Archive of Our Own

It was upsetting to say the least. No matter how much he tried, his best was never enough. 

Always good, never great. Always trying, never enough. Always healing but never healed. Always the sacrifice, never the recipient of it. Always imagining, never living. Always scripting, never succeeding. Always here, but never up there. Always so, so close. Always giving and giving and giving. Never receiving. Always the comic relief, never the main character. Always good, never the best. Always the dreamer, never the dream. Always Icarus, never Helios. Always second, never first. Always watching, never winning. Always an angel, never a God. 

He could try, and try, and try. The result would always be the same. The result was always the same. He would probably die trying.

God, was it exhausting, to just know today wasn't the day. The same way all the others before weren't either. But he wasn't allowed to be mad about it, to sulk in self-pity and let his thoughts eat him alive, like they were begging him to do. No. Charles needed to get out of the car every week and say he would do better next week. Today was shit, again. But it was his fault, wasn’t it? He should have done this better, he should have thought about that more. He should have known he actually wasn't supposed to listen to them. Should have known and not get his hopes up when they fucked him up with poor strategy, once again. Somehow it was his fault. He needed to own it, whether it was real or not wasn't important. Today's mistake was tomorrow's lesson. Surely, the same problem couldn't happen every week’s race. Surely, it couldn't go on for a whole season. 

He was so tired of it, and it was starting to get harder and harder not to actually think something was wrong with him, not to think he was the problem. Not the car, not the team, not the strategy. Just the guy behind the steering wheel. 

Today was disappointing, once again. And Charles thought it must be the breaking point. He felt like crying in the car. It wouldn’t be the first time anyway, far from it.

He actually had done great in qualification, even ended up first, Max right behind him of course. So it wasn’t that much of a surprise when he passed him instantly once the race started, way too easily for it to be fair. But it wasn't set just yet though, they fought for a while, the first place bouncing between the two of them. It was exciting, at this moment, feeling like he was actually racing for something. Until the Ferrari car lost in power and Charles had to watch in horror the other drivers get past him effortlessly, the Red Bull vehicle flying away from any concurrence. 

Once again, Charles was a spectator of his own race. He was the one in the car, but never the one in charge. He couldn’t even finish the race, when he should have, at the very least, been on the podium. And it was so tiring, he didn't know how many bad races he had left in his bones, how many times left he could pick himself up without a scratch. 

"What happened, Charles?" asks the interviewer at the end of the race while holding out the microphone for him. 

What happened, what a stupid fucking question. Everyone here knew exactly what happened on the circuit. It was the same thing happening every week. Charles fucked up, that’s what happened. That’s what's kept on happening. He was driving on a vicious circle, running around stupidly with no way to go off the track, he was condemned. And breathing was starting to get harder and harder with every bad thought that flew right through his brain with no seatbelt and no way to stop.

“I don’t know. I think I must have done something wrong. It’s my fault anyway, and if I keep on making mistakes like this then I deserve to not be at the top of the ranking, let alone winning.” he replies, anger and disappointment spitting fire from his mouth. 

They let him go soon enough after that, and he ignores the rest of the interviewers, privileging his peace above his social status. If they wanted a statement, they could just listen to every other interview he gave this season, it was always the same thing anyway. For how long will they still want him when he had nothing new to offer? 

____

He didn’t hear it before nighttime, when he finally got in bed and switched back on his phone, feeling a bit more courageous to read the friends and family texts telling him it was alright, and he would do better next time. A hard task that he postponed earlier. Opening twitter after a bad race wasn’t the best idea, he usually avoided the app like the plague, but his finger slipped this time around and when he saw the man’s face on his screen, something in the pit of his stomach kept him glued here, impossible to move away. That’s when he saw it for the first time.

It was a video of Max’s after race interview, after his umpteenth victory of the season. Smiling with no care in the world, smiling like everything was perfect. Of course, it always was for him, how couldn’t it be? Charles was so envious. Of him, of his team, of his car.

But it’s not this fact that kept his attention, it’s his name dropping out of the interviewer’s mouth when he asked the winner his thoughts on the “fight for the first position with Leclerc”. 

Max smiled at the name, like he was reminiscing. “It’s always a pleasure to have those kinds of moments on track where the adrenaline keeps you up there. Honestly, it’s probably my favorite thing because it gets easily boring at the top when there’s no one to fight against. And especially with Charles, he’s one of the best drivers out here. Put him in the right conditions, and we’re fighting like that for first place at every race.”

“But it’s always you who wins at the end, isn’t it? The fight isn’t balanced.” the interviewer ads with a chuckle, Charles can feel his blood boiling in his veins. Max doesn’t laugh back. 

“Like I said man, he needs to be put in the best condition for that, if the car is shit there’s not a lot he can do. I don’t think that’s fair to compare. I’m lucky I don't have those kinds of issues, but I can see how much it affects him and his results. It’s sad to see that good of a driver not performing the way he should because of things outside his control. I hope they can do better next time, ‘cause I know if it was only him, the race for the championship would be very different.”

The video goes on after that, but Charles has to stop it. It’s so nice it almost angers him, the way Max is complimenting him. Rejecting the fault on the team and the car, but never on him. The exact opposite of Charles’ speech earlier. It makes him look like a fool, a child who needs someone else to fight his own battle. Charles doesn’t need someone to protect him like that, especially not perfect two time and almost three time world champion Max Verstappen. He feels like shit next to him, every time he gets reminded they aren’t the same, they never will be again. Those times are long gone, and he can wish as desperately as he can to go back, the years will keep on moving away, the gap between them growing. Why does he always feel so entitled, like his opinion is automatically a truth, like every word he speaks is somehow right, Charles thinks as he scrolls on his phone. His fingers shaking with anger on the screen, all the tweets laughing at the situation not helping one bit to calm his heartbeat racing even faster than his car.

