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The seventh dream ended the way all the others had.
Max woke with Charles's name dissolving on his tongue and a phantom ache behind his ribs that had no business being there. His sheets had twisted around his legs during the night, and Jimmy was sitting on his chest, staring at him with the particular judgment only a leopard cat could muster.
He groaned and moved the cat aside.
The first dream had been almost pleasant. A memory that wasn't a memory. Charles laughing at something Max said, Charles leaning into his space, Charles's scent blooming like the sea after rain. Max had woken up confused but not distressed.
The second dream picked up where the first left off. Charles's hand in his. Charles's head on his shoulder. Charles murmuring something in French that Max couldn't understand but felt anyway, somewhere deep in his sternum.
By the third dream, they were fighting.
By the fourth, Charles was crying.
By the fifth, Max was the reason Charles was crying.
By the sixth, Max woke up with his own face wet and a desperate, clawing need to fix something he couldn't name.
And now the seventh. The seventh had been the breakup. Charles's face, blank and exhausted. Charles's voice, flat in a way Max had only ever heard him use with journalists he despised. Charles saying, "I can't do this anymore, Max. You don't see me. You never see me."
Max had tried to argue. In the dream, he had grabbed Charles's wrist and pulled him closer and said something he couldn't remember now.
It hadn't mattered. Charles had still walked away.
Max lay in his bed in his Monaco apartment and stared at the ceiling. His heart was racing. His mouth tasted like ash. His phone was on the nightstand, screen dark and innocent.
None of it was real.
He knew that. He had always known that. Charles Leclerc was his rival, his competitor since they were twelve years old and too young to understand what they were building between them. They had never dated. They had never even come close to dating. They had barely spoken outside of press conferences and podium ceremonies for the better part of a decade.
The dreams meant nothing. They were just his brain processing stress. Race season was intense. The car was difficult this year. His subconscious was grabbing random faces and stitching them into nonsense narratives.
Charles's face wasn't random.
Max shoved that thought down and got out of bed.
The problem with knowing something is that knowing doesn't always help.
Max spent the day trying to shake the seventh dream. He went for a run. He played padel with a few friends. He responded to emails from the team about simulator work and car setup. He fed Jimmy and Sassy and watched them chase each other around the apartment.
None of it worked.
The dream clung to him like a scent he couldn't wash off. Every time he blinked, he saw Charles's face. The blankness of it. The exhaustion. The way his green eyes had looked at Max without any of their usual warmth.
You don't see me.
Max had spent years watching Charles Leclerc. He had watched him win and lose and rage and cry and laugh. He had catalogued the exact shade of brown his curls turned in different lighting, the precise way his accent shaped English vowels, the sound of his laugh when it was genuine versus when it was polite. Max could map the geography of Charles's moods better than he could read a weather radar, and that was saying something, because reading weather radar was literally part of his job.
He saw Charles. He saw him constantly. He saw him even when he wasn't looking.
That was the problem, wasn't it.
He didn't plan to get drunk.
Or maybe he did. Maybe some part of him had been angling toward this since the moment he woke up with the taste of a dream-fight still coating his tongue. He had a bottle of whiskey in the cabinet that Daniel had given him years ago, and he had nothing to do tomorrow, and he was tired of feeling like his chest was full of broken glass.
So he drank.
He drank until the edges of the apartment went soft. He drank until Jimmy and Sassy blurred into golden-brown smears on the couch. He drank until the memory of Charles's face in the dream and the memory of Charles's face in real life tangled together until he couldn't tell which was which.
That was when he picked up his phone.
He didn't remember opening Instagram. He didn't remember navigating to Charles's profile. He didn't remember staring at Charles's latest post, a photo of Leo curled up on a Ferrari hoodie, captioned with a single emoji. A dog. A red car. Simple.
What he did remember, or half-remembered, was the overwhelming need to make things right.
Charles was hurting. Charles thought Max didn't see him. Max had to tell him. Max had to explain. Max had to fix this before it was too late.
He opened their messages.
