Work Text:
There were mainly two alternating thoughts in Charles’s mind. The season that had gone to shit since the very first race, and Max Verstappen.
Whether Max Verstappen could even be defined as a thought, in reality, was rather doubtful. He was more of a concept—the concept that had been at the absolute center of his life for months now.
He sighed softly as his eyes caught the back of Max's frame, almost as if he had summoned him with his mind. They had just finished the post-qualifying interviews, and almost everyone was retreating toward their hotel rooms. Tomorrow would be the final day of the season: for him, nothing would change - his fifth place was already locked in, not that he expected much more given the sheer abyss between Ferrari's performance and McLaren's.
Yet Max was second, and he could write a page of history by turning the standings around at the very last moment.
As he crossed the lobby of the hotel hosting most of the drivers, Charles replayed in his mind the combinations that would bring Max to the top of the standings. He knew Max was capable of winning the Grand Prix. He knew he was only second in the drivers' championship due to a couple of mistakes - including the disaster in Austria basically caused by Kimi - and that on equal machinery, he would have lapped both McLarens by the third lap.
He would almost certainly cross the finish line first, but would Lando finish off the podium? On his own, he certainly would never make it.
“You’re cute when you’re focused”.
His cheeks suddenly flushed red at the words. Max absolutely loved embarrassing him, especially away from the cameras. Lost in his own mental loops, Charles hadn't even noticed him approaching.
“I thought I was cute all the time,” he retorted before even looking up at him. Max’s way of flirting was irreverent, almost annoying; it certainly made Charles’s heart beat faster.
The Dutchman gave a crooked smirk. “You thought wrong” he commented, wrapping it up with a wink.
Charles’s stomach did a flip at that attitude. It was as if, next to him, the race anxieties completely vanished. Not that he could be described as calm—far from it. Every time he breathed the same air as Max, his body turned into a bundle of nerves ready to react to the slightest stimulation.
“You’re starting first tomorrow” he murmured as their feet led them to the elevator doors. It wasn't a particularly brilliant comment; it probably would have been better to say congratulations, you got the final pole of the season, or I’m proud of you, you did a perfect lap.
Yet, see above: when Charles was near Max, his body became a bundle of nerves. And his brain shrunk drastically in size.
“Really? I hadn't noticed”. Max could be sharp, especially when Charles deserved it.
The Monegasque rolled his eyes and pressed the elevator call button with the pad of his finger. “I meant... you could win tomorrow” he added, a slight edge of tension in his voice.
Max wasn't superstitious, usually. He liked talking about his victories and their work in general; he owned up to his wins more than his defeats, but he didn't have much trouble recalling his most disastrous Grands Prix. Yet, somehow, Charles felt bad reminding him he was just one step away from winning. Previous years had been different—their positions had been locked in long before the final race. In a way, it was better that way, even if less thrilling. There wasn't the bitterness of failing to bring the trophy home.
He had made that crystal clear to that journalist in Japan. Don't highlight his defeats, or you'll find yourself on Max Verstappen's personal blacklist. Charles honestly hoped he was the exception to that unwritten rule.
“Tomorrow I could win, tomorrow I could bin the car, tomorrow the world could end” Max's tone was light, which put Charles at ease. If my mom had balls, she’d be my dad, right?
The elevator arrived almost perfectly in sync with the end of Max's sentence, a detail that made the Monegasque smile faintly. They stepped in together, visibly relieved not to be followed by anyone. Not that they were anything more than friends. Not officially.
For Charles, every moment they were alone was a moment to cherish in his heart. Safe. And when the doors closed behind them, he felt a little lighter.
“I could help you” he murmured, his voice nothing more than a whisper.
Max's eyebrow lifted slightly, but nothing else registered on his face. As if he weren't truly interested in those words, he reached out toward the elevator buttons to select their floor. Number 24 for both. Good.
He sighed. “I could... I can get on the podium. Keep the McLarens behind me. Make you win”.
This time, it was Max's ice-blue eyes that snapped to his direction. It felt as if the world stood still for a second. Charles suddenly went cold.
“I lost the championship four races ago”.
Blunt. Extremely specific. He was referring to Mexico, without a doubt. Was it true? Charles didn't know, but he was impressed nonetheless. Who knows how many times Max had thought about it.
