Chapter Text
Somehow, at almost six in the morning, the sun barely just starting to crest the horizon in the distance, Paris International Airport still manages to be crowded with people.
Sure, Charles should've maybe taken into account the fact it was the winter break when he booked this vacation, but he's had more pressing matters on his mind recently.
So, he has to suck it up while he stands for an hour in the security line, watching as the halfwits in front of him have to be coached through every single step and trying not to lose his mind. Maybe he has the benefit of airport-savviness thanks to over a decade of travelling for work, but he still doesn't understand how, in the year 2032, people still haven't figured out that no, they can't carry their phone through the metal detector and, yes, they will have to take their electronics out of their bags.
It makes him miss the luxury of private jets - which only serves to make him more irritated because his maman raised him better than to be such a snob.
By the time he gets through to the gates (and all of his brain cells have melted into a pile at his feet), Charles is almost entirely done with the whole thing. So far, the experience has been a long way away from the relaxing holiday he needed it to be. As he finally steps into the near-empty VIP lounge and gets blasted with crisp air-conditioning, he wonders if this has all been a mistake after all.
It's been a long month - a long year, really.
Being a model had been everything Charles had ever hoped it’d be. He'd loved the travel and the freedom, having everything he could ever want. The whole word at the tips of his fingers - a life of luxury. But it was never easy.
Even now, he suffers from the long-term repercussions of his career. He still has to catch himself every time he starts counting calories obsessively or overworks himself at the gym. When his stomach lurches at the sight of his mother’s freshly baked pastries or the weight that’s been gathering around his waist ever since he eased away from the restrictive lifestyle.
But he's better now; music has made him better. It's something he'd always wanted to do, had dreamed of doing since he was a little boy prodding piano keys with chubby fingers. But he hadn't even considered it until, off the back of another painful breakup and a diminishing career, his therapist had suggested trying it out again. The love he possessed for music and piano had returned with a fervour that he'd never been allowed to indulge in before. Now, after a year, he's finally finished his first single and it's due to be released in a week - and he's been on the verge of a panic attack ever since.
Running his finger over the wet lip of a martini glass, Charles tries not to think about it- it being: his fears of exposing himself and his vulnerabilities to the world through his music and finding out they hate it (and him).
It's the whole reason he'd booked this solo trip to Bora Bora.
For weeks now, he’s been practically useless. Possessed by stress and anxiety that has led to numerous sleepless nights and another bout of unintentional weight loss. It’s been driving him mad knowing that the one thing that’s been healing him is now picking him apart again, bit by bit. Returning him to the numb shell of himself he’d been towards the end of his career.
Of course, like most things nowadays, it had been his therapist’s suggestion to take this trip. A chance to get away from social media in the days leading to, and during, the release. Charlotte, his very lovely and very smart therapist, had recommended returning to one of his favourite destinations - a place free of any worries and where he could relax completely - and, with that, Bora Bora came to mind.
It's been seven years since he last visited the islands and, though the company at the time might not have been favourable in hindsight, Charles has nothing but pleasant memories of it. Even here in dreary Paris, faced with miles of tarmac and endless grey skies, Charles can envision the turquoise lagoons and white sands. He can feel the sun on his face and the water against his skin as vividly as if he’d never left.
There's one place, in particular, that he's been dreaming of.
A luxury resort on its own private island, only accessible by boat - complete solitude. It's quiet and private and exactly what he needs now.
It will fix everything; he’s sure of it.
Charles is four martinis deep by the time he's called to boarding.
It’s probably not the best idea he’s had. Even if he’s long retired and out of the public eye, that doesn’t make him entirely anonymous. The few remaining members of his team will not be particularly impressed if a video of him stumbling through Charles de Gaulle like a baby giraffe goes viral. Luckily, he gets to the gate and onto the plane with minimal catastrophes.
He falls into his seat with a blissed-out smile, the gin and vermouth having done wonders for his anxiety as he sinks into the plush leather chair. He has plans and routines for flights like these which involve: first, a large glass of cabernet sauvignon; second, any of the Harry Potter movie franchise on his screen; and, finally, a prescribed dosage of sleeping pills to see him through til Los Angeles.
In the meanwhile, he takes a look around the almost-filled cabin. He’d been part of the later crowd to arrive, it seems. Most of the remaining seats have already been filled with people going about their own routines, stashing bags and getting comfortable. Boring, all in all, and not the dose of aeroplane drama he always hopes to bear witness to.
