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Zandvoort - the first race after the summer break, August
“What are your expectations going into this weekend, Max?” the reporter asks, their microphone shoved into Max’s face uncomfortably.
Zandvoort is always the race he looks forward to the most. Here, he gets to spend time with his family in between the business of driving his Red Bull. Here, he is just Max, a Dutch kid that somehow became the number 1 driver, and inspires thousands of people to dress up in orange and come cheer him on.
It’s a boost for his ego every single time.
“Well,” he starts, a smug little grin finding its way onto his lips, keeping his eyes drawn on the reporter, “I’m going to maximize this weekend. I am grateful for all the Dutch Army that came out to the race, and I want to drive the best that I can for them. Of course, my year has been going well so far, and I’m leading the championship, so I want to continue our good run here.”
“Ah yes, your year has been good so far,” the reporter agrees, but their face changes, reminding Max of a shark smelling blood and going for the kill. It’s why he usually doesn’t let alphas interview him - most of them are trying to twist his narrative as a successful omega in racing. “When do you think you’ll share the happy news? Are congratulations in order?”
The question throws him for a loop, for just a single moment. Happy news? Congratulations? He’s heard the phrases a hundred thousand times before, being an omega in the public eye. Every second day, there are rumors of his blossoming love life - which is nonexistent. But there has never been anyone daring enough to ask him outright, using the same wording as all of them do.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Max states, his tone leaving no way to interpret his words besides the obvious. Disdain runs through his veins, cold as ice, hatred for the alpha before him settling in his gut. Assholes that assume that just because of their second gender they can behave any way they want. That’s the kind of people Max can’t stand on a normal weekend, let alone during his home race. “And I don’t think it has anything to do with racing. So if there aren’t any more questions about this weekend, then this interview is over.”
The alpha doesn’t reply, so, with a huff, Max stomps off, away from the media pen.
“Maxie,” Daniel coos as soon as the Dutchman is close enough on his way away from the media. The other omega’s arm slips easily over Max’s shoulders, pulling him closer to the Australian. “You look like you’re ready to kill someone.”
“Fucking reporters,” he grumbles under his breath, letting himself be guided towards the Red Bull hospitality suite. “Asked me when I’d share the happy news. What is he even talking about?”
There’s a short silence as Daniel seems to take in Max’s words. The other omega’s feet come to a complete stop as the meaning behind the Dutchman’s words seems to finally register. “I mean-,” the Australian starts awkwardly, “there were some signs, and I think Charles-”
“Charles? What has he got to do with anything?”
“Max,” Daniel says, his voice completely serious for once. As if the mention of the alpha should have triggered some kind of reaction inside of Max. As if Daniel is expecting him to know what the Australian isn’t saying. There’s disbelief coloring his words: “Come on.”
“I don’t actually know what you mean, Daniel.” Max can’t help his voice dipping into hostility. For some reason, he feels like a child being scolded by their parent, his chest feeling tight with something he can’t name. “And it’s not as if Charles is talking to me right now.”
“What do you mean?”
“I-,” he starts, but finds himself lost for words - he doesn’t think he knows how to explain his observations this weekend. The pressure on his chest increases ever so slightly, and for some reason, there’s a stinging in his eyes. “I am worried about Charles. He hasn’t spoken to me, or even looked at me, at all this week. Ever since we arrived on track yesterday, it’s like he is avoiding me. And I can’t think of what happened over the summer break that Charles doesn’t want to talk to me anymore. Like, did I do something?”
Mechanics are bustling around them, slipping inbetween them and hustling to their stations. There’s the general somewhat frantic energy of a race weekend just starting that hangs heavy in the air around them. Multiple sounds echo through the space - camera’s snapping pictures, interviewers asking questions, social media admins running through challenges for content.
And somehow, through all of it, Daniel manages to convey his absolute shock and disbelief at Max’s words perfectly by stopping still in the middle of the busy paddock. “You- are you being for real? You’re kidding, right, mate?”
“No,” he finally stammers out, the words fighting their way out around the lump in his throat. If his voice sounds higher than usual, he hopes that the Australian won’t acknowledge it. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Max,” Daniel’s voice rings out, echoing in his ears and sending a flinch through his body. The brunet omega sounds entirely emotionless, yet Max can’t help but listen out for the sound of disappointment or judgement swinging in the words. “Maybe Charles decided during the summer break that his courting wasn’t reciprocated by you. Maybe, just maybe, he has finally had enough of being rejected by you over and over again, and he’s trying to get over you. I’d say he’s doing a good job saving face. At least the press isn’t aware of it yet.”
The blood freezes in his veins, every cell in his body turning to ice as the meaning of the words registers in Max’s brain. There’s a chill sweeping down his spine, his limbs hanging uselessly by his side, as the world comes to a sudden stop around him. Time stands still, as his entire brain rearranges the facts again and again, trying to make the puzzle pieces fit, but every time there’s a huge question mark floating through his mind.
None of it makes sense. Charles? Courting? Rejection?
“No,” Max hears his own voice, hollow and shaking, quiet in the bustle of the Red Bull hospitality suite. “There was no courting. I would know if Charles- if he was- I mean-”
Except he absolutely wouldn’t. The omega tries to think back to when he learned about courting - but there’s only a blank void in his mind. He could blame it on his father never teaching him - his disdain for omegas only too visible in every word he spoke and every action he took.
But at the same time, Max refuses to see himself as clueless. It can’t be. He would have known for sure.
“Would you?” Daniel asks, not unkindly. “Because from here, it looks like Charles followed every step of traditional courting rituals. And you didn’t - in fact, you seemed dismissive of it all. Listen, mate, not to be mean or anything, but you appreciate honesty, yes? Maybe think about it some more. Even I knew that Charles was courting you the entire first half of the season.”
--
And think about it, Max does.
--
Australia - the first race, March
Australia is always nice as the first race of the season. A predictable track, sometimes with unpredictable conditions. There’s a slight drizzle in the air - nothing too bad, and it is actually quite nice to have something cooling him down in the warm autumn air down under.
It’s always a good time down in Melbourne, Max reassures himself, even though his heart is pumping so hard, he fears it will jump from his chest soon. Everything will be fine, no need to be nervous.
