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Chapter Text

As all things in driving do, Charles’s memories of competitive karting start with Max Verstappen.

He’s a prodigy, they say. He’s been born and bred to be a Formula 1 World Champion, they whisper. And yet in the face of a bright-eyed, soft-tempered competitor with a driving style so hauntingly similar to his own, Max is nothing more than an angry boy with an even angrier father.

Charles knows Max—understands him in a way that only rivals, enemies, and competitors can. He knows that Max can be angry, resentful, aggressive, and petty. He knows that Max is talented and far more skilled than reasonable for a 12-year-old. He knows that Max’s confidence on track is enough to overwhelm most drivers. But Charles also knows that the little Dutch boy is more than his cold attitude. Charles is old enough to notice the way Max lowers his head and uses his helmet as a shield when met with a disappointed father’s harsh words. Charles is observant enough to notice the way that Max glances wistfully at silly trackside games and friendly banter, fighting desperately to distance himself from competitors the way his father taught.

When Max skips GP2 entirely and jumps straight into a Formula 1 seat, a step that takes Charles another 3 years to make, Charles is in equal parts impressed and bitter.

Max and Charles are separated by 16 days. Max and Charles are separated by 3 years. Both statements are equally true, just in different ways.

When Charles finally catches up to Max’s rapid career progression, it is with two fewer father figures, a grief stricken heart, and a maturity unwarranted for someone who can barely grow facial hair. Despite everything, Charles finds himself transported back to a circuit in northern Portugal where he first notices bright blond hair and pretty blue eyes in the garage.

As all things in driving do, Charles’s memories of his Formula 1 career start with Max Verstappen. He’s a prodigy, they say. He’s been born and bred to be a Formula 1 World Champion, they whisper.

Chapter Text

“What the fuck was that, Charles? We are not in go karts anymore! You know better than to not leave enough space!” Max surges in like a whirlwind of anger, pettiness, and—unfortunately for Charles—beauty.

Max is angry. His hair is sweaty and sticking up in all directions. There are lines running across his face from the balaclava. His mouth is running a mile a minute, enough swears woven into his speech to make TV censorship cry. Despite everything, Charles can’t help but note the healthy flush on Max’s cheeks and find it endearing.

You make me understand why storms are named after people, Hurricane Verstappen. For once in my life, I don’t think I’d mind letting the rain reach me.

Charles smiles.

“You’re right, Max. We’re not in go karts anymore. Let’s talk when we’re calmer.” Charles pats Max on the back as if they were just having any normal race debrief and walks off into the Ferrari garage.

In the face of Charles’s dismissal, Max fumes. What kind of Forza Ferrari Indoctrination was Ferrari feeding Charles to reduce him to this kind of maturity? What happened to the Charles that actually had an opinion, to the only boy on the track ballsy enough to challenge Max?

Max doesn’t know this Charles. All he can do is storm off to fulfill his media duties. If he sulks through every interview and every explanation that “it was just a racing incident,” “yes, I’m frustrated,” and “no, I haven’t talked to Charles,” nobody has to notice.

Charles notices.

In fact, Charles does such a good job at noticing that he struts right into the Red Bull motorhome after debriefs conclude, still dressed head to toe in Ferrari red. The mechanics and engineers shoot him quizzical looks, but point him toward Max’s driver room anyway when he asks.

“Max? Are you in there?” Charles asks while gently knocking.

“Come in.” Max’s voice filters through the door. When Charles does enter, it’s clear that Max has not realized who he let in, given the way his face scrunches up in confusion.

Seemingly recalling his anger from earlier, Max’s face schools back into “mildly displeased.”

“Charles.”

“Max.”

“What do you want?”

“Let’s talk, Max.”

Max just stares in response.

“Fine, I’ll start. Why were you sulking during the interviews?”

“I wasn’t.”

“Was it about the race? I admit I pushed you a little too far, but it really was a racing incident. I wasn’t trying to ruin your race, I promise.”

“No.” Max is responding with the kind of forced calm he always brings to press conferences after the FIA makes a stupid decision.

“Is it because we didn’t debrief as usual?”

“No.”

“Come on, mate. You’re not even going to get mad at me anymore?”

“Oh fuck right off, Charles. Says you.” Max finally snaps.

“Huh?”

“Not everyone has an ocean of red to glorify every one of their actions.”

Charles’s eyes visibly soften into something akin to understanding. He quietly takes a moment to catalogue all of the things Max seems to be mad about (the race, the Tifosi, and, ironically enough, getting mad), before also surveying Max’s appearance. He looks tired. His hair is not quite as neat as usual, probably from brushing his hand through it all day. His eyes are edging dangerously close into the realm of glossy.

He’s had a bad day. He’s frustrated about being more angry than I am. He’s frustrated with the way the public views him. He’s frustrated about how he views himself.

“Maxie,” Max’s eyes shoot up at the rarely-used nickname to meet Charles’s, “can I give you a hug?”

Max’s face switches right back to confusion. At the very least, Max is less aggressively calm now, so Charles takes that as a win.

Before Max has a chance to respond, Charles walks into Max’s space with his arms spread open, bringing with him a faint scent of amber and sandalwood, perhaps even tendrils of something that once smelled floral. It’s calming in a way that’s terrifying.

Max leans forward on instinct, and Charles’s arms wind around his body to hold him up.

“See? It is better like this, non?

The Ferrari quarter zip is surprisingly soft. Max is surprisingly comfortable. The fabric is soft enough and Max comfortable enough for him to bring his arms up and grab at the sides of Charles’s sweatshirt.

“Maxie?”

“Hm?” This time, Max’s voice is soft and muffled by fabric.

“You are more than a driver, Verstappen. You can also just be Max. Daniel’s best friend. Cat lover. Patient brother. Caring son.”

Any other day, under any other circumstance, Max might try and argue that “no, racing is his life.” Today, his eyes feel a little more damp, heart a little more fragile, and confidence a little more shaky than usual.

Today, Max sinks further into Charles’s warm embrace and lets the tears he was taught to never produce fall. Today, Max reveals more about himself to Charles than he ever has with others.

“I had to grow up faster than anyone else, but I also feel like I haven’t grown up at all. It’s like I’m stuck at 14 while everyone else moves on, grows, and gets better.”

“What prompted this, Max?” Charles asks. He can make a very educated guess that this has something to do with racing, Mad Max allegations, and a certain Jos Verstappen. He asks anyway.

Max shakes his head into Charles’s left collarbone, conveniently leaving behind a damp patch to confirm Charles’s suspicions that Max is crying.