“But they made mistakes too” he insisted, his voice turning almost whiny. He didn't know what was happening to him. It felt like this was the most important conversation of his life - a stupid chat about a race. A championship. Their careers. Their lives.
Max shrugged as if he couldn't care less about first, second, or twentieth place. Maybe he really didn't. “Four world championships are enough for anyone” he murmured in that calm tone Charles envied so much. He seemed emotionless, and Charles would have paid to speak like that during interviews. He seemed cold, except for the fact that he wasn't, not really. Charles knew him, and he knew deep down that a fifth championship would crown a dream. And the sixth, and the seventh.
“Let me try” Charles pleaded. It was almost a squeak.
Max rolled his eyes. Out of boredom? Out of... annoyance? Charles hoped that wasn't it. They were close, even though the elevator could easily fit twenty people. Max had chosen to stand near him, and right now, the proximity made the atmosphere even tighter. “What’s in it for you?”
It was an excellent question. Seeing you happy would have been the most honest answer. The truest one. He couldn't afford to say it out loud. They were friends, sure. Great friends. And rivals. He didn't know what Max would do if he knew there was more to it in his heart, and he wasn't sure he wanted to find out. But...
He bit his lip. “A dinner” he murmured. The moment the words left his mouth, he realized what he had just said.
And Max’s eyes gleamed with amusement.
“You help me win the championship and in exchange you want me to take you out to dinner? Like a schoolgirl?”
Charles realized just how desperate he sounded. He tried to quickly gather his thoughts, to rearrange them and make his proposal sound like something other than a request for a date. He opened his mouth to speak, but the other cut him off.
“Fine then” he heard him say. “Help me bring home the fourth title, and you’ll have dinner with me”.
Decisive, without leaving any room for a reply. Max walked off toward his room without another word, leaving Charles standing there, his face flushed and with no way to take back what he had said. He sighed, but smiled. After all, it wasn't an impossible feat. With a car that at least started up.
—
Max didn't have high expectations for the race. He left the fifth championship to the dreamers; he certainly didn't feel like he deserved it this year.
His father had repeated it to him incessantly. He had messed up in China. Bahrain. Miami. Monaco. Spain. Austria. Silverstone. Belgium. Hungary. Anything off the podium wasn't good enough, and Jos had made sure he wouldn't forget it. He had punished him with silence - which, honestly, at nearly thirty years old, was almost a relief - and with his relentless presence in the paddock. He hadn't let him sleep for four days straight when he retired in Austria.
He had come to terms with the fact that he wouldn't win this year weeks ago, and he had accepted it. The McLarens had messed up a couple of races late in the season, which brought him back closer to the dream, but he knew believing in it was pointless.
And now... Charles encouraging him?
The encounter in the elevator had been, honestly, baffling. Max didn't think the boy would speak to him after qualifying; everyone was afraid of his dark, angry moods, and he didn't blame them. During the first part of the season, his colleagues would smile and congratulate him. Someone would even suggest going out to celebrate, and a couple of times he had accepted.
As the races went by, fewer and fewer drivers approached him. Only Kimi seemed to connect with him somehow: he would text him, look for him in the paddock, practically trailing behind him just to be seen. Max knew it was simple admiration. Kimi had told him: it was an honor for him to race alongside a four-time world champion.
Ultimately, Max knew Kimi would distance himself too. If he didn't handle his interviews, his facial expressions, and his own emotions better, he would drive him away as well. Because his personal cloud of anger had never spared anyone.
And then Charles had followed him into the elevator and told him he would help him. In his large green eyes, there was something Max couldn't quite read. He seemed sincere in his worry.
He rolled over slightly in bed. Tomorrow's victory would depend mainly on his own performance, but that wouldn't be enough. Charles would truly have to keep the McLarens behind him. He sighed.
In exchange for his effort, Charles had asked for a date. He probably wanted to talk about the upcoming season. Max didn't allow himself to think of any other alternatives. They were colleagues - and friends, even though his father had always forbidden him from ever using that word - since their karting days. He had learned to know his movements, his way of speaking.
