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It's been a hotel-room-door-slamming type of media day.
Charles huffs, strips to his boxers, and sits back on his bed, knocking his head back against the wall a few times. It's silent as he centers his breathing, and then someone knocks back.
He feels the wall vibrate against his head with the sound. It actually feels sort of nice in an odd way. He is not alone.
He grimaces. "Sorry," he calls out. They are probably knocking because they want him to stop.
"It's okay." They speak loud enough that he can hear them through the wall. It's not very thick, so the required volume isn't immense. Charles squints.
"Max?"
"Uh…" A bump against the wall. "Kut," he hisses. Charles's brows raise. "Who's speaking?"
"Depends on if you are Max."
"Well, one of us must confirm something." Charles can't help but laugh. "Let's say I am not this… Max… person."
"Then, I'll continue about my business."
"Charles?"
Charles smiles. "Max." On the other side of the wall, he hears Max let out a relieved laugh.
"What are the chances we get rooms next to each other?" Max remarks.
"Near zero."
"I thought you might be some random stalker. I didn't want to give away my identity."
"You might want to work on your acting," Charles tells him.
"You should work on your acting," Max protests. Charles is grinning naturally for the first time today. "I've seen your commercials, you're terrible. Mine are much better."
"Oh, you watch my commercials, do you?" Charles leans back, his head against the wall, facing his room.
"You have to be a different kind of full of yourself to take what I said like that."
"Nobody is perfect."
"Pretty sure out of everyone, you're supposed to be the perfect one."
"Are you trying to stroke my ego tonight? Because it's working."
"Il Predestinato." Max butchers the pronunciation so brilliantly that Charles almost doesn't know what he's said. "I have seen people online say you're sculpted like a Greek god."
"And I appreciate that greatly, because you know how much time I spend on my figure."
"Yes, you are remarkably concerned with that. I've never understood." Charles scrunches his nose up. "You know you don't have to be chiseled to do the sport, as long as you fit in the car. I do exactly what I need to drive and no more. Half of the fun of traveling around the world is eating all the food."
"Yes, Max, I know."
"Rude."
"What?!"
"You just called me fat, Charlie."
"I did not."
"Yes, you did." A laugh half-awed and half-amused tumbles from Charles's lips. "And here I was starting to enjoy this conversation we are having through the wall."
"I only meant that we have been racing each other for…" Charles thinks for a while. "Since we were seven. So I know that you don't care about how you look."
"When you put it like that, you make it sound like I've let myself go."
"Well, how would you like me to say it?"
"I care about how I look." A pause. "Just not enough to eat low-calorie ice cream." Just by his pitch, Charles can tell that he is smiling.
Charles frowns. "Have you even tried it?"
"Lec?" Max says it like it's a foul taste on his tongue. "I already told you, I don't eat low-calorie ice cream."
"It's not just any low-calorie ice cream. It's my low-calorie ice cream, Max. Eating it is supporting me."
"Oh yes, I'm sure you desperately need my six euro," Max teases. Charles's cheeks hurt. "How much is the watch you're wearing right now?"
"What flavor of ice cream do you like most?"
"I'm not eating your ice cream, Charles."
"You won't even try it? Just one bite."
"I make no promises."
"What flavor?"
"Hazelnut."
Charles shifts, excited. "We have that! It's called 'Why Nut?', it's hazelnut with chocolate—"
"You named it 'Why Nut?'"
"Yes."
"Charles."
"What?"
"Did you come up with that?"
"Well, we have a team, but, yes, that one was my idea."
"Sorry, a whole room full of people agreed to name it 'Why Nut?'"
"Yes."
He can hear Max's snicker through the wall.
"Now you're being rude." Charles pouts, but it's not genuine.
"'Why Nut?'" He doesn't even say anything else, just the name, and it gets him laughing.
"I thought it was very innovative. Why not eat? But it's hazelnut, so 'Why Nut?'."
"Because body say so."
"What?"
Max is cackling. "Sorry. Cave woman says to cave man: Why nut? Cave man says: Because body say so." Charles is silent for a long second.
"Max, that might be the least funny thing I've ever heard in my entire life."
Max is quiet. "'Why Nut?'" he drags it.
"Yes."
"I mean, usually because someone is very attractive."
"Max."
"I can't help myself."
"You can keep your six euros, I'm never talking to you about this again."
"'Why Nut?'" Max continues. "That's what I keep asking. Especially when he's only lasted five minutes."
"Max!" Charles hits his fist against the wall.
"Okay. I'm stopping."
"Are you?"
