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There were mornings that still felt unreal, even months in. Not in the cinematic, heart-racing way people talked about love, but in the quieter moments like when Max would wake up before his alarm, lie still, and listen to someone else breathing beside him.
Not just someone but Charles.
His Charles. He gets to call Charles his, his boyfriend.
The Ferrari driver was breathing softly. A steady rhythm meaning so much to Max. He opened his eyes slowly, getting used to the bright sunlight filtering through.
He see Charles’ face turned slightly toward him, lashes dark against pale skin, mouth parted just enough that Max always had the irrational urge to kiss him awake. It feels like a dream, it wasn’t something half-imagined during lonely flights or long nights in hotel rooms. This was real. Charles was real.
And somehow, impossibly, Charles had chosen him.
Max didn’t think he’d ever stop being stunned by that.
He shifted slightly, careful not to disturb him. Charles stirred anyway, fingers brushing Max’s wrist like it was instinct rather than coincidence. Max froze because he was afraid of waking him up.
Charles murmured something unintelligible, then relaxed again, hand still warm against Max’s skin.
Max stared at him.
He’d spent most of his life assuming things were simple. You wanted something, you worked for it. You won, or you didn’t. There were rules. Clear outcomes. Love hadn’t been part of the equation, not like this, not something that snuck up on him and rewired his entire understanding of what wanting meant.
Max turned his head just enough to look at him.
The man who laughed too easily, who talked with his hands, who somehow knew when Max needed silence and when he needed distraction.
Who knew what Max wanted before Max said a word.
Max exhaled slowly.
That part still unnerved him a little.
Not in a bad way. Charles had this uncanny ability to read him. To anticipate him. To press a coffee into his hand before Max realized he was tired. To suggest leaving a room before Max consciously acknowledged the noise was getting to him. To lean in close during press and murmur something dry and grounding just as Max’s patience wore thin.
Max told himself it was just attentiveness. Emotional intelligence. Charles had always been good with people.
Still.
Sometimes it felt like Charles was half a step ahead of him, always.
When Charles finally woke, it was gradual. A soft inhale, a stretch that brought him closer without fully waking, his knee bumping Max’s. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, then sharpening when they landed on Max.
There it was. That smile. Sleep-warm and unguarded.
“Bonjour, mon amour,” Charles murmured.
Max’s mouth curved before he could stop it. “Morning, Schatje.”
Charles blinked at him for a moment, then shifted closer, tucking his face into Max’s neck like it was the most natural thing in the world. Max felt it everywhere, the warmth, the trust, the ease of it.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Charles said softly.
Max snorted. “You can’t hear thoughts.”
“I can hear yours,” Charles said, smiling against his skin.
Max rolled his eyes but didn’t pull away. “Liar.”
Charles hummed, noncommittal, fingers tracing idle shapes on Max’s arm. “Did you sleep okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Me too.”
They lay there for a while longer, the morning light creeping across the room, the world outside slowly reasserting itself, schedules, briefings, obligations. But for now, it was just this. Them.
Max didn’t say it out loud, but the thought pressed heavy against his ribs: I still can’t believe you chose me.
He wasn’t insecure. Not really. But he was aware. Aware of what Charles was. He was kind, admired, easy to love. Aware of what Max himself was, closed off, intense, difficult. He’d spent years cultivating that edge, sharpening it until it was the only thing people saw.
Charles saw past it anyway.
They moved through the paddock later like they always did, separate but not really. A brush of fingers here. A look held half a second too long there. Nothing obvious. Nothing anyone could point to. But it was threaded through everything Max did, the quiet awareness of Charles’ presence, the way his body oriented itself automatically.
Max could always tell where Charles was without looking.
And Charles, he always knew when Max needed him close.
*
They were in one of the quieter hospitality corners, Charles wedged comfortably between Pierre and Max, scrolling through something on his phone. Pierre was half-reclined, coffee in hand, expression deceptively relaxed.
Charles glanced up. “I’m going to grab water. You want something?”
