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The post-it notes were multiplying.
Charles noticed it properly on a Tuesday morning, standing barefoot in the kitchen with his phone in his hand and no real reason to be awake yet. There were three on the fridge, one on the counter, and one new one stuck directly to the coffee machine. He read them in order, because of course he did.
You left the light on again. - M
We talked about the dishes. - M
Milk goes on the middle shelf. - M
The one on the coffee machine just said: Seriously? - M
Charles stared at that one for a long moment, then sighed and peeled it off. The adhesive resisted slightly, like it was offended.
He hadn’t meant for things to be like this.
Living together, he meant. Not the notes, exactly, though those hadn’t been part of the original plan either.
It was supposed to be temporary. Max had needed a place after his lease ended unexpectedly. Charles had a second bedroom, a tendency to overthink, and an inability to say no without explaining himself into a corner. It had made sense at the time. They were "friends of friends" (thanks Lando). The kind of "friends" who had spent their teenage years trying to run each other off karting tracks and their university years arguing over who had the better racing line in F1 23. And why not help out an acquaintance who was also running through jobs waiting for one to stick like him.
That had been eight months ago.
Now, there was a sim racing setup in the corner of Charles’ extra bedroom (Max’s bedroom), the coffee cabinet housed two different types of beans (Blond for Charles and Black for Max), and Max’s handwriting lived on every flat surface in the apartment.
Charles stuck the note back on the fridge, lining it up with obsessive precision. He didn’t know why he did it. Probably the same reason he still straightened Max’s sneakers in the hallway even though he knew they’d be kicked across the floor again by 6:00 PM. The coffee machine whirred to life. Charles leaned against the counter and closed his eyes for a second. From down the hall came the unmistakable sound of a door opening too hard. Then footsteps.
Then Max.
"Why is the milk empty?" Max asked, appearing in the doorway like a very grumpy, very fit ghost.
Charles didn't look up from the coffee stream. "Good morning, Max. Did you sleep well? Oh, thank you for asking, Charles, I slept great."
"That wasn't an answer," Max said, his voice flat. He was leaning against the frame in a shirt that was a size too big his classic skinny jeans. His hair was damp, curling at the ends in a way that Charles absolutely refused to find endearing.
"I finished it," Charles said, finally turning around. "I meant to buy more. I had a long day."
“You meant to,” Max repeated.
“Yes.”
“So you didn’t.”
Charles shrugged. “I forgot.”
Max made a noise like he’d expected that. He crossed the kitchen and opened the fridge anyway, moving things around as if hoping the milk might have miraculously reappeared. The only thing Charles noticed was how his (their) carefully organized fridge is now a mess again. In reality, it wasn’t a mess, it was just organized how Max likes it. But Charles will never admit that.
“It’s always ‘I forgot,’” Max muttered. “You forget the door. You forget the stove. You forget to text.”
"I don't forget to text," Charles protested, feeling the heat rise in his neck.
"You forgot last night. Lando and Daniel were waiting for you to join the lobby. I had to tell them you’d probably just passed out like an old man."
Charles hesitated. He had passed out, exhausted from a shift, his phone sliding under his pillow. "I was tired."
Max stopped rummaging and looked at him. His eyes were sharp, scanning Charles’s face with that terrifyingly focused gaze he used when he was looking for a gap on track. "You do that a lot lately. You just... check out."
"I'm allowed to sleep, Max."
"You're not allowed to be a disaster," Max countered, though his voice had lost some of its bite. He stepped closer to reach for a mug, his arm brushing against Charles’s side. It was a brief contact, but Max was always so warm, like he was running on a higher voltage than everyone else. Charles's stomach did a treacherous little flip. He ignored it.
"I'll get milk later," Max said, his tone shifting into that weary, "I'll do it myself" martyr act. "Again."
"You don't have to," Charles snapped. "You act like I’m a child. Like I’m some project you have to manage."
"I act like you need a reminder of how to function in a shared space," Max said, stepping fully into Charles’s personal bubble. He was close enough that Charles could smell his soap, something citrusy and sharp. "There’s a difference."
"There really isn't. You’re just a control freak."
"And you’re just chaos," Max replied, his eyes looking through Charles's skull.
The silence that followed was thick, heavy with the kind of tension that usually ended in either a punch or something much more complicated. Max broke it by reaching past Charles for the sugar. His wrist grazed Charles’s hand, accidental, probably, but neither of them moved away immediately.
"How do you drink this crap?" Max asked, taking a sip of Charles’s light roast and immediately making a face like he’d been poisoned. "It tastes like flowery water."
"It’s called 'flavor,' Max. You wouldn't know it if it hit you in the face."
Max sighed, downed the rest of the cup in a show of dominance, and set the mug down an inch away from the sink. "I'm going out. Try not to burn the place down."
"I've never burned anything down!"
"The toaster oven last week begged to differ," Max called over his shoulder, grabbing his keys. He paused at the door, glancing back with a smirk that was entirely too knowing. "Lock the door behind me, Charles. For real this time."
"I always do!" Charles lied, his heart hammering against his ribs.
The door shut with a solid click.
Charles stood alone in the kitchen, surrounded by post-it notes and the lingering scent of Max’s shower gel. He took a sip of his coffee. It was lukewarm and slightly bitter.
"Asshole," he whispered to the empty room, though there was no heat in it.
By Thursday, the post-it note count had reached double digits, and Charles was reaching his breaking point.
The group was meeting at a low lit sports bar, the kind of place Daniel picked because they served decent burgers and nobody cared if they got a little too loud. Charles arrived first, sliding into a booth next to Carlos, who was already halfway through a beer and looking far too relaxed for a man who spent his days managing a high end garage.
"You look like you want to kill someone, Mate," Carlos noted, offering a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.
"I am living with a dictator," Charles groaned, dropping his head onto the table. "He left a note on the inside of the microwave yesterday because I didn't wipe the 'splatter.' It was a single drop of pasta sauce, Carlos. One drop."
Carlos chuckled, the sound rich and infuriatingly calm. "He’s always been like that, Charles. He likes his lines clean. You knew this when you let him move in."
"I thought he'd changed! Or at least learned that normal people don't communicate via neon stationery."
The bell above the door chimed, and a gust of cold air announced the arrival of Lando and Max. They were mid argument, Lando looking exasperated and Max looking... well, like Max. He was wearing a dark hoodie, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, looking far too comfortable in his own skin.
"I’m just saying," Lando was saying as they approached the table, "it’s a valid strategy. You don't have to be such a purist about it."
"It's a cheap move, Lando. If you can't win without a shortcut, don't play," Max countered. He slid into the booth directly opposite Charles, his knees knocking against Charles's under the table.
Max didn't pull back. Neither did Charles. It was a silent, stubborn standoff of denim clad legs.
"Anyway," Lando sighed, dropping into the seat next to Max and immediately stealing a fry from Carlos’s plate. "Charles! Tell Max he’s being a stubborn prick."
"He knows he is," Charles said, leaning back and crossing his arms. "He has it written on a post-it note somewhere, I'm sure."
Max’s eyes flickered to Charles, a slow, dangerous smirk spreading across his face. "Did you lock the balcony door before you left?"
Charles stiffened. "Yes."
"Are you sure? Because the last time you said 'yes,' I came home to a freezing apartment and a very confused pigeon in the hallway."
"It was one time, Max! And the pigeon was fine!"
"I had to catch it with a laundry basket, Charles. You were hiding in the bathroom."