"You named a flavor 'Swirly Pistachio-oh'?"
Charles groans. "No, I did not name that one—how do you—"
"I've got your website pulled up on my phone."
"Stalker."
"'Swirly Pistachio-oh' is fucking awful, mate."
"Yes, I know. But the team liked it."
"You need to get a new team. If I saw that in the shops, I would not buy on account of that name."
"You already wouldn't buy it, because you like your ice cream high in calories."
"This is the second time tonight that you've called me fat, and I'm starting to get really—" he makes this loud sniffling sound, which through the wall seems a bit more like a snort. "I'm starting to get really offended."
"Oh, my god." Charles crosses his arms over his chest. "I'm not talking to you anymore."
"Okay, okay, I'm sorry."
Fondly, Charles huffs. "It's fine."
A silence. "Why were you knocking on the wall earlier?"
"Would you believe me if I said I was checking it for weak spots?"
"Searching for a secret doorway, maybe?" Max suggests. To himself, Charles shakes his head with his laugh. "Planning on punching a hole?"
"It was my head."
"Whoa, Charles, I don't need to know about your head."
"I'm coming next door and—"
"You're doing what?"
"Tonight, I will break into your room and strangle you."
"I know you're into some freaky shit, but I'm not into that."
Charles sighs.
"Why were you banging your head against my wall, Charlie?"
Charles doesn't respond for a few seconds.
"Charles?"
"I just couldn't escape the media today." Max says nothing, and Charles takes it as an invitation to continue. "It's typical around this time of year, with Jules. But they followed me to my dinner and here, and they're just shouting at me all the time, and I'm just exhausted."
"I'm sorry."
"You shouldn't be sorry you didn't—"
"Yeah, but I am."
"If anything, you have made the day a little bit better." When Max doesn't reply, heat fills Charles's cheeks. "But I object to you calling it your wall."
"Given it is the wall to my hotel room, I think it's mine."
"It's also the wall to my hotel room."
"Well, you're too late, I already called it."
"You can't call a wall. It's mine too."
"I think you are just jeal—" Charles cuts him off with his laughter.
"Do you remember—" he has to pause to laugh some more. "Do you remember when we were nine, and you said I wasn't allowed to have any orange or blue on my helmet because you called it?"
"Charles," Max whines.
"Oh, I wanted to beat you up so bad then."
"You vs. me at nine? I would've knocked you on your ass in two hits." Charles scoffs at that.
"You can't call a color, I mean, who even comes up with that?"
"You always had a red helmet because of your Ferrari fetish, and I felt threatened that you were expanding your color palette."
"I find it hard to believe that you ever considered me threatening." Charles shifts in bed. He interlocks his fingers together, considering his next words. "Oh, and I was so excited to show you my new helmet," he admits.
"You were?"
Charles hums. "I had been talking to maman about it all week. The mood I was in about it when Papa and I got home, she knew immediately that it hadn't gone as I'd expected."
"I never realized."
"Well, I would never have told you. It would've been too embarrassing."
"I wish you would've."
"Why? Would you at nine have been able to cope with something like that?"
"Probably not. But I would've been forced to figure it out."
"We've always had a wall between us."
Max lets out a little laugh. "Especially now."
"Haha, yes, Max, you are very funny," he says, all flat.
"You love it." He does.
"You wish."
Charles stays up an hour later than he planned. On the other side of the wall, Max seems to as well. Until they are both yawning, and there is more space between their responses, and Charles knows that the morning is going to be rough if he stays up any longer.
"Max?"
Max half-yawns and half-hums.
"Thank you."
"For what?" Max asks. Charles can't name any one thing.
"Just, thank you."
Max hesitates. "Of course." Charles squeezes his eyes shut and reaches over to turn off the lamp. "Good night, Charlie." He almost doesn't hear it.
"Good night."
Waking up in the morning is exactly the pain Charles imagined it to be, but he rubs his eyes and forces himself through it. When he thinks about knocking on the wall to see if Max has woken up too, he squeezes his eyes shut and puts a hand over his temples, feeling stupid, and then he rushes down to the hotel gym.
Charles doesn't know what he was expecting, but he doesn't see Max all day except during practices, when they are both on the track. So, really, he doesn't see Max all day.
But when he's in the media pen after the second practice, someone mentions performance issues with Red Bull and asks Charles if Ferrari has seen anything similar. And Max's absence indicates his lack of interest in their antics.
When he makes it back to his hotel for the night, he shuts and locks the door and heads into the bedroom to get ready for bed.
