you’re the one who brought him up,” Max mumbles, making a very pointed attempt to not look at the other’s face. He’s not too sure he’ll like what he sees. What an idiot, Max thinks, not knowing whether he’s thinking about Charles or himself.
“You are difficult, mon beau,” Charles tells him. “C’est toujours un plaisir d’essayer de t'énerver.”
“I’m not annoyed,” Max bristles. It’s one of the easier to understand French sentences he’s had directed towards him. “Or difficult.” Ironically, he processed the former half of what Charles said later.
“Are you meeting your trainer tonight, Max?” Charles has pushed himself off the doorframe. He’s walking down the hallway, going towards a familiar door, towards a familiar room. “I met mine in the morning.”
“Me too,” he replies, following Charles. Slowly but surely, he’s starting to forget who’s the one that actually lives here. He tries to make his way in front of Charles, so that he can actually be the one to lead his guest into his bedroom, but he’s too slow. That’s ironic, too.
Charles lets himself in and then flops onto Max’s bed like it’s his own. In his outside clothes. And Max has no idea what Charles has been up to before he came here.
“Schatje,” Max warns. Or at least, he tries to. He doesn’t sound very stern, and he doesn’t look stern either, with the way he follows the movements of Charles’ limbs moving around lazily on his bed, before finding a comfortable position. “Did you come here to sleep?”
“I am tired,” the other hums. He doesn’t look at Max as he speaks. His cheek is cushioned against the pillow under his head, and his eyes are already closed. Max wants to count his eyelashes, but he’s too far to do that. “It is late.”
It is not. Max doesn’t know all too well that time Charles ends up falling asleep when he’s alone, but it’s only 9:30 PM on a Friday — surely, he doesn’t usually go to sleep this early? Sometimes, it’s well past midnight and Max still receives texts from Charles.
Charles doesn’t look like he’s going to elaborate, and so Max now doesn’t know what to say. He takes a seat on the edge of his own bed (he cannot keep letting Charles get away with this), and stares at the other. Eyes closed, stubbly jaw, messy hair.
Stupid Charles Leclerc.
“Merde,” Charles huffs after a while. Max doesn’t even register the small smile on his lips, since he’s too focused on counting Charles’ eyelashes like he had wanted to. All he sees is Charles opening one eye. “What is wrong with you? I can feel you staring.”
Max blinks, hoping he doesn’t look as taken aback as he feels.
“What’s wrong with me?” he repeats. “Nothing’s wrong with me. I don’t—what’s wrong with you? I haven’t seen you in a week, and then you come to my door unannounced.” Max is aware of how his words are coming out to sound, and he’s sure Charles is too, based on the way he now has both eyes open. So, he backtracks. “Which you’re allowed to do, Charles, it’s just—the season is starting.”
Again, so vague. But again, he’s able to be so candidly read when the reader is Charles.
“The season is starting,” Charles agrees. He doesn’t get up, he’s still laying down. Charles must’ve been really tired. He pats the pillow next to him, silently asking Max to move from being perched on the edge of his bed like a statue. “And we should be in good condition, minou. So come and sleep.”
“I said I didn’t like that one,” Max grumbles, scrunching his nose as he makes himself comfortable next to Charles. The latter had told him that minou means kitty.
“But I think that it suits you, a little bit,” Charles insists. For the first time in one week, Max feels Charles’ skin on him. In the form of him bringing one hand up to trace his fingertip across Max’s cheekbone, all the way up to the corner of his eye. “You do not see it, but sometimes you have whiskers when you smile.”
Of course Max doesn’t see it. “Humans don’t have whiskers, Charles.”
Charles grins, victoriously. “That is why you are un minou.”
Charles looks as stupid as he sounds when he says that. His finger is still on Max’s face, and his cheek is still smushed against the pillow. He still looks tired. Max still doesn’t know why he came here tonight.
“Bahrain,” he begins, because maybe that’ll be easier to talk about. “In, uh, in Bahrain—” Actually, maybe it’s not that easy to talk about. Max sounds troubled even to his own ears, and the sound must reach Charles’ too, since the finger on his face gets joined by the others. Charles cups his face, and pulls him even closer to his own.
“Is it really work that you want to talk about, Max?” he asks carefully. Well, careful might be a bit of an exaggeration, but Charles still speaks slowly, as if he’s cautious of what he wants to say. “I missed you.”