As an omega, he always needs a few days to adjust to being on a race schedule again at the start of the season.
It helps that he can spend some time at Daniel’s home, where there’s a nest already prepared for when he gets there. The smell of most of the grid is imbued in the materials, blankets soaked in scents that are all too familiar - even some of the older drivers still exchange items of clothing to keep their scents around each other.
(There’s the distinct scent of oranges somewhere in the nest, which reeks of Nico Rosberg, but Max can’t be arsed to find the offending item and throw it across the room. Besides, it mixes well with Lewis’ dark chocolate scent, and it is kind of soothing together. Whatever. He’ll have to talk to Nico at some point to get a new shirt for his own nest at some point. He makes a mental note to ask Lewis for one.)
The comfort does mean, though, that Max easily falls asleep in the nest, lulled to a perfect rest by the familiarity and safety drifting into his consciousness.
Which in turn means that he is insanely late for the press conference because he was napping and didn’t wake up in time.
“This season is shit already,” he grumbles under his breath, as he hurries into the paddock, some suspicious stains on his new Red Bull team polo that he can’t explain away. It’s probably just sweat. Or drool from his nap. It looks stupid, though.
There’s a lot on his mind already.
For one thing, there’s the way his last heat is still clinging onto him, having only hit a few weeks before he had to travel out to Australia. For another, his stomach is grumbling loudly, cramping slightly with hunger filling the empty void inside him. There’s a twinge in his lower back as well - probably from his nap and how his limbs were arranged in a pretzel shape in the nest. Maybe, he was laying weirdly on one of the many pillows. And there’s definitely something in his shoe.
All of that to say, he’s uncomfortable, and maybe even slightly grumpy.
“Max,” his name is being yelled across the paddock, echoing off the walls of several motorhomes. “Max Emilian!”
The voice washes over him almost like a soothing tonic - that distinct not-really-French lilt, melodious and intoxicating unlike any other alpha Max has ever met. Maybe it is the Monegasque blood running through the younger man’s veins that makes him so much more alluring, so soft compared to all of Max’s blunt honesty and sharp edges.
Even with all the things that are slightly annoying Max, Charles always somehow manages to break through and be a tiny ray of sunshine on a gloomy day.
And there he is - the Monegasque is jogging over, hand pressing down on his bright red Ferrari cap to keep it on his head, to shield his face from the drizzling rain. He has to stop himself from actively titling the sight as adorable in his mind.
“Don’t call me that,” the omega grumbles under his breath, even though he is sure his voice doesn’t carry over the general noisiness of the paddock.
“It just rolls off the tongue so well,” the brunet alpha grins, teasing, as he comes to a standstill right in front of Max. His joy is almost infectious, with those little crinkles at the corners of those sea green eyes and the dimples in his cheeks. “Hello.”
It only takes a moment for Max to let his eyes wander over the bright red Ferrari polo - a shade darker than previously to reflect the maroon of their car this year. Subtly, he lets Charles’ scent engulf him, cherry wine and ocean salt mixing on his tongue, tasting like something safe, something that spells Monaco to Max in a way nothing else ever does.
There’s a slight grin still on the alpha’s face, looking boyish and charming. It’s the same smile Charles gives the reporters and journalists when he wants to seem innocent - Max has seen this one far too many times.
Even though he knows that the look, that twinkle, in Charles’ eyes spells trouble, he can’t bring his heart to beat slower, can’t help his scent spiking with elation at talking to the Ferrari driver. Being close to the alpha has always had a physical impact on him, making his stomach swoop and his brain stutter to a halt.
“Hallo,” he finally stutters out when the silence between them has hung in the air for far too long. “It’s good to see you.”
“Same, same,” Charles rambles, almost absentmindedly, as if he’s following the rules of politeness instead of rushing into his actual point. “Are you excited for the start of this season?”
“Uh- yes. We have of course already started the season at testing, but it will be nice to get back into the routine, I think. I am very happy with the car so far, we can definitely have a good weekend here.”
“Sure, sure,” the Monegasque reassures him, again somewhat absentmindedly, those green eyes flicking from side to side before landing on Max’s face again. “Listen, I wanted to give you something. I hope it is okay-”
Slowly, Charles raises his arm, revealing a tupperware container held in his hand. With a decisive push, the alpha presses the gift into Max’s own hands. For just a moment, their fingers brush, as the blond instinctively grips onto the plastic, sending sparks of electricity up his arm. “What-?”
The blush on the younger man’s face is back in full force, an even deeper shade of pink settling over his cheeks. Max kind of wants to reach out and press his fingers into the skin, wants to feel how hot it becomes under his touch.
Charles’ eyes are fully trained on the tupperware container as he speaks, his fingers fumbling to open the lid, revealing the secrets it holds: “I made them myself, so I hope they taste okay.”
It is almost physically painful for Max to rip his eyes from Charles’ face and stare down at the contents of the plastic box: there, sitting innocently, are several sweet treats, filling the container to the brim. There’s tiny muffins, little pastries, and tiny swirls of what looks like cake mix, all of them filled and decorated with chocolate swirls. There’s a distinct sweet smell drifting up from the tupperware in the alpha’s hands, making his mouth fill with saliva and his stomach grumble painfully.
“It’s Kinder chocolate,” Charles finally whispers, his voice sounding hoarse with how quiet it is. It feels almost like he doesn’t want to break the moment Max is having. “I saw the recipe on reels a few weeks ago and I really wanted to try it out. I- I liked the idea, to fill the pastry with chocolate, and it was really easy, so I can make you some more, if you want. I mean-, you don’t-, I know you like Kinder chocolate, so- yeah.”
The alpha trails off awkwardly, his words all running together, but Max couldn’t care less. There’s only static filling his brain and his heartbeat ringing in his ears - even if he wanted to, there’s no way he could have focused on what Charles is telling him.
It’s an entire container of pastries. Just for him. With Kinder chocolate in them.
“This season is awesome,” he mumbles, more to himself than to Charles. His gaze hasn’t left the contents of the tupperware yet, the world still feels too far away for his brain to comprehend. There’s so many sweets, a delicious little treat for him whenever he wants. And the scent.
His stomach grumbles once more, louder this time, a distinct sound that spills between the two of them.