That's when he hears it: three knocks on the wall.
He laughs to himself, a bit relieved, and then he leans toward it.
"Max?"
"You know, yesterday when you were banging your head against the wall?"
"Yes."
"It's my turn."
"Give me fifteen minutes to get ready for bed."
"Fifteen minutes? You sure you're going to be able to complete your skincare that quickly, Charlie?"
"Fuck off."
Unfortunately, he proves Max right because he only slips into bed after twenty minutes. He knocks on the wall. Max groans.
"Finally. How much shit do you put on your face?"
"You should really have a skincare routine too, Max."
"Respectfully, I'm not putting cum on my face every morning and night."
"It's not cum," Charles protests. He crosses his arms over his chest. "You should at least wear sunscreen, you are so pale it's a wonder you aren't constantly burnt."
"Aw, Charlie, are you worried I'm going to get burnt?" Max teases.
"No."
"You're just sad that my skin is strong and yours is weak. That's why you need to put cum on it just to go outside."
"It's not cum!"
"I've seen that clip of George saying it's cum."
"Okay, I don't know what George is putting on his face, and I wouldn't be surprised if he really was putting cum on his face, but I don't."
Max laughs. "It's cute how hard you are trying to convince me," he remarks.
Charles scoffs, full-throated, and flushes deeply. He is so glad Max cannot see him. "I'm going to bed."
"No, no, Charlie, wait." Charles laughs at how easy he is.
"I heard about your troubles in practice."
"What did you hear?"
"I believe the term they used was 'performance issues.'" He hears Max's chuckle. "Is that an adequate description? Do you frequently have performance issues, Max?"
"Oh, trust me, I never have an issue performing."
"Somehow I don't doubt that."
"Whoa there."
"I mean, in racing, oh my god."
"Okay," Max drags it out, suggestively. Charles grins. "It's not me that's the problem. This is the thing, Charles. They're so scared I'm going to leave because the car is bad."
"I do see a lot of team movement announcements about you from The Sun Magazine."
"Fuck The Sun."
"I think that would be very painful."
"Hm. You're the funny one tonight."
"We can trade off."
"That would be nice," Max agrees.
"You know, I used to think you were unshakable."
Max laughs. "Really?"
"Yeah, nothing seemed to faze you when we were kids. Well, nothing except losing," Charles remarks. He shifts on the bed, and it creaks. "But I realized that it wasn't so much that you were unshakable but instead that you had to focus on winning. Getting distracted by stupid shit prevented you from that, and being unfocused was the end of the world. That's why losing always hits you so hard. Winning was surviving."
"And it's not for you?"
"No, for me, winning is living up to my reputation."
"It doesn't concern me so much anymore."
"Winning?" Charles's brows raise. "I don't think that's true. You still like to win, just in different ways."
"I like to race more than I like to win, now," Max admits. Charles smiles, softly. "The part after the race has never been the fun part. Win or lose, it's getting the chance to race against everyone and fight on the track that I enjoy the most."
"I think the glory of winning is what makes it so valuable to me. But you've got enough glory for both of us."
"It'll happen for you one day, Charlie," Max assures him. "That's something I've always known."
"Thank you." Charles sighs, relaxing, then he remembers. "I'm sorry, I distracted us. Tell me about these performance issues."
"Oh yes. Okay, it's like this," then Max has to pause and laugh at himself. "'It's like this.' You are rubbing off on me."
"You said that all on your own."
There has to be a warmed heart deep beneath that laugh of Max's. "In any case, I tell them what's wrong with the car. Very clearly. I say, this is what I need, this is what it's doing, this is what it's not doing. They nod—" It seems Max is demonstrating despite Charles's lack of vision. "And they say, yes, yes, yes, Max, we are so sorry, Max, whatever could we do to earn your forgiveness, Max, and on and on. And then, the next session, it's the same fucking issue."
Charles can't help but giggle.
"Oh, you think this is funny?"
"A bit."
"Wow, I'm glad you find amusement in my suffering, Charlie. At least one of us can have a decent night."
It only makes Charles laugh more. He catches his breath, clutching at his stomach, and then takes a centering pause. "That sounds very annoying."
"The thing is that I understand that making improvements takes time. But they spend more time apologizing to me to try and keep me in good spirits about the team than actually working on the car."
"Ugh, this is how I feel about the strategy calls."
"The infamous Ferrari strategy calls," Max exalts. Charles laughs.
"Like why are you apologizing, just stop making bad calls!"
Then, they are laughing together, and Charles leans his head back against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut.
