Chapter Text
Max likes sex, sue him and sleeping with the son of an Italian mafia boss wasn’t exactly on purpose. He won Imola, got wasted, and the consequences bit him in the ass. Hard.
He didn’t know, okay? Maybe the gun Luca left on the nightstand was a sign but Max was drunk and horny, and that tends to override basic survival instincts.
Luca was handsome and persistent in a way that felt flattering at first and suffocating later. Gifts arrived unprompted. He showed up to races uninvited, always smiling like he owned the place. Luca was everything Max could ever want from a guy, charming, confident, dangerous and also everything Max knew he should stay far away from. Worst of all, Luca didn’t take no for an answer.
So when Max wins Monza, he dreads the clubs but Charles gives him those stupid puppy eyes, and Max caves immediately.
Pathetic behavior from Max.
And of course Luca finds him. An arm snakes around Max’s waist. “Congratulazioni, tesoro,” Luca murmurs into his ear.
Max freezes. Fantastic, Great even. He’s going to die in a nightclub. What a headline. Max Verstappen, four-time world champion, taken out between the VIP section and a sticky dance floor.
“Luca, stop.” Max tries to twist away. Luca doesn’t budge.
Max exhales, sharp and panicked, scanning the room for an exit, a distraction, anything. Then he locks eyes with Charles…And suddenly, a terrible, brilliant and absolutely unhinged plan forms in his head.
Because maybe, maybe, Luca won’t murder him if he’s dating Italy’s sweetheart, Charles Leclerc. Ferrari golden boy. National treasure. Untouchable.
“Luca, can you stop groping me? My boyfriend is here.” He even adds a pout. Commitment to the bit.
Luca’s grip tightens. “Who? I’m going to kill him.”
Charles winks and Max would die for him. Actually, no, Max would do worse. Luca’s grip loosens.
“Oh..Il predestinato?” Luca scowls, making Max roll his eyes. Italians. “È un uomo fortunato.”
He pats Max’s back like he’s relinquishing property, and Max wastes zero time fleeing straight into Charles.
“Prenditi cura di te, tesoro,” Luca calls after him.
Yeah, sure, absolutely, whatever. Max doesn’t speak Italian anyway. Charles immediately wraps an arm around Max’s shoulders.
“Do you know who that was?” Charles asks. He’s serious. It’s not surprising that Charles knows how to identify mafia people…well, maybe a little.
Max nods weakly. Yes,his imminent cause of death.
“Kiss me?” Max blurts, because Luca is definitely still watching and Max enjoys being alive.
Charles hesitates, just for a second, then leans in. Max melts into it instantly. If Charles doesn’t push him away, Max is prepared to dedicate his entire life to him. Reasonable reaction. Charles pulls him closer, bodies flush, kissing him properly, like he means it and Max makes an embarrassing noise into his mouth.
Okay. New problem.
“Let’s go back to the hotel, chatte?” Charles murmurs against his neck.
Max frowns. His French isn’t great, but…Charles is definitely laughing at him. The bastard has the audacity to look amused while Max is having a full crisis in the middle of a nightclub.
“Did you just call me a pussy?” Max whispers against Charles’ mouth.
Charles blinks once, then bursts out laughing. Actually laughing. Head tipped back and everything.
“No, mon cœur,” Charles says between laughs, still holding Max close enough that Luca can definitely see. “Chatte means kitten.”
Max narrows his eyes. “That sounds fake.”
“It is not fake.”
“You’re French. Everything you say sounds fake.”
“Monegauqse!”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Max rolled his eyes.
Behind them, Luca is still watching. Max can feel it like a sniper laser between his shoulder blades, so he does the only reasonable thing possible. He grabs Charles by the jaw and kisses him again. Charles makes a surprised sound before immediately kissing him back harder, one hand sliding to Max’s waist. Max hates how good Charles is at this. It’s deeply offensive. Their bodies press together and Max can practically hear Luca reevaluating his entire murder plan in real time. When they pull apart, they are both breathless.
“That one,” Charles murmurs softly, “felt less fake.”
Max ignores the way his stomach flips.
“Hotel,” Max says immediately. “Now. Before my mafia situationship decides to investigate our relationship.”
Charles hums. “You know, usually people buy me dinner before pretending to date me.”
“I bought you dinner last month.”
Charles snorts and starts steering Max toward the exit with an arm around his waist. The second they step outside into the cooler night air, Max exhales so hard he nearly folds in half.