"I wasn't hiding! I was... strategizing!"
Lando snickered into his drink. "You guys sound like an old married couple. It’s actually disgusting. Isn't it, Carlos?"
Carlos hummed, his dark eyes darting between Max’s intense stare and the way Charles was flushed pink with indignation. "It is... something. I think 'married' implies a level of cooperation they haven't reached yet."
"We aren't married," Max said, his voice dropping into that blunt, matter-of-fact tone. He reached for the menu, his hand passing inches from Charles’s. "We’re just roommates who have to deal with each other's 'inchidents.'"
"Don't call it that," Charles hissed. "That karting race was fifteen years ago."
"And you still don't leave room on the inside of the corner," Max muttered, his eyes never leaving the menu. "Or the kitchen counter."
The table fell into a rhythm. Lando complaining about his boss, Carlos trying to play peacemaker, and Daniel eventually joining them with a grin that took up half the room. But through it all, there was a secondary conversation happening beneath the surface.
Every time Charles reached for a drink, Max’s eyes followed the movement of his wrist. Every time Max laughed at something Daniel said, Charles found himself watching the way Max’s shoulders relaxed.
When the bill finally came, Max reached for it before Charles could even blink.
"I've got it," Max said.
"No, I can pay for my own dinner, Max," Charles insisted, reaching for his wallet.
"You forgot your wallet on the dresser, Charles. I saw it when I left."
Charles froze, his hand patting his empty pocket. He felt a wave of heat climb up his neck. "I... I did not."
Max pulled Charles’s wallet out of his own hoodie pocket and tossed it onto the table with a soft thump. "You’re lucky I’m the one living with you. Anyone else would have let you starve."
"I hate you," Charles whispered, though the words lacked their usual sting.
Max just leaned closer, his voice low enough that only Charles could hear it over the bar’s music. "No, you don't. You’re just annoyed because I'm right. Again."
Max stood up to head to the bar to pay, and as he passed, he squeezed Charles’s shoulder. It wasn't a lingering touch, just a firm, grounding pressure that lasted a second too long to be accidental.
Lando watched Max walk away, then turned to Charles with a look of pure, unadulterated suspicion.
"Okay," Lando said, mimicking Max’s favorite word. "What the hell was that?"
"What was what?" Charles asked, far too quickly.
"The wallet. The shoulder. The... vibe," Lando gestured vaguely between them. "If I didn't know better, I’d say he’s actually domesticating you."
"He is not domesticating me," Charles snapped, grabbing his wallet and shoving it into his pocket. "He's just... Max."
"Yeah," Carlos added quietly, watching Max navigate through the crowd. "That’s the problem."
The walk home from the bar was filled with the kind of comfortable silence that only comes from knowing someone for fifteen years. Max walked with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the wind, while Charles hummed a song he’d heard in the bar, his mind drifting.
Once inside, the ritual began. Max dropped his keys into the bowl with a precise clink. He then kicked his shoes off, leaving one near the door and the other three feet away. He watched Charles's jaw tighten as he looked at the rogue sneaker, but for once, Charles didn't say anything. He just picked it up and placed it neatly next to its pair.
"You’re getting better at that," Max teased, leaning against the wall.
"Apparently I need to be more of an adult," Charles muttered, though there was no real heat in it.
They drifted into the kitchen. It was the heart of their shared orbit. Max headed for the fridge, and Charles, for no reason other than habit, followed him. The space was narrow, and as Max reached for a bottle of water, Charles accidentaly (not) found himself pinned between the counter and Max’s solid back frame.
Usually, Charles would push him. He’d make a joke about Max’s "big Dutch ego" taking up too much room. But tonight, he just stayed still.
Max didn't move away either. He stayed there, his back to Charles, the scent of the outdoors and cold air clinging to his hoodie.
"Move, Max," Charles said, but it sounded more like a suggestion than a command.
Max turned around, bottle in hand. He was close, close enough that Charles could see the faint splash of freckles across the bridge of his nose that only came out when he’d spent time in the sun.
"I'm not blocking you," Max said, his voice dropping into that low, calm register he used when he was being particularly stubborn.
"You are. You’re a wall."
Max tilted his head, his eyes tracking the way Charles’s hair was a mess from the wind. Without thinking, and with that terrifyingly casual intimacy, Max reached out. He didn't tuck the hair away, he just gave it a sharp, playful tug.
"Ow! What was that for?" Charles complained, though he didn't pull back.
"It was sticking up. It was annoying me," Max said simply. He didn't let go immediately, his fingers lingering near Charles’s temple for a second too long. It wasn't a romantic gesture, not yet. it was just a Max gesture. A physical claim on Charles’s attention. Charles felt a weird, prickly sensation in his chest. It wasn't anything but awarenesss. He was aware that Max’s hand was warm. He was aware that the kitchen felt very quiet.
"Everything annoys you," Charles whispered.
"Not everything," Max replied. He took a sip of his water, his eyes never leaving Charles’s. "Just the things that don't listen."
"I listen."
"You hear," Max corrected, a small, knowing smirk tugging at his lips. "You don't always listen."
He clapped Charles on the shoulder, a firm, heavy weight that felt grounded and real, and stepped around him. "Don't stay up all night scrolling. You have that meeting tomorrow."
"I know, Max!"
"I'll put a note on your phone if I have to."
"Don't you dare!"
Charles watched him walk down the hall, his heart doing a slow, heavy thud. He wasn't having a crisis yet. He was just... annoyed. But it was a different kind of annoyed. It was the kind that made him want to follow Max into his room just to keep the argument going. He looked at the kitchen island where they’d just been standing. The air still felt a little bit charged, like static electricity before a storm.
Charles picked up his own bottle, his fingers overlapping exactly where Max’s had been.
Low stakes, he told himself. He’s just a roommate who happens to be a pain in the ass.
But as he turned off the light, he realized he hadn't even checked if the milk was back in the fridge. He’d been too busy looking at the way Max’s tshirt pulled across his shoulders.
That was probably fine. It didn't mean anything.
Friday nights were usually for gaming, but Lando and Daniel had bailed on the lobby, leaving the apartment echoing with a silence that felt heavy.
Charles was draped across the sofa, his laptop balanced on his knees, trying to focus on a spreadsheet that made absolutely no sense. In the kitchen, he could hear Max. Max didn't just exist in a room, he operated it. The sound of a cabinet closing, the rhythmic chop of a knife against a wooden board. It was a soundtrack Charles had grown to find grounding.
"Are you actually working, or are you just staring at the same cell for twenty minutes?"
Charles jumped slightly as Max appeared, leaning over the back of the sofa. He didn't stay at a respectful distance. He leaned down, his chest nearly brushing Charles’s shoulder, looking at the screen. The heat radiating off him was a distraction Charles didn't need.
"I am working, Max," Charles lied, his voice a little too high.
"You have a typo in cell B14," Max said, his breath warm against Charles’s ear.
Charles shifted, trying to create space, but Max just moved with him, his hand coming down to rest on the back of the sofa, effectively boxing Charles in. It was a casual style of crowding, but the vibe was shifting. Max wasn't moving away.
"I’ll fix it later," Charles muttered.
"Fix it now. It’ll annoy you later." Max reached over, his arm sliding past Charles’s face to point at the screen. His forearm was inches from Charles’s nose, tan, dusted with light hair, and looking entirely too solid.
