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Contrary to popular belief, Max doesn't care that she's an omega. To her the whole second gender thing means so little, that it hardly has an impact. She's Max Verstappen, Formula 1 driver, four times champion for Red Bull Racing, born-prodigy, biggest tits on the grid, the second coming of Michael Schumacher. All that and then some more. She's not Max Verstappen, the omega.
It helped that her papa never made a big deal out of it either. As soon as she presented, she remembers her father scoffing and telling her that girl omegas can't be champions. She remembers her father making her choose: either she is a girl, or she is an omega. Max chose being a girl, knowing that when she will be crowned a world champion, it will be sweeter to be called the first woman champion, than the first female omega champion.
This choice, this indifference of hers, however, means that at the age of twenty eight she has never, not once given into her instincts. No heats, no nests, no unnecessary scenting. She may as well be a beta, with how she acts.
Max doesn't mind it; all the pills she ingests to keep her heats away may make her dizzy and nauseous, but she doesn't mind. Except that clearly, her body does mind it.
The fever hits her just before the celebrations for her P1 in Abu Dhabi are meant to start. One moment, she is washing away the remnants of sweat and champagne, the next she is grabbing onto to tiled wall to hold herself up, a sudden dizzy spell making it hard to do so. She has to get out of the shower, suds clinging to her skin, just to avoid falling and dying in all her naked glory.
Max has had fevers before, they're kind of a given with how the suppressants work, but it has never been this bad. Every inch of her skin feels rubbed raw, her scent glands sore, her stomach cramping.
She has to say pass to her celebrations and she has to miss the FIA award ceremony, and so Max spends the first few days after the season is over copped out in her apartment, buried under a pile of blankets. There's a bitter taste in her mouth the longer she refuses to move and face her new reality: no longer is she the champion, title ripped from her bloodied claws by Lando's sticky paws.
It makes sense for the fever to come as a result of all the stress she went through, a season of ups and downs that left her with an ache in her canines, begging to be sunk into something tender and pull. What doesn't make any sense is why it's refusing to break. She takes all her pills, swallows bitter antibiotics with sweetened tea, spends hours in the shower until she swears all of Monaco runs out of hot water, yet nothing seems to make the fever, the shivers, the pain nestled in her bones go away.
Just as she is getting ready to text her mother to see if she'd be willing to come down to Monaco and take care of her, a determined knock comes from her door. Through the fog settled over her mind, Max doesn't find it strange that her mother — for who else could it be — is already here, no doubt having sensed her sorrow, as all mothers do.
Max makes her way to the door, blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and pulls it open without bothering to check who is on the other side. A mistake in its own. Instead of her mother waiting with arms open to offer Max all the comfort she needs, it is Charles Leclerc, golden princess of Ferrari, that she finds. She's impatiently tapping her foot, arms full of bags and shoulders slumped from the weight of her backpack.
The hallucinations must have started, though her brain conjuring a realistic vision of the other woman is a choice. Not an unusual one, Max often fantasises about Charles, that happens to be a given when you harbour a crush the size of moon, but she doesn't allow herself to do it unless she deserves it. It's Max's prize, to dream of Charles in her room, in her arms, spread out on her bed wearing nothing but a pretty blush. After how the season ended, Max doesn't deserve to have such thoughts about the brunette. She doesn't deserve much of anything, besides the fever coursing through her.
"Are you going to let me in or do I have to go through you?" Charles' snappy voice breaks her out of it. Huh, the fever has got to be some fucked up shit if it's also able to make Charles sound as if she's actually standing right in front of her. "Max!"
On autopilot, Max moves aside.
Charles' voice turns syrupy-sweet as she walks inside, throwing a blinding smile in Max's direction. "Thank you, Maxie."
Maxie? She mouths, unsure why Charles would call her that. Sure, they don't want to kill each other anymore, having grown out of that phase after they fucked their anger out in 2022, but Charles doesn't call her that unless her strap is buried deep in Max. Or unless Max is fucking her. Point is, they don't do nicknames like that outside of the sex.
Bébé, and ma chérie, and mon amour don't count, because Max knows they don't mean what she wants them to.
