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- Persuasion -
Max and Charles never fought, never allowed themselves to falter in unity—at least, not until Red Bull found a way to test the very seams of their love. Red Bull’s grip on Max was relentless, abrupt, and unyielding, seizing him suddenly with new testing schedules, team demands, everything that came with the relentless pursuit of perfection on the track. It gnawed at Charles at first, twisting his insides, yet he held back the words that swelled in his throat, kept his hands steady and his gaze unwavering, even as he watched Max fade into Red Bull's machinery. Because Max was a driver—Red Bull’s driver—and in a sport as cruelly exacting as this, Red Bull had the right to every inch of him. Every moment, every heartbeat, every ounce of focus. Charles could do nothing but play his part, the silent, devoted shadow beside Max, waiting in the wings as though on cue to step into whatever role was needed.
So, Charles buried his frustrations, muffled his yearnings, and shaped himself into the flawless, supportive presence, the “perfect wife” he imagined Max needed. Because Charles knew the pull of the track, knew how it stoked an unquenchable fire that Max couldn’t ignore. And Charles wanted that for Max—wanted nothing but his success, his fulfillment, his joy at the wheel. Charles wanted to be the best partner possible, yet with every call Red Bull made, he felt as though he was fading, becoming a barely seen silhouette cast on the fringes of Max’s racing career.
But as time wore on, the quiet sacrifices hardened within him. He was still a driver, a fighter in his own right, and those silent, noble forfeitures became iron chains that bound his spirit, weighed him down in dark, quiet moments. He wanted Max to see him as more than the one who stayed behind when Red Bull stole Max away; he wanted Max to feel the gravity of his quiet devotion, to know the ache of the sacrifices he made for them both. Charles slowly eroding in silence.
The loud bang of the door echoed through the quiet, startling Charles, who felt a flicker of irritation as he glanced up. Max stood there, his expression taut, his hand clutching a crumpled piece of paper.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Max demanded, waving the paper in front of him.
"What? Oh." Charles's eyes fell on the paper, recognizing it as the hospital appointment slip. It must have slipped from his wallet, maybe left in his car—one Max must have borrowed, explaining how he'd come across it. Charles felt a chill crawl up his spine, a mix of guilt and vulnerability weaving together. “I was feeling a bit off with my vision, so I thought it’d be best to get it checked, Mon amour. I booked an appointment.” His voice was steady, meant to reassure, yet Max’s face twisted with frustration.
“No, Charles,” Max replied, voice firm, exasperation pouring from him in waves that confused Charles, setting his heart to a quick, uncertain beat.
“I wanted to tell you,” Charles started, softening his tone in an effort to soothe him, “but…you were supposed to be leaving. I thought there was no reason to add to your worries.” He placed his book down, removing his glasses as he did, as if that might somehow make things clearer between them.
Max’s jaw clenched, his gaze holding a mix of anger and worry. “And you chose to go alone?” There was a note of hurt in his voice now, unmistakable and raw, an edge that pricked at Charles’s chest. “Did it not cross your mind that I might want to be there with you? That I’d care?”
Charles took a breath, feeling the weight of Max’s words, the emotions pulsing through the space between them, thick and heavy. “I…I didn’t want to make it a big deal. I’ve been feeling strange, but I just thought it was something small.” His voice was quieter, almost a murmur. “And you have enough to worry about already. I didn’t want this to be another thing weighing on you.”
“Charles,” Max began, his voice barely masking the irritation seeping in. “I don’t understand why you insist on doing everything yourself. We’re in this together, aren’t we?” Max’s gaze softened, but there was still a flicker of something unresolved, a worry he couldn’t shake. “You don’t have to protect me like that, Charles. I want to be with you for every part of this—even the hard, the inconvenient parts. Especially those.”
“I already booked the meeting?” Charles confirmed.
“Charles, I… shouldn’t I be the one you tell if you’re hurt, if something’s wrong?” Max’s voice was thick with frustration, his hand gripping the crumpled appointment slip. “I had to find out from a damn piece of paper in your car?”
Charles’s frustration flared, his cheeks flushing hotly. “What the fuck, Max? Why are you mad at me now?”
“Because you could have just told me! You do know you’re married to me now, don’t you?”
“Yes, and what?” Charles snapped, his heart pounding with irritation, his own resentment rising like a tide. “You’re a driver, Max. What am I supposed to do if my husband is always on call for Red Bull? Every time something comes up, they’re there with some emergency.”