Charles watched Max’s finger tap the screen. He wasn't looking at the typo anymore. He was looking at Max’s profile, the sharp line of his jaw, the way he was biting his lip in concentration.
Max turned his head.
They were close. Too close. The kind of close where Charles could see the gold flecks in Max’s eyes and the exact moment Max’s pupils blown wide. Max didn't pull back. Instead, he let his hand drop from the sofa frame to Charles’s shoulder, his thumb hooking into the collar of Charles’s shirt.
"Why are you so distracted?" Max said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly territory that made Charles’s stomach do a slow, agonizing flip.
"I'm just... tired," Charles whispered.
"You're always tired lately," Max murmured. He didn't let go. His thumb began a slow, rhythmic stroke against the skin of Charles’s neck. It was deliberate. It was a choice. "You need someone to look after you properly."
Charles’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Is he? Is he doing what I think he’s doing? "I have you for that, don't I?" Charles tried to joke, but it came out breathless. "With your notes and your... chores."
Max’s gaze darkened, his hand sliding up to lay on Charles's back, his fingers tangling in the hair at the nape. It was a heavy weight. "Maybe the notes aren't enough anymore."
Max lingered there for a heartbeat, his eyes boring into Charles's soul, looking like they could understand every thought that ever crossed Charles's mind. He looked like he was about to say something else, something that would change everything, but then his phone buzzed on the coffee table.
The spell broke. Max pulled away, but not before giving the back of Charles’s neck a firm, lingering squeeze.
"Eat something," Max said, his voice returning to its blunt, "roommate" tone as he walked back toward the kitchen. "I made enough for two."
Charles sat frozen on the sofa. His skin felt like it was on fire where Max had touched him. His brain, which usually ran at a hundred miles an hour, had ground to a screeching halt. He waited until he heard the clink of silverware in the kitchen before he let out the breath he’d been holding. He dropped his head into his hands, his heart still thumping a hole in his chest.
Oh.
Oh, no.
The thought hit him with the force of a Ferrari going 300km/h.
No, no, no, no.
It wasn't just the notes. It was the way Max looked at him when he thought Charles wasn't looking. It was the way Max took up all the space in the room until there was nowhere left for Charles to go but toward him.
He liked Max Verstappen.
His roommate. His rival. The man who currently had a post-it note on the bathroom mirror reminding Charles to buy more toothpaste.
"Charles? You coming?" Max called from the kitchen.
"Coming!" Charles yelled back, his voice cracking.
He stood up, his legs feeling like jelly. He spent the entire dinner in a state of absolute, vibrating denial. It’s just a crush, he told himself as he watched Max eat. It’s just proximity. It’s just because he’s fit and he cooks. It’s a temporary brain malfunction.
But as Max reached across the table to wipe a smudge of sauce off the corner of Charles’s mouth, his thumb lingering on Charles’s lip just a second too long, Charles knew he was lying to himself.
He wasn't just in trouble. He was already gone.
So, so gone.
The realization from Friday night should have changed things, but Charles was an expert at compartmentalizing. By Saturday afternoon, he had convinced himself that the "neck-touching incident" was just a vivid hallucination brought on by Excel induced fatigue. He was doing fine. He was normal. He was currently sitting on the floor of the living room, leaning against the sofa while Lando and Daniel debated the merits of a new club that had just opened downtown.
"You should come, Maximillian," Daneil said, kicking Max's leg lightly. "Carlos is going too, and it'll be fun."
"No." Max replied bluntly, not taking an ounce of his attention off the sim-rig in the corner.
"Boooring." Lando replied childishly. "Leclerc, are you coming or do I have to drag you?"
Charles jumped at the chance for a distraction. Anything to forget whatever the hell happened yesterday. "I am definitely coming. I need a break."
Max stopped racing. The sudden silence in the room was louder than the engine had been. He climbed out of the rig, his movements slow and deliberate, and walked over to the kitchen island to grab a protein shake.
"Max, come on, even Charles is coming." Lando pleaded.
"I said no." Max said, laying his hands on the kitchen counter, looking at Lando with a pointed look.
An idea crossed Charles's mind. Maybe this was how him and Max could go back to normal. Just two bros, roommates, chilling at the club, hanging out. They just needed a reset. Before he could overthink anything, he turned towards the Dutch man and said "You should come Max, it'll be fun."
Max locked eyes on Charles and took a beat before responding, "Fine. "We’ll go. But don't complain to me when it's boring."
What Charles didn't expect would happen, was Max to be the one having a "moment."
The bar was packed, smelling of gin and expensive woodsmoke. They were at a high top table, Charles, Max, Lando, Daniel, and Carlos. Charles was trying to focus on his drink, but his eyes kept tracking Max. Max looked good. Too good. He was wearing a dark button down with the sleeves rolled up, exposing the veins in his forearms as he leaned against the bar to order a round. The top two buttons were undone, revealing the pale, hard line of Max's collarbone and the way his throat moved every time he swallowed. In the shifting club lights, Max looked broader than usual, all solid shoulders and a lean, tapering waist that Charles suddenly, desperately wanted to map with his hands. There was a raw, effortless strength in the way Max stood, his thumb hooked into the pocket of his dark jeans, the denim pulling tight over his-
No. No No No. Charles slammed a mental door shut on the thought before it could finish. They were roommates. They were rivals. They were two people who argued about the expiration date on oat milk.
Then, she appeared.
She was a friend of a friend, Sophie, and she had spent the last twenty minutes laughing at everything Max said. She was leaning into his space, her hand resting on his bicep as she whispered something into his ear. And Max wasn't pulling away. He was actually smiling, that rare, genuine smirk that Charles usually felt was reserved for their private kitchen bickering.
"Max is doing well tonight," Lando remarked, leaning over to Charles with a mischievous glint in his eye. "Sophie’s a lawyer. Very smart. Exactly Max’s type, right?"
Charles felt a sudden, sharp spike of heat in his chest. "I wouldn't know. I don't keep a list of his 'types.'"
"Oh, come on," Carlos chimed in, watching the pair at the bar. "He looks relaxed. It’s nice to see him with someone who isn't... well, someone he doesn't have to leave post-it notes for."
The comment was a joke, but it felt like a slap. Charles’s grip on his glass tightened. He watched Sophie laugh again, her fingers sliding down Max’s arm. It felt like a physical intrusion. That was his annoyance. That was the man who complained about Charles's milk shelf placement. What was he doing smiling at a stranger?
Charles couldn't take it. The denial was being burned away by a cold, sharp jealousy that made his blood boil, even if he refused to name it.
"I'm getting another drink," Charles snapped, standing up so fast his chair scraped the floor.
He pushed his way to the bar, sliding in on Max’s other side. He didn't look at Sophie. He just inserted himself into the narrow gap between them, his shoulder firmly knocking against Max’s.
"You're taking forever with those drinks, Max," Charles said, his voice clipped and sharp.
Max’s eyebrows shot up, a flicker of surprise dancing in his eyes. "The bar is busy, Charles. Relax."
"I am relaxed. I'm just thirsty." Charles turned his back to Sophie, effectively cutting her out of the conversation. He leaned his elbow on the bar, inches from Max’s arm. "Lando wants to leave. We should go soon."
"Lando just got a fresh beer," Max noted, his gaze dropping to the way Charles was practically vibrating. "Why are you in such a hurry?"
"I have a headache. The lights are too much."
