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Max feels a heavy sense of relief when he finally gets to slip into his dark hotel room and close the door behind him, sealing himself off from the outside world for the rest of the night. A small reprieve from everything, a chance to try to catch his breath before striding back out with his head held high to hopefully pick up where he had left off in Jeddah. Here, alone in the quiet of his hotel room, he can allow himself a shred of pity for how the race had gone for him. Here, he didn’t have to say the right things, smile the right smiles, and ooze self-confidence and assurance that Japan would be better.
He crosses the room to the bed on the far side, dropping his bag on the floor by the washroom door as he passes. Sinking down onto the bed, he reaches out to flick the lamp on. Soft, yellow light spills out over the carpet. He looks down at his hands, where his fingers are curled back into fists and his knuckles are white. He has to make a conscious effort to loosen his grip, allow his fingers to slowly unfold until each one is splayed our straight. He turns them over, looks at the subtle impressions of his dull fingernails in his palms. He huffs out a breath through his nose and looks away, letting his hands fall to loosely dangle between his knees.
What a shit show the day had been, though he knew all along, deep down, that his streak of fantastic luck would run out eventually. After all, like he had told several journalists and reporters earlier that day, it was a mechanical sport and sometimes things just went wrong. Not everything was in the realm of his control. All that was left before him, before the whole team, was to figure out what exactly had gone wrong and take every step possible to ensure it didn’t happen again. He had not worked as hard as he had done his entire life just to lose it all now because of repeat car failures.
Still, his lead in the drivers championship had not been taken away from him, though it had been tightened up significantly, and the team was still leading the constructors championship. That, he could take solace in. He couldn’t breath as easy as he would’ve liked after this race, but his head was still above water. For that, he was grateful, and he certainly wouldn’t take it for granted the rest of the season. He would do everything he could to win as much as possible, no matter what fans of the sport said or complained about.
He is pulled from his thoughts by a soft knock on the door. He frowns, eyes flicking to the alarm clock sitting on the bedside table. It was late. Late enough, anyway, that he had already gone through the media circus, sat through the post-race debrief, talked to the members of the team that he needed to talk to. Hell, he had even caught up with Checo after the race, congratulated him on his points (which had been important for the team to stay ahead in the constructors) and went over how the car had felt, what kind of setup they had run, how they thought Japan would go. There was no one left to talk to.
Grumbling under his breath, he hauls himself back up onto his feet. Crossing back to the hotel room door, he flicks the lock and pull the door open. The slight frown on his face melts away when he spots who is waiting patiently on the other side for him.
Emerald green eyes shift to meet his own properly, and a tentative smile tugs at the corner of a perfectly shaped mouth, framed with just the right amount of facial hair. Max’s stomach flips slightly, despite his efforts to shove the feeling back down into the cage it was supposed to be kept in.
Max knows he should say something polite, congratulatory. Instead, what comes out is, “Aren’t you supposed to be out celebrating with your team?”
There’s a slight edge to his tone, and anyone else would probably mark it was jealousy. But it’s not. Max has been the one with another podium under his feet while his rival had yet another DNF. He knows it’s just the way of the sport. He isn’t jealous, not really. He’s just tired and confused as to why Charles Leclerc, the P2 finisher of the Australian Grand Prix, would be here, standing outside his hotel room, instead of with his team and teammate, celebrating their first 1-2 finish since Bahrain at the beginning of 2022.
But Charles… Charles knows him, probably better than anyone else on the grid, better than anyone else in the whole paddock, and instead of taking his words and tone personally, he merely shrugs one shoulder up lazily, tentative smile deepening into something a little more solid and certain.
“Probably.” He replies. “I have already been, made an appearance, showed my support for Carlos. But it has been a long day and I’m sure they won’t fault me for wanting to slip away a little early.”
“It has been a long day.” Max parrots back pointedly. When Charles simply raises an eyebrow, tilts his head ever so slightly to the side, Max sighs and scrubs a heavy hand down over his face. “Why are you here, Leclerc?”
When the Monegasque replies, his voice has softened into something quiet, almost unsettling in the way it curls around Max’s chest and begins to soothe immediately. “Because I know how you feel and I wanted to check in and make sure you were alright. It is a discouraging feeling, being forced to retire from a race, especially one you think you have a good chance at winning at the start.”
Max lets his hand drop fully back to his side, narrows his eyes slightly as he scrutinizes the man staring back at him unflinchingly. Finally, after a long moment of silence, Max pushes away from the doorframe, pulling the door open wider in silent invitation. Charles steps through and into the room without another word, already toeing his shoes off and crossing the carpeted floor to the small sofa currently shrouded in half shadows as Max closes and re-secures the door shut.
Turning around to face the room, Max’s eyes immediately land on Charles, sprawled back across the sofa as if he belonged there, head tilted back against the cushions with his eyes closed, sooty lashes fanned out across his cheekbones. Max swallows and looks away, clearing his throat. When he looks back, Charles has reopened his eyes, his head lifted back up so he can look at Max properly.