“Okay.” Charles backs off the topic, knowing that he’s going to undo all of the quiet trust they’ve built in the past ten minutes if he pushes and gets Max defensive again. “Wanna go back to your hotel and play FIFA? I’ll even let you win.”

Max can’t help but laugh. “You don’t need to let me. You’ve never won a round against me. But yeah, that sounds nice.”

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The trip back to Max’s hotel is comfortable in a way that catches both of them off guard. They barely speak, minus a quick exchange about what music to put on in the car, but they smile when their eyes meet and bump shoulders when they walk into the hotel lobby. Between them is a sense of assuring calm that rarely exists outside of family members and childhood friends.

When Max finally lets Charles into his hotel room, however, Charles breaks the silence with raucous laughter. “Oh my god- ha- Max! Did a hurricane storm through your room or something? My god, you’ve been here for how many days? Five? And you’ve managed to make it look like,” Charles stops to wave vaguely in the direction of Max’s room, “ this?”

“What? I’m here for not even a week. Why would I clean up? I’m literally flying out tomorrow.”

Charles laughs again, this time leaning forward and clutching his stomach. “No- Max that’s not- It’s not about cleaning. It’s about not creating a situation where you have to clean.”

Charles clearly isn't affected much, though, because he doesn’t bother asking for permission before walking up to the couch and collapsing face first into one of Max’s hoodies.

“Max. Look what I have to put up with. Look at me breathing in the scent of your dirty hoodie because you can’t keep your space clean.

“Oh my god shut up, Charlie. Literally nobody told you to faceplant into my hoodie. Also, I agreed to FIFA, not being shamed for my room’s cleanliness.”

Charles raises his head and sticks his tongue with as much teasing petulance as humanly possible. “Too bad! This is part of the package deal of inviting me over to play FIFA. Remember to read the fine print in contracts next time.”

“I didn’t invite you.”

“Semantics, Max, semantics.” Charles’s eyes are bright and twinkling with laughter.

“Piss off, mate.” Max rolls his eyes, before stopping abruptly and asking, “are you hungry? I’m gonna get some room service.”

“Vanilla ice cream. Please.” Charles’s voice is once again muffled by fabric.

Max huffs, putting his hands on his hips and leaning his weight on one side—the same way his mother used to when he was doing something particularly stupid. Charles doesn’t get to witness Max’s hard work because he is still face down on the couch, but Max does it anyway. “Charles. Next week is still race week, in case you forgot.”

“Please, Max. What Andrea doesn’t know won’t hurt him. If I don’t even get ice cream for all of the bullshit I had to put up with for this race, I’m going to retire from Formula 1 forever.”

“Yea, retire to become professionally dramatic.”

“Why are you being mean?”

“Charles.”

At Max’s faux stern tone, Charles finally sits up to face Max. He looks up with his eyes wide and lips in a pout, going so far as to lean his weight forward on his arms like a kindergartener begging for chocolate. “Max. Please?”

“You bastard. Fine. If you get in trouble with Andrea, I am not dealing with the consequences.”

Charles just beams up at him, knowing exactly what he has done.

Jokes on Charles, though, because Max knows how to choose his battles. He lets Charles slide with his request for vanilla ice cream not just because it is not his problem if Andrea yells at Charles for slacking, but also because he knows there is no world in which he wins against Charles’s puppy eyes. FIFA, though? FIFA, Max knows how to win. And he does.

“FUCK!”

Max’s laughter booms. He’s never been happier.

“MATE, STOP WINNING! I CAN’T DO THIS ANYMORE!”

Max keeps laughing.

“NEVER IN MY LIFE HAVE I LOST SO MANY TIMES IN A ROW. I AM A FERRARI FORMULA ONE DRIVER. I’M NOT BUILT FOR LOSING!”

By this point, Max has collapsed with the force of his laughter and is slowly sinking in the carpet while fighting to catch his breath.

“FUCK YOU, MAX. WE CAN’T BE FRIENDS.”

“Charl- hah- stop- please- I’m gonna die like this-” Max chokes out.

As if just noticing Max’s laughter, Charles pauses the game and turns around to meet Max’s eyes, before promptly dissolving into silly giggles.

When the laughter finally dies down, the room falls into comfortable silence. Charles takes this time to appreciate the way joy looks on Max. The mess of hair he’s sporting and the bright flush on his cheeks are so similar and yet so different from the way he looked after the race today. All of sudden, Charles is overwhelmed by nostalgia. He is sent back to a karting track in northern Portugal and the first time he glanced at Max's pair of baby blues and head of bright blonde.

Max has changed. Light blue has shifted into something closer to the denim of Max’s well-loved jeans. Dirty blonde has darkened even more, toeing into brunette territory when put in the correct light. His face is sharper and broader, features growing out of awkward teenage proportions. He’s taller, more well-built, and definitely filling out his Red Bull polos better than at 17. He’s more mature, too, no matter what Max might think about himself. Less brash, less angry, less petty, and more kind, more compassionate, more careful.

Despite this, Charles can see the hints of innocence and feel the traces of a childhood barely had.

When Charles’s eyes trail back to Max’s, he’s already looking back.

“Hi” Charles smiles—small, private, and sweet.

“Hi.” Max’s eyes crinkle, almost like little emanata to highlight his deep blue eyes. “It’s late. Do you want to crash here? I’ll just send you back to your hotel tomorrow morning if your flight isn’t too early.”

“Sure, Max. That’d be great. Especially because I did not think this through and did not drive my borrowed car over here. Which reminds me that I need to text…somebody…to let them know to send that very expensive Ferrari back where they got it from.”

Max lets out a gentle chuckle. “Yes, do that. I’ll go grab something for you to shower and change into.”

“You’re the best. Unless you give me a Red Bull polo, in which case you’re the worst.”

Max responds with a dopey little giggle, before assuring him that “I promise I won’t” and “I can’t have you hating me now because who will I beat at FIFA next week?”

Charles lets the gibe slide because of the implication that today was not a blip in their relationship and that their newfound camaraderie will last past this race weekend.

Chapter Text

Charles wakes up to the smell of Max’s shampoo, a slightly too cold hotel room, and an unfamiliar alarm. There’s a sliver of morning sun streaming into the room where the curtain must have slipped open, leaving a tingling warmth on his skin.

“Mmm, Max. If you don’t turn that off, I’m going to disown you as a friend.”

Max chuckles and it’s a solid octave lower than his voice’s usual register. Charles might feel some way about that. “I don’t think that threat works, Charlie. We’ve fought at 14, we’ve fought at 21, we’ll get past fighting now.” Max’s voice is still clouded with sleep, but his amusement is clear as day.

