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Charles notices it the way one notices a structure about to collapse. First comes the cracks. Then the tilt. Then the groaning and croaking. Then finally, the fall.
An inevitable, domino chain of events.
The cracks come in the form of George staring at Max for longer than necessary after Monaco. Charles doesn’t blame him for it, of course. Max has that post-race glow of sweat and victory which makes him look ethereal up on the top step, his omega scent sweet with satisfaction.
Charles stares for an unhealthy amount of time as well, his bitter P6 soothed by his omega looking so fucking good. And so does almost every other alpha on the paddock.
But George has never been among the throngs of alphas chasing after Max weekend after weekend, too hung up about their ‘rivalry’. So, when Charles sees him standing in the media pen looking at Max like he’s seeing him properly for the first time, he sees the cracks.
The tilt comes at a padel game they have in Hungary. George slings an arm around Max’s shoulders and announces they’ll be a team. Max frowns at him before giving Charles an adorably confused look.
Charles just shrugs and joins Carlos on the other side. And the two of them win, predictably, because the other side may as well have been Max alone, with George being far too busy laughing at everything he says. And being distracted whenever Max’s shorts rode up his thighs.
The groaning and croaking come as texts over summer break; a vibrating annoyance from a previously dormant chat.
Max shows them to Charles dismissively, the same way he shows him memes from TikTok. A long string of messages from George at intervals timed too perfectly to be anything but coordinated.
George (Russell)
Saw that new RBR video. That was funny! 😂
George (Russell)
Saw you’re in Hawaii. Have fun!
George (Russell)
This message was deleted.
George (Russell)
Padel match this weekend? Are you free?
“I don’t want to be rude and refuse,” Max says, staring up at Charles from where he’s cuddled up next to him in the nest, his hair rumpled from sleep and face pinched in a frown. “But these are the only days I get to spend with you. I don’t want to go anywhere else.”
“It’s okay to refuse, chéri,” Charles says, kissing Max’s forehead to make the frown go away. Which it does. “You can just say you have something planned. It is summer break, George will understand.”
The fall comes in Monza, before FP1.
Max stands in front of the Red Bull garage, race-suit half undone and falling around his waist. He’s explaining something to George with wide gestures at the car and the track, but Charles is willing to bet gold that the other alpha is hardly listening to anything, instead fixated on Max’s white fireproofs.
Then Fernando walks behind Max, fondly ruffling his blond hair as he does. Max turns and smiles at him. That smile of his that makes his eyes crinkle and his cheeks blush.
The one Charles first saw on a wet karting track when he was fourteen. The one he dreamt of for years afterwards. And evidently, the one that has George Russell almost combusting in the Italian paddock.
Charles simply shakes his head before turning away.
After quali, Charles goes to Max’s motorhome, the security at Red Bull hardly batting an eye as he walks through, far too attuned to his random visits throughout the race weekends.
“Schatje!” Max exclaims happily when Charles walks in. He’s lying in his makeshift nest, hair damp after a shower and fiddling with the sleeve of the hoodie Charles lent him this morning.
“Hello beau,” Charles says, falling into the nest. He opens his arms to let Max cuddle into his embrace and presses kisses to his hair. “P1. Magnifique, bébé!”
Max giggles, the sound muffled against Charles’ t-shirt. “But you are in P4 yes? I want a fight, Charles.” He looks at him with a stern look that’s ruined by his smile. “A proper one. With you.”
Charles presses a kiss to his nose. “I promise to try my best.”
“You better,” Max replies with a flick to his cheek. “None of the others hug me as well as you after the podium, of course.”
Speaking of other drivers…
“Chéri, have you noticed anything, I don’t know, different?” Charles asks. “About the drivers?” Specifically one driver, he thinks but doesn’t say.
Max frowns and looks out the window as he mulls it over. “No,” he says after a moment, “I don’t think so.”
