Chapter Text
Adrenaline was the very fuel of Max’s world, his entire existence. He drove some of the most complicated cars in the world around tight circuits at 300 kilometres an hour without blinking an eye. He battled the harshest conditions without a second thought. The risk of a crash, an injury meant nothing when he considered the thrill of flying down a straight. That was where Max felt at home.
What Max was not used to was the adrenaline that came from scrambling to find a birthday present for Victoria the day before her birthday. He had spent three hours roaming the streets of Monaco to find something, anything, to give to his sister. Flowers? Too generic. Perfume? Too impersonal. Jewellery? Max had no clue where to even begin. Time was almost out, and all he had was a small card, and two rolls of wrapping paper.
As Max was slowly losing hope, a heavy downpour fell from the dark clouds, extinguishing any positive feelings that remained and soaking through his hoodie. Cursing his luck, Max rushed into the closest store, the door opening and closing with a soft chime of a bell, a welcome change from the howl of the wind outside.
The smell hit him first, warm bergamot and vanilla. Not the burning rubber and fuel Max had grown accustomed to. His eyes scanned the shop to see the shelves lined with hundreds upon hundreds of books, meticulously placed in sections by genre and author. The dark green tones and oak textures felt cosy, in a way Max had never felt at the track.
“I’m coming,” an accented voice chimed from the back. It wasn’t Monegasque, Max knew that accent well enough from Charles, but something sturdier, sharper. Canadian perhaps? He wasn’t sure. He shook the stray raindrops out of his hair as a man walked towards the front of the store with a heavy step that clacked through the store.
A cane rounded the corner first. It was a dark oak colour with a silver tip and an elegant curved handle, perfectly matching the aesthetic. Max looked at the man holding the cane to greet him and apologise for dripping water on the floor, expecting to see grey hair and a wrinkled face. The words died in his throat as he finally saw the owner of the cane.
Max knew people thirsted over his fellow drivers, and even himself, and as a gay man, he understood them. He considered many of the drivers to be attractive. Not anymore. They all paled in comparison to the sight in front of him. Carlos was handsome, sure. George was striking, but this man was art.
He was young, perhaps even younger than Max, with broad shoulders that seemed almost burdened by the oversized, cream-knit sweater he wore. A mess of fluffy dark curls sat across his head, framing his face perfectly as Max struggled to resist the urge to run his fingers through the strands. His eyes were captivating, a deep brown that seemed to hold the secrets of the universe. They were complemented by a strong brow, perfectly arched to give his face an eternal soulful contemplation. He looked soft, a concept almost alien in Max’s harsh world of carbon fibre and rumbling engines.
“How can I help you today?” he asked. A small smile appeared on his lips, one that seemed to make the rain stop and the sun shine. Max’s mouth opened and closed like a fish, unable to find the words to convey anything to the shop keeper. He looked like he was sculpted by the gods themselves, while Max was standing in a puddle of water that had dripped onto the floor, his shoes squelching slightly as he shifted his weight
“I. I need a gift.” Max shifted under his intoxicating gaze, cringing as his shoes filled the serenity of the sanctuary he had stumbled upon with a traitorous squeak. “... For my sister… Her birthday is tomorrow.”
Max could feel his ear heating up from embarrassment. He had stood atop the podium in front of hundreds of thousands of people. He had spoken his mind in front of cameras that broadcast out to millions of people around the globe. Yet somehow, years of training fell down the drain in a small bookshop on a quiet street of Monaco. Luckily for Max, the man just nodded thoughtfully.
“I see. What is she interested in? There’s a book here for everyone.”
Max tore his eyes away to glance at the aisles of shelves that seemed endless. For every book he recognised, there were hundreds more he had never heard of. Books carrying the greatest acts of devotion, the most brutal betrayals, the fiercest battles of war. Max liked to think he knew his sister well, but in this world of paper and ink, he was so far out of his depth, he may as well have been drowning. There were no telemetry maps or race engineers to help him here. Just a young man with a cane.
“She likes fashion. And drama,” he decided.
The man’s eyebrows furrowed together as he stopped to think. After a moment, an amused smile formed on his face. He didn't point Max toward a shelf, he began to move, the clack of his cane echoing rhythmically against the wooden floorboards. Max stayed put, unwilling to jeopardise the safety of the books, but his eyes remained fixed on the back of that oversized cream sweater, and the way his long fingers curled over the handle of the cane with a practised ease and efficiency, an intricate dance mastered over time. He stopped in front of a shelf, running his fingers along the spines of each book until he found his target, pulling it from the shelf with a satisfied grin.
“Here,” he said, waving the book towards Max as he made his way back to the front. “This sounds like something she’ll like.”
“A book about shoes?” Max asked, staring at the book sceptically. Maybe Max’s afternoon was truly doomed, even if he had met the most gorgeous man on Earth.
“The Devil Wears Prada. It’s a classic,” he exclaimed, captivating Max’s full attention as his eyes lit up with excitement. “It explores the high pressure, toxic culture of elite fashion. It’s all about ambition, the price of success, identity and authenticity.”
Max pretended to consider the suggestion. He wanted to seem like a good brother trying to find the best possible gift for Victoria. In actual fact, he was sold the moment the man opened his mouth and his eyes sparkled with joy.
“It sounds perfect,” Max grinned as he reached out to take the book. His shoes, apparently, had other plans and let out a squelch that seemed to offend the very foundation of the small haven. Max wished the ground would swallow him whole right then and there. He would take a thousand horrible strategies if it would stop the pink flush he was sure had spread across his cheeks and ears.
“On second thought,” the man said giggling slightly, “maybe you should wait here while I go wrap this up for you. No offence, but I'm not exactly the best equipped for mopping water off the floor.” He gestured to his injured leg, the cuff of his pants lifting up enough for Max to make out the edge of a surgical scar at his ankle.
Under normal circumstances, Max would have asked about his injury, but he had embarrassed himself enough for one day. The last thing he wanted was to be kicked out for his bluntness. His PR team would never let him live it down. So he stood there, silently mourning the loss of his pride as he watched the owner's delicate fingers carefully wrap the book in thick brown wrapping paper and tie a pink bow around the corner.
“There we are,” he said, sliding the book gently into a gift bag and bringing it back over to Max. “That will be €20.”
Their fingers brushed as Max handed him a crisp blue note, the rough callouses of Max’s hand a stark contrast to the soft supple skin of the bookshop owner's hands. The touch was nowhere near the length of a pit stop, but to Max, time itself seemed to slow down and all was right in the world.
“I hope your sister likes it,” he said, a soft smile forming on his lips as he tucked the bill into his pocket. He reached next to Max, his head close enough for Max to smell his hair, a subtle hint of lavender that made Max want to bury his face into the dark locks and never come out. The scent lingered momentarily as the man pulled back and handed Max a small umbrella. “For the rain.”
Max thanked him deeply, taking his time to memorise the way he leaned slightly to the side as he balanced himself on the cane, his knuckles pale as he gripped the handle. With one last glance, Max turned and left, the chime of the bell mocking him as he was jolted back into reality, the wind almost knocking him over. With the umbrella up, and the book pulled safely into his chest, he made the dash to his car.
Max sat there for a while, the rhythmic tap of the cane echoed through his head. He looked at the giftbag, still clutched in his hands and gave it a tentative sniff. The warm scent of the shop lingering on the gift made Max smile. He placed it gently on the seat next to him, careful to avoid touching the umbrella on the floor beneath it. As he went to drive away, he was struck by a horrible realisation, the mortification practically sending him to his grave. He had never asked the shop keeper’s name.