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Max arrives to Mexico early.
He doesn't bother to visit his parents beforehand as much as they didn't bother to show up in Abu Dhabi; all Max wants is to finally be near the only man that never made Max feel like he was being scrutinized and judged, like he was lacking something. The image that pops into Max's head makes his lips form a weak smile; feels like the sun came up for a minute, pushing away all rainy thoughts, carefully replacing them with a button nose and smiling dark eyes. His ex-teammate, his partner, his safe space.
Max doesn't text Checo beforehand nor does he receive a message from him. He assumes Checo would be expecting him nevertheless, because there's no doubt he watched Abu Dhabi, given how quick he was to congratulate Lando on Twitter. It could've been Max, but it was fucking Lando Norris.
Max's lips press into thin line, and he grips his phone tighter. Whatever.
Even the warm, gentle weather of Puerto Vallarta doesn't ease the gloom settled deep in Max's heart that gets more intense with every step he takes towards the house on the coast of the Pacific Ocean. Max wouldn't want to carry this weird blues to their place, but for some reason he cannot shake it away.
"Hey," Sergio greets Max softly in the kitchen, crouched next to the cat feeder. "I missed you. Bet babies missed you too."
He looks as good as ever, neat, fresh clothes and tan, a beautiful smile settled on his face with light stubble. Max feels almost inadequate next to Checo, with the weight of the whole season imprinted on his face and posture. Though just being next to Sergio makes Max's back straighten and his shoulders relax, life energy flowing back into him.
"You said you wanted me to win the championship," Max says calmly, sitting down on the floor next to Checo as cats immediately occupy his lap. He pets them, almost absent-mindedly, feeling the vibration of their purring on his thighs. "I didn't."
"You didn't," Sergio agrees. He doesn't look surprised at all. "But you're here now. It doesn't matter, no?"
"Well…" Max forces out a smile, jerks his shoulder; Sergio's hand takes his, lacing their fingers together, and Max rests his head on Checo's shoulder with a heavy sigh. "Yeah, I suppose it doesn't."
They eat in silence. Max keeps his eyes in the bowl of tomato soup, but still feels Sergio staring at him with light curiosity. Checo doesn't ask any questions or say anything, giving Max some much needed space.
Max's heart clenches at the familiar taste of the soup, at Sergio's faint smell lingering in every corner of the huge house. When Max looks outside, the sky is clear and the turquoise water gently laps against the sandy shore, just like always; nothing changed after the new champion had been crowned, and that's weirdly comforting.
"You know, it doesn't actually feel quite like a loss," Max breaks the silence first. "We turned the season around, we won multiple races… Maybe I shouldn't say that to you, sorry."
Sergio had the right to stay bitter about Red Bull even if he said he wished them well, and Max didn't consider that before singing praises for his team. But what else could Max do for the only team he has ever known, the exact team that helped him to shape himself into a four-times world champion? The exact team that brought him and Checo together?
"No, I can be happy for you. It's your team, not mine," Sergio says with a light shrug, already on the sofa. "Good for you, Max."
"It used to be ours," Max replies quietly but sternly, bitter tone in his voice.
They had shared four wonderful years together — well, maybe not so wonderful on Checo's side, but nevertheless, they shared a handful of moments on and off track, a camaraderie that hesitantly blossomed into something bigger over time, despite all hardships and obstacles.
Max had wanted Red Bull to stay their team for many more years.
"Well, nothing is forever," Sergio chuckles, almost humorlessly. "Except for you and me together, eh?"
"Yeah, um…" Max laughs nervously and looks up to try and make a lone, unnecessary tear roll back. "Yeah."
Checo frowns, visibly confused by Max's sudden hesitation to give a positive answer.
The loss itself is no reason for Max's sadness, really. He has already proven himself as one of the best to ever grace the sport, even without a fifth title; there is, however, another thing. It's just that Max still was itching to beat Checo, but not as a driver beating another driver, not on track. It had nothing to do with sport. Max wanted —
He had been planning to propose this year, and it fell through. Twice.
The first time, frankly, wasn't Max's fault. He had been thinking about it in 2024, before the unfortunate news broke out; he had wanted it to be in Zandvoort, his fucking home, before it would've been gone from the calendar a couple years later — the Dutch Grand Prix of 2025, to be precise, the very race where Max and Checo were supposed to break the record of the longest standing teammates in F1.
How was Max supposed to know Checo wouldn't be there anymore?