Is he expecting a “Thank You” now? Should Charles praise him too, next time he has the chance? Who does he even think he is, talking so badly about Ferrari, it’s not his team, not his experience he’s speaking about. What does he know about Charles’ feelings and situation? “I can see how much it affects him” When did he see that? Did he put a camera under his helmet to see him cry? Perhaps he was hidden in the hotel room when he got there because he surely did not ask. 

He locks the phone, hoping to lock his mind at the same time. It doesn’t work like that, though. It would be too easy, to be the master of his own emotion, to not let them do what they want with him, a result he's way too used to. It’s difficult to keep it at bait, to stay in charge. Especially in those moments where he’s disappointed, and sad, and angry, and tired. And lonely. So, so, incredibly lonely. There’s no cure for that, at least not one Charles is aware of. Sure, he could call his mom, but it would ease the pain just for a bit, and then he would feel guilty about worrying her too much. It’s not worth it, he’s not a child, he can deal with his emotions and feelings all on his own. He can just keep it all for himself instead, there’s nothing to worry about. It’s okay anyway, he got used to the feeling, it kind of became an extension of himself. They coexist in almost perfect harmony.

It’s when he finally cries alone in his hotel room that he feels at peace for the first time that day. He lets it out, His eyes a tempestuous ocean whose waves just keep on hitting the sand and flooding the coast. The tears washing away from his body like a second nature.

There’s a knock on his door who snatches him from his much deserved break from the world. Six knocks, actually, in a strange pattern. Charles’ breath gets stuck in the back of his throat when he hears it. “Fuck” he curses, whipping frantically at his eyes in a desperate attempt to hide the tears and the puffy eyes that lived with him for the last hour. 

There’s another set of knocks between the moment he gets up and the moment he’s in front of the door, so he opens it before the pattern is over, the person almost falling over from the abrupt movement. 

“Easy man” Max says, standing stupidly in the doorway. Charles wants to say he’s surprised to see him here. The truth is, he isn’t. He recognized the knocks, and somehow he knew the man would come and try to speak with him the moment he ignored his insistent looks in the paddock after the race. Typical Max. Why does he care so much?

“You okay man?” He asks, his eyes scanning the man in front of him to try and assess the situation. They both know he can try as much as he can, he’s still going to step where he’s not supposed to, say the wrong thing that will push Charles right into action, spitting out words like they’re knives. It’s not their first rodeo, they’re used to it. Charles still wishes the man would stop trying.

“Sure, I'm fine.” He lies. Because there’s no need for the truth when it’s already written all over his face in waves of red. Maybe he could’ve been a bit more believable if his throat wasn’t sore from all the crying.

“It’s ok not to be, you know.” he tries, knowing it’s not the right thing to say. He’s still standing in the doorway awkwardly.

“Thanks for the support” Charles mumbles.

“You don’t have to act like you weren’t crying. I’m not going to judge you, Charles.” There’s genuine concern wrapped around his words. It’s soft, tender like puff pastry.

And Charles can’t take it, this sickening feeling eating him alive. He wants to fold so badly. He just can’t afford it. His only resort left is to be mean, let the anger do the speaking. But it’s not fair when Max isn’t firing back.

“Are you going to enter the room, or did you just decide to come all this way to just bother me by standing there in front of the entrance?” He asks, annoyed. 

He’s secretly glad someone cared enough to come and check on him, it’s just too much of a torture when this someone is Max.

“You didn’t invite me in”

Charles doesn’t answer that, he just throws the older man a look who speaks more than words and rejoins his place. Max follows him, closing the door behind before walking to the sofa in front of Charles’ bed.

“Aren’t you supposed to celebrate your win right now?”

“I did already. It got boring, so I left; I’m not really in the mood for a big party right now. Why weren’t you here?” 

His curiosity is almost misplaced. Why do you care? He wants to scream. “Can you stop with the stupid question? I have nothing to celebrate.”

“But Sainz was on the podium, don’t you celebrate your team?” he asks earnestly.

Charles chuckles. “That’s rich coming from you to say this to me after talking complete shit of my team”

“I just told the truth.”

“Nobody asked you. I certainly did not ask you” his voice is getting loud, his anger taking the reins of the discussion. 

“Actually, I don’t know if you realized, but someone did ask me, I wouldn’t have brought you up randomly like that if they hadn’t.” Max replies with the same tone, but it’s lacking in honesty. It sounds like a performance, a character he’s trying to imitate.

“You made me look fucking stupid. Like a child who needs someone to defend him!” he screams.

“Come on, Charles. I did not do that, at all. Did it upset you? It wasn’t my intention, you know that.”

Does Charles know that? How can he be sure of anything? What he knows is right now he feels like a child having a tantrum in front of an adult trying to gently parent him, and he hates it so much. He feels dumb, and he doesn’t know how to make it stop.  

“What do you think?” he replies, still on the defensive.

“I don’t know, I’m asking you. I thought you would take it well.”

“I don’t need your pity.” He can’t help the anger. It’s a second nature, a protection to keep him safe, that’s what he tells himself anyway.

“It’s not pity! I complimented you, Charles, can’t you just take a fucking compliment and move on? It’s not that deep. And it’s not my fault your shitty team made you second guess yourself so much you think everyone saying something nice to you is pitying you.” Max finally snaps back, his frustration getting the best of him. 

