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His helmet hits the ground with an audible thud, but Max can't focus on it. Rather, he goes to wipe the sweat off his face, and the ache from his bones.
There's the drip of moisture into the dips of his back. Not as bad as the heat was last week in Spielberg, but it still annoys him. Everything annoys him right now.
The blood in his veins is pumping, roaring with fury.
"Fucking shit ass car," he murmurs, anger flowing from his lips in the same breath as frustration. His eyes snap up to where GP is standing, face impassive, but taking the verbal lashing. At some point, Max should buy him a fruit basket, just for being a little shit again, but then again, GP decided to leave him at this shitty fucking- "I've been fucking telling you. I've been telling you all along that the set-up doesn't work, and that the rear wing is-"
"MAX!"
Halfway across Parc Fermé a voice rings out, loud and Monegasque and happy. It stops his rant in its tracks, pulls his gaze away from the wincing man he calls his race engineer, to stare up and across the insanely large group of people in between himself and the cars parked below the podium.
A blur of red comes running - lightning-fast, pushing through the throng, followed by at least three different cameras. He can feel his eyes growing large at the sight of a windswept Charles Leclerc, fresh race winner of the British GP, rushing to meet him, after he DNFed, no less.
"What the-," he mumbles, right before the moment his brain realizes what is happening.
It takes him an embarrassingly long time, actually, to put two and two together, especially when he notices the absence of his race engineer. GP has slunk off into the shadows, staring with a knowing grin. Well then, he'll just have to kill Laurent himself. Maybe if he puts their TP into that death trap of a car-
His angry thoughts get cut off the moment a body collides with his own.
His arms work automatically, as they wrap around Charles' figure, steadying them both. Max has to take half a step back, as his balance is lost for the tiniest of fractions of a second, and his mind goes entirely blank. The only thing he notices is the smell of sweat and engine oil, the feeling of leather on his skin-
Wait. On his skin?
There are arms wrapped around his neck, as Charles' legs swing around his waist, tackling him into a jumping hug. Internally, Max praises his trainer for all the early morning workouts - every run and every single time he cursed the weights he had to stem. Because he's effortlessly holding up the wiggling body of his favorite Ferrari driver, as their chests press together.
All air is knocked from his lungs at the impact, yet there's pride inside his body at the act. He caught Charles Leclerc, overactive puppy of a winner that the brunet is.
"What?" he asks once more, but the word is forced to die on his tongue, as Charles' happy face comes into focus for the tiniest blink of an eye - the crinkles on the Monegasque's face so pronounced from a blinding smile, it makes the breath freeze inside Max's lungs.
None of it prepares him for the moment their lips meet, though.
It is as if he is struck by lightning, as Charles - happily grinning and sweaty and holding onto his body, Charles - leans down and kisses him in the sweetest way Max has ever been kissed.
His brain short circuits.
Almost immediately, his eyes flutter closed, all sensations narrowing down to the sweet taste of Charles' lips on his, the smell of expensive cologne and sweat mixing together in a cloud that flows all around him. Every point where they touch comes into stark focus, his skin burning where the younger man's fingers brush, almost as if leaving physical marks on him.
He can feel the blush on his own skin, the redness in his cheeks intensifying from the rosy hue of a post-race flush to a red that could rival the other's Ferrari suit, if he were forced to describe it.
There's a deep black hole in the pit of his stomach opening up at the thought, a yearning so deep it threatens to swallow him whole. Almost as if spurred on by the Monegasque's actions, Max can feel his own hands wandering - sliding up the expanse of Charles' broad back, taking in the feel of the race suit as he presses them closer together.
At first, it is tentative - just a press of mouths against each other. It is almost prude in how little is happening. But then, Charles sighs dreamily, moving his lips against Max's own. It makes his brain stutter to a complete halt, even as his body reacts. His own mouth starts moving against his better judgment, kissing back immediately.
