Work Text:
Charles is furious when he gets back to his room in the motorhome. He resists the urge to punch the wall and instead settles for hurling his race boots across the room. He’d held onto his composure just long enough to get through the post-race interviews but only barely.
That win was his. He knew it. If only it weren't for Max doing some stupid divebomb from the inside to take him out 2 laps from the end, destroying his tyres, and pushing him off into the gravel and then the barriers. To make it worse, Max had been able to pit for a new wing yet still retain P1 as the two of them had been fighting way ahead of the rest of the grid.
And of course, the FIA decided it was a racing incident, because they saw Charles spinning out of control as a driver error forced by a racing incident. But it wasn't. It definitely wasn't. But there wasn't anything Charles could do anyway other than stew in his anger and nurse his hurt neck.
He still hadn't met Max to talk about the incident. He probably should at one point but right now, all he wanted to do was to punch a hole through that Dutchman's face.
His phone buzzes from where it lies in his bag. He doesn't think anything of it, but goes to check his messages. Hopefully seeing something from his family who had watched the race would make him feel better.
To his surprise, he's met with Max's number staring him in the face. Charles debates whether to pick up the phone. He presses the reject button. Almost immediately, there's another incoming call. He rejects it again. Only for another incoming call to come in again. He gives up.
“Max,” Charles greets flatly. He hopes Max can hear that he's unamused by this.
Max almost sounds relieved when he picks up. “Oh, hey, Charles. I'm outside your motorhome right now. Can we talk?”
“N-”
“If you say ‘no’, I'm coming right in. I can find your room.”
This gives Charles a pause. And yet he slowly responds, “No, I'm not in the motorhome right now.”
Max scoffs over the line. “Carlos said you were.”
Charles resists the urge to curse his teammate out. “Fine.”
He hangs up and heads straight to the entrance of the motorhome before he can change his mind. The way Max lights up the moment he sees him coming through the doors is clearly just Charles's imagination. That's the only explanation as to why the other man would have such a soft expression on his face. It's almost comical how quickly Max's shoulders drop with the released tension now that they're face to face.
Charles keeps his face blank and steps past Max and makes a U-turn to head behind the building where they would have some semblance of privacy.
“So,” Charles says as he leans against the motorhome wall, “what did you want?”
Charles expects Max to discuss the race because as much as he was pissed at the guy, he had to acknowledge that he had matured a lot from their karting days. He'd seen how Max actively sought his fellow F1 drivers after any incidents so they could clear the air. But instead, Max blurts out, “are you okay?”
Charles blinks dumbly at him for a few seconds. Did he start off all conversations after a crash was involved with an “are you okay”?
“GP said you were, but I thought I'd check on you myself. That was a pretty hard hit you took,” Max explains.
Charles doesn't know whether to feel touched, but the rage inside him that hasn't simmered yet makes the decision for him.
“I'm fine,” he responds curtly.
Max doesn't look convinced and even worse, looks content to wait Charles out until he could give him a satisfactory answer.
“I'm fine,” Charles says again. “I got checked by the doctors. Nothing serious but they've ordered me to get some bed rest for the next few days.”
That seems to appease Max who nods in response. “And you're good about the race, yeah? I'm sorry about your results, but mate, that was just racing.”
Charles gapes at him. What was this, payback for that time many years ago back when they were karting? Was Max seriously brushing it off as just an “inchident”?
It wasn't just racing. If it weren't for that divebomb pushing him off, which was already bad enough to puncture his tyres, he wouldn't have caught the kerb and lost control of the car. Charles doesn't know how to get Max to see that. Seems like both Max and the FIA shared the same dumb braincell. All Charles knows is that his anger is threatening to boil over, and he really might punch the other man in his stupid face.
“You don't think that was just a racing incident,” Max says, and it's not really a question.
“How could that be just an incident,” Charles shoots back, “You drove right into me. Go and watch the onboards before you try and talk to me about it.”
“I didn't really come here to talk about it. I just wanted to make sure you weren't hurt too badly.”
Charles hates that Max is actually being a little sweet . Despite his anger, Charles is torn between wanting to punch the Dutch driver, and doing something else to that face. Something involving his own face. He tries not to let his thoughts run too far.
His brain supplies something in French, Italian, then back to French. But considering the man in front of him speaks neither of those, he lets out a repressed “fuck” through his gritted teeth and gives up. He storms off, ready to turn back out of the corner where all eyes would be on him again – him, the man who lost out on a possible 7th career win – when he feels rough fingers curl around his wrist. He resists the urge to shudder from the contact.
“Charles, please,” Max pleads, and the sincerity in his voice makes Charles want to kick himself because just two words from the other, and Charles is already ready to give him everything. Not like he never wasn’t, the traitorous voice in his head whispers.
