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Charles’ heart is beating almost out of his chest. A win. A fucking win. He’d done it, he’d finally gotten back on that top step. In the race, when the safety car had been deployed he couldn’t think past getting through the laps, boxing, keeping his lead in front. He didn’t even know who had spun out at first, just saw the cloud of dust in his mirrors.
(Bryan coming onto the radio saying, “That’s Max out. Max is out of the race.”
His heart stopped beating and dropped out of his out ass instead.
“Fuck,” he had said, fighting to keep his voice even and his car steady, “Is- Is he okay?”
“He is reporting okay and moving out from the cockpit. Full safety car being deployed, Charles.”
The faintest thrum of his heart began to beat again in his chest. All he could do now was to bring it home.)
After, he went through the motions. Yells as he crossed the finish line, joy overcoming the worry at finally tasting first place again after two bitter years. Parks his car in front of the P1 sign, pumps his fist, runs into the arms of his team. He passes the weigh-in check. Lines up for an interview with Jenson Button and responds with perfectly balanced, PR-approved answers. Counts down the seconds until he could stand on the top step again. Bites his lip down to blood worrying about Max; where he is, if he was hurting.
In the cooldown room, he has a moment to breathe. George makes a quip that he half replies to, some of Max’s animosity toward the Brit having rubbed off on him. His eyes are firmly trained on the screen as Max’s slide replays. He can barely speak, doesn’t provide even a second of commentary as his eyes track every minute movement from the car, from the driver within.
His fingers seek out the wedding band on his left hand unconsciously, turning the cool metal over and over, an anxious habit he had picked up in the months following the wedding.
What feels like a thousand years later they’re called to leave for the podium, and Charles feels the warring of emotions climb back up his chest and into his throat. He is so beyond excited to win again, but worry digs its claws deep into him.
His name is called, and a smile he can’t push down overtakes his face, eyes squinting as he comes back into the light.
The sun shines down on him once again as he steps onto the top of the podium. Fans are cheering for him, the noise deafening with their screams even though he had the win over one of their own.
His eyes scan the crowd, and there, a spot of dark blue amongst the sea of red that was his team. Charles isn’t even sure how he was able to get there, so sure that he’d have been bogged down with debrief or interviews.
Max grins up at him, the smile true even if there is a hint of jealousy and sadness ebbing at the corners. He’s upset about his own race, upset that they weren’t able to add another shared podium to their list, but never, never upset that it’s Charles standing there at the top.
(“If it can’t be me, Charlie, then I’ll always want it to be you.”)
Charles’ smile bursts from its tempered state, blinding brighter than the sun above. The Monegasque anthem plays, and he places a hand over his chest. The Italian anthem plays and he sings the words under his breath, listening to his team below him sing along too. The trophies.
When he finally pops the cork of his champagne, he ignores George and Lewis entirely and aims the spray down to where Max is standing. He’s far, but the champagne is strong and his aim is good. Max laughs, head tilting back and eyes creasing in that way that Charles is so enamoured with, and he tries to catch some in his mouth. Charles winks at him, and turns to face the champagne onto the other two.
Later, much later, when the paddock is mostly empty save for a few dedicated fans and a copse of photographers, Charles crosses the asphalt from Ferrari’s hospitality towards Red Bull.
His own meetings had been short, filled mostly with exuberant congratulations and promises that they will keep pushing. The shower he had taken was shorter, knowing that he would shower properly back at the hotel. His hair was still damp, fluffy and curling at the edges.
He knows Max is not likely to be so lucky.
This is exactly why he is so surprised to see Max loitering in the doorway of the hospitality, backpack over one shoulder and phone in the other, typing. He watches as Max puts his phone away, still not having noticed him, and feels his own phone buzz in his pocket.
mon cheri
hey baby just finishing up. RB want to schedule a debrief for tomorrow instead
got any party plans, race winner?
you done yet or should i meet you at the hotel
There were a few photographers to Charles’ left that he could see in his peripheral vision, all snapping photos of him as he stood in the middle of the paddock reading his texts.
