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Max hadn’t intended to fall asleep. He’d only meant to perch on the edge of the sofa whilst he sent an email, still adorned in his Redbull polo and the scent of the track in his hair.
But the one race a year when Max goes home at the end of the day, to his own four walls coupled with his familiar furnishings made it all too much to resist.
He was home before Charles - well, of course he was. If he knew anything about his husband, it was that he would be soaking in all the celebrations and fuss over his home race he could manage. And after today, he deserved it.
It was so simple, something so mundane you wouldn’t have even considered twice. But as he walked into his living room, it felt like a mix of both worlds. Racing and home intertwined. The feeling was slightly jarring his wheels hitting the track only a few hours before, and now coming home. And Max would have been lying if he wasn’t glad of not having to hear his husband wax poetic over hotel beds this weekend. Being able to reside in their own, exceedingly comfortable bed.
The soft familiar click of a key in the lock awakes Max. He had no idea how long he’d been asleep, the slow sunlight cascading across the living room. Their deep emerald sofa glowing under the light. The room so cosy and warm it felt like a warm embrace around Max’s shoulders, like his body could just sink deeper and deeper into the sofa.
He could hear Charles in the hallway, each step echoing across the hardwood floor.
A routine of thumps and bangs, which to the untrained ear would be nothing more than that. But Max knew it was his husbands coming home routine.
Sliding his trainers off and dropping his keys onto the side table in the hallway with a clatter. And then moving to the mirror and beginning his favourite part of the day, so favoured he couldn’t wait a minute more. Even separated by a wall, he knew Charles would be taking out his contact lenses. The sharp click of their case as he puts them on the side, before the more muted close of his glasses case.
It made Max feel warm inside, that even on a race weekend he still succumbed to his usual antics. His usual, very bizarre antics.
And then there he was, popping his head around the living room door. His glasses perched on the edge of his nose, his hair especially messy after being contained in his helmet.
His hometown hero.
With one look at Charles, his scarlet polo on his back in all its glory and the look of childlike joy in his eyes - Max could feel his disappointment dissipate.
His day was shit, it was the only way he could describe it. Well, he’d used a few more words to describe it as such to his engineers after qualifying. P6, P fucking six.
It was a joke, pulling himself out of the car he could feel the anger bubbling in his veins. He was practically vibrating. He knew he was being like the old, mad Max as he stormed into the garage for his debrief. He could still feel a niggle in his jaw from the hard set he’d held it in for the duration of the hour long meeting.
He was being a stroppy brat and he knew it.
The expectation was killing him, the expectation of him having a clean sweep again his season was almost too much to bare. Three championships and now it felt like the fourth was ebbing further away.
But it was worth it to see the elation in his husbands features, on pole for Monaco. For his home race. Max wasn’t certain he wouldn’t have binned it in the wall if he knew it would put Charles on pole this afternoon.
Charles was reminiscent of an excited puppy as he threw himself down onto the sofa next to Max. Burying his face into Max’s neck and draping his legs across his lap before recounting his entire qualifying experience start to finish to Max.
He felt guilty- that most weekends this was his reality and was rarely given much of second thought, but Charles was practically beside himself. And was definitely divulging information which was only for Ferrari ears only.
And then as if they did this every single day, they fell step by step into their evening routine. The one which was usually only reserved for summer break or Christmas, not an evening in May.
Domestically perfect, like the Saturday night of a married couples ten times over across the city.
Charles did the cooking, something which Max wasn’t certain but was probably not very meal plan accurate. Whilst Max lay the dining table and poured the one singular glass of red wine they would be allowed this evening. The rest saved for the celebrations which would hopefully arise tomorrow.
A few years ago, even thinking it for one second would have left Max wondering if someone had given him a lobotomy. But as the both of them sat eating their pasta in a cosy silence - Max was glad he’d placed so low.
Even in quiet moments, he could see the glow in his husbands features. His eyes emerald and glittering, his olive skin even more sunkissed than usual, he looked ethereal. It had been a while since Max had seen his husband truly smile on a Saturday. The kind of smile which made Max’s stomach flip, when his eyes crinkled at the edges and his emerald orbs danced with wonder.
No one would mention the Monaco curse, not in this house. Never in this house.
The breeze from the marina flittered in through the patio doors as they finished their wine, soft country music dancing through the air from the record player tucked in the corner.
His husbands prized possession, he could never resist an opportunity to listen. He’d lost count at the amount of days whilst away he’d missed this, the tiny moments.
Max wasn’t sure when he’d become so sentimental, but he couldn’t stop staring at the gallery wall suspended over Charles head. The black of white images framed and placed delicately on the otherwise whitewashed space.
Snippets of their relationship, pictures of their holidays together, their wedding day. But the one which held Max’s heart was the two of them on the podium. Eyes only for the other man, even with the world watching Max couldn’t turn it off.
It was perfect, but Max couldn’t shake the niggling feeling in the back of his mind.
With each lungful of crisp fresh air, his anxieties continued to persist. He was very rarely worried about races, but tonight he was fearful for their wheels hitting the track tomorrow afternoon.
He wanted his husband to win so badly. This was always the part which gutted him from the inside out, the expectation and fear mingled into an uneasy stupor. The racing was easy enough, practice makes perfect as they say. But the expectations ate you from the inside out.
Max could only cross his fingers and wish. Hope and dream. He was certain he was harbouring enough anxiety for the both of them, as in a turn for the books this evening he was more nervous than Charles. The perpetual worrier in their partnership. He wasn’t sure what had overcome this evening, he was certain he was probably frowning as he wiped down the kitchen surfaces and blew out Charles favourite vanilla candle on the windowsill.
He’d heard of your life over mine situations before but had always chalked them up to being over dramatic but now he understood. He’d give his husband the world if he could.
Their wordless routine continued, step by step harmonious with the other without needing to say a word.
Charles loved getting ready for bed. It wasn’t an exaggeration that the man started a full hour before actually climbing into bed.
And he always dragged Max along for the ride. The double sinks in their bathroom was something Max missed greatly when away from home. He hated fighting over a tiny mirror always hung too low in a strip lit hotel bathroom.
But, there was always something special about brushing their teeth together in the evenings before bed. A moment for the two of them, where they can just be a couple, be normal people. Max would be lying if his patience didn’t falter at the ten step skincare routine he was subjected too as he copied his husbands actions. But even through gritted teeth and more lotions and potions he knew could absorb into skin, he was content.
He couldn’t deny Charles pyjamas of choice this evening gave him a low feeling in his stomach. An old T shirt Max was about to discard on one of their New Year’s Day clear outs that Charles captured. His first ever team branded Redbull T shirt, with his name emblazoned on the back. Even after a day of Ferrari highs, he was going to bed in navy blue.
Max lay in the darkness, the house suspended into silence with only the gentle rise of fall of his husbands breathing to be heard. He knew it was optimistic when Charles pulled his book out, the dark marred circles underneath his eyes from a hectic day telling another story.
He was certain his power nap had spoilt his sleep as he lay staring at the ceiling. His husbands rhythmic pattern offering semblance of comfort, something to focus on. His own plush pillows underneath his head, the familiar mattress accustomed to the curves of his body.
Max was always a firm believer that if you don’t expect much, you don’t get much but luckily for Charles Max had always expected the world for him.