“Uggghhhhh,” Charles groans, the guttural syllables slowly increasing in volume. He blinks his eyes open. “It’s too early.”

Max makes a mocking sound that falls between a hum, whine, and laugh, but the noise is strangely harmonic to Charles’s ears. “Charlie,” Max coos, elongating the “e” the same way he might while speaking to a small animal. “You’ve got a flight to catch~”

“Fuck off,” Charles moans, “you don’t even know when my flight is.”

“Going by the way your notifications are popping up, I’d say it’s early enough for you to be awake and packing.”

Trained by years of constant travelling and catching last-minute flights, Charles exclaims a fitting “Shit!” before shooting up from under the blankets and clambering for his phone.

Watching Charles fumble with his phone with his head of rowdy hair and body of borrowed clothing items, Max muffles a breathy laugh into his hand. He waits patiently as Charles swipes through his contacts and notifications, before Charles turns his body toward Max in a comically slow fashion.

“Max. It is 8 in the morning. I have a single text from Joris reminding me about my flight in 12 hours.”

Max eyes Charles from where he is still buried under the duvet. “Yes?”

“Max Verstappen,” Charles moves back toward the bed and lifts his pillow before continuing, “you are unbelievable.” The pillow comes down on Max with a decisive whack. Max bellows with laughter, early-morning hoarseness making way for the bright cackling Charles has come to know so well.

“Max.” Charles lets the exasperation bleed through his voice. “Do that one more time and I’m convincing Red Bull to give you more media commitments.”

“Mhm, sure. Anything for your face of betrayal,” Max teases one last time before dropping his head back onto his pillow.

“Absolutely not,” Charles says, pulling the covers off. “If you get to wake me up with panic like that you’re not allowed to go back to sleep.”

Max doesn’t respond.

“Maxie,” Charles sing-songs, “it’s time to get up. You stay there any longer and I’m stealing your wallet to buy myself breakfast.”

At this, Max pushes himself up on his elbows to glare at Charles, face colored with offense. “First of all, you get paid millions a year–”

“Yeah, well, you get paid a couple million more. It’s only fair, Max.”

“No. Let me finish. Second of all, those credit cards are essentially unlimited and you’re going to use them to buy yourself breakfast? Breakfast. You can do so much better, Charles.”

“Okay. We get fancy breakfast.”

“Oh my god, Charles. You are unbelievable. Fine. Yes. Breakfast.” Max responds with a huff, before reluctantly rolling out of bed to get ready and find Charles yet another set of clothes to borrow. Max’s act annoyance would be more convincing if he didn’t accompany it with something that sounds suspiciously similar to “fucking puppy eyes.” The way his eyes soften and voice gentles when he lets Charles dig through a stash of t-shirts, Red Bull caps, and khaki shorts in search of something “passably fashionable” does not help.

They make it out of the hotel room alive. It takes 20 minutes longer than it would’ve taken either of them individually, but what are friends for if not to make life more interesting at the cost of making it less productive?

Their efficiency ultimately does not make too big of a difference, though, since they end up cooped up in the hotel’s dining hall with everybody else anyway. Despite Charles’s earlier request for a fancy breakfast, both athletes are painfully aware of their diets and the personal trainers behind them. Instead of artisanal cheeses, premium meats, and delicate little French pastries, Charles and Max end up making do with porridge and a disgustingly healthy mix of nuts and fresh fruits.

“Charles?”

“Hm?”

“Is it weird that we’re just…casually sleeping over and then grabbing breakfast together?” Max poses after a moment of consideration. And it’s a good question. Charles and Max have known each other since the beginning of time. They’ve fought each other on track since before aerodynamics was a factor to consider in karting and insulted each other with words mean enough to only ever come out of 13-year-olds. However, beyond their childhood rivalry, they have barely interacted in private. No, they are no longer the volatile children they once were. Yes, there has been a strong basis of respect between the two for at least the past couple of years. But Max does not play padel with Charles the way he does with Lando or Daniel, nor does Charles simrace with Max the way he does with the Twitch Quartet.

And yet, Charles is telling the truth when he asks, “it is nice, no?”

Charles slowly lifts a spoonful of porridge to his mouth and chews while staring blankly into his bowl.

Max waits.

“We’re in the unique position of being two of only 20 people in the world who have the same job. We live very privileged lives, don’t get me wrong, but also very hard-to-understand lives. If we meet the right people, what’s the use of forcing things to go slowly?”

“That’s…oddly insightful.”

Charles laughs under his breath, but continues, “not really. It’s just how I think about life. You don’t have to agree. I think it’s just my personal experiences that make me want to cherish people a little more and love a little more.”

“I do agree. And even if I didn’t, your perspective can still be insightful.”

“True.” Charles ponders a moment longer, allowing his eyes to linger on the way warm overhead lights coalesce with morning sun. With the way Charles’s head is tilted against his hand and his eyes are staring off into the distance, Max half-expects him to spew out yet another inspirational quote. Instead, in true Charles Leclerc fashion, he asks about Instagram.

“When are you gonna follow me on Instagram?”

“The fuck?”

“When are you gonna follow me on Instagram?”

“I heard you. How did you even think of this?”

“Dunno I was just curious!” Charles lets out a brilliant laugh to accompany his words.

“It would make more sense if I was asking you that. You unfollowed me first.”

“Damn, you’re right.” Charles pauses to take another bite of porridge, but continues with what can only be labelled as the most devious PR strategy ever: “Do you think the world would break if we both followed each other back?”

That shocks a laugh out of Max, but he’s not opposed. “Maybe. Do you think we could make it break faster if we made a joint post?”

An impish smirk paints across Charles’s face, the kind he used to pull before sending one of his brother’s falling into the Monaco Harbor. “I like how you think, Verstappen.”

“So? What do you think, Media Sweetheart Leclerc?”

“I think I’d like to break the internet.”

“Hate to break it to you, but you already regularly do that, pretty boy.”

Charles pokes his tongue out of his mouth in a show of petty defiance, though with the way he is trying to both stick his tongue out and keep porridge in his mouth, it comes out looking a lot more like a puppy’s blep.

“Yeah, well. Call me that again after you’re done posing for my insta post, pretty boy.”

“What?” Max meets Charles’s comment with incredulity. “What do you mean posing for your insta post? I agreed to a joint post, not becoming a personal model. What’s it with you and misconstruing my invitations nowadays?”

“You literally just called me Media Sweetheart Leclerc. Let me do my magic.” It’s not like Max can really stop Charles from “doing his magic,” especially not with the way Charles is already readying his phone.