In a sick way, Charles takes it as a win. He’s not the only one angry anymore, it’s a relief, as small as one can be. “Fuck you Verstappen. I don’t want your loaded compliments full of hypocrisy, I would actually rather get shot multiple times than hear one more sweet thing about me coming out of your mouth.” because it makes him feel nauseous, and he doesn’t understand why.

“You’re such a pain in the ass, man. It’s exhausting to speak with you. You don’t have to victimize yourself every time” Max sighs before getting up from the sofa.

Charles does the same. “Why do you act like I'm the one who showed up at your door in the middle of the night? I did not ask you to speak with me, at all. Why do you always have to do that, come here just to start a fucking argument? Do you get off on that? Knowing I'm miserable? Do you have to come here just to make sure I'm gonna have a bad night by seeing your face right before I sleep?” It’s almost too mean, even for them. Because that’s not what the situation is, Max isn’t cruel, Charles knows that. Their loaded words just live on their own. 

“I’m just trying to be nice, but you’re so on the defensive it always has to turn sour with you.”

“Well, take note for next time and spare both of us, please.”

“The day you realize I'm not trying to make it harder for you, but quite the opposite, actually, it will probably blow your fucking mind.”

“Sure thing, have a good night, Max. Thanks for this great conversation.” he smiles ironically, so sure he actually won. It’s the only victory he can have against him lately, how pathetic it is, right?

But Max has to snatch it away from him, he just can’t let it go, let Charles have one thing, no matter how insignificant it is, he just has to accumulate the victory and shake them in front of his face. “You should speak about what’s weighing your heart with someone.” he says.

The words hurt Charles' stomach like a punch to the guts.

“Nothing is weighing my heart, that’s bullshit. I told you I’m fucking fine. Please just go on with your night and leave me alone.” he tries to fight back, but he knows the end already.

There’s a moment of silence between the two men, the electric tension filling up the room. Charles’ eyes are angry enough for the both of them. But there’s something behind, it’s frail and scared. Max caught it, that’s why he doesn’t leave just yet, even though they both are standing in front of the door again, circling back to the beginning of their conversation. Charles desperately wants him gone before it’s too late.

“You don’t look fine” Max finally speaks up, voice so soft, Charles is clueless as to how it could be the reason for his tears angrily spilling out of his eyes. 

It’s embarrassing at first, because he’s not alone. And because it’s Max who’s seeing him in such a vulnerable position. He wipes the tears as fast as he can, but they betray him when they keep on falling. He sniffles and curses under his breath, feeling stupid once again as his emotions overtake him. 

“Oh Char' it’s okay, come here.”

Charles doesn’t move. Or maybe he does. He can’t really recall. The only thing he can focus on is his tears, and Max arms around his body, as well as his perfume. Max hugs him like he cares. He squeezes and pet his back, his hands drawing circles above the thin shirt, Charles can almost feel his skin shiver under the touch. He’s mad at himself for folding so easily, but he tried to fight it, he’s just not strong enough for the task at hand, but it’s nothing new.

It is Max who steps out of their embrace first, and Charles' body yearns for warmth instantly. It’s been so long since he shared a good hug, too long. He wants to ask for more, wants to initiate another one, wants to reach and collide against the other man. But Max isn’t at a reaching distance anymore and when he speaks, Charles knows his own words will have to die alone in his heart. “I’m gonna go now, I think.”

Charles nods. Max leaves. 

He stopped crying along the way, probably left his tears on Max’s shirt, a mark of his passage, the only proof it happened, along with the perfume still lingering in the air.

After that, Charles kind of dreads the next time they see each other. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to act around Max since he cried in front of him. They hugged, that’s definitely a new development to their relationship. They aren’t even supposed to be friends. He can still recall the comforting feeling sinking into his bones, though, his mind getting quiet for a split second. He would rather die than admit it out loud, but he enjoyed it. It felt great to be held just for a moment. Now he’s afraid he made it awkward. What if his outburst made Max uncomfortable? Thinking back about it, he can’t remember who initiated the hug, and it makes him anxious, he definitely doesn’t need that pilling on top of everything else. 

He’s speaking with Pierre on the paddock when he sees him for the first time since the hug, and he’s immediately torn between watching him intently or acting like he didn’t notice him, to see what the other man will do. He might be thinking about it too much, because Pierre realizes something is going on that keeps Charles away from being attentive. 

“What are you looking at?” he asks curiously, turning around to try and understand what pulled his attention.

Caught, Charles looks away and fakes a smile, but it’s too late. “Nothing, what were you saying?”

“Come on, man, is it Max? Did you two argue again?” Pierre asks, his eyes locked into Charles for a moment to assess the situation. 

It’s funny how he truly thinks he can read him and his mind when he does that. Charles doesn’t even understand himself, how crazy would it be for someone else to do so with just a look.

“Yeah you can say that I guess” he lies, his voice evasive. He doesn’t want to speak about it; he just realized, feels like he shouldn’t. It feels intimate somehow, something he selfishly wants to keep away from every prying eyes. It might not be a win, but it’s his thing. 

Pierre laughs it off and goes back to his story, while Charles' eyes keep their focus on Max, until the moment the other man catches it and makes it obvious. They stare at each other and Max waves at him. Charles doesn’t look at him after that. Too embarrassed to acknowledge anything between the two of them. 

The qualification that comes after that is pretty good. Charles will start the race in the third position, right behind Russell and Sainz. He’s confident about a podium this weekend. 

Maybe being too hopeful at times is what makes him so miserable in the end, though. But he’s still a believer. 

