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Max wakes up warm.
There’s an arm around his waist. Fingers dipping into the waistband of his boxers; a nose pressed to the skin at the back of his neck, soft puffs of air ruffling through his hair. He shifts closer, pressing his back fully against Charles’ bare chest. They’re sharing a pillow, barely any space between them. The duvet had been kicked off at some point in the night, but it’s mid-July and Max’s apartment doesn’t really get that cold anyway, especially not with the huge windows beaming the morning sun over them.
It’s a new development, this relationship. New enough that they haven’t put a name to it just yet, but it’s big and real and theirs. The season leading into summer break had been long. Max’s first year as 33 again, fighting to race with the number one again. Charles’ first year with a car competitive enough to match his driving, trading the top step of the podium back and forth for the entirety of the first half. Everything about it should have made their rivalry stronger, should’ve hindered their friendship, made them push back on the feelings they’d been growing steadily over the years – the decades – they’d known each other.
But it hadn’t.
Instead, after the first race Charles had come over to him in parc fermé, face still flushed, hair still a mess from the car. They’d shook hands, same as always, and the touch was magnetic, electric, everything clicking into place. Barely twenty minutes later and Max had his back to the wall of the bathroom, Charles’ body pushed close to his as their lips moved in a frantic, heated kiss – one that felt predestined, inevitable.
They’d had to race to the podium, faces flushed and hair even more tousled than before, and pretend as though nothing untoward had just happened in the bathroom.
Max smiles sleepily, content to let himself doze off again wrapped in soft sheets, the smell of Charles’ shampoo and cologne clinging to his sheets. It’s nice, simple, slow. The sun is dripping lazily over the bed, all goldenrod and summer. They deserve a slow day.
Sleep curls at the edges of his periphery. The stillness is broken when his bedroom door slams open.
“WAKE UP FUCK…er?”
Charles jolts awake, his arm instinctively tightening around Max’s waist as he’s ripped from his slumber. He pulls the sheets up over them, covering what is really not all that lewd in the first place; they’re both in boxers, Max thanks whatever God is out there that they’d bothered to pull them back on after last nights… excitement.
Lando and Daniel are stood in the doorway, matching looks of shock on their faces. Max blinks the sleep from his eyes and glares at them.
The shock morphs into amusement, twin shit-eating grins pulling at the corners of their mouths.
“Well, well, Maxy,” Daniel says, eyes sparkling in that way Max has come to know spells trouble, “when did this happen?”
“What the fuck? How did you guys even get in?” Max asks in lieu of a response.
Charles unwinds himself from Max and pushes up into a seated position on his own side of the bed. The sheets pool around his waist, exposing his bare chest to the morning light. The spattering of hair that trails from his abdomen and disappears under the white linen is so enticing Max is almost dizzy with it. He wants to spread his fingers over the warm expanse of skin and never let off again.
“You gave me a key so I could look after the cats for you a few years ago and I never gave it back,” he says, “unimportant. There’s clearly a more interesting matter at hand.”
“Why are you in Max’s apartment?” Charles asks, voice rough and deep as it always is in the morning.
He’s so attractive Max almost can’t stand it.
“Why are you in Max’s bed?” Lando throws back with a laugh.
“I think that is rather obvious, non? I would hope you are not here for the same reasons.”
Daniel snorts, dragging Lando out of the room. As he goes, he calls over his shoulder, “Don’t get distracted exploring each other’s bodies, Maxy. You’ve forgotten we had plans! Those plans have changed, now. You will be spilling.”
Fuck.
Fuuuuuuck.
Max is so stupid, he’d completely forgotten. He groans, sends a silent curse on both Lando and Daniel’s bloodlines into the universe, and swings his legs over the side of the bed. Charles makes a mournful noise in the back of his throat, cheeks red from embarrassment but still regretting the lack of morning cuddles.
“This is your fault,” Max grumbles, “you shouldn’t be the one crying.”
Charles whines again, “My fault? That is so rude, chéri. I did not do anything!”
“You came over last night and distracted me with your-” Max waves a hand in Charles’ general direction, “face and- pretty- and I forgot I had morning plans. It’s entirely your fault.”
Charles rolls over and wraps his arms around Max’s waist, pulling him back onto the bed.
“Baby,” Max says, aiming for stern but falling short.
Charles shushes him, “They already know, they can wait a few more minutes, chou.”
Max doesn’t bother arguing, just lets Charles roll them over until he’s seated in Max’s lap, looking down at him. He’s so pretty, it should be illegal.
“Are you okay?” Charles asks finally, after a long few moments just scanning Max’s face.
“‘Course I am, baby,” Max is quick to assure him, “why wouldn’t I be?”
“Well, I don’t know. Our… relationship just got revealed. Sure, it is just Daniel and Lando, but it’s still a big thing. I have not even told my maman about you yet, let alone Pierre or Joris or another driver. It is a big thing, no?”
Fuck, when he puts it that way.
“Oh,” Max says, and if his voice cracks a little, no it doesn’t. “Fuck, I- I didn’t really think of it that way. I was more concerned with the mocking we’re about to receive.”
He knows Lando and Daniel are probably in his lounge room right now talking about him and Charles. He remembers in mortifying clarity the years’ worth of pining he’d revealed to them on drunken nights out, how long he’s carried this particular torch. He knows they mean well, and they aren’t going to be malicious, but he is going to be teased about this for years and years and years. He knows Daniel is probably mentally preparing his best man speech, detailing this exact moment in full.
But yeah. Okay. Charles is right, actually. This is scary, and big, and a lot. They haven’t even put a name on this, whatever this is!
He takes a deep breath, looks up at Charles – his Charles, pretty and sweet and staring down at him with those eyes.
When he speaks, his words are soft, tone gentle, delicate vowels shaped by his lilting accent, “I am sorry for earlier, for teasing. I shouldn’t have made jokes before checking in with you.” His hands come down to cup Max’s cheeks, big green eyes searching. “I will follow your lead, whatever you want them to know.”
God, he’s so good. To Max, of course, but in general too. He’s just good.
“And if I tell them that you are my boyfriend?” Max asks, almost a whisper.
He can practically feel the tension in the room bleed out as Charles’ face breaks into a wide, almost giddy grin.
“I will be pleased with that. I would like you to be my boyfriend. I have wanted this for many years, as you know well.”
Max nods. He does know. He understands. This, with Charles, has been a long time coming. He’s been wanting it for so long, wanting him. And he has him, now. Gets to hold him, to kiss him, to watch him wake up. Max gets to watch him race, and win, and climb out of the car and look for Max first, before anything else. Max gets to be the person Charles is searching for, the person he wants to see. And Charles is that for Max, too.
That’s the best part.
As obsessed with Charles as Max is, Charles is just as obsessed with him.
Max tilts his head, chin jutting forward in a silent ask for a kiss. Charles doesn’t hesitate to deliver, just as needy for it as Max is. Their lips connect in a slow, easy slide. Charles’ tongue sweeps across his bottom lip, and he opens up. It’s unhurried, sweet.
Charles, Max thinks, is probably the great love of his life. The end-all. The other half of Max’s soul.
He’s not rushed.
They have the rest of their lives for that.
Everything else can wait.