They hadn't spoken in years. Not directly. The last real conversation Max could remember was from 2019, after Austria, when everything had been sharp and bloody between them. Since then, there had been only the professional dance of drivers who shared podiums and press conferences and nothing else.
Max started typing.
Charles finished his call with his manager at nearly midnight and found his phone sluggish under his thumb.
He had been on the phone for three hours. First with Nicolas about sponsorship obligations, then with Bryan about a data correlation issue that Charles was still trying to wrap his head around, then with his mother because she'd sent him a photo of Leo from the last time she'd watched him and Charles had realized he hadn't called her in four days.
His voice was hoarse. His eyes were dry. He wanted nothing more than to fall into bed and let Leo curl up against his hip.
The notification badge on his message app said 99+.
Charles frowned. He wasn't popular enough to get ninety-nine messages in a single evening unless something had happened. Had he missed a controversy? A crash? A statement from the team?
He opened the app.
The messages were all from the same sender. A name that made Charles's eyebrows climb toward his hairline before he had time to process the feeling that followed.
Max Verstappen.
Charles's thumb hovered over the thread. Max hadn't messaged him privately in years. They weren't unfollowed anymore, technically, but they also weren't anything. They existed in the same sport, in the same city, in the same strange bubble of people who understood what it meant to live at three hundred kilometers per hour, and they almost never spoke.
He opened the messages.
Max had apparently been texting for over an hour.
The first message was timestamped early in the evening and read simply: "Charles."
The second, sent thirty seconds later: "I need to tell you something."
The third: "I know you're probably busy but this is important."
And then the floodgates opened.
Charles scrolled through a wall of text with growing bewilderment. The messages were messy and unpolished and so profoundly unlike Max Verstappen that Charles checked the sender again to make sure this wasn't a prank.
"i know i messed up. i know i don't pay attention the way i should"
"you were right when you said i don't see you but you're wrong too because i do see you, i see you all the time"
"i see the way you laugh when you think no one is looking, the real laugh not the press conference one"
"i see how hard you work even when the car is shit and nothing is going right"
"i see how much you care about everything and everyone, even people who don't deserve it"
"you deserve someone who sees you charles. you deserve someone who shows up. i want to be that person. let me be that person"
Charles's heart was doing something strange in his chest. He kept scrolling.
"remember karting. you were so angry all the time and i thought it was because you hated me"
"but you don't hate me do you. you never hated me"
"i know i'm not good at this. i know i'm difficult. my father made me difficult. but i want to be better for you"
"i want to be good for you"
"please just call me back. please just let me explain. i know i can fix this"
"don't leave me charles. please don't leave me"
Charles reached the final message and stared at his screen.
His first coherent thought was: Max is drunk.
His second thought was: Max thinks we broke up.
His third thought, rising slow and strange through his chest, was something he couldn't name.
Charles had dated people. Not many, not publicly, but he had dated. He knew what a breakup felt like. He knew what an apology from an ex sounded like. The raw desperation in Max's messages was unmistakable and entirely alien to their actual relationship, which consisted almost entirely of brief eye contact across crowded rooms and the occasional stiff congratulations on the podium.
They had never dated. They had never kissed. They had never even held hands, unless Charles counted the time they'd shoved each other in karting and Charles had grabbed Max's wrist to keep from falling. He didn't count that.
So what, exactly, was Max apologizing for?
Charles read the messages again. Then a third time.
You were right when you said i don't see you.
Charles had never said that. Not to Max. Not about Max. He had thought it, maybe, late at night when he couldn't sleep and his mind wandered to places he didn't usually allow it. He had wondered if Max saw him as anything other than a rival, a benchmark, a name to beat. He had wondered if Max had ever looked at him the way Charles sometimes, in his weakest moments, looked at Max.
But he had never said it. He was certain of that.
He should delete the messages. He should pretend he hadn't seen them. He should wait for Max to sober up and realize what he'd done and then they could both pretend this had never happened.
That was the smart thing to do.
Charles called him.
The phone rang six times before Max picked up.