Charles doesn't turn around to look at him.
“I don't want this to be an issue between us,” Max says.
Charles still doesn't turn around because who knows what he'll do in response to that tone in Max's voice.
Instead, he yanks his arm free and Max doesn't stop him again.
~
Charles is glad for the distraction. He'd gone out with some of the other drivers who were also staying for a few days before flying off to their respective homes. It was heading into their summer break so it was a good chance to hang out before they were all scattered around the world once again.
It's late when Charles reaches his hotel lobby, which explains why it is devoid of other visitors staying there and more importantly, fans. He doesn’t think he'll be able to filter himself right now, with his head still flying and tipsy from the alcohol.
But Charles freezes as soon as he steps foot in the lobby. Was he stupid? Trying to get swarmed by fans? There was no other explanation as to why the Red Bull driver would be sitting there in plain sight.
Charles only remembers he has legs attached to his body when a pair of blue eyes locks with him. He lets out a harsh “no” to the other man as he rushes to the lifts. He smashes the “up” button repeatedly but that doesn’t do anything to speed up the carriage in its descent. He curses when the familiar scent of Max's cologne wafts over and reluctantly turns around. The intensity in Max’s gaze is almost enough to pin him up against the walls so he averts his gaze.
“We have to talk,” Max says.
Charles sends a furtive look across the hotel lobby, which was thankfully empty, and with reluctance heavy in his voice, replies, “Not here.”
Max nods in understanding. They didn’t need other people being privy to their conversation, and being cautious was always better than getting caught.
The trip up is silent and tense. Charles keeps his eyes on the number slowly ticking up to the 29th floor, steadfastly ignoring a pair of eyes drilling holes into his side. He leads Max to his room but pauses once they're at his room door, his keycard dangling loosely in his grip. Inviting Max into his room now would be anything but clever. His emotions were still running high, he still had way too much alcohol buzzing in his bloodstream, and worst of all, they would be completely alone in the privacy of his hotel room.
Max sends a questioning gaze his way at the hold up. With a silent curse, Charles slides his keycard in and swings the door open. As soon as they're inside, he immediately flicks on the room lights. They stand there in the hallway in silence, even after the door closes with a soft click behind them.
A minute passes before Charles shifts uncomfortably and begins to say something. Max beats him to it.
“I watched the onboards,” Max says. “Yeah, it… it was my fault. I don't know how the FIA didn't see that.”
Charles hadn't expected Max to admit his fault so easily. He's startled into momentary silence.
“You really deserved that win today. I'm sorry,” Max continues.
Charles blames the alcohol for the way his heart thumps painfully in chest. The sound as he swallows past the lump in his throat is way too loudly in the silent hotel room.
“Thanks for apologising,” Charles isn't sure how to respond but he forces himself to speak. “Congrats on your win.”
Max smiles. It's tentative and small, but Charles can see the crinkle lines next to his eyes. Those crinkle lines that he's fantasised about rubbing away, and the ones he's always dreamt of being the cause for.
“So, are we good, mate?”
Charles nods mutely, not trusting his own voice. Max sags against the wall in relief, and his smile is a proper one now. Maybe it's the lighting, maybe it's the city lights twinkling far down below, maybe it's the alcohol, maybe it's the quietness - Charles doesn't know. But something is heavy in the air and it isn't the same previous angry tension.
He doesn't even realise the gap between them has shortened until Max noticeably jerks from where he's pressing himself into the wall.
“Shit- I- Sorry-,” Charles moves to step away hastily, almost tripping over his own feet.
A firm hand clamps down on his bicep, stabilising him and holding him before he can get too far. “No, no, wait. I just needed to check. Charles, are you drunk?”
Yes, yes he's drunk. He's drunk off of the way his name rolls off the Red Bull driver's tongue. He wishes he could hear it some more.
“I drank, but I'm not drunk.”
Max doesn't look convinced.
“Seeing you in the lobby sobered me up. I'm not really drunk,” Charles insists.
He shifts closer again. Max lets him, his hands sliding down to circle Charles's wrist.
“Are you sure about this?” Max asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Yes,” Charles responds.
Max runs fingers through his hair, exhaling a shaky laugh. “Fuck. Okay.”
“Okay,” Charles echoes lowly.
Max surges forward, closing the gap instantly.
Charles hadn't realised his mind had been racing just moments before until it goes blissfully blank. The only thing he can think of is the intoxicating feel of the other man's presence enveloping him.
The same man who had stolen his race win today, who had stolen his heart all those years back, the same man who had taken his spot on the top step of the podium, was now taking him to his bed. And although he couldn't savour the taste of champagne and victory today, he thinks the taste of Max's lips is almost enough to soothe the pain.