Work Text:
Dancing in the Dark
“There you are”. Charles had put his head around the half open door of the small side room where Max had taken refuge. “Why you hide in here?”
“Tired”. Max had crammed himself into the corner of the sofa, legs stretched out in front of him, hands folded comfortably on his stomach, the inevitable Red Bull cap pulled down over his eyes. “Just wanted to get away”.
“Still ziek?” Charles entered the room and closed the door softly. Max felt the sofa dip as Charles sat down. He had thought he wanted to be alone but realised that actually that wasn’t what he wanted; he wanted Charles with him. Stupid, soft Charles, who would be silent when Max needed it, or loud and boisterous when he thought Max was being too silent. Stupid, soft Charles, who had a core of steel running right through him that made him one of the most dangerous people Max had ever known.
“Ja, een beetje”, Max answered without thinking. “A bit”, he amended, nestling his head into the soft cushions of the sofa. “Glad practice is over for a while”. He opened one eye. “You said ziek. I’m turning you into a Dutchman”.
“Never happen. Terrible hard language. Hurts the throat. Now come here”. Max felt the sofa shift but didn’t move. “Hear me? Ici”.
With a show of reluctance, Max shifted until he was lying on the sofa - remembering to kick his trainers off first, making Charles snort, then settled with his head on Charles’ thigh.
“Good”. Charles began to rub at Max’s temples. “Still the headache? You are starting to - what’s the word? Strabisme”.
Max thought for a long minute, translating the word into various languages before finally coming up with “squint”.
“Yes, squint”. Charles’ fingers were still gentle, rubbing across his forehead and down between his eyes. “Silly man, pretending all is fine”.
“Just a virus”, Max protested. “It’ll go”.
“‘Just a virus’”, Charles mocked. “Not good, when driving at 300kph, hein?”
Max didn’t answer. Charles always had the last word when they were together like this. It had been the same since they had been children.
“Remember when you did this for me all those years ago?” Charles said softly, fingers still moving softly. “When I crashed and broke my foot?”
“You cried so much your voice ran out”, Max said, his voice equally soft. “I remember finding you curled up in the bathroom”.
“I was so angry”, Charles said. “I hurt, but more than that I was just angry at my own stupidity. I can remember you taking me back to my room and lulling me back to sleep”. There was the softest breath of a laugh. “You always surprised me back then; you still do. You have so many sides”.
They were both quiet then and Max felt himself begin to drop off to sleep, soothed by the movement and the steady presence. A bell shrilling just outside startled them both into alertness.
“Verdomd!” Max cursed and sat up. “Media time”. He put his cap back on and glanced at Charles. “Thanks”, he said, smiling. He wiggled his own fingers. “Magic hands”.
“You should know”. Charles smiled at him, innocent as a newborn baby, and Max laughed, pushing himself off the sofa and stretching.
“Come on”. He held out a hand. Charles looked at it and then reached up and took it, letting Max pull him to his feet. They faced each other, neither of them letting go.
“Been a little while”, Charles said after a long moment, raising his free hand to Max’s cheek. “Kind of missed you”. He moved his fingers, cupping Max’s cheek, smiling at the way Max pressed into him. “You’re looking good”.
“Says you”. Max turned his head, his lips brushing briefly across Charles’ palm
The alarm shrilled again and they broke apart, grinning like children.
“See you later?” Max made the question as casual as he could.
“Count on it”.
**
Charles was good at media. He was charming, had perfected a harmless, friendly if slightly dim persona and he played it to the hilt on this particular day; playing silly games, laughing with his teammate, pinning on his patented somewhat baffled look, making the crowd fall for him, even those who hated Ferrari with a passion. They all said later when discussing the day with their mates; “I can't hate that bloke Leclerc. Wish he was on our team”.
Max hated media. He was serious, answered each question as if he were taking an exam, hated the stupid games that Charles loved, and although adored by the Red Bull followers, the other fans remained either neutral or downright negative towards him. Those same people later would say, “Brilliant driver, not arguing. Bit dirty, though”.
So, those same people would say, how could they ever be friends? It had to be put on.
**
They had met as children; Charles from a family that surrounded him with love and support; Max from a broken household and a father who was bent on creating a champion and had no time for love. They hadn’t liked each other, not at first, but slowly Max had been drawn to Charles’ warmth, and that of his family. HIs mother, perceptive and kind, traits she handed to all her sons; his father, a bear of a man who laughed a lot and wanted people to be happy. So different to his own father who loved him, Max knew, but who had no time for softness.
