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Max Verstappen’s fingers were wrapped tight around the small, velvet box in his coat pocket. It was a ridiculous place to keep it, really. He could feel the outline of the two rings through the fabric, a hard, geometric reminder of the plunge he was about to take. The Red Bull Christmas party swirled around him, a blur of sequined dresses, ugly sweaters, and the warm, spiced scent of glühwein. Laughter bounced off the high ceilings of the rented alpine lodge, punctuated by the occasional shriek as someone received a particularly awful Secret Santa gift.
His eyes, as they had been for most of the evening—for most of the year, if he was honest—were fixed on Charles Leclerc.
Charles was across the room, caught in a conversation with Lando and a few of the Ferrari mechanics. He was wearing a dark green sweater that made his eyes look like fractured sea glass, and he was laughing at something Lando said, head thrown back, the elegant line of his throat exposed. The firelight caught in his messy brown hair, turning strands of it to gold. Beautiful. The word came to Max unbidden, as it often did. It wasn’t a word he used lightly, or about many things. A perfectly balanced car, yes. A flawlessly executed lap, absolutely. But a person? Only Charles. Charles with his fierce, stupid bravery on track and his off-track shyness that dissolved into easy warmth with friends. Charles with his thin, expressive lips that could twist into a defiant pout or a smile that felt like the sun coming out.
Everyone thought they were already together. That was the funniest part. The paddock rumor mill had long ago married them off. They were MaxandCharles, a single entity. The fierce rivalry that had softened into something else, something that looked, from the outside, like a partnership. They were always close—closer than rivals had any right to be. They’d find each other in the motorhome, in the paddock, after races. They’d share quiet words, a touch on the shoulder that lingered, a bottle of water passed between them without a thought. Max had seen the looks, heard the whispered bets about how long they’d been secretly dating. Christian had once, after a particularly tense race where they’d finished P1 and P2, clapped Max on the back and said, “Try to keep the domestic disputes off the team radio, eh?” Max had just shrugged, a non-answer that everyone took as confirmation.
But they weren’t together. They’d never crossed that line. It was a silent, mutual understanding, a terrifying limbo. They’d orbit each other, gravity pulling them closer and closer until Max felt like he was going to combust from the nearness of it all. The want was a constant hum under his skin, beneath the adrenaline of the season. He’d catch Charles looking at him sometimes, those green eyes wide and unguarded, and see the same question, the same desperate hope, reflected back. But neither of them moved. It was too big, too important. What if they ruined it? What if the delicate balance they’d built over years of fighting and respecting and, yes, loving each other, came crashing down?
But tonight, the Christmas spirit, or maybe just the sheer, bone-deep exhaustion of carrying this secret, had decided for him. The box in his pocket was his declaration of war—on the distance between them, on the unsaid words, on his own fear.
He took a deep breath, the air tasting of pine needles and mulled wine, and made his way across the room. He nodded at a few people, forced a smile, but his trajectory was unwavering. Charles saw him coming. His conversation with Lando trailed off. Lando followed his gaze, saw Max, and a slow, knowing grin spread across his face. He muttered something to Charles, who elbowed him, a faint pink flush rising on his cheeks.
“Max,” Charles said as he stopped before him. His voice was a little too high, a little too bright. “You’ve been lurking by the fireplace all night. Hiding from Pierr’s terrible singing?”
“Something like that,” Max said, his own voice rough. He cleared his throat. “Got your present.”
Charles’s eyebrows lifted. “I thought we agreed, no big gifts. Just the Secret Santa.”
“This isn’t Secret Santa,” Max said. He pulled the box from his pocket. It wasn’t wrapped in festive paper; it was simple, sleek, black velvet. “This is just… from me.”
The noise around them seemed to dim. Max wasn’t sure if people were actually quieting down to watch, or if his entire world had just narrowed to the space between his hand and Charles’s. Charles looked from the box to Max’s face, his expression shifting from playful confusion to something more uncertain, more vulnerable. He took the box carefully, his long, graceful fingers brushing against Max’s.