It’s easy to overtake Russel in the first lap, the strategy they worked on pays off for once. Sainz is leading, and he’s going too slow for Charles to drive at full capacity, he can feel the gap between him and the two other cars behind reducing, and it’s making him anxious. “I’m quicker than Sainz” he tells his team on the radio, hoping to get the green light to overtake him. He doesn’t get it, though. 

“We need a five-second gap behind Sainz” they tell him instead, and it sounds a lot like you need to slow down and do all the hard work. And he can’t lie, it’s hard to hide it. He’s angry at the situation, he wants to curse them in the radio, wants to ask if they are joking. But there’s no use for all of that, he knows they are being serious. Can’t Sainz create the gap on his own? If he’s in front then surely he should be able to, he’s the one supposed to create the rhythm. And what is Charles supposed to do? Slow down, seriously? What a fucking joke, he thinks. He’s just trying to drive, and his radio keeps on telling him to slow down, but he’s too busy fighting with the car behind for that. If Carlos Sainz wants a comfortable advance, then he should make it on his own. 

Ferrari fucks him up once again in the end, they make him box and release him too late, so the traffic in the pit keeps him away from the podium. He ends up in the fourth position, Max right behind him even though he started eleventh. He won six places, while Charles just lost. But once again, he needs to be happy. He should celebrate his teammate's win, and act like the team didn’t sacrifice him one more time. He’s getting used to it, disappointment. 

When he goes back to his hotel that night, there are no tears on his face. He’s too tired to cry. He finds himself wishing Max would come knocking at his door, he’s embarrassed to even think about it, but maybe it would do him great. Unfortunately, there’s no reason for that to happen since Max had a worse place than him, for once, he didn't win. And it should make Charles happy, at least comfort him in some sense. But he’s so angry at his team, he wishes Red Bull and especially Max would have found a way to snatch this one instead. How selfish is he? He thinks before spiraling again, looking at the ceiling. It’s hard when somehow it still feels like his fault.

He doesn't know how long he stays like that, feeling the time move around him, in a strange state between awake and sleeping. 

He gets brought back to earth when he hears this distinct knock. For a moment, he thinks about not answering, just because standing and walking to the door feels like too much effort. He waits for another set of knocks that never comes. He feels guilty about it, and maybe disappointed too, that the man didn’t try more. Maybe he’s asking for too much, he briefly thinks. He finally gets up and opens the door. To his greatest surprise, Max is still here, sitting against the opposite wall, his eyes on his phone. "Oh, hey. I was about to call you." he says, putting back his phone in his jean pocket and giving Charles a soft smile. "Can I come in?" 

"Yeah." Charles answers, holding the door and closing it after Max gets in safely. He's taken aback by the whole situation, doesn't really know how to act, what to say, if he's even supposed to look him in the eyes? Should he go back to bed? He kind of wants to lay here in silence. Weirdly, Max's presence probably wouldn't mind him that much. 

To Charles’ greatest despair, Max breaks the silence, "Congrats on the Ferrari win." 

"Yeah…"

"They clearly couldn't have done it without you." he says, twisting the knife with every word. Charles already knows that, so really, it's not helping him at all today, but he’s too exhausted to get angry and argue. He sighs and goes back to bed. Hoping Max would take the hint. He doesn't. 

"I just feel like it's kind of shitty the way they fucked up your podium to secure him a win. I thought you were their first driver." He adds. 

He keeps on twisting the knife, Charles snaps back "There's no first driver" he answers dumbly, it’s not even what he wants to say. 

"There's always one. If I'm behind Perez, and I'm quicker than him, the team tells him to let me pass."

Charles sighs, of course it’s that easy for him. He’s so envious, it physically hurt him.

"You can't compare your situation to mine, Max" his voice is muffled by the pillow he's laying on, "You're fighting for the championship, and obviously you are Red Bull's first driver, you are the number one driver currently in the grid, period."

"You could be fighting for the championship too" He replies, discarding everything Charles just said. 

If he keeps on twisting this damn knife like that, he’s going to bleed out entirely. It hurts to think about. Yes, he could be fighting for the championship. But he’s not. 

"Can you not, please? I'm really not in the mood for this tonight." Charles almost begs. It’s out of character, it makes Max frown.

"What's up, why are you not angrily screaming at me? You’re even being polite. What a change." He tries to laugh it out, makes it a joke, maybe he hopes Charles is going to scoff and roll his eyes at him. It doesn’t happen.

"I don't want to argue, that is pointless." he means it with all of his heart, he only wants to sleep on all of his problem, maybe he will solve them in his dreams.

But obviously Max doesn't stop, it's like he does it on purpose sometime, to rill Charles up. "I'm just disappointed Ferrari won with the wrong car., that’s all"

"Why are you being like that when you finished behind me?" Charles snaps back, desperately trying to shift the conversation. It’s silly, all it does is give Max even more power over him. 

"You know I could've overtaken you." he replies so easily, not even caring what about what those words can carry.

And that's what angers Charles. He gets up instantly, eyes full of furry. "Fuck you, I don't want your pity, and I certainly don't want you to go soft on me during a race. That's like, the worst thing you could say to me, that you didn't overtake me because you didn't want to and not because you couldn't. Please don't do that, this whole season is embarrassing enough, I don't need you adding to it. I fucking beg." 

Max flinches at the words. Charles instantly feels bad.

"No, Charles, I didn't mean it like that. I'm just saying if there was one or two more laps, I would probably have overtaken you. I couldn't today because it was too short. Not because I stayed behind on purpose." 

"I really hope you're not lying to me because I don't think that's something I could get over with. Honestly, Max."

"I don't lie to you, I wouldn't do that. Ever. You know me, you know there's nothing I like more than fighting with you on a circuit, Nothing changed since the karting days. I promise."