And then, finally, just as he’s about to give up all hope, a disturbance at the front of the plane catches his attention.
Almost everyone has been boarded by now, but there seems to be one passenger left causing a commotion with the stewardesses. Even from the back, the man looks harried, his shoulders sagged and his hand constantly running through his hair, pulling at it. Charles glances at the empty seat beside him and sends a silent prayer to the heavens above. It’d be just his luck to be stuck with this disorderly, intrusive individual who uses his hands to gesture wildly about the place as he argues back and forth with the stewardesses.
Of course, any worries he might have about this man disturbing his plans for relaxation suddenly become a little more pressing as the man finally turns around.
The four martinis rise with a vengeance and Charles is instantly very worried that he’s about to spill his guts for everyone to bear witness to.
Because the frantic-looking passenger is Max Verstappen.
As a celebrity, shock and surprise on the faces of the people around him might be a frequent experience for the previous world champion. Anyone who considers themselves a fan, even distantly, of Formula One would know who he is - almost a legend of the sport in his own right.
But Charles, a celebrity also in his own right, isn't startled by his appearance for the same reason that others may be.
Because, for him, this isn't just Max Verstappen, Formula 1 driver and five-time world champion. No. This is Max, Charles' ex-husband. And Charles has not seen his ex-husband in six years. (Which is a slight overreaction and not entirely true; he's seen him on TV and in magazines. But this is the first time Charles has seen Max in person, face-to-face.) The first time since their very public and very distressing divorce six years ago.
It is, quite honestly, the worst coincidence that could have ever occurred and, for the first time in half a decade, Charles finds himself reminiscing on memories he hasn't let himself touch in years.
*****
Charles and Max have known each other for most of their lives. It started in karts when two boys, born only sixteen days apart, met their partner both in passion and aggression. Max was unrelenting where Charles was stubborn. Charles determined where Max was relentless. They were the perfect match.
When Charles gave up karting, financial issues and the death of his godfather drawing him away from the sport, the boys were separated. Charles moved on to other endeavours and Max fell deeper and deeper into the unyielding world of motorsports.
At seventeen years old, as Max was placed in his first F1 seat with Torro Rosso, Charles was scouted by a Parisian modelling agency. And, in a manner similar to how their lives have always coincided, Max and Charles' careers took off the following year.
When Max won his first race in Barcelona, a month later Charles was walking his first runway at New York Fashion Week. When Max got his highest championship finish in 2019, Charles got his first cover in Vogue.
In the lines of their lives, theirs were always parallel, running alongside each other but never meeting.
That was, at least, until 2021.
It wasn't like, before that point, Charles had been avoiding the ever-changing circus of Formula 1. Sure, there wasn't much keeping him attached to that world any longer, but he still kept very limited tabs on the sport. With his busy lifestyle and growing career, the chance to attend one of the races had passed him many times. But then, as is common in the stories of their lives, fate brought them together.
At the same time as Max was fighting tooth and nail for his maiden championship, Charles was the face of a Tag Heuer campaign. As one of Red Bull's primary sponsors at the time, the watch brand was able to invite guests to the garage for the final race of the season and that included Charles.
Distantly aware of the close title fight, the Monegasque had been looking forward to what was considered the greatest sporting event of the year. Privately, though, that wasn't the only reason for his interest. Because, while Charles had kept a distant eye on Formula One over the years, he had also kept an eye on his old rival, Max. And, now with full access to the garage, he would finally get to see the other man for the first time in almost a decade.
Years later, Charles remembers that Max wasn't what he was expecting.
He wasn't the nervous-looking, quick-to-temper boy he remembered from his childhood. Max was a man, grown into his skin and confident, at ease in his position. He'd barely noticed Charles, too tuned in to the upcoming race, but he hadn't minded.
It was fascinating to watch the Dutchman like that, a ghost from his karting years, and Charles was immediately entranced at the sight of him. Distant from the uncomfortable anxieties of being a young boy and confronting his sexuality, Charles could then admit that he was attracted to him. The Dutchman was undoubtedly gorgeous with his sharp blue eyes and sculpted face.
There, beneath the artificial lights, all Charles could think was that, while had seen many a good-looking man in his time as a model, none of them could hold a candle to Max. Suddenly, Charles was wishing he'd paid a little bit more attention to the sport in recent years, desperate for a reason to talk to the other man.