Reluctantly, Max admits defeat. As much as he would like to fight Charles on having to pose, he did, in fact, call Charles Media Sweetheart Leclerc and he does, in fact, trust in Charles’s ability to play the public right into his palm. So, he complies when Charles forces a sweater over his head, maneuvers his elbows around the table, and asks for help rearranging their entire breakfast spread.

“What happened to a joint post? I’m barely even in the photo. Literally nobody is going to notice that it’s me you’re eating with.”

“Nope. Just open your instagram and follow me back. The internet girlies will find a way. They all know you wore that sweater to the paddock on Sunday.”

“How–”

“Just trust me, mate. I’ve had one too many PR briefings with Ferrari not to know.”

True to Charles’s word, the internet falls apart within the day. As it turns out, the “internet girlies” have more legitimate influence than Max initially assumed, because there are official news articles speculating about the newly friendly relations between Max and Charles circulating the internet by the time Thursday media day in Suzuka rolls around.

Chapter Text

Sometimes, life is kind. Last Sunday, life was kind enough to grant Charles an evening of laughter and companionship after a frustrating race. Kind enough, even, to grant Charles the joy of a calm morning of trolling the internet with Max.

Today, life has not been, in any way shape or form, kind. Today Charles has bared his throat to the world—all of his memories, fears, and pains for show like a charm necklace commemorating every visit grief has ever made. The world has responded with a noose around his neck. The skin there never becomes any less tender, no matter how strong the muscles beneath grow to be.

Today, nothing feels right. Today, he is under the pouring skies of Suzuka, carrying memories of a godfather long gone. Today, someone has a crash. Max has a crash. He is not Jules. He has a halo. It is not 2014. He is not dead.
But it is a crash. Suzuka. Raining.

Today, Charles is once again in a hospital for someone other than himself. Charles is once again terrified. Perhaps, even more so than the last time.

For Charles, the jittery energy that usually accompanies the lead-up and wind-down of race weekends is notably absent. There is no fidgeting, no partying, and no excited chatter. Instead, he sits completely still with his water bottle in hand, even if his hair is still dripping uncomfortably into his shirt. He has to put his body on hold to leave room for the darting thoughts in his mind.

Around him, the world turns. The half white-half gray clock ticks from where it hangs above his head. The glossy vinyl flooring squeaks when a particularly wet shoe walks past. The wheels under meal carts and hospital beds tumble along. The visiting families make quiet conversation in a lilting foreign tongue.

Even the people he showed up with—Max’s personal team, Daniel, Joris, Christian Horner, a couple of other engineers and mechanics—are moving. Some are pacing, some are making phone calls, and Daniel is running a hand up and down Charles’s back. But Charles sits amidst the anxious waiting with eerie silence, and it is not just in the sense of sound. His posture is still near-perfect, expression near-calm, and attire near-tidy. If Charles wasn’t sitting where he is and surrounded by the people that he is, he might pass as near-okay.

“Hello? Mr. Horner? Mr. Verstappen’s condition is stable. You can come in, but keep quiet.” A nurse dressed in clean white interrupts the group's anxious waiting, every head in a 3 meter radius of the door snapping up to look.

The cohort takes a collective sigh of relief, some of Max’s closer friends going so far as to ready themselves to enter the ward after Horner gives the okay. And he does. He comes out to inform everyone that Max is conscious and “perfectly fine” sans a nasty concussion and some ugly bruising.

Charles stands to leave.

“Charles? You’re leaving?” Daniel asks with a comforting hand looped around Charles’s wrist—present but not oppressive.

“Yeah. Max is fine.”

“You can stay to see him, though. I’m sure nobody’ll mind.”

“I can’t.”

Seemingly clocking Charles’s mental stability, or rather lack thereof, Daniel nods. “Alright. Take care, Charles. Text me once you’re back at the hotel?”

Charles hums in agreement and speeds out of the hospital as quickly as he is able to recall the way out.

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“Calamar?” Pierre’s voice is crackling through the phone speaker. His voice carries an inflection dangerously reminiscent of a much younger Pierre desperately holding on to the shattered pieces of a much younger Charles.

“He’s okay.”

“Yeah?” Pierre questions, knowing that giving Charles the opportunity to explain Max’s condition will help reinforce the fact that the man is very much still alive. He is also immensely grateful that he does not need to spend another few years flitting around death, funerals, and panic attacks.

“Yeah. Awake. But nasty concussion. Bad bruising. I did not ask what else.”

Charles takes a shaky breath in, and another equally shaky breath out.

“Are you in the car, calamar??”

It is only now that Charles notices the faint scent of clean leather in the air, the steering wheel beneath his hands and forehead, and the distant clicking of the car’s turn signal. “Yes.”

“Still at the hospital, yes? I think you need to go back up and talk to him.”

“No. I can’t.”

“Why not? Scared you’re going to walk in on him motionless in the bed? He’s conscious, you said it yourself.”

Charles does not respond. If Pierre is following this line of questioning, he already knows what Charles is thinking. Instead he takes another violently deep breath of air before pushing himself off the steering wheel. He waits as his senses filter through the mesh of panic and fear, enough for his body to remember that it is sitting in a borrowed car in a hospital parking lot in Japan.

“Whether or not you show up will not change whether or not Max is alive, Charles. I think you need to take a couple minutes to breathe, and then walk yourself back up to his hospital room and just say hi to him. We both know that you will not be sleeping tonight if you don’t. And if I know anything about Max, I think he’d also like to know why you left after spending an hour in the waiting room.”

“Okay,” Charles breathes out, just barely loud enough to be picked up. Pierre ends the call, and Charles’s phone switches back to a picture of Leo smiling up at the camera. A month ago, when Arthur and Charles had brought Leo to the park, the puppy had bounced up onto Charles’s thigh with so much joy that he couldn’t help but snap a picture. It’d taken close to no convincing for Charles to switch out his lock screen after that. It’s grounding, the way that Leo’s happiness helps tether Charles to reality. It’s ironic too, the way Leo’s happiness contrasts so sharply with Charles’s slowly subsiding panic.

By the time Charles is ready to step out of his car, his phone screen has gone dark.

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“Hey, Maxie,” Daniel half-whispers, “you feelin’ a little better?”

“Yea. Dizzy for sure. Got a solid 40G in if they told me right.”

“Yep. 43G. Tough stuff, Maxie.” Daniel’s hand twitches, as if he was instinctually reaching out to ruffle Max’s hair, but settles for gently smoothing over Max’s forehead. “Have you and Charlie been getting along better recently?”