"See you're lying now, in karting days we were equal, today you're about to win your third championship and I don't even have one win this whole season. We don't play in the same category."

"Yes we do. We're both in Formula One, we both made it"

Charles shrugs, getting back to his lying position on the bed, "You know what I mean"

"You will have your days in the sun too, I'm certain. I believe in you and your capacities. There's just a lot of shit around you right now that keeps you away from what you deserve, but it will get better, and you will be a champion too, you’re still young. I don't think there's anyone I would like to see having the number 1 more than you."

Charles can feel himself go soft, he doesn’t try to fight it this time. "Thank you, Max. That's really nice of you to say."

"I mean it."

"I know. That's why I'm saying thanks. Please don't get used to it."

"Alright I won't. You're welcome Charles" he smiles. Charles love his smile.

It gets silent after that. There's a part of Charles' heart that strangely feels at peace. And he thinks he could fall asleep right now, even when Max's eyes are focused on him. 

"Can I ask you a question?" Max breaks the silence, voice always so soft.

"I don't remember a time you held back from it."

"Fair enough. Do you have someone to speak to when you get a bit overwhelmed by your feelings?" he asks earnestly, not even trying to hide the curiosity draped around his words.

Charles wants to argue that he does not get overwhelmed by his own feelings, but it’s pointless, as they both know how deeply he unfortunately does. It’s weird to realize, but there’s no need to keep his walls up in front of Max. It’s too late for that now anyway, so might as well be the most honest he can. 

"Not really."

"What about your girlfriend?" 

It’s just a small reminder that they aren’t actually friends, whatever this is they are doing right now is not usual, or else Max would know it’s been a long time since he had a girlfriend. "We're not together anymore"

"Oh, sorry, I didn't know that. Your mom then?"

"I don't like to worry her."

"And Pierre, he's your best friend, no?" 

Their relation isn’t really like that, they don’t speak about what happen when it gets dark. Pierre probably has other friends for that. "He knows I prefer being alone in moments like that." Charles settle for.

"But do you, really?" he asks softly, eyes roaming on Charles' face. It's so earnest that Charles almost wants to be fully honest with him, he feels in the pit of his stomach that he can, that it's a safe space, somehow. But the thought of it is still too scary. So he doesn't answer, he just looks at him instead, and as weird as it is, there's more understanding in this singular look than any words he could have chosen to speak. 

"You know I don't mind, right?" Max adds, not missing a beat of Charles’ expressions. 

"That's what I gather, yeah. But I still don't understand why, what are you gaining from this."

"Nothing. I just hate to know you're not doing well, and you're alone sulking."

It’s kind, sweet even. It scares Charles, so he tries to shift the attention to a detail. Max lets him do it. 

"I'm not sulking."

"You kinda are"

"I definitely am not"

"Sure, if it helps you sleep at night, you're not sulking then.

"Thanks."

They don't hug this time. But their conversation feels like a big and comfortable one. The kind of hug where you rock together from side to side during a long period of time. The kind that puts your soul at rest and restarts your mind. 

When Max leaves the room late at night, it's to a fast asleep Charles Leclerc, correctly tucked in bed. Nobody but him needs to know how much the sight makes his own heart grow.

It kind of becomes a habit after that, speaking without arguing. 

It usually happens at night in Charles' room, when it's already dark outside and there's no other sound than their voice resonating against each other. It never goes beyond that though, they don't acknowledge each other on the paddock and usually stay away from one another as much as they can. 

Maybe it's all Charles' doing, it surely is him who goes out of his way to ignore the other man in public even when he obviously tries to make a move and speak with him, but he never puts too much thought into it. He's just scared of Max not being as sweet in public as he is in private, with only his eyes for witnesses. They do speak about each other almost every race week, but it's all on the interviewers shoulders, it's them who never get tired of hearing the same anecdotes about their karting days. Charles never gets tired of counting them, too. 

Max wins this week as always, meanwhile Charles ends up at the fourth place, it's not bad. It actually is really good compared to other races, but it's not enough, and he's scared someday he will have to satisfy himself with ending up off the podium every week, taking it as a victory every time he gains some points. He wants to be up there, fighting for the championship every week. But what if it never happens? What if his peak is already long gone? What if they already got the best part of him, and he was so busy in his mind he didn’t even realize it ended? Maybe he wasn’t that predestined after all. It’s hard to mourn something he didn’t know had died. 

Max doesn't visit his room that night, and it would be lying to say Charles isn't disappointed. He thought they created a routine. He finds it hard to fall asleep after that, his thoughts taking up too much place in the big room. He keeps on checking his phone for a text that never comes, for a ghost that got tired of haunting him. 

He goes home after that, to rest. But it’s not the way he wants it to be. He has a bad time, mainly because his family can sense something is wrong with him, and they make it a big deal. It really isn’t. He hangs out with his friends, even ends up at a party with Pierre and some other drivers. He wants to ask if Max is coming too, but it would mean he has to explain to the others that they are friends now, or at least Charles thinks they are. They don’t know about their new night ritual, so he doesn’t ask. Maybe he just wants to keep it for his heart, only to know.

He finds himself wishing he could bump into Max somewhere, not necessary during the party, maybe on a run or a bike ride around the city, at a restaurant, perhaps.

It doesn't happen. 

He’s glad when he has to go back to work. But the next race isn’t great either, and the building to it is even worse, he can sense all week that something is wrong, that it’s not only in his mind, it finally got out or his personal jail, there’s nothing he can do about it.