He didn't have to, though, because Max approached him first.
"Charles Leclerc, right?" —He’d asked, his lisp making the 's' in his name sound more like a 'z', "From karting?"
Charles had practically glowed at the recognition, flashing his most dazzling smile, "Yeah, that's me. I'm surprised you remember after all this time."
"Of course," Max had laughed (Charles had coveted the way his eyes squinted closed with the force of it), "I'll never forget the French brat who pushed me into a puddle at Val d'Argenton."
"Monegasque," Charles corrected but with no actual irritation, "Well, I suppose you got the last laugh - about to win your first world championship and all."
"I don't know, you're not so unsuccessful yourself."
And - well, it wasn't like Charles was particularly unknown. He was undoubtedly one of the biggest upcoming models in the world at that point. The year before, he'd walked the most runways at every single fashion week, had opened six of them. He was on the cover of Vanity Fair and Vogue; an ambassador for luxury brands like Cartier, Armani and Dior. His face was on billboards all over the world.
So, it wasn't a surprise anymore when he got stopped in the streets everywhere he went. But for Max to know who he is - the same man known for wearing white t-shirts and cargo shorts exclusively, according to Charles' best friend Pierre - it was a compliment in and of itself.
Charles had been about to answer, but the words had gotten stuck in his throat witnessing the way Max looked him up and down before settling on his face and adding, "You look good, by the way."
Which- Charles was literally paid to look good, of course. So, it wasn’t like he didn’t know that- But, the compliment left him stuttering, all over the place. His heart was thundering and all he could think about in that moment was - was Max Verstappen flirting with him?
And... if he was, Charles was not going to give up such an opportunity. Despite just how much of a mess he’d felt in that moment, he’d managed to smirk - the one that raked in millions in those days and he knew was pants-dropping-ly good - “Yeah? You don't look so bad yourself, you know."
Max had matched his smirk like he'd matched every step of progress throughout his career and had been about to reply, mouth dropping open, when they'd been untimely interrupted by one of the members of his team. Charles couldn't even mask the visible disappointment that crossed his face, overhearing the whispered you need to start getting ready and knowing that their time together was being cut short. He'd squared his shoulders, ready to be let down watching Max switch into 'racing mode', but before he could wish him good luck, something crossed the Dutchman's face.
"You'll be around afterwards? At the afterparty?"
Charles' mouth fell and he'd been so shocked that, for some reason, the best possible response his brain could come up with was: ”Only if you win."
“Yeah?” Max promised, “I'll make sure of it then."
Charles had been on the edge of his seat for the entire race, watching the screens so intently that his vision started to sway. When the safety car was about to come in on the penultimate lap, all he could do was sit and stare as Lewis Hamilton pulled away and as Max desperately chased after him.
With new soft tyres, though, Max was unstoppable. And, Charles likes liked to think, that the promise of his attendance at the Red Bull afterparty was the very thing that pushed him over the line first, winning him his first-ever world championship.
Charles didn't get the chance to speak to Max after the race and he hadn't wanted to intrude, anyway. It wasn't about him, after all. But, he had made a bit of an effort for the afterparty (even more so than he usually would and that was saying a lot for him) hope fizzing distantly under his skin as he waited for the other man to approach him.
At some time in the middle of the night, Max had found him. The man was drunk, that was plain to see, buzzing with the edge of a fantastic, nail-biting, history book win (and the numerous cocktails and glasses of champagne people kept handing him).
"Charles!" He'd cheered from all the way across the yacht, disturbing the Monegasque from a rather dull conversation with a sponsor that he'd been looking for an excuse to get out of, "You're here!"
Seemingly ignorant to the company beside him, Max had shouldered his way into Charles' space beside the bar, already flagging down a barman and ordering them two shots of tequila.
"You'll drink with me Charles, won't you?" And how could he ever say no to a face like that?
Charles had drunk the shot with Max and then the cocktail he ordered for him too, a dirty martini - because that describes you, Max had said (whatever that meant) - it had been the first one he'd ever had and it would become his choice of drinks for years to come.
"I've missed you all these years," Max had said, leaning over the bar to bridge the gap between them, "There's no good eye candy on the grid, we're missing someone like you. And you were fast!"