The sudden change in topic catches Max off-guard, no doubt made worse by the concoction of pain medication he is on. “Huh? I mean…I guess so? Why?”

“I think your crash scared him. He was out there waiting the entire time with all of us.” Daniel’s expression is heavy, his usual cheery demeanor still present but much more subdued.

“What? How did he even get out of media duties?”

“I don’t know, Maxie, but he was pretty shaken up. Left right after Christian let us know you were doing alright.” Daniel is making a face. The one he always wears when words can no longer provide an accurate account of his social observations.

“Speak of the devil,” Daniel comments while looking up past Max and at the door of the ward, a self-satisfied smirk slipping into his voice. “I’m going to grab myself a coffee, but have fun chatting!” A radiant smile blooms on Daniel’s face, shifting so quickly away from their serious conversation just moments prior that it is jarring.

Before Daniel steps away from the bed, he leans in to give his best friend a quick hug, though in reality he’s using the action as a frankly genius disguise. “Remember Jules Bianchi, Maxie,” Daniel whispers into Max’s ear, making sure to deliver the syllables quietly enough to not be picked up by the Monegasque at the door.

Oh shit.

The pieces click into place. Suzuka. Rain. Crash. Turn 7.

No wonder he didn’t want to stick around.

Max’s thoughts are interrupted by a quiet greeting from Charles, tone downcast in a way Charles so rarely is. He has changed out of his fireproofs and race suit, but is still damp from sweat and rainwater if the darker color of his collar is anything to go by. In his right hand is his water bottle, long straw still attached. In his left, he’s clutching onto his phone, knuckles white. Charles looks tired, no doubt, but there is also an underlying sense of emotional exhaustion that Max likely would not have picked up on had Daniel not reminded him of Jules Bianchi.

“You okay, Charles?”

It’s an ironic question, really, considering who crashed and who didn’t.

“If you’re well enough to ask that question after a 43G crash, I think I must also be doing fine.”

“I’d say ‘sure’ if that was how things worked.”

A deep sigh leaves Charles’s body, and his posture seemingly with it. His entire body sags forward as he drops himself into Daniel’s seat, forearms coming to rest on Max’s bedside. “I don’t know, Max. I love this track but hate that turn.”

“I…I know. Sorry.”

“No, don’t be. Really not your fault. I’m fine with it most days…but still.”

The room falls into a tense silence that only ever exists in hospitals. The rain is pattering against the window, the machines are beeping along, and both Max and Charles are breathing just fine. Yet there’s an undercurrent of antiseptic and pain and grief and loss that never seems to go away within these white walls under these harsh white lights. For Max, it’s easier to ignore. There are no more memories attached to the setting other than routine checkups and a few sickly visits as a child. For Charles, the smell, lighting, and atmosphere all draw back to dying fathers and dying friends.

Charles lets brown locks fall against the flimsy bedding of Max’s hospital bed. Wordlessly, Max starts to run his calloused fingers through disheveled curls, stopping occasionally to rub at Charles’s scalp. Somewhere along the way, Charles’s breath grows shaky. When Charles speaks again, it’s brittle.

“I hate this part so much, Max.”

Screeching tires, collapsing chassis, and red flags are never the scary part. The scary part comes after: talking to the medical stewards, waiting in the hospital, delivering your final goodbyes while accompanied by beeping machines.

“What part, Charles?”

Max wants so badly to argue with Charles. To tell him “look, I’m right here” and “this time’s different, Charles, I’m alive and well and will be racing for years to come.” Instead, he waits to see what grief has done to the once fearless boy.

Charles looks up from where he was slumped forward on the bed. Tears are trickling down his cheeks in beautiful little rivers, and Max would find it mesmerizing if his eyes weren’t so red and his brows so grief-stricken.

“The afterward. Hospitals. All of the doctors and nurses and media questions and- and the fucking antiseptic! You don’t know how much I hate that smell.”

Max takes a breath through his nose, before delicately calling, “Charlie?”

Charles’s eyes flicker up to Max’s, before sliding down to where his hands are resting on the blanket.

“I’m right here.” Max pauses to run his hand through Charles’s hair in one long motion from his forehead to the back of his head. “I cannot change what has happened or what your experiences may have been with Jules, your father, or maybe even Anthoine. But I am alive, Charlie. The only goodbye we will be exchanging today is ‘see you back in Monaco.’”

At that, Charles lets out a tender chuckle. While the nasally intonation of his voice and the wet sheen of his cheek is still present, the tiny crinkle around his eyes help take away some of the pain lining his face.

“Yea? I’ll make sure to prepare a fruit basket, then.”

“Could I convince you to buy me cat treats instead? My cats have very expensive taste.”

That gets a giggle out of Charles. He looks much calmer now—happier, too. “Sure, Max. Whatever you want.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Within hours of Max’s return to his Monaco apartment, a frilly little basket is delivered to Max’s front door. Wrapped in overly decorative pink tissue paper is a package of various high-end treats—for both humans and cats—as well as a handwritten note.

A care package to my favorite cats in the world. – With love, Charles

Chapter Text

Max Verstappen
[image attached]
this you?

Charles Leclerc
yessss you’ve got my package
do you like the pink
i worked very hard for it

Max Verstappen
lmao
sure mate
if all your pink gifts come with snacks i’ll take them

Charles Leclerc
are you a pink lover?
i should have expected that smh

Max Verstappen
yep
definitely
but next time i expect an in person delivery

Charles Leclerc
…
am i allowed to “wait haha unless” my way through this
because im bored out of my mind rn
can i please bring gifts
i promise they will be pink

Max Verstappen
i don’t offer things i don’t want, charlieboy

As much as Max is joking, “I don’t offer things I don’t want” is a fairly accurate representation of Max’s values. As sharp, witty, and blunt as Max can sometimes be, he rarely meets people with anything other than honesty.

Charles Leclerc
well then
i don’t mind if i do

Sure enough, it takes Charles no more than a quick text to confirm that Max is free before popping up at Max’s apartment with an obnoxious pink cap with “16” embroidered in bold red letters.

“That’s cruel, Charlie.”

Charles beams—nose scrunched and teeth on full display.

“Not only is it pink, I now have to deal with accusations of being your fan.”

Charles must find the whole thing incredibly entertaining, because he keeps showing up, always with something pink in hand. One time, it’s a fluffy blanket that Max now refuses to admit he uses for mid-day naps. Another time, it’s a daintily packaged sweater—made of cashmere, of course, because Charles is dramatic. Even when Charles and Max meet at the occasional cafe or park, Charles finds a way to sneak overpriced strawberry macarons or silly peach plushies into Max’s hands at random points in the day. No matter the item, Charles always has that sparkling, mischievous joy painted across his features when handing over his gifts.