“I’m fine,” Max said automatically.
Shit, I forgot my redbull—Nevermind.
Pierre shook his cup. “I’m good.”
Max looked into his boyfriend's eyes and the other stood, fingers brushing Max’s knee as he passed. It was subtle, muscle memory more than intention.
“I’ll get you your redbull,” Charles told Max before leaving.
Pierre smiled, it was a knowing smile.
Max immediately didn’t like that.
“So,” Pierre said casually, dragging the word out like it was harmless. “How’s it going?”
Max frowned. “What?”
Pierre raised an eyebrow. “You and him.”
Max leaned back in his chair, defensive by instinct. “Fine.”
“Fine, really?” Pierre echoed, unimpressed.
Max hesitated even though, he knew that the french driver knew about their relation.Talking about this still felt… strange. He wasn’t used to sharing things that mattered. But Pierre wasn’t a stranger, either, he had been his teammate at some point as well. And Pierre had known Charles longer than almost anyone. So he decided to just be honest.
“It’s good,” Max said finally. “It feels unreal sometimes.”
Pierre’s smile softened. “Yeah?”
Max nodded. “He—” He stopped, searching for the right words. “He gets me. Somehow.”
Pierre chuckled into his coffee. “Of course he does.”
It made Max a bit shy.
They sat in silence for a moment, the noise of the paddock filling the space. Max’s gaze drifted unconsciously toward the direction Charles had gone, a low-level awareness humming under his skin.
Pierre followed his line of sight. “You know,” he said slowly, “I always wondered when you’d notice.”
Max stiffened. “Notice what?”
Pierre studied him for a long second, then tilted his head. “Does he ever do that thing where he hands you exactly what you need before you ask?”
Max blinked. “What thing?”
“You know,” Pierre said lightly. “Water when you’re dehydrated. Space when you’re overloaded. Touch when you’re spiraling but pretending you’re not. And the redbull right now.”
Max’s pulse kicked up. “That’s just—he’s attentive.”
Pierre’s mouth twitched. “Sure.”
Max crossed his arms. “You’re implying something.”
“I’m really not,” Pierre said. Then, almost absentmindedly, “It’s just funny watching you catch up.”
Max bristled. “Catch up to what?”
Pierre continued sipping his coffee. “Nothing.”
Max leaned forward. “Pierre.”
Pierre hesitated, then said carefully, “Does he ever… finish your sentences?”
Max didn’t answer immediately. Because yes. Because sometimes Charles would say exactly what Max had been thinking, word for word, like they were running off the same script.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Max said.
Pierre smiled apologetically. “Right.”
Max’s patience snapped. “You’re doing that thing where you know something and you’re enjoying it.”
Pierre smiled. “I really wasn’t trying to.”
“Then stop talking in circles.”
Pierre exhaled. “Okay. Look. You know Charles has this… thing.”
Max’s stomach tightened. “What thing?”
Pierre shifted in his seat. “Sometimes he knows what people are thinking before they say it.”
Max laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “Okay. Sure.”
Pierre held his gaze. “I’m serious.”
Max’s laugh died. “You’re saying he can read minds now?”
“That’s—”
“You’re messing with me,” Max said flatly.
Pierre shook his head. “I swear I’m not.”
“That’s impossible.”
Pierre shrugged helplessly. “Tell that to him.”
Max leaned back, crossing his arms tighter, irritation buzzing under his skin. “You’re pulling my leg.”
Pierre looked almost regretful now. “If it helps, he never does it on purpose. It just… happens.”
Max scoffed. “Right.”
They sat there, tension coiling between them. Max refused to let the words sink in, refused to entertain something so absurd.
Charles returned a moment later, water bottle and a redbull can in hand, oblivious.
“Did I miss anything?” Charles asked lightly.
Pierre smiled too quickly. “Nope.”
Max watched Charles closely, his face, his eyes, the easy warmth in his expression.
Nothing looked different.
And yet, for the rest of the day, Pierre’s words followed Max like a shadow.