He knew Charles ran a hand through his hair when he was nervous. He knew that when he had to hold back his anger in front of journalists, he stroked his left ear. He knew that instead of yelling, he fiddled with the zipper of his race suit, pulling it up and down a few millimeters. He knew that when he was pissed off, a tiny, distinct wrinkle formed between his eyebrows. He knew that when he was disappointed, he didn't lift his eyes from the floor. He knew he needed physical contact when he was losing control. He knew that when he had to lie for Ferrari, he dampened his lower lip a moment before opening his mouth.
He knew he wanted to kiss that mouth.
He let out a groan that broke the silence of the room. He knew all those things about him, yet he couldn't figure out what Charles really wanted from that dinner. He imagined it was something work-related, or at least he chose to comfort himself with that lie. He imagined that believing in the hope of it being a date would be more painful than believing he would actually win his fifth world title tomorrow.
—
Max didn't win. The defeat wasn't his, though: the defeat belonged to Charles.
The Dutchman had driven a splendid race. Charles knew it; he had asked for constant updates over the radio. It was petty, but at one point, he had hoped Max would make a mistake too. Because the blame for the missed championship now fell entirely on his shoulders. And he felt like absolute shit for it.
He barely participated in the celebrations for his own podium and Lando's victory. He felt awful for trying to steal the world championship from one of his best friends just because of a stupid crush.
He took off his helmet, gave Lando a brief hug, and ignored Max. He saw Max smile faintly in his direction, but he didn't need his reassurance. Nor did he need his hands on his shoulders. Hands that gripped him and sent shivers down his spine.
“Leclerc”.
Max’s voice came low, muffled by the din of the McLaren celebrations echoing from the back of the garages. It caught him off guard before he could shut himself away in his own paddock room.
Charles tried to take a step back. To remove himself from Max's field of vision. Max’s fingers tightened on his shoulder, and Charles felt the grip on his skin through the fireproof underwear. A tremor ran through his body.
“Let me go, Max” he pleaded under his breath, his eyes stubbornly fixed on his own shoes. Max knew that when he was disappointed, he didn't lift his eyes from the floor.
Max tightened his grip. “Look at me” he ordered firmly. There was no trace of the blind rage Charles had feared. There wasn't even... disappointment. There was stillness, a strange, unprecedented stillness.
He looked up. When he did, Charles met Max's blue eyes. Everyone compared them to ice. He saw the ocean in those eyes.
“Do you really think it’s your fault? The car didn't have the pace. You drove like a maniac for thirty laps just to keep Lando behind”.
“It wasn't enough” Charles shot back, obstinate. “You didn't win”. His voice cracked dangerously, and he was forced to swallow. The last thing he needed was to cry in front of the man he had let down.
He dampened his lower lip, but Max stopped him before he could say something stupid.
Max slid a hand up to the back of Charles's neck, tangling his fingers in his messy, sweaty hair. The pressure he applied was minimal. It was just enough to pull Charles into him, chest against chest, the Monegasque's face pressed against his shoulder. A solid contact. A firm hold. Everything Charles needed in moments like these.
“I lost the championship four races ago” Max repeated against his ear. Charles barely heard him, completely focused on the other’s thumb absentmindedly caressing the base of his neck. “You kept your promise. You tried, at least”.
There was no trace of reproach in his voice. Honestly, Charles couldn't remember Max ever reproaching him. Not even back in their karting days.
He stayed still, his heart beating so hard it echoed in his ears. He hoped Max couldn't hear it. He hoped Max didn't realize it was because of their proximity. That he couldn't feel the warmth flooding his chest.
“I... I said I'd make you win” he ventured, his lips dangerously close to the other’s neck. “I made you lose, Max. No dinner”. His voice was trembling. Imperceptibly, but it was.
Max pulled back just a few centimeters. He looked at his face again, and Charles felt his cheeks burn. Max's lips stretched back into that self-assured smile he had shown off in the elevator the night before.
“You would have dined with me if I won. I never said you wouldn't if I lost” he whispered. His voice was husky. Charles felt his stomach tighten. His legs shook.
“Take a shower, Leclerc. I'll meet you in the parking lot in an hour”.
—
Max stared at his reflection in the foggy bathroom mirror, a towel wrapped around his hips, his blond hair completely drenched. He had lost.
His father hadn't even looked him in the eye before leaving the circuit; he had always liked the silent treatment. But Max wasn't going to play along this time. Normally, he would have felt that absence as an unbearable weight on his chest. He would have called him. He would have asked if he had disappointed him. His father's continued silence would have been an implicit yes.
