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Charles sits at the kitchen counter, hands enclosed around a big glass of water, staring straight ahead without actually seeing anything. His feet are placed on the wooden footrest of the tall chair he's sitting on, and his right leg won’t stop bouncing, no matter how hard he tries to will it to stop. The events of the previous night keep replaying in his head, and there’s a continuous chill going down his spine as he watches the night unfold again.
Max had come home two hours later than what he had told Charles that afternoon, which wasn’t a problem in itself. It’s not like either of them have ever been strangers to being held up longer than planned, and holding a grudge over something so small didn’t occur to either of them. But it was the cause of it that left a bad taste in Charles' mouth. A cause Charles had had to see in a phone notification, of all places.
'Max Verstappen re-signs with Red Bull until 2030'
The announcement itself wasn’t that much of a surprise, given the extensive discussions the two of them had had over the past few months regarding Max's future. Because contrary to the announcement making it seem as if Max had never been in doubt about whether or not to stay with Red Bull, that was far from the case. In fact, Max had been on the verge of triggering his exit clause not long ago, but a meeting with the higher ups and an extended team had managed to change his mind. Charles knew that meant they had shown and told him something that would seriously regain his confidence for future seasons. But a small part of him couldn't help but feel disappointed, because Max deserves better than being in a team that referred to him as being ungrateful after carrying their asses for a fucking decade.
And maybe, just maybe, Charles had started getting a small inkling of a hope that they could end up as teammates, no matter how unlikely that was, and no matter what challenges that would absolutely bring to their relationship.
But alas, Max had made up his mind and Charles had been the first person he told about it. The Monégasque understood — hell, he understood better than anyone — and he had made sure to express his support and excitement on Max's behalf, even if the disappointment had continued to gnaw on the back of his mind like a constant annoyance.
What Max conventiently had not told him, however, was that the announcement would be dropped that day.
***
"Hey," Max says casually as he walks into the living room, and when he stops behind the couch to lean down to kiss the top of Charles' head, the Monégasque sits unmoving. Usually, he'd turn his face upwards in a silent request for a kiss on the lips, but not today.
"Hi," he greets, eyes still locked on the screen of his phone.
He can hear Max lingering behind him, and can imagine the frown he is most definitely wearing at the change to their routine.
"You okay? You seem upset," the Dutchman comments, concern lacing his voice.
Always so perceptive, his Max.
Charles taps his phone a few times, pulling up the news article with the announcement of Max's contract extension. He holds the phone up for Max to see. "You didn't think to tell me this was coming out today?"
He does look up at Max then, and sees the frown he imagined is firmly in place. It deepens at his words.
"It’s not like you didn't know I had signed a new contract," Max points out with a shrug, as if that’s the issue. Charles raises an eyebrow.
"True, but I didn’t know the whole world was going to be let in on the secret today," he retorts, assuming that Max will see his point.
He doesn’t.
"I'm pretty sure I did tell you," Max insists, waving a hand dismissively as he starts walking towards the kitchen.
"Pretty sure you didn't," Charles argues, his slight annoyance at feeling like he'd been left in the dark quickly morphing into anger at Max's dismissive tone.
"Agree to disagree," Max responds, voice slightly raised for Charles to be able to hear him from the kitchen.
And at that moment, Charles has a choice to make: he can either let it go and allow Max the time he needs to realize that even if he had told Charles ahead of time — which he hadn’t — and Charles had just forgotten — which he definitely hadn’t — he still should have reminded the Monégasque before heading out earlier that day, and apologize for not doing that. Or, he could allow this moment to be the match that lights the fire and ruins the entire evening to come.
Charles, being the fully grown adult that he is, gets to his feet and walks to the bathroom to take a shower he doesn’t really need. But, it's a move that will allow him to mentally put on his big boy pants and choose the former.
10 minutes later, Charles is freshly showered and feeling completely calm. The anger he'd carried from the couch into the shower had dissipated with the warm water, and he walks around the apartment to find Max lounging on the couch, remote in hand as he goes through the channels for what is probably the third time, before eventually deciding to give up and opening the Netflix app instead.
Charles sits next to him as Max hits play on one of the new documentaries that have recently come out.
"How was your day?" the Dutchman asks, and they fall into a comfortable, familiar debrief about what Charles had spent his day doing, and the anger and irritation from before is entirely forgotten.
That is, until Max decides to destroy both their peace by bringing it up again.
"I did tell you about the announcement, by the way," he says, seemingly out of nowhere. And Charles is reminded for what is probably the millionth time that they truly are one and the same, because Charles wouldn’t have let it go either, had Max accused him of not telling him something he was sure he'd mentioned.