He ends up sixth, Max wins, again. Charles is jealous, again. Envy is eating him alive, crawling all around his body, ready to attack and kill. Why can't he win too? Just once. Max is ignoring him again, and now it actually hurts, it's more than disappointment flooding his body, he feels like shit. 

Usually, he would probably keep it all bottled up until it explodes inside of him, but tonight and for once, he decides to text Max. Their chat is so dry, there's almost nothing there, such a big contrast between this and their conversations at night face to face. He takes a deep breath and presses send before his overthinking keeps him away from an answer he so desperately wants and needs like water. 

"Did I do something wrong?" he asks, it’s right to the point, he’s still in the conversation, rereading his text when the answer comes. It’s so fast, almost as fast as his heartbreaking at the sight of it. 

"Yeah" That's all it says. Charles waits for something else to come, an explanation of what he did wrong, perhaps. But there's nothing more. 

He locks his phone then. It's so easy to open his arms and embrace his destructive thoughts. Of course, you did something wrong, what you did doesn't matter because it was wrong, like it always is lately. It's not fair, he already knows he's to blame. He's to blame for a lot of things lately, but he didn't realize he would ever be to blame for Max not wanting to make an effort anymore, and he hadn't realized it would affect him that much. He's used to fucking it up the same way he's used to arguing with Max, it's nothing new. But it's not an argument this time. It's worse than that, it's the lack of one. 

He looks at his phone again, desperately. Hoping for something new, but of course there's nothing else here. 

Self-pity suits him so well, it's like a second skin, he wears it more than his Ferrari suits lately. 

He fights with himself for what step to take next. Should he just accept it and ignore the ill feeling in his stomach? Should he send another text asking for an explanation, begging even? Should he let time do his thing? 

He ends up in front of Max's hotel room's twenty minutes later. Being there is already some sort of miracle, he can't recall how it happened nor how he knew where to go instinctively. When the door opens in front of him without any knock, he feels relieved for a short moment, at least he doesn’t have to build up the courage to knock, but he can’t escape now.

Daniel is standing in front of the door, and he doesn't even try to hide his confusion as to Charles presence. "What the fuck are you doing here?" he asks, furrowed eyebrows, but still with his smiling expression. Charles doesn't answer, he just looks at him dumbly, all his words forgotten in his own room. "Well, I was about to leave so, enjoy. He's a bit annoying tonight, good luck." he says with a comforting pat on his back. Does Daniel know?

He exits the room, holding the door for Charles to enter. He does it without any words and closes it behind him. 

It's completely silent, and it makes Charles' heartbeat go crazy in his chest. He can feel his anxiety crippling, telling him how bad of an idea that was. He could still leave, Max is nowhere to be seen anyway, he wouldn't know anything happened. There's noise in what seems to be the bathroom. Charles is about to leave when the door opens and Max immediately locks eyes with him. Charles regrets everything. 

"What are you doing here?"

"I don't know"

"Great."

"I'm sorry" it comes up without any warning, that’s not what he wanted to say. At least not right on the bat. He’s not in charge of himself, once again. It feels like he’s on autopilot mode. 

"That's great, you should be." Max replies dryly, sitting on his sofa. 

Charles stays standing, still so close to the door in case he needs to make a run for it, in case it becomes too much. He can sense it will soon enough. He closes his eyes to focus on his words and not on Max blue eyes. "You can't just say I did something wrong and not explain what. That's not… that's not nice" 

He feels small even when trying to stand up for himself, waiting for the wince that will inevitably come. And it does in the form of Max’ laugh. How unfair.

"Oh, so now I'm the one who's not nice?"

"Yeah" 

"You have some nerve Charles."

"I'm sorry, I just don't understand, and it hurts my feelings because I thought we were friends."

"You only seem to realize you need a friend when you're alone and not feeling great" he spits out like he was waiting for this moment all his life. 

But that’s not true, Charles thinks, he always needs a friend, he missed Max when he was surrounded too, looked for him in media’s day, he even tried to be funny just in the hope to hear him laugh. Not that mean and ironic laugh he just did, but the soft one with the crinkle by his eyes. He wanted this one. 

"That's not true" he answers, because he can’t afford to be fragile right now.

"Yeah, when you're with other people you act like I don't exist. Do you think this doesn't hurt me? When you blow me off in public constantly? And then I'm supposed to come running to your side because you fucked up another time, and you need comfort?"

And…what? He physically flinches. It stings. It's nothing he has never heard before. But it’s different when it comes from another voice than the one in his head. It’s different when it comes from Max. It kind of feels like his worst nightmare being real. 

"Okay. I'm sorry. I'm just gonna go then, I'm sorry, I really am." He stumbles over his words, feeling like a little kid. He needs to escape now.

It’s silent while Max assesses him "Come on man, that's all?" he asks, his voice lacking the sharp undertone it previously had. Charles can still hear it loud and clear ringing in his head. 

"Yeah."

"No argument to spit back?" 

"I don't want to argue with you." he says softly, and it's only then he realizes he's about to cry. "Can I go now?" It's such a stupid thing to ask, and it immediately puts him in a weird light, because now Max knows he's going to cry if he doesn't leave instantly. Charles doesn't want to cry in front of him anymore, the space lost all of his safety.

Max inspects him, and his face loses some of the anger it was carrying. It's still not enough for Charles. "Yeah, you can go I guess." 

"Great." Charles replies right above a whisper.

He turns his back then and leaves the room as fast as he can.

How unfair, Charles thinks once he’s back in his room, alone. What was the need to make him feel safe just to throw one of his worse fear at his face. How cruel. Maybe he deserved it, but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt like hell. He’s mad at himself, for hoping, for believing. For folding way too easily, let his walls down in a heartbeat. He gave him all the right tools to hurt him, pointed at the scars on his body and in his head and asked to be hurt.