Max’s expression hardened, his annoyance meeting Charles’s head-on. “I can come with you, I can drive you to the hospital if you need me—”
“Oh, and what about your meeting with Red Bull? You’re just going to cancel it?”
Max’s eyes flashed with a sudden, fierce sincerity. “You’re my wife, for fuck’s sake, Charles. Of course, I’d cancel it for you.”
Charles felt his pulse quicken, his anger flaring in the face of Max’s insistence. “What the hell, Max! We’re both Formula One drivers. You can’t just cancel meetings for me! I don’t want to be someone who interferes with your career over a stupid appointment!”
Max took a step closer, his voice lowering, his tone as unyielding as steel. “You’re not just anyone, Charles. You’re my wife. What do you mean, interfering with my career? This is about what matters most, it’s about my priorities.”
“That’s exactly the problem, Max!” Charles’s voice shook with the weight of his frustration. “Your priority should be your career, not me. Not some appointment that doesn’t even mean anything.”
Max’s jaw clenched, his eyes hardening, and yet beneath his irritation, Charles saw a glimmer of hurt. “Charles,” Max’s tone softened slightly, but remained firm, “I don’t think you get to decide what’s important for me. You don’t decide if I want to be there, if I choose you over Red Bull. That’s my choice, too.”
Charles’s anger gave way to a fleeting sense of guilt, to the realization that Max wasn’t just angry—he was hurt. Hurt that Charles didn’t trust his choice, that he hadn’t given Max the chance to care for him, to be there in the way he wanted. The silence stretched between them, weighted with the unspoken ache.
Charles’s voice came out softer, barely above a whisper. “I didn’t want to be a burden to you. I thought… I thought it’d be easier, for both of us.”
Max’s gaze softened as he reached for Charles’s hand, a gentleness breaking through the tension. “Don’t you understand, Charles? You’re never a burden to me. You’re the reason I want to be better, the reason I care about any of this. Let me be there when you need me, even if it’s something small.”
The ringtone shattered the fragile silence, and Max’s face twisted as he glanced at the caller ID. It was Christian. He took a steadying breath, steeling himself as he answered.
“Max, this is Christian. Would it be okay if you stayed a bit longer until we fix the adjustments? We need to be back on top, after all.” Christian’s tone was brisk, businesslike, oblivious to the tension that hung in the room.
Max glanced at Charles, the anguish in his eyes mingling with determination. “How long?” he asked, his voice low.
“Three to four days,” Christian replied, unrelenting. “We need you here to make this work, Max.”
Max’s jaw tightened, his fingers pressing the phone harder against his ear. “Got it,” he said, the weight of the decision settling over him like a heavy cloak. He ended the call, letting the phone drop to his side as he looked back at Charles, the words he’d just agreed to hanging bitterly in the air.
Charles’s gaze fell, the flicker of hurt in his eyes unmistakable. He wrapped his arms around himself as if to shield against the chasm widening between them, his voice barely a murmur. “Of course… they need you,” he said, the resignation in his voice cutting deeper than anger ever could.
Max took a step toward him, his heart twisting painfully. “Charles, I want to be here with you,” he said, his voice raw, the truth of it almost desperate. “But this is just…this is what they ask. I’m trying to balance it, I really am.”
Charles lifted his gaze, eyes shimmering with unshed tears, his voice a soft, aching whisper. “I know you are. And I understand, Max. But sometimes… sometimes it feels like I’ll always come second, no matter what.”
Max reached out, but Charles took a step back, his voice breaking. “It’s just hard, Max. It’s hard loving someone who’s always being pulled away.”
“See?” Charles’s voice was strained, the frustration cracking through. “This is what I mean. You need to prioritize your job. I can handle myself.”
Max’s expression softened, a look of raw vulnerability breaking through his frustration. “Charles, that’s not what this is about. I just want to know—especially if it’s something like this, your eyes, your vision. You don’t have to go through it alone.”
Charles gave a hollow laugh, bitter and resigned. “Max, we’re both Formula One drivers, and our marriage is a secret. What do you mean I don’t have to go alone? It's safer for me to keep things low-key. I’m trying to make things easier for you, trying to handle things myself. And now we’re having this stupid conversation because you don’t get that!”