It seems to be the right move, as a grin forms on Charles' lips, so wide Max can feel it pressing against his own face. All the elation shining off of the younger man seem to rub off on his, because he can feel his heart rate slow down before rabbiting once more - this time not in fury. Lust swirls through him, a spiral of it starting in the pit of his stomach but flowing all the way up to his lungs, greedily sucking down the air from Charles' lips until it is Max's own.
Once more, Max tries to pull back, to ask what is going on, the words already rising in his throat. Instead, Charles' fingers find their way into his hair, tangling in the short strands at the back of his head and pulling him even closer.
Though the pressure isn't very firm, it is enough to have him gasping in surprise.
And though Max is completely surprised by it, Charles seems to have banked on it happening, as the younger's tongue swipes over his bottom lip greedily, daring to tangle with Max's own right then and there.
"Oh," he wants to breathe out, wants to moan into Charles' mouth, but instead he takes the only opportunity he might have to kiss the brunet.
He doesn't know how long it goes on for. Time starts to blur together, even with the clamor of people yelling and cameras chasing after them. For a few moments, the world narrows down to just Max and Charles and the taste of their lips on each other. It's a release for Max's anger as much as it is a show of Charles' elation.
But even with all the oxytocin rushing through Max, blinding him to everything around him, the moment comes to an end way too quickly for his liking.
Charles is the first to pull back, even if it is only the tiniest amount of space created between them. However, it is enough to see the blinding smile directed at Max, shiny white teeth on full display. The display is infectious enough, and he can feel his own face matching the elated expression.
The anger has been completely washed away, receding like the tide for now, as his entire attention is focused on the Monegasque. He finds his mouth opening without his consent: "Congratulations on the win, Charlie."
Something inside his chest lights up at the laugh lines appearing around Charles' eyes. So beautiful, echoes through his head. He can't seem to take his gaze off of the younger man though, no matter what he does, not even with all the journalists and photographers yelling their names.
"Thank you," Charles breathes out, voice tiny and hoarse, as if the younger man has been screaming after his victory. There is something soft behind the brunet's gaze, something so eerily close to love that it sends a shiver down Max's spine. Then, a slight frown crosses Charles' face as the younger continues: "I'm sorry about your issues. Are you okay?"
"Yes, no impact," he mumbles, though the old familiar anger simmers under his skin again. "Just a little shaken, I'm okay."
"Good," Charles grins again, somehow still wrapped entirely around Max's figure, fingers playing with the blond strands of hair. "I will see you later, yes?"
His mouth goes entirely dry at the implication in Charles' voice, the clear invitation. He has to swallow hard to get his throat working again, to produce any kind of sounds. "Of course. Whatever you want to do."
Another short kiss is pressed against his unresponsive lips, the intoxicating smell of Charles' cologne tickling the back of his nose. The yearning in his chest swirls, growing into a deep spiral, sucking him further and further down. Regretfully, Charles' legs slowly unwrap themselves from around his waist, feet landing with a soft thud on the hot asphalt below them.
In the following chaos, Max forgets completely to yell at Laurent.
—
The cooldown room is being broadcast in the Red Bull garage, because of course it is. There are still photographers mingling in front of the entrance, as if they get to catch another glance at Max's dumbstruck expression, or another shot at catching the most talked-about gossip of this week's paddock.
GP is sending him concerned looks. He can feel the heat of it burning into the back of his neck. However, he only has eyes for Charles in his scarlet race suit, water bottle pressed against those pink lips. Lips he now knows the taste of.
It is still unfathomable to him what happened outside.
"What happened out there?" the voice of Lewis rings through the speakers, even as the picture moves to include all three of the podium sitters. George is staring hard at Charles, a judgmental frown on the Brit's forehead.
"Nothing," Charles shrugs as a harried looking Ferrari employee hands him all the jewelry he takes off before a race. "What do you mean?"
That's when it crashes into him - the realization, and with it the guilt. There, in the cooldown room, as Charles tries not to show any emotion besides his obvious happiness about the win, Max watches as the Monegasque puts on his wedding band again.