They became friends, but not good friends, not immediately. That had happened gradually until suddenly Max couldn’t imagine a day without seeing Charles at some point, and Charles had told him that he felt an absence when Max wasn’t there with him. Yes, they fought on the track, and sometimes off it, but they were always there for each other.
Very slowly, they had become inseparable. Fighting constantly, falling out, trying to kill each other on the track, and laughing uproariously about nothing, going out for long days together, hiking or cycling, trying tricks that would have caused their parents to have a collective fit. The time Max came back with a gash on his arm so deep that you could see the fat layer; the time Charles lost all their belongings by throwing them into the river in the middle of a tantrum; the time they both got lost and were out until the night fell and Jos smacked Max so hard that his head rang. Charles had witnessed it, and although he took note of Max’s shake of the head and didn’t speak, the next time they had met he had brushed his fingers across the now-fading bruise and shaken his head. He had never told his mother or his brothers, but from that day on the bond tightened and deepened. And even in the cutthroat world of F1 where it was part of the job to wind each other up and make comments about each other, still it stayed, that something, that thread that bound them.
Max would never forget being woken late one night by the shrill ringing of the old landline. His father had hung on to it so that he could keep an eye on who Max was speaking to. He may be a ‘real’ driver now, as his father put it, but when he was at home, he was still very much his father’s son. Now, afraid of how annoyed Jos would be, he had run to answer it, barely having time to say hello before Charles was sobbing at him down the phone.
“What? What is it? Charles?” He had pressed the receiver hard against his ear. Charles tried to answer him but began to pant as if he was about to hyperventilate.
“Charles? Charlie? Come on”. He looked up as Jos’ figure loomed in the doorway, but he turned his back and curled around the handset. “Charlie, listen to me. You breathe with me, okay? Come on, breathe with me”. He listened as Charles struggled to match his breathing to his own, and said again, “Just breathe with me. I’m here”.
“Papa”. Charles said at last, still breathing hard, still almost out of control. “Max, papa died”.
“Oh”. The noise was little more than a sigh. “Oh Charles…” He had known that Monsieur Leclerc had been unwell but hadn’t realised it had been so bad. Charles was so young, and now he had lost his godfather and his father, and so close together. Sometimes life just seemed unfair.
“Are you with your family?” he asked then, aware that Jos was walking towards him and realising he wouldn’t have a lot of time before the phone was taken out of his hand.
“Oui, oui, we’re together. Just - I just wanted you to know. I wanted to tell you”.
“Okay, thank you”. Max paused. “Will I see you soon?”
“I don’t know. Soon, maybe”.
“Call me whenever you want”, Max said. “I’m here for you, whenever you need me”.
“I know. Thank you”. There was a long pause and Max could almost sense Jos reaching for the receiver. Then Charles spoke again. ”Oh, Max, papa died!”
And then Jos was there and the phone was slammed down.
“You need to sleep”, said his father. “Go on, go to bed”.
“Monsieur Leclerc died”, Max said. “That was Charles”.
That gave Jos pause. “Hmm”, he said finally. “I’m sorry, he was a good man, but Charles has family. He doesn’t need you”.
**
They had seen each other again two weeks later when Charles returned to the track; they hadn’t spoken since the phone call.
They met by accident, Max looking over his shoulder and talking to a persistent reporter cannoned into somebody and turned to face them, scowling. He fell into the sadness in Charles’ eyes and looking back years later he realised that from that moment on, he had never really climbed back out.
“Max”. Charles had touched Max’s cheek. “My friend. I’m sorry that I haven’t contacted you”. He waved his hand. “Such madness”. He smiled, still sad. “Can I see you later?”
“Yes”. Max didn’t even think about it. His father would probably be angry but if he won today he could perhaps get away with it. “Yes, I’ll find you after the race”.
“Good”. Charles went to move past him, his shoulder bumping into Max. “I’ll see you then. I’ll find you”.
**
And now they stood side by side in the media room, answering the same old questions. Charles could feel Max’s presence in the way he always could; there was a change in the air when Max was near him, and he was aware he was being more giggly and foolish than usual in interviews, especially after another disastrous showing. One part of his brain was listening to Max; he sounded tired and dragged down, even though he had managed to pull the fastest lap. Luckily, Charles suspected most people would put it down to Max being Max.
