Chapter Text
Winter Break & Bahrain
Max knows Monaco is a tiny strip of land with limited housing. But it really wouldn't hurt if a particular Monegasque would live just a tad bit further. He exits his house with paranoia every time, lest he see his sworn enemy. Max doesn’t mind that he’s essentially wishing for Charles to leave his home country and disappear into the horizon.
Especially since Charles seems to have no problem with his evident hostility. He shows no sense of annoyance when Max glares at him from across the paddock, or purposely steers away from any unnecessary interactions.
Really, he knows that he’s just being petty and insecure. However, if you searched up the dictionary definition of stubborn, Max’s face would be plastered right on.
Unfortunately, they’re grown ups now. Both with respectful professions and ample media training. Gone are the days of ‘inchidents’. Their actions have real consequences now, and their rivalry slowly assimilated into ignoring each other and minute interactions. Max can’t just spew out his rants about how Charles was his only true competition; how he prevented him from countless victories.
But also, it might just be because he doesn’t really mean it anymore.
Max hates the effervescent smile on Charles’ face as he deals with the press. He hates his soothing voice and shiny eyes. He hates how he stutters whenever Charles makes small talk with him. He hates the weird sensation in his chest when he thinks about Charles.
So Max does not know what to do when there’s an influx of irregular knocks at his door at 1AM. It’s very concerning, because it’s an hour past midnight, and no one ever visits him. If he were to hangout, it would always be him going to Lando’s house or elsewhere.
Suffice to say he’s on high alert. Max grabs the closest saucepan in his trajectory, and slowly inches towards the door. Peering into the doorhole, he sees the unmistakable face of Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc.
What the actual fuck.
Max doesn’t know what exactly compelled him into opening the door, but he flings it open, to be greeted with an armful of Charles. Immediately, the distinct scent of alcohol infiltrates his nostrils, and Max knows it’s going to be a long night.
It is never a good idea to let your rival into your apartment while said person is extremely drunk. By the looks of it, also a tragic lightweight.
“Maxyyyyyyyyy,” Charles slurred, nuzzling into his chest and practically relying on him to stand upright. He’s pouting and truly resembles a lost puppy. “Maxi Taxi. Maximilian. You never talk to me.”
Green eyes, both animated yet glazed stare into him, and well. Max has no defense.
“Charles,” Max whispered, finally finding his voice. “Why are you here.” It’s not a question, really. It’s more of an desperate attempt to get an statement out of Charles, and ignore the flush behind his ears.
“Going to bed, duh.”
Without another warning, Charles haphazardly stumbles into his living room. He sets his eyes on the closest soft surface in sight, and passes out on the carpet.
The sound the commotion caused woke up his dearest cats, both of which looked at Charles passed out on the floor very shrewdly. Max just hopes that Sassy doesn’t claw Charles' face by accident, with Jimmy watching leisurely.
Just like Max, both of his cats are not vivacious; moreso extremely judgemental and scrutinizing. But for his bengals, they’re a different level of picky. Sometimes, it doesn’t feel like he owns his house; more so his tiny felines see him as a food and shelter source.
But they’ve formed a camaraderie, at least. Most days, Sassy tolerates him and Jimmy might occasionally crawl onto his lap. It’s another story for anyone else, though. One time the delivery man put one foot into the house, and ended up with a feral gash on his face. Max had to intensely bribe the man to never utter a word about it.
Albeit Max has very heated thoughts on Charles, he doesn’t necessarily want him to die to the hands of his cats.
He casts a warning glance towards Sassy, telepathically promising no treats for the next week if she were to scratch up Charles. To no avail, Sassy continued to amble towards Charles with a curious ambience.
Max watches in surprise as Sassy slowly brushes against Charles, effectively marking him. Jimmy follows closely behind, meowing with content.
First thing Max feels is betrayal. It took him literal months for the both of them to not hiss whenever he got near them. And now they’re offering themselves to Charles?
“No. Charles, you cannot sleep there. Or anywhere here, actually,” Max said, bamboozled beyond disbelief. This is not something he can logically assess at a time over midnight.
To no avail, as his despair was only met with Charles knocked unconscious on a carpet that hasn’t been cleaned in years. By now, Sassy has climbed onto Charles’ back, essentially building a nest for herself. Zero shame.
Snapping out of his shock, he immediately approaches the younger, curtly tapping Charles on the head. “Time to get up.”
“Non.”
Max let out the largest sigh of his life. “Let’s get you to a bed instead of decomposing on the floor.”
As always, Charles will make his life so much harder than it can be. He shows zero inclination of waking up, soft snores already present. Coupled with the fact that Sassy has nestled herself into Charle’s hoodie, licking her paws without a care in the world. Max feels a headache incoming already.