Yet, he found himself rummaging through his suitcase looking for a clean shirt. Something that didn't belong to the team, without logos. A plain, white shirt.
“You help me win the championship and in exchange you want me to take you out to dinner? Like a schoolgirl?”
He didn't know why he had said that to him. He didn't know why there had been that note of mockery in his tone. It hadn't been his intention to make fun of him. At the same time, it hadn't been his intention to lead himself on. And honestly, irony had always been his best shield.
Charles's words bounced around in his head again as he nervously slipped into his jeans, irritated with himself. Charles had seemed desperate. He had clung to his back as if Max were the only person still capable of holding him up, and the idea of this being a work dinner dissolved instantly. Charles had driven as if his very life depended on keeping the McLarens behind, destroying his tires and his own race just to give Max a tiny, ridiculous chance. And he felt like he had failed.
Max rubbed a hand over his face, letting out a heavy sigh. He knew how Charles’s head worked, especially in a race: he was a martyr, someone who took on blame that wasn't his - first and foremost, Ferrari’s mistakes - and who was ready to drown in it for days. If he left him alone tonight, he would condemn him to spending the night rewatching race replays, blaming himself for every single millisecond lost.
Max grabbed the rental car keys and his wallet. He didn't care about the lost championship. Maybe his father was right. He had softened.
Because the only image he could paint in his mind was him sitting at a table in some unknown restaurant, watching Charles Leclerc dampen his lips and fiddle with his hair. He told himself it was the only thing capable of distracting him from the cloud of anger he was ready to project onto himself. This, he knew, was a lie. He hadn't asked for - imposed - this outing on Charles to distract himself. The truth was, Max wanted this dinner more than he cared to admit. He wanted Charles away from the cameras. Away from the red. Away from every built-up barrier.
As he walked down the hotel stairs, he checked his phone one last time. No messages from the Monegasque.
He’s probably still staring into space, Max imagined, tightening his grip on the keys. The thought irritated him. He was almost scared that Charles had backed out at the last minute.
For a second, he weighed the idea of showing up at his room. The day before, after the elevator, he had turned around for just a split second to check Charles's room number. But it would be weird if he knocked. After all, they were just two friends going out to forget about a heavy day.
He huffed to himself, standing in the middle of the hotel lobby, tapping his foot against the floor. Max Verstappen hated waiting. If it had been anyone else, he would have canceled everything and blocked the contact. For Charles, he made an exception. And he waited for the next five minutes. Ten. Fifteen.
When the Monegasque finally made his appearance, Max let out a sigh of relief. He hadn't even realized he was holding his breath.
The boy’s neatly messy hair - a constant contradiction, just like Charles himself - was the perfect justification for his lateness. And Max, for the first time that day, flashed a genuine smile.
Charles approached him slowly, shrugging his shoulders inside a light jacket that looked too big for him. His gaze was cast down. For a moment, Max feared he really was about to bail.
“Sorry I’m late” he murmured as soon as he was close enough.
It seemed like only apologies came out of the Monegasque's lips. Max hated it, even if he didn't quite know how to express it.
Charles then looked up, but he didn't meet Max's eyes right away. He lingered on his white shirt, then on the keys Max was still clutching in his fingers. A tiny hint of surprise crossed his face, but it lasted only a second. “If you want to cancel... I understand. I don't... I imagine you don't really feel like celebrating Lando.”
“Get in the car, Leclerc” Max cut him short. Hearing Lando’s name stung his heart for a second. His tone was harsher than necessary, brusque, but it was the best he could offer him. The right compromise to stop Charles from overthinking.
They walked toward the underground parking lot without saying a word. The hotel's air conditioning gave way to the humid heat of the Abu Dhabi night before they climbed into Max's car. He had borrowed it from a friend for the weekend, a green Valkyrie that reminded him of one of his own collectible cars. As soon as he sat behind the wheel, his shoulders relaxed.
Max started the engine, letting it rumble in the silence of the parking lot, and waited for Charles to buckle up before maneuvering out.
They didn't speak for the first fifteen minutes of the drive. The only sound in the cabin was the car's engine, and Max was almost certain it calmed Charles just as much as it calmed him. Deep down, they lived for that. It was what they breathed every single day of their lives.