Safe to say, pink is becoming a staple in Max’s apartment. What was once dominated by grays, whites, blacks, and an abominably large collection of Red Bull merch is now sprinkled with pink throw pillows, pink utensils, and pink clothing. Max always responds with half-hearted annoyance and a comment of “yep here we go again, you 5-year-old princess.”

Max is decidedly less annoyed when Charles starts sneaking pink onto the paddock.

On Thursday, Charles pulls up into the paddock in a pair of pink sneakers.

Everything else about his attire is white. Cozy white hoodie, cream-white slacks, dainty white sunglasses. He’d gone as far as to request a white Ferrari to drive to and from the paddock. It is a proper full white get-up. Except his shoes. His Puma sneakers are the most delicate baby pink to have ever graced the face of the sneaker market.

The whole thing is dramatic and unnecessary, but it’s Charles. He likes being dramatic and unnecessary sometimes. And he’s an attractive man that knows the specific shade of linen that complements his features. He’s also an intelligent man who knows the power of creating a clean background to highlight the star of the show: pink.

Max retaliates the only way he knows how to and pushes Charles off the metaphorical track.

On Friday, Max arrives in the pink cashmere sweater Charles gifted him so long ago and spends an unnecessary amount of time wandering the paddock to ensure photographers can do their magic. This is the first time Max has ever willingly put himself in the way of cameras.

On Saturday, Charles rocks up to the paddock in a full pink ensemble. Apparently when Charles has a pink-off, he has a pink-off. He’s sporting a baby pink sweater that looks suspiciously similar to Max’s, beige pants with a red enough undertone to pass as pink, and the pair of Pumas from Thursday. To the people that pay attention, Max included, Charles’s lips are tinted a glossier pink than usual.

Max admits defeat.

Max Verstappen
you win mate
i’m out of pink clothes
im normal
i don’t casually own a full-pink outfit

Charles Leclerc
shame:((
but jokes on you this was all an elaborate plan to get you comfortable wearing pink

Max Verstappen
charles
what are you planning

Charles Leclerc
nothing:D
would you look at that it’s time for quali
have fun putting your car in P2

Max Verstappen
ofc
early congratulations on P3

Max lets Charles’s childish teasing slide. Very few things have stopped Charles from plotting his plots, never mind people. Max is not about to take the joy out of Charles’s life like that.

______________________________________________________________________________

Quali sucks, but not because of the results. The results were wonderful, actually.

Max does, in fact, end up in P2. Charles puts it on pole like the Quali sensation he is.

Quali sucks because it’s hot, humid, and painfully sunny. Even just through the short duration of FP3 and Quali, drivers are constantly moaning about the suffocating heat and being drenched through with sweat.

Charles rolls into parc fermé drained, the adrenaline of qualifying on pole subsiding to make way for the tingling sense of exhaustion that always follows hot Quali sessions. Charles runs through the motions: steering wheel off, harness off, arms on halo, push up, stand up, step over, helmet off, balaclava off, deep breath.

From the corner of his eyes, Charles catches Max walking round the nose of his car to approach Charles’s.

“Mate,” Max’s face is dripping with sweat and his hair is sticking up all over the place, “what a qualifier you are. That was a monster lap you had at the end there.”

Charles takes Max’s praise for face value and spends a moment preening—Max Verstappen, multiple time world champion with a competitive record so dominant even journalists are terrified, does not make misjudgments on driver abilities.

“Mate, it was crazy. I was dripping sweat the entire time during that lap. It felt like it was raining in my helmet.”

“You’re joking,” Max responds, his expression equal parts shocked and impressed, “you did a lap like that with sweat dripping on your eyes? Sensational drive.”

“Thanks, Maxie. You had me stressed at the end there, too. Beautiful lap from you. Any better and I wouldn’t be on pole.”

Their conversation is interrupted by panicked murmurs of “pull his helmet off first” and “I’ll slip off his harness once he’s feeling better.”

Max, ever the observational creature that he is, swivels on his feet to follow the commotion. “Hm. Is Oscar not feeling well?”

“Maybe,” Charles responds, but he’s already striding over to Oscar’s car in P3, “and I would not be surprised considering the conditions today.” By the time Charles is half way through the sentence, he has nudged aside a couple of McLaren engineers to lean into Oscar’s cockpit to pull him out.

Charles holds onto Oscar, arms wrapping around the younger protectively and eyes pinched in concern. “Hey, Oscar? You doing alright?”

“Hm. Dizzy.”

Before Charles has time to panic, a straw lands between Oscar’s lips. Charles traces the length of the straw and notices a Red Bull water bottle. Max's voice sounds from beside him.

“Drink. It’s just regular electrolytes. Don’t worry about the straw. I haven’t drank from it yet.”

Too tired to fight, Oscar presses his lips together and starts sipping, stopping every couple of times to breathe as if new air will whisk away the oppressive heat. The three drivers spend at least a couple of minutes standing there, Charles holding Oscar up, Oscar sipping from Max’s straw, and Max working hard to block the prying lenses of news reporters.

At some point along the way, Oscar signals for Charles to let go with a firm squeeze on the Monegasque’s forearm and promptly unzips his race suit.

“Sorry about that, guys. I think I’m good. I’ll have one of the engineers walk me over to the garage.”

Max and Charles both frown, but take Oscar’s word and gently maneuver Oscar to lean on a nearby McLaren mechanic. Max guides Oscar’s hand to hold the Red Bull bottle, before gently patting the younger’s back.

“Just keep the bottle for now. I highly doubt anybody will have PR complaints about you getting electrolytes, even if it’s from a rival team.”

“Okay. I’ll have someone pass it back to Red Bull when I can.”

“Go rest,” Max shoos, “I have a million of those bottles. That is not the point.”

Max and Charles stand rooted next to Oscar’s bright papaya car for a moment longer, watching as the young aussie slowly waddles away, his hesitant steps so uncharacteristic of Oscar’s usual calm and assured demeanor.

Charles slides an arm around Max’s shoulder to pull him closer, leaning into the Dutchman to murmur, “have I ever told you? I think you’d make a great father.”

Charles pulls back to scan Max’s race-sweaty features and notes that his flush has deepened beyond its usual post-race tint. Max is staring with eyes round and lips parted. It’s a look more innocent than Charles has ever seen on Max’s face.

______________________________________________________________________________

Charles thought Max's behavior was a one-off. It was not.