It is true that Max is often unaware of how many alphas want him. Of how many alphas blatantly flirt with him and offer him courting gifts he calls ‘sponsor gifts’. But George’s advances, while being those of a fourtenn-year-old, have been unmistakable. If Max has yet to noticed… then George was never truly in the running.
Which Charles knew of already. But it’s nice to have confirmation.
“Really?” Charles asks again. “Nothing about George or Lando or Pierre?” He’s sure Lando and Pierre their normal level of weird but still. Dilution.
“Hmm nothing that I can think of,” Max says. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, nothing. Just paddock talk, I guess.”
Max hums again, drawing circles across Charles' chest with his fingertips. Then, he asks, “Do you have team meetings tonight?”
Technically, they do. But he excluded himself from those meetings days ago. He is still remembers how upset Max looked when Charles had to cancel their last date to fly to Maranello. He doesn't plan on seeing that look again.
“Actually,” Charles says, slowly rolling them around so that Max is lying on his back and he’s braced on his elbow, leaning over him, “I have something else planned.”
“Oh yeah?” Max asks, blushing. “What?”
“A very cute date,” he kisses Max’s cheek, “with a very cute omega,” a kiss to his forehead, a playful bite to his nose, “at a fancy pizzeria,” kiss, bite, kiss, “that’s private and romantic,” bite, kiss, Max laughs, “and probably overpriced but it’s fine because I love spoiling him anyway.”
“And what does this cute omega have to do in return?” Max asks when Charles is done littering his face with kisses.
“He has to stay right here and let me cuddle him for an hour,” Charles replies simply.
“An hour?” Max asks incredulously.
“What can I say? Business is stuff these days,” Charles laments. “Hard deals are needed, I’m afraid.”
Max pretends to think it over before saying exasperatedly, “Alright. One hour. Not a minute more.”
Charles presses a kiss to his lips. “Yes chéri.”
Max falls asleep in his arms twenty minutes later and doesn’t wake up for two more hours.
Later that night, when they’re on the ride back from the date, Max snuggled into his side, Charles thinks that he's got the better end of both deals.
The media in Baku doesn’t give him in any peace – Will you be able to get a podium? Has Ferrari managed to find their footing after the summer break? Is the car not performing? Is it the car that’s not performing?
He answers them as professionally as he can, PR smile never wavering. Then he goes and takes P2 in qualifying, effectively silencing that line of questions.
Max gets P1 and George comes in at P3. Charles doesn’t realise what that means until he is sat on the couch in the media room, unsure whether to be amused or frustrated at George continuously showing Max pictures of something or the other on his phone.
He is certain that it started off as a childhood karting picture and has not escalated into picture of – he peaks subtly over Max’s shoulder – George’s new yacht.
Right.
Because Max hasn’t seen any of those.
When George swipes to the next picture of him on the deck of the yacht, shirtless, and Max replies with a distracted, “Uh huh,” Charles concludes that he is, in fact, very amused.
Is it not common knowledge by now that Max Verstappen is only interested in looking at pictures of cats and race cars? And maybe also those fan-made thirst traps of Charles he has saved on his phone which Charles pretends not to know about.
But still.
The other alpha pulls up a picture from one of his recent photoshoots. He explains something at length about the clothes and the brand and how he’s always wanted to do something with that brand. Charles wonders idly if he's capable of talking about something other than himself.
Suddenly, faintly, Max seems to notice Charles’ gaze on him because he turns to him, eyes wide and curious. Charles gives him an unguarded smile and a wink. A terrible one.
But Max’s cheeks grow pink regardless. He turns back to the phone quickly, a smile trying to fight its way onto his face. He loves it when Charles is playful and Charles loves it when Max blushes.
George seems to notice Max’s blush too.
“Oh, do you like this picture?” he asks, pointing at whatever photoshoot it is now.
“Uh huh,” Max says quietly.
If the fans wonder why there’s a smug smile on his face all throughout the press conference, Charles doesn’t care.
In Singapore, they meet up for dinner at a fancy rooftop restaurant. Carlos invites Charles who brings Max and Alex invites George who apparently said no at first then yes.