Without really thinking about it, Max’s hand darts out, grabbing one of the tiny pastries - it’s barely half the size of his palm - and plopping it into his mouth without ceremony. Immediately, the taste hits him - an explosion of chocolatey goodness spreading on his tongue.
“Oh, these are delicious,” he moans around the bite in his mouth. For good measure, he lets his eyes roll to the back of his head, his entire head falling back with it. Before he even swallows the first bite, his mouth runs with questions: “What else is in this? Is that cinnamon?”
His entire focus is on the pastries in his hands, the tupperware container full of them snuggled to his chest, held close like a precious treasure. When he finally looks up again, Charles’ eyes have narrowed, half-lidded, zeroed in on his lips. The alpha’s jaw has dropped open slightly, several deep breaths pushing out his chest in heavy pants. His gaze is so intense, it feels it is boring right through Max’s entire being, penetrating every cell of his body and setting them alight.
The omega has to work to swallow, gulping down air and-
The scent around him changes - there’s still chocolate, and cherry wine, but it is stronger now. The ocean smell changes, like the sea does when a storm pulls in. The sweetness is cloying at the back of his throat, his breath coming fast and hard, pulling in more and more of the enticing scent.
“Did you-,” the omega hesitates. His brain has slowed down to a crawling pace, a thousand thoughts running through his head without ever really surfacing to produce a single sentence he could spit out. At least none that make sense for the context. “Did you try them? Here, have one as well.”
With a small step forward, almost closing the distance between them entirely, Max holds out the tupperware container. There is no hesitance in his offer, but Charles’ fingers are slow to close around one of the remaining pastries.
He watches, slightly awestruck, as the alpha’s pink lips split to take a tiny bite of the chocolate filled treat. The blush is still heavy on his cheeks, having spread all the way down to the Monegasque’s neck by now, but it is nothing compared to the color of his full lips as Charles chews thoughtfully. Finally, the alpha glances up, his green eyes finding their way back to Max’s blue gaze. His voice sounds small when he speaks: “They’re good, non?”
“Yes,” Max offers, a wide smile spreading over his lips. “Yes, they are! Thank you so much, Charlie, I love them!”
“Max!” the yell of his name rips him from their moment. Suddenly, the Red Bull PR manager stands beside him, as if she appeared out of thin air, her fingers wrapping around his elbow and pulling him to the side. “You’re already late for media duties! Come on, we have to go now!”
“Oh, okay,” he mumbles, as he is already being dragged away from Charles, down the paddock to the media pen. With one last glance at the Monegasque alpha, Max’s fingers tighten around the tupperware, clutching the lid with a death grip, as if afraid of losing it and the delicious pastries along with it. “See you later, Charlie! Thanks again!”
(Max never sees the way the alpha’s shoulders drop with a relieved exhale. The way Charles starts glowing, the brightest smile on his face for the entire weekend, even when his Ferrari slips and slides all over the track during the race.
He doesn’t see the proud pat on the back Carlos delivers to the Monegasque as they’re heading off to their own media duties. He doesn’t hear Pierre’s teasing congratulations.
And he doesn’t catch Daniel’s eye, who was watching their exchange from just a few meters away, witnessing the first declaration of intention for their courting. Max is oblivious to all of it.)
--
Bahrain - fourth race of the season, April
In the next month and a half, something shifts, at least as far as Max can tell. There is something sparking beneath his skin every time he enters the paddock, a restless feeling that just won’t leave him, no matter how much he tries to shake it.
GP keeps shooting him concerned glances, but Max can’t do anything but burn more energy than before. For the first time in his life, the omega actively takes part in the track walks, just so he can jog around for a few minutes, his muscles burning with exertion.
“You know,” Daniel starts, as if they have been in conversation the entire time. As if the Australian omega hasn’t just come up to him, falling into step. “Charlie-boy seems way more attentive recently.”
There’s an ugly snort fighting its way out of Max’s body, sounding louder than intended in the surrounding hubbub of the paddock. The Dutch omega can’t help but let his eyes wander, trying to find the brunet alpha in the crowd, but alas, he’s safe to indulge in their conversation. Charles isn’t anywhere to be seen - nobody there to overhear their words.
“That’s just how alphas treat unbonded omegas,” he finally grits out between his teeth, annoyance already running through his veins. Maybe his restlessness is getting worse, and impacting his mood. It wouldn’t be the first time. He remembers days, when he was a teenager and his omega pheromones and instincts were harder to handle, when GP and Christian had to wrangle him into form. “Charles is my friend, obviously he pays attention to me when we speak.”
He’s never really cared about their second gender - Max couldn’t care less about who is an alpha, an omega or a beta. If they know how to drive, they earn his respect. It’s always been like that, ever since his first karting race. He had to not care, at that point. His dad cared enough for the both of them.
But somewhere along the lines, inbetween kart races and getting into single seaters, somewhere between Max’s 4 championships and Charles’ everlasting misery at Ferrari, they have somehow managed to become friends. Their post-race debriefs are something that he actually looks forward to nowadays.
“Max,” Daniel says, in that tone of voice that only the Australian can deliver without sounding ridiculous. That tone of voice that is slightly joking, but at the same time conveying that Max is missing something obvious once again. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but I do have a pair of functioning eyes in my head. You don’t have to lie to me.”
“I’m not,” he rushes to defend himself, his brain racing with unspoken questions the longer the Australian spews cryptic nonsense, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Daniel, and I don’t appreciate that tone.”
(A sentence he learned from GP. GP never used to appreciate his tone. Back when he was a teenager.)
“Sure,” the Australian finally mumbles. “Well, I know you don’t need it, but good luck for the race, mate. I’ll see you afterwards, yeah?”
Something behind his sternum clenches painfully at the resignation in the other omega’s voice.
“Fuck,” Max mutters under his breath, squeezing his eyes shut for only a moment, as his lungs fill with fresh air, trying to clear his brain with it. “Sorry, I’m just feeling a little out of it. You didn’t do anything - I’m sorry for being a cunt.”
“You’re being a real cunt, mate,” Daniel agrees, the corners of his lips immediately lifting in his signature grin, his dimples standing out starkly on his face. There’s still the shadow of hurt in the Australian’s eyes, though.
