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Deep down Charles knows it probably wasn’t the best idea to take up Lando on the offer of going to the club he was disk jockeying at a few days after the Canadian Grand Prix, but now he’s found himself in the middle of way too many sweaty people, not being quite able to see Lando at the DJ booth at the front of the club. Pierre was somewhere else in the club, probably with Kika long gone, which Charles deemed too hard to try to find either of them in the state he was in.
It wasn’t anywhere near as drunk as he usually is at events like these, considering the room wasn’t spinning yet and he only had two strawberry daiquiris and is now slowly working on his third, which while making him feel pretty good wasn’t nearly enough to get him to the point where he usually is this time of the night. He feels a bit silly honestly, squished between a bunch of people who most likely don’t even live in Monaco and sipping from his cup with its stupid umbrella while he moves his hips just enough to the Pitbull song Lando is spinning that he doesn’t look too awkward.
He finishes his drink, feeling a nice steady buzz finally, and decides to drop off his glass to the bar, perhaps take a shot before attempting to take on the dance floor or find George who he was almost positive was somewhere as DD for Lando and a couple others. He managed to get there only being stopped twice by people sharing their condolences for his horrible race or just Ferrari in general and snagged himself a spot in the standing room at the bar.
The bartender ignored a few people and made his way over to Charles. He was tall, and a bit intimidating, so Charles made quick work of sending his empty over and asking for a shot. He curses Carlos everyday for making him a tequila man.
He’s biting into his lime when he feels an arm snake its way around his waist. It scares him at first, the hand giving his hip quite the squeeze, before he turns to see Max very clearly drunk out of his mind.
“I didn’t know you were here tonight,” Charles says, leaning in a bit so that Max could hear him more clearly. Max sends him a sleazy smile and blinks slowly, looking Charles up and down once.
“Well I wasn’t going to come, but now I’m really glad I decided to.”
Okay. What?
Charles laughs a bit and pats Max on the shoulder. Max only squeezes his hip again and Charles isn’t sure if he’s making up the part when Max pulls him a bit closer.
“Race win. Right. Got to celebrate, mate.”
“Of course, especially with someone like you,” Max smirks and somehow leans even closer. Charles can practically smell the vodka redbull on his breath. Typical. “What’s your name, pretty boy?”
To say Charles is speechless is an understatement. It all clicks in his head at that moment that Max Verstappen, his rival since karting days now somehow turned one of his closest friends, is so far gone that he doesn’t realize the man he’s flirting with is Charles. All that Charles could do was stare at Max, a baffled look on his face.
“Um, I uh, my name is Charles.”
“Beautiful name for a beautiful man.”
Charles, despite knowing that Max doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing, almost folds at his words and the way Max is looking at him. He manages to squeak out a thank you, probably not audible over Lando’s music. Charles feels sort of bad, leading Max on like this. Like he also doesn’t know who the other is. But he knows that all he has to do is find George eventually and he’ll be alright.
Max chats him up a bit more, asking Charles questions that the answers to Max already knows, but Charles would be lying if he weren’t enjoying the attention he’s getting plus the fact that he’s going to have one of the best club stories to date is going to score him some brownie points in the grid group chat.
“I know this isn’t really the time and place for it, but could I get your number?” Max asks, leaning close to Charles’ ear. He gives the older man a smile before gesturing to that bartender to give him a napkin and a pen, to which he happily obliged.
Charles jotted down his number and initials before shoving the napkin into Max’s pocket, which proved difficult due to just how goddamn tight they were. Charles pats the pocket and leans close to Max’s ear.
“Keep that safe and call it in the morning.”
Max smiles, giving Charles the quickest kiss on the cheek which causes both of their cheeks to heat up.
“I’ll take you up on that. Maybe take you out for dinner sometime. See where the night leads us if you catch my drift.”
Charles laughs, nodding his head. “You do that.”
He’s surprised that the alcohol hasn’t worn off Max enough to make him realize what he’s doing, but before he can press Max any further he disappears off into the crowd, leaving Charles still standing at the bar. He waves the bartender over again.
“Your pen,” he says, extending out his arm. “And I’ll take another strawberry daiquiri. Make it a double.”
–
Charles wakes up with only a mild headache and a full memory of the night before. He still can’t quite hear properly but knows that George was kind enough to bring him into his house and get him a glass of water ready for the morning. He opens his phone to send the Brit a quick text of thanks and is about to press send when Max’s caller ID pops up on the top of his screen. Charles smiles to himself, hits send on the text to George, and presses the accept call button.
“Good morning, mate. Or should I say afternoon?’
“Fuck you, Charlie.”
“Sorry.”
Max lets out a groan and Charles can hear a chair scrape on the ground followed by a thumping noise that is very obviously Max sitting down with zero finesse and a raging pounding in his head.
“Can you tell me why your number was in my pocket on a napkin that smelled like strawberries?”
Charles goes red at the reminder. “You don’t remember?”
“Charlie, the last thing I remember was Checo handing me my second vodka redbull, the bastard.”
“Well…”
Max sighs and by the sounds of it, takes a long sip from a glass of presumably water. At least Charles hopes he's drinking water. “Just tell me.”
“You asked for my number.”
There’s a pause that Charles feels is just long enough for it to be awkward.
“What do you mean by that? Please don’t tell me it’s what I think,” Max says, groaning for the umpteenth time on this call.
“What do Logan and Oscar call it? Rizz? Yeah, you rizzed me up last night.”
“What did I tell you?”
“I mean, you told me you wanted to take me out. Called me pretty a few times. Wanted to see where the night took us, and your hand like, never left my hip,” Charles says, trying to fight back a laugh.
“Charles,” Max sighs out. “I’m so sorry. That’s– that’s not how I wanted to tell you all of that. Seriously, I’m so sorry.”
Charles’ smile faded slightly at Max’s response.
“What do you mean it’s not how you wanted to tell me.”
“I mean, drunk words are sober thoughts I guess.”
There's another pause and Charles feels like he can’t breathe. If this were anyone else he would have a good answer, but it's Max. His Max. Max who quotes his stupid inchident all the time. Max who touches him all the time during interviews and–
Okay maybe it’s making sense to Charles now.
“You… actually want to take me out?”
“Yes.”
“On a date?”
“Yes.”
Charles’ smile returns and he feels like a schoolgirl being asked to a dance, or whatever they do. “You actually think I’m pretty?”
Max clears his throat.
“Yeah, Charlie. I do.”
Charles’ cheeks hurt a bit from his smile and before he knows it he’s suggesting dinner at one of his favourite places in Monte Carlo, just for him and Max. He gets an agreement from Max, who promises to pick him up in his Ferrari just for him.
“It’s a date then.”
The moment they get off the phone together he sees George had responded to his text.
George
> of course mate no problem ! any chance you want to get dinner later with me and alex ? we’re in monaco for the next day or so
Charles
> Sorry, I got a date later on. Have fun though!
George
> ah i see
> any chance you know if max is free ? lando was asking about him earlier this morning and i think he wants him over later tonight
Charles
> he’s busy too…
George
> …
> I see 😉
> Have fun Charles
> Use protection
Charles
> im going to hit you russell