Sophie tried to chime in, leaning around Charles. "Oh, is everything okay? Max was just telling me about-"
"He's fine," Charles interrupted, finally looking at her with a look so icy it could have cooled the drinks on the bar. "He just forgets that he has a roommate who actually needs to sleep tonight."
The silence that followed was awkward. Sophie blinked, looking between Max’s amused expression and Charles’s flared nostrils. "Right. Well... I'll find my friends. Nice meeting you, Max."
She scurried off, and Charles immediately felt like a total idiot. He stared at his drink, his heart hammering a frantic no no no no rhytmn.
Max didn't say "You were jealous." He just picked up the tray of drinks, but he leaned in close to Charles's ear as he did.
"You're being very weird tonight," Max murmured. His voice wasn't angry, it was quiet, thoughtful, and carried a hint of something that made Charles’s knees weak.
"I'm not. I'm just tired."
"Sure," Max said, but he didn't move away. He stayed there for a second, his chest brushing Charles’s shoulder, a silent weight that felt more like a question than a statement. "Let's get these to the table. Then we can go home, if you're so 'tired.'"
The car ride back was silent, but it wasn't the comfortable silence from before. It was thick and pressurized. Charles stared out the passenger window, his reflection ghostly against the dark, passing city lights. His skin still felt like it was humming, the spot on his shoulder where Max’s chest had brushed against him feeling abnormally hot.
Why did I do that? The question looped in his brain, relentless and accusing. He had acted like a territorial child. He had practically hissed at a woman for the crime of standing near his roommate. It was embarrassing. It was unhinged. I was just tired, he told himself, but the lie felt thin and pathetic. I have a headache. The bass was too loud. I’m just protective of our apartment's schedule.
He glanced sideways at Max. Max’s hands were steady on the wheel, his profile sharp and infuriatingly calm in the glow of the dashboard. He didn't look like a man who had just had his date sabotaged; he looked like a man who was savoring a victory he hadn't even had to fight for. Do I care that she was touching him? Charles wondered, his stomach doing a slow, nauseating roll. No. Of course not. Max can date whoever he wants. He can date a lawyer, or a model, or a goddamn astronaut. I don’t care.
But the memory of Sophie’s hand on Max’s bicep flashed in his mind, and his teeth clenched automatically. He hadn't just wanted her to stop, he had wanted to move her hand himself. He had wanted to stand in that gap and stay there until everyone else in the bar disappeared.
No. No, no, no. He squeezed his eyes shut. It’s the proximity. We’ve been living together too long. I’m just used to him being my shadow, that’s all. It’s a habit. Like the coffee or the post-its. It’s not... this.
When they got back to the apartment, Charles went straight for his room, but Max caught his arm in the hallway. He didn't pin him to the car, he just held his wrist, his thumb grazing the pulse point there.
"Charles."
"What?" Charles asked, refusing to look at him.
"Next time you want to leave a bar, you can just tell me. You don't have to scare off the locals."
"I didn't scare anyone off."
Max let out a short, soft laugh. "You almost bit her head off. Why?"
Charles finally looked at him. Max looked smug, yes, but he also looked... hopeful. Searching. Like he was waiting for Charles to finally bridge the gap.
"I told you. I had a headache," Charles lied, his voice barely a whisper.
Max let go of his wrist, his hand lingering for a moment before dropping to his side. "Okay, Charles. Whatever you say."
Max walked into his own room and shut the door.
Charles stood in the dark hallway, his heart still racing. He hadn't admitted it. He hadn't said the words. But as he looked at the closed door, he realized he wasn't just annoyed anymore. He was terrified. Because the only thing worse than Max being a nightmare of a roommate was the thought of Max being someone else's.
Charles was so fucked.
Sunday mornings in the apartment usually followed a predictable, grumpy rhythm. Max would be up at the crack of dawn, clattering around the kitchen with the efficiency of a man who viewed sleep as a secondary objective. Charles would usually crawl out of bed an hour later, looking for caffeine and a reason to live.
But this morning, the rhythm was off.
Charles stayed in bed long after he heard the coffee machine whir. He was staring at the ceiling, replaying the image of his own hand clutching Max’s sleeve at the bar. He felt like a criminal returning to the scene of a crime. When he finally ventured into the kitchen, Max was already there. He wasn't on his phone or reading the news. He was just sitting at the small breakfast table, a single cup of coffee in front of him, staring at the empty chair across from him.
"Good morning," Charles mumbled, heading straight for the coffee.
"There is a fresh pot," Max said. His voice was steady, but he didn't look up. "And I got milk."
Charles paused, his hand on the handle of the fridge. He opened it. There, sitting perfectly in the center of the middle shelf, was a fresh carton of milk. Stuck to the side was a neon pink post-it note.
I didn't forget. - M
Charles’s throat felt tight. He took the milk out, his fingers brushing the paper. "Thank you."
"You were... intense last night," Max said suddenly.
Charles kept his back turned, pouring milk into his mug with a hand that wasn't entirely steady. "I told you. I had a headache. The music was too loud."
"Lando said the music was fine. He said you looked like you were ready to start a fight."
"Lando talks too much."
Charles finally turned around, leaning against the counter. Max was looking at him now, his blue eyes narrowed, searching Charles’s face for the lie. The air in the kitchen felt heavy, pressurized, like the cabin of a plane before the oxygen masks drop.
"Is there something you want to tell me, Charles?" Max asked. It was a lead in. A golden opportunity for Charles to say, Yes, I hated that girl touching you because I want to be the only one who touches you.
Charles swallowed hard. The denial flared up one last time, a desperate shield. "I want to tell you that you’re sitting in my seat."
Max’s expression shifted. The flicker of hope, or whatever it was, in his eyes went out, replaced by that familiar, stubborn bluntness. He stood up, his chair scraping the floor.
"Right. Your seat." Max stepped toward him to put his mug in the sink. The kitchen was small, and to get to the sink, he had to pass right through Charles’s personal space.
He didn't move around him. He moved into him.
Max stopped inches away. He was so close Charles could feel the heat of his skin, could see the way his pulse was jumping in the hollow of his throat. Max reached out, his hand hovering near Charles’s waist before he gripped the edge of the counter instead, effectively pinning Charles against the cabinets.
"You're a very good liar, Charles," Max whispered, his voice dropping into that dangerous, low register. "But your heart is beating so fast I can see it through your shirt."
Charles couldn't breathe. "Max-"
"I'm not going to play this game forever," Max said, his eyes dropping to Charles’s mouth for a devastatingly long second. "Eventually, you're going to have to stop 'checking out' and actually look at what's happening here."
Max didn't wait for a response. He let go of the counter, washed his mug in the sink with aggressive efficiency, and walked out of the room. Charles stood there, frozen. He looked down at his chest. Max was right, his heart was hammering against his ribs like a bird in a cage. He reached out and grabbed the pink post-it note from the milk carton. He didn't throw it away. Instead, he tucked it into the pocket of his pajama pants, right against his hip.
He wasn't just in denial anymore. He was in a stalemate. And he knew, with a sinking, terrifying certainty, that Max Verstappen wasn't the type of man who ever settled for a draw.
It was Lando’s fault. It was always, fundamentally, Lando’s fault.
"It’s a friendship bonding weekend!" Lando had chirped three weeks ago, booking a cabin in the mountains for the five of them. "Fresh air, no sim-rigs, just vibes."
The "vibes" currently consisted of a torrential downpour, a leaked roof in the living room, and a very stressed out cabin manager informing them that due to a plumbing burst, one of the three booked rooms was out of commission.