“Oh my god,” he groans. “I’m going to die.”
Charles leans against the car waiting for them, entirely too relaxed for someone currently aiding and abetting whatever the fuck this is.
“You’re welcome,” he says lightly, though his eyes are still sharp, still tracking everything. “Do I get an explanation now?”
Max drags a hand through his hair. “Imola,” he says. “Alcohol. Bad decisions. Good sex.”
“Okay. Stop. I don’t need the full…visual.”
“Good,” Max mutters. “You’re not getting one. Premium content is behind a paywall.”
Charles sighs, scrubbing his face. “So. Mafia boyfriend.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
Charles gives him a look. Max hesitates. Then Charles straightens slightly, something shifting behind his eyes, calculating, and a little concerning.
“…he backed off,” he says slowly.
Max nods. “Yeah. Apparently dating Il Predestinato does wonders. Italians, you know, so dramatic, so easy.”
Charles laughs, and it’s so pretty that Max is briefly mesmerized. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s just Charles. Charles opens the car door for him. Max slides inside, rubbing his face with both hands.
“This is bad,” he mutters. “This is so bad.”
“Mm.” Charles settles beside him. “Counterpoint: now you have a lovely fake boyfriend. Problems solved.”
Max turns toward him slowly. “You’re enjoying this.”
Charles’ smile turns sharp. “Immensely.”
The car starts moving. Max watches the lights of Milan blur past the windows and tries not to think about the fact Charles is still holding his hand from the club. He’s probably doing it for appearances. Except they’re alone now.
“…you can let go,” Max says weakly.
Charles looks down at their joined hands like he forgot they were there.
“No,” he says simply.
Max wakes up feeling like someone replaced his blood with battery acid. His head throbs. His mouth is dry. There’s warmth pressed against his back and an arm locked around his waist. Max freezes.
Oh fuck.
For five horrifying seconds, Max’s brain short-circuits completely. Murdered? Kidnapped? Married? Dead? Then he looks down.
Charles.
Charles is half sprawled over him, asleep so deeply he looks unfairly peaceful, face tucked against Max’s chest like this is the most natural place in the world for him to be. His curls are a mess. One of his legs is tangled with Max’s. Max exhales so hard his entire body goes limp with relief.
Okay. Okay. Not dead. Not kidnapped. Possibly still in danger, but like… emotionally.
And then his brain, traitorous thing that it is, starts replaying last night. The kissing in the elevator. The way Charles had backed him against the mirrored wall with both hands on Max’s waist while Max laughed helplessly into his mouth. The way Charles kept looking at him afterward, dazed and hungry. Then stumbling into the hotel room. More kissing. Hands everywhere. Charles undressing him carefully, slowly, like Max was something precious instead of a drunk disaster and bad decisions. Max remembers Charles pushing his shirt off and just, looking at him. Like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to.
Max wants to pass away instantly. He shifts slightly under the blankets. Nope. Absolutely not. He needs to leave immediately. Disappear, fake his death maybe. Move to a remote mountain village where nobody can find him. People would whisper about it for years. Did you hear? Verstappen vanished after Monza.
Max stares at the ceiling in horror. Then he looks down again. Charles is still asleep, arms around him tighter now after Max moved and the thing is…this isn’t just Charles.
This is Charles. The kid Max raced against for years. The one always right there beside him on track. Brilliant and stubborn and too fucking pretty for someone who drove like that. The boy Max spent years pretending he didn’t look for every race. The one teenage Max had developed a catastrophic crush on for approximately six months and then buried alive out of sheer self-preservation. Because obviously nothing good could come from having feelings for Charles. Max had been sixteen and stupid and painfully aware of Charles’ smile. He nearly broke his hand once because Charles smiled at him.
Humiliating. Deeply humiliating.
And now adult Max has apparently climbed directly into bed with him. Max reconsiders the fake death plan. Charles makes a soft noise in his sleep and shifts higher against him, nose brushing Max’s collarbone.
“…Max,” he mumbles sleepily.
Max stops breathing. Charles tightens his hold slightly without opening his eyes.
“There you are,” Charles whispers, sounding absurdly content about finding him already there.
Something dangerous happens to Max’s internal organs. This is bad. This is so, so bad. Charles blinks awake slowly a second later, lashes fluttering. His eyes focus on Max’s face and immediately soften in a way that should honestly be illegal before noon.