He knows what people are thinking before they say it.
Ridiculous.
Max told himself that over and over.
But the next time Charles handed him a towel without Max asking, the doubt crept in anyway.
*
It happened a few days later.
He hadn’t brought it up again. Hadn’t tested it. Hadn’t watched Charles any closer than usual, which was already close enough to be dangerous. If anything, Max had doubled down on normalcy. On routine.
Charles was still Charles. Warm, attentive, irritatingly good at knowing when Max needed space. Nothing had changed.
Which meant Pierre had been joking.
Obviously.
So when Max found himself standing beside Carlos during a quiet time between schedules, he wasn’t thinking about any of it. They were leaning near the back of the garage, half-hidden from foot traffic, the air smelling faintly of rubber and coffee.
Carlos was scrolling through something on his phone. Max was staring at absolutely nothing.
“You’re very quiet today,” Carlos said.
Max shrugged. “Nothing new.”
Carlos glanced up, assessing. “You say that like it’s supposed to reassure me.”
Max snorted. “You worry too much.”
They stood in companionable silence for a moment. Max shifted his weight, restless in the way he got when his thoughts were circling something he didn’t want to name.
Carlos broke the silence. “You okay?”
Max nodded automatically. Then paused. “Yeah.”
Carlos hummed. “That was a delayed ‘yeah.’”
Max didn’t answer.
Carlos tucked his phone away. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Max said, sharper than he meant to.
Carlos raised his hands in surrender. “Alright. Just asking.”
Another pause. Max exhaled slowly.
“Does Charles ever—” He stopped.
Carlos tilted his head. “Ever what?”
Max frowned, irritation flaring at himself. “Never mind.”
Carlos studied him for a moment, expression thoughtful. “You sure?”
Max hesitated. He didn’t know why he asked. Maybe because Carlos felt… safe. Neutral. Not as emotionally loaded as Pierre.
“Does he ever,” Max tried again, choosing his words carefully, “know what you want before you say it?”
Carlos smiled faintly. “All the time.”
Max blinked. “That’s not— I mean—”
“Before you say it,” Carlos repeated. “Yeah. I know exactly what you mean.”
Max’s stomach tightened.
Carlos glanced around briefly, then leaned back against the counter, casual.
“It's like he’s already halfway through the conversation before you open your mouth, right?” Carlos asked.
Max stiffened. “What are you implying.”
Carlos laughed softly. “Okay, fine. I’ll put it this way—Charles has always been very… good at understanding.”
Max folded his arms. “You’re being vague on purpose.”
“Maybe,” Carlos admitted. “Because it’s not my thing to explain.”
Max’s pulse picked up. “Explain what.”
Carlos met his eyes. “That he is good at reading people.”
reading people.
The word echoed unpleasantly.
Max shook his head. “Pierre said something similar.”
Carlos’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Did he?”
“Yes,” Max snapped. “And it was stupid.”
Carlos smiled.
That wasn’t reassuring.
Because suddenly, Pierre’s comment didn’t feel isolated anymore. And that was the problem.
Two people. Independent conversations. Same implication.
Coincidence didn’t sit well with Max. His chest tightened unexpectedly.
*
Lando didn’t mean to make it worse.
Max was fairly sure Lando had no idea he was standing on the edge of something fragile. To Lando, this was casual. Banter. Harmless teasing layered over observations everyone else had apparently already filed away.
To Max, it felt like the final nail sliding into place.
They were sprawled in one of the driver lounges late in the afternoon, the kind of lull where the air felt heavy with waiting. Lando was half-upside-down on a couch, scrolling on his phone, one leg hooked over the armrest. Max sat nearby, posture rigid in comparison, elbows on his knees.
Lando glanced up suddenly, eyes sharp in the way they got when he noticed something entertaining. “You look miserable.”
Max didn’t look at him. “I’m fine.”
Lando grinned. “Wow. You actually want me to believe that?”
Max shot him a warning look. “Drop it.”