"I'm glad you respected me for my speed and not just my looks," Charles had jabbed, but with no true feeling in it, mostly just giddy that he was getting such a confession out of the Dutchman in his drunken state.
"Of course! You were the only one who could beat me in those days."
Charles had fingered the rim of his glass, coming away slick with condensation, and had tried not to reminisce too hard on his long-gone karting days. It's not that he missed it often, or that he regretted the path his life had taken. But it was strange to be back there, faced with what could have been. "Maybe I could have given you a run for your money."
Max's eyes had darkened imperceptibly and he'd leaned even further into Charles' personal space, "Maybe you could still give me a run for my money in other ways."
And, until that point, Charles had been ready to brush Max's actions off as that of a drunk man flirting with a model. Charles had been told many a time before that he was pretty like a girl and, for a moment, he’d thought that maybe Max was so inebriated he couldn't tell the difference - as devastating as that might have been.
But there was this look in the Dutchman’s eyes, transparent and lucid, a mounting lust that knew what it wanted - knew who it wanted. Charles hadn't known that Max liked men, would've kept his eye out for a piece of gossip like that. But standing there, base thumping beneath his feet, facing down a world champion and with no way of interpreting the situation otherwise, he let himself indulge. It was one of those moments in life that you think will make or break you - something defining.
"Yeah?" Charles had closed the gap until there was barely anything between them, "Ask me on a date and then you might get to find out."
It felt like the end of the end from then on. Charles fell in love with Max fast and hard; Max did the same.
They were infatuated, plain and simple, obsessed really. Every moment they could spare was spent together, no matter the trials of getting there. They flew across countries to be together for a few hours, hiking up air miles like it was nobody's business.
Charles loved Max. It was unlike anything he'd ever felt for anyone before. The Dutchman was funny and kind, attentive and thoughtful. Charles couldn't count the number of times he'd shown up to hotel rooms filled with flowers: red roses, always, hundreds of them. Max bought him anything he wanted, paid for his dinners when he was out and sent pastries to his house when he was sad. Charles got back into Formula 1 and watched every single race he couldn't attend, cheering his boyfriend on as he easily steamed his way to another world championship.
They had to keep it secret, of course, but they didn't hide either. At least, they had their shared history to protect them - the media playing off their new closeness as a rekindled bromance. On the rare occasions they were gifted an extended period of time together, Max would fly them across the world to wherever they wanted to go and it was in the winter break after his second championship that they flew to Bora Bora.
The tiny island with just 12 bungalows became an escape for them. With no paparazzi and the other couples rarely recognising them (or just not caring), they were free to act as they wished - to pretend they were anyone else.
It became a habit to return every winter for their anniversary, both men dreaming of turquoise waters and a red-hot sun and nobody knowing who they were. It was their little version of paradise and the place they chose to elope three years after reconnecting. On the balcony of their bungalow suite, Max had gotten down on one knee and proposed, and Charles, weeping and snivelling, had wanted to marry him there, as soon as possible. There was a priest on the nearby island who could officiate and so, by the end of the next day and with the acceptance of another couple to act as witnesses, they were married.
For the first three months, they lived in bliss. They scarcely saw anyone else, hiding away in their shared penthouse apartment in Monaco and rarely leaving except for groceries and fresh air. But utopia couldn't last forever and, as soon as the season started, everything began to crumble.
It started, first, with an innocent post from the couple who'd acted as witnesses. In a photo dump posted to Instagram, they'd included a picture of their wedding. Somehow, someone had gotten ahold of it and then, like wildfire, the photo spread across the internet. It was a mess, well and truly, not only because it outed both of them to the rest of the world, but because their families and friends had been withheld from the information too.
Amidst the blatant homophobia and cruelty, they were having to apologise to their loved ones. Their mothers were disappointed, but Max's father was furious. He'd disowned his son, publicly and brutally and, from that point on, it truly was the end of the end.
Max's performance began to falter and he lost his lead in the championship. Whether it was due to him solely or actually because of a change in engine regulations that lost Red Bull its advantage, Max wouldn't hear it. He blamed himself above everything else and no one in the world could be harder on Max Verstappen than the man himself.