“Hi,” Charles says quietly.
Max stares at him. Charles smiles. Max, because the universe hates him personally, feels his stupid sixteen-year-old crush rise from the dead.
A phone starts buzzing. Max flinches like he’s been shot. Charles groans and blindly reaches for the nightstand, knocking over what sounds like a water bottle and possibly Max’s remaining will to live.
“Hello?” Charles answers, voice rough with sleep.
He is silent for a moment, then his entire posture changes. Max watches, fascinated and horrified, as Charles sits up slightly, suddenly very awake.
“…Cosa?” Charles says.
Max squints at him. That tone is never good. Charles drags a hand down his face.
“Sì, ne sono consapevole. No, non ci ho pensato… perché non doveva esserlo…”
He turns his head very slowly to look at Max. Max blinks at him.
“…What?” Max mouths.
Charles closes his eyes briefly, like he’s reconsidering every decision he’s ever made.
“Send it to me,” he says into the phone and hangs up.
Max sits up. “What,” he says carefully, “did you just happen?”
Charles doesn’t answer. He just holds up his phone. Max leans over And there it is. Multiple photos, high quality, different angles. Max grabbing Charles in the club. Charles kissing him and Max very obviously kissing him back. One where Max looks…pathetic and, worst of all, a headline.
MONZA WINNER MAX VERSTAPPEN CONFIRMS RELATIONSHIP WITH CHARLES LECLERC IN STEAMY CLUB APPEARANCE
Max drops back onto the bed. “Okay,” he says to the ceiling. “Okay. Yeah. Sure.”
Charles watches him. Max turns his head slowly.
“We’re breaking up,” Max says.
“We are not even dating,” Charles replies.
“Tell that to the entire internet,” Max shoots back.
Charles shrugs. “Ferrari wants to talk…”
Max groans. His phone starts buzzing and then Charles’s. Max closes his eyes.
“…We’re going to die,” he says.
“Probably,” Charles hums. “…Breakfast?”
Max opens one eye. “…You’re unbelievable.”
Charles smiles, already getting out of bed like nothing is wrong, like they didn’t just accidentally launch the PR disaster of the season.
“…Chatte?” Charles throws over his shoulder.
Max grabs a pillow and throws it at his head. The pillow hits Charles squarely between the shoulders. He doesn’t even flinch.
“Violence already?” Charles says mournfully, disappearing into the bathroom. “And after I defended your honor.”
“You kissed me in public!”
“I was committed to the performance.”
“You licked into my mouth!”
Charles pokes his head back out, hair sticking up everywhere. “Would you have preferred I do it badly?”
Max opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “You are impossible.”
Charles beams like that’s a compliment and vanishes again. Max falls backward onto the bed with a groan, dragging both hands over his face. His phone continues vibrating beside him like it’s possessed. Messages flood the screen.
Lando: OH MY GOD??????
Lando: MAX???
Lando: CHARLES???
Daniel: you finally did it maxy.
Daniel: i'm so proud.
Checo: Congratulations? I think?
Larurent Mekis: Call me immediately.
Max briefly considers throwing the phone out of the window. Charles walks back out wearing sweatpants and absolutely nothing else because apparently God, the universe, enjoys watching Max suffer personally. Max stares for one catastrophic second too long. Charles notices immediately, a slow smile spreads across his face.
“Oh,” Charles says softly.
“Don’t start.”
“You were looking.”
“I hate you.”
“That is not what your face said.”
Max throws another pillow. Charles catches this one effortlessly. Traitor. Charles sits on the edge of the bed beside him, still smiling in that unbearably fond way that makes Max nervous.
“We should probably decide what we’re telling people.”
Max groans into the mattress. “Can we tell them I died?”
“No.”
“What about temporary insanity?”
Charles hums thoughtfully. “Believable for you.”
Max lifts his head just enough to glare at him. Charles reaches over automatically, fingers sliding into Max’s hair to smooth it down from where sleep destroyed it. The gesture is so casual, so gentle. Max forgets how to function for a full second. Charles seems to realize what he’s doing at the same moment because his hand stills. Neither of them moves, then Charles clears his throat lightly and pulls away.
“…Ferrari definitely thinks we’re together,” he says.
“Red Bull definitely thinks I’ve lost my mind.”
“That too.”
Max sits up slowly, duvet pooled around his waist, and squints at Charles.
“Wait,” he says suddenly. “What do you mean?”