Race day, Oscar shows up to the paddock looking…unwell. His overall behavior is not unusual—his stride is steady, appearance tidy, and speech calm. But on closer inspection there’s a cloud of something glazing over Oscar’s eyes. While walking down the paddock to reach McClaren hospitality, he also brings his hands up to rub at his arms on more than one occasion. Oscar looks cold. Oscar does not get cold. Especially not in this kind of weather.

Charles notices, and immediately considers a million and one things:

is he running a fever?
is he well enough to drive?
surely driving like this isn’t safe
it’d be bad if he crashes

Amidst Charles’s panic, he notices a familiar figure dressed in navy blue jog up behind Oscar. In Max’s arms is a thin but clearly well-loved zip up hoodie. Max gently cloaks the jacket around Oscar’s shoulders. The way Max’s hands smooth over the fabric to lay flat across Oscar’s back and knuckles brush over the nape of Oscar’s neck is uncharacteristically tender.

With how young Max was when he first joined the paddock, he is more often than not the “child prodigy” infiltrating the paddock, childish brilliance and immature behavior often passed off as a given for how young he is. Sometimes, even Charles forgets that Max is a fully grown adult.

But in moments like these, when Max sets aside his love for sarcastic comments and child-like impulsiveness to show his ability to guide, mentor, and advise, Charles realizes that Max is one hell of a role model. Smart enough to deduce, bold enough to execute, compassionate enough to understand, and honest enough to criticize.

Oscar might be one of the first on the F1 grid young enough not to have had extensive interactions with Max on karting circuits across Europe. Likewise, it seems that Max has deemed Oscar young enough to adopt as a rookie, no matter how calm and composed Oscar tends to be.

Max leans in with a face of concern to speak briefly with Oscar, though Charles is not close enough to parse out the words. Mentally, Charles cannot help but liken Max’s behavior to that of a parent figure holding onto his children, finding quiet ways to care and protect. It’s actually painfully attractive—the way Max can both be silly and perfectly responsible at the same time.

By the time Charles is brought back to reality by a staff member’s urgent reminder that “the engineers want you in the meeting room right now,” Max is already making his way back to Red Bull hospitality.

Chapter Text

“...and CHARLES LECLERC WINS THE BAHRAIN GP! Not even an unlucky safety car could stop the Monegasque man from barging through to the win!”

“Max Verstappen follows up behind Leclerc and is past the finish line! In P3 we have George Russell! Wonderful drive from Russell for that result.

We’ve got the DRS train through the finish line now. Unfortunately, Piastri, who started on the second row, seems to have experienced some problems through the race, so he’s finishing all the way back in P8 today.

“Yea there have been reports that he’s not feeling too great in the cockpit today.”

“It’s not just Oscar either. Lots of team radios were complaining of the heat on track.”

“Speaking of, we’re looking at Piastri rolling into parc ferme right now. Oooh he’s not looking too good. Needs some help getting out of the car, it seems.”

“Yea, it seems so. Hopefully Oscar and all of the other drivers are feeling alright. Now that the race is over maybe they can all go take a dunk in some cold water.”

(commentators laugh)

______________________________________________________________________________

It’s too fucking hot. Even with his helmet off, Charles can feel the bubbling feeling of dense, hot air trapped underneath his racesuit and fireproofs. Everytime Charles shifts his weight, he can feel a small gust of warm heat puffing against his jaw from the collar of his shirt. It’s gross. So unbelievably gross, sticky, and uncomfortable.

Charles is hasty while exiting the cockpit, doing everything in his power not to collapse over the car and beg for a cup of ice cubes to munch on. Within a matter of seconds, his race suit is unzipped and hitched as low down his hips as they comfortably go.

Blinking away the haziness of heat, exhaustion, and sweat, Charles sorts through his senses: it’s hot, it’s loud as fuck, there are too many lights, and the smell of tarmac is edging dangerously close into the territory of nauseating. Half-heartedly, he notes that it’s Russell climbing out of his car behind Charles and not Oscar.

Oscar.

“Fuck! Oscar!” Charles blurts.

Clearly, Max is a step ahead of Charles, because the Dutch man is bolting towards the back of the grid about as soon as he makes it out the car. Caught off guard, Charles stares as Max detaches, unzips, and unravels his million pieces of race gear—all while running towards Oscar.

The scene is scarily reminiscent of the Quali session. Max full-body leans into the McClaren to yank Oscar out of his seat, helping him with the helmut and race suit afterwards. Max procures a bottle of water from…somewhere and pours the entire thing over Oscar’s head. Charles would find the entire sequence of events much funnier if he didn’t personally understand just how unbearably hot it was in the car just moments ago.

Then, Oscar is walked off, presumably to the medical station. It is only now that Charles notices the keen observation of cameras and eyes alike. There are at least 3 cameras zooming in on his face and another 30 filming Max and Oscar’s entire interaction. There is going to be so much shit flying around the internet after this. At Max, at Oscar, at the FIA, at the stewards, at McClaren.

“C’mon, Charles. Let’s get the podium over with.”

Green meets blue.

Since when did Max make it back here?

“Huh? Oh. Oh okay yea let’s go.”

______________________________________________________________________________

Collective groans echo between Max, George, and Charles as they enter the air-conditioned cooldown room. The room is spacious, too. There’s an absurdly large screen broadcasting the race highlights on one wall. Facing it are three very cushy seats that feel like overkill for what is essentially a place for athletes to make themselves halfway presentable for the podium.

“Whoever invented the cooldown room is a genius,” George very fittingly comments, “10/10.”

Charles plops his very sweaty self on one of the seats, groaning in agreement. “Whoever invented the temperature on track today was not a genius. 0/10.”

Charles lets his eyes flutter shut to appreciate the feeling of heat slowly seeping out of his racesuit and away into the cold air. He takes a deep breath in, gathering up all of the race’s heightened emotions, and then a deep breath out, letting everything disappear behind the tingling coolness of his ears and nose. Just as he is preparing to right his posture, Charles feels somebody place a cap on his head.

Charles opens his eyes to a mischievous expression on Max’s face.

The corner of Max’s lip twitches up in a way that only signals incoming trouble. “If I can’t beat you at the pink war, the least I can do is give your Ferrari PR people an aneurysm.” Max’s shit-causing face is replaced with a beaming smile—completely innocent to the unobservant eye.

“Congratulations on the win, Charlie. You can be #1 for the day.”

Confused, Charles pulls off the cap, only to realize that it is one of Max’s merch caps: bright orange, a lion emblem in the background, “Oracle Red Bull Racing” on one side and “1” in bold white on the other. Ferrari golden boy photographed wearing championship rival merch? Talk about a PR aneurysm.