Entirely fed up, he bends down and scoops Charles (and also Sassy) up in one swift motion. Like usual, Sassy finds her way onto his shoulder, strategically clinging onto Max by wrapping her tail around his arm, uncharacteristically affectionate. Perhaps all the workout he’d been put through would come to use.
Max ignores how weirdly intimate the whole ordeal is. If the public knew about this, they’d be instantly accused of dating. Not that Max minded.
Not really using his brain at all, Max mindlessly carried Charles onto his very own bed. As soon as Charles’ head reaches the pillow, Sassy immediately prances onto the bed, snuggling against the human without any trepidation. Jimmy, who had been silent padding along, jumps on the bed and mimics Sassy. Ouch. That really hurt.
It was only when he set the man down onto the soft comforter, did he realize that he self sabotaged his already frail sleep schedule.
Charles looks unreal when he sleeps. A beauty so delicate even in his shitfaced state. With his dearest cats lined up against him, Max thinks that he can imagine a life like this. The way Charles fits so seamlessly on his bed, snuggled by his fussy cats. Gingerly, Max places it onto the cuddly trio, retrieves some headache painkillers and water, and places it on the nightstand. It dawns on him, eventually.
No way in hell would he share a bed with Charles. And his strangely territorial cats.
But said bed is his own.
That he robbed himself of.
Thus, Max settles for the couch lining the hallways, begrudgingly folding the clothes that accumulated over the days, then haphazardly stuffing them into his drawers. With one last glance at a slumbering Charles, the door shuts with a succinct click.
———————
First thing Max hears in the morning is a shrill scream. Lovely.
It’s way too early to wake up, he knows. Unless the sun is radiating violently in his face, or his abysmal alarm goes off, it’s very improbable that Max will ever wake up.
But years of practice has made it easy to shoot out of bed at the sound of a yell, immediately running into his room. There’s a certain someone currently yelling on his bed, his cats merely slightly irked. It’s unfair how Charles looks so attractive right as he wakes up, with a hangover no less.
They make eye contact, and Charles’ panicked state instantly ebbs. Which in turn just makes Max panicked; no one really takes a look at Max and smiles at him like he hung up the constellations.
“Hey,” Charles attempts, but his voice is so hoarse that it’s a mere whisper. He tries to clear his throat, but it only ends up with him in a coughing fit. Immediately, Max untangles himself from the flurry of blankets, and rushes to Charles’ side. What the hell compelled him to? All the daddy issues he’s caged up his whole life.
He pats Charles’ back with vigor, patiently waiting for the easement of his hacking. Eventually, the coughs die down, and Charles continues to babble.
“I am so so sorry for whatever I did last night. Honestly I have absolutely no idea what happened after the fifth shot. It was entirely my fault, and did you ever realize that our houses look exactly the same? I have the same potted plant out the left side of the entrance. Yeah. I’m very sorry,” the words were basically frantic whispers, but Max got the gist of it.
In the midst of his rants, Sassy had resettled herself onto Charles’ lap, rubbing her ears against the fabric in sheer bliss. With a surprised noise, Charles took one look at the two bengals and instantly fixated his attention on the two felines.
“Hello there, little ones. Aren’t you adorable? You like me, huh. Definitely much more than your owner over here,” looking over dramatically at Max.
Jimmy has the audacity to purr as Charles rubs his ears. It took Max months to coax him into any contact.
“I think,” Max grits, “you have broken my cats.”
“I think they’re perfectly fine. If you don’t want them I’ll gladly keep them,” Charles laughed, now in an intense staring contest with Sassy. Charles looks almost angelic, the thin strips of sunlight dancing across his fluffy hair.
Get a grip, Max. Start with the obvious fixes.
“First, medicine,” Max says while tossing a couple clothes onto the bed. “Next, shower. We’ll work from there.”
Luckily for the resigned Dutchman, Charles hums in agreement, swallowing the pills with a grimace. He picks up the clothes, slowly prying the cats away from him. “Right,” Charles starts, looking thoroughly dazed. “Uh, where’s the shower?”
Max vaguely points to his right, massaging his temples out of pure stress. The way his cats follow a stumbling Charles out of his room without any regard to their true owner is just sardonically evil. It really looks like a couple chicks following their mother across the street.
Whilst Charles drowns himself in the shower, Max busies himself by cooking breakfast, a rare occasion for him. Although to be fair, that just equates to a soft boiled egg and perhaps a pancake if he’s feeling special. (I love Twice <3)
He’s not prepared at all when a hungover menace sneaks up behind him as he boils the eggs. It’s kind of embarrassing how frantic he was when he came into such close proximity with Charles, his gorgeous face and charming allure.
Desperately trying to fix his pining brain, he says, “Fancy some breakfast? I’m making eggs and pancakes.”
“Of course. I’d really like to help you, but the last time I visited the kitchen I set off the fire alarm.”