"So," Daniel said, looking between the group with a sympathetic wince as they stood in the cramped, cedar smelling lobby. "Carlos and Lando are in the twin room. I’ve got the sofa because I’m a man of the people. Which means..."
"No," Charles said immediately, his eyes widening.
"It's just for two nights, Charles," Carlos said, already dragging his suitcase toward the stairs. "Unless you want to sleep in the bathtub. Max is clean, mostly."
"I am cleaner than him!" Max snapped, though he looked like he was trying to calculate the odds of surviving a jump from a second story window. He didn't look disgusted, he looked vibratingly still, his knuckles white on the handle of his duffel bag.
"Perfect," Lando grinned, dodging a swipe from Charles. "Max and Charles in the 'Honeymoon Suite.' Try not to kill each other, or at least keep the 'inchidents' to a minimum. The walls are thin."
The "Honeymoon Suite" was aggressively mountain chic, lots of plaid, the smell of aged cedar, and one singular, massive king sized bed that sat in the center of the room like an accusation.
They spent the evening downstairs by the fireplace, but the "bonding" was a disaster. Charles couldn't focus on the card game they were playing. Every time Max reached for a chip, or shifted his weight so his thigh brushed Charles’s under the table, Charles felt a jolt go straight to his spine.
"Charles, it’s your turn. Unless you’re too busy staring at Max’s profile?" Daniel teased, flashing a shark like grin.
"I am looking at my cards, Ricciardo," Charles hissed, his face flushing a deep, traitorous red.
Max didn't even look up. He just played a card with clinical precision. "He’s distracted. He’s thinking about how he’s going to hog the blankets later."
"I do not hog blankets!"
"You do," Max said, finally looking at him. The firelight caught the blue of his eyes, making them look like glowing embers. "You’re a nightmare to share space with, Charles. We’ve established this."
By midnight, the rain was a deafening roar against the roof, and the group finally retreated. The door to their room clicked shut, sealing them in. The silence was heavy, pressurized. Charles retreated to the bathroom for what felt like an hour, scrubbing his face and staring at his reflection. It’s just a bed, he told himself. It’s just Max. You’ve known him forever.
When he emerged, the room was dim, lit only by a single bedside lamp. Max was already under the covers, propped up against the headboard with a book. He was shirtless, the duvet pulled up to his waist, and the sight of him, warm, solid, and taking up half the bed made Charles’s mouth go dry. Charles slid into the other side, keeping so far to the edge he was practically hovering over the floor. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the rhythmic flip of Max’s pages.
"You're overthinking," Max said. He hadn't moved a muscle.
"I am not."
"I can hear your brain, Charles. It’s louder than the rain." Max closed the book and set it on the nightstand. The thud sounded like a gavel.
Max didn't stay on his side. He shifted, rolling onto his side to face Charles, propping himself up on one elbow. He was intruding on the "neutral zone" of the mattress, bringing that scent of citrus and heat with him.
"What are you so afraid of?" Max asked. His voice was a low, gravelly vibration in the dark.
"I'm not afraid of anything," Charles whispered, his heart doing that frantic no no no no again.
"Liar." Max reached out. His hand traveled slowly over the expanse of the sheets before finding Charles’s arm. He didn't tug, he just let his fingers graze the silk of Charles’s pajama sleeve, tracing the line of his bicep. "You've been vibrating since we got here. You haven't looked at me once since we came upstairs."
"It's cold in here," Charles lied, though his skin was prickling with heat. No no no no.
"You're hot," Max countered. He moved closer, his chest nearly brushing Charles’s shoulder. "You're burning up. And you're holding your breath."
Max’s hand slid up, his thumb hooking into the collar of Charles’s shirt, pulling him an inch closer. Then another. Charles didn't resist. He couldn't. He felt like a planet being pulled into the orbit of a sun.
"Max..."
"Shut up, Charles," Max murmured, but there was no bite in it. He reached up with his other hand, his fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of Charles’s neck, grounding him.
The proximity was overwhelming. Charles could see the gold flecks in Max’s eyes, could feel the steady, heavy thrum of Max’s heart against his own chest. Max’s gaze dropped to Charles’s mouth, and his thumb began a slow, agonizingly soft trail along Charles’s lower lip. It was the longest lead in of Charles’s life. He felt every millimeter of distance closing. Max leaned in, his forehead resting against Charles’s, their breaths mingling in the small space between them. The no no no no's were fading away at rapid speed.
"Stop checking out," Max whispered against his skin. "Stay here. With me."
Charles’s hands came up, finally surrendering, his fingers gripping the muscles of Max’s shoulders. He pulled him in, his eyes fluttering shut as the "no" finally died. He wanted this. He wanted the notes, and the arguments, and the way Max looked in the blue light of a club, and the way he felt right now, solid and real and his.
Their noses brushed. Max’s lips were a fraction of an inch from his, the heat of the contact already beginning to sear-
THUD.
"GUYS! THE ROOF JUST GAVE OUT IN THE HALLWAY!" Lando’s voice screamed from outside the door, followed by the sound of splashing water and Daniel swearing loudly.
Max jumped back like he’d been electrocuted. Charles sat up, his chest heaving, his lips tingling with the ghost of a kiss that never happened. Max rubbed a hand over his face, his breathing ragged. He looked at the door, then back at Charles, his eyes dark with a mix of fury and something that looked a lot like heartbreak.
"I'm going to kill him," Max rasped. "I am actually going to kill Lando Norris."
Charles couldn't speak. He just sat there in the dark, the no no no no's finally replaced by a silent, screaming please.
The rain was relentless, turning the mountain roads into a grey, blurred mess. Because the cabin was now officially a swamp, the "bonding trip" ended in a frantic scramble for suitcases.
They ended up split between the two cars. Daniel took Lando and Carlos, which left Charles and Max in Max’s SUV. Usually, Charles would complain about Max’s music or the way he took corners too fast, but today, he was staring so hard out the side window he was surprised the glass hadn't cracked. The silence in the car was thick enough to choke on. Every time Max shifted gears, his elbow would brush Charles’s sleeve, and Charles would feel a jolt of electricity that made his teeth ache.
We almost kissed. Max almost kissed me. I almost let him.
His brain was stuck on a loop, and judging by the white knuckled grip Max had on the steering wheel, he wasn't exactly thinking about the weather either.
Then, the car’s Bluetooth hummed.
"You're on speaker, Daniel," Max grunted, hitting the button on the wheel.
"Hey, losers!" Daniel’s voice boomed through the speakers, sounding far too cheerful for a man whose weekend had just been ruined by a ceiling. "Lando is currently trying to dry his socks using the car's heater vents. It smells like wet dog and regret in here. How’s the 'Honeymoon Suite' holding up?"
Charles felt the heat climb up his neck instantly. "We’re fine, Daniel."
"You sound tense, Charlie," Lando’s voice chimed in from the background. "Did Max give you a post-it note about your breathing? 'Too loud - M'?"
Max didn't laugh. He didn't even crack a smile. "Shut up, Lando. I’m trying to drive through a monsoon."
"Ooh, someone’s grumpy," Lando teased. "Is it because the roof gave out right when things were getting interesting? We saw the way you two bolted out of that room. You both looked like you’d seen a ghost. Or... like you’d been interrupted."
Charles’s heart stopped. He dared a glance at Max. Max’s jaw was so tight a muscle was jumping in his cheek.