More importantly though, Max needs to stop catching Charles off guard like this. First the whole “we’re on good enough terms to hang out in private,” then taking care of Oscar like he’s an experienced father with three children hidden somewhere, and now popping his cap on to Charles’s head as if it didn’t feel like he was marking his territory.

Max needs to stop. If Charles wasn’t already flushed from physical exertion, he would be from the stunt Max just pulled. Even worse, Max leans down against Charles’s ear and whispers: “meet me after the podium ceremony. I’ll drive us to Oscar’s.”

One day, Charles is going to cave and record Max’s voice to put himself to sleep at night.

“Wait, Max, I can’t. Ferrari’s got meetings.” Charles is desperate to check on Oscar, but Ferrari duties are Ferrari duties. Not even Vettel got out of them.

“Screw Ferrari. The team orbits around you anyway. You’re clearly anxious out of your mind, so just go with me.”

How’d he know I was anxious?

“Charles, don’t even bother arguing. You’ve been clawing your hair out ever since Oscar went to medical.”

Oh shit. I really have been pulling at my hair.

“Yeah. Okay. Bring me.”

Max smiles his satisfied little grin, and starts yet another episode of his cooldown room podcast.

______________________________________________________________________________

Max taps three gentle knocks in quick succession against the hotel room door, the complete lack of noise that follows after it is a testament to the hotel’s quality soundproofing. Nevertheless, the door opens to a raggedy Oscar. His hair is sticking out every which way, shirt crumpled, and cheek indented like he just woke up from a nap.

“Thank you,” Charles speaks privately to Max, though he knows Oscar is within earshot.

“Why are you thanking me? If anything Oscar should thank me.” The incredulity in Max’s voice forces a chuckle out of Charles’s mouth, as unfunny as the situation is.

“Thank you.” A quiet, croaky voice sounds from underneath the blankets.

“Max! Be nice to the sick. Let the poor boy recover.”

“You’re such a mom, Charlie.”

Clearly finding the conversation entertaining, Oscar’s head emerges from the blanket pile. “Does that make you the Dad?” Oscar interjects.

Charles giggles like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. The exhaustion has caught up with him and turned into delirium.

“Go back to sleep, Oscar,” Charles coos as he lifts a hand to press against Oscar’s feverish forehead. He gently pushes Oscar to lie down. “It’s good to see that you’re in good enough spirits to call Max dad.”

Charles starts to run his fingers against Oscar’s scalp, stopping here and there to untangle the sleep-messy hair. Once Oscar’s drowsiness takes the reins, Charles moves the blankets to be tucked cozily against the crook of Oscar’s neck.

The door locks clicks. Max and Charles’s eyes snap up to find Lando gently sliding into the room with a bag of what looks like cold medication and cough drops in hand. Max and Charles’s eyes meet and they come to a common mental conclusion: “how cute.”

“Take care of him, Lando. Call us if you need help.” Max moves to leave, patting Lando on the shoulder as he slowly makes his way toward the door.

“Oh and you might want to get him some soup. He probably hasn’t been eating or drinking enough today.” Charles stands from where he was perched on the side of Oscar’s bed, smoothing over the blankets one last time before shuffling to join Max at the door.

“Don’t kiss him, Lando! You’ll get sick!” Charles teases as a final goodbye.

“Bye bye!” Max beams, pulling the door closed as Lando stands confused at the foot of Oscar’s bed.

Charles giggles, the kind that leaves his nose scrunched and eyes crinkled. The kind that always leaves Max staring a moment longer than necessary. “Let’s go, Maxie. Let Lando and his frankly abysmal survival skills take care of Oscar. Fortunately, he likes Oscar too much to let him die.” Charles starts marching his way towards the elevator, but Max stays rooted to the ground.

“Hm, Maxie? What’s wrong?”

Max doesn’t answer, just looks out toward the sky of splattered blues and purples. The hallway’s dim lighting and the sky’s gentle purple cast on Max’s skin leaves him looking like a cutscene from some dramatic romance film. His usual dirty blonde hair fades into something closer to gray. His default all black t-shirt and jeans take on a hint of mystery. His eyes, though, stay a clear blue.

“Charles?” Max calls, head tilted sideways toward Charles, voice breathy.

“Hm?”

“Wanna take a walk?”

“Sure, Max. Always.”

Always. I will always take a walk with you. You can always talk to me. I will always race against you. You will always make me better.

So, they walk. Their footsteps align side-by-side, navigating through carpeted hotel hallways, then elevators, then an outdoor terrace. The two men stop before the edge of the balcony, eyes lifting to observe the shimmering city skyline. The breeze picks up. Curls flutter. Denim jackets jingle. T-shirts billow.

Charles is picking out the shapes of the track a distance away when he feels Max shift. Charles turns to meet quiet eyes and a gentle smile.

It’s quite the sight: two incredibly attractive and incredibly accomplished men, standing amidst the shining lights of nighttime Bahrain, making what can only be described as amorous eye contact, while their hair is being tousled by the wind.

It’d make for a spectacular movie scene, even more so as Charles takes a miniscule step forward and leans his lips into Max’s. Max does nothing more than shut his eyes and hold Charles closer. Max pulls away and goes through the motions of cataloging Charles’s eyes, then lips, then back to eyes. Glowing, then glistening, then glowing again.

“You know, Charles. I only realized that I always want to kiss you when Oscar called me the dad.”

“Please shut up, Max.”

Idiot.

Charles presses his lips against Max’s one more time, this time just barely calm enough to notice the way Max’s hands caress the bend of Charles’s elbow and heart thunders between them.

“Max,” Charles breathes out the Dutch man’s name with a tenderness he didn’t know he had. “I didn’t know you took such good care of your rookies.”

Max’s features furrow into a complicated expression. “No one did it for me, Charlie.”

He takes a deep breath, eyes sliding down to the balcony’s fancy tiling. “I’d like for them to have an easier time than I did. I was rude, confident, and ballsy, but I was a child. I will not be kind to their driving because that is their job. But outside of the car, there is no reason for them to have to act older than they are, especially not if I’m right here.”

Charles is once again struck with the reality of Max being a much more mature person than he usually acts. Sure he’s child-like sometimes, but clearly not childish. A childish person could never take on the responsibility of protecting the well-being of a handful of mentally traumatized young athletes without second thought.

“I think you are a good person, max. And this is coming from the person who used to get so mad at you he pushed you into puddles.” Charles interrupts himself to chuckle. “I’ve said it before and I'll say it again: you are more than a driver, Max. You are more than the machine your father taught you to be.”