It’s not like he thought for one moment that it was going to be great. It’s not like Max looked at him with glistening eyes and said “It will get better” and Charles, for one short moment, believed him. How dumb would it be now if he did that. He made his bed all on his own, he just has to lay in it now and pull the sheet over his head.

He carries the words like a burden with him along the way. He thinks about Max’ voice in Qatar when Russell ends up in front of him even though he crashed at the beginning of the race. Yeah, he probably did fuck up somewhere in here. He ends up fifth. Max wins his third championship and Charles tells the interviewers and his social media he’s happy for him. They don’t speak. He flies to Italy during the night to train. It doesn’t prevent him from another bad race two weeks after. He can’t help but think he fucked up another time when he’s sixth in Austin, behind Sainz. Max wins again, it becomes anecdotal. They don’t speak once again.

Something good finally happens in Mexico. It’s unexpected.

He doesn't really think too much about it, it's instinctive when he puts the car in the first spot at the end of the race. It feels like forever since he got on the podium, even longer since he won a race, and the joy it brings him isn’t measured at all. When he sees Max getting out of his car, he can't help the attraction pulling toward him, and he doesn't try to fight it. He crashes his body against him, both of their helmets knocking against each other. They can't see it, but they both know they're smiling. Max grips on Charles' hips is strong, Charles can't help but wish they were hugging right now, so he goes for it. The man hugs him back, strongly. “Congrats man, you did it”. It’s muffled behind Max’s helmet, but they’re so close, Charles still catches the words perfectly. 

“I did, yeah. I did. Fuck Max, I did!” he’s overjoyed.

Max laughs at him, his hands still steady on the other man's body. There’s something in here that needs to be said, right on the tip of Max tongue. But Charles gets snatched by the Ferrari team that want to properly celebrate him, cutting their moment short. Perhaps it’s better this way, Max thinks as he watches him jump around, he can’t help but smile at the sight. 

For once, there’s something to celebrate at the end of a race for Charles. It’s a weird feeling, he almost forgot how it felt. He missed it, missed the rush that comes with a great race, with no issues, no engine malfunction, no bad pit stop, no bad strategy that cost him too much. He dreamed of days like this. He also missed the fights for the first place, especially with Max. He knows in his right mind that if the Red Bull car didn’t have a slight issue he would have easily ended up in front of him, but it doesn’t mean he can’t celebrate, he still won. He didn’t fuck it up this time. 

He doesn’t have it in himself to stay too long during the after party, though, he can’t help spinning out about things that haven’t happened yet. He’s happy, of course he is. But there’s something holding him back, refraining him from fully enjoying his night and his win. It’s exhausting, to have something bad to think about even in a moment of joy. It’s never fully great. But he knows exactly why, this time, there’s no need to hide himself from the truth in front of him. 

He can sense eyes on him while he’s drinking his vodka at the bar, he’s not drunk, yet, but just enough to be brave and look up. Of course, it’s Max. He’s speaking with Daniel, laughing even. Charles wants to be the reason for his smile. Perhaps he jealouses him in more ways than one, as scary of a thought it is, it still lays there right under his skin. He can’t shake it off. 

Max isn’t looking at him anymore, and it’s for the better, it probably would have stopped him from doing what he really wants to do. His feet lead him right in front of them, Max glances at Daniel next to him and smiles politely, the man gets the hint and tells them he needs a new drink, the one in his hand still full, before he leaves them alone. 

They’re not alone though, that’s the problem. It makes Charles skin itch, he wants to get out of here, but he wants Max to come with him. He just doesn’t know how to voice it, too busy looking at him square in the eyes with no readable expression. 

“Do you want to get out of here?” Max asks, leaning toward his ear. 

Charles can’t help but smile as he nods, feeling like Max just read his mind. The older man takes the lead to exit the party, Charles follows him as he thinks how rude it can actually be to leave the party in your honor. They’ll get over it anyway, as long as they’re too busy celebrating themselves, it’s not like he was enjoying it in the first place, he’s just an excuse to have fun. 

“Where do you want to go?” Max asks as he comes to a halt outside.

“I don’t know.”

“Take a decision”

“No, you take a decision.”

He doesn’t reply to that, but he starts walking. There’s not a lot of places Charles wouldn’t follow him to anyway. 

They end up in Max’s room, on the balcony more precisely. It’s silent, but the sound of the wind is enough to bring Charles' mind to peace, perhaps it’s not the only thing bringing him peace at this exact moment.

He’s thinking about what to say first, he didn’t really rehearse a speech, he just knows he wants to say he’s sorry. Wants to ask if they can hang out together again, wants to be sure they can be friends. He also wants to say Max words hurt him, but perhaps he should keep that for himself. It’s too late anyway, he thought them and spoke them out loud. There’s no real turn back in time if he meant it. And it hurts, but it’s between him and his feelings. It wouldn’t be the only thing he’s too scared to voice out anyway. 

Max speaks first, “Congrats on your win”

It makes Charles smile slightly. “Thank you”

“I wanted to say it earlier, but it felt like it wasn’t the right moment. I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you, Max. It means a lot, coming from you.”

“You’re welcome, I mean it”

Are there other things you meant to say? He wants to ask, but the words never come out, and he realizes he’s still too much of a coward to be honest and transparent. Perhaps he should have drunk more. 

“About the other day, I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright” Max replies, shrugging his shoulders like it didn’t matter. It matters a lot. 