Max frowns slightly, more confusion than any kind of irritation. “Why come here just to check on me in person? A text would’ve sufficed.” He doesn’t bring up the topic of how Charles even found out where his hotel room was in the first place. The man was a menace, always had been, no matter how well Ferrari had schooled him on appropriate PR behaviour. If he wanted to know something, very little would stop Charles Leclerc from finding it out.
“And would you have replied to my text?” Charles retorts easily. Max shrugs half-heartedly. The other man did have a point there. “Exactly. Now come on, I don’t bite, just sit down.” He pats the sofa cushion beside him, as if he were in his own room instead of the Dutchman’s. Max lifts a eyebrow at him, but crosses the room to sink down onto the furniture beside him, leaning on the arm opposite from the Monegasque, leaving a couple feet of space between them.
Silence descends upon them, which was often a rare thing. Their time spent together was usually filled with chatter about their qualifying laps, or how their races had gone. Recently, Charles races had oftentimes been much more interesting than Max’s, and the Dutchman was always happy to listen to how his rival had manoeuvred his way through the field to join him on the podium. Even back in their karting days there was rarely silence between them, and when there was it was certainly not this comfortable.
“So,” Charles eventually breaks the stillness enveloping them, “how are you feeling?”
Max looks away, towards the window where the sky outside has grown dark. The city lights scattered around them bring continued life to the streets below. Melbourne had moved on from Max’s disastrous race, happily celebrating Carlos’ victory as if it were a breath of fresh air.
‘Perhaps it had been.’ Max thinks ruefully.
“I’m fine.” Max replies, though the words don’t feel right on his tongue. “I had a near perfect season last year. Repeating that again was never really going to be possible, was it?”
“Max.” His name is spoken in a way that he has never heard before. He can’t even put a name to it, it’s so foreign to him. A hand settles on his arm, and he swings his gaze around to look at it. He can feel the cool metal of the Monegasque’s rings against his skin, a pleasant respite from the heat still lingering in the air. He studies those rings, that hand, unwilling (or unable) to meet the other man’s intense gaze. Not yet. “You do not have to lie to me to paint a stronger picture of yourself. I already know how strong and resilient you are. But right now, you don’t have to be. I will not hold your honesty against you, you know that.”
Almost against his own will, his eyes lift to catch on green ones, and something lodges itself firmly in Max’s throat. He knows. He knows that he does not have to lie, that he can let his guard down, be vulnerable. But it’s hard. So hard. His father’s words still ring in his head to this day, even though he does not hold them against the man. He had been right about so many things, after all, why would be not be right about this too?
“A champion does not cry. He does not show weakness. If you are vulnerable, you will be taken advantage of. Never let them see you uncertain. Never let them see you struggle. You pick yourself up, put on a brave face, and make them believe that you are a winner, even if you don’t make that top podium place your own. Make them know that next time, you will.”
He opens his mouth, inhales around the words he wants to speak, but they don’t come out. They remain glued to the roof of his mouth, unwilling to loosen and tumble out into the space between them where they can be heard and remembered. Charles’ eyes soften and his smile becomes smaller, though no less genuine. And it strikes Max, at that moment, that there isn’t an ounce of pity on the man’s face. There is only a sympathy that comes from having suffered a similar fate, too many times to count.
And suddenly the words wrestle free and come pouring out, “It’s just hard, you know? I’ve seen what people have said online, how happy they are that I had to retire. So much pleasure has been created because of my misfortune, and I just don’t understand how they can all hate me so much for just doing my job.”
And maybe Charles doesn’t understand, because nobody could ever hate the golden heart of Ferrari. And maybe it’s just a moment of weakness for Max, who otherwise always lets the negativity towards his success simply roll off his shoulders. And maybe it doesn’t matter, not here in this moment, because Charles, without warning, slides across the sofa, closing the distance between them to wrap his arms snugly around Max’s shoulders to pull him into a long overdue embrace. Max, despite himself, melts into the contact, letting his head fall to rest on Charles shoulder, nose buried in his neck. He allows himself a moment to just breathe him in.
“They do not hate you, Max, not really.” Charles murmurs, and Max almost let’s out a self-deprecating laugh. Because they do, he knows they do. “The one’s who are winning are always looked down on, until they move on and then they become heroes. It is unfair, but it is the way of the sport.” Max closes his eyes and focuses on the hand slowly running up and down his back he wonders idly if Charles even realizes he’s doing it. “One day everyone will look back on these years and say that they miss you, that you were one of the greats of the sport. Because you are, Max, everyone can see it, even if they don’t want to admit it just yet.”
Max lets out a breath, the air shuddering out of his lungs. He knows, objectively, that Charles is right. They booed Sebastian when he was on top, dominating the sport, and now they revere him, miss him, whisper his name like a long beloved prayer. It was, indeed, the way of the sport. And when he is gone himself, he has few doubts that he will be treated any differently. This was simply his time at the top, and he would eventually fall and someone else would take his place. It was inevitable.