Max’s face softened, his gaze pleading. “Charles, what I mean is… just let me in. Let me be there for you. This, finding out from a piece of paper in your car? It kills me that you didn’t tell me.”
Charles looked away, voice quiet but defiant. “Ferrari knows, Max. They’ve been checking me. I have a whole team watching out for me.”
Max shook his head, his frustration tinged with sorrow. “Charles, you don’t understand—”
“What don’t I understand, Max?” Charles snapped, turning back to face him, eyes shimmering with a frustrated resolve. “I’m trying to protect you, to help you focus. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do?”
Max’s voice softened, filled with a weary tenderness. “I know you’re trying to help me. I know. And I appreciate it, I do. But can’t you tell me when you’re struggling? Just tell me if you’re having a hard time. That’s all I want.”
Charles stiffened, his voice brittle. “I’m not some fragile human being, Max. I can handle things myself.”
A silence settled between them, heavy with the words neither could quite articulate. Max took a step forward, his voice low and imploring. “Charles… I’m not trying to baby you. I’m trying to be there for you. Trying to make this easier. Please let me function properly as your husband.”
Charles’s gaze was unyielding, a flicker of anger sparking in his voice. “And how, exactly, are you helping me when you’re too busy to be here?”
The words landed between them, a wound neither knew how to mend. Max’s shoulders slumped, a look of helplessness washing over him as he realized that perhaps, despite all his love and all his promises, he couldn’t ease the quiet ache that had settled in Charles’s heart. The ache of loving someone who could never quite be present, no matter how much he wished he could be.
Max ran a hand through his hair, his voice pleading, weary. “I’m just trying to have a proper conversation with you, Schatje. Why do you keep pushing me away?”
Charles’s eyes flashed with hurt, his voice rising defensively. “I’m not pushing you away! I’m doing everything I can to support you, to make things easier for you. And now you’re saying I’m shutting you out? That’s not fair, Max! I don’t understand what you want from me.”
“I’m sorry,” Max murmured, the words tasting unfamiliar. “I didn’t mean to make you feel… anything less than what you are. I forget sometimes that you’re not just… my Charles. You’re still you. And I love that about you.” Max’s shoulders slumped, a mix of frustration and regret flickering in his gaze. “Charles, I don’t want this to turn into a fight. Not now, not when I’m supposed to leave soon.”
Charles let out a bitter laugh, his voice sharp. “A fight? Who’s trying to fight here, Max? All I’m doing is trying to be the supportive partner you say you want. I just wanted to help you. You’re the one twisting this into something else.”
Max’s expression darkened, and a faint edge of resignation crept into his voice. “Alright, fine. Maybe it’s my fault for marrying someone like you.”
Charles’s breath caught, the words slicing through him, leaving him reeling. His voice came out quieter, laced with hurt. “Right. I’m sorry, then. Sorry for not being as talented as you, for being too unstable to be good enough for you.”
The room fell into an aching silence, Max’s eyes softening as he heard the tremor in Charles’s voice, a flash of regret flitting across his face. He reached out, but Charles had already turned away, his shoulders slumped in defeat.
“Charles,” Max’s voice softened, almost pleading, “I’m going now, okay? Let’s… let’s talk about this properly when I’m back. Please, just call me back. Don’t shut me out, okay?”
Days passed in silence, each one stretching longer than the last, gnawing away at Max’s resolve. Charles hadn’t called him—not once. And it left Max wondering, replaying their last conversation over and over in his mind. Had he really done something so wrong? The memory of their parting words haunted him, bringing with it a creeping dread that perhaps, unconsciously, he had hurt the one person he loved more than anything. One night, the quiet memories clawed their way back, tugging at his heart as he remembered something from the very beginning of their relationship—a moment when Charles had opened up to him, vulnerable, exposing his insecurities with a hesitant, frightened honesty.
“I’m not a stable person,” Charles had murmured one night, his eyes lowered, as if confessing some unforgivable flaw.
Max had taken his hand, his touch steady and warm. “I know, Charles. I can tell,” he’d replied, his voice as gentle as he could make it.
A flicker of hesitation had crossed Charles’s face before he spoke again, almost whispering, “You still love me?”
“Of course. Why?” Max had replied without hesitation, his heart swelling with the simplicity of the answer. To him, Charles was everything—flaws and all. He hadn’t even thought to question it.