Max drove with one hand on the wheel, his gaze fixed on the road illuminated by the thousands of lights of Abu Dhabi. His mind was on the asphalt, as always when he was in a cockpit. His attention, however, was entirely on the boy sitting to his right. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Charles run a hand through his hair for the third time since they had left. He was nervous as hell.
Before Max could even speak, Charles interrupted him. “Where are we going?”
As he spoke, his head was turned toward the window. He seemed to be watching the skyscrapers thin out, kilometer after kilometer. Max wondered if Charles's mind was painting scenarios where he robbed him and left him half-conscious in a layby. He let out a small smile at the thought. Maybe he would like that.
“To a place where nobody will ask us how the third stint of the race went” Max replied, reluctantly abandoning the idea of scaring him. It would have been funny, but it would have ruined the night for both of them.
He then turned down a secondary road that led toward a quieter area near the coast. He had spent half an hour looking at his phone before coming down to the lobby, searching for a restaurant recommended by his friend - the same one who had lent him the car. He didn't want luxury buffets, other drivers, or - worse yet - paparazzi.
He parked about twenty minutes later in front of a small veranda lit by warm, soft lights. He regretted having that car for a second - everyone would notice it - but the surprise in Charles's eyes made it worth it. He saw Charles turn toward him, visibly thrown off. The wrinkle between his eyebrows had softened slightly.
“This doesn't look like a Max Verstappen place” Charles commented, hinting at a timid smile as he unbuckled his seatbelt.
Max turned off the engine and looked at him properly for the first time since they had gotten in. He stared at him for a long moment with a slight smile. In the darkness of the cabin, Charles's eyes looked huge.
“No Verstappen” Max murmured, his voice low and steady. He let his hand slide over the gear shift, just millimeters away from Charles's knee. Close enough for Charles to feel his warmth. “And no Leclerc. Just you and me. Get out”.
He saw him swallow. Charles looked like he was about to say something, but then he obeyed. Max smiled complacently - a strange warmth spread through his body as he realized Charles Leclerc had obeyed him without talking back.
The restaurant was small, quiet. Only the sound of the ocean drowned out their breathing. The waiter welcomed them with a smile and gave no sign of recognizing them. He seated them at a table in the corner, partially hidden by a papyrus plant.
Charles seemed to move in slow motion, like prey cornered by a hunter he deemed too calculating. As if he were wondering if this Max in a white shirt and without a shadow of Jos in tow was real or a post-race stress hallucination. He remained in absolute silence for several minutes.
“Are you planning to stare at the menu until it catches fire?” Max broke the ice, resting his elbows on the table.
He could almost see him startle. Then, Charles ran a hand through his hair. “I'm studying the options, Verstappen. Not everyone... uh, not everyone orders the usual schnitzel with fries like you do in every part of the world”.
Max gave a crooked smirk. “Fish tonight, not meat. I'll let you choose. You're the food expert, right?”
The other finally looked up from the menu. Max was starting to wonder if he had to spill water on him to get him moving. The flash of playful rivalry that had bound them together since their karting days flickered across Charles's face. “Oh, thank you. Generous of you, Mr. Four-Time World Champion. Am I allowed to breathe the same air as you, or do I need to ask permission?”
“Only if you breathe quietly, Leclerc. I wouldn't want you distracting me from my food”.
The waiter took their order and brought some white wine. Max watched Charles as he thanked the man pouring two fingers of wine into his glass. His slender fingers caressed the stem. There was an innate grace in his every movement, something Max couldn't truly explain to himself. It stood in stark contrast to his clumsy way of expressing emotions. Max, used to his own sharp edges, felt his head spin.
When the dishes arrived, the atmosphere grew more relaxed. They talked about Lewis’s bad luck this year, the absurdities said by some journalists about the driver market, the upcoming holidays. In a way, it was like walking through a minefield: the race from just a few hours ago was right there. An elephant in the room that Max hoped would never be exposed.
It was halfway through the second course that Charles crumbled. He put down his fork, his gaze suddenly slipping downward. Max felt them coming. The damn apologies.