Charles has an inkling the change might be because he learnt that Max is coming.
He doesn’t truly mind as George beats Carlos to the seat on Max’s other side. Cracks, tilt, fall.
Carlos leans over to him while the other three are engaged in some talk about the next season, his eyes fixed on the menu to give the illusion of reading it.
“Things are going good?” he asks quietly, nodding his head slightly at Max. Carlos knows about them partly because it was unavoidable as teammates and partly because Charles can’t keep a secret from his friend.
“Everything’s perfect,” Charles says, a smooth smile settling on his lips. “We had dinner at maman’s last week. She is now asking me when I plan to propose.”
Carlos raises and eyebrow expectantly. “So? When will you propose?”
Charles thinks of denying that he has such plans but thinks better of it. Carlos will see through him anyway.
“I’m hoping sometime before next season,” he murmurs, sparing a small glance at Max who’s laughing at something Alex has said. “Maybe announce it a few days before testing. It will be good if we announce the relationship through the engagement so that the media can’t speculate.”
And the likes of George are discouraged, hopefully, forever.
“Do you have a ring yet?” Carlos asks, poking his forearm.
“Yes, it’s with Lorenzo,” Charles whispers back, giddiness buzzing under his skin. “I tried hiding it in my closet, but Max goes through it all the time for clothes and hoodies for his nest.”
“And I will be the best man at the wedding, yes?” Carlos asks, his brows set in a serious stare.
“Be patient. Max has to say yes first,” Charles chides quietly.
Carlos gives him a flat look. “He will say yes if you ask right now with a fruit loop.”
Charles doesn’t say anything because the words feel true and if he thinks of them being true, he'll that dopey smile on his face that he can't hide. Max says it's cute but Charles has seen far too many 'high af' memes to ever get past it.
Max taps his shoulder then and Charles turns back to him.
“What’re you talking about?” Max asks curiously.
“Just winter break plans.” Not a lie. Technically.
They talk through the appetizers and mains and almost the entirety of the non-alcoholic-drinks menu. Sometimes George ropes Max in for a conversation of their own. Sometimes Charles tries to eavesdrop and sometimes he doesn’t.
At one point, Max waves his under the table, between their chairs, and hums quietly in satisfaction when Charles holds it in his.
Just as dessert arrives, he hears George turn the conversation to some fashion endeavour.
“I was invited to a fashion show in Florence,” he hears George say. “In the week between races.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” Max replies, stirring the chocolate sauce into his ice cream.
“Yes, well, I have the offer of a plus one so,” he gestures vaguely. “Would you be interested in coming with me?”
Charles almost snorts on his drink. Almost.
“Oh,” Max says, spoon hanging uncertainly over his ice cream. “I don’t… really know much about fashion.”
And one would think that’s common knowledge by now, Charles thinks.
“That’s quite fine,” George continues with a dismissive wave. “No one’s asking you questions. You really just have to sit there and do nothing the whole time.”
Sitting around, doing nothing is one of Max’s least favourite activities. Beat only by fancy events. And socialising. Charles can only guess what George was even thinking.
“I don’t know…” Max trails off with a bit of hesitation. Then, he brightens like a light bulb turned on in his head.
“Oh, I know,” he says excitedly, “Charles can go with you.”
This time, Charles snorts his drink.
“What?” he and George ask at the same time. Him trying to wrestle the smirk off his face and George looking like someone poured cold water down his back.
“Yeah, you like fashion stuff,” he says not to Charles. “You are always going to some show or the other.” He turns back to George. “He’ll be much better company than me. At lest you two will be able to talk about it.”
“I-” George seems to measure his options. Clearly this hasn’t been among the possible outcomes he’s entertained for asking Max out. Charles wonders if he has entertained possible outcomes or if he simply thought that of course Max would accept, why wouldn’t he?
He seems to realise that there is no backing out of it and just sighs. “Yeah, sure,” he says dejectedly.
