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Max considered the scrum of reporters ahead of them, a familiar, buzzing hive of recorders and expectant faces. He felt Charles’s shoulder brush against his as they walked the sponsor-lined corridor. He could sense the Monegasque’s posture shifting into ‘media mode’ – straight-backed, polite, a slight, diplomatic smile already playing on his lips. Max’s own approach was different. It was the mental equivalent of strapping into a chassis before a race. A focused, anticipatory calm.
The first wave of questions was standard. Performance, the car, the weekend’s expectations. Charles answered with his usual thoughtful grace, weaving French and English together. Max gave short, factual answers. Yes, the upgrades felt positive. No, the midfield battle wasn’t a concern. It was a dance. Then, as always, the tone shifted.
A journalist near the front, microphone thrust forward, aimed his query. “Charles, a question about off-track life. We’ve noticed you and Max are often seen together outside the paddock. Does sharing this intense career help you unwind together, or does it make it harder to switch off?”
Charles blinked, his smile softening into something more genuine. “I think it helps,” he began, his voice warm. “We understand the pressures without having to explain them. It is nice to be with someone who knows exactly what your world is like. We can talk about it if we want, or we can talk about anything else.”
It was a good answer. Honest, smooth. Max watched him, the way his green eyes crinkled at the corners. He was so damn beautiful when he was being sincere. It made Max want to both shield him and ruffle him up.
The same journalist turned to Max. “Max, same question. Does the shared experience make the relationship easier?”
Max leaned slightly toward the mic, his blue eyes glinting. “Sure. I mean, it’s efficient. We’re already at the same airports, the same hotels. Saves on travel costs.” A ripple of laughter went through the crowd. Charles shot him a look that was half-amused, half-warning.
Another hand went up. “Charles, you’re known for your calm demeanor. Does Max’s more… direct approach ever cause friction? How do you balance such different personalities?”
Charles considered it. “We are different, yes,” he conceded. “But I think it is a balance. He reminds me not to overthink things sometimes. I hope I help him to… consider a few more options before he speaks.” He said the last part with a gentle tease in his tone toward Max.
“Max, do you agree? Does Charles help you… consider more options?”
“He tries,” Max said, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Mostly he just uses his eyes. You know, the big, sad ones. Like a puppy who found a puddle. It’s very effective. I usually give him whatever he wants just to make it stop.”
The press laughed louder. Charles’s cheeks flushed a delightful pink. “Max,” he hissed under his breath, but he was fighting a smile.
The questions persisted, each one prying a little further, trying to find the seam between their public and private lives. Charles navigated them like a seasoned diplomat, deflecting with charm. Max deflected with chaos.
“Charles, what’s the most romantic thing Max has done for you?”
Charles’s blush deepened. “He is… he does small things. He remembers things I like. It is private.”
“Max? Your turn.”
Max scratched his chin. “I let him choose the restaurant. Even if it has the tiny food on big plates. That’s true commitment.”
“Max! The food is excellent there,” Charles protested, the embarrassment morphing into playful indignation.
“I need more than three bites, schat. I’m a growing boy.”
Later, in the sanctuary of Max’s driver room, Charles collapsed onto the small sofa. “You are impossible,” he groaned, but he was pulling Max down beside him. “A puppy in a puddle? Really?”
“It’s accurate,” Max said, shrugging. He wrapped an arm around Charles’s shoulders, pulling him close. Charles’s hair smelled of hotel shampoo and his own faint, expensive cologne. Max buried his nose in the soft brown curls. “You do the eyes. You know you do.”
“I do not do them. They are just my eyes.”
“They are weapons of mass destruction,” Max corrected. “And you deploy them unfairly.”
Charles relaxed against him. “Why do you always give those silly answers? They ask a real question.”
Max was quiet for a moment, his fingers tracing idle patterns on Charles’s arm. “Because their real questions are stupid,” he said, his voice losing its joking edge. “They don’t want to know about us. They want a soundbite. A headline. ‘Leclerc Reveals Verstappen’s Secret Soft Side’ or some shit. I’m not giving them that. I’ll give them nonsense. It’s more fun for me, and it protects the good stuff.”