Not that they have done anything recently, Max too busy fighting in a championship battle she didn't belong in, Charles caught up in her own Ferrari drama. Max can barely remember the last time they hooked up, probably before summer break. Still, this doesn't explain Charles' presence here tonight.
She tells the brunette as much, to which Charles rolls her eyes and deposits her bags on the kitchen island. Protein bars and small bags of chips and Red Bull cans and Kinder Maxis spill out. Is she here to taunt Max with all the unhealthy foods she can't have? How does she even know she's not able to enjoy snacks because of whatever virus she may be dealing with?
"You're an idiot, Max Emilia," Charles states. She's busying herself with putting the kettle on, throwing tea bags into two mugs, before she disappears into Max's bedroom. It takes her a while, but she comes out backpackless, cheeks slightly flushed. She opens the cupboard in which Max keeps the cats' food as if it's the most natural thing in the world. Jimmy and Sassy rush out from their hiding spot, clearly glad to no longer be surviving on the dry kibble the automatic feeder spits out. "Are you really that unaware?"
There are many things Max is unaware of, most of which have to do with what is or isn't socially acceptable in certain situations. Charles' question doesn't necessarily spell out what she's unaware of now.
"What did I do now?" Max grumbles, reaching for a Kinder chocolate. When Charles doesn't snatch it out of her hands, she unwraps it and takes a bite. The treat melts on her tongue, sweetness easing some of the ache in her belly.
Cats fed and happily chirping as they wrap around their feet, Charles finally stops next to her mountain of bags. If Max were to be more feverish, she would probably think the other woman simply decided to act as Santa Claus. Both red-loving, both fast, both in need of a new hobby besides carrying satchels full of Rudolph knows what.
From one of her many bags, a book is pulled out. It's thick and makes a soft thud when it lands on the table. Max can't read the title properly, eyesight still blurry, but the word omega stands out anyway. Is Charles here just to make fun of her… Max never thought she would stoop that low.
She stays quiet, fearing that if she were to open her mouth, she'd say something wrong. Something she will end up regretting once the fever lifts off. Charles, however, doesn't sense anything, only opens the book and walks around the kitchen island to sit next to Max. Her arm is cold when it brushes against Max's.
Without meaning to, she sags in relief.
"I know you are not… familiar with your gender," Charles starts, voice quiet as if speaking to a rabid animal. Max isn't above snapping her teeth at anyone who dares mention it, so the caution is expected. "But Maxie, you have to understand — to know at least some things about it, non?"
"What would you know about second genders, Charles? You're just a beta." There it is. Comes out as a hiss, regret filling her chest instantly. Max drops her chin on her chest, closes her eyes to avoid having to see the hurt that washes over Charles' face.
When she speaks, after a beat too late, Charles doesn't sound upset. Not as upset as she should, at least. "You're right, I don't know anything about what's it like to be an omega. But clearly, I know more than you, Max." Her voice starts cold, before it shifts into a gentle tone. "Max, you are in heat."
Max laughs, body shaking with tremors as her vision goes black around the edges. Her? In heat? When she has never had one to begin with? What a humours thought, what a silly idea for Charles to have. What a dumb statement…
As the laughter dies down, her face blotchy-red and cramps back in full swing, Max lets her head rest on the cool marble. It soothes her, though only momentarily. "You are funny, Charles. Saying shit like that, when you know I—"
"You what? You stuff your body with suppressants and hope you can escape that you're an omega?" Charles asks with a huff. The pages of her stupid book get turned right next to Max's ear, so that even if she wants to ignore the massive elephant she can't. "Look, right here it says that," Charles clears her throat, "Should an Omega suppress their instincts of mating for too long, be it naturally or through medical assistance, in cases of extreme stress, the Omega may experience a break with a sudden cycle. This cycle is meant to regulate the body and hormones, and it is thought to be greater in intensity than a cycle that is allowed to happen regularly."
Max scoffs at the information, as if she doesn't know of this possibility. As if her doctor didn't advise her against continuing to suppress her heats without a single break. As if she didn't lie to her doctor and tell her she found herself a heat partner to ease her mind. Max knows all of this, she knows it well. But this sort of things, these sudden heats and stress-induced hormonal imbalances, they don't happen to her. Not to Max, never to Max.
