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Winning a race wasn't, contrary to popular belief, absolutely everything to Max.
It was really fucking nice, though.
Charles in second, and that was almost as exciting as Max actually winning. When he took his place at the top of the podium, Charles next to him, it felt right. Naturally, they would be winners together. Piastri, on the third step, was grinning like the sun. Champagne went everywhere. Max couldn’t resist aiming at the back of his boyfriend's head, deliberately soaking him in sticky, fruity bubbles. He laughed when Charles turned and looked directly into the stream, shocked that it was happening, even with all his prior experience. Hours later, when he presses his lips to the spot just below Charles' ear, he'll taste it on his skin and think he's never tasted anything quite as sweet.
Charles looked so pretty like this: on the podium; smile obvious in the way his dimples divot in his cheeks; eyes bright and happy, crinkled at the edges in the way Max loves so much. It hit him like a bag of bricks, even almost nine years into their relationship. He wanted nothing more than to love Charles for the rest of his life. He wanted to spend as long as he possibly could racing his lover, having this impossible gift of a life together. He wanted to marry him, to put a ring - and a legally binding contract that makes it so he can never leave Max's side - on it.
They're not even supposed to be friends in public, not really. They don't even follow each other on Instagram. Max hated it, all of a sudden. The rivalry, the falling out, the "inchidents" on the track.
He just wanted to love Charles in public. Was that really so much to ask?
It's not that Charles was against it, far from it. Charles would've been public with their relationship from the moment they got together, way back when they were nervous teenagers with overwhelmingly big feelings they almost didn't know what to do with. Max made a split second decision as they turned to leave the podium, and slapped his hand against the swell of Charles' ass to urge him forward.
It's a move he'd made countless times in the privacy of their own home, a casual intimacy he loved to take advantage of. He pat Charles on the ass whenever he got the chance; almost couldn’t help himself from copping a feel as he walked past his boyfriend in their kitchen, or to encourage him to get to the bedroom faster. It's something he'd always done, and the move was so second nature that Charles didn’t even acknowledge the action when it happened on the podium.
Max, though, was well aware of what he'd done. Was well aware of the shit storm that was about to surround them. And, for once, he could not wait.
Later, when they finally make it home after a grueling PR walk where they both ignored any question about the ass-slap, and a vicious reprimand from their teams - even though Charles didn't do anything, so what the fuck was up with that!? - Charles barely gets through the front door of their apartment before he's spinning on his heel to face Max, words flowing out of his mouth quicker than Max can hope to follow.
"And what was that about, Maxie?"
Max shrugs. This, apparently, is not the right answer.
He boyfriend huffs, launching into rapid-fire French that's even less followable than his rapid-fire English, on account of Max not speaking fucking French. He's gesticulating wildly, throwing his bag down and toeing his shoes off by the door as he does. Max let's him, listening to the words even as he isn't able to understand them. His French is acceptable on a good day, certainly not beyond high school level, but when Charles really gets going it is next to impossible for Max to catch even one word. But Max likes the sound of Charles' voice, even when it's angry with him.
Or, well. Not angry. Angry isn't the right word. Angry implies that Charles was upset with what Max had done; that he didn't want to be touched by Max, or that he didn't want Max to sow the seed of the true nature of their relationship to the public. That was not the case, Max knew that. So not angry. Frustrated, maybe. Exasperated. But it was fond.
It was welcomed.
Charles loves when Max swats at his ass, loves being claimed by Max in such an instinctive, way. When Max touches Charles' ass like that, it is almost never intentionally. The act is so normal, so ingrained in their love language that it's almost absent-minded. Something expected. Max cannot help but be consumed by his love for Charles. He doesn't know a life without it. It's like an unspoken truth, some great fact of the universe: the sky is blue and grass is green and Max Verstappen is brilliantly, obnoxiously, irrevocably in love with Charles Leclerc.
"Marry me?"
Charles' mouth closes with an audible click, words dying in his throat as he takes in what Max had blurted out.
"What?"
"Fuck. Okay, I didn't plan to do it this way, but I can't... I have to... I want to marry you so badly. I don't know how it would work with our careers, but I just. Want to marry you so badly."
"This is an awful proposal, mon ange," Charles teases, but Max can see the mistiness of his eyes, the shaking of his hand as it comes up to cover his mouth.
Max laughs. He pats at his pockets, searching for the ring he knows is stowed in his old helmet on the shelf in their living room. "Hang on, hang on."
He drags Charles into the living room, "I swear I was more prepared for this."
Charles laughs at him, a bright and clear sound that still sends butterflies through Max's stomach. He lifts the helmet, revealing a small, deep blue ring box, almost like a magic trick. Max moves to stand in front of Charles. He can't help but lean forward to steal a kiss first. Charles kisses back, as best he can around the grin that may be permanently etched onto his lips. Max pulls away and drops to kneel in front of Charles, opening the box to show the white gold ring, edged in ruby and sapphire.
"Schatje, I have loved you since we were fighting like dogs in karting. We were boys together, and we have grown together, I have grown spending half my life loving you. I want to spend the rest of it loving you. I could never imagine a world in which I could not love you with every inch of my body, and mind, and soul. You make me better, you make me laugh, you make me so incredibly happy and I hope... I hope I make you even half as much happy as you make me. If I do, then I think maybe I am not doing so badly. It has been my greatest honour getting the chance to race with you, but know I would give it up in a heartbeat if it meant keeping you. I would be so happy to be poor and nobody, so long as I was poor and nobody with you. I do not know who, in whatever past life I had, I made happy enough for the universe to gift you to me, and gift us our life together. I love you, that's the short of it. Wil je met mij trouwen - will you marry me?"
"Max Verstappen, yes. I would marry you whether you asked me in two words, or a whole lot more. I would have married you even in the karting days. I cannot wait to be your husband."
Max nods rapidly, heart thumping in his chest. He stands, stepping forward to slip the ring onto Charles' finger. Charles fists his hands into Max's collar and wrenches him into a kiss.
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[A photoset posted as a joint post by maxverstappen1 & charles_leclerc
Photo one is two hands entwined, one hand has a ring on the ring finger. Photo two is of Max and Charles in the karting era at a panel, both have matching unimpressed faces, their helmets on the table in front of them. Photo three is the two of them, Max is pressing a kiss to Charles' cheek.
The caption reads "Biggest achievement of the day. Nothing else of note happened today💍👨🏻❤️💋👨🏼🏆"]