Chapter Text
Monza had erupted around them. Fans were cheering, the tifosi were booing anyone who had committed the crime of not driving a Ferrari or not being an Italian, and half the circuit was losing its mind over Kimi winning his home race.
Max was used to the chaos by now. He had learned years ago how to tune it out the noise, the cameras, the endless ceremony of standing on a podium and pretending every position on it was practically irrelevant. He stood on the third step with champagne drying against his race suit, a place he had never particularly cared for. If he wasn't winning, second and third were mostly just different heights to stand at while somebody else celebrated. Still, considering some of the tractors he'd been forced to drive over the years, he supposed it could have been worse.
Kimi was practically bouncing off the podium, looking like he might throw himself into the crowd if somebody promised to catch him. George, meanwhile, had been having his own internal crisis over Mercedes once again deciding not to stand by him.
Normally, Max might have found both things entertaining. Instead, all he could think about was Charles. Whether he was actually okay, what was happening in the medical centre. Whether somebody had finally stopped giving Max the useless he's being checked answers and could tell him something concrete. And, how badly he'd wanted Charles standing up there with him. He loved their shared podiums so much.
Charles is out, Max.
The words had come through the radio after what had probably only been a few seconds but had felt considerably longer inside the car. Max had seen the crash happen almost in slow motion: The car spun away from Charles, cutting across the gravel at frightening speed before slamming into the barrier, red bodywork disappearing into a cloud of dust and flying carbon. Max watched it all through his mirrors in pieces, his hands still steering, his foot was still on the throttle, but all he could see was that Ferrari buried in the barrier.
“Is he okay?” Max asked immediately, his voice sharper than he intended. There was no answer quickly enough, and every second of waiting made something tighten harder beneath his ribs. He knew crashes. He knew what a car could look like afterwards and still have a driver climb out perfectly fine. None of that helped when it was Charles inside it.
“Is he out?” he asked again, shorter this time.
Then, finally: Charles is out, Max.
Max had let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding and decided to focus, because there was still a race happening and fifty-one laps left to drive.
---
After taking what felt like a million celebratory photos, nodding distractedly through his PR team’s content plan for the following month, and surviving a couple of interviews, Max was finally able to escape the crowd, and even his girlfriend, and arrange a ride to the hospital where Charles had been taken.
He had managed to get into the facility through a back entrance, mostly to avoid photographers and the inevitable headlines that would follow if anyone spotted him walking into the hospital where Charles had just been taken.
Not that it should have mattered.
If somebody did see him, they would assume he was checking on a friend. A close friend, maybe. They had known each other for most of their lives, had raced each other since they were kids, had spent enough years fighting over the same pieces of asphalt that nobody would find it particularly strange.
Right?
His assistant had once made the mistake of showing him the TikTok edits people made about him and Charles. Max had wanted to throw her phone out of the nearest window.
He had not needed several minutes of slow-motion footage set to romantic music to discover that apparently the Internet had catalogued every time he'd looked at Charles for longer than socially acceptable. Every press conference glance, every podium, every time Charles had been talking to someone else while Max, for some reason, had been watching him instead.
It was ridiculous.
People apparently saw him as more than just the ruthless driver who would happily force somebody halfway onto the grass for a win. They also saw a man who stared at his rival far too often and far too intensely for it to qualify as completely normal friendship.
Still, today was different. Coming to see him was almost a normal thing to do, except they didn't really do this. They weren't the kind of friends who turned up at each other's houses unannounced. They weren't the kind who called just to ask how the other was doing. And they definitely weren't the kind who appeared at hospitals.
Nonsense. Charles had hit a barrier at a ridiculous speed and was reporting being not entirely okay after it. Something about not seeing good with his right eye.
Of course he'd come. Anyone would. Probably.
With those thoughts spinning in his mind, Max turned the corner and saw Alexandra. He wasn't sure why he hadn't thought about her until now.
She had her phone in one hand and Charles's paddock pass still hanging around her neck, as though she'd come straight from the circuit. She looked tired, her hair slightly dishevelled, the kind of exhaustion that came after several hours of being frightened and trying not to show it.
“Max?”
“Hi.”
For some reason, he suddenly felt considerably more awkward than he had while sneaking through the back of a hospital.
Alexandra looked briefly towards Charles's door and then back at him, the ultimate surprise written all over her face.
“You came.”
“Yeah,” he said, because there wasn't exactly much else to say. “I wanted to see if he's okay.”
Her expression softened.
“He is. The scans were clear. Mostly bruising. His shoulder is quite bad, and they're keeping him here for observation, but nothing serious.” she glanced towards the door again. “He'll be happy to see you.”
Something strange shifted low in Max's stomach, but he ignored it.