"Charles," she starts, elbowing the book away as she lifts her head to look at the woman. "Charles, I know you mean well, I know you… You have this need of yours to, I don't know, look over me or something because we fuck, but there is nothing for you to worry about. I do not have a heat, I don't even think my body is capable of going into heat anymore! It's just a fever, that is all." As if to prove her point, a shiver runs through her, sweat pooling on her temple. "I just need to rest," she says with finality.
"Max," her idiotic… Friend-with-benefits? Friend? Rival that hasn't felt like a rival in far too long? Charles, Max settles on, toes rubbing over Charles' sock-covered feet where they're almost pressing into hers. Her Charles speaks with the same voice, done with the on-going conversation. "Max, I know you think you are— What, above a heat? But look at you, bébé, you are red! And you are hurting, non?" She reaches a hand out, put it over Max's stomach. "Here, you are hurting? I know I cannot give you what your om— What your instincts are asking for, but the book and— And Reddit, people on Reddit say you do not need a knot or sex or an alpha to get through a heat! I found this person online who told me that they always help their omega mate and, yes, they are a beta like me, but they said touch helps! It is not sex the body wants, it helps, of course to mate and impregnate but sometimes touch is enough. And comfort! They said nests help! And— And they told me how I can build one for you and I… I hope you will not be mad, Max, but I made you one in your room, for you to rest in. If you…" Charles, her Charles inhales, puffs out her cheeks and bites her bottom lip. "If you are wanting me to help you. I can take it down, if it's overbearing. I— I do not want to make you uncomfortable with this, Max."
"You—" Max feels gathering in her eyes, feels the sudden rush of endorphins flow through her, up to her head before her brain releases them in the rest of her body. She feels empty and so full and as if she can jump out of the window and land straight in the ocean, in spite of how far away her apartment is from the harbour. "You willingly went on Reddit for me?"
"Of course," Charles says as if the admission doesn't rock Max's world. "There's not many books written for betas and how they can understand their mates better, so I had to—"
"Mates?"
Charles stares at her, truly speechless. She recovers quick enough, pink high on her cheeks. "Well, dating at least. I assumed, you know, since… I mean, I know you don't care about omeganess and mating and you know, but I assumed. I'm sorry, I assumed…"
"Dating?" Max's voice cracks on the word, falling pathetically out of her mouth. Now she's the one staring at Charles, mouth slightly agape.
The look on Charles' face is one Max can't decipher. A mix between disbelief and puzzlement and slight amusement? It's making Max think she must have made an error somewhere along the way. She just can't tell where.
"Max Verstappen." Uh-oh, she doesn't like the sound of that. "What do you think we've been doing for the past three years?"
That is definitely a trick question. She stretches for another Kinder, only to have Charles snatch it away, glare carved deep between her brows. Max decides to bite the bullet, well aware it will backfire in her face. "Were we not just fucking?" When Charles leaves her, she will at least be able to say it's because of her own idiocy, as it was meant to be. Now that she's really considering it, it's a miracle she hasn't left Max sooner.
"No." Charles sighs, pinches the bridge of her nose. "No, Max, we were not just fucking. I, at least, thought we were dating. I think we should try and get on the same page about this."
"Can we…" Max fucked it, but she's feeling close to giving up and there's fear running through her veins. "You said touch is enough, yes? Can we just… Can we go to the nest and talk there? If you still want to…"
"I'm not going to leave because of this, Max." Charles puts her hand on top of Max's, rubs over her knuckles. "If you think you telling me you were oblivious to the fact that we're dating is enough to get rid of me, you're severely mistaken. I'm in it for the long game, you twat," she slips her hand in Max's, pulls her to her feet. "Come, let's get you to bed now."
Without putting up a fight, Max follows her. It comes easy to her, to let Charles lead sometimes. Just as it comes easy to grab the other woman and put her where Max wants her. Everything comes naturally to her, when it is about Charles.