Finally he was able to get away and crossed the few steps to Max, who was now leaning quite heavily against the wall behind him.
“Hi”, Charles said, smiling at the interviewer, giving it the full crinkly eyes and dimples, knowing it would work. And it did. The reporter’s attention shifted away immediately. “We have to go now”. He looked at Max, still guileless. “Did you hear that?” He tapped his ear, in his own mind pretending that he had an earpiece in. “We’re needed”.
Max stared for a moment and then nodded, dredging up a smile for the reporter, who had lost interest in him anyway. Charles smiled in turn and placed a friendly hand on Max’s shoulder, steering him away.
“You’re sick, aren’t you? Just a virus hein? Come with me”.
“Charles, I’m fine”. Although Max didn’t really feel fine. The nagging headache was slowly taking a stranglehold and his eyes were beginning to blur. It felt like Silverstone all over again. Charles was definitely taking charge of the situation, remaining pleasant and kind to everybody whilst barrelling through the crowds in a way that would have had anybody else cursed out at every turn.
“You are ridiculous”, he said for Charles’ ears only. “You are a ridiculous man”.
Charles glanced over his shoulder and gave him a dimpled smile. “I do what works”, he said. “And this is working”.
Even as he spoke, he pushed his way through what seemed to be a fire escape and Max felt his eyes flutter closed as cooler air hit him. He could smell the track, the burning rubber smell of the tyres that he loved so much, mixed with the hot engines and just the hint of cigarette smoke, which was absolutely forbidden of course, but there was always one…
“Somebody’s smoking”, he said.
“So they blow themselves up and it will serve them right”. Charles moved his hand from Max’s shoulder and took hold of his hand instead. “Come on, we’re going”.
“We can’t. We have a race”.
“Tomorrow. I’m not saying we’re going to the other side of the world, idiot. I’m saying we’re going back to the hotel”. He let out a piercing whistle that made all the nerve endings in Max’s head hold hands and jump up and down, and then he let go of Max’s hand.
“What?” Max squinted at Charles, trying to work out what was going on.
“Just seen Arthur. He can drive us. Back in a second, I have to catch him”.
And just like that, he was gone, shouting Arthur’s name. By the way he kept shouting it as his voice faded into the distance Arthur had already been halfway back to the hotel. The sudden screech of brakes and subsequent heated exchange in a combination of Monegasque French and Italian made Max believe that Charles had, in fact, thrown himself in front of the car.
A few seconds later, he was back. “Okay, stopped him!” Charles sounded so ridiculously bright that Max laughed and then stopped because it hurt. When Charles spoke again his voice was a lot softer. “Okay, come on, andiamo, I’ve got you”. He took Max’s hand again and led him to the car.
“Max, are you okay?” Arthur’s voice was just as soft as Charles’.
“Headache”, he said. “Maybe a migraine, not sure”.
“A virus”, said Charles and Max could see the quotes around the word. “Idiot thought he could hide it”.
“Oh Max. When did you ever successfully hide anything from Charles? Get in the car, we’ll get you out of here”.
**
Max collapsed face first onto the hotel bed and buried his face in the pillow. He wasn’t even aware of Charles moving around the room closing curtains, plunging the room into gloom.
“I can smell you”, Max said suddenly, startling Charles. “Did you know that? I can always smell you”.
“Should I be offended?” The bed sagged as Charles sat down and put a hand onto Max’s back, rubbing gently. “You saying I smell?”
“You do”, Max said. “You smell of - you. The cologne you wear, whatever you put in your hair, all of that”. He raised his hand and waggled his fingers. Charles shifted up the bed until he was sitting beside Max, his back resting against the headboard. Then he caught the still waggling fingers and held the hand between his own. Max shifted and put his face against Charles’ hip.
“So what do I smell of?” Charles said, his voice soft in the gloom.
“You smell like you. Our history and everything we’ve done. You smell of home”.
“Ah, listen to you, caro uomo”. Charles rested his head against the headboard. “Nobody would believe it was you if they heard this. They would think you had been possessed by a nice person”.
Max snorted but didn’t respond. He was finally relaxing and was heading down the path to sleep.
“Same for me”, Charles whispered, although not loudly enough to be heard. “Same for me”.
**
It was never clear who made the first move; they pretty much blinked at the same time, each of them taking a step forward and meeting in the middle.