Charles tilted his head back to look at him. “Protects?”
“Our stuff,” Max said simply. “The real things. That’s for us. Not for them. If I joke about it, it becomes a joke. It’s not real to them anymore. It’s just ‘Max being Max’. They stop digging because they think they won’t get a real answer anyway.”
Charles studied his face. “So it is a strategy.”
“Everything’s a strategy,” Max murmured, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “You give them polite nothing. I give them chaotic nothing. Same result. Less hassle.”
“I feel like I am lying sometimes,” Charles admitted quietly.
“You’re not. You’re just not handing them our life on a plate. There’s a difference.” Max’s hand came up to cup Charles’s jaw, his thumb stroking his cheek. “Your answers are perfect. You make us look stable and mature. My answers make me look like an idiot. It works.”
“You do not look like an idiot,” Charles argued, nuzzling into the touch.
“I look like I don’t care. Which I don’t. About them.” He emphasized the last word. His gaze was steady on Charles’s green eyes. “I care about this.”
Charles’s breath hitched. He surged up and kissed him, a sweet, slow press of lips. “I know,” he whispered against Max’s mouth.
The following week brought a double-header. The media frenzy was heightened. The ‘silly season’ of driver rumors had started, and the press was like sharks in chummed water. They were doing a joint interview, seated on two stools under bright lights. A seasoned presenter, known for her gentle but probing style, was leading the conversation.
It started well. Talk of rivalry turned friendship. Shared memories from karting. Charles was luminous, talking about respect and shared history. Max was playing along, offering clipped but cooperative answers.
Then the presenter smiled. “Now, I have to ask the question on everyone’s lips. Your relationship has been the talk of the paddock. Charles, you’re often seen as the ‘prince’ of Formula 1. Max, you’re the ‘king of the track’. Does that dynamic play out at home? Who rules the roost?”
Charles laughed, a nervous, airy sound. “Oh, I do not think it is like that. It is equal. We are partners.”
“Max? Who wears the crown at home?”
Max gave her a flat stare. “We don’t have a crown. We have a coffee machine. I operate the coffee machine. Charles chooses the fancy cups. That’s the dynamic.”
The audience chuckled. The presenter persisted, her smile unwavering. “Come on, give us a little insight. Is Charles as much of a perfectionist at home as he is on track?”
Charles opened his mouth to answer, but Max cut in, his tone still light but with an edge. “He folds his socks. It’s terrifying. I throw mine in a drawer. It causes him physical pain. That’s your insight.”
More laughter. Charles elbowed him gently.
The presenter, sensing resistance, changed tack. Her eyes gleamed with faux innocence. “Charles, a fun one. What’s something about Max that his fans would never guess? A hidden talent, perhaps?”
Charles smiled, thinking. “He is actually a very good cook. When he has the time. He makes amazing stamppot.”
“Max, and something about Charles we wouldn’t know?”
Max looked at Charles, who gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of his head. Don’t. It was their private thing. Charles hated being vulnerable in public, hated having his hidden soft spots exposed. The thing Max knew he was thinking of was the way Charles cried at sad films, hiding his face in a cushion.
Max looked back at the presenter. “He snores.”
The room erupted. Charles’s jaw dropped. “I do not!”
“You do. Like a little chainsaw. It’s cute.”
“Max Verstappen, that is a lie!” Charles cried, his face burning scarlet, swatting at Max’s arm. The moment was pure, unfiltered couple’s squabble, captured on live TV.
The presenter ate it up. “Well, there’s a headline for you!”
After they were off-camera, Charles was fuming. “Why would you say that?” he muttered as they walked away, his voice low and tight. “Now the whole world thinks I snore!”
“Better than the whole world thinking you’re a soft touch who cries at cartoons,” Max said, his voice low.
Charles stopped walking. “That is my thing to share or not. Not yours.”
“And I chose not to share it,” Max said, stopping to face him. “I gave them a joke. A stupid, harmless joke. ‘Leclerc Snores’ is a funny story. ‘Leclerc is an Emotional Secret Softie’ is a narrative. Narratives get chased. Jokes get forgotten by tomorrow. Which would you prefer?”