"The roof was literally falling, Lando," Max said, his voice dropping into that dangerously flat tone. "What did you expect us to do? Stay and drown?"
"I’m just saying," Lando sang, "the tension in that cabin was higher than the altitude. If we hadn't left, I think the house would have exploded anyway."
"They're probably holding hands right now," Carlos added, clearly enjoying himself. "Are you guys holding hands? Charles, blink twice if Max is being a romantic."
"We are not holding hands!" Charles snapped, perhaps a little too loudly.
"See? Tense," Daniel chuckled. "Anyway, we’re stopping at that shitty diner halfway back. You guys better pull in. We need to discuss the refund for the cabin and also I'm starving."
The call disconnected with a bip.
The silence that rushed back into the car was deafening. Max didn't look over. He just kept his eyes on the road, his pulse visible in the side of his neck.
"They're idiots," Charles whispered, picking at a loose thread on his jeans.
"They're not wrong," Max muttered.
Charles froze. "What?"
"About the tension," Max said. He didn't elaborate. He just reached over and turned up the radio, some aggressive techno track that drowned out any chance of further conversation.
They pulled into the diner thirty minutes later. The neon sign flickered through the rain. As they got out of the car, Max paused, his hand on the door. He looked at Charles over the roof of the SUV. He didn't move toward him, and he didn't touch him, but his gaze was heavy.
"You're doing it again," Max said.
"Doing what?"
"Checking out. Pretending that car ride didn't happen." Max slammed his door shut. "We're going in there, we're eating with the guys, and we're going home. But don't think I've forgotten where we were before Lando started screaming."
Charles stood in the rain for a second, watching Max walk toward the diner. His heart was hammering a frantic no no no no, but for the first time, it was followed by a quiet, insistent yes.
Inside, the group banter was relentless. Daniel kept "accidentally" sliding them closer together in the booth, and Lando spent the entire meal trying to get them to admit what they were doing when the roof broke.
"I bet they were mid argument," Carlos said, sipping his coffee. "Max was probably telling Charles his pajamas weren't folded correctly."
"Yeah," Max said, his eyes locking onto Charles’s across the table, dark and unreadable. "Something like that. We had some unfinished business."
Charles nearly choked on his fries.
The drive home from the diner was even worse. The "unfinished business" sat in the backseat like an invisible passenger. By the time they finally pulled into their apartment parking lot, Charles felt like he was made of glass. They walked into the apartment. It was quiet. It was dry. It was home. Max dropped his keys into the bowl. He looked at Charles, opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to change his mind.
"I'm going to sleep," Max said, his voice rough.
"Okay," Charles replied.
He watched Max walk down the hall. No kiss. No confession. Just the sound of a bedroom door closing and the sight of a new post-it note Max must have left before they left for the trip, still stuck to the hallway mirror:
Don't forget your keys. - M
Charles touched the paper. His fingers were shaking.
He had the agonizing realization that the longer they waited to finish what they started, the more it was going to hurt when they finally did.
The following three days were a masterclass in tactical avoidance.
If Max was in the kitchen, Charles was in the shower. If Charles was in the living room, the low, aggressive hum of Max’s sim-rig started up behind a closed door. They moved through the apartment like two magnets with the same polarity, constantly pushing each other away before they could get close enough to snap together.
The post-it notes, however, did not stop. If anything, they became Max’s only way of acknowledging Charles existed.
Buy the good coffee this time. - M
The balcony door was unlocked. Again. - M
You left your hoodie on the sofa. I put it in your room. - M
Charles stared at that last one for a long time on Wednesday evening. Max had been in his room. Max had touched his clothes. He could almost imagine the way Max’s jaw would have tightened as he picked up the discarded fabric, the way he probably lingered for a second too long at Charles’s door.
Charles walked into the living room, intending to finally say something, anything to break the static. But Max was already there, hunched over the kitchen island with his laptop, looking stressed. His glasses were on, the ones he only wore when he was deep into a project, and his hair was a mess from where he’d clearly been running his hands through it.
He looked beautiful. And he looked like he was about to explode.
"Max?"
Max didn't look up. "If you're going to complain about the dishwasher, don't. I'll do it later."
"I wasn't," Charles said, stepping closer. "I was going to ask if you wanted. I don't know. To watch something? Daniel sent that movie-"
"I'm busy, Charles."
The bluntness of it stung. It was a regression, back to the early days when they were just two people who shared a lease and a mutual history of "inchidents."
"Right. Busy," Charles whispered. He turned to leave, but his foot caught on the corner of the rug, the one Max was always telling him to flatten out, and he stumbled, his shoulder hitting the edge of the bookshelf.
Max was on his feet before Charles could even steady himself.
"Are you okay?" Max asked, his hand reaching out instinctively to catch Charles’s arm.
He gripped Charles’s elbow, his fingers digging in slightly. The touch was like a live wire. All the avoidance of the last seventy two hours evaporated in a single second. Charles looked up, and for the first time since the cabin, Max wasn't looking at him with annoyance. He looked pained.
"I'm fine," Charles breathed, though he didn't pull away.
"You're so clumsy," Max muttered, but his voice was soft, lacking any of its usual bite. He didn't let go. His thumb began a slow, unconscious circle against Charles’s skin.
"Maybe I'm distracted," Charles countered, his heart beginning to thud against his ribs.
Max’s eyes dropped to Charles’s mouth, then snapped back up to his eyes. The air in the kitchen grew heavy, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator. Max’s hand slid from Charles’s elbow up to his shoulder, his touch lingering, heavy and expectant.
"Distracted by what?" Max asked. His voice was a low, dangerous challenge.
Charles wanted to say it. He wanted to say You. I'm distracted by the way you look in those glasses and the way you haven't kissed me even though we both know you want to.
Instead, the fear won. "By work. And... and Lando. He’s been texting me."
Max’s expression hardened instantly. He let go of Charles’s arm as if the skin had suddenly turned to ice. "Of course. Lando."
He turned back to his laptop, the "Mechanical Max" mask sliding back into place with a terrifying finality. "Go watch your movie, Charles. I have things to do."
Charles stood there for a beat, his arm still tingling where Max had touched him. He felt like he was losing a race he hadn't even realized he was running.
"Max-"
"Goodnight, Charles," Max said, his eyes fixed on the screen.
Charles retreated to his room, shutting the door and leaning his head against the wood. He felt like he was vibrating. He looked at his desk, where a small pile of old post-it notes sat, notes he was supposed to throw away but hadn't.
He picked up the one from earlier: I put it in your room.
He realized then that Max wasn't just being mean. Max was waiting for Charles to stop running. And Charles, for all his bravado on the track of life, was still stuck in the pits, terrified of what would happen if he finally hit the gas.
By Thursday, the tension in the apartment had reached a terminal velocity. The air felt thick, like a storm that refused to break, and Charles felt like he was walking on a wire stretched over a canyon.
It started with something stupid. It always did.
Charles was in the kitchen, trying to find his favorite mug, the one with the chipped handle that Max hated, when he realized the dishwasher hadn't been run. Again. And the counter was covered in crumbs from Max’s late night toast. And there was a new post-it note, stuck right to the center of the sink.
Clean as you go. It’s not that hard. - M
Something in Charles just snapped. Maybe it was the lack of sleep. Maybe it was the ghost of Max’s thumb on his lip from the cabin. Or maybe it was the fact that Max had been looking through him for three days.