They had been, almost inevitably, in Monaco, sitting together in the bow of a yacht as their friends drank and shouted and danced only a few feet away. Max felt as if he were suspended in a different world though, outside what was really happening, aware of only one thing; the heat of the body beside him, thigh pressing against thigh, Charles’ arm resting on the bow rail behind Max’s shoulders. All very casual, all very - heightened.
“Well?” Charles’ voice was quiet but Max, who was feeling like a cat before a thunderstorm, jumped as if he had shouted. Charles laughed softly. “Well?” he said again.
Max cleared his throat. “Well, what?”
“You had a good time, hein, over the weekend? Never thought I’d see you riding a horse”.
“I don’t think you can call that riding”, Max said judiciously. “You looked fabulous, you looked born to it. I was like a sack of potatoes”.
“Strong thighs”, Charles moved his arm from the bow rail and let it rest on his own thigh although his fingers brushed Max’s. “I thought you looked …” He paused and snorted softly before looking away and saying softly, “like a hero”.
Max didn’t speak, watching the partygoers, their shadows strange and elongated in the strobe lighting. They looked like some kind of weird cult, dancing at the end of the world.
He felt Charles’ breath soft against his cheek. “Max?”
Max swallowed, his eyes briefly closing. Almost without realising he turned his head and fell into Charles’ sad, intense eyes. “Hi”, he said.
“Do you think”, Charles continued in the same soft voice, “that we should do something about this?” He moved his hand until it was on Max’s upper thigh and Max heard himself make a high pitched whimper.
“What?” he asked, tilting his head, unconsciously realising that he was at just the right angle now to kiss Charles. Because, he finally acknowledged, there was nothing else he would rather do.
“This”. Charles wasn’t smiling, but his eyes were warm and, Max realised, no longer sad. His own eyes closed as Charles raised his hand and cupped Max’s cheek. “Think we’ve been building for a while, no?”
“Think so”, Max whispered. “Charles…”
“No”, Charles laid a finger on Max’s lips. “Don’t overthink, don’t wonder whether it’s a good idea”. He moved his finger and Max felt the slightest ghost of a touch on his lips; the whisper of a kiss, of a warmth that just felt - familiar. He leaned forward, almost unconsciously.
“Open your eyes, bell’uomo. I want you to see me, nobody else. Just me”.
Helpless, Max opened his eyes and blinked, startled. Charles was so close. He thought that they had been physically close before, but this felt different - intimate. He put his own hand up and tangled it in Charles’ hair, fingers tracing the delicate shape of his ear.
Charles smiled, nothing more than a quirk of the lips but it was enough to make Max relax enough to be able to smile in return and close the distance between them.
No first kiss is great, unless it’s in a movie or a novel. Most of the time it’s awkward trying to work out whose nose goes where, trying to breathe without appearing to be outright panting, not forgetting the simple fact of actually hitting the target. So no, no first kiss is great.
But this one, as far as both Max and Charles were concerned, was pretty damn incredible. They seemed to just fit together, clicking as naturally as if they had been doing this for years. Charles pressed closer, pushing Max into the soft cushions, finally kneeling on the bench, one breath away from straddling him, hands deep in Max’s hair; the hair Max maintained was too long but Charles loved. Max had his own hands fisted in Charles’ shirt, pulling him in as close as he could, suddenly wanting to simply climb all over him. He slid one hand under the shirt, splaying his hand on the warm skin of Charles’ back, loving the sensation of muscle under flesh.
Finally, they broke apart, breathless and grinning like evil children. Charles’ lips were red and swollen, his eyes bright with laughter and something Max couldn’t name.
“I’ve made a mess of your hair”, he said feebly. “Sorry”.
“Same here”, Charles said. “You look - my god, you look - so ready”. He leaned forward for a kiss, softer this time and whispered against Max’s lips. “Are you?”
“I don’t care where we go”, Max replied, still clinging to Charles’ shirt. “Just let’s get out of here”.
**
And now, here they were. Max snuffling in his sleep as Charles mindlessly channel hopped, looking for something inane on the TV. He found a classical music channel and left it on, switched down low so that it was just a sound in the background. Then he slid down and wrapped his arm around Max, pulling him close. He suspected that they were stuck here for the duration now. Qualifying tomorrow, but until then, they were safe and isolated. Arthur had promised to take care of things back at the track, and so Charles lay quietly, his mind full of the sound of the music and of the presence of Max, warm and solid against him.