And well now, that’s just not fair. “I missed you too, Charlie,” he admits, because he can, and because it’s honest, and because he did. He missed Charles, even if he only went one week without seeing him. All throughout the year, Max is used to seeing Charles at least three times a week — the off-season is unpredictable though, with the both of them on different training and work schedules. More often than not, they’re on planes going to their respective factories, not even in the same country anymore. “What were you doing?” Max asks. The words come out in a whisper, despite him not meaning for them to. “The last… week…”
“Would you believe me if I said I was doing nothing?” Charles has the gall to grin right in his face. Pearly teeth, pink lips. “Bahrain is… in two weeks,” he agrees. Charles’ thumb comes up to swipe just underneath Max’s mouth, tracing the swell of his lower lip. “I did not meet my trainer. I did not talk to Carlos. I did not talk to anyone from Ferrari.” Max is finding it increasingly hard to concentrate on what Charles is saying, finding himself staring right into the other’s green eyes, leaning into the warm palm that’s cupping his face. “I did not talk to you. I did not even talk to my mother, Max.”
Max swallows, and it’s a prominent thing. He can tell because Charles’ eyes fall down to his throat, where his Adam’s apple bobs.
“Why?”
“You already said it,” Charles smiles, a small thing, like it usually is during this time of year. Max is lost in his eyes, once again, when he says, “Bahrain.”
And suddenly, Max feels stupid for asking, and stupid for not realizing anything sooner. He calls Charles stupid, but he's the one who’s not able to put two and two together when it’s staring him right in the face.
He closes his eyes. Max’s shoulders feel heavy when he sighs, and his head dips down before he can help it. Absent-mindedly, his mouth presses the smallest kiss onto the pad of Charles’ thumb. Then, he swallows again, and tries to find the words that are suddenly stuck in his throat. When he opens his eyes, he finds Charles still looking at him, as if he never looked away.
Max believes that he really didn’t.
“You’ll have a good season,” Max assures.
Charles raises an eyebrow, letting his hand slip down. Just a little, until he can fiddle with Max’s earlobe.
“To say that, you must believe that I think my season will not be good,” he banters, but Max takes it for what it is: a gentle accusation. “I did not say that, Max.”
“Charlie,” Max thinks he looks so tired, “I don’t think that. But I’m worried that you think that.”
“But I just said that I do not,” Charles corrects, quieter, softer than he’s been this entire time. No longer smiling, Max is unable to see his teeth anymore. Charles isn’t looking at him either; Max is unable to see the greens of his eyes. “Pourquoi est-ce que tu penses aussi que j’aurais une saison comme la dernière?” Charles closes his eyes immediately after speaking, and shakes his head minutely. It muses up his hair even more, just a little bit. “J'étais à l’usine pour plusieurs journées, pour des semaines et pour des mois, en essayant d’effacer tous qu’ils avaient—”
“Schatje.” Max doesn’t understand — French is a weak point on a good day. But Charles’ rapid fire French is incomprehensible to him right now. “Charles. Talk to me.”
“I am,” Charles insists. His breaths are a bit heavy, calming down from how fast he was speaking earlier. “But you are not understanding.” Max knows Charles well enough to at least understand that he’s not talking about their language barrier, right now.
Max doesn’t open his mouth to speak. He waits for Charles to continue.
There’s no longer fingers touching his earlobe, Charles’ hand is now limp in the space between their pillows. In any other scenario, Max would hold it, squeeze it, kiss his knuckles, even. But tonight, Max stays still, tries to find Charles’ eyes again, and waits.
“Last year… I did not help the team, Max,” Charles says quietly. His voice is so low and soft that Max almost doesn’t hear it. But it’s just the two of them in his room — hell, it’s just the two of them in this entire apartment — so he hears it anyway. “I disappointed the team—”
Usually, Max is better at listening to Charles. He thinks that when his boyfriend speaks, it’s important. But all the same, Max won’t settle for listening to his boyfriend lie. And he won’t let Charles speak more about it, either.
“The team disappointed you,” Max reminds him. Because sometimes, he does need the reminder. It had been beyond obvious to everyone else — perhaps most obvious to everyone except Charles — that the results of last season were not his burden to carry. “Charlie. The team disappointed you.”
“Would you like for me to say it a different way then, Max?” Charles tries. He finally looks up, crystalline green eyes meeting Max’s own. “I do not want to do that again.”
Max wishes he could say, with full confidence, that this season won’t be a repeat of last season. He wishes that every time he had assured Charles that this year will be better, he meant it wholeheartedly. Max is the last person who knows what’s going underway in the Ferrari garage — and Charles is the only one who knows if what Max whispers as words of reassurance is true or not.
“You won’t.” And yet still, Max speaks. Because although he can’t be one-hundred percent sure, and although his words aren’t empty ones, they’re the ones Max knows Charles needs to hear. They’re words that Max wishes he had someone tell him. They’re words which Max wants Charles to believe more than anything.
Charles performs the best when he’s confident. If he can’t be confident in the car, then Max hopes that he can at least have full confidence in himself. Max knows that he for sure does, after all. “You’re a driver, Charles.”
“You are a driver too,” Charles wrinkles his nose, not sure what to make out of Max’s words. “That does not automatically mean that you are a good one.