“I am sorry you did not get to race today.” Charles adds quietly, hand stopping its movements briefly to gently squeeze at the muscle of his shoulder. “It is not an easy thing to have happen, but at least you know that you are not at fault.”
His voice is clipped, and Max knows why. He knows about the races that had gone wrong for Charles that the Monegasque felt were his fault. He’s seen the footage of Charles going into the tire barriers, or getting passed by cars that had no right racing against the Ferrari in the first place. He sits back, reluctantly dislodging Charles’ arms from his body, so he can meet his eyes properly.
“We have both been unlucky in our careers.” He says. “But if my time can come, then yours will too.”
Charles cracks a small grin. “Perhaps if your car continues to catch fire all season, I may have a chance at that title this year.”
And Max barks out a laugh, despite himself, despite the disappointment of the day, despite how low he currently feels about everything. And he is suddenly happy that Charles ducked out of his own celebrations to come and check up on him. That flutter he had felt in his chest when he had first opened to door to reveal the Ferrari driver comes back with a vengeance, warmth seeping out through Max’s body to tingle in his fingers and toes.
“If something goes terribly wrong in Japan now, I know who to point a finger at first.” He retorts, and Charles grins fully at him, dimples and all. Max feels the inexplicable urge to reach out and trace that smile, ghost his fingertips over those cheeks, feel the warmth under his palms. “Thank you, Charles.”
Charles nods. “Anytime, Max. You know I’m always here for you.”
And no, Max did not know that, did not know that they were friends beyond the paddock, beyond the padel games they played with their fellow drivers. He did not know that they extended beyond the reach of their jobs. He finds that he rather likes the idea of having Charles beyond the confines of F1.
The silence from before, the easy and comfortable one, slips down around them again, twining between the two as Max falls back into Charles chest, content to soak up as much of Charles’ energy that the other man is willing to give up to him. It seems, as those arms once again curl almost protectively around him, that Charles is willing to give up whatever it is that Max wishes to take. And that is a thrilling thought, in and of itself.
His thoughts grind to a halt, however, his whole body freezing up, as he feels the light press of a kiss to the top of his head. His chest suddenly feels constricted around his lungs. He struggles upright for the second time, only this time Charles is refusing to meet his eyes, his cheeks tinted red. And really, Max can’t have that. He can’t have Charles thinking his affection is wanted or unwelcome. He can’t have Charles regretting the small heartbeat of time when he had allowed himself a tiny lapse in self control.
So he does the only thing he can really think of. He reaches out, curling both hands around Charles jaw, and pulls him into a real kiss, a proper kiss.
He feels, more than hears, Charles sharp intake of breath. He feels the moment when Charles freezes up himself. He also feels the moment the other man relaxes, mouth moving against his own as strong hands reach up to clutch tightly at his upper arms. He kisses Charles languidly, taking his time to memorize the feeling of the other man’s soft lips pressed to his own. When Charles’ tongue tentatively swipes across his lower lip, he allows his mouth to fall open, welcoming his rival-turned-something-else in deeper. He slides his hands back, fingers curling into Charles dark hair, gripping the soft locks and pulling ever so slightly, tugging a gentle groan from the other man’s lips that he greedily swallows.
Pulling back, he grins fondly as Charles groans for a whole different reason. He watches, pleased, as Charles eyes slowly flutter open, pupils dilated and making his eyes much darker than Max could ever remember seeing them. He leans closer, presses their foreheads together, letting their noses bump together gently. His eyes slip closed again as he sighs contentedly.
They flutter open again as a warm hand presses against the nape of his neck. He is met with a gentle smile, and he can’t help but lean that tiny bit closer, stealing another short, chaste kiss from the Monegasque’s. As he pulls back, a huff of laughter is pulled from Charles lips with him.
“If this is how every DNF ends for you, then I think they should become a much more regular occurrence.” Charles says over a soft chuckle. Max reaches down to pinch his side, pulling a louder, much less dignified noise from Charles’ mouth. Max decides that he adores it, already cataloguing the reaction away in his brain for future reference.
“I’m sure we can arrange something without my races going to shit, thank you very much.” He retorts, but there’s no heat to it. Instead, he sounds disgustingly fond, even to his own ears.
Charles nudges their noses together again. “I think I quite like the sound of that, Mr. World Champion.”
And really, what was Max supposed to do with that except kiss him again?
Japan was two weeks away. That was more than enough time for the team to determine what had gone wrong and correct the issue so it never happened again. He had faith in the team that had raised him, that he had grown up with. There was still a long season ahead of them, he had more than enough time to increase his lead in the championship and secure his fourth consecutive world title.
It was also, coincidentally, more than enough time to learn and catalogue every noise that spilled from Charles lips, every plane of his body, and every single feeling that he was able to rip from Max’s chest.