"Charles." Max's voice was thick and slurred and so full of relief that Charles felt something crack behind his sternum. "Charles, you called. I knew you would call. I knew it."
"Max." Charles kept his voice even. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about us. I'm talking about what I did. I know I fucked up, Charles. I know I don't deserve another chance. But I can't stop thinking about you. I've been dreaming about you for a week. Every night. And every night I lose you. And I can't do it anymore. I can't keep losing you."
Charles closed his eyes. Leo, who had been sleeping on the bed, lifted his head and whined softly.
"Max," Charles said. "We're not together."
Silence.
"We've never been together," Charles continued. "We've never dated. I don't know what dreams you've been having, but none of that happened. We are not ex-boyfriends. We are barely even friends."
More silence. Then, so quiet Charles almost missed it: "What?"
"You've been dreaming about me. For a week, apparently. And you got drunk and sent me about a hundred messages apologizing for a breakup that never happened." Charles paused. "Do you remember any of this?"
A long pause. Then: "...fuck."
"Yeah," Charles said.
"I sent you messages."
"Ninety-nine plus of them."
"Oh god." Max's voice had gone from desperate to mortified in the space of a breath. "Charles, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to. I was just. I had these dreams and they felt so real and I couldn't. I didn't."
"I know," Charles said. "You told me. Extensively."
Max made a sound like he was dying. Charles might have felt bad for him if he wasn't still trying to process the fact that Max Verstappen apparently dreamed about dating him.
"What did the messages say?" Max asked.
"You apologized for not seeing me. You said you wanted to be better for me. You said your father made you difficult." Charles's voice softened despite himself. "You asked me not to leave you."
Max was silent for so long that Charles checked to make sure the call hadn't dropped.
"I need to move to a different country," Max said finally. "I need to change my name and move to a different country and never show my face in Monaco again."
"That seems dramatic."
"I sent you a hundred messages about a breakup that never happened. Dramatic is appropriate."
Charles found himself smiling. It was past midnight and he was exhausted and his rival was drunk-confessing fake sins over the phone, and for some reason, Charles was smiling.
"Max," he said. "Why were you dreaming about dating me?"
Max didn't answer right away. Charles could hear him breathing, slow and uneven, the breathing of someone who was still very drunk and trying very hard to be coherent.
"I don't know," Max said.
"Try again."
"I don't know how to answer that."
"Try anyway."
Another long pause. When Max spoke again, his voice was different. Quieter. Less defensive.
"I think about you a lot," he said. "I have for a long time. I didn't really notice it at first because it was just. You were always there. We've been racing each other since we were children. You're part of the landscape of my life. But somewhere along the way, it changed. I started noticing things. The way you tilt your head when you're confused. The way you bite your lip when you're concentrating. The way you smell."
Charles's heart stuttered. "The way I smell."
"You smell like the ocean," Max said. "Not the tourist beaches. The real ocean. The deep water where it gets cold and dark. You smell like that. Salt and something sharp. It makes me want to drown."
Charles's mouth had gone dry. His omega instincts, usually easy to ignore, had woken up and were paying very close attention.
"That's not something rivals say to each other," Charles managed.
"No," Max agreed. "It's not."
"Max." Charles was gripping his phone too tightly. "You're drunk. You're going to regret everything you're saying tomorrow."
"I'm drunk," Max said. "But I'm not lying. I've never lied to you, Charles. Not once. Even when I should have."
Charles believed him. That was the worst part. Max Verstappen was many things, but he wasn't a liar. He was brutally honest to the point of rudeness, incapable of the diplomatic half-truths that Charles had mastered years ago. If Max was saying these things now, it was because they were true.
They were true, and Charles had no idea what to do with them.
"I should let you sleep," Charles said.
"Don't hang up," Max said quickly. "Please. I know I'm drunk and I know I'm embarrassing myself but please don't hang up. I don't want to have another dream where you leave."
Charles's throat tightened. "Max."
"Just stay on the phone. You don't have to talk. I just want to know you're there."