This time, Max raises an eyebrow. He knows that Charles is teasing, but he still takes this opportunity by the neck.
“Are you saying that you’re a better driver than me?”
“I am a better driver than you,” Charles smiles. Again, it’s one of the small ones. But Max sees teeth again, so he takes it as a win. Charles is also looking at his face again, and Max takes this chance to hold the hand that’s still between their bodies.
Neither of them say anything for a while after that, maybe just processing everything that’s been said in the past ten minutes, or maybe just soaking up the other’s presence. No matter whatever Charles is thinking, Max uses this time to run his thumb over Charles’ knuckles.
Then he has a silly thought, and feels the need to speak it out loud.
“I should let you have a lap in the RB19.”
“Max,” Charles laughs, only once, and it’s a breathless sound. “The media would go mad over that. The teams would go mad.”
“I don’t care about the teams,” Max scoffs, surprising himself with just how much he means it. Probably because at the end of the day, he thinks he cares about stupid Charles Leclerc more than anyone, or anything else. “And, no offense, but I especially don’t care about Ferrari.”
“None is taken,” Charles hums. It’s a minute, small movement, but Max recognizes that he moves just a tiny bit closer. Max welcomes him in with an arm draped over his waist. “… I should wait until my contract is over to say things like that, non?”
“Say whatever you want,” Max laughs, right into Charles’ neck. He didn’t even realize he came that close, but he doesn’t pull away. Charles’ neck is warm, and the skin there smells like the soap he uses only when he’s in Monaco — it’s the one he keeps in his own apartment. “It’s only you and I in here.”
“I will help you pack tomorrow,” Charles says after a minute or so.
“You’re staying tonight?”
“I was not lying when I said I was tired,” he answers. Charles shuffles around a bit more until he presses himself close to Max — the closest they’ve been in a week — and uses the other’s arm as a pillow now instead. “I also was not lying when I said that we should be in good condition. You sleep too, mon chéri.”
The light is still on in Max’s room. The lamp is on the bedside table closest to Charles, and he knows that the latter isn’t going to be the one to turn it off. He won’t be able to sleep any time soon, as a result; or at least, not until Charles is asleep, so that he won’t fuss when Max untangles their bodies in order to bask the room in darkness.
“I think that Ferrari merch is ugly, too,” Charles blurts out. Max blinks, taken aback by the sudden confession. He doesn’t have enough time to formulate a response before Charles is continuing. “Carlos says that not everybody can wear red, but I do not think Ferrari red looks good on anyone.”
“Shit,” Max giggles, trying to stifle his smile because Charles’ words really shouldn’t be that funny. “You love Ferrari, Charles. Il predestinato.”
“Oh my God,” Charles mutters. Max feels bad for keeping him awake, but Charles is the one who started talking about this in the first place. “So what? I also love you, but I think that you look very ugly in Red Bull caps.”
Charles sounds petulant, so Max doesn’t really believe him wholeheartedly. And well, Max doesn’t have too much to say to defend the Red Bull caps.
So, he says something else instead, “You’re a good driver, Charles.” Charles tenses against his body, so Max just holds him tighter before speaking again. “And that’s why you’ll do well this year. The same way you did well last year, and the year before that, and the years before that too.”
Charles stays quiet. His breathing is steady, rhythmic in the puffs his nose lets out onto Max’s collarbones.
“I am a good driver,” he finally agrees. “I have a very strong competitor, too.” Max’s lips tug themselves up into a smile, against his will. “He might crash his car into mine a couple times this year.”
“Then you shouldn’t drive wheel-to-wheel with him, schatje,” Max hums. “You should leave a gap that he cannot catch up with. And then, you should finish the race before him too.”
“Je souhaite la même chose pour toi,” Charles whispers. “Do not be an expensive driver, Max.”
“I’m a two-time world champion, Charlie. I am an expensive driver,” he grins, despite knowing very well what Charles means. “Don’t be an expensive driver either. Please.”
I don’t want you to be an expensive driver. Don’t crash too many times on the circuit, please. I don’t want to hear that the race is red flagged because you’re in the barriers.
“Go to sleep,” Max murmurs. He leans over Charles, listening to all the small disgruntled sounds he makes, and then flicks the lamp off. His bedroom is bathed in darkness, and the only sounds are them shuffling around until they’re both under the blanket. “And help me pack tomorrow.”
Max’s collarbone tickles. He assumes it’s because Charles leaves a peck there.
“Bonne nuit, Max.”
Charles’ French is cute when he’s tired and sleepy. His words are slurred, and his voice is thick. Max presses his lips to Charles’ hairline, and wonders if he can feel the shape of a smile against his head. Charles scoots closer, and Max wonders if he’ll suffocate himself like that.
Stupid.
“Goodnight, Charlie.”