“Cool. Would you mind fetching the cat food and pouring it into the bowls over there?” Max motions to the bags across the kitchen. “I don’t think the cats would mind, since they seem to really like you.” That wasn’t meant to sound as sarcastic as it came out. Luckily, Charles paid no mind to his brash tone.
“Aha! Yes, I am the cat whisperer.” Charles looked down at his feet. “Speaking of cats. Jimmy and Sassy right?”
Max hums absentmindedly. “How’d you know?”
Charles winks annoyingly and saunters off, Sassy and Jimmy following behind like lost children. “I know more about you than you think.”
Does Max have to worry about Charles peering through his windows every night now?
Tossing the eggs into an ice bath, Max moves onto the pancakes. He has never cherished his saucepan so much before, especially as he hears Charles fervently whispering to the bengals over the sizzling batter.
Max wills himself to not spare a glance at Charles. This way, it’ll calm his frenzied heart and spare him from the blood rush into his cheeks.
It seems the concept of being quiet is extremely hard for Charles, because even with someone who has never willingly talked to him, he continues to try. The small talk this man can spew is truly astounding.
“Nice weather these days, huh?”
Max squints at him, spatula hovering over a half cooked souffle pancake. “Are you seriously trying to make conversation with me?” People always tell Max that he looks cold; unapproachable, perhaps. Charles had always experienced that end of his treatment, but that never bothered the latter. Probably because he knows that everyone eventually falls for him, including Max’s cats, and subsequently so will Max himself.
“Yeah, guess so.” Charles said, unashamedly boring his emerald eyes across Max’s frame. Just like that, Max’s painstaking resistance towards Charles’ charm is over.
Max resigns his fate. “It’s been pretty nice.” He silently scraps the pan in bamboozlement.
While Max likes the slowly assess all the attributes and details of a subject, Charles hovers over the gist of things like a turbulent tornado. His mind seems to be so focused yet out of it, hopping from one subject to another. Which is why he does not expect Charles to say:
“Do you still have to follow a diet? If not, we can go grab ice cream in the afternoon.” Charles asked conversationally, trying to shake paws with Jimmy.
If it weren’t for that fact that it’s happening to him, Max would definitely applaud Charles’ audacity — he essentially invited himself over and is now bonding with the most bombastic cats ever.
Now, he’s inviting Max to go get ice cream with him. No strings attached; not even a mere glance his way, as if it’s not the most wholesome thing anyone has asked Max in months.
“You really think you’re going to stay here until the afternoon?”
”I thought we were having some quality bonding time. Also, I think your cats love me very much, even if you don’t.” If only you knew, Max thought bitterly.
The only sounds in the kitchen for a while are the sizzling of the pancakes and peeling of eggs. Yes, Max is such a nice host; peeling the eggs even for his childhood crush rival! He could’ve been a ruthless man who served eggs with shells intact.
“Get over here first. Breakfast,” Max sighs, holding two plates of plush and fluffy pancakes, with two poached eggs on each side. Slightly undercooked, but what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, I guess.
”Oooh!” Charles perked up smiling, dimples amplified in the morning glory, causing Max to slip in dangerous territory. He immediately jumped up, only to hold his head in pain as the remnants of his hangover struck. As soon as it appeared, his wince disappeared into a soft smile.
So Charles might actually be dying, but he’s trying his very best to seem civil. It’s simultaneously so chivalrous yet entirely irritating. What if he suddenly passes out on his table?
Case in point, as Charles stands up to fetch the water pot, only to topple over and send himself crashing towards the wooden planks. Without a second thought, Max ran over to stabilize the younger, who was swinging dangerously closer to the floor. Charles looked up with loopy eyes, clearly much more distraught than he wanted to seem.
”Fucking hell. How much did you drink?”
”Probably close to a liter. More wine than water, I think.” That’s enough to kill someone. Why would Charles ever do that to himself? Ferrari’s chronic depression, he supposes. Still, Max hooks his arms under Charles’ to maneuver him to the kitchen table.
Charles smells like his shampoo, all floral and coastal. Max pretends it doesn’t drive him insane.
Fortunately, Charles is instantly healed as he munches on the pancakes, cheeks stuffed with the fluffy batter. He only stops when Sassy jumps onto his lap without warning, settling lazily on his lap. Charles is nodding his head with content after every bite, and Max can’t help but stare in endearment.
His mouth, however, thinks otherwise. “When are you going back home?”
“After we get ice cream together,” Charles says solemnly.
Max can feel his gray hairs exponentially increasing. “Fine,” Max grits, which leads to Charles whooping like a 5 year old. “But for now, we rest.”
Breakfast is nowhere as awkward as Max thought it would be, since he’s put on Laufey on the speakers, and Charles doesn’t seem uncomfortable in the quiet ambience at all. For someone who Max assumed thrived on attention and jubilation, he seems to quite like the tranquility of a lazy morning.