Charles stared at him, conflict warring in his beautiful eyes. He saw the logic. He hated the method. “You could have said I was good at chess. Or something.”
“You’re terrible at chess.”
“That is not the point!”
“The point is protection, Charles,” Max said, his voice dropping even further. He stepped closer, ignoring the lingering staff around them. “I protect what’s mine. My space. My car. My boyfriend. In whatever way works. If that means turning you into a meme about snoring, I’ll do it. It’s a shield.”
“I do not need you to protect me from stupid questions,” Charles whispered, but the fight was draining from him.
“Yes, you do,” Max said, no malice in it, just certainty. “Because you’ll try to answer them honestly, and they’ll dissect every word until they find a wound. I don’t let them get close enough to see the skin.”
He reached out and took Charles’s hand, lacing their fingers together. A simple, bold move in a semi-public space. Charles looked down at their joined hands, then back up at Max. The anger was gone, replaced by a weary understanding. “I hate that you are right about this.”
“I know,” Max said, and tugged him gently down the hall.
The tension didn’t vanish overnight. Charles was quieter than usual for a couple of days, thoughtful. Max gave him space, but stayed close. He made coffee in the morning and used the fancy cup without being asked. He didn’t mention the interview.
The breaking point came at a sponsor event. A gala dinner. They were separated, mingling at different tables. Max was trapped by a corporate bigwig talking about aerodynamics. He kept one eye on Charles across the room. He saw a journalist, not a regular paddock face but a slick gossip columnist, corner Charles near the terrace doors. Max watched Charles’s polite smile grow strained. He saw the man lean in, asking a question. Charles shook his head, his smile frozen. The man asked again, more insistently. Charles took a small step back.
Max excused himself from the conversation mid-sentence and cut across the room. He arrived just as he heard the columnist say, “…given the history of rivalry, some say it’s just a publicity stunt for you both. A way to soften your images. Can you comment on that? Is there real feeling there, or is it strategic?”
Charles looked pale. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. The question was more than intrusive; it was an attack on everything they had.
Before Charles could form a word, Max slid an arm around his waist, pulling him firmly into his side. He fixed the columnist with a look so cold it could have frozen the champagne in his glass.
“What’s your name?” Max asked, his voice calm and dead.
The man blinked, startled. “I’m with–”
“I didn’t ask where you work. I asked your name.” Max’s tone left no room for argument.
“James. James Colbert.”
“James,” Max repeated, as if tasting something foul. “Here’s a comment. Your question is shit. Our relationship is none of your business. Charles’s feelings are none of your business. My feelings are none of your business. The only strategy here is me deciding not to throw you off this terrace. Now, fuck off.”
The man’s face went from smug to ashen. He spluttered something and scurried away.
Charles was rigid against him. “Max,” he breathed, horrified and awed.
“Let’s go,” Max said, his voice still tight with anger. He guided Charles through the crowd, out a side door, and into a quiet service corridor.
“You cannot say things like that!” Charles exploded the moment the door shut. “He will write about it! ‘Verstappen Threatens Journalist!’”
“Good,” Max snapped, turning to face him. “Let him. Maybe the next vulture will think twice before asking you if your love for me is a stunt.” The word was venomous on his tongue.
“You do not have to be so… so aggressive!”
“What were you going to do, Charles?” Max challenged, his blue eyes blazing. “Were you going to politely explain your real feelings to him? Convince him? Beg him to believe you? He doesn’t care! He wanted a reaction, and I gave him one. Now he’ll write about the scary, aggressive Verstappen, and he’ll leave you alone. Mission accomplished.”
“I am not a damsel in distress!” Charles shot back, his own anger rising. “I can handle myself!”
“I know you can!” Max shouted, the sound echoing in the concrete corridor. He ran a hand through his blond hair, frustrated. “God, Charles, I know you can. You handle pressure on the last lap. You handle stupid questions every day. But why should you have to handle that? Why should you have to stand there and justify us to some parasite? That’s my job.”
“Your job?”
“Yes! My job is to be the bastard. My job is to take the hit so they don’t aim for you. You get to be the good one, the kind one, the prince. I’ll be the guard dog. Happily.”