Charles’s voice had been barely audible then, filled with a kind of quiet desperation. “I’m just… what if someday you regret marrying someone like me? What would happen to us?”
Max had only laughed, brushing a thumb against Charles’s cheek, reassuring him that there was nothing to fear, nothing in the world that could change how he felt. But now, the painful irony twisted in his chest, a suffocating weight that made him feel like a stupid, foolish husband. Because maybe, just maybe, he’d done exactly what Charles had feared all along. He had let his frustration slip, let his words wound Charles where he was most vulnerable, even if he hadn’t meant it. In trying to balance his career, his passion, and his love, he had pushed Charles away, the very thing he had once promised he’d never do. Stupid Husband.
Max dialled the number with trembling fingers, reaching out to their personal attendant, Linda, who had served them loyally at Verstappen Manor.
“He hasn’t called me back, Linda. What’s going on?” he asked, his voice tense, but beneath it, there was a flicker of worry he couldn’t hide.
Linda’s voice was steady, professional as always. “Mr. Leclerc has been quite busy, sir. He’s been in endless meetings with Ferrari. Is everything alright?”
Max clenched his jaw, irritation sparking. “Don’t lie to me, Linda. Where is my wife? I want to speak with him now. He didn’t even bother to look at my calls.”
There was a pause on the line, a hesitation that told Max everything he feared. Linda’s voice softened, almost reluctant. “He… he’s not well, sir. He’s been down with a fever. He asked me not to tell you, didn’t want you to worry.”
The words hit Max like a blow, each one digging into his conscience. It was his fault. He had married someone as resilient and self-sufficient as Charles, yes—but he had let him bear the weight of everything alone. He should have known better. He should have been there, should have stayed, should never have let his pride and frustrations cloud his love.
Suddenly, the ache he’d been feeling transformed into something sharp, a deep and bitter remorse. How many times had he brushed aside Charles’s quiet strength, his attempts to shield Max from worry? And now, Charles was lying there, fevered and alone, probably telling himself he’d done the right thing by not burdening Max, when all Max wanted was to share those burdens with him.
This was his fault. Every part of it. He’d let Charles believe that his role was to be quiet, supportive, invisible to Max’s career demands. He’d let his words drive a wedge of silence between them, making Charles feel like he had to shoulder everything alone. Max’s hand tightened around the phone, the weight of regret almost unbearable.
“I’m coming back,” he murmured, almost to himself, but with a steely resolve. “Do not tell him I’m coming home.”
Max moved quietly through the halls of their home, determined to keep his return unnoticed, as he’d instructed. The house was silent, the air heavy with the unmistakable presence of someone too unwell to realize the world around him had shifted.
He found Charles asleep, face flushed with fever, breaths shallow and uneven. Max took a seat beside him, his hand reaching for the thermometer on the table. “Forty degrees… that’s far too high,” he murmured, worry threading his voice as he gently placed his palm against Charles’s cheek, then his chin. The warmth under his hand was alarming. He traced a gentle line across Charles’s face, his own heart swelling with both love and regret.
"I’m so glad you’re my wife, Charles," he whispered, as if speaking aloud might somehow reach Charles through his fevered sleep. Max drew a deep breath, gathering himself before he rose to call Linda.
But suddenly, a weak, raspy voice interrupted him. “Linda?” Charles murmured, eyes barely cracking open, his voice so faint it made Max’s chest ache. “Is… Max home yet?”
Max felt his heart twist. He leaned closer, smoothing Charles’s disheveled hair. “I’m here, Charles,” he said, his voice soft, full of the care he’d kept bottled up for far too long. “I’m your husband, remember?”
A faint, breathless laugh escaped Charles, his eyes still half-closed. “No way… Max is busy,” he whispered, sounding both amused and detached. “He can’t be here. Red Bull… they need him too much.”
Max’s fingers traced gentle circles along Charles’s temple. “Max can be home when his wife needs him,” he replied firmly, his voice tender.
Charles stirred, his tone almost resigned, laced with a hint of sadness. “My husband… he’s such a busy man, you know? So noble, always running. He’s a driver, a champion. I can’t… I can’t be whiny, can’t bother him with my problems.”
Max felt a pang deep in his chest, an ache that only grew as Charles spoke. He bent lower, eyes filled with a fierce protectiveness. “Charles,” he whispered, almost in exasperation, but softened by love. “You are my wife. If you need me, you can tell me. You should tell me.”