“We could nest together, after the race?” the blond finally offers, casting his eyes to the ground. It’s vulnerable, to nest together, to bare your safe space to somebody else. It shows trust, something that Max hasn’t done in a long time, not with Daniel, and not with anyone else on the grid. “Maybe that will help me feel better?”
“I’d like that.”
“Thank you.” There’s a short silence between them, as if the brunet is waiting for him to say something else - to confess. There are too many thoughts in his brain, though, as he watches his best friend, deciding to end the conversation as soon as possible. “Well, good luck in the race. I will see you on the podium, yes?”
--
The race, surprisingly, isn’t too bad, well, aside from the obvious issues in Bahrain. Max makes it out of T1 without a scratch, and from there, it is almost easy to keep his lead, building a safe gap of 5 seconds to Charles behind him. It feels almost too easy, but maybe that’s just the heat clouding his brain.
All thoughts of that are quickly wiped away when he enters the cooldown room, though. Charles and Oscar are already sitting on the singular couch, commiserating in their misery. There’s a flutter somewhere in his stomach as he watches both of them interact - words in soothing cadences spilling into the space of the room, washing over him. And it is almost enough to make him feel comfortable. Almost.
“Shit, it’s hot,” he finally hears Oscar complain, the Australian’s voice rough from lack of water during the race. “I thought I was cooking alive in that damn car. I thought they’d learn, but even that bloody vest wasn’t helping.”
Charles agrees with him, but Max can’t really focus on their conversation. There is sweat clinging onto every centimeter of his skin. His race suit is entirely too damp against every single one of his limbs - it is tight and restricting whenever he moves too much, flexes a muscle in just the wrong way, or exists in any way, shape or form at all.
It wouldn’t be too bad, but on top of all of it, his hair also hangs into his face, wet strands clinging onto his skin awkwardly. He’s pushed it out of his face multiple times already, but none of it sticks - it just hangs down limply. Even the towel around his neck doesn’t help his situation. And the worst part of it is that he can feel the glue of his scent patch dissolving with his sweat, the edges of the bandaid pulling up uncomfortably.
It is just enough for him to put down his helmet in the number 1 spot, before the grossness of the situation dawns on him. He wishes he had some-
“Here.”
A bottle of ice cold water is pressed up right against his hand, nudging him intently.
When he finally brings himself to lift his eyes, Charles is standing right in front of him, shielding him from the cameras in the cooldown room. Even though they must all feel like shit, with the heat and exhaustion clinging onto every cell of their bodies, Max can’t see any of that on the alpha’s face. Instead, the Monegasque only looks slightly flushed, a single drop of sweat gathering on his temple. But there’s also a small smile on those everpink lips, aimed directly - and only - at Max.
“Here,” the alpha repeats, nudging the bottle further forwards, pressing it insistently against Max’s unresponsive hand. “You need to drink something. You always get grumpy when you’re dehydrated.”
“I don’t get grumpy!” The Dutchman immediately defends himself. If Oscar snorts quietly at his grumpy tone, then he entirely ignores that. The Australian doesn’t even know what the fuck he’s talking about.
“Max,” Charles chastises, his voice still entirely too gentle. “Just drink this, yes? I’ll get you a Red Bull - the coconut one you like so much, yes? I’ll get that for you after the podium. But first, some water.”
Without protest, Max lifts the bottle to his lips. The cold sensation hits his nerves like a lightning strike. In spite of the heat around them, his skin breaks out in goosebumps, a shiver running down his spine.
But the way Charles keeps their eye contact makes Max shudder even more.
The water slips down his throat, but their gazes stay connected, heat growing between them with every passing second. It’s intense, the way the alpha keeps watching, those green eyes flittering between Max’s eyes, but then dipping down lower, mesmerized by the bop of his adam’s apple.
There’s a heavy intake of breath, and the smell of cherries turns heady, as Charles’ eyes travel further to the side, still stuck on Max’s figure. The weight of the sweaty towel around his neck grows heavier, the longer the Monegasque alpha stares at it - or rather, at the scent patch peeling slowly from his skin.
“You-” the brunet starts, his mouth dropping open in a deep breath.
“Oh my-” Oscar whines from the other side of the cooldown room, but the Australian’s voice is too quiet compared to the ringing in Max’s ears. Compared to the static hissing in the air between him and Charles - both of their scents swirling freely, intermingling and mixing in the cooldown room. Finally, the McLaren driver hisses: “Guys, get it together.”
Without breaking their eye contact, the Monegasque swipes his own towel from around his neck, and steals the water bottle back from Max’s hand. The omega can only watch as Charles pours the rest of the cold water all over the towel drenched in the cherry scent, right before swiping Max’s own, and exchanging the two pieces of fabric. The towel around his shoulders now smells entirely like the alpha, the scent swirling around his nose and letting his eyes flutter shut momentarily.
With a terrible wink that scrunches up the brunet’s face entirely, both of his green eyes blinking shut at the same time, Charles wipes some of the sweat from Max’s face and neck, before bringing the towel up to his own face, inhaling Max’s own caramel scent with an obvious deep breath. Without acknowledging it any further, the alpha turns quickly to return to his seat before they get called up to the podium.
He doesn’t know why, but the small gesture, that act of kindness, makes Max’s stomach swoop. It certainly isn’t the scent of cherry wine and ocean salt surrounding him now that makes his heart beat faster and his blood sing with something he can’t name just yet.
--
Canada - the seventh race of the season, May
Whoever decided to switch up the calendar for this year deserves to go to hell, in Max’s professional opinion. Obviously, he understands that it is better to stay on one continent if possible - but to put the Canadian race right after Miami? Evil. Downright rude, if he has anything to say about it.
“It’s fucking cold, is what it is,” the blond grumbles unhappily, rubbing his hands over his naked arms. His Red Bull polo definitely isn’t enough to save him from the ice that is already threatening to settle in his bones. “Where the fuck is it?”
As an omega, Max has always loved fluffy clothing to keep him warm, a nice blanket to nest in, a heating pad for when he’s feeling off. It’s a guilty pleasure, one his father never supported at any point in his childhood. But still, there’s something comforting about big warm sweaters.