That knowledge does absolutely nothing to help the situation, though, because apparently, it wasn’t the anger Charles had left behind in the shower after all: it was his ability to act like an adult and just let it go.
"You didn't fucking tell me!" Charles snaps, ensuring they have now gone past the point of no return.
Max turns his head to stare at him, eyes wide in surprise, before narrowing into an expression of anger that rivals Charles' own.
Just like neither of them would ever back down in a fight on track, especially against each other, neither will do the same here, at home.
***
The rest of the night is mostly a blur for Charles after that, but at some point during their argument, they both got to their feet. At one point, Max retreated into the kitchen to get a Red Bull out of the fridge and upon his return, Charles glared at the can in his hand as if it was personally responsible for this whole situation.
He rubs a hand over his face and sighs as the images continue in his head.
***
"You know, you don't have to prove your loyalty at home," Charles snipes, gesturing at the can Max is holding.
Max glares at him, then laughs a hollow laugh as a realization hits him.
"This isn’t about the announcement at all, is it? It's about the fact that I signed an extension in the first place!"
Charles doesn’t speak for a moment, because he doesn’t trust the words that might come out of his mouth if he doesn’t force himself to take a moment to think first.
But, when he does speak, it's with a tone of voice that is deceptively calm.
"Maybe it isn’t," he admits, voice hard and unwavering. "Maybe I thought that 12 years of loyalty to that team would be enough. Maybe I thought you'd realize that you deserve better; that you could get something better, somewhere else."
The irony of that statement isn’t lost on him, not even as the words leave his mouth.
Max is looking at him in a way Charles doesn’t remember ever witnessing before, and he's not sure how to describe the emotions shining from those blue eyes. Anger, without a doubt. Disappointment, definitely. But there's something else there, too. Something that Charles, in the very back of his mind, is terrified to think looks an awful lot like disgust. And in that moment, Charles desperately wishes he could take those words back. But he can't.
Not that Max gives him the chance to.
His next words come out in a voice that is much more quiet and level than before, and Charles knows that voice is a million times more dangerous than the voice Max uses when shouting.
"At least I have something to show for my loyalty," he spits out, pausing briefly before barrelling on. "Unlike you, driving for a team who, even when they manage to build you a car you deserve that actually matches your insane talent and incredible level of skill, still manage to fuck you over with terrible strategy calls."
The words feel like a punch to the gut and a slap in the face, all at once. He grips his phone tightly in his hand, no doubt turning his knuckles white. But Max isn’t done.
"What's the matter, Charles? Wouldn’t you say 8 years of loyalty is enough?"
Charles moves before he can think twice. The rage coursing through his veins is overpowering and he turns slightly to his left, hurling his phone across the room, aiming for the wall. But at the exact moment he moves, Max moves as well; turning to walk towards the hallway and effectively putting himself right in the path of Charles' flying phone.
It's a long throw, and the phone definitely loses a lot of speed and force before it makes contact. Thankfully, Max's fast reflexes halts him in his tracks to ensure the phone hits the wall as intended and not the man himself. But other than that, Max doesn’t have much of a reaction. He just watches the phone clatter to the floor with a 'thud'. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t duck; doesn’t make any sort of movement, except turn his head to look at Charles. Then, he raises an eyebrow, takes another drink of his Red Bull, and walks out of the room, leaving the Monégasque staring after him.
***
Charles pushes his glass out of the way so he can fold his arms on the kitchen counter and hide his face in them, clenching his eyes tightly shut in a futile attempt to make the images of him almost throwing his phone at Max the previous night stop.
It's not like last night was the first time they had fought. After so many years together, occasional arguments were a given, especially given their very similar, equally passionate personalities. But in the past, fighting had consisted of raised voices and maybe a door slam here and there; it had never resulted in either of them throwing something in anger. Then again, they'd never had a fight about a topic so sensitive to them, either: namely loyalty towards their teams. And given Max's childhood and who his father is, the guilt currently eating away at Charles for having such a violent outburst is enough to make him feel a little queasy.
They hadn’t spoken for the rest of the night, and Charles had spent the night in the guest room for no other reason than his own shame and inability to face Max. In fact, Max having gone to their bedroom instead of walking out of their apartment — and Charles' life entirely — had caught him so off guard that Charles hadn’t dared risk screwing up what felt like a second chance he definitely wasn’t sure he deserved.
He sits like that for what feels like an eternity, and the only thing that eventually makes him raise his head and sit up straight, is the sound of footsteps — human ones, not feline or canine ones — walking into the kitchen.
Charles turns his head to see Max standing in the doorway, hair still messy from sleep and a pair of sweatpants hugging his hips. He's shirtless, and Charles allows himself a moment to let his eyes roam over that beautiful torso, despite it feeling like he's allowing himself a treat he hasn't earned.