“Max…” he started, but didn’t finish.
“Open it,” Max said. It came out as an order, but it was really a plea.
Charles’s thumbs popped the lid open. Nestled inside, on a bed of dark silk, were two rings. They were made of a matte, brushed titanium, subtle but beautifully crafted. On the inner band of each, tiny, laser-engraved script was visible. Charles carefully lifted one out, holding it up to the light to read it.
M.V. 33, it said on one.
He picked up the other. C.L. 16.
Their numbers. Intertwined, literally and figuratively.
Charles stared at them. His breath hitched, a tiny, audible sound that went straight to Max’s heart. He wasn’t looking at Max. He was staring at the rings as if they held the answers to every question he’d ever been afraid to ask.
“Everyone,” Max began, his voice gaining strength now that the first, hardest step was taken. He wasn’t just talking to Charles anymore. He was aware of the circle of faces around them—Lando, Carlos, Daniel, Christian, even Toto was watching from near the bar with an amused smirk. “Everyone in this room, probably everyone in the sport, thinks we’ve been together for months. Maybe years.”
He paused, forcing himself to look at Charles, to dive into those green depths. “They think we’re a secret item. They place bets on when we got together.”
A nervous laugh rippled through the crowd. Charles finally looked up, his eyes shimmering.
“But they’re wrong,” Max said, loud and clear. The room went utterly silent. “We’re not together. We never have been.”
A collective, soft “oh” of surprise escaped a few people. Carlos looked genuinely shocked. Lando’s jaw was hanging open.
Max took a step closer, closing the last of the distance between him and Charles. He could see the rapid flutter of Charles’s pulse in his throat. “I’m tired of everyone being wrong, Charles. I’m tired of pretending that what I feel for you is just… rivalry, or friendship. It’s not. It’s everything.”
He reached into the box, took out the ring engraved with C.L. 16. He didn’t put it on Charles’s finger. He just held it, offering it. “I don’t want to be Max and Charles, the rivals who are weirdly close. I want to be Max and Charles. Full stop.”
For a second, a terrifying, endless second, nothing happened. Charles just looked at him, his face a beautiful, unreadable mask. Then, a tear escaped, tracing a quick path down his cheek. He didn’t wipe it away. A smile broke through, brighter than any Christmas light in the room.
“Mon dieu, you idiot,” Charles whispered, his voice thick. “You did this in front of everyone?”
“Yes,” Max said, a grin tugging at his own lips.
“I was going to do it next week,” Charles said, laughing through the tears now. “In private. Like a normal person.”
“Too late,” Max breathed. “Your move, Leclerc.”
Charles’s answer was to surge forward. He dropped the box, the rings clattering softly to the floor, but neither of them cared. His hands came up to frame Max’s face, cold fingers against his skin, and he kissed him.
It wasn’t a gentle, tentative first kiss. It was a release. It was months, years, of pent-up longing erupting between them. Charles’s lips were as thin as Max had always imagined, but soft, and they moved against his with a desperate certainty. Max’s arms came around him, crushing him close, one hand tangling in the soft hair at the nape of his neck. He kissed back fiercely, claiming, affirming, finally finally letting go of every last shred of pretense.
The room erupted. There were whoops, cheers, applause. Someone—probably Daniel—let out a piercing whistle. But it was all background noise, a distant echo. The only real things were Charles’s mouth on his, Charles’s body pressed against him, and the dizzying, overwhelming rightness of it.
When they finally broke apart, gasping for air, they were both smiling like fools. Charles rested his forehead against Max’s, their noses brushing.
“You are insane,” Charles murmured, his breath warm on Max’s lips.
“For you,” Max replied simply.