Charles blinked awake, his mind hazy, but the familiar warmth of the room and Max’s steady presence nearby grounded him. He stirred, the sound of a quiet but determined voice drawing him fully from his fevered sleep. There, just across the room, Max paced with one hand resting on his hip, his other holding the phone close as he spoke in that focused, low tone he used when he was discussing strategy. His face was intent, brows slightly furrowed, his glasses perched on his nose—a look Charles had come to recognize as “team mode.” For a moment, Charles simply watched him. His husband looked… well, devastatingly handsome. Almost too good to be real, like he’d stepped out of a dream. The faint morning light filtered in, casting a gentle glow on him, highlighting the lines of his face and the set of his shoulders. It was surreal, almost unbelievable, to see Max here, at home, so completely present. Charles had always thought Max would be out on the circuit, buried in meetings, always too busy. And yet, here he was, in their room, looking entirely devoted and every bit the steady partner Charles had dreamed of. The sight filled him with an overwhelming warmth. What kind of magic was this, he wondered, that his busy, disciplined husband would drop everything just to be here?
"I'll call you back," Max muttered, tossing his phone aside with a decisiveness that could only mean Charles was his sole concern. He moved to the bed, brushing a soft kiss over Charles's temple, letting the warmth linger as if it could somehow seep into his soul and soothe whatever was haunting him. "Morning, Schatje," Max whispered, his voice tender and laced with worry. "How do you feel?"
But there was no answer. Charles's gaze, once vibrant and full of uncontainable life, was now vacant, his eyes fixed on Max as though looking straight through him. There was an ache in that silence, something fragile yet unbearable. Max searched his lover’s face, trying to anchor them both, fighting the hollow dread that gnawed at him as he tried to decipher the reason behind the emptiness clouding Charles’s usually bright gaze.
"No fever," Max murmured softly, pressing their foreheads together with a gentleness that betrayed his mounting desperation. "It's a good thing." His own forehead tingled from the brief contact, and he closed his eyes, willing his warmth to pass through the thin barrier of skin and into Charles's heart. When he opened them again, he found Charles’s fingers twitching, inching closer, then landing on his chin, tentative but filled with an almost aching longing. Max tilted his face into the delicate touch, leaning into Charles's hand as though the connection might ground them both—might be the rope that would pull Charles back from wherever he was drifting.
A soft knock interrupted the silence, followed by the quiet sound of the door opening. "Mr. Verstappen, I’m bringing the breakfast—" The maid froze at the sight, her voice trailing off as she caught a glimpse of their closeness, the fragile, unspoken words and tremors that seemed to fill the room.
Max glanced up, his voice dropping to a gentle murmur, as if the quiet tones might preserve the sanctity of the moment. "Thank you," he whispered, his eyes barely leaving Charles. "You may put it there."
"My apologies, sir," the maid stammered, turning away hastily, leaving them alone once more in the hushed intimacy of that shared, fragile silence.
Charles nestled himself deeper into Max's shoulder, the world around them shrinking to just the steady rhythm of Max's heartbeat beneath his cheek. He clung tighter, his arms wrapped around Max as if the mere act of holding on could shield him from the spectres of his own thoughts. The maids, standing patiently nearby, went unnoticed, their presence insignificant to Charles in this moment of quiet solace.
Gradually, Charles's grip loosened, his head growing heavier against Max’s shoulder as the quiet lull of peace began to settle over him. One of the maids stepped forward gently, draping a blanket over his shoulders, offering a brief, understanding smile to Max, who met her gaze with a grateful nod.
“He’s asleep, sir,” she murmured softly, careful not to disturb the delicate hush between them.
“My love,” Max’s voice was low, almost a coaxing murmur, his hand brushing over Charles’s shoulder. “We need to get you changed.” He nudged his chin tenderly, his tone laced with fondness and concern. “The maids are still here, Schatje. Come now,” he added, hoping to rouse Charles, though he couldn’t quite bring himself to push too hard.
But the quiet was shattered by the sharp buzz of Max’s phone vibrating against the mattress, pulling both men from their fragile cocoon. Charles startled awake, his body tense as he slowly uncurled from Max’s shoulder, his gaze flickering with lingering traces of sleep and confusion.