Max smiles, evidently happy not to have to go to another fashion event. Charles squeezes his hand under the table.
Two days before the show, Charles graciously makes an excuse over the phone that he won't be able to come and pretends not hear George's audible sigh of relief.
He watches the interview being given in real time from the edge of the Ferrari garage, muscles aching from the qualifying session.
“Of course, there are talks of Max possibly changing teams,” George says to some BBC reporter whom Charles has probably offered to punch in Max’s behalf, “but with our on-track rivalry, I think it would be… interesting to see us as teammates.”
“What rivalry?” Charles almost asks out loud but doesn’t. Last he checked, a few scuffles on track that led to nothing and an exaggerated rant to the media did not qualify as a rivalry.
“You said that Max’s driving last week was rather dangerous,” the reporter says, beseeching smile bright, “any further comment on that?”
“Yes, well his driving has always been rather aggressive,” George retorts. “Many drivers have said that it’s not ideal for the integrity or safety of the sport. But nothing has been done about it thus far which is very disappointing. I think it should be regulated before someone gets hurt.”
For a moment, Charles wonders if this is the same man he saw trying to rope Max into a date last night. Has he grown bitter now that Max doesn’t look to be reciprocating?
Unlikely given that he was drooling after the omega just after Free Practice a few hours ago.
So why the sudden switch up?
Not that Charles hasn’t had his angry rants to the media as well. He has. Many times. But never once after he realised he liked the omega. And none of them ever demeaning Max’s race craft.
Even during the time he and Max were at odds on track, the omega's race craft was the only one thing Charles couldn't bring himself to fault.
It’s sharp.
It’s precise.
It’s racing.
And Charles fucking loves it.
He doesn’t bring any of this up with Max until they’re back at the hotel.
They decide to make dinner because they have time and Charles decides to ask in the quiet of their hotel kitchen, Max sitting behind him on he kitchen island as he stirs the pasta.
“Max, how’s your rivalry with George going?” He doesn’t mean for it to sound condescending. And yet his body seems incapable of delivering it in any other tone.
“What rivalry?” Max asks, head tilted in confusion.
Thought so, Charles' mind supplies euphorically.
“He said something in an interview, no?” Charles asks like he didn’t see it himself. “About how your rivalry might not make you good teammates.”
Max snorts. The little devil. “I won’t be his teammate either way. But there’s no ‘rivalry’ between us, I think.” Max frowns, chewing the inside of his cheek thoughtfully.
“I don’t like racing hard with him,” he mumbles eventually. “It might be fun and he might be good, but he always complains so much after. As if everything I did was wrong. Too much.” He looks up at Charles with wide eyes. “You are, of course, okay with it. I like racing you hard.”
Charles gives him a playful smile. “So, you’re saying we could be rivals?”
Max hums in contemplation. “Depends,” he says with a shrug. “Are you going to shittalk me to the media?”
He has a can of Red Bull in one hand and is lightly holding on to the back hem of Charles’ t-shirt with the other.
He always does this when they are alone; maintain a small bridge of contact between them like his life depends on it. A head on the shoulder, intertwined pinkies, legs thrown over each other, a hand playing with hair. And Charles lets him because how can he not? Even his life depends on it at this point.
“Never,” Charles says as he turns around and leans against the kitchen island next to Max. “Although I might show up at your motorhome just before the race to kiss you. As a distraction tactic of course.”
Suddenly, Max leans over and kisses him. A firm press of soft lips against his own, warm and familiar and unbelievably sweet. Charles almost drops the spoon in his hand.
Then Max pulls back with a cheeky smirk.
“Like that?” he asks.
Exactly like that, Charles thinks.
The interview gets plastered on the internet and, as predicted, creates a stir.
@BBCSport
GEORGE RUSSELL SAYS RIVAL VERSTAPPEN'S 'DANGEROUS' DRIVING MUST BE STOPPED BEFORE 'SOMEONE GETS HURT'.
@f1.talkz.
Agreed. Crashtappen needs to be stopped.