He always thinks he remembers to pack his favorite Red Bull hoodie - the one with the zipper up the front, where the sleeves are long enough to give him sweater paws. Every time he finishes his heat, that is the piece of clothing he pulls on for comfort, the one that is constantly on his body.
Sometimes, though, especially when he is traveling, some of his clothes just get left behind. They stay in his nest at home in Monaco, covered in the smell of tulips, rain and caramel after his heat, mixing with the scents clinging to the other pieces of fabric tugged between his pillows. When Max is in a rush, throwing random clothes into his suitcase, things that logically he knows he will need just get forgotten.
So there he is: in Canada, cursing inside his diver’s room, looking for a piece of clothing that is definitely in his nest in Monaco.
“Fuck!”
“Max?” Daniel calls, only half-hesitantly through the closed door, a loud knock following right after. “We have to go now.”
Instead of letting any more curses slip from his lips, Max staightens, taking another deep breath. The cold air burns as it rushes down his throat into his lungs. Obviously, in Miami he only needed t-shirts, so that’s what he packed. Once more, as his eyes roll up to the ceiling, he curses the FIA representative responsible for this year’s schedule: “Who would put Canada right after Miami?”
With quick steps, he crosses the room, goosebumps still visible on his arms, and throws the door open to reveal the Australian omega waiting for him on the other side. “You good, mate?”
“No,” the Dutchman mumbles, “forgot my sweater. Can you get the team to find me something to cover up? I didn’t bring another jacket.”
“Your lips are already turning blue,” Daniel states, a worried frown crossing over his ever-happy face, “You can’t go out like this.”
“We need to go now, no?”
“Yes, but-”
“No buts,” Max interjects, already stepping outside and pulling the door closed behind him. Immediately, Daniel’s body heat washes over him. The proximity between them is enough to pull Max into the other omega’s warmth. He has to fight the shiver running down his spine. “FP1 starts when?”
“-in 30 minutes,” the Australian allows, his voice resigned, “You have to be in your car in 30 minutes.”
“See,” Max quips, suppressing the shaking tremors wrecking his body in the freezing wind as he steps into the paddock, ready to head to the Red Bull garage, “then let’s go.”
Before his voice even dies off, the words barely having left his lips, there’s a clamor in the paddock. The sound of arguing carries over the wind, the words sounding foreign and lilting. Melodic, the way only French can be. Even with no knowledge of the language, it’s easy to make out that two people are having a disagreement.
“What-?” Daniel asks, half-leaning around Max’s body to peer down the paddock. The Dutch omega follows his gaze easily, immediately zeroing in on the source of the voices. His heart picks up as soon as his eyes land on the two alphas arguing just a few meters away from them.
“Oh,” he breathes out, the cold only a background sensation at this point, as the scent of burnt cherries floats into his nose, tickling the back of his throat. He has to swallow heavily against the charred taste. “What do you think they’re arguing about?”
“I don’t even know,” Daniel mumbles, never taking his eyes off of the arguing friends.
There, right in front of the Ferrari hospitality, situated next to the Red Bull garage, stand Pierre and Charles. Their voices are quiet, but still animated enough to carry over the hustle and bustle of the paddock. The French alpha seems to be more agitated than the Monegasque - Pierre’s hands are flying around as he gestures violently, words spat out heatedly. His face is an angry mask.
Charles seems to take the verbal lashing with little to no complaint, his facial expression is entirely closed off as the Frenchman keeps talking in stern tones. What stands out to Max though is the fact that the Monegasque alpha’s eyes stay locked on a white hoodie clutched in his hands, even though Charles is snuggled up in a thick jacket and a black beanie sitting on his hair.
Suddenly, the angry French cuts off, Pierre’s face growing slightly red as he spits the next words in clear, loud English that echo throughout the paddock, carried by the wind: “He doesn’t care about you. He will only break your heart!”
For a single moment, Max thinks the two alphas are mere seconds from breaking into a fight. Especially as Charles’ head snaps up, his teeth bared in an angry snarl. That Monegasque accent wraps around his next words, lacing them in melodic venom: “You don’t get to decide that!”
Beside him, Daniel audibly winces, and even though Max doesn’t know what is happening with his own scent, the Australian’s smell turns worried - the taste of sunflowers on his tongue turns slightly sour with it. The freezing sensation of the wind on his bare arms barely even registers anymore - Max is entirely too focused on the heated argument before them. There’s a cold sweat breaking out on his skin, though, at the thought of a fight only a few minutes before FP1.
Suddenly, as his eyes stay locked on the Ferrari driver, he can watch as Charles’ nose twitches slightly and his head whips around to stare directly at Max.
“Worried omega pheromones,” Daniel whispers, voice so quiet that it is almost drowned out by the Canadian wind, “catnip to alphas.”
Even as the Australian is still speaking, the Monegasque is already hurrying over. The alpha strides over with determined steps, the anger bleeding from his face and being overtaken by worry instead. Behind all of them, Pierre is still muttering angrily, now having switched back to French, his hands still flying in violent gestures that Charles seems to ignore entirely.
“Max, chéri,” Charles half-yells, as soon as he is close enough to physically reach the two omegas. Already, the alpha is pushing the white sweater towards Max, pressing the pristine piece of clothing into the Dutchman’s hands. “What are you doing? It is cold outside, you can’t just stand here in a t-shirt! Put this on immediately!”
The scene is too absurd to the omega, his brain grinding to a halt. There’s a ringing starting in his ears that is enough to drown out everything besides the alpha before him. The fabric between his fingers is soft and warm, the scent of cherry wine imbued into its fibers. Without questioning it, Max pulls the sweater over his head. Immediately, heat engulfs him, surrounding him like a perfect hug. The feeling returns to his limbs slowly, as the fabric covers his form.
There’s no thought in his head, as he buries his face in the fabric at his neck, his nose filling with Charles’ scent. When his eyes lift once more, it is to find the alpha staring at him, green eyes zeroed in somewhere on the bottom half of his face, a pink hue settling over the Monegasque’s cheeks.
“Max,” Daniel urges, breaking him from the moment, “we need to hurry up for FP1.”
--
Max never questions why Charles carried the hoodie around with him, why it was readily available to be pushed into his hands, to be pulled over his head, fitting like a glove, allowing him to bury his fingers in the sleeves in an imitation of sweater paws.