Lando, predictably, did not. He studied Max openly now, head tilted. Lando hummed, then said casually, “Is this about Charles?”
Max’s head snapped up. “Why would it be?”
Lando laughed. “Because it’s always about Charles.”
Max glared at him. “You’re annoying.”
“I know,” Lando said cheerfully. Then, more carefully, “Did you two fight?”
“No.”
“Did something happen?”
“No.”
Lando squinted. “Are you sure?”
Max stood abruptly. “What do you want, Lando.”
Lando blinked, startled by the sudden shift, then sat upright. “Okay. Something definitely happened.”
Max hesitated. He didn’t know why he was even considering saying anything. Maybe because at this point, it felt like everyone else already knew whatever this was, and Max was the only one catching up.
“People keep saying things,” Max said finally.
Lando’s eyebrows shot up. “Ooooh. Things.”
Max glared. “Don’t.”
Lando held up his hands. “Sorry. Go on.”
Max frowned, choosing his words carefully. “About Charles.”
Lando relaxed back into the couch. “That narrows it down absolutely not at all.”
Max ignored him. “They keep implying he… knows things.”
Lando’s grin faltered.
Just slightly.
Max noticed.
His chest tightened. “You too,” Max said quietly.
Lando blinked. “What?”
“You know,” Max said. It wasn’t a question.
Lando stared at him for a long second. Then his mouth slowly curved into something between amusement and disbelief.
Max’s hands curled into fists. “Pierre said something. Carlos said something. And now you’re looking at me like this is obvious.”
Lando rubbed his mouth, trying and failing to hide his smile. “Okay, first of all, this is kind of incredible.”
Max’s glare sharpened. “You think this is funny.”
“A little,” Lando admitted. “But mostly because, how did you not notice, mate?”
Max didn't reply.
Lando leaned back, smirking at him. “No no, I get it. You were too busy drowning in his beautiful green eyes.”
Max stared at him.
Green eyes.
Charles’ eyes.
Something hot and sharp flared in Max’s chest. “Don’t talk about him like that.”
Lando blinked. Then laughed. “Oh wow. Yeah, okay. That’s new.”
“What is.”
“That,” Lando said, pointing vaguely at Max. “That possessive thing. You didn’t do that before.”
Max snapped, “I’m not possessive.”
Lando raised an eyebrow. “You just told me not to talk about your boyfriend’s eyes.”
Max opened his mouth. Closed it.
Lando grinned. “See?”
Max turned away, jaw tight. “Just tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“What everyone apparently knows,” Max said flatly.
Lando hesitated. He was quieter now, teasing dialed down just enough to make Max uneasy.
“You really don’t know,” Lando sighed. “Okay. So. You know how Charles always knows when you’re about to lose patience in press?”
Max tensed. “That’s experience.”
“And how he always knows when you need your battery juice?” Lando continued.
“Coincidence.”
“And how he kissed you first,” Lando said lightly, “like he was one hundred percent certain you liked him back?”
Max froze.
Lando tilted his head. “That part didn’t just strike to you as… bold?”
Max swallowed. “Charles is confident.”
Lando laughed softly. “Sure. But he’s not reckless and going around kissing F1 drivers.”
Max felt his heartbeat in his throat. “What are you saying.”
Lando studied him, eyes gentler now. “I’m saying Charles doesn’t jump unless he knows where he’ll land.”
Silence stretched between them.
“You’re saying he knew I wanted him,” Max said.
Lando shrugged. “I mean… yeah.”
Max’s chest tightened painfully. “Before?”
Lando nodded. “You are getting it now.”
Max exhaled slowly, like he was trying to keep something from breaking out of his ribs.
Lando shrugged. “I can’t believe you didn’t know.”
There it was.
Max’s jaw clenched. “So he can read minds.”
Lando held up a finger. “That's what I have noticed. I have even seen Charles having secret conversations with Pierre.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
Lando nodded. “Yeah. But I know I’m right.”