"This is nice," Charles breathes.
"We should do this more often."
"What? Request hotel rooms next to each other?"
"Yes, Charles, obviously that's what I mean."
"Well, if you aren't clearer then—"
"Talk, Charles. I mean, we should talk."
"Oh." Charles's lips roll over his teeth for a second. "Yes. But what about the wall?"
"This one?" Max knocks on it a few times.
"No, the other one."
"We are both old enough now to tear it down, no?"
"I don't know," Charles has to force himself not to murmur it. "I'm scared."
"Me too. But don't you think it's worth trying?"
Charles hums. "Maybe."
Max is silent for a while, and Charles wonders if he has misspoken. His fist tenses at his side, and he bites on his lip a bit. He considers breaking the silence, and then:
"Remember Vegas?" Max asks.
"Which Vegas?"
"You know."
"With Danny?"
"Exactly."
Charles grins. "You're still thinking about Vegas?"
"You expect me to just forget it?"
"Max, that must've been seven years ago."
"And?"
"And you weren't even there!"
"Exactly."
"Max, you are crazy."
"What happened in Vegas, Charles? I think about this once a day."
Charles scoffs. "I'm not allowed to tell you. What happens in Vegas—"
"Don't say it."
"Well, you know the saying."
"But I have had such a bad day, Charlie, and you know what would make me so happy?" he drags it out all mopey.
"Let me guess. Knowing what happened in Vegas?"
Max gasps so loud that Charles hears it through the wall. "It's like you can read my mind."
"You're such an idiot." It's said with all the fondness in the world. "Once a day, you think of this?"
"Sometimes even twice."
"Why?!"
"That should be obvious to you, Charles, but if you don't know, I'll let you figure it out on your own."
"Hm." Charles crosses his arms over his chest. "You will not tell me, but you want me to tell you what happened? I don't think that's very fair."
"Oh, he has just learned of the injustices of life. Spare him from this—"
"Okay, shut up, I'll tell you." He can hear Max's bed move as he seemingly readies himself. Charles lets the pause sit for a long time. "Nothing happened in Vegas."
"What?!"
"Not a single thing. Danny and I went, and nothing happened."
"No, that can't be. You're lying."
"I wouldn't lie to you. Danny and I got a hotel room together, and we gambled a little and made some jokes about hiring a stripper. And then Danny said he thought it would be funny if we acted all suggestive about it and made everyone think we'd fucked or something, and I agreed, so we did."
"No!"
"Yes."
"This whole time I thought—"
"What did you think happened, Max?"
There is a pause, in which Charles thinks Max might be sighing. "I don't know. Danny has been holding it over my head for so long, Charles."
"Me and him in Vegas? I don't see what's such a big deal about that. Especially to you, I mean, you aren't involved."
"It's just that—"
Has he caught Max speechless? The corners of Charles's lips spread into a smirk. "I am so curious now, Max. Why would me and Danny fucking have any interest to you, hm?"
"I—"
"Unless you are… some sort of pervert?"
"I'm not a perv!"
"You sound very defensive."
"Charles," Max whines.
Charles's smile cracks open. "Max?"
"I'll try your shitty ice cream if you drop it."
"You will?"
"Yes."
"Mm, I don't know if I want you to anymore. I feel like even if you loved it, you'd probably say it was bad."
"What?" The way he exaggerates his shock proves Charles's claim.
"You called it shitty, and you've never even tried it, how would you know?" Charles points out. "If you're forming judgments before you've even tried it, then how can I trust your opinion of it will be honest?"
"You don't trust me?" Charles pictures him pouting.
"No."
The conversation stretches on for two hours more before Charles finally says good night and shuts out his light and squeezes his eyes shut. He pushes everything down. There is qualifying tomorrow, and the next day a race, and he has no time to get distracted, and no time to spend hours every night staying up late to talk to the wall.
Nonetheless, he collapses into bed when he gets back after a day of qualifying. He is exhausted, three hours less sleep than he is used to having, plus a difficult time on the track has rendered him pliant and sleepy.
Still, he reaches up to the wall and knocks a few times, and when he hears the creak of Max's bed, he says, "I'm going to beat you tomorrow."
Max laughs. "Are you now?"
"Mhm," Charles drags it out. "Turn one, you will try to push me all the way to one side of the track, but I will not be fooled, Max. You cannot fool me."
"How do you know my master plan?!" Max jokes.
"I see right through you, Max Verstappen, always have."
"Do you?"
"You want me."
"I do?"