Charles hesitates, which is immediately suspicious.
“Charles.”
Charles scratches the back of his neck. “Well.”
“Charles.”
“They may have implied,” Charles says carefully, “that this is… good publicity.”
Max stares at him in horror. “You’re telling me Ferrari approves of this?”
“Extremely.”
Max looks physically ill. Charles, the asshole, starts laughing again.
“Stop laughing!” Max snaps. “Your team thinks we are together for real!”
“That is not the important issue here.”
“It absolutely is!”
Charles’ phone buzzes again. He glances down at it and immediately bites his lip, trying not to smile.
Max narrows his eyes. “What.”
“Nothing, chatte. Get dressed,” Charles pats Max’s thigh “We have a crisis meeting to attend to.”
Two hours later, things have escalated. They are in a large conference room. Red Bull on one side of the table, Ferrari on the other. Max is sitting between his manager and Red Bull’s head of PR, while Charles speaks rapid Italian with Ferrari’s PR team at the opposite end. The tone is controlled, professional, if slightly too amused on Ferrari’s side. Max’s manager is rubbing his face like he’s trying to erase reality.
“So,” Laurent says carefully, “to confirm: you are dating Charles?”
“Yes.” Max immediately regrets everything.
“Good,” Laurent says, already writing something down. “That simplifies things.”
“It does not—” Max starts.
“Actually,” Anne from PR says, glancing up from her laptop, “we’re not exactly surprised.”
Max stares at her. “What do you mean?”
Anne shrugs, far too casually for someone handling a PR crisis. “Yeah… it was more like a matter of time before you finally got together.”
Across the table, Ferrari PR nods in agreement. Max slowly turns his head.
“You all… what?”
Raymond sighs. “Max.”
“No, no, no,” Max says, pointing between them. “I did not…I am not…this is not a thing people were expecting!”
Anne looks at him like he’s being deliberately dense. “You and Leclerc? You’ve been circling each other for years.”
“That is called racing,” Max says sharply.
Fred laughs. “We have a bet running at Ferrari about which month you’d finally get together.”
Max freezes. “I’m sorry,” he says slowly. “A bet?”
Fred nods, entirely unbothered. “Yes. I had July.”
Max turns to Charles. Charles, who has finally stopped speaking Italian, leans back in his chair like this is mildly entertaining rather than internationally destabilizing.
“Did you know about this?” Max demands.
Charles tilts his head. “About the bet? No. But I am not surprised.”
Max stares at him. “…You people are insane.”
“No,” Anne says pleasantly, “we are experienced.”
Laurent clears his throat. “There is also the matter of the statement.”
Charles’s PR representative slides a document forward like they’ve done this before.
Max squints at it.
“‘Ferrari and Red Bull are pleased to confirm…’” he reads slowly. “Pleased?”
“It’s standard wording,” Anne says.
“This is not standard anything,” Max mutters.
“I like it,” Charles says.
Max stares at him. “You would.”
“It’s simple. Clean.”
Raymond exhales through his nose. “Max. Please focus.”
“I am focused,” Max snaps. “On the fact that everyone in this room has apparently been watching my life like it’s a reality show.”
Anne clicks something on her laptop. “To be fair, it’s been very good television.”
Max opens his mouth, then closes it again. Charles gives him a small, calm shrug, like this is normal. Like this is reasonable. Max leans back in his chair.
“…I hate all of you,” he says flatly.
“No, you don’t,” Charles replies, far too mildly. “You asked me to be your boyfriend.”
Raymond rubs his temples harder.
Laurent clears his throat. “Right. Well. In that case, we should probably discuss optics.”
Max mutters, “We should discuss my funeral arrangements.”
Ferrari PR smiles. “That would be unfortunate. You don’t want to make Charles a widower at such a young age.”
Max stares at her.
Charles, beside her, hums thoughtfully. “That would be inconvenient, yes.”
Max is genuinely starting to believe this is some kind of elaborate psychological experiment. Maybe he died in Monza last night. Maybe this is hell. Because there is absolutely no reason Ferrari’s PR team should be discussing his fake, in fact the fakest thing that ever happened in his life, relationship with Charles like they’re planning a royal wedding.
“Optics,” Laurent repeats firmly, sliding a tablet across the table. “You’ve already been photographed leaving the club together.”
Anne nods. “And there are at least three videos of the kiss.”