Max dragged a hand through his hair, pacing once before stopping. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
Lando shrugged. “I thought you knew.”
“Why would you think that?”
Lando gestured vaguely. “Because he’s never subtle with you.”
Max’s thoughts felt too big for his head now, crashing into each other, every moment replaying with brutal clarity.
Charles leaning in.
Charles waiting.
Charles kissing him.
Charles choosing him.
“He knew,” Max said quietly.
Lando nodded. “Yeah.”
“And he didn’t tell me.”
Lando hesitated. “Honestly mate, I thought he told you.”
That was the part that hurt.
Max’s chest burned with something new now. Not confusion, not disbelief but jealousy. Not the kind that flared when Charles laughed with someone else. But the kind that sank in deep when Max realized everyone else knew something intimate about Charles that Max hadn’t.
Pierre knew.
Carlos knew.
And even fucking Lando knew.
And Max, he was supposed to be the one closest to him.
*
The paddock blurred past him as he moved, his mind louder than the noise around him. Every step seemed to pull another thread loose, unraveling moments he’d filed away as insignificant.
Pierre.
Of course Pierre knew. That one didn’t sting as much. Pierre had been there for Charles through everything, childhood, puberty, rookie years, everything. Max had never begrudged that closeness but admired it. Pierre was family to not only Charles but to the whole Leclerc family.
Max could live with Pierre knowing things.
Carlos was harder.
Carlos is teammates with him. Shared space. Shared routines. Late nights and early mornings. He saw Charles unguarded in ways Max only did in private for a short period of time. That realization dug under Max’s skin, sharp and irritating.
But still somehow Carlos made sense.
Lando didn’t.
That was the one that tipped it from irritation into something darker.
Lando knew. Lando, with his teasing and careless honesty, had known something intimate about Charles that Max, his boyfriend hadn’t. Not just known, but known casually. Like it was obvious. Like it was a given.
That was what made Max’s jaw clench.
It wasn’t that others knew Charles could hear thoughts sometimes.
It was that they knew before Max did.
The thought sat ugly in his chest.
Why wasn’t I told?
The images kept coming anyway.
Charles kissing him first, certain, unhesitating.
Charles always knowing when Max was on the edge.
Charles choosing moments with precision that felt, in hindsight, terrifyingly informed.
Had Charles known how hard Max was fighting it?
Had he known how badly Max wanted him and waited anyway?
That wasn’t manipulation. Max knew that. If anything, it was restraint.
So why did it feel like betrayal?
The thought twisted something in his chest. He wanted to be chosen fully. Trusted fully. Not spared.
By the time he reached Charles’ driver room, the anger had settled into something cold and precise. Max knocked once, then didn’t wait for an answer.
Charles looked up from where he’d been changing, race suit half-unzipped. His face lit up instinctively.
“Hey,” Charles smiled.
Max closed the door behind him.
The click sounded loud in the quiet room.
Charles paused, sensing the shift immediately. His smile faded, replaced by concern. “Max?”
Max didn’t answer. He took a step forward.
Then another.
Charles stayed where he was, eyes tracking Max’s approach, confusion flickering into something more alert. “What’s wrong?”
Max stopped just short of him. Close enough to feel the warmth of his body. Close enough to smell soap and something unmistakably Charles.
“Why didn’t you tell me,” Max asked quietly.
Charles blinked. “Tell you what?”
Max’s gaze locked onto his green, open, suddenly uncertain eyes.
“You know,” Max said.
Max stepped closer, crowding into his space, his presence unmistakably deliberate now. Charles didn’t move back. His shoulders brushed the wall behind him.
Max stared into his eyes and thought, clear and sharp—
You can read minds?
Charles’ eyes went wide.
Not dramatically. Not exaggerated.
Just enough.
Enough to confirm everything.
The air between them snapped tight.
“Max,” Charles whispered.
“Why does everyone know except me?” Max asked.
Charles swallowed.
“Why didn’t you tell me,” Max continued, voice low. “Why did I have to hear it from Pierre. From Carlos. From Lando?”