When his eyes eventually find Max's face, the Dutchman looks calm and collected — a stark contrast to the storm currently raging inside of Charles.
"Morning," he says, with that still sleepy half-smile Charles has grown so fond of over the years. Yet another thing he doesn’t feel like he deserves.
"Morning," Charles responds, trying and probably failing to return that smile. Max walks over to him then, pecking him on the lips before walking towards the fridge.
It's the normalcy of it all that really fucks with Charles' brain; as if last night never happened. And he simply cannot stand sitting with his guilt for one more second.
"So," he begins, causing Max to pull his head back from being covered by the open fridge door to look at Charles. The Monégasque bites his lip in hesitation. Then:
"We should probably talk about last night."
Max just looks at him for a moment, seemingly thinking Charles' suggestion over. And to Charles' surprise, Max just closes the fridge door slowly, turns around and walks out of the kitchen without saying a word.
Too baffled to move, Charles remains in his seat, staring at the empty doorway as if it holds the answers to the many questions Charles now wants to ask.
He can hear Max moving about the apartment, and for a terrifying moment, Charles finds himself wondering if what he's hearing is the sound of Max packing up his essentials and getting ready to leave.
Before that particular thought can spiral too far out of control and send Charles into a panic, Max appears back in his sight as he walks into the kitchen.
Wearing one of his race helmets.
The one he wore for the 2023 Dutch Grand Prix, to be exact.
Charles blinks at him, dumbfounded.
Max lifts a hand to snap the visor of the helmet shut and holds his arms out at his sides. "Okay, let’s talk."
Charles gapes.
It's such a surreal, ridiculous sight: Max standing in front of the kitchen doorway, bare chested and in sweatpants, wearing a race helmet with his arms open wide at his sides in what is probably meant to be an invitation. The night after a pretty serious fight that ended with Charles almost accidentally throwing his phone at Max's head.
So Charles does the only thing that makes sense to him in that moment.
He bursts out laughing.
He laughs and laughs and laughs, until he doesn’t have enough air left in his lungs to actually get any real sound out, so he just sits there wheezing, bent over the counter in front of him and face buried in his folded arms. He laughs so hard that his entire body is shaking, and tears are escaping through the corners of his clenched shut eyes.
The sound of Max's own laughter joins Charles' in the otherwise quiet apartment.
By the time Charles manages to pull himself together, he has no idea how much time has passed. But his eyes are still glistening with tears from his laughing fit, and his face is no doubt a bright shade of red. When he looks at Max, he sees the other man's shoulders shaking as he continues to chuckle, face still hidden behind that helmet.
With a firm shake of his head and a deep, steadying inhale of air, Charles regains enough composure to get to his feet and close the distance between them. He reaches up to flick the visor of the helmet open, and meets Max's blue eyes, all crinkly and adorable. Max's arms curl around his waist, squeezing gently.
"I am so, so sorry about last night. Especially about throwing my phone," he says sincerely, watching as the crinkles around Max's eyes ease away at his words. "I promise I will never do anything like that again."
He hopes that Max can tell how much he means it. And judging by the way Max tightens his hold on him, Charles is pretty sure he can.
"I know you won’t," Max assures him, sounding like there is not even half an ounce of doubt in his mind. "And I'm really, really sorry, too."
Charles breathes a sigh of relief, finally being able to let out all the tension he's been carrying in his chest and shoulders since the night before. He bends his head until he can rest his forehead on Max's shoulder, and runs his hands slowly up and down Max's bare arms.
They stay like that for a while, and it’s Charles who eventually breaks the silence.
"You wanna take that off so that we can cement having made up?" He asks once he has raised his head to look at Max again. He can see one of the Dutchman's eyebrows climbing up his forehead.
"What, are you saying this look doesn’t do it for you?" he asks, not sounding like he's joking at all.
And damn him if he doesn’t have a point.
Charles contemplates lying, but as he takes a step back out of Max's arms so he can look the other man up and down, he knows there’s no point. Because even if it wasn’t blatantly obvious on his face that the sight of Max like this, helmet and all, is absolutely doing it for him, it's definitely incredibly obvious on a different part of his body.
Despite not being able to see Max's whole face, he can tell by looking at his eyes that the Dutchman is smirking underneath that helmet.
"If you break my nose with that thing, I'm suing you for emotional and physical damages," he says matter-of-factly, as he takes hold of Max's hand and starts leading him towards their bedroom.
"Don’t worry," Max says with a hum, squeezing Charles' hand. "Your nose will be perfectly safe since you'll be on your hands and knees."
If Max notices the full-body shiver those words send through Charles, he makes the wise decision not to mention it.