Steadily, Charles saw less and less of his husband. Max travelled to races earlier and left later. He flew to England more than ever, spending the majority of his time alone in his bare apartment in Milton Keynes. Charles had tried to join him but Max always refused him. He’d argue that Charles would find it boring, that he would be alone all the time. Charles didn't know how to explain to his husband that he didn't care if he would be bored, that he just wanted to be there for him. That being bored and alone in Max’s apartment was better than never seeing him at all, than feeling the distance between them as it grew and doing nothing about it.
By the summer break, Max was a shell of the person he once was. Returning from Belgium with another DNF and now third in the championship, he was practically inconsolable. He was a thunderstorm of rage and devastation, believing that everything he'd fought for was slipping through his fingers. Charles had never understood it, thinking Max had no interest in records, and surely he knew that, at some point, his luck would inevitably end. At least, he'd told Max the same thing.
But his husband wasn't eased by his attempts to consolidate.
"Of course, you wouldn't understand, you gave up before it got hard.”
Which was cruel, really, because Max knew more than anyone else how Charles' choices had been stripped from his fingers. "I didn't give up. You know better than anyone that I didn't give up.” And then, because he was feeling bitter and hurt and alone, he’d said, “I had it taken away from me while you were given everything."
"Everything?" Max spat, "Oh, that's a joke. You've never had to work for anything. Not hard, not like the rest of us. It must be so difficult for you, spending all of my money while you sit on your ass all day."
And that- that was crueller.
Because Charles had just finished his last walk for Fashion Week days before and it was hard and he'd barely slept and someone had prodded the skin on his hips and called him fat so he'd barely eaten, either.
His life didn't feel easy. It wasn't easy getting four hours of sleep most nights and never staying in a place longer than a couple of days. It wasn’t easy eating rabbit food for every meal and having to count every single calorie just to get a booking. It wasn’t easy having people poke and pull at you, diminishing your body to a soulless mannequin with no thoughts or feelings.
And Charles had his own money, lots of it really, he'd just always thought that Max liked paying for his things - that was what his husband had always said, at least, that he liked to spoil him. With one argument, it felt like everything, Max's love and his generosity, had been thrown back into Charles' face.
The core of their relationship felt like it was crumbling before their eyes and Charles couldn’t bear to stand there and watch as it happened. So, he’d run. He'd stormed out of the house, the look of resentment and loathing on his husband's face branded against the front of his skull and feeling like he was losing his grip on everything he’d ever loved.
They'd spent the summer break separate for the first time in four years.
At some point, Charles returned to the apartment, but it never got better. In fact, it just got worse and, by the end of the season, Max hadn't only lost the championship, but a husband too.
*****
All of those memories return to him now in a single, dizzying rush.
Max, in his harried state, doesn't spot him back until the very last second - until they're stood mere feet away. Their eyes meet and it's the first time Charles has felt that blue gaze since they sat in a cold, sterile room and discussed the logistics of their separation.
Lips parting, Max, who hasn't had the time to absorb this terrible situation like Charles has (even if he’s still reeling and on the verge of a panic attack), can't restrain his surprise, "Charles?"
It's amazing, really, that they've been able to avoid each other for this long. Max lives in Charles' home country, in the same penthouse apartment they once shared not far from his family home (even to this day, he still looks at it every time he drives past).
After the divorce, Charles moved to Milan and has tried his best to give his home country a wide berth whenever he could. But he never expected to be able to avoid Max so successfully for six whole years. Even during the many occasions he's returned for Christmas and other holidays and birthdays, they've somehow managed to never cross paths until now.
If you asked Charles, he'd sacrifice that luxury a hundred times over to avoid the excruciating twelve hours he's about to spend less than a foot away from the man he hates (and once loved).
"Hi, Max."
Max coughs and his face becomes twisted, forever an open book to Charles even now, "You're- um," he rubs the back of his head, messing his hair up even further, "You're flying to LA?"
It's a stupid question. What other reason would Charles have to be sat on the same flight as him? But before he can come up with some snide, biting retort (a surprisingly easy instinct to fall back into despite all the years since their divorce), a stewardess comes their way with a disgruntled look on her face - just as unwilling to get involved in this interaction as he is.
"Please take your seat, Mr Verstappen, we will be taking off soon."
Brows pinching and seemingly equally as uncomfortable by the seating arrangement as he is, Max reluctantly shoves his bag away and climbs into his seat. Charles just watches the whole endeavour with a flat look on his face, unsure if he's finding this hilarious or deeply unbearable.