In the doorway, Max finds herself frozen for a second. When Charles said she built a nest, she didn't know what exactly to expect. Some blankets thrown together on her bed, maybe. Some pillows fluffed up in the middle, sure. Not… Not this. Not a nest built so perfectly it reminds Max of her mother's work, those nests she used to make for Max and Victoria to cuddle in, in the brief moments of peace when their father wasn't mad. Intricate braids made from blankets, shirts and hoodies woven into the walls. A thick blanket covering everything, pooling in the middle where more blankets and more pillows and more fabrics create a perfect place to get lost into.
She falls on it, a tiny chirp escaping her as she rubs her face into one of Charles' shirts. It smells like her, rich vanilla and deep amber filling her mouth.
"Skin to skin is good for a heat," Charles says, tugging Max's pants off and adding them to the nest, along with her own clothes. "Not ideal for discussing a relationship I think, but it's said to help clear your mind." Max takes her shirt off, passes it to the woman. "Thank you, Maxie."
A moment later, before Max can think too much about how stupid she was for not realizing it sooner, Charles climbs into the nest besides her. She pulls her until Max is pressed into her side, head resting on Charles' chest. Her fingers bury in the blonde's hair, playing with the longer strands at the back.
"It's August fifth, by the way." Max makes a questioning sound, lifting her head to look at Charles. "Our anniversary. Why did you think I always took you out to dinner that day?"
Max… Didn't really think anything of it. Dinner for them wasn't necessarily unusual, and a repeated dinner every year, that always ended in sex, was not enough to make alarms ring in her head. Max just sort of assumed it was one of Charles' weird superstitions, she never questioned it. But now that the woman is spelling it out in front of her… Well, she can't deny that she's quite clueless.
"Why didn't you get upset then? That I never got you stuff? Or that I never acted… You know, like a lover?"
Charles' chest shakes with laughter. "Oh, trust me, I was. But then I mentioned it to Danny, or I don't know, he may have overheard it, and he told me not to worry. That you're just a bit useless when it comes to this and that you probably aren't even aware we're dating. At first, I didn't believe him. But then you kept on acting all Max about it and so I realized he may have been right. Unfortunately for you, Max Verstappen, I do love you so much that I had to stay and see when you'd realize it too."
"I don't get it," Max says with a frown. "Weren't you tired of me being all Max about it? I mean, it must've sucked for you, to date me when I didn't even know it, right?"
Charles shrugs. "Not really. I knew you loved me, even when you didn't know it yourself, I feel like. And it made it easy, to stay with you. And as I said, I made it my own game to see how long it would take you to notice I'm courting you. I just wished it would not have been because of a heat that you got to know about it. It is so much information, non? First the heat, then that we're dating." Charles pushes Max's hair out of her eyes, presses her lips to the blonde's forehead.
"My dad said a world champion can't be a girl and an omega." Max doesn't know why she says that instead of confessing her feelings for Charles. But it makes sense in this moment, to let herself be vulnerable and say what she always thought in the back of her mind.
"But you are." Charles holds onto her face, hands cold where they touch her gently. "You are all three, Max, you have proven him wrong."
"I did?"
A kiss on her lips, another on her nose, one more on her chin. Max feels her skin redden the more Charles kisses her, but she cannot bring herself to whine at the woman to stop. "You did," Charles seals it with one more kiss, this one prolonged and dripping in want. "You did, mon amour, you are everything your father told you you could not be."
Max thinks she may cry, if Charles doesn't stop it soon.
"My world champion," Charles stares into her eyes, love pouring out of her. "My beautiful girl," she strokes Max's cheek. "My lovely, perfect omega." Charles kisses her so sweetly, Max thinks she could get drunk on this alone if given the chance.
Against Charles' thigh, she grinds slowly, hips barely moving, but noticeable anyway.
"Does that get you hot and bothered, Maxie? That you're mine?"
Max blows the air trapped in her lungs, exhale long and straining. "You're being mean, Charlie."
"Maybe," she admits, as if she's simply stating that it's cold outside. "But don't you think I deserve to be mean, bébé? You were quite mean too, making me wait like that."
Max whines, grinds harder where Charles is pressing into her cunt, thigh solid and warm and getting wetter from all the slick that's beginning to gather on her folds.
"Now," Charles gives her a predatory grin. "Be quiet, Maxie, while I make my beautiful girlfriend come apart."