Max drops his head into his hands. Of course there are.
Charles, meanwhile, looks mildly interested. “Only three?”
Max lifts his head slowly. “What do you mean only three?”
Charles shrugs. “There was a lot of people around.”
Ferrari PR tries, and fails, not to laugh.
Laurent continues like nobody’s losing their mind. “The narrative is actually very favorable.”
“Favorable to who?” Max asks.
“Yes,” Anne says.
Max stares at her blankly. She turns her laptop around. Max immediately regrets having eyes. It’s social media. Photos. Videos. Slow-motion edits. One clip is literally just Charles grabbing Max’s waist in the club set to dramatic Italian music. Another is them kissing in the hotel lobby. Another is from three years ago somehow, showing Charles looking at Max after a podium celebration with the caption: oh he’s been gone for YEARS. Max feels his soul leave his body.
“How do they even have that?” he whispers.
“Oh,” Anne says lightly, “the fans have archives.”
“The fans,” Max repeats faintly.
“That one is sweet,” Charles says, pointing at an edit of them from karting.
Max whips toward him. “Sweet?”
“Yes.”
“It has twelve million views!”
Charles blinks at him. “That seems like a lot.”
“You think?”
Ferrari’s PR representative smiles politely. “The public response has actually been overwhelmingly positive.”
Fred nods. “Italy is very excited.”
“Why?” Max asks in horror.
Fred looks genuinely confused by the question. “Because Ferrari’s favorite son appears to be dating Max Verstappen.”
Max points at himself. “They hated me two years ago!”
“Yes,” Fred says reasonably. “Enemies to lovers.”
The entire Ferrari side of the table nods like this explains everything. Max looks at his own team for support. Anne avoids eye contact, Laurent suddenly becomes deeply interested in his notes. Traitors.
“You are famous for being emotionally constipated,” Charles says. “People enjoy seeing evidence that you can feel something.”
Max gasps softly in offense. “I feel things.”
Charles gives him a look.
“…I feel some things,” Max mutters.
Anne coughs to hide a laugh.
Laurent pinches the bridge of his nose. “Can we return to the issue at hand?”
“There’s more?” Max asks desperately.
“Yes,” Ferrari PR says. “You’ll need relationship boundaries.”
Charles immediately turns toward Max. He looks interested. Max does not like that look.
“What kind of boundaries?” he asks suspiciously.
“Public appearances. Physical affection in Paddock areas. FIA is not the happiest about the relationship.”
Ferrari PR slides another document over. Max squints at the heading.
PROPOSED RELATIONSHIP GUIDELINES
“I’m going to drive into the sea,” Max says quietly.
Charles reaches over and takes the paper before Max can fully process it.
“Hm,” Charles says. “This seems reasonable.”
Max is back in his hotel room moving like the place is seconds away from combustion. The suitcase on the bed is open and half-zipped, clothes shoved inside with all the grace of a hostage situation. His phone keeps vibrating violently against the mattress, calls, texts, notifications piling on top of each other faster than he can process them. Three missed calls from Lando. One from his mother, which is more terrifying than the mafia situation. Nothing from his father. Max throws another hoodie into the suitcase. He is leaving immediately. Possibly changing his identity along the way. A knock sounds at the door.
Max doesn’t even look up. “If that’s you, Charles, I’m dead.”
The door opens anyway. It is not Charles. It’s GP.
Max pauses mid-panic, a t-shirt dangling from one hand. “…Oh.”
GP steps inside and closes the door quietly behind him. Then he surveys the room in one slow glance. The open suitcase. The disaster zone. Max.
“You’re packing,” GP says.
“No,” Max replies immediately. “I’m stress-testing luggage capacity.”
GP doesn’t react. Just raises a brow.
Max gestures vaguely at the suitcase like it might explain itself. “…I’m going home.”
“Hm.”
Max resumes shoving clothes into the bag aggressively enough to wrinkle everything beyond repair.
“I spoke to Leclerc,” GP says.
Max stops moving instantly. Slowly, carefully, he lowers the shirt in his hands. “…You what?”
“I had a conversation with him.”
“That feels threatening on principle.”
GP remains entirely calm. Which somehow makes everything worse.
Max stares at him suspiciously. “What did you say?”
“I told him that if he hurts you, I will handle it.”
“…That is absolutely a threat,” Max says slowly.
“It was a warning,” GP corrects.
“A warning is just a polite threat.”