“I wanted to... well, I’m sorry about today” he murmured, his voice suddenly thinner. “On lap 42 I tried to cross lines with Lando to make him lose control, but the car... you know, the understeer. If I had held the position for another three laps, maybe you would have-”
“Leclerc” Max interrupted him, his tone firm and leaving no room for argument. He reached his hand across the table and lightly brushed the Monegasque's knuckles.
Charles stiffened. He didn't pull his fingers away. Max breathed again.
“Stop it”.
“But I promised that-”
Max wondered what Charles’s deal was. Who he had made that pact of absolute loyalty to. Maybe he thought that if he didn't feel guilty about everything for once, the world would crush him.
“You drove better than anyone else” Max said, looking him straight in the eye. Ice blue against emerald green. “Your Ferrari was a tractor this year and you brought it to the brink of the podium in the final race. You risked losing it. Risked destroying your tires. For me. Do you really think I'm angry?”
Charles was holding his breath. Max saw the tiny wrinkle of worry he knew by heart appear between his eyebrows. “I thought... you're disappointed. You hate losing”.
“I hate losing because of my own mistakes” Max corrected him, in the gentlest tone he could muster. His hand slid entirely over Charles’s. He squeezed it in a reassuring hold. “Tonight I’m here. With you. I don't care about the race” he admitted. He felt his cheeks flush, but he kept going. He wasn't used to speaking from the heart. “Stop playing the martyr. It doesn't suit you, Leclerc”.
Charles’s cheeks blushed with that same crimson he had in the elevator. Max was amused by the cheeky smile Charles used to try and regain control. “Did you just say you prefer my company to a fifth world title, Verstappen? If your father hears you, he'll disown you”.
The only person Max allowed to mention his father was Charles. And noticing that once again warmed his heart.
He chuckled. A low, gentle sound. Stripped of any filter. “My father is already on his private jet. And I am exactly where I want to be”.
The rest of the dinner slipped by smoothly. Max didn't loosen his grip on Charles's hand until the bill arrived, which the Dutchman paid, preventing the other from even pulling out his wallet. “It was a bet, Leclerc. I keep my word”.
The drive back was different from the way there. The previous tension had been replaced by a tangible electricity that filled the cabin. Neither of them turned on the radio, nor did they speak. Charles kept his head resting against the seat the whole time, his gaze turned toward Max, observing the profile of his face illuminated by Abu Dhabi.
When Max parked the car in the underground garage, neither made a move to get out. He turned off the engine, leaving them immersed in a muffled silence.
Charles turned completely toward him, resting his back against the door. “Thanks for dinner, Max. Really, it... it helped me”.
Max unbuckled his seatbelt and leaned toward him, erasing the space separating them. From that position, he could smell Charles. A mix of body wash and citrus. He wondered if he had put on cologne before coming out.
His gaze inevitably fell on his lips.
“I told you” he whispered, his voice reduced to a husky murmur. “You kept your word. Now it’s my turn”.
Charles parted his lips, probably to ask what he meant. Max didn't give him the chance. He opened the passenger door for him from the inside, making sure his arm brushed against Charles's hip.
“Let’s go, before some photographer shows up”.
Charles didn't seem to have the courage to talk back. Once again, he just did it. There was something thrilling about him obeying without asking a single question.
They walked through the hotel lobby maintaining a millimetric safety distance. The elevator was empty, just like the night before. This time, when the steel doors closed behind them, Max didn't reach for the buttons. He stood perfectly still, his back pressed against the mirrored wall, his eyes fixed on Charles. He said nothing.
It was Charles who took a small step forward to press the button for the 24th floor. His fingers were trembling slightly. Max noticed with a complacent smirk.
He saw him turn around. Charles was a bundle of nerves. The Dutchman was about to ask if he had gone too far, if he had messed up, but then he saw that the disappointment of the race was no longer in Charles's eyes. There was something else there, something deeper. Personal.
“It will take... a while” he whispered with effort. “To get up there”.
Max took the remaining step. He trapped Charles between his own body and the control panel. His hands settled on the Monegasque's shoulders again, then slid up quickly, caressing his neck, framing his face.
His thumbs pressed lightly against his mouth. The mouth he had wanted to kiss all night.
“Then it’s a good thing we’re in no rush at all, Charles” he whispered, a second before erasing the final millimeters of distance and pressing his lips against his.
It was the first time in the entire day that he had called him by his name.