@parzival008
No one’s stopping him because he’s spreading his legs for the stewards
@skye
Stop writing your omegaphobic fantasies on the internet loser.
@luzypopzz
Y’all are fighting but I think George wants Max.
@pitnstop
He just said Max should be banned from racing???
@parzival008
Of course that slut wants another diver.
Charles reads the whole thing while Max is asleep and deletes twitter from his phone once he’s done. He doesn’t trust himself not to say something that might get him (and Max) in deep trouble.
The next day, on the ride to the track, he asks Max if he’s read about George’s interview and Max asks, “What interview?” and Charles calms down slightly.
As long as Max doesn’t read that shit, he’s fine.
But he’s still angry about it. Angry at George. At the fans. At everything.
He’s so angry he turns his P7 on the grid into a P2 on the podium and gives Max the fight he asked for. As a treat. And an apology.
Of all the rookies Charles expects to be inside his motorhome, Kimi Antonelli is the last.
Not that they don’t get along. They do. But there is a mutual accusation between them of taking up too much of Max’s time.
“Kimi,” Charles starts, already structuring his argument to say why he deserves Max’s time more without revealing their relationship, “if this is about Max talking to me throughout the driver’s parade last race, I-”
“No, no, it’s not that,” Kimi rushes to say, hands raised in a placating gesture.
It’s then that Charles takes a moment to take in the young pup. He's still in his fireproofs from qualifying and his scent is a sharp sting, like soured cherries.
“Oh,” Charles says, defensive anger seeping out of his body, “what is it?”
“Um, so, I don’t know how close you are with Max,” Kimi starts, fingers fidgeting nervously, “if you are courting or… just friends but… Max trusts you so I thought I should tell you.”
“Tell me what?” Charles asks, taking an instinctive step forward, his alpha tensing. If something is wrong with Max-
“I think George wants to court Max,” Kimi blurts out.
Charles blinks.
Tilts his head.
Then blinks again.
“Or at least he wants to fuck him,” Kimi goes on, eyes darting every where but to Charles' face. “I don’t know… the details but. I think he’s been hitting on Max and Max obviously has not said anything. George seems to think that’s a… challenge? Like he’s playing hard to get?” Kimi sighs. “I mean, George is good, but I don't think he realises that Max is not interested. I am just worried he will do something that will put Max in trouble with the FIA or the media.”
Then he takes a deep breathe and looks at Charles properly, his eyes determined if slightly scared.
“Even if you are not with Max,” the pup says, “I wanted to tell you because you clearly care about him. And you know how the media is, always saying Max is with some alpha or the other. They will react horribly of they learn that George wants him."
Oh, Charles knows alright.
He knows, which is why they have kept their relationship private so far. One can only imagine the onslaught Max will get if the media learn that he's being courted by another driver.
But Kimi is right. While Charles understands this, George clearly doesn't, given his suggestive interview answers and hungry gazes in the middle of the paddock, almost like a public spectacle.
He knew this. He saw it. And he’s been sitting on it for long enough.
"I'll take care of it," he tells Kimi who visibly relaxes at the reassurance. It comforts Charles in a way that the younger driver is willing to put their tension and petty arguments aside for Max. Maybe Charles shouldn’t complain about his presence so much.
Maybe.
Then, Kimi straightens again, his wide eyes curious. "Are you and Max courting though?" he asks.
Charles just smiles and tells him his garage is probably looking for him.
Charles at first thinks of simply approaching George and telling him the truth. That Max is taken. And that his advances are pointless and should therefore stop.
But in order to do that, he needs to ask Max if he's okay with George knowing about them. And to do that, Charles has to let him know about all the ways Georg has been trying to get in his pants.
He tries to tell Max is Austin but Max wins and he looks so good when he wins and he also looks good sprawled out by their plunge pool and he smells so good when he's happy and Charles doesn't tell him.
He doesn’t in Mexico either. Or Brazil.