It was Charles who bent down, picked up the fallen rings. He took Max’s left hand, slid the M.V. 16 ring onto his finger. It fit perfectly. Max did the same for him, the C.L. 16 ring settling at the base of Charles’s finger as if it had always belonged there. More cheers. Someone shoved glasses of champagne into their hands. They were pulled into a whirlwind of backslaps and congratulations and “I knew it!”s. Pierre fake-fainted. Lando was taking pictures on his phone, cackling.
For the next hour, they were the center of the party. But Max kept Charles’s hand locked in his, his thumb stroking over the new, cool metal on Charles’s finger. The touch was a constant, grounding reminder. This is real.
Eventually, the party began to wind down. The energy shifted from festive to mellow. Charles squeezed Max’s hand. “Let’s go,” he said quietly, his eyes saying everything else. Let’s be alone.
They made their goodbyes, enduring a final round of jokes and well-wishes. Christian hugged them both, a real, warm hug. “About bloody time,” he said gruffly, and Max just laughed.
They stepped out of the lodge into the crisp, cold night air. It was a sharp, welcome contrast to the stuffy heat inside. And the world had transformed.
“Max,” Charles breathed, stopping on the steps.
It was snowing. Thick, fat flakes drifted down in the silent darkness, already painting the world in a blanket of pristine white. The cars, the trees, the path—everything was softened, hushed. It was like stepping into a different, perfect universe.
Charles turned to him, his face lit by the golden light from the lodge windows. Snowflakes caught in his eyelashes, in his hair. He looked ethereal. “It’s snowing.”
“Yeah,” Max said, his throat tight. He couldn’t look away.
Charles fumbled for his phone with his ungloved hand. “We have to take a picture. It’s our first… you know. As us.” He held the phone up, pulling Max close so they were both in the frame. Their cheeks were pressed together, cold and flushed. Max looked at the screen, at their faces side-by-side, breath fogging in the air, the snow falling around them.
“Ready?” Charles said, his finger hovering over the shutter button.
“Ready.”
The moment Charles pressed the button, Max turned his head and kissed him. He felt Charles jolt in surprise, then immediately melt into it, his free hand coming up to clutch at Max’s coat. The phone was forgotten, probably capturing a blur of their faces and the snow. The kiss was sweet this time, languid, flavored with champagne and pure, unadulterated joy.
When they parted, Charles was laughing. “You ruined the photo!”
“It’ll be a good one,” Max insisted, stealing another quick kiss.
“Come on,” Charles said, tugging him down the steps onto the snow-covered path. They walked hand-in-hand, their footprints the first to mar the perfect white surface. The snow fell steadily, coating their shoulders and hair. They stopped at a small kiosk that was still open, selling hot drinks, and bought two steaming paper cups of rich, thick hot chocolate, piled high with whipped cream.
They walked slowly, sipping their chocolate, not talking much. The silence was comfortable, charged with a new electricity. Every brush of their arms, every glance, felt significant.
“It’s perfect,” Charles said softly after a while, looking up at the sky.
Max wasn’t looking at the sky. He was looking at Charles. “Yeah.”
They reached a small, open park area near their hotel. The snow was deeper here, untouched. A mischievous glint entered Charles’s eye. He set his cup down carefully on a bench. “It’s really deep.”
Before Max could process the comment, Charles shoved him, hard, right in the chest.
Max stumbled back, completely off-balance, and landed flat on his back in a foot of soft, powdery snow. The impact knocked the air out of him in a soft oof. He lay there for a second, stunned, staring up at the falling snow and Charles’s triumphant, grinning face hovering above him.
“You—” Max began.
Charles’s laughter cut him off. It was a free, unguarded sound that echoed in the quiet night. “Payback for the photo!”
In one swift motion, Max hooked his foot around Charles’s ankle and yanked. Charles yelped, his arms windmilling, and tumbled down right on top of him. The snow cushioned their fall, but they were a tangled, laughing heap, limbs everywhere. Snow went down Max’s collar, up his sleeves. He could feel it melting cold against his skin.