When he and Max had gotten married, they’d decided that hiding their relationship was becoming more troublesome than necessary. They’d planned for the countries where their marriage wouldn’t be accepted. They’d anticipated the media storm that followed them for a month after the announcement. What they hadn’t expected, was that the media would be bloodhounds who’d caught a scent, latching on to every word, every expression, fishing for a story to sell.
World Champion Max Verstappen and competitor Charles Leclerc’s marriage on the rocks? Tense words were traded after brutal qualifying.
Four-time Champion = bad husband. Charles Leclerc frustrated with partner’s wins.
No Time for Love in Formula One. See inside for scoop on the potential divorce.
Honestly, with how obsessed with Max that Charles was, he was almost offended that every one of the articles about them all seemed to hint at their getting a divorce.
He was not ever going to let Max go without claw marks in him. Honestly, Max wouldn’t even be allowed to escape him if he died. He’d made sure to take out the ‘til death do us part clause in their vows. He wasn’t chancing anything.
In lieu of responding to the texts, he walks up to Max, flicking at his shoulder.
“Hey,” Max greets, eyes a little tired but tone filled with adoration. “Congratulations. You were amazing out there.”
“How are you, are you hurt?” Charles says, ignoring his greeting entirely. “Nothing is sore? Do I have to call maman and get her to make you soup? Do I have to call your mama? How are you feeling, mon ange?”
Max does that little half laugh that he always does when Charles is fussing over him, and grabs at Charles’ wrists to stop him where he had been fluttering over Max’s shoulders and arms. “I’m fine, schat. A little sore, but no more than I always am after a race. The spin was barely even a spin. I didn’t even hit the barricades.”
Charles purses his lips, entirely unconvinced, ready to argue.
“I promise,” Max says, and the fight leaves Charles. Max does not promise things that he aren’t true. “I don’t want to focus on me. You’re a winner, baby. It suits you.”
“Yes, well,” Charles preens. “I am very pleased.”
“Good. You should be. I love you, you are incredible.”
Charles grins at him, “I did do very well, didn’t I?”
Max knocks his fist against Charles shoulder, “now you’re just fishing for compliments.”
“Oui. I deserve them.”
Max laughs and Charles wishes he could drown himself in the sound. “Good boy, Charlie. You’re so pretty when you’re on the top step.”
A sharp shock of arousal spins down Charles’ spine at the nickname. “Don’t start things you aren’t going to finish, Max Verstappen.”
“Who says I won’t finish it?”
Charles glances over at the photographers with their cameras trained on them. Max follows his eye line, and goes to take half a step backward. But that just won’t do.
“One kiss,” Charles bargains, “on account of how well I did.”
Max hesitates. Charles knows just how much he hates the media getting even a slither of insight into their private life. Knows he keeps their relationship so close to his chest so that he can guard it, keep it safe.
“One kiss. It’s not for them,” he asks, leaning a little further into Max’s space. “Who cares if they see. It’s not for them. It’s for me.”
Max nods, a tiny movement that Charles sees only because of the years and years of study he’s put into knowing Max. Knowing him, and loving him tenfold.
“Just for you.”
Charles presses up and angles them until their bodies are positioned in just a way so that the cameras can’t see much more than the back of his head and Max’s hands locked tight around his waist.
Their lips press together in a firm kiss, Charles fists a hand into the soft fabric of Max’s plain t-shirt and pulls him ever so much closer, unable to resist the urge to slip his tongue into Max’s mouth.
They break apart and Charles rests his forehead against Max’s. “One more. For you. For commiseration. Because I love you. Because I was so, so worried about you. Because you’re so good to me, and I want to kiss you every second of the day until I die.”
Max rolls his eyes, but the smile on his face gives him away. “Should have known. My greedy boy.”
But he kisses him anyway. And the sun shines brightly overhead.