“He's been reading things online.”, she said sadly.
“What things?”
Alexandra sighed. “You know how people are after a crash.”
Yes. Unfortunately, Max knew exactly how people were.
He looked at the door again. “Is he alone?”
“For the moment. I was going to get some coffee.”
"Okay, I'll stay with him."
Without waiting for permission, any response, and without knocking, he pushed the door open and walked in.
Charles was sitting up in bed, one hand holding his phone while the other was buried in his hair, fingers gripping the hair in obvious frustration.
He was wearing one of those ridiculous hospital gowns that somehow made everyone look more vulnerable than they actually were, but being the fashion icon that he was and, annoyingly, as attractive as he was, Charles somehow managed to pull off even this look.
Max stared at him for a moment, almost mesmerised, but mostly overwhelmed by the relief of having Charles right there in front of him: breathing, swearing, very much alive.
And to his annoyance, he actually looked adorable, his eyes were fixed on the screen, French curses flying out of his mouth as he scrolled.
“Putain…”
Another swipe.
“Mais c’est pas possible…”
Another swipe, more frustrated one.
“Quel idiot. Mais qu’est-ce que j’ai foutu…”
He looked away from the phone and Max could swear he saw the unshed tears in his eyes, mixed with utter misery. “J’ai vraiment tout foutu en l’air.”
At that exact moment, Max decided to finally make his presence known by clearing his throat lightly. Charles turned around almost as fast as he'd hit the barrier, and for a second Max genuinely worried his neck might snap from the force of the surprise.
“Max?”
“No, it’s Lewis. You apparently damaged your eyesight after all.”
Charles stared at him for a second, visibly trying to process both Max's presence and the fact that he was already being an asshole about it. Then, he smirked at Max, “Very funny. What are you doing here?”
Max shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and walked further into the room. “Nice to see you too.”
“I mean...” Charles stuttered, blinking at him. “You were at the circuit and had podium things. Receiving your award, being in the spotlight and everything.”
“I survived.”
“And media.”
“Unfortunately had to go through that shit too.”
Charles looked past him towards the door, almost as though expecting somebody else to appear behind him, then glanced down at himself, suddenly seeming aware of the hospital gown, the mess of his hair, the bruising already beginning to darken along one side of his body.
Max watched him tug uselessly at the blanket.
“You look terrible,” he said.
Charles's head snapped up. “Thank you.”
“You're welcome.”
“You came all the way here just to tell me that?”
“No, I could have texted you that. I came to watch the show of a one cursing French man.”
Charles rolled his eyes, but there was the smallest movement at the corner of his mouth. Good. That was better than the expression he'd been wearing when Max walked in.
Max pulled the chair beside the bed closer and dropped into it, stretching his legs out in front of him. “How bad?”
Charles shrugged with one shoulder and immediately winced. “Nothing broken,” he said. “Apparently I am very lucky.”
“Apparently. You scared everyone.”
Charles looked at him then, some of the tension easing from his face.
“Like everyone?” he asked. “Even you?”
Max narrowed his eyes. “I said everyone.”
A small smile tugged at Charles's mouth. “Right.”
Charles's smile lingered for another second before his attention dropped back to the phone in his hand.
And just like that, it was gone. Max watched the change happen. Charles's thumb moved across the screen again, slower this time, as though he already knew he wasn't going to like whatever came next but couldn't stop himself from looking anyway.
“Putain…”
Max shifted in the chair, rolling his eyes at him. “What are you reading?”
“Nothing.”
“That doesn't look like nothing.”
Charles didn't answer, making another swipe. “Putain de merde.”
“Charles.”
“It’s fine.”
Max stared at him. “Give me the phone.”
Charles finally looked up. “No.”
“Give it.”
“Max.”
“Charles.”
“No.”
There was something almost childish about the way Charles pulled the phone closer to his chest, and under any other circumstances Max might have laughed at him. But Max had spent enough years around Charles to recognise when he was genuinely upset, even when Charles was doing his best to hide it beneath irritation.
So Max reached over and took it.
“Max..”
Charles tried to grab it back, moving too quickly, and immediately sucked in a breath as pain shot through his ribs.
“Give me my phone.”
“No.”
Max was already looking at the screen.
For a moment, he said nothing. The first few comments were exactly what he'd expected. People analysing the crash frame by frame, arguing about whether Charles had lost the rear himself or whether the Ferrari had done something unpredictable.
Then he scrolled.
Ferrari needs a real driver.
Another.
Should've hit harder.
Max's expression changed.
He scrolled again.
Shame he walked away from that one.
And underneath a video of the impact:
Maybe next time.
Something hot and immediate twisted inside Max's chest.
“What the fuck?”