It’s still Charles, so naturally comes the barrage of questions.
”How’s your morning going?” Charles said conversationally, cutting the pancakes into diagonal slices. Psycopathic.
”We’ve had the same morning.”
“I meant how you’re feeling. It’s called small talk, although that might be a foreign concept to you.”
Another reason he couldn’t stand Charles. Back as teenagers, they were a lot more direct with their insults, often resulting in physical altercations. But Charles now had his eloquent way of passive aggressiveness, the same snarky remarks as before that used to make Max see red. Only now, Charles would say such things in such an innocent and nonplussed way, rendering any dispute immature.
Max stabs into his own pancakes with irregular tension. “Peachy.” It’s totally not like this is the most human interaction he’s had in weeks. With no regard to personal space, Charles shuffles his chair closer to Max. Even his death glares aren’t enough to stop the menance known as Charles Leclerc.
“Why do you hate me so much?” If Max weren’t so focused on his own turmoil, he would’ve caught the slight waver in Charles’ usually melodic voice.
And well. There are a lot of reasons. But now is not the time for confrontation.
”I don’t,” Max says, but the answer sounds strained even to himself.
”See? Then we have no reason to tread on eggshells. Unless you’re not willing to?” It almost sounds like a challenge, and Max is never one to back down, if his three championships are any indication.
Still, it feels incredibly foolish. Their history stretches far beyond many others, looped between sheer jubilation and ghastly tragedy. It’s been dragging on for so long now, even Max thinks it’s ridiculous. All because of what? Concealing his giant crush on Charles with mock hatred?
It’s an olive branch of sorts. Max decides to take it. “Okay. Let’s start over.”
Charles puts on another smile this time; more carefree, genuine. He lets his fork clatter onto the plate, and offers his hand. From across the room, Jimmy and Sassy watch smugly. “I’m Charles.”
“I’m Max.”
As always, his only weakness strikes again.
——————————————————
The internet goes into shambles after they were spotted getting ice cream together. Look, Max’d tried to be subtle. But it’s not really possible if he’s going out with Charles, who is essentially a walking landmark of Monaco.
At least he can enjoy himself, his taste buds and eye satiated by the velvety soft serve. Charles had literally slammed his credit card onto the machine before Max could get a word in, leveling him with a glare. If it weren’t so daunting, he’d be actually touched.
It really pains Max to say, but Charles is slowly worming his way into Max’s meager collection of close friends. The pace at which the development happened was faster than the SF-23, and the conflicting morales in Max’s mind were driving him insane.
Because what’s there to not love about Charles?
Funny, smiley, and witty, but also attentive and intelligent. A face that belonged in a museum. His unfiltered devotion towards ice cream.
Max doesn’t care what the public thinks about him, they’re all impressionable dumbasses who only seek to destroy him. The same can’t be said for Charles, who exudes attention and smiles at all the passersby. Max wants to gatekeep this man forever.
“Can I have a bite?” Charles pleads as Max is about to file another spoonful into his mouth. He’s sneaking towards Max’s cup with a mischievous expression, much like when Jimmy would when he knocked over another bottle.
“Fine,” Max relents, flinging his spoon around to show his mock annoyance.
What he does NOT expect, is for Charles to wrap his lips around his spoon, still held firmly in his hands. Max instantly freezes, because no one has done that before. So platonically too, like it’s normal to be practically spoon fed by his colleague. Or well, Charles called them friends.
So yeah. That happened.
Charles hums in delight, blissfully unaware of Max’s internal crisis. “I like yours more.”
Max huffed with indignance. “You literally spent 10 minutes judging my order in line.”
”it’s good to be judgmental. I’m practicing my analytical skills,” Charles reasoned, now trying to pry Max’s ice cream off his hands. All those wrist training sessions weren’t for nothing though, and Max turned away with a side eye.
“You’re weird.”
Charles sighed dramatically, before retracting slowly to a distance that doesn’t cause Max intense heart palpitations. Whilst Max often walks briskly and throws glares to anyone who stares for too long, Charles tends to amble around with keen interest and no hurry. And although Max had the human decency to slow down slightly for the Monegasque, his patience is wearing thin. Especially now, as Charles is distracted by another bakery.
With his patience dissipated, Max firmly grabs Charles’ hand to make him walk at an acceptable pace.
Charles’ hands are incredibly soft, and it was painful to ignore how well their hands slotted together, like a smooth suspension. Charles seems to notice the change in demeanor, because the atmosphere suddenly becomes warmer; affectionate, even. It scares the shit out of Max.
There is absolutely no way he is falling for the Monegasque. Yet with every second their hands touch, his resolve slowly crumples.