Between shrugging it on, the start of FP1 and switching back into the hoodie once he’s out of the car, it never even occurs to the Dutch omega to check if there’s any Ferrari branding on the white fabric.
Later, much later, when he is sitting in his motorhome, nose still buried in the neckline of the sweater, Daniel is the one to send him the paddock pictures. A cheeky “marking his property” left under the photos by the Australian omega.
In those pictures, Max will finally see the embroidered Leclerc stretched over the cream colored fabric, visibly standing out over his back like a claim. His heart clenches painfully in his chest at the thought of what this might mean for him. Charles is off limits, a forbidden fruit, and Max is inevitably trying to reach for him.
--
the following races - before the summer break
Monaco is a whirlwind of emotions.
On Saturday, during qualifying, Max delivers the perfect lap. He makes no mistakes, and beneath him, the car comes alive. His heart beats in time with the purr of the engine below him. He feels so quick, taking every turn perfectly, it’s almost like flying.
But Charles - that is a different story entirely. The alpha is on another level compared to everybody else. He is so much quicker - the red Ferrari turning into a blur of color along the streets of Monaco. It is mesmerizing to watch on the big screen whenever Max catches a glimpse of it. There is something magical about the way Charles drives that car so effortlessly around his hometown, every corner perfectly executed.
It’s impressive, to say the least.
After quali, in Parc Fermé, Charles pulls him close, and with a huge grin stretches over his lips, the alpha pulls the silver bracelet from his wrist - the one he wears every day as a reminder of joy and elation he felt when he won his home race for the first time. That bracelet, the Monegasque slides over Max’s own hand, until it sits snugly over his wrist.
The entire time, Charles’ eyes never leave Max’s, holding onto the omega’s arm even as they get dragged to their interviews.
The bracelet doesn’t leave Max’s wrist until the moment he goes to sleep - and only then does he let his eyes rest on the silver glint now lying on his bedside table, waiting to be put onto his wrist again once he wakes up.
On Sunday, there is no contest between the two of them, even though they both start from the front row.
Charles is dominant for the entire race - not a single mistake, perfect pit stops, good strategy. It feels like every single star aligns for the alpha for once.
And when the checkered flag is finally waved, when they both pull into Parc Fermé, the alpha runs over to him. Right into Max’s arms, hugging him so tightly the omega feels like his lungs will never expand ever again. There’s no other place he would ever want to be.
Charles’ face finds its way into the crook of Max’s neck, hiding the alpha’s tears of joy running down his cheeks perfectly. They’re a swirl of emotions and intense scents in the middle of Parc Fermé - and Max can’t help gulping down lungful after lungful of the scent of sweet cherry wine, the taste lingering on his tongue.
The pictures from their hug go viral.
--
Austria brings him a bouquet of orange roses in his driver’s room.
When Max brings himself to check, ignoring the way his heart races in his chest, each beat pressing against his sternum with a strange pressure, there is no card attached to the flowers. They simply exist in his space, with no indication where they came from or who left them.
Well, not quite.
The scent of cherries is hanging heavy in his driver’s room. There’s a fluttery feeling in his stomach as he lets his fingers glide over the soft petals, a smile stealing onto his face.
--
Silverstone’s weather is miserable. It’s raining cats and dogs, as George so eloquently put it just a few minutes ago, right before they had to go out for the national anthem.
Still, even with the terrible rain, Charles hasn’t moved from his side even once. The alpha is holding their shared umbrella above both of their heads as if he is being paid for it. Max actually wouldn’t put it past Laurent to have slipped the younger alpha a little treat in exchange for keeping him company. And keeping him dry, apparently.
But as the alpha tries hard to shield them both from the rain, his scent spills in between their bodies, wrapping around Max like a blanket of comfort and warmth. It’s a nice distraction to the feeling of his skin growing more and more clammy beneath his race suit.
The first tendrils of pre-heat have crept up on Max slowly over the past couple of days. Usually, his heat is scheduled for the summer break, when he is alone in his Monaco apartment, cuddled into his nest. For just a moment, standing in the English rain, looking up at the sky, Max hopes that his suppressors do their job, that they will keep his heat at bay until he’s safely back in Monaco.
That doesn’t stop the sure knowledge in his chest, though, that Charles can smell the sweetness mingling in his scent. For just a second, barely even a full thought in his mind, Max hopes that the alpha will do something about it - drag him off, maybe, to press him against any flat surface they’ll find.
His scent turns heady, and he watches from the corner of his eye, as the alpha’s nose twitches visibly. Charles’ eyes remain stubbornly on the young beta singing the national anthem.
--
In Spa, a frenzied-looking Ferrari employee presses a fresh Belgian waffle into Max’s hands. There’s a short, small smile on the woman’s face, for just a moment, before she turns to run off again. The waffle is still warm where it rests between his fingers, smelling deliciously like caramel and warm butter.
It kind of reminds him of his own scent when he enters his heat.
When Max looks up to find Charles in the crowd, the alpha is already staring back at him, a bright smile on his lips. It only takes a moment for the Monegasque to realize Max’s attention is on him. And when he does, his face scrunches up in a terribly pathetic attempt at a wink.
Max’s stomach swoops with warmth.
The playful expression is quick to slip from the alpha’s face though - as Max realizes that there’s another person next to the Monegasque - Pierre leans closer, lecturing the brunet alpha in rapid French. Whatever the Frenchman is saying is lost on Max, but the scent of cherries turns sour quickly, making his stomach swoop with worry and anxiety instead.
Charles’ shoulders slump in defeat, as he nods his head at whatever Pierre is saying to him, his eyes fully avoiding Max.
--
Hungary - the last race before the summer break, July
Hungary is different.
Not at first, though. To Max, it feels entirely the same as every race weekend of his career up to this point. There’s media on Thursday, which he has always dreaded, especially since becoming World Champion, and on Friday and Saturday, it’s Free Practice.
Being in the car is a distraction from his normal life in and of itself - there’s always upgrades, small things that he has to pay attention to, that take up all his brain capacity. But by the time Qualifying rolls around, there is something undeniable itching under his skin, begging him to pay attention.
