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Monaco 2026. Pre-race.
Charles was in his garage, zoned out. He was thinking. It was his home grand prix... he had to win. For his people, but more importantly for himself. For his own pride.
"Charles," said a voice snapping him out of trance.
"Yeah?" he responded, blinking hard twice to be fully focused on the current situation.
"Start getting ready," one of the mechanics said. "Come on, the race starts in a few minutes."
"Right, right." Charles nodded, drinking some water, and then went right to do what he needed to.
Max was getting ready, putting his helmet on before he slowly got in the car. Monaco again, he thought. He wasn't half bad in the practice sessions. Starting from the front row with a car this bad? He couldn't complain. It was starting to get warm, the early summer weather arriving to Monaco as well. He wondered if it was warm enough for the track temperature to be too much for the tires... but he eventually decided that it was dumb to worry about all this. It wasn't his home race, unlike Charles'; his boyfriend's.
Formation lap complete. The back of the grid was fine, the front as well. Everything seemed to be going pretty well. All of the driver's eyes were pointed straight at the five lights, each of them turning red agonizingly slow. Max was focused. If he started good, he could win this... unless the car betrayed him again, that is. But the formation lap had gone smoothly.
Charles, on the other hand, was stressed out. This was his home race. This was Monaco, for fuck's sake. He had to win... for the people, if not for himself. Or get a podium, at least.
First light. Second. Oh god, the wait that felt oh, so long... far longer than it was. Third. Can the fourth one light up? There, finally. Last light on... come on, come on, come on... he couldn't go too early, but the stress... oh, the stress... he was so focused on this simple thing.
His thoughts were racing. What if he didn't win? What if something went wrong? No no no no no... he couldn't even think of that.
"Focus, Charles," he muttered to himself.
"And the lights are out and the Monaco grand prix has started! Oh god, Max Verstappen doesn't move from his place!" said one of the commentators into the mic. And he was absolutely right. Max's car had barely moved.
The radio visual popped up on the screen, followed by Max's voice: "Yep, nice. Completely fucked, guys. What the fuck, man." He followed by a few more half-disappointed, half-angry comments, demanding updates, before finally asking the very obvious question that probably every fan of his was wondering. "So what should I do?"
"Just bring it home please, Max," his engineer replied. "So box, Max."
By lap two, Charles noticed that something was wrong. "Where's Max?" he asked his engineer.
"Engine issues. Retired right at the first lap."
Charles replied with the simple usual 'copy' and went on with his race. Gosh, he wanted to win this so desperately...
Max, now retired, was already on his private yacht, because why stay at a race you aren't a part of? Especially as a driver. Of course he'd have to come back eventually, mainly because of his media duties, but right now? He just listened in on the comments: DNF, penalty, DNF, penalty... and so on.
And at that time? He didn't even know that he'd wish that was all. When did he realize that, you ask? Well... when he heard that Charles had crashed. At his home grand prix. Apparently, his brakes weren't working properly.
Well... time to get back, it seems.
Charles was furious. How dare they ruin his home race? All because of a fucking brake delay. He knew it. Why had he resigned with Ferrari, for fuck's sake? And this time, he was done with pretending that everything was fine.
He got to the garage, and that was when it all actually started. His answers to anything anyone asked him were sharp, angry. He was arguing with his team. He didn't care there were people taking pictures of him. He didn't give a shit he was on TV again, now mad as ever. None of that mattered to him right now.
And Max saw this. Immediately, he dialed up his boyfriend's number; Charles wouldn't notice him otherwise. He gave him short, clear instructions: they would meet in the bathrooms in the general paddock.
When Charles left the garage with an angry groan, nobody questioned it. He probably went to cool off...
Max was already waiting in the last stall.
When he saw Charles, he opened the door for both of them to go in. Privacy above all, especially now.
"I just—" Charles started, but he was interrupted immediately.
"Shh," Max said, his voice far softer, the kind of softness he had reserved only for the Monegasque. "I know. Come here."
He pulled Charles close, letting him rest his head in the crook of his neck. Soon, he felt the man shivering, and cold had nothing to do with it. Then, muffled sobs followed; sobs and hiccups.