"I uh-" his ex-husband clears his throat, "I was supposed to be taking the jet but there were issues and so I had to book this flight last minute. That's why I, um-“
-look like such a mess, Charles finishes in his head.
Because Max does look a mess, more so than he's ever seen him. He's still handsome, of course, and Charles thinks he always will be. But he looks... dishevelled.
There are bags under his eyes, dark and heavy, weighing his face down wearily. The facial hair around his jaw and mouth is patchy and uneven like he hasn't kept up with it in a while. His clothes are rumpled, his t-shirt creased and his sweatpants fraying like he either dressed in the dark or was blind drunk as he picked clothes out from his closet.
That’s not to say that Max has ever been much into fashion. Even when they were together, he was more than happy to wear the same blue jeans and white t-shirt on repeat. The thought of dressing to impress never really crossed his mind.
He was never one to look unkempt, though. He used his iron more than anyone else Charles knew and - surprising for a guy who’d grown up wealthy - actually knew how to use a washing machine. The man next to him looks like he’d picked his outfit off his bedroom floor, deciding it was good enough after one aborted sniff.
It's still utterly, and overwhelmingly, Max.
To his face Charles had always teased the other man for the lack of regard for his appearance but, privately, he'd almost idolised him for it. Even now, in his pressed linen trousers and Burberry sweater, Charles wishes he could just, for once, not care what he looked like. For some reason, it just makes him resent Max all the more.
Charles doesn't bother with a reply, humming disinterestedly and turning instead to the phone in his hands. He pulls up the contact for his best friend, Pierre, fingers running frantically over the keys as he types.
Charles:
You would not believe the situation I'm in 22:25
Somebody has to be out to get me 22:25
Pierre:
22:26 Aren't you supposed to be on a flight rn?
22:26 Is this your way of saying goodbye as you fall out the sky? Because it’s shit
Charles:
Don't joke this isn't even funny 22:26
Pierre:
22:26 ???
Charles:
Max is on my flight... 22:27
And he's sat next to me 22:27
Pierre’s reply takes longer than he might have liked. He bites at his nails as he waits, making his cuticles raw and red as his anxiety builds until his best friend’s reply finally comes through:
Pierre:
22:31 😂 😂
22:29 It's not the end of the world. Just sneak away to one of the bathrooms to fuck - get the tension out!!!!
Charles should’ve known better than to assume Pierre might be even remotely helpful.
Charles:
I hate you so much. If this plane crashes, I want you to remember that 22:30
Pierre:
22:30 ❤️ you 🦑
At least, the conversation distracts him, for a short while, from the man beside him. Now, though, as he turns his phone onto aeroplane mode, there's nothing left to keep him occupied. He taps his fingers against the armrests and tries to act cool and unbothered as he watches the other man’s every move in his peripherals.
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Max sitting rigidly in his seat. The screen that usually divides the seats has been lowered for boarding and, despite Charles being obviously distracted by his phone for the past five minutes, Max has yet to make a move to raise it. Which- Charles is not spending this flight with it down.
He flexes his hands and counts to ten in his head, trying to garner the courage to press the button and inevitably break the bubble between them again. Unfortunately, when he finally reaches one and feels somewhat prepared to do so, fate decides to have the last laugh. Because, at the exact same time, Max presses the button as well. The screen stutters to a halt and then slides back down again - laughably slow.
Charles presses it again.
So does Max.
The same happens, the screen gets maybe three inches in the air before it falls down once more. Again: up, stop, down. Charles huffs, mouth flat and brows pinched with annoyance.
Green meets blue over the partition, Max looking as flushed and exasperated as he is feeling.
"Just-" Charles sighs, "Let me do it."
Max frowns, the tops of his ears pinkening, "Sure. Yeah."
The screen lifts between them comically slowly and Charles continues staring straight ahead at the back of the seat in front as the plane begins to roll along the runway.
Glancing at the time, he only just restrains the desire to slam his head onto the table beside him when he thinks of the eleven hours and forty minutes he now has left with the blurry silhouette of his ex-husband in the peripherals of his vision.
It's definitely not the beginning of the relaxing, stress-free holiday he'd been dreaming of. But, at the very least, Max will be getting off in Los Angeles. They'll part ways in the airport and will never cross paths away, living their lives separately as they have - never worrying about what the other was doing.
After all, it's incredibly unlikely that he's going all the way to Bora Bora on the exact same weekend.
Right?