Charles stared at him, his chest heaving. The fight seemed to leave him all at once. The harsh corridor light made his green eyes look huge and wet. “I do not want you to be a guard dog,” he said, his voice cracking. “I want you to be my boyfriend.”
Max’s anger deflated. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them. “I am,” he said, his voice rough. “This is what that looks like for me. I can’t give the sweet answers. I can’t… share. But I can build a wall. And I can stand in front of you. That’s what I have. That’s what I give you.”
A tear escaped, tracing a path down Charles’s cheek. Max wiped it away with his thumb, his touch infinitely gentler than his words had been.
“I hate it,” Charles whispered.
“I know.”
“I hate that they make you have to be this way.”
“They don’t make me. I choose it. It’s easier.”
Charles leaned his forehead against Max’s shoulder. “It is not easier for me. Watching you make yourself the villain.”
“I’m not a villain to the people who matter,” Max murmured into his hair. “Do you think I’m a villain?”
“No,” Charles said instantly, his arms coming up to wrap around Max’s back. “You are an idiot. A stubborn, protective, impossible idiot.”
Max held him tightly. “So we agree.”
They stood like that for a long time in the quiet, dusty corridor. It was a turning point. Charles had seen the raw, unfiltered protectiveness, understood its cost and its intent. Max had shown the vulnerability beneath the armor – the fear of seeing Charles hurt by words he couldn’t control.
After that, something shifted. Charles stopped protesting the silly answers. He started to play along.
At the next media pen, a reporter asked, “Charles, what’s the key to a happy relationship in the high-pressure world of F1?”
Charles looked thoughtful, then shot a glance at Max, a mischievous glint in his green eyes. “Separate blankets. He hogs the duvet.”
Max snorted. “You kick in your sleep. It’s a miracle I have any shins left.”
“Lies!” Charles cried, but he was grinning.
Another asked, “Max, what’s something you’ve learned from Charles?”
Max pretended to think hard. “The names of about twenty different types of fabric. What is ‘chiffon’ anyway? Why does it exist?”
“It is elegant!” Charles retorted, playing up his indignation.
The press ate it up. The “bickering couple” angle was gold. The more personal questions dried up, replaced by attempts to spark more of their comedic back-and-forth.
In private, it was different. The love was quieter, deeper. It was Charles learning to make a decent stamppot as a surprise. It was Max booking a holiday to a place Charles had mentioned once, two years ago. It was silent movie nights where Charles did indeed cry, and Max held him without a word of teasing.
The final test came at the season-ending awards. They were on the red carpet, a gauntlet of flashbulbs and shouted questions. One reporter yelled, “Charles! Max! Over here! Are there any plans to make things more permanent? Engagement, perhaps?”
Charles froze for a microsecond. The old, polite panic flashed in his eyes. Max felt it. He leaned into the microphone cluster, a wide, easy smile on his face.
“We’re permanent,” he said, his voice carrying. “I’m permanent pain in his ass. He’s permanent pain in my neck when I forget a date. What more do you want?”
The reporters laughed. Charles relaxed, the tension melting away. He looked at Max, his expression so full of open affection it made Max’s breath catch. Charles turned back to the reporters.
“What he means,” Charles said, his voice clear and warm, “is that some things are just for us. But thank you for your… interest.” He then took Max’s hand, not for protection, but in a simple, confident statement. He led Max down the carpet, away from the shouts.
In the quiet of their limousine later, Charles was the one who spoke first. “You were right.”
Max, staring out the window, looked at him. “About what?”
“Your way. The wall. The chaos. It works.” Charles shifted closer, leaning his head on Max’s shoulder. “They want a show. So we give them a show. A different one than they expect. They get their story, but it is the wrong story. It keeps the real story safe.”
Max kissed the top of his head. “Took you long enough to see it.”
“I am a slow learner,” Charles admitted. “But I learn from the best.”
Max smiled into the darkness. He hadn’t won a race today, hadn’t stood on a podium. But he had protected his most important piece of the world. And in doing so, he had finally made Charles understand. Their love wasn’t a battlefield for the media to comment on. It was a fortress. And Max Verstappen was very, very good at defending his lines. With a smirk, a sarcastic comment, and an absolute, unwavering heart.