“You okay?” GP sidles up to him, catching him fully unawares. The omega can feel a shudder running down his spine at the unexpected approach, having stared off into nothing, ignoring the hustle and bustle of the Red Bull garage.
“Yeah,” he agrees absentmindedly, his fingers playing with the strap of his helmet. There is a tingling under his skin, a worrying swirl in the pit of his stomach that makes his heart beat fast and his hands shake with adrenaline. It’s unsettling, to say the least, especially since he can’t figure out where the feeling is coming from. “Everything ready for quali?”
“Yeah,” his race engineer mirrors his tone, but those all-knowing eyes stay locked onto his face, worry written all over GP’s body language. The alpha’s scent grows stronger, something woody and oily that reminds Max of when he was a teenager and used to hide under tire blankets to escape the media. “Haven’t seen Charles around you lately.”
“What do you mean?” It sounds nonchalant coming from his race engineer, but the cogs start turning in Max’s head. As if the simple notion of not hanging out with someone he considers a friend is something to get his attention.
“Nothing, just…” There’s a heavy pause descending over them as GP’s eyes flicker between Max’s own, seemingly trying to find something. “...wondering if you’re doing alright.”
It’s not a question. It’s just an observation. Yet, Max’s stomach churns with it.
The realization sinks into his bones slowly - the reason why he’s so restless. There was nothing waiting for him in Hungary, not in his driver’s room, nor in the garage, nor anywhere else in the paddock. No little surprises - no food, no warm clothing to wrap himself in or drag off to his nest. No Charles.
“Huh,” he breathes out, trying to remain calm as his thoughts race at a hundred miles an hour trying to catalogue everything. From where he’s standing, he can’t look into the Ferrari garage, but he doesn’t need to check - GP fills him in nonetheless.
“It almost seemed like he was distant this weekend, no?” the older man rambles on, a calculating look in his eyes that reeks of worry. “I saw him snapping at people. Apparently, he snarled at Lewis earlier.”
“Charles?” It sounds foreign to his ears - Charles? The man who’s been nothing but kind to him recently? Who sent him flowers, and lent him his hoodie? No. Surely, he wouldn’t- “Maybe he’s getting close to his rut?” Max guesses carefully, “He’s been all alpha-ish recently.”
There’s no reply from GP, but when he looks up, the older alpha is watching him with a strange glint in his eyes. It doesn’t ease any of Max’s worries.
--
Zandvoort - August
“Oh my god,” Max breathes out, his eyes flying to Daniel. The Australian omega is still watching him with careful consideration, pity shining through the cracks in his facade. “Charles has been courting me!”
There’s only silence as the older man lets Max’s words ring out.
Meanwhile, the Dutchman’s brain runs through thousands of scenarios, memories and emotions all at the same time, shutting down. Max freezes, with a constant loop of Charles was courting me playing on and on in his mind. Yet, looking back at his own behavior-
“-I didn’t know,” he breathes out, all fight leaving his body, as his knees grow weak. Daniel’s hand lands on his lower back quickly, steading him before he can fall. “I was so blind to it- Daniel, I probably hurt him! What do I do now?”
“Hey, hey,” the Australian soothes him, fingers moving slowly against his back in calming circles, “don’t panic, it’s fine. Let’s talk about it, yeah?”
“Wh- I don’t-?”
Daniel’s scent of sunflowers radiates out, immediately filling Max’s nose with its persistence. “I doubt Charles is angry at you - if I was an alpha and I was courting someone, I would just leave them alone if they don’t reciprocate. It’s nothing bad!”
“That’s the opposite of nothing bad!” Max exclaims, his breathing coming so fast, his chest feels tight with it.
“Well, look,” the other omega tries again, “you didn’t give him any gifts. I personally wouldn’t have waited as long as Charles. I probably would have stopped after Monaco, when he gave you his bracelet and you didn’t wear it after. That’s like- peak rejection.”
“I didn’t want to lose or break it!” Max rushes to defend himself. However, he feels the blood rushing into his cheeks at the obvious signs he apparently missed. There were so many. With a heavy sigh, his shoulders drop, as the realization finally sinks in fully. “...I rejected him, Dan. Even without knowing it, I ruined it.”
An eerie silence descends between them, even with the rush of the paddock all around them picking up once more. Daniel’s fingers still rub soothing circles into the Dutchman’s lower back, keeping him connected to reality, as his brain runs through trains of thoughts at incredible speeds. If he’s being honest, he feels dizzy with it.
“You didn’t ruin it,” the Australian insists, but his voice sounds quiet, contemplative. “Obviously, Charles must like you, if he held on as long as he did. So maybe, I don’t know, talk to him? Be honest. That’s what you’re good at, no?”
“I guess.”
“Oh, and wear the bracelet! And don’t forget to get him a gift, if you do want to court him.”
That makes Max stop in his thoughts. “What do you mean if I want to court him?”
“Sorry,” Daniel chuckles, “I can’t tell you how you feel, but it seems that you are… interested, at least. I can’t read your mind, mate.”
“Then you are blind, mate,” Max snarks back, a small smile playing on his lips, even though his heart is still racing in his chest. “I’ve talked your ear off about Charles so many times, you know this.”
“Then get some gifts, idiot.”
--
After Max finally makes it out of the media pen, he takes a quick trip to his driver’s room. The bracelet is right where he left it - on the little side table next to the daybed, right beside his nest. It slips onto his wrist without resistance.
“Huh, that fits perfectly,” he murmurs to himself, as he swipes some of his favorite shirts into his arms - the ones that are entirely drenched in his own scent, “I thought Charles is smaller than me?”
It just took one single text to GP to have the man materialize in front of Max’s door with a paper bag. “I brought an assortment of options, just so you can say you chose them.”
“You’re a life-saver,” the omega grins, already digging inside the bag. “And the flowers?”
“They’re with Hannah,” GP reassures, the older alpha’s voice a calming sound to Max, “Again, I bought a bunch of flowers, so you can choose which ones are best for… whatever you’re doing. What do you need all that fruit for, actually?”
Heat rushes into his cheeks, as his scent spikes with embarrassment. There’s no way he can look at the older man while admitting why he called his team to rush to a grocery store for him. “I- uh. I’m making a courting gift?”