He ripped the note off the porcelain, crumpling it into a tiny yellow ball.
"Max!" Charles yelled, his voice echoing off the tile.
A beat of silence, then the heavy thud of Max’s bedroom door. Max appeared in the hallway, looking ruffled and exhausted, his eyes flashing with a familiar, sharp irritation. "What? I'm in the middle of a call."
"I don't care about your call!" Charles shouted, tossing the crumpled note at Max’s chest. It hit his shirt and bounced harmlessly to the floor. "I’m tired of this, Max. I’m tired of the notes, and the rules, and the way you act like I’m some kind of burden you’re forced to manage!"
Max’s jaw set into a hard, dangerous line. He stepped into the kitchen, his presence instantly making the room feel three sizes too small. "A burden? I’m the only reason this place hasn't burnt down. I’m the only one who cares enough to keep us functional."
"Functional?" Charles laughed, a harsh, jagged sound. "Is that what we are? We aren't functional, Max! We haven't spoken a real word to each other in a week! You walk around me like I’m a ghost, and then you leave these, these demands everywhere because you’re too much of a coward to actually talk to me!"
Max flinched, his eyes darkening to a shade of blue that looked like the bottom of the ocean. "A coward? You’re the one who ran away in the car, Charles. You’re the one who uses Lando as a shield every time I get within five feet of you."
"Because you make it impossible!" Charles stepped closer, poking a finger into Max’s chest. "You crowd me, and you touch me, and you look at me like... like you want to devour me, and then you just stop. You go back to your notes and your sim-rig and you leave me here to wonder if I’m losing my mind!"
Max grabbed Charles’s hand, his grip firm, stopping the poking. He didn't let go. He held Charles’s hand against his chest, right over his heart. It was beating fast, a frantic, heavy rhythm that matched Charles’s own.
"You think I want to leave these notes?" Max rasped, his voice breaking. "I leave them because I don't know how to tell you that I'm obsessed with you. I leave them because if I don't have something to complain about, I’ll have to admit that I’m terrified of what happens if you say no."
Charles’s breath hitched. "Max..."
"No, you don't get to 'Max' me," Max stepped even closer, his forehead dropping to rest against Charles’s. He was shaking. Max Verstappen, the most unshakable man Charles knew, was trembling. "I am trying so hard to give you space, to let you be 'chaos,' but you’re killing me. You look at me with those eyes and then you 'check out' the second it gets real. I can't do it anymore."
"Then don't," Charles whispered, his fingers curling into the fabric of Max’s shirt. "Stop giving me space. I never asked for it."
The tension was a physical weight, a wire pulled so tight it was screaming. Max’s hand slid from Charles’s wrist up to his cheek, his thumb dragging across Charles’s lower lip, the same spot from the cabin, but this time it wasn't a tease. It was a desperate, aching pressure.
Max leaned in, his lips a breath away from Charles’s, the heat between them enough to light the room on fire.
"Say it," Max breathed against his mouth. "Tell me to stop. Tell me you don't want this, and I’ll walk out that door right now."
Charles looked at him, at the raw, bleeding honesty in Max’s eyes, and for the first time in his life, he didn't check out. He didn't run.
"I don't want you to walk out," Charles whispered.
Max let out a ragged, broken sound, half-sob, half-laugh, and for a second, Charles thought this was it. The kiss. The break.
But then, Max’s phone in his pocket started blaring, a high pitched, insistent ringtone. Work.
Max pulled back just an inch, his eyes still locked on Charles’s, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated frustration. He closed his eyes, leaning his head against the cupboard with a heavy thump.
"I have to take this," Max whispered, his voice sounding like it had been dragged over gravel. "It’s the final contract. If I don't..."
"Go," Charles said, his own voice trembling. "Go. Take the call."
Max looked at him, his hand lingering on Charles’s neck for one more agonizing second, his thumb grazing the skin behind Charles’s ear. "Don't go anywhere. Don't check out. Stay right here."
"I'm staying," Charles promised.
Max retreated to his room, the door clicking shut.
Charles stood alone in the kitchen, surrounded by the mess and the crumpled yellow paper on the floor. He leaned against the counter, his heart hammering, his lips still tingling with the heat of a kiss that was almost there.
He reached down and picked up the crumpled post-it note. He smoothed it out against his thigh, looking at the sharp M at the bottom.
He wasn't angry anymore. He was waiting. And for the first time, the wait didn't feel like a burden. It felt like a countdown
Max’s work call lasted two hours.
Two hours of Charles sitting on the sofa in the dark, watching the shadows of the city stretch across the living room walls. He didn't turn on the TV. He didn't scroll on his phone. He just sat there, feeling the weight of the air, listening to the muffled, low rumble of Max’s voice through the bedroom door.
When the door finally opened, the sound was like a gunshot in the silence.
Max didn't go to the kitchen. He didn't go to the bathroom. He walked straight into the living room and stopped at the edge of the rug. He looked exhausted. His shirt was untucked, his hair was a chaotic mess, and he’d ditched his glasses somewhere.
Charles stood up slowly. "Everything okay? With the contract?"
"It's done," Max said. His voice was tired, but steady. "I'm officially staying in the city. For good."
"That's... that's good, Max."
"Is it?" Max stepped closer. He didn't stop until he was standing directly in front of Charles. In the dim light of the streetlamps filtering through the window, his eyes looked almost black. "Because if I’m staying, Charles, I can’t go back to how it was. I can’t go back to being just the guy who leaves notes on your coffee machine."
Charles felt his heart give a slow, heavy thud. The room felt smaller, the air warmer. "I don't think I can go back either."
Max reached out. He didn't grab Charles’s wrist or shoulder this time. He just let his hand hover near Charles’s, his pinky finger brushing against Charles’s own. It was a tiny, fragile point of contact, but it felt more significant than any of the shouting from earlier.
"I stayed," Charles whispered, a callback to Max’s plea before the phone call. "I didn't check out."
"I see you," Max murmured. He moved his hand, finally sliding his palm against Charles’s, interlacing their fingers. It wasn't the firm, territorial grip from the club. It was soft. It was a request. "You're right here."
They stood there for a long time, just breathing the same air, their hands joined between them. There were a thousand things they could have said. Charles could have apologized for the "no no no no" phase. Max could have apologized for the aggressive notes.
But for the first time in their lives, words felt redundant.
"It’s late," Charles said, though he didn't move an inch.
"I know," Max replied. He squeezed Charles’s hand, his thumb tracing a slow, hypnotic circle over Charles’s knuckles. "Are you going to run to your room?"
Charles looked up at him. He saw the vulnerability Max usually hid behind Dutch bluntness and racing lines. He saw the man who had been keeping his life together with neon colored paper because he didn't know how to ask for a place in his heart.
"No," Charles said. "I'm not running anymore."
Max’s gaze softened, a look of pure, unadulterated relief washing over his face. He leaned down, not to kiss him, but just to rest his forehead against Charles’s shoulder for a second, letting out a long, shuddering exhale.
"Good," Max whispered into the fabric of Charles’s shirt. "Because I’m out of notes, Charles. I’ve got nothing left to say that isn’t... this."
They stayed like that, orbiting each other in the quiet of the 2:00 AM shadows. The light had reached its final embers, and all it would take was one more spark to set the whole world on fire.
Charles reached up, his hand finding the back of Max’s head, his fingers finally allowed to stay where they had wanted to be for months.
"Go to bed, Max," Charles said softly.