“No it’s not, because well, I struggle to explain myself, but what you said, it’s not how I feel. And I want you to know that. I guess I was just afraid you wouldn’t be the same around the other, I didn't really know how to act around you. But not because I was embarrassed or because I didn't care. I do care. I care plenty.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. That’s why I'm sorry I made you feel like I wasn't grateful for your kindness or anything like that. I enjoyed our time together. I thought we could have been good friends.”

“It’s fine Charles, I guess I overreacted a little. I like being your friend, you’re not that bad. I enjoyed our moments together, too.”

“Great. That’s all I wanted to say.” He lies, choosing to keep his weakness. 

It falls back to silence after that, but it’s not as comfortable as the one before, Charles can’t shake the self-pity crawling through his brain. 

“I didn’t mean it, you know?” Max says softly, looking at Charles, who’s watching the sky.

“What?” he asks, lacking in context. 

“The thing I said about you fucking it up as always. You don’t fuck things up. I’m sorry I said that, I just wanted you to argue with me, I guess”

They fell back to silence, Max waiting for Charles to answer. Charles anxiously playing with his fingers. 

“Why?” he finally speaks up, his voice almost breaking, hiding under the wind.

Max shrugs, “Because we know how to deal with it.” 

“It hurt me.”

“I’m sorry, Charles, I really am. It was cruel.”

“I don’t think I want to argue anymore.”

“Okay, we won’t then.”

“You can’t know that for sure”

“Of course I can. Don’t even worry about that? Just keep on flashing your dimples, and I'll forget when I'm supposed to be angry.”

Charles can’t help but smile at his words, his dimples in plain sight. He almost feels shy, like there’s too much attention on him. It’s only Max’s bright eyes and the city lights. One could take one for the other, they are so similar in the night. 

“Right, just like that.” he points out the dimples and Charles has to look away to compose himself. 

“You’re not angry, though”

“No I’m not. But it’s fine, I still like the view.” He's not looking at the sky.

“Shut up” Charles replies, embarrassed. Max laughs, finally. What a joyful sound, he thinks. 

“Did you speak about me again today in interview?” Charles wants to know “I didn’t get the chance to keep up with my fans yet” he jokes, his eyes back on the sky above them. He feels small again, but it’s not scary this time. 

“When do I not speak about you?”

“I don’t know, you tell me”

“Can’t tell you it would be too embarrassing for me. But yeah, I did. I said I was proud of you, said people who know you can’t be anything else but proud of the way you pick yourself up every time no matter what shit life throws at you.”

“I don’t pick myself up” he admits, but Max shakes his head. 

“Yes you do, every time. You’re just so used to it, you don’t even realize how much strength you’re holding.”

“That’s… nice” You’re nice, he meant to say.

“It’s the truth, I don't think you hear it enough Charles. But that’s fine because I will keep on reminding you how strong you are”

There’s a silence during which Charles is trying to assimilate the words he just heard, but it’s cut short by Max’s voice. “You know what else I said?”

“No, but you’re going to tell me”

“I said, I'm happier you won today than I would have been if I did instead. Because you deserve it”

Charles can’t help but laugh as he looks at him, “Shut up, you did not say that”

“Of course I did! Are you calling me a liar?” he smiles

“I’m just saying you like winning too much for that”

“There’s other thing I like in life, things I can enjoy more than a win”

It’s filled with innuendo, hard to look away from them, especially when Max is looking at him. So Charles just smiles for now, storing this moment delicately in a corner of his head, with his city light eyes and his colorful smile. He’ll take care of them, they’re safe, not near any bad thoughts he might have. 

“I know you think your driving has to affect every other part of your life, that if you don’t win then you’re not worth anything, but you exist without your red suit and away from your red car. They’re not an expansion of you. I know what you might feel, obviously for different reasons, but all the weight of the word isn’t on your shoulders. It’s alright if you don’t perform well, nobody is going to be mad at you. You have so much potential and everyone knows that. Your dad and Jules, they’re not disappointed in you, they’re never going to be. And I know you race for them, and you want to make them proud, but they already are, I can promise that. And you have to do it for you above everything. They’re proud Charles, you don’t have to go through hell in your own mind to feel worthy, it’s not good for you. And you also don’t have to fight those battles alone. I’m here now, alright? If you want, if you’ll have me, I can help. I’m a good fighter, you’ll see. What I mean and what I'm trying to say is, you are more than great at what you do, and you are more than enough. And if anything makes you feel less than that, then you have to let it go; even if it’s Ferrari in itself. You don’t need them, and your family, they won’t be disappointed if you leave, they would understand and agree with me that what you feel is the most important, it should be above everything. And if you can’t make your own happiness on top of everything then I will personally take care of it I can assure you. You can heal from all of this, and you’re going to, I swear.”

Every single words feel like a blanket knitted with love. It’s a strong word, and Max didn’t even use it. But every sentenced is delicately wrapped with care and understanding. It helps him breathe correctly. Charles wants the same wrapping around his body.

“Can you hug me?” he asks, he hadn’t realized he was crying until he heard himself sniffle at the end of his sentence. It feels cleansing this time, so he doesn’t try to shush the tears. He decides he can let them live on their own.

“Of course love, yeah.” Max replies softly before moving next to Charles to wrap his arms above his waist. He squeezes and pat the skin the same way he did the first time they shared a moment like that. It feels more intimate this time though, and not as scary. It feels right and Charles can feel himself melt under the touch, his body finally relaxed and his mind quiet as the safety of the hug embraces him. “I’m really proud of you” Max whispers and Charles thinks if he wasn’t already crying, he would start right now. 

It’s not difficult to think then that Max might be right, it will be alright in the end.