Charles was half-lying on him, propped up on his elbows, their faces inches apart. They were both breathing heavily, plumes of vapor in the cold air. Snow dusted Charles’s hair, his eyebrows, his long eyelashes. He looked like some sort of winter sprite, wild and beautiful and his.
“You are a child,” Max said, but he was grinning so wide his cheeks hurt.
Charles’s grin softened into something more intimate. He lowered himself slowly until their lips met again, a snow-cooled, chocolate-flavored kiss. Max’s hands came up to cup his face, holding him there, deepening the kiss despite the awkward angle and the cold seeping through their clothes.
After a long moment, Charles pushed himself up. “We’re getting wet,” he said, but made no move to get off Max.
“I don’t care,” Max mumbled, pulling him back down for another kiss.
Finally, the cold became insistent. They untangled themselves and stood, brushing clumps of snow off each other. They were both soaked, their hair plastered down, their coats heavy with moisture. Charles’s nose and cheeks were bright red. Max knew he probably looked the same.
Charles picked up his discarded glove from the snow. Then, a truly devilish smile played on his thin lips. He stepped close to Max.
“My hands are freezing,” he announced, as if it were a neutral fact.
Before Max could reply, Charles yanked open the top of Max’s coat and shoved his cold, bare hand flat against Max’s neck and collarbone.
Max gasped, a full-body flinch at the shocking, icy contact. “FUCK! Charles!”
Charles cackled, his hand splayed, stealing all of Max’s warmth. “Just warming them up! You’re my boyfriend now, it’s your job.”
The word ‘boyfriend’ sent a fresh, warm shock through Max that almost counteracted the physical one. He gritted his teeth against the cold, glaring at Charles, who looked unbearably pleased with himself.
Two could play at that game.
Max quickly pulled off one of his own gloves, letting it fall to the snow. He moved fast, grabbing the back of Charles’s coat collar and, in one smooth motion, stuffing his hand and a handful of accumulated snow right down Charles’s back.
Charles shrieked. It was a high, undignified sound that echoed through the park. He jumped away, twisting and writhing as the snow melted against his warm skin. “MAX! That’s evil!”
“You started it!” Max shot back, already bending to scoop up more snow.
What followed was not a romantic, playful snowball fight. It was war. They were both supremely athletic, highly competitive men with a deep-seated need to win. Snowballs were packed hard and thrown with precision. They dodged behind trees, slid on the icy ground, tackled each other into drifts. Laughter was interspersed with grunts of effort and shouted insults in a mix of English, French, and Dutch. Max managed to get a handful of snow directly in Charles’s face. Charles retaliated by stuffing snow down the sides of Max’s boots.
They fought until they were both utterly spent, panting heavily, leaning against each other for support more than anything else. They were drenched, head to toe. Snow clung to every part of them, melting and re-freezing in their hair. They were a mess.
Charles was wheezing with laughter, leaning his forehead against Max’s shoulder. Max’s arm was wrapped around him, holding him close. Their breath came in ragged, synchronized clouds.
“I think…” Charles gasped, “I think you win.”
“Damn right I do,” Max panted, but there was no heat in it.
They stood there for a long time in the quiet, snowy park, holding each other up, holding each other close. The world was white and silent. Max could feel the steady beat of Charles’s heart against his own, the warmth of him cutting through the wet cold of their clothes.
Slowly, they collected their discarded cups and gloves and began the short, shivering walk back to the hotel. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. Their hands found each other’s again, fingers slotting together perfectly, the cold metal of their rings pressing against each other.
In the elevator, dripping on the carpet, they couldn’t stop smiling at each other. They looked ridiculous. They were probably going to catch colds. It was the best night of Max’s life.
The hotel room door clicked shut behind them, sealing them in a world of their own. The frantic energy of the snowball fight faded, replaced by a new, thick tension. They were alone. Finally, completely alone.
Charles turned to him, his green eyes dark in the low light. He reached up and brushed a melting clump of snow from Max’s blonde hair. His touch was gentle now, reverent.
“Hi,” Charles whispered.
“Hi,” Max whispered back.