Suddenly, breathing is hard. His lungs won't cooperate, won't let any air in. There's a lump in his throat that makes it hard to swallow around, and he can feel his fingers trembling. To hide his reaction, he balls his hands into fists. Even as his gaze darkens, he stares at the screens.
"Who would have thought?" Charles laughs on the broadcast, putting down his helmet.
"Who would have thought," George echoes, though his glare is still suspicious, "Not me."
"Not me," Max snarks under his breath, trying to look at anything but the broadcast. But then again, whatever reaction he has now, it will be exploited by the media until the end of time. So instead of running off to the nearest Leclerc and apologizing, he stands, stone-faced.
He ignores the darkness rumbling around in his chest, even as the TV direction decides to switch over to show Alexandra in the Ferrari garage, a bright smile on her face. For just a second, he wonders if she has seen it yet, if she knows.
Then the thought of his own love life breaks out - the thought that his kids probably didn't watch the race, since they're with his mother, not with-
She doesn't matter, actually, wherever she is. He will have to talk to Charles later, then he can still decide if he needs to overhaul his entire life to run off with a married Monegasque man.
"In the grand scheme of things," GP says, sidling up beside Max, a bottle of water held out like an olive branch between them, "he wouldn't be the worst mistake you've ever made."
"Shut up," he retorts, although it lacks the bite he wants his words to have. In the grand scheme of things, sure. Right now? He is not to blame for anything that happened post race. That was definitely-
Outside, the podium ceremony begins, with Lewis and George running out to screaming fans. It breaks through his whirlwind of emotions quite well, especially when Charles comes out, celebrated by the Tifosi as he should be, even though they are the underdogs in Silverstone.
There's an obvious air around the Monegasque. There's satisfaction, but also smugness sat deep in the look on his face. Elation still present, but not as much as when he had been kissing Max. Max almost scoffs at the thought, but it is true. Even though Charles seems quite happy with the win, the brunet keeps scanning the crowd, eyes searching for somebody that he can't seem to find.
Please be me, he wants to say.
The hope is endless inside his chest where he stares at the screens, watching Charles be drowned in champagne. He hopes he gets to know what the younger man's lips taste like when they're covered in victory.
—
The uneasy feeling still squirms in his chest, even throughout the entirety of the post-race debrief. Max sends scathing glances at Pierre and Laurent, and quietly vows to sabotage the car himself if those two don't feel like it anymore.
Beside him, Isack is looking angry on his behalf, muttering in French under his breath. It would almost be endearing if Max had space for any other feelings beside anger and quiet guilt inside his chest.
Someone, and he can't really rule out that it might have been GP, has turned on the post-race press conference, letting it play on quietly in the background. He tries to blend it out as much as possible, but then one particular question rips him from all his pretending.
"Question for Charles," the reporter starts, their voice so very British and posh that Max has to stop himself from throwing up right then and there. "Last we knew, you are quite happily married to your wife Alexandra. After your display in Parc Fermé, we were left wondering if that was an explicit statement from your end. Is your marriage crumbling? Have you been cheating on your wife with Max Verstappen?"
In the middle of the couch, the look on Charles' face reminds Max of Las Vegas 2023. When Charles had sat on the sofa with him and Checo, looking like a polite cat as Max had sung his praises. The same look, wide eyes and bright smile, hair tussled so artfully it makes Max want to run his fingers through it.
A small chuckle echoes through the speakers, bouncing all around the meeting room as every single Red Bull employee grows quiet, the sound of Max's name having roused all of their attention. It is almost as if a cloud of doom sweeps over the room, hanging low above everyone's head, even as Charles in the conference couldn't look more relaxed.
"Ah, no," the brunet chuckles where he sits in the conference, his not-quite-French accent wrapping around the vowels beautifully, enchanting to everyone listening, especially Max. "We've always been polyamorous. My Alex, she is dating other people, as I have been dating my Max for years. It is nothing we were sharing with the press, but today, I could not help myself."
Charles looks incredibly sheepish when he explains. There are a few chuckles in the media room, journalists all whispering between each other as the Monegasque returns to looking like a polite cat.
Inside the meeting room, all eyes fly to Max, surprise written across everybody's face.