"Only if you're there when I wake up," Max replied, pulling back just enough to look him in the eye.
"I'll be there."
Max nodded, a silent pact made in the dark. He let go of Charles’s hand, but as he walked toward his room, he paused by the kitchen counter. He picked up a pen, scribbled something on a fresh post-it note, and stuck it to the back of Charles’s hand as he passed.
Charles looked down at the note.
See you in the morning. - M
Charles watched him go, a smile tugging at his lips that felt like it had been waiting years to break free. He didn't go to his room. He went to the kitchen, picked up the crumpled pile of notes from the floor, and instead of throwing them away, he took them to his desk and smoothed them out, one by one.
The sun didn't rise so much as it bruised the sky, a soft violet and gold spilling over the balcony of the apartment. Charles hadn't slept much. He’d spent the early hours of the morning in a state of quiet reflection, sitting at his small desk and looking at the collection of post-it notes he’d smoothed out. They were all there. The complaints about the milk, the light switches, the shoes, the "Seriously?" from the coffee machine. When you looked at them all at once, they didn't look like a list of failures. They looked like a map. A map of every time Max Verstappen had looked at Charles Leclerc and thought, I am paying attention to you.
Charles heard the familiar sound of Max’s door opening. Usually, the sound made him tensed, ready for a fresh argument or a new critique. Today, it made him stand up and walk toward the kitchen with a sense of purpose that felt like the final lap of a race he’d been trailing in for years.
Max was already at the coffee machine. He looked different softer. He was wearing the same sleep shirt from Tuesday, but the "aggressive alertness" was gone, replaced by a quiet, expectant stillness. He didn't turn around when Charles entered, but his shoulders dropped an inch.
"You're awake," Max said.
"I promised I would be."
Charles walked up to the counter, but he didn't stop at a "roommate" distance. He stepped right into Max’s shadow, leaning against the cabinets so their shoulders touched. Max turned his head, his blue eyes searching Charles’s face. He looked like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Charles to make a joke or "check out" one last time.
Instead, Charles reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, crumpled square of yellow paper. He flattened it on the counter between them. It was the very first note from months ago: You left the light on again. - M
"I kept them," Charles whispered.
Max looked down at the note, then back at Charles, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion. "You kept... all of them?"
"Most of them. Even the ones where you were being a real prick." Charles let out a small, shaky laugh. "I used to tell myself it was because I wanted to show them to Lando as evidence of how difficult you are. But that was a lie."
Max’s hand moved on the counter, his fingers twitching toward Charles’s. "Then why did you keep them?"
"Because they were the only thing I had of you that felt certain," Charles said, his voice cracking. "I’m chaos, Max. I know I am. I forget things, and I lose my keys, and I check out when things get too heavy. But you... you never stopped looking. Every time you left one of these, you were telling me you were still there. That you hadn't given up on the disaster."
The silence in the kitchen wasn't heavy anymore. It was full. Max turned fully toward him, his hands coming up to rest on Charles’s waist. The touch was firm, grounding, and so familiar it felt like it had been there since they were kids on a karting track in the rain.
"I was never going to give up, Charles," Max murmured, his face inches away. "I was just waiting for you to realize that I’ve been yours since we were ten years old and crashing into each other in the rain. I just didn't know if you were ever going to stop running long enough for me to catch you."
"I've stopped," Charles breathed, his hands finding the back of Max’s neck, his fingers tangling in the hair there. "I'm right here."
Max didn't wait. He didn't give Charles a chance to change his mind. He leaned in and captured Charles’s lips in a kiss that had fifteen years of rivalry and eight months of domestic frustration behind it.
Max’s mouth was hungry, demanding, tasting of the morning and a desperate, long awaited relief. He backed Charles up against the counter, his hands sliding down to Charles’s waist to hoist him up. Charles’s legs instinctively wrapped around Max’s hips, pulling him flush against him. The friction was dizzying. Max’s tongue was bold, sweeping into Charles’s mouth as he claimed him with an arrogance that was so quintessentially Verstappen it made Charles’s head spin. Max’s hands weren't still, they were everywhere. One hand was anchored in Charles’s hair, keeping him tilted back, while the other slid under the hem of Charles’s shirt, his palm hot against the bare skin of his lower back. The touch was electric, a searing contact that made Charles whimper into the kiss, his own fingers digging into Max’s shoulders as he tried to pull him even closer, if that was even possible.
Max broke the kiss, his breath hitching as he broke the kiss just enough to murmur against Charles’s skin. "Finally. Gott, finally."
"Shut up," Charles whispered, pulling him back down.
When they eventually pulled apart, both of them flushed and breathless, their clothes rumpled and their lips swollen, the silence was finally perfect. Max didn't move away, he kept his arms looped around Charles’s waist, his head resting in the crook of Charles’s neck.
"So," Charles whispered, his voice vibrating through Max's chest. "About the dishwasher."
Max let out a wet, shaky laugh, leaning back to look at the man he’d spent his whole life trying to beat, only to realize he’d been running toward him the whole time.
"I'll do it, Charles, anything. I'll even put my shoes back properly." Max stayed close, his forehead resting against Charles’s, his thumb tracing the line of Charles’s jaw. He looked happy, truly, devastatingly happy. "So. Does this mean I can stop leaving the notes?"
Charles smiled, reaching over to the pad of post-it notes sitting on the counter. He grabbed the pen, scribbled something quickly, and slapped the yellow square right onto the center of Max’s chest.
Max looked down.
Don't you dare stop. - C
Max let out a rich, genuine laugh, the kind that Charles had only ever seen a few times in his life. He picked Charles up, hoisting him onto the kitchen counter, sliding his legs between Charles’s as he leaned back in for more.
"Okay," Max said against his lips. "But I’m still moving the milk to the middle shelf."
"I like the middle shelf," Charles admitted, his heart finally, truly at rest. "It’s very organized."
"Liar," Max whispered.
"Maybe," Charles replied, "but I'm your liar."
The apartment was still full of neon yellow squares. There was one on the mirror, one on the fridge, and now, a new one in Charles’s heart. They were still rivals, they were still opposites, and they were definitely still going to argue about the dishes.
But as Max kissed him again, Charles realized he hadn't "checked out" once. He was exactly where he was supposed to be.
He was home.
Two weeks later
Lando and Daniel walked into the apartment without knocking, mostly because Charles had forgotten to lock the door again.
"Hey, disasters! We’re going for-" Lando stopped mid sentence, staring at the hallway mirror.
It was covered. Not in reprimands, but in a chaotic, colorful collage of yellow, pink, and blue notes. Some were in Max’s sharp slant, some in Charles’s elegant script.
Dinner at 7. Don't be late. I love you. - M
You’re the one who’s late. Also, I love you more. - C
Wear the blue shirt tonight. It makes your eyes look like the ones I fell for. - M
Daniel let out a low whistle, a massive grin spreading across his face. "Well. I think the 'Honeymoon Suite' is officially permanent."
From the living room, they heard the sound of a sim-rig shutting down and a familiar, exasperated Monégasque voice.
"Max! You left your shoes in the middle of the hall again!"
"I did it so you'd notice I was home!" Max shouted back, followed by the unmistakable sound of a kiss and a happy, muffled laugh.
Lando shook his head, reaching for a post-it note and a pen. He scribbled something and stuck it to the door as they left.
Get a room. (Wait, you have one.) - L
The door clicked shut, and inside, the chaos was finally, perfectly, in its right place.