Charles’ gaze dropped, then lifted again. “I didn’t think—”
“That’s not an answer.”
Charles exhaled slowly. “I didn’t want it to change things.”
Max’s jaw tightened. “It already did.”
Charles nodded, accepting that. “I was afraid you’d feel watched. Or manipulated.”
Max scoffed. “Instead I feel left out.”
Charles flinched.
“That hurts more,” Max added quietly.
Silence stretched.
Then Max asked, softer but no less intense, “So before we got together, before you kissed me in the locker room, you already knew I liked you?”
Charles’ cheeks flushed.
He hesitated, then brings his arms around him, pressed a brief, gentle peck to Max’s lips. Not deflecting just affirming. Max closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, the anger was still there but now it was tangled with something else entirely. He could never really be mad at Charles, not when they were little, not when they raced each other and certainly not now.
For a moment neither of them spoke. Max stayed where he was, engulfed in Charles’ arms. The room felt smaller now, not because of proximity, but because there was nowhere left to hide. No misdirection. Just truth, sitting heavy between them.
Charles shifted first.
“I didn’t plan it,” he said softly, like he needed Max to know that immediately. “It’s not like a switch I flip.”
Max didn’t move. “But you knew.”
“Yes,” Charles admitted. “I knew you wanted me.”
Max’s jaw tightened. “How long?”
Charles hesitated, then answered honestly. “Long enough.”
Max leaned back, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands. The adrenaline from earlier had burned off, leaving something raw in its wake.
“I don’t like not knowing things,” Max said quietly.
“I know.”
“I don’t like being the last one to know,” Max added.
Charles’ shoulders sagged slightly. “I never meant for you to be.”
“But I was.”
“Yes,” Charles said, without arguing.
That more than anything, helped.
Charles waited.
“It was about you not telling me,” Max said. “You deciding what I can handle.”
“I never thought you couldn’t handle it,” he said. “I thought you’d hate it.”
Max looked at him with such softness. “Why?”
“Because you hate losing control,” Charles said simply. “And this—” He gestured vaguely between them. “This takes some of that away.”
Max swallowed.
“That’s why I waited,” Charles continued. “Not because I didn’t trust you. Because I didn’t want you to think every thought you had wasn’t yours anymore.”
Max rested his hands on Charles waist. “Do you hear everything?”
Charles shook his head immediately. “No. God, no.”
“Then what do you hear?”
Charles considered for a moment, choosing his words with care. “I only hear when I look into people’s eyes.”
Max laughed once, hollow. “So basically all of mine.”
Charles smiled. “Can’t help but not stare at those beautiful blue eyes.”
Max scoffed. “Yeah, my stupid eyes.”
Charles laughed with him and then stepped closer still, close enough now that Max could feel the heat of him. “Oui, these stupid eyes which made me fall in love.”
Max’s breath stuttered.
“You know, I never heard you saying anything bad about me,” Charles went on. “It was always, Oh, Charles is so beautiful—” He smirked.
Max’s eyes went wide. “Stop—”
“Charles is the best driver ever—”
Max lunged, fingers digging into Charles’s sides before he could finish. Charles yelped, laughter bursting out of him as he twisted uselessly, trying to escape. Max held on, relentless, and the room filled with warmth and noise and the kind of easy happiness that felt almost unreal.
“Are you making fun of me, Charlie?” Max demanded, breathless.
Charles stilled just long enough to look at him with exaggerated innocence. “Nooit, schatje.”
(never, darling.)
And Max, his heart skipped a beat. He couldn't explain what it was doing to him. Hearing Charles speak in Dutch, in his native language—
The tension between them transformed into something softer. Max felt exposed in a way he wasn’t used to, seen, understood, without being dissected.
He kissed Charles, gentle and in a way it felt fragile. Like a soft confession. He loves Charles so much. Even if Max doesn't express it well, now he knows that Charles would always know the truth and that made everything hundred times better.