His ice cream is melting; how can he scoop out ice cream with a singular hand? For some reason, Max can’t find it in himself to let go, even for some decadent soft serve.
“Where are we going anyways?” Charles questioned, realizing they’ve been walking towards nowhere for quite a while now.
”Oh.” Max said, dumbfounded. “Guess it’s time for you to go home.” With much reluctance, he slowly pulled his hand away from Charles, grieving the loss of contact.
”Sick of me already?” Charles said playfully, although there was a layer of insecurity beneath that Max could only discern after years of fighting on track.
”Always.” No truths would be said today.
Charles makes a face of mock hurt, before grabbing Max’s hand again and taking off. This time, it’s Max that has to catch up.
”We live practically next to each other, remember?” Charles said with a laugh, constricting Max’s lungs.
”Yeah. Well,” Max is actually going to lose his shit. “Please don’t knock on my door at ungodly hours in the morning again.
”No promises.”
————————-
No promises indeed, because when Max receives another knock a week later, he already knows there’s no going back. Sure enough, he’s met with the blinding face of the Monegasque, holding a basket of some snacks.
”I’m not drunk, is that an improvement? Anyway, my brother sent me a bunch of snacks. Won’t ever be able to finish them so…” Charles started immediately. “Can I come in?”
Max has two options; politely decline, or let the man tug at his heartstrings indefinitely.
Wordlessly, Max steps aside to let Charles in, who whoops in celebration. Max might be going insane, because the way Charles blends seamlessly into his house, like a fresh layer of paint, all feels so… right.
Coupled with the fact that Jimmy and Charles instantly shoot up from their respective resting areas, pawing vehemently as Charles’ pants. Since that day Max came home from their rendezvous ice cream date trip, his cats have been acting like depressed vegetables. Constantly meowing at the door, staring wistfully at anyone out the window with brown fluffy hair. If Max ever feels his infatuation towards the younger is unjustified, but one looks at his cats, and he comes to the realization that everyone is down bad for Charles.
“At least someone misses me,” Charles chuckles as he lets Sassy climb onto his shoulder, neatly places the basket adjacent the sofa, and picks up Jimmy with ease. So. Damn. Adorable.
“Why are you here?” It’s in a lighter tone, this time. They’ve finally gone over their strained tension.
”Because I’m such a nice person and I adore your cats,” Charles says resolutely, settling onto the sofa with both cats now crawling on his lap. He taps the seat next to him, motioning for Max to join him.
As Max slowly descends onto the sofa, he notices that Charles is shivering. Granted, the past few days have been freezing. Max has never been more glad for his tendency to never venture out. He’s ramped up all of the heaters, so that doesn’t explain why Charles seems so out of it.
”How long were you standing outside?” Max blurts.
Charles’ face twists into a million expressions, and Max notices a slight scarlet creeping up his cheeks. “I may have been standing outside for a bit.” Which makes it all the more puzzling why Sassy and Jimmy attached themselves to Charles. They hate the cold.
”You don’t have to be scared of me, you know? I don’t bite.”
”I just- I didn’t think we were so close.”
“Charles, you barged into my house and proceeded to charm my cats. I’d never get mad at you. Not even if you stole my cats from me,” I might love you more than you’ll ever know goes unsaid, but that alright. He’ll get there, with time. A lot of time. Max kind of hates the basket of snack inbetween them right now; kind of ruining the moment they’ve got going on. Even if it’s filled with all his favourite treats.
”Your brother has great taste,” Max says in an effort to distract his spiraling thoughts. He misses the soft smile on Charles’ face as he picks up a packet of biscuits. Wordlessly, he pulls out a random jacket and hands it to Charles. Then, he retrieved a hand warmer from the kitchen (it just feels like the right place to put them). Poor circulation people must stick together.
”Some host you are,” Charles says with unusual awe.
”I have decent respect,” Max replies offhandedly, trying to grasp his current dilemma. “So. What are you doing here?”
“I told you, snacks?” Charles tried, motioning to the crisps. “If this is a bad time, I can leave—“
Charles was already standing up, heading towards the exit. Sassy and Jimmy instantly paddle behind him, probably willing to leave along with the man. Without a second of hesitation, Max gripped Charles’ wrist firmly, and woah. Those sparks weren’t hallucinations after all.
“Let’s play Mario Kart.”
——————————
It happens again. And again. By the fifth time, Max already has an extra set of slippers for Charles, and is missing two hoodies.
All those bottled up feelings Max masked with the facade of hatred are coming back to the surface. He finds himself staring at Charles’ willowy eyelashes and flawless side profile. The flurry of butterflies in his stomach only seemed to grow.
Above all, his cats absolutely adore the man. So there is proof that they don’t necessarily hate everyone. There have been a dozen new scratches on his door from Sassy pawing at the surface with every knock.