“Yes, Max Verstappen speaking.” Max's tone was formal but laced with impatience as he answered the call, his free hand never straying from Charles’s shoulder. He felt Charles slowly surrendering to wakefulness, drawn back to reality by the grounding cadence of Max’s voice, a steady anchor against the tremors of his unsettled mind.
“I’ll check them, thank you,” Max replied, his gaze unwaveringly soft as he looked at Charles. “I’m currently unable to travel; if it’s not urgent, perhaps an online call would suffice,” he added, his tone edged with finality, his priorities unmistakably clear. “Yes… yes, my pleasure. Thank you.”
Ending the call, Max let his phone fall onto the bed and gave a silent nod to the maid, who delicately placed a tray of food onto Charles's lap. His hand lingered against Charles’s back, reassuring and solid, as he leaned close enough for his words to be a gentle murmur, just for them. "Come on, love," he coaxed, gently tilting Charles’s face towards his. "Let's get you settled—just a bite or two."
“Open the windows,” Max instructed, his voice softened with a care that extended beyond mere instruction. “And bring some flowers—something to brighten the room, give it a bit of freshness. Surely that would be good for a patient.” He glanced back to where Charles lay, catching the faint stirrings of movement as Charles attempted to rise from the bed, though he looked fragile, still a little adrift.
“My dear,” Max murmured, stepping forward to steady him with a gentle hand. “I need to step away for a moment, just a quick teleconference,” he explained, fingers tracing a brief, reassuring circle on Charles’s shoulder. “Could you help him get dressed while I prepare? I’d like to speak with my wife properly, in my office,” he added, casting Charles a look laden with warmth and a gentle playfulness.
It wasn’t long before Charles joined him, his presence filling the room with a kind of quiet comfort that was both grounding and deeply soothing to Max. As soon as he appeared, Max’s face brightened, his relief palpable. He closed the distance between them swiftly, tilting his chin to brush a gentle kiss to Charles’s forehead. “It won’t be long, I promise,” he whispered, his hand tracing the line of Charles’s arm with a gentle urgency. “But you’re still warm. Take it easy for me.” Guiding him to the sofa, Max unfolded it into a makeshift bed, his hands steady and deliberate as he set up the space, eager to ensure Charles’s comfort. He led Charles to sit in the centre of it, the light filtering through the newly opened windows casting a soft glow over his features. Max sank into the chair opposite, his gaze never leaving Charles.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his gaze softening as he looked at Charles. “It was never my intention to place you in a difficult position, to make you feel as though you had to rely on me. I wanted to be someone you could depend on, as a husband should be… yet, I see now that my ‘wife’ is a quiet, independent person himself.” There was a gentle sadness in his voice, an acknowledgment of his own missteps as he sought to bridge the gap he hadn’t fully realized he’d created.
Charles met his gaze, nodding with a polite understanding, his expression softened.
Max swallowed, his fingers twisting absently as he continued, his gaze falling to the floor. “Earlier, I wanted to tell you that any frustration was my fault, not yours. I failed to see and respect your independence, and it led me to misinterpret things. But I never meant it was a mistake to marry you, to share this life with you.” His voice dropped to a whisper, full of quiet contrition. “Sometimes I forget that before you were my partner, you were Charles Leclerc, and… I’m sorry, my dear.” His gaze dropped to the floor, unable to meet Charles’s searching eyes, the shame and remorse etched deeply into the lines of his face.
Charles’s face softened, and a faint tremor of emotion flickered in his eyes as he reached out, covering Max’s hand with his own. “You’ve always been the first to apologise, mon amour,” he whispered, his voice thick with his own unspoken regrets. “But I am sorry too. I shouldn’t have raised my voice… or let my anger cloud things between us.” His gaze met Max’s, a quiet earnestness glistening in his eyes.
“No, no... it was my fault,” Max insisted, his voice weighted with frustration at himself, as if he could erase the tension between them with sheer will. “I shouldn’t have let my own needs get in the way, nor ignored the small things—your schedule, your space. I should’ve been more aware, more in tune with your surroundings. It’s my fault for failing to take care of you as I should.” His gaze softened, yet his eyes held a silent plea for understanding, his hands unconsciously tightening as if holding on to Charles’s forgiveness.
Charles’s lips twitched with a faint smile, sensing Max’s genuine effort to bridge the gap between them. “How is… Red Bull?” he ventured, attempting to shift the conversation, hoping it might ease the lingering tension. Max’s expression relaxed at once, a glimmer of warmth filling his eyes.