This was a bad idea. Charles knew it was a bad idea. Everything about this situation was a bad idea. Max was drunk and vulnerable and saying things he might not even remember in the morning. Charles was tired and off-balance and dangerously close to admitting things he had never admitted to anyone.
"Okay," Charles said.
"Okay?"
"I'll stay on the phone."
He heard Max exhale. It was a shaky, grateful sound.
"Thank you," Max said. "Thank you, Charles."
Charles lay back against his pillows. Leo crawled over and settled against his side, warm and solid. On the other end of the phone, Max's breathing was slowly evening out.
"I'm not going anywhere," Charles said quietly. "I've never gone anywhere, Max. You just never looked."
"That's not true," Max murmured. "I looked. I always looked. I was just too scared to do anything about it."
"Scared of what?"
But Max didn't answer. His breathing had gone deep and steady, the rhythm of someone who had finally fallen asleep.
Charles stared at the ceiling and tried to remember how to breathe.
Max woke up to a pounding headache and the immediate, visceral memory of everything he had said the night before.
He grabbed his phone and checked his messages.
The thread with Charles was a monument to his own self-destruction. Ninety-nine plus messages of raw, unfiltered desperation, all of it sent to a man who had never dated him, never kissed him, never done anything except exist in Max's peripheral vision for sixteen years while Max slowly lost his mind over him.
He was going to throw up.
He scrolled to the bottom of the thread. The last thing was a message from Charles, sent hours after Max had apparently fallen asleep on the phone.
"We should talk. When you're sober. Call me."
Max stared at the message for a long time.
Then he called.
Charles picked up on the second ring.
"Good morning," Charles said. His voice was carefully neutral. "How's your head?"
"Terrible," Max said. "Charles, I am so sorry. I was drunk and I had these dreams and I don't know why I. I don't know why any of that happened. I didn't mean to put all of that on you."
"You already apologized," Charles said. "Multiple times. In writing."
Max winced. "I know. I saw."
There was a pause. Max could hear Leo barking in the background, the distant sound of Charles shushing him.
"Max," Charles said finally. "Did you mean it?"
The question was simple. Max could lie. He could say no, he didn't mean it, it was just the alcohol and the dreams and the exhaustion. He could retreat behind the walls he'd spent years building and Charles would probably let him.
But Max had never lied to Charles. Not once.
"Yes," he said. "I meant it. All of it. The dreams just made it harder to ignore."
Another pause. Max's heart was pounding so hard he was sure Charles could hear it through the phone.
"Sixteen years," Charles said quietly. "We've known each other for sixteen years. You could have said something at any point."
"You could have too," Max said.
"I didn't know there was anything to say."
"There was. There is." Max closed his eyes. "I didn't know how. I still don't know how. I just know that I see you, Charles. I've always seen you. And I'm sorry it took a week of nightmares and a bottle of whiskey for me to say it out loud."
Charles was quiet for a long moment.
"You said my scent makes you want to drown," he said.
Max felt his face heat. "I said a lot of things I probably shouldn't have."
"Is that one of them?"
"No," Max admitted. "That one's true."
"You've never been close enough to catch my scent properly," Charles said. "We stand on opposite sides of every room we're in. We always have."
"I know what you smell like," Max said. "I've known since we were fifteen and you crashed into me at the world championship and I had my arms full of you for about three seconds before you pulled away."
Charles made a sound that might have been a laugh. "I remember that crash. You were insufferable about it."
"I won that race."
"I know. You never let me forget it."
They had been doing this for so long. The push and pull, the banter, the way they orbited each other like binary stars who couldn't decide whether to collide. Max had spent years telling himself it was just rivalry, just competition, just the natural friction of two people who wanted the same thing.
It had never been just that.
"Max," Charles said. "I'm not going to pretend I know what to do with any of this. You ambushed me with a hundred messages and a drunk confession and a phone call where you fell asleep in the middle of telling me I smell like deep water."
"I'm aware that was not my finest moment."
"It was a lot," Charles agreed. "But I haven't hung up yet."
Max's heart stumbled. "What does that mean?"