After Las Vegas, they hit the club and Charles swears on his P3 trophy that he’ll tell Max tonight. But then Max lets him pour alcohol into his mouth because they paid extra for this VIP area with no cameras and Charles can hardly stand upright after that, much less talk about another alpha with his omega.
He resolves that he’ll bring it up in the jet ride home. When Max is comfortable in his nest and Charles can cuddle him for hours if he’s upset or laugh with him if he finds it all as amusing as Charles does.
But at the exit of the club, he’s met with George. And Carlos.
The words are on the tip of his tongue, soaked with a burning mix of smugness and protectiveness, just waiting to fly out. But he hasn’t talked to Max yet and he refuses to say anything without his omega’s approval. Even if there’s an itch in his bone marrow to see George’s reaction.
“Charles, celebrate well?” Carlos asks, squeezing his shoulder.
“Oh, I needed that tonight,” he says with a laugh. P3 isn't P1 but it's not P6 either.
“Is Max still in there?” George asks suddenly, hands in his pockets and eyes glued to the entrance to the party. He’s trying to look unbothered, Charles can tell.
“Yes, he said he’ll party some more, I think,” he replies.
Not really, though. He’s just waiting for Charles to call the cab.
“Any plans for the off season?” Carlos asks, a wave of his hand saying 'other than that'.
“Haven’t really thought about it yet,” he shrugs. He’ll probably end up doing whatever Max wants. “There is a nice island in Bali I’ve wanted to visit and-”
“Charlie!”
Charles has enough time to snap his neck to the side before he staggers back a step with an armful of very drunk Dutchman. He grabs Max’s waist instinctively, supporting his weight as the omega all but sags into his embrace.
“I wanna go home,” Max whines, face buried in Charles’ neck and fists clenched in the front of his shirt.
Charles should, if he were logical, be worried about who might see them this close to the exit. But logic tends to leave him whenever Max smells like that or hugs him like this.
“It’s okay, chéri,” Charles whispers, dropping a small kiss to Max’s temple. “I called a cab. We can leave when it gets here.”
“I want to cuddle with you,” Max goes on, somehow shuffling deeper into the hug. Charles tightens his arms in response. “I want to go home and cuddle with you.” His words slur slightly together, the Gin and Tonics he has inhaled finally catching up to him. “And I want to you too kiss me! Why aren’t you kissing me?”
He steps back looking genuinely upset and Charles rushes to press a soft yet firm kiss to his lips. “Better?” he asks, unable to keep the love-struck smile from his face.
“Better,” Max mumbles, his cheeks now blushed red. Whether it’s the drinks or the kiss, Charles doesn’t know.
“Think your cab’s here.”
It’s then that Charles remembers the other two. He turns to see Carlos standing there with an amused smirk, one finger pointing out the door to the car that has pulled up.
Then, with a sudden shot of elation running up his spine, he wills his eyes to George. Who looks very much like he has seen his worst nightmare. And maybe he has.
Well, that’s the whole ‘telling George’ thing sorted, Charles thinks with a barely restrained smirk.
“Oh, let’s go!” Max says happily, grabbing his hand and pulling him along. “Bye Carlos!” he turns back and shouts. “Bye George!”
Charles thinks that maybe Max shouldn’t add salt to the wound but then again, who is he to deny his omega anything?
“Bye, Max!” Carlos calls back. Just as they walk out the door, he hears him say to George, “Surely you knew they were courting, yes? At least had a suspicion?”
George might reply once he has collected his jaw off the floor but that is none of Charles’ business.
He pulls Max closer as they settle into the backseat of the car. Max purrs softly and rests his head on Charles’ shoulder. He dozes off as the car pulls out into meandering night traffic.
Charles stares at him for a while, his blond hair unruly and falling onto his forehead, his features soft with sleep and drinks, his scent happy and calm and so fucking sweet.
He pulls his phone out without disturbing Max and goes to his chat with Lorenzo. He was planning on waiting until winter break but… fuck it.
Charles
Hey, are you at home this weekend?
I need that ring.