"Um," he starts to say, but there's nothing inside his mind. There's no way he can say that Charles is lying without making his PR team cry right now. "I guess that's what you could call it?"
Beside him, Isack clears his throat, breaking the awkward silence. "About the car-"
—
Without really meaning to, Max finds himself slouching around behind the conference room exit, trying to seem nonchalant. There's not really anything he's hoping for, but just the look on Charles' face when the brunet comes through the door is enough for him.
The uneasy squirming in his chest makes space, evaporating like a cloud of nasty-smelling vape smoke. The Monegasque doesn't stop outside of Max's personal space, instead, Charles doesn't stop until his forehead can land on Max's shoulders, arms wrapped lightly around Max's waist.
"Coucou," the younger man breathes out, "you saw?"
"I saw," Max affirms, his own hands landing on the small of Charles' back, fingers stroking softly over the fabric there. "You are a menace, you know?"
"Mhhhh," Charles hums, pressing even closer until there is no space between their bodies at all, a few strands of brunet hair tickling the tip of Max's nose even. The warmth and familiar scent of the younger's cologne is a comfort after this disaster of a weekend. "I have heard, once or twice."
"Just an inchident," Max laughs fondly, but remains silent after.
It takes a few moments, where they are just breathing in each other. There's the sound of distant cameras clicking away, photos being taken everywhere, but Max won't take a moment to focus on anything but Charles in front of him.
With a heavy sigh, the brunet finally pulls back, looking like he is steeling himself to face the rest of the paddock. Curiously, Max watches, as Charles reaches around to take one of Max's hands into his own, slowly intertwining their fingers, just gently holding on. "Can we go?"
"You don't want to celebrate?" Max asks, just to make sure. He has to fight his instincts not to squeeze Charles' hand in his own. But something inside him starts fluttering. There are thousands of butterflies inside his stomach. He almost missed all of this - how he has never seen those feelings in Charles' eyes is a mystery to him.
But then again, Charles would have seen the same in him and never acted on it. So whatever this might be, Max is here for it. Here for Charles, his race winner.
"No," the Monegasque finally replies, green eyes sparkling with something unsaid, "maybe just with you. Come to my room?"
—
(Later, Alexandra pulls the door open. She stares at him with a blank expression for exactly two seconds before a bright smile breaks out on her face. With a quick glance back into the room, she yells something out in French, before she turns back to him, hand reaching out, fingers tangling in his shirt to pull him inside.
"I am happy you are here," she mumbles, "finally."
"It was only 15 minutes?" Max retorts, confusion audible in his voice.
"Not what I mean," Alexandra replies, a sweet giggle passing her lips. She's so beautiful, he thinks, how did I end up here? As if sharing a secret, she leans into him, closing on of her gorgeous eyes in a slow wink: "But you will get it soon."
He doesn't know what to say, so instead he looks around the room. In the corner, Rebecca sits on her phone, seemingly ready to go out. When the Scot looks up, she sends him an equally as happy smile, putting her phone into a tiny black bag he hasn't noticed before.
"Where is-?"
The sound of the bathroom door opening cuts off his words. Charles steps out, a white fluffy towel wrapped around his hips, with wet hair and droplets of water clinging onto his naked chest.
"Oh," Max breathes out, his entire brain having gone blank at the sight.
"We are going out," Alexandra declares, grabbing Rebecca's hand before pressing a kiss to each of Max's cheeks. "You take care of him, yes?"
He can't answer, can't even focus on the two women before him. All of his active brain cells have simultaneously gone out of focus, the world becoming a blur to him - with one noticeable exception.
Though, he is rooted to the ground, Charles isn't. The man huffs out a laugh, before coming over with slow steps. He presses a lingering kiss onto Alexandra's cheek, as he grabs for Max's hand again. "Have fun, chérie."
Without waiting for a response, the Monegasque pulls him down onto the bed. Later, Max won't know how they ended up making out for the entire night without running out of breath or breaking for too long. Yet, he doesn't regret a single thing.)