Each time Charles visits, Max learns another trait of his. He constantly wore a band of bracelets and wrung them when he felt fiddly, his undying love towards pasta and this specific mochi brand.
Most of all, Max learns that Charles is clingy.
In a way that normally Max would mark off as naturally emotional, but Charles was different. The way he kept glancing over at Max, as if to reassure himself that he was still there; he wasn’t a hallucination. If the reasoning behind that wasn't so heartbreaking, Max mightve found it adorable.
That also means that Max went from nearly no physical interactions to lithe touches by the hundreds.
Slowly, Max has grown to tolerate the Monegasque’s presence — yearn for it, even. He devotedly checks his messages for any funny meme Charles sends, awaits the knock at his door with unnerving passion. It is official, Max is down bad for Charles Leclerc, like the entire population of Italy.
Feelings are quite annoying. For how quickly Max went from loating Charles’ existence, to ordering pasta for the both of them, is genuinely unreal. Just two lads who lived the same lives, having some wholesome times together. Max figures he earned it, after years of bruises and isolation.
Most times, Charles just hops in to drop off some snacks for him and the cats, which Max deeply appreciates. As Charles is the only one out of the two who touches grass, he has taken to offering his favourite pastries from the street across. No matter how much Charles insists that it’s not a hassle, he wants to gift Max decadent bread, it still feels so wrong to mindlessly accept his gifts.
Don’t ask why Max has started to cook. Real cooking, finally making a dent on his massive grocery supply, compacting pasta into tupperware and deftly shoving the containers into Charles’ arms. Take it as conpensation, if you will. (And not Max’s odd desire to see Charles’ face light up with glee)
But it becomes a bit too much to consider a platonic friendship at some point. That point being a fateful night Charles shows up without warning.
“Hey,” Charles says, blankets in hand and looking like an ice cube. Max just just put the cats to sleep, garnering him a couple new scratches on his shins. But of course, as soon as the door opens, the two felines immedia scramble off their beds, preening at Charles’ feet.
Like usual, Charles goes on his extravagant reasoning for his visit. “So many heaters broke deadass in the winter, and I was not willing to spend a night suffering with no one to complain to, so I made the treacherous journey over. Please accept my presence,” Charles half ranted, half begged.
If it were absolutely anyone else, Max would shut the door in their face.
Charles doesn’t realize the hold he has over Max, and the latter opens the door with an exasperated sigh. Now that Max actually focuses on the problem at hand, it’s evident that Charles is downplaying how cold he feels. Although his face was in a permanent upturn everytime he looked at Max (he also feels a stupid smile crawling up his face every time), Charles quite literally seemed to be shaking like a raindrop cake. His ears were alarming red — if only it weren’t such an endearing sight, then Max can shut down these stupid feelings trying to emerge.
One shouldn’t be allowed to look so divine even in a state of suffering.
Unlike the first night Charles visited — much admittedly, feels like eons ago — there’s something shifting in the air. Namely starting with the fact that Max feels incredibly warm. He then registers the warm grasp around his torso to be Charles’ arms holding him fiercely.
Of every time Charles has barged into his home, there’s always been this slight sensation in his stomach. It was uncanny, sure, but nothing to write home about.
Max starts to think this is what falling in love feels like.
It’s not like he’s starved of affection these days. With the dozen pats he recieves on a daily basis, it’s easy to start resenting human touch after a while. But this isn’t that. It’s softer; more tame, more passionate.
He remembers how it felt as a kid. Most human contact he got was in the form of slaps, punches, and kicks. Not exactly a nice way to introduce a child to the world.
Overtime, his perspective on love has become nonexistent, only bringing out memories of glass shards and bloodied skin.
But as he stares fondly at Charles snuggled on his sofa, eyes looking like orbs of sheer curiosity and life, Max thinks change might be possible.
“Where are the cats?” Charles’ voice tuned him out of his turmoil.
”Upstairs. The heater in my room is the strongest, so they basically built a nest in my room and haven’t left since.” With the way Charles perks up at the mention of heater, he knows that his bed is no longer his.
“Well then, why didn’t you say so earlier? Let’s go!” Charles beamed, wrapping himself snugly with the blankets and bounding up the steps. Max can only follow.
Halfway up the stairs, Charles turns around sheepishly. “Which… room is it?”
With a snort, Max brushes past him, the brief contact leaving him longing for more, and opens the door with a dramatic flourish. “Kind of hoped you would remember, seeing as you invaded my house last time.”
”That was your room?” Charles’ flabbergasted reaction was slightly confusing.
”Yeah? Why would I have another room with a fully functioning bed?”
Charles just stood there, momentarily stunned into silence. The air suddenly morphed from lighthearted to pensive, and an itch of discomfort was crawling up his skin.
“I, for one, would like to apologize. I didn’t mean to overstep—“ enough was enough. Max will not tolerate any self doubt from Charles. The man deserves every ounce of happiness and joy he can get.