The air between them becomes stifling, the world standing entirely still as Max’s eyes rest on the ground, staring at his shoes, awaiting judgement. Instead, there’s the sound of quiet chuckles ringing out in the room. When he finally looks up, GP is smiling brightly at him, pride shining in the older man’s eyes: “Oh, Max, never change, kid.”
“What?”
Instead of elaborating, the alpha finally offers: “You need help with arranging it, or are you good to go?”
“I’m good, I think,” Max mumbles out quietly, even though the blush is still shining brightly on his cheeks. “But thank you, really.”
“Tell Charles I said hi, yeah?”
--
There’s a tupperware container filled with fresh fruit, a bottle of red wine and a bouquet of several colors of roses all tucked up under his arm - he even went to all the effort to wrap the flowers in a nice paper, so they look more like an actual bouquet and not like several grocery store flowers miscalleniously rearranged together. Multiple t-shirts and polos are thrown over the other arm, an offering for Charles’ den - if the alpha will have him after all of this.
Slowly, conscious of all the items he’s hugging to his chest, Max raises his hand in a gentle fist, rapping his knuckles against the red driver’s room door before him - right in the middle of the big 16 displayed proudly on it.
His heart is beating fast, a loud ringing echoing in his ears with each pump of blood through his veins. Max’s breath burns in his lungs, with each passing second the sensation grows stronger as he waits for the door to swing open.
“He’s going to tell me to get lost,” the omega mumbles, more to himself than anything else. “No, actually, he’ll see me and he’ll close that door in my face.”
Even though his thoughts are a whirlwind, there's still nothing coming to his mind, or bubbling up to his lips, as the barrier between them fades away and his eyes lock onto Charles.
The alpha stares at him with complete shock and surprise written all over his features, freezing entirely at the sight before him as those sea green eyes grow wide with recognition.
“Oh,” the Monegasque breathes, barely even a sound in the sudden silence descending in the hallway.
“Hi,” Max gasps, an awkward brush of air that leaves his lungs. There’s a weird lump at the back of his throat, making his voice raspier than usual. For just a moment, he cradles all his belongings closer to his chest, “I fear there might have been some misunderstandings.”
Without a word, Charles steps aside, pulling the door back, and letting the Dutch omega into the room.
There’s no hesitation - it’s more of a rush as Max scrambles inside, immediately locating the table in the middle of the space and putting every single item of his down on the surface before he turns to look at the alpha.
“What are you doing here, Max?”
There are no emotions in Charles’ voice. The apathy stings, a cold knife right to his chest, straight through his heart. It makes him swallow hard, around the lump in his throat, but even with his shaking hands, he’s determined to see this apology through. He’s always been stubborn - there’s no way he’d leave now that he’s gotten inside.
His fingers wrap around the tupperware sitting innocently on the table, completely see-through and filled with colorful fruit. It feels clumsy, the way he pushes the container into Charles’ hands.
“Food,” he starts, his eyes stuck on the plastic of the colorful lid, instead of staring at the alpha before him. “It’s usually given as the first courting gift as a sign of intention. I’ve looked it up - it’s better to be handmade, but I’m not really a baker, and there wasn’t enough time to cook. But a healthy snack is always good and I know you like fruit, so…”
He trails off awkwardly, as his fingers land on the wine bottle, before moving to the flowers, pulling all of it closer. “...and then there’s wine - it pairs well with the fruit. And the flowers - I know you like red roses the most, but there are so many beautiful colors, and did you know that they all have different meanings? I thought you’d enjoy them.”
Lastly, the shirts are in a heap on the table, but Max still gestures to them, as if Charles hasn’t been staring at him and his pile of gifts ever since he entered the room. “These are for your den, so that you can have my scent around you all the time, if you want it. I know I keep a few of your team kit shirts in my nest, and they’ve helped me calm down a lot, so maybe these will be nice for you.”
“Max,” Charles finally interrupts his rambles. “What are you doing? What is all of this?”
“I…,” even though the words have been circling around his brain and he has been rehearsing his speech the entire time ever since he sent out GP to the grocery store, he still struggles to voice what’s been on his mind. Finally, he finds the courage to stare into Charles’ eyes as he steels himself to bare every truth: “I didn’t realize. That you were courting me, I mean. It was actually Daniel who told me earlier. And obviously, even though I really want to court you, and mate with you at some point, hopefully, I didn’t actually reciprocate your gifts, or even tell you what you mean to me. And I am so sorry that it has taken me so long to catch on to what is happening.”
Now that he’s staring at the alpha, he can make out the exact moment that the realization of what he’s just said sets into Charles’ mind. The Monegasque takes a deep breath, his eyes flickering from Max’s form to all the things piled up in his hands. Then, very deliberately, he sets all of them back down on the table, before sending an obvious glare at the Monaco bracelet wrapped around the Dutchman’s wrist - it stands out like a brand. “You are serious?”
“Yes,” he finally gasps out, the last dregs of air finally leaving his lungs, leaving him breathless in the wake of whatever Charles is planning on doing. “I am so sorry I didn’t realize it sooner, but yes, I am serious. I want this - us. If you will have me, of course.”
“Okay,” Charles nods, his eyes flittering to the ground, landing at Max’s shoes, then swiping over the ground. Slowly, step after deliberate step, the alpha starts circling around him, his body a solid shield moving with purpose. A squirming feeling fills his chest, taking over his lungs, as the alpha seizes him up, determining something that Max isn’t privy to.
Without warning, the alpha suddenly moves, almost jumps at Max, the younger’s hands landing on his chest and waist, as Charles pushes them both backwards. For just a moment, he feels like he is falling, going to hit the ground at any second. But before his brain has even caught up with the fact that the Monegasque just tackled him, his back already hits soft pillows and warm blankets that are all drenched in the scent of cherry wine.
“What-?” he squeaks out, as the alpha lands overtop him, the younger man’s entire weight landing on him and pressing him down into the den. “Charles!”
“No,” the alpha growls out, half-playfully, half-serious, “this is your punishment. Eternal cuddles, and making out, until the start of the race. After all, we are officially courting now.”
Max wouldn’t know another place that he’d rather be, especially when Charles leans in to brush their lips together.