Max drags a hand through his hair, already stressed enough to start molting. “He probably liked that,” he mutters. “Charles loves dramatic nonsense.”
“He did not seem amused.”
That makes Max glance up. GP’s expression hasn’t changed much, but Max knows him well enough to see what’s underneath it, seriousness, protectiveness. The kind GP rarely says out loud but Max feels it all the time.
“He took it seriously,” GP continues. “As he should.”
Max looks away first. Because that’s the problem, isn’t it? Charles had taken all of this seriously from the beginning. The fake relationship. The press. Max.
Max shoves another shirt into the suitcase harder than necessary. “It’s not even real.”
GP watches him quietly. “Is it not?”
Max’s hands still. The room suddenly feels too warm, too loud with his own thoughts. “…It wasn’t supposed to be,” he says finally.
GP hums softly, like that confirms something. “Then you should decide what it is now.”
Max laughs once under his breath, sharp and tired. “Right now it’s a PR nightmare.”
“And Leclerc?”
There it is. Max stares down at the mess inside the suitcase. Charles kissing him breathless in an elevator. Charles smiling against his mouth. Charles curled around him that morning like Max belonged there.
“…Complicated,” Max says quietly.
GP nods once like he expected exactly that answer. Silence settles between them, not awkward, just heavy. Max reaches for the zipper, drags it halfway shut, then stops.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Max says after a moment.
“Yes,” GP replies simply. “I did, you are my son.”
Max looks away quickly, blinking once like that might fix whatever just happened inside his ribcage.
GP’s voice softens just slightly. “You drive the car,” he says. “I will handle Leclerc.”
That hits harder than Max expects. His throat tightens unexpectedly and he looks away before GP notices. Too late, probably.
“…He kissed me like he meant it,” Max admits quietly, the words escaping before he can stop them.
“That,” he says after a moment, “is his responsibility to clarify.”
Max huffs out a weak laugh. “That’s not how feelings work.”
“No,” GP agrees calmly. “But it is how you protect yourself.”
A knock sounds at the door. Max closes his eyes immediately.
“…Of course.”
GP’s posture shifts beside him. The door opens before either of them can say something. Charles steps inside, stopping short when he sees GP near the bed. For half a second, surprise flashes across his face, then it smooths away.
“Max,” Charles says softly before his eyes shift. “…Gianpiero.”
“Leclerc.”
The silence that follows feels deeply charged and vaguely dangerous. Max looks between them like he’s trapped in a crime drama.
“…I hate this,” he mutters.
Charles ignores him entirely, gaze already back on Max. “We need to talk.”
“Yes,” GP says before Max can answer. “You do.”
Charles’ eyes flick toward him again, sharper now.
“And we already did,” GP adds evenly.
Charles tilts his head slightly in understanding. “…Ah.”
GP holds his gaze steadily. “This is not a game.”
Something shifts in Charles’ expression then, something quieter, more serious.
“I know,” he says and he sounds like he means it.
Max suddenly feels like he should not be present for whatever deeply intimidating energy is happening in his hotel room.
“Okay,” he says quickly. “Great. Fantastic communication happening here. Very normal atmosphere. Can we maybe not make this feel like a custody hearing?”
“No,” both of them say immediately.
Max drops his head back dramatically. “Excellent.”
GP gives Charles one last measured look before turning back to Max.
“Call me if anything changes.”
Then he leaves. The door clicks shut behind him. Max turns slowly toward Charles.
“…Did he actually threaten you?”
Charles considers that carefully. “He was persuasive.”
Max groans loudly and collapses face-first onto the bed.
“Perfect,” he says into the mattress. “Amazing. Incredible. I’m going to die because apparently every man in my life is insane.”
Charles laughs fondly and that makes everything infinitely worse. Max is still lying on the bed like he’s been emotionally flattened. The door clicks shut behind GP, leaving a silence that feels louder than the argument that just left with him. Max doesn’t move. Charles does. He sits down on the edge of the bed first, careful, like he’s approaching something that could bolt.
“Max.”
Max turns his head just enough to look at him. “If you say ‘we need to talk’ again, I’m jumping out the window.”
Charles huffs a small laugh. “ That’s not necessary.”
Charles studies him for a moment, no teasing this time, no media-trained charm, just…him.
“You are upset,” Charles says.
“I am not upset,” Max replies immediately. “I am strategically overwhelmed.”
“That is upset.”