He must have dozed because when he woke, the bed was empty. He rolled over, trying to work out where he was, until he finally focused on the sound of the shower. He took the opportunity to get off the bed and roughly remake it, then shrugged out of his shirt and dug around in the drawers until he found the soft trousers he liked to sleep in. He congratulated himself on having the sense to bring Max to his own suite rather than both of them going to Max’s, as that would mean a lot of creeping about corridors as Charles had a certain routine that had to be stuck to, especially when he was close to a race. This way, he could still do all the routine things he had to, and still care for Max, who had no routine at all, who simply got up after sim racing until dawn, and went out and won the race.
He moved over to the kitchen area and began to prepare coffee, making sure to use the decaffeinated, since he felt that the warmth of a hot drink would be welcome without the caffeine hit. He was vaguely aware of the water in the shower shutting off, but didn’t respond until he heard a door open and a wave of warm air hit him. Then he looked up and couldn’t stop the smile.
“Hi”, he said, his hands stilling and just resting on the surface in front of him. “Hi”.
“Hello”. One corner of Max’s mouth twitched, but other than that he didn’t move and Charles took his time to simply stare. There were certain words that had always belonged with Max; strong was always the main one; Max’s strength was something that never failed to excite Charles. There were so many other words: kind, funny, generous... so many. Right now, though, the word was…
“You look beautiful”, Charles said simply, taking a step forward. “How I have missed you. On a peine pu se voir, et tu m'as manqué”.
“We see each other all the time”, protested Max mildly, although the way he smirked made it clear he knew exactly what Charles meant. He tightened the towel that was wrapped around his waist and Charles saw the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed.
“I love your hair”. Charles paused and listened to himself, aghast. “I’m turning into a romance novel”, he said. “Any second I’m going to strew rose petals at your feet”.
“Please don’t”. Max moved over and checked what Charles was doing, then tilted his head. “Nice music”.
“Chopin”, said Charles. “Always a good bet when you have seduction on your mind”. He turned back to the business of making coffee.
“And do you?” Max kissed the back of Charles’ neck.
Charles didn’t answer immediately, then he turned back, temporarily giving up on domesticity. “I was speaking to maman today”, he said, apparently choosing to ignore Max’s question. “She sends her love”.
Max nodded. “Back to her”.
“She was asking about you. Well, talking about you”. Charles reached out and ran his finger down Max’s collarbone. “She had been watching some of the media collection she keeps. Did you know that I am the only driver who can keep up with you?”
“Of course I know”, Max put his hand over Charles’. “It’s always been the same”.
“She said ‘dance’”, Charles said. “Only I can dance with you”.
“That’s what we do when we drive, don’t you think? We dance”.
“Can you dance to Chopin?” Charles stepped forward and put his other hand on Max’s chest.
“I can’t dance to anything”, Max responded. “I can only dance in the car”. He reached down and took hold of Charles’ hand, kissing his palm. “I only dance with you”.
He let go of Charles’ hand and walked over to the bed where, with no sign of self-consciousness, he pulled away the towel that had been wrapped around his waist and dropped it on the floor before climbing into bed, where he sat, hugging his knees, outright grinning at Charles.
“You feel better, hein?” Charles turned back and finally poured them both coffees, carrying the mugs over to the bed.
“Mmm”. Max watched Charles walk over, his eyes very wide and very blue. As Charles bent to put down one of the mugs, Max reached over and took the other drink out of his hand and put that down as well. “Charlie?” Charles looked at him. “Come here”.
Charles smiled and let Max pull him forward until his knee hit the bed and he let himself drop, stopping his fall at the last moment so that he was nose to nose with Max. “I’m here”, he said, leaning forward, lips brushing Max’s cheek “We’re here, together, and nobody is going to disturb us. Just for tonight, we’re safe”.
“Good”. Max buried his face in Charles’ neck and Charles, with the ease of long familiarity, slid to one side, gathering Max into his arms. It had been their favourite sleeping position for as long as either of them could remember; Max held in Charles’ arms so that he could finally relax and let his guard down.
Charles reached up and turned the lights down to the slightest glow and dropped a kiss on Max’s temple. “Good night, foolish man”.
But Max had gone again, and with a small, secret smile, Charles settled more comfortably and closed his eyes. Tomorrow would be here soon enough, but right now, it was just the two of them.