Charles looked away. That, more than anything, made Max furious. Not the comments themselves. Max had seen worse written about him over the years. People behind screens were brave in ways they would never be if they had to say the same words to someone's face.
What pissed him off was that Charles had been sitting here reading them. Actually letting them in.
Max locked the phone and threw it onto the empty armchair across the room. The phone missed the chair and landed hard on the floor, apparently damaged enough to possibly never work again.
“Hey!”
Max was fuming. “They're fucking idiots. A bunch of pathetic, useless idiots who haven't achieved anything in their lives.”
“My phone! You just threw it.”
“You're rich. Your net worth is thirty-four million dollars, after all, you’ll get a new one.”
Charles stared at him in disbelief. “That doesn't mean you can destroy my things.”
“I will buy you another one.”
“That is not the point!”
“I think it is.”
“Max!”
But Max barely heard him anymore. His anger had already returned to what he'd seen on the screen. Those few sentences kept replaying in his head, each one somehow worse than the last. People sitting safely behind their screens wishing that the car had gone into the barrier harder. Wishing that Charles hadn't climbed out.
And Charles had been sitting here reading it. Reading it over and over until his face looked like that.
Max dragged a hand over his mouth.
“Seriously, Charles. Why the fuck are you reading this?”
The irritation over the phone disappeared as quickly as it had come, leaving something far more exhausted behind.
“I don't know.”
“Then stop.”
“It isn't that easy.”
“Yes, it is.”
Charles gave him a look. Max immediately knew that had been the wrong thing to say.
“No, Max. For you maybe.”
“What does that mean?”
“You don't care.”
“Of course I care.”
“You don't care what people think about you.”
Max almost corrected him. That wasn't exactly true. He had simply spent enough years teaching himself not to give strangers access to parts of him they had done nothing to earn.
Charles looked away before Max could answer. “You win, and everybody talks about how brilliant you are. I make one mistake and suddenly I'm destroying Ferrari.”
He gave a tired laugh and looked down at his hands. “Maybe I should quit.”
For a second, Max forgot how to breathe. The words landed somewhere deep and ugly inside his chest, bringing with them a flash of something dangerously close to panic.
Charles quitting. Max hated the thought instantly.
Hated the image of coming to a circuit and not seeing that red car somewhere ahead of him. Hated the idea of qualifying without checking where Charles was on the timing screens, of races without that familiar name appearing in his mirrors, of an entire paddock continuing as normal while Charles was simply no longer part of it.
It frightened him more than it had any right to.
Because racing had always existed with Charles somewhere in it. First as the irritating kid he wanted to beat, then as the rival he measured himself against, and somewhere along the way as something Max had never quite bothered to define.
The possibility of losing that suddenly felt unbearable.
His stomach turned. “No.”
“You are not quitting because some idiots on the internet decided they know how to drive a Formula One car.”
Charles looked away again. “It’s not just them.”
“I know.”
That softened something in Charles's expression and rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m tired.”
Max's anger disappeared instantly. Charles suddenly looked exhausted rather than frustrated. “I keep thinking maybe I’m not good enough anymore.”
“Stop.”
“What if I’m not?”
“You are.”
“You don’t know that.”
Max stared at him. “I’ve raced you since we were kids. I know exactly how good you are.”
Charles swallowed.
“Ferrari are paying you millions for what, then? Entertainment?”
That earned the faintest smile from Charles.
Max continued before he could argue. “You think they keep you because they feel sorry for you?”
Charles didn't respond to that, lowering his gaze. For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. Then Charles said quietly, “I really thought I was going to die.”
Max's chest tightened so violently it almost hurt, Charles's fingers curled into the blanket. “When I saw the barrier coming…”
“And then I read people saying they wished I had.”
“Charles.”
His voice came out rough.
Charles looked up, and Max saw it the exhaustion, the fear, the hurt he'd been trying to bury under sarcasm and French swearing since Max walked in.
That was enough. Max stood, crossed the small space between them before he could think better of it and carefully pulled Charles into him.
Charles froze for barely a second, then folded against Max's chest.
His hand gripped the front of Max's shirt. Max wrapped both arms around him, mindful of his shoulder, and held him tighter than he probably should have.
Charles was warm. Breathing. Alive.
Relief hit Max so hard he had to close his eyes. And suddenly the truth was impossible to avoid.
This wasn't how you felt about just a friend. Not the panic during the crash. Not the terror at the thought of Charles quitting. Not this desperate need to keep holding him simply because Max could. Charles meant more to him. Much more than Max had ever allowed himself to admit.
His hand moved gently into Charles's hair. “Don’t ever believe that shit,” he murmured.
Charles only held on tighter. And Max didn't let go.