“It is not.”
Charles nods slowly, like he’s humoring him. “Okay.”
That alone makes Max suspicious. He pushes himself up into a sitting position. “ A Plan…We need a plan and to make up a back story for...”
Charles blinks. “Back story?”
“Yes,” Max says, like it’s obvious. “For… this.”
He gestures vaguely between them, like the situation itself is too chaotic to name directly.
Charles tilts his head. “Our relationship.”
Max points at him. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like it’s real.”
Max runs a hand down his face, then continues anyway, because if he doesn’t say this now, he will absolutely lose control of the entire situation again.
“So, back story” he repeats. “We got together during the summer break, probably we gonna break up during the winter break—”
“Max.”
“—oh and stop looking at me like that when cameras are around, because I swear to God, you do it on purpose—”
“Max.”
“And no—”
Charles reaches out, gently catches his wrist. Max stops mid-sentence.
Charles is closer now. “You are overthinking.”
“I am not overthinking,” Max says automatically, weaker than he intends.
“You are,” Charles replies softly. “A lot.”
Max opens his mouth to argue again, but Charles just watches him, infuriatingly calm And Max hates that it works.
“…Plan and rules,” Max mutters. “So everything is controlled.”
Charles hums. “You like control.”
“I need control,” Max corrects.
Charles raises an eyebrow, a dangerous smile tugging at his mouth. “Well, I never took you for that type of guy.”
Max blinks and flushes hard. “Charles!”
“Sorry,” Charles laughs. “But you set yourself up. I couldn’t miss it.”
Max drops his face into the pillow with a groan so loud it’s basically a warning to the universe. A frustrated sound escapes him. He is going to die by the hand of Charles Leclerc and somehow the worst part is that the Italian public would probably thank him for it.
“Max, Maxy,” Charles says, rubbing his arm. “I’m sorry.”
“I hope you crash in the next race,” Max mutters into the fabric. “I will ask Kimi to do it personally.”
Charles makes a pained sound. “Please don’t.”
Max sits up suddenly, grabs his phone, and starts typing furiously.
Kimi, next race please csdiuhdkjfsakdkhas
Charles tackles him into the mattress mid-message. The phone clatters somewhere out of reach. Charles lands on top of him. Close enough that Max stops breathing for a second. Max opens his mouth. Charles kisses him. It’s calm, like it’s the most natural interruption in the world. Max freezes for approximately half a second. Then his brain stops functioning entirely. The rules, the plan, every thought leaves his head immediately, like they were never there. Charles pulls back just enough to speak, forehead still close to his.
“Continue,” he murmurs.
Max stares at him.
“…What were we talking about?”
Charles looks almost satisfied. “Rules.”
Max exhales, then immediately looks offended with himself. “Right. Yes. Rules.”
He tries to remember anything, anything at all, nothing comes. Charles watches him struggle, expression dangerously soft.
Max points vaguely. “No…no kissing without warning.”
Charles hums. “Mm.”
“That is a rule.”
“I agree,” Charles says.
Max squints. “You agree?”
“Yes.”
“…That was too easy.”
Charles leans in again, just slightly, not kissing this time, just close enough that Max forgets how sentences work properly.
“Then we can add exceptions,” Charles says quietly.
Max groans. “What exceptions.”
Charles’s eyes flick down to his mouth. “That depends,” he says.
Max swallows. “…On what?”
Charles smiles a little. “On how well you follow the other rules.”
Max sits there for a long moment, trying to recover control of his own brain. It does not work.
“…This is manipulation,” he says finally.
Charles shrugs, entirely unashamed. “Be good.”
Max glares at him. Charles kisses him again and whatever argument Max had prepared just dissolves on contact. Again. When they separate this time, Max doesn’t even try to speak immediately. He just lays there, blinking like rebooting a system. Charles watches him, looking far too pleased with himself.
“…I still want rules,” Max manages eventually.
Charles nods. “We have them.”
Max points weakly between them. “We absolutely do not.”
Charles stands up, stretching slightly like this entire crisis is just another Tuesday. “We will,” he says.
Max frowns. “That’s not comforting.”
Charles looks down at him, then, so casually it’s almost unfair, leans down and presses one last quick kiss to his forehead. Max goes still again.
Charles straightens. “Better?” he asks.
“…I hate you,”
Charles smiles. “No, you don’t.” He heads toward the door. “Finish packing. We have a flight to catch.”