The second time — Max still has a sour feeling in his stomach thinking about this — he had dreamt of winning his fifth, coming back in Checo's arms in his full glory, proven anew, akin to Odysseus coming back to Penelope after a long, exhausting journey, and popping the question right after. The velvet ring box has been weighing down his pocket since fucking forever. Max dreamt carefully, obviously, not holding out for delusions, asking the people around him to lower their expectations in advance, and by that addressing himself as well.
It hurt nevertheless, winning the battle but losing the war.
Max hadn't shown his disappointment. He opted for comforting GP who needed it much, much more than Max, for saying reassuring words to the team and thanking Laurent, for saying a proper goodbye to Yuki. After all, Red Bull ended the season on a high note. They really turned the season around, didn't they? Red Bull needed a leader, and Max was more than happy to provide his steady, wide shoulders; even though the car made these shoulders hurt like hell, Max clenched his jaw and never said anything. Well, once or twice, maybe. He didn't like to complain much to the media.
That didn't mean Max couldn't ache, albeit silently.
Maybe Max had been thinking about the wrong Odysseus, then — about the one that won the Trojan war, mighty and powerful. Odysseus hadn't been like that when he came back home, a ragged, worn out man. And Penelope, of course, accepted him, after all these long years of wait, after all the suitors courting her. Checo accepted Max too, the loving look of the warm brown eyes was telling him that.
Max's bottom lip twitches.
"I wanted to be better," he murmurs. "I wanted to be the best, Checo."
A small grin tugs at the corner of Checo's mouth.
"You are."
A testament, not a discussion; Checo isn't looking for an argument, he just states it as a fact, not moving from his relaxed posture for a bit.
"Still, it could've been better this year," Max insists. "First I lost you as a teammate, then I lost the championship… I forgot how it feels like, losing. It's a very strange feeling to not be the reigning champion anymore."
Had you been there is a low hanging fruit, so neither reach out for it. Max thinks about it, about Sergio's defence that had earned Max his first title, back in 2021; then, he thinks about Abu Dhabi of this year but immediately forces these thoughts away, not wanting to blame anyone.
It hasn't been Max's title to lose, anyway. Still, he wasn't a fan of coming back home like a beaten dog instead of presenting two shiny things to Checo: his new championship trophy and the ring.
Checo sighs and looks away for a second, gathering his thoughts.
"I'm still proud of you, Max," he says softly. "I didn't want to watch F1 this year, but I tuned in just for you. It's been a flawless season from you, and you deserve some rest… Come here, amor."
Sergio's arms open up as an invitation, and Max drops his composure, diving straight into his partner's embrace; it feels and smells like home. Only now does Max realise how much he missed this man, so quiet and comforting. Max can be strong for a while, it's no problem, but sometimes, it is so fucking exhausting.
Max's nose prickles, and he releases a sob in Checo's shoulder. Sergio holds him tighter, gently caressing his shoulders.
"We've been through so much together during these years," he whispers in Max's hair, kissing the top of his head. "We laughed and cried, we fought and argued. But there was a constant in all of these things."
Max holds his breath.
"I never stopped loving you, Max. Champion or not."
"Oh my God," Max mumbles, aggressively rubbing his eyes.
"I've seen you at your worst, and I know how stubborn you can be… But I've also seen you at your best, and at your best, you are love."
Tears dry up on Max's cheeks as Sergio's voice soothes him.
"Regardless of the sport, Max, you are wonderful. You've aged… eh, sorry — matured so much, it's fascinating. Your results don't matter as long as you come back here." A soft kiss lands between Max's eyebrows. "To me."
"Marry me," Max blurts out, breathless, enchanted by the freckles scattered around Checo's nose. "I want… I want to come back to you for the rest of my life."
"Oh?" Genuine surprise finally takes place on Checo's expression. Max's heart signals the risk of dropping out of his ass.
"I have the ring with me," Max rushes to add. "I wanted to do it all proper and official after winning, but…"
Understanding dawns on Sergio's face, and surprise turns into a kind smile, brown eyes squinted into half-moons. If the championship doesn't matter to Sergio, then why would it matter to Max? Hell, he's got four of these trophies. Championships come and go, but Max has something that no one else in the world has — that is, love and attention from Sergio Perez, and it's far more valuable.
"Of course I will marry you, silly," Checo says quietly, pulling Max closer to involve him in a long, unhurried kiss, and Max's worries finally disappear into thin, warm air. "I love you. I always knew it would be you."
Contrary to Max's expectations of a proposal, there are no tears and happy screams — just him and Checo on the huge couch, intertwined, and a ring shining happily on Checo's finger. Just like everything with Checo, gentle and peaceful.