"It means I'm still here," Charles said. "It means I'm listening. It means maybe I've been looking too, and maybe I was too scared to do anything about it either."
Max opened his eyes. The morning light was too bright through his windows, and his head still hurt, and his cats were probably hungry, and he had just received the most terrifying and wonderful news of his life while sitting in bed with a hangover.
"Charles."
"I'm not saying yes to anything," Charles said quickly. "I'm not saying we're going to date or be together or whatever you were dreaming about. I'm saying we should talk. In person. Not over the phone. Not when one of us is drunk. A real conversation. I think we've earned that."
"You want to talk," Max repeated.
"I want to talk," Charles confirmed. "About whatever this is. About why you dream about me. About why I called you instead of deleting the messages. About why I stayed on the phone until you fell asleep." He paused. "About why your scent makes me want to do things I'm not going to admit to over the phone."
Max's breath caught. "What?"
"Did I stutter?"
"No, I just. I didn't think you."
"You have a very specific scent, Max. Alpha scents are usually heavy. Aggressive. Yours isn't. Yours is like. Petrichor. Rain on warm stone. It's infuriating." Charles's voice had gone a little sharp, like he was annoyed about this. "I've never been able to figure out why it affects me the way it does."
Max was definitely still dreaming. That was the only explanation. He had passed out drunk and this was just another layer of his subconscious torturing him.
"If this is a dream," Max said, "I'm going to be very upset when I wake up."
"It's not a dream," Charles said. "Check your hangover."
Max touched his temple and winced. "Okay. Not a dream."
"Good. So you'll remember that I said we should talk."
"I'll remember."
"Then call me when you can string sentences together without sounding like you're dying. We'll figure out a time." Charles paused. "And Max?"
"Yeah?"
"You said your father made you difficult."
Max went still. He remembered saying that. He remembered the way the words had spilled out of him like something he'd been holding back for years. Like something he'd never said to anyone.
"You're wrong about that," Charles said. "You're not difficult. You just don't let people see you. That's not the same thing."
Max didn't know what to say.
"I have to go," Charles said. "Leo needs a walk. But I'll talk to you soon."
"Yeah," Max managed. "Soon."
"And Max?"
"What?"
"Next time you have a dream about me, you can just tell me. You don't have to get drunk first."
The line went dead.
Max stared at his phone for a long time. Jimmy jumped onto the bed and headbutted his hand, demanding breakfast. Sassy was somewhere in the apartment, probably destroying something expensive.
His head hurt. His mouth tasted like regret. He had just humiliated himself in front of the only person whose opinion he actually cared about.
And Charles had stayed on the phone.
Charles had said his scent was infuriating.
Charles had said maybe I've been looking too.
Max put his phone down and went to feed his cats. His hands were shaking slightly, but he was smiling.
For the first time in a week, he wasn't afraid of what he might dream about.
Three days later, Charles was sitting in his apartment reviewing telemetry data when his phone buzzed.
It was a message from Max.
"I'm sober. I can string sentences together. Are you free tonight?"
Charles looked at the message for approximately two seconds before typing his reply.
"I'll send you my address. Don't be late."
A pause. Then:
"I've been waiting sixteen years. I'm not going to be late."
Charles put his phone down and pressed his palms against his eyes. Leo, sensing something interesting, jumped onto the couch and tried to lick his face.
"Stop that," Charles said, pushing the dog away. "This is not a good time."
Leo wagged his tail and tried again.
Charles looked at the message thread. At the ninety-nine plus messages from three nights ago, still sitting there like evidence. At the simple, devastating honesty of Max's latest text.
He had no idea what he was going to say tonight. He had no idea what Max was going to say. He had no idea if any of this was going to work, or if they were both about to make the biggest mistake of their careers.
But Max had said he saw him.
And Charles had stayed on the phone.
And maybe that was enough to start.
"I hope you know what you're doing," Charles told Leo.
Leo, who had no opinions on his owner's love life, wagged his tail again.
Charles looked back at his phone and typed one more message.
"I'll leave the door open. Just come in when you get here."