Max decisively snatches Charles’ hand, and walks him into his room, piles a fuck ton of blankets onto his bed, and stands there resolutely with hands on his hips. Yes, he’ll ignore how warm Charles’ hands were to the touch. “Get some rest. Testing season is coming up, and you need to mentally and physically prepare yourself.”
Not even minutes later, Charles is scrambling out of his room in a buritto of blankets, attempting to gesture at Max. “I’m not taking your only bed,” Charles huffed. “Either you stay with me, or none of us sleep well tonight.”
“The sofa is perfectly comfortable, thank you very much,” Max mocked offense, though his heart palpitations had just increased tenfold. Sharing a bed with Charles. The man he very inconveniently had a raging crush on.
Before Max had the time to retaliate, Charles had already hopped over to Max, tugging meekly at the hem of Charles’ shirt like an insolent child. “Come on,” Charles grumbled, steering Max ahead of him, back into his bedroom. With a resounding plonk, Charles pushes Max onto his bed with a magnitude that rivaled the ferocity of how Sassy pushes bottles off the table. Feral children.
Charles settles neatly into the bed right next to him, painstaking setting up some space between the two for Max’s discomfort. “Is this ok?” Charles whispers, saccharine smile on his face.
Max nods. When in fact, he was this close to ambivalent ignition. They were turned to face each other, and Max could count the individual eyelashes adorning the Monegasque’s face, all willowy and entrancing, resembling a mystical doe from delicate forest sparkling with flair and glitter—
Gosh, he’s so whipped.
Seeimingly pleased by the confirmation, it only took a couple minutes for Charles’ chattering to cease, even breaths filling the silent air. He just looked so huggable, and Max couldn’t resist the urge to inch closer and swing an arm around the younger’s figure, because wouldn’t, really?
For the first night in his life, Max drifts off with a smile on his face.
——————————-
They don’t talk about it, because there’s nothing that needs to be said. Right?
Since waking up with practically no space between their bodies, limbs tangled lazily and blankets long gone, basking in each other’s warmth was nothing extraordinary. Thinking that he could definitely do with a lot more of this was not questionable in the slightest.
Even as they amble out of his bedroom to be immediately side eyed by both his cats, eyeing him with a lot of judgement. None of which is noticed by Charles though, who happily skips over to pet the duo, who obliged without respite. As Jimmy climbed atop Charles’ hair and Sassy snuggled contently in his arms, Max was torn between jealousy and adoration. Jimmy would scratch his scalp to sherds if it were him.
As of now, the blizzard outside had morphed into feathers of ice, trailing down lazily. The sun was reigning above the pristine landscape, bringing light to the rare yet lovely snowfall. Which would mean that Charles doesn’t have a reason to stay any longer.
Unbeknownst to the both of them, was how much they yearned for company. Putting up embellished smiles and false laughter becomes almost mocking after so long. So they indulge in their hubble of tender smiles and unsaid confessions. The speaker was playing a lighthearted meld of citypop and jazz, a perfect way to clear their hazy morning.
Charles stared at the croissant with misdirected sexual tension for a good while, until eventually collapsing into his seat.
“Do you even eat breakfast when I’m not here?” Charles huffed, husky voice further accented by the morning tone, placating all of Max’s worries and making him feel sickeningly infatuated. He guesses it was quite obvious that he had zero appetite in the morning, with the meager serving of scramble eggs he’d been glaring at.
“Well… no.” Max protested. “I was trying to be a good host.”
Charles laughed in the sort of genuine manner that never ceased to flutter his butterflies. “I thought I was being a good guest. It physically pains me to see so much food just as I wake up.”
Whoopsies. Doesn’t seem like Charles is mad though, giggling manically at their stupidity, so Max takes that as a win. Also managed to make a dent in his never ending egg saga. On his head, Jimmy is burrowing his paws into the wavy locks to secure position.
After a couple more minutes of banter, Charles breaks their intricate crafted bubble. “I’ll get out of your hair now.”
“Wait,” Max found himself yelling. What is it with this weird possessiveness? “Why do you keep coming in the first place? Certainly you have friends nearby.”
This man gently removes Jimmy from his hair and ushering Sassy off his lap. Unlike previously they didn’t have an adverse reaction, as if they knew for a fact that Charles will be back. Then he has the audacity to flash one of his iconic winks at Max. “Well, you’re my favourite.”
The door closes, a flurry of cool air seeping through as Charles’ figure waves.
That totally doesn’t leave Max squealing like a schoolgirl, giggling to himself as he clears the plates. He replays every moment of that night as he packs his bags, preps for Bahrain, and offers for Charles to join his private jet. What kind of decision was that.