“Everything is fine now,” Max replied, the tension in his voice unraveling as they drifted into familiar territory. “And how’s Ferrari?” He softened further, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. “Linda mentioned you’ve been busy.”
“We’re good,” Charles responded, his voice steady yet tinged with relief. “Fred arranged things so that most work can be done through online meetings, especially with you finally home. It’s better now… for me.”
They fell into a contemplative silence. Max looked away, his brows furrowing before he met Charles’s gaze again, his vulnerability stark and unguarded.
“We’ve never fought like this before,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s… unsettling. Even for me.” The admission felt raw, each word laced with a quiet ache. “I don’t want us to fight, Charles. I prefer our quiet, peaceful life, even if it seems a bit boring.” His lips quirked into a rueful smile, tinged with hope and a touch of self-deprecation.
Charles’s hand found Max’s, his touch gentle but firm, grounding them both. “Then let’s keep it that way, mon amour. Peaceful, and maybe a little boring.” His voice held a quiet reassurance.
Max’s voice held a note of hesitation as he gently guided Charles down onto the sofa, the sincerity behind his words piercing through his usual confidence. “I’m not trained to… to take care of someone like you, Charles,” he admitted quietly, his fingers adjusting the pillows around Charles with tender care. “I can race, I can handle everything thrown at me on the track or with Red Bull. But… without you? I don’t think I’d know how to survive that.”
He pulled the blanket up, tucking it around Charles with a protective touch that was as much for himself as for the man he loved. “It’s… it’s my fault for falling in love with you.” He laughed softly, a nervous huff that broke the tension. “Wait, that sounds… weird. But I mean it. I really am trying to… fix this, to be the person you need. Just… tell me what you want me to do. I’m a fast learner.” His gaze was earnest, open, a quiet desperation lingering there, unmasked and vulnerable.
Charles let out a soft laugh, his hand slipping over Max’s, squeezing gently as he took in the sight of this world champion, this man who seemed invincible to the world, laid bare before him. “A world champion, asking me for guidance like this… it’s not every day we can have such a conversation, mon amour,” he whispered, his eyes warm. “Thank you, for wanting to understand.”
Max’s expression softened, relief mingling with a quiet joy. “I didn’t welcome you into my life just to have you take care of me,” he murmured, reaching to brush a stray strand of hair from Charles’s forehead. “I wanted you to be happy here, with me. I… I like when you ask me for things, even the smallest things. When you need me, it… it feels like I’m a part of your world, too.”
Charles looked away, his cheeks flushing as a confession slipped out, almost unbidden. “I… I like being your wife,” he said softly, the words so quiet they were nearly lost. But the redness in his cheeks gave them away, the bashfulness creeping in like a soft blush as he realized what he’d just said.
Max’s eyes widened, a smile breaking across his face, gentle but brimming with affection. “O-okay… that’s… that’s wonderful,” he stammered, his own nerves catching up with him as he leaned in, his arm slipping around Charles to pull him close. He held Charles in a tender embrace, their breaths mingling in the quiet space between them.
“Thank you… for being honest,” Max whispered, his voice filled with gratitude.
Max let out a soft murmur, his words so delicate they seemed to drift like whispered secrets. “It’s a blessing, truly, that my beloved is Charles Leclerc,” he breathed, his hand resting over Charles’s as though afraid to let go, “Coming home to you… it makes me happier than I could ever explain. If only I could tell the world you were mine.”
Charles’s lips curved into a smile. “I walk around with our wedding ring, Max,” he replied, his voice quiet yet unwavering. “I’m visibly yours, everywhere I go.”
Max chuckled softly, his gaze drifting over Charles with a warmth so deep it was almost reverent. “Charles,” he began, his voice filled with a rare, boyish excitement, “being with you like this… it makes me feel like a teenager all over again. I’d parade it through every street in the Netherlands if I were allowed.” His laughter was soft but brimming with uncontainable joy, like a rush of fresh air.
Charles laughed, his hand reaching up to playfully nudge Max’s shoulder. “That’s a five-second penalty for you, mon amour,” he teased, his voice carrying a playful lilt.
Max leaned in closer, brushing his lips against Charles’s forehead, the tender gesture lingering like a silent vow. “Worth every second,” he whispered.