Lando were already immersed in some reel, in his usual seat; they often shared planes because they’re such environmentalists. After a while though, he seemed to get bored and instead bother Max for entertainment, taking notice of the time.
So far, Max is not exactly in a calm state. Pacing across the plane that certainly was annoying, he frantically checked his messages for any indication of Charles’ whereabouts.
“Why aren’t we taking off?” Lando yawned into his chair that was comically way too large for him. “And why are you pacing like an old man?”
“Waiting for someone,” Max murmured, biting his nails in trepidation. The last text he’d got was ‘at the gate, see you soon :D’, but that was almost fifteen minutes and twenty seconds ago. With that, Lando sent him a look that felt quite uncalled for. Max? With more friends than just him?
At that moment, Charles comes bounding in, black blouse that is doing something to Max’s mental state. With an easy smile, he waves.
“Hey guys!”
A beat of silence.
Then, a pointed voice shouting, “MAX!”
Max can already feel his patience wearing thin, the only thing keeping him sane was the ever gorgeous presence of Charles and his bewildered yet delighted expression. He decides to set the tone straight.
”You will behave like sensible humans and treat Charles with respect. That means, no pouring whisky down his back, no throwing grapes in his face, and certainly not recruiting him to play tag across this airplane. By extension, me as well? Understood?”
”Wow, someone’s possessive,” Lando snorts, ogling his eyebrows very dramatically.
Before Max can chuck a slipper in Lando’s face, he feels Charles’ arm wrap around his waist, instantly converting his anger into yearning. It sort of brings him into a trance, a dream of his that lived on the back of his mind for well over a decade.
He turns around to see Charles, mirth clearly evident on his face. “Hello,” Charles says in that playful tone. “Finally enjoying my presence to invite me?”
The very prominent cackles coming from the a certain Brit fuels his spite to no end. “Oooooooooooh” rings his taunting voice. Max takes back everything he’s even said positively about that insolent child.
Charles squeezes the hand on his waist, once, twice, and it shouldn’t affect him so much that Charles knew exactly how to calm him down, years of their history proving effective. In turn, being such an empath also means Charles knows the best ways to annoy people.
”You’re one to talk, Lando. Has Oscar ever invited you anywhere?” Charles sneered, so off character, yet so familiar.
Now it’s 2-1. Well deserved.
Lando immediately flushes a vibrant red, smile ripped off his face as he avoids eye contact. “Foul play.”
Satisfied at shutting up the Brit, Charles steers Max to the next section of the plane, firmly shutting the door with a cordial wave. They walk in comfortable silence, Charles moving his grip around Max’s arms, a feeling of heaven settling on his skin.
The lights are much brighter here, and Max grimaces in discontent. Charles must’ve noticed, because he ushers Max to sit on the lavish leather, before fiddling with the lights to turn them closer to a mellow hue.
“Better?”
”Yeah.” Max can’t even hide the adoration in his eyes. Because no matter the glitz and glam, Charles is still so… genuine.
Seemingly satisfied by Max’s response, Charles finally plops onto the seat adjacent to him, letting out a sigh. “Nice chairs, by the way.”
Max’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “You’re like, the first person to actually appreciate my chairs. The other two keep saying it’s too hard.”
“Well, what is that supposed to mean? Do they sleep on marshmallows?” Charles says incredulously, now glaring at the door with bombast.
A round of quiet laughter, before Charles shoots up abruptly. “Oh! I brought something for you,” smoothly pulling out two bracelets. One, a spiral of navy and baby blue, another in varying shades of red.
”If you’re willing to accept, I made these. As a sign that we got over our teenage angst. I mean, if you don’t like it, that’s fine, no worries—“
Max shuts up the younger by chastly taking the band and clipping it onto his wrist. “I love it,” Max said tenderly, and he sees the anticipation drain out of Charles; a massive sigh of relief. As Max slips it around his wrist, marveling at the neat weavings. It’s been a long time since anybody gave him something so personal. With genuine effort and care, even if it translates in the small band around his wrist.
”Take it as a good luck charm,” Charles beams, then suddenly squints. “Thought I doubt you really need any of that.”
”Who knows? This year might be your year.” But who is he kidding. It’s Ferrari. No amount of thrist trapping or merchandise can shelid from the fact that they haven’t won a championship in 16 years
The bracelet never leaves Max’s wrist, even as he hides it from all the regulators in the race, as he sets a gap of twenty two seconds between first and second that Saturday.
Secretly (or not very), he really hoped that he would have shared the podium with Charles. Yet as the vermillion Ferrari pulled into parc ferme, his hopes were diminished instantly. Believe him when he says he’s tried his very best to act normal, and not storm up to the Scuderia to tear them to shreds for bestowing such a fate on their alleged sunshine.
If Max accidentally lets his thoughts slip out, and asks a few questions about Charles’ wellbeing, well. That’s no one’s business.