Charles groans, flushed and embarrassed by Max's dodging of the statement. "That's why you were wondering if Danny and I fucked. Because you want to fuck me. It's why you tease me all the time about my ice cream and my skincare and all the things. You want me."
Max is silent for a beat, and Charles quivers. "How couldn't I?"
"I knew it!" He is more triumphant from being correct than from the affirmed knowledge of Max's interest.
"You're perfect, Charlie. Stupidly attractive and endearing, and we always have such good conversations. I always feel like you're actually listening to me. And we have been beside each other for so long. You know all these things about me that I don't even think I could say to anyone else, but you have always been there, and you have seen and understood without my even having to say a thing. So yes, I want you. Anyone in my position would want you." At the praise, he blooms like a flower.
Charles is so proud of himself for figuring it out. "I have been thinking about it all day. I am so glad I was right."
Max lets out this deprecated laugh. "I can't believe that's your takeaway."
"What would you like me to say, Max?" Charles's tone goes somewhere full-chested. "That I have been thinking about you thinking about me fucking Daniel, all day? That I have wondered if you pictured it? Did you? Did it make you jealous?"
"So jealous." It's basically groaned.
Oh, that's… that goes straight to Charles's cock.
"I—" it's a stutter from the back of Charles's throat. His cheeks burn.
"Now you're quiet, huh? Rambling back and forth all night yesterday and the day before, but now you're quiet?" Max taunts him. Charles chews on his bottom lip to avoid thinking about the feeling curling around his stomach. "Is it too real for you, Charlie? There is still the wall between us, nothing to be afraid of."
"I want you too."
"Oh, yeah?" Charles squirms. "How bad?"
"What?" Gobsmacked.
"How bad, Charles? I've told you already how badly I want you, and complimented you so much. And your ego is already so big, it can't be good for you for me to say all these things. How badly do you want me?"
"So badly."
"Yeah?" Charles presses his legs together. "God, Charles, I can hear you shifting around."
"'M sorry."
"I want to come next door."
"Please," Charles chokes.
"We're not ready, Charlie. Even if I came next door, there is still the other wall."
Charles taps his palm against the wall lightly. "Max." As much as he wants to deny it, Max is right.
"We've managed everything else; we'll get past the wall, too," Max assures him. Charles huffs and moves again, trying to force everything down. "It's okay if you have to. You might ruin me with the sound of it, but I'd be happy for you to ruin me."
"Not like this," Charles mumbles. He says it again when he realizes Max hasn't heard him. He sighs. Even though they've put it out into the air, all of this feels like a step backward. He squeezes his eyes shut for a few seconds, yawning again. "I need to shower," he thinks. That's the only other way to deal with his issue.
"Okay, Charles. Whatever you need."
Charles's fingers scrunch into a fist. "Good night, Max."
"Good night, Charlie."
Max flies home right after the race, which Charles wins. But Charles is so drunk by the time he gets back to the hotel that he doesn't even think to knock on the wall; he just drops dead from sleep on his bed and passes the entire night with his jeans still hugging his hips and the bedside lamp shining bright.
Then he is home, but only for a few days. He flies to the next race early Thursday morning, so he's rubbing his reddened eyes all through media.
Sylvia makes a small complaint about how Red Bull keeps stealing their hotels, which makes Charles laugh. She theorizes that it's some sort of strategy play, and Charles wonders if putting Max Verstappen in the room next door counts as strategy. It really did seem to throw his entire weekend up in the air, but he won, and Max did not, so it doesn't seem to be a very effective strategy. Then Sylvia says, "Not this weekend though. They're in the Hilton instead." And Charles's expression changes a bit, with almost unnoticeable downturns in everything.
He contains his mild disappointment. Because he'd have to be stupid to really expect that not only would Max be in his hotel, but he'd also be in the room right next door. Max already pointed out the low likelihood that it would happen the first time.
Media is a nightmare because they work him around in long circular questions at least eight times. As he is driven back to the hotel, he plans out the whole thing in his head.
He'll dash up to his room, strip, and shower. He'll cozy up in bed and turn on the television at a very low volume. He'll scroll on his phone for a few short minutes. And then he'll reach up and knock on the wall and spend an hour or two talking to M—
Right.
Charles's fists clench by his sides. Joris gives him a raised-brow look.
"You've been weird all week," he points out.
Charles just shakes his head.
"Figure your shit out, mate."
Charles spends five whole minutes staring at the wall behind his bed before he drops his bags and heads toward the bathroom for his shower. Though he wants to shower for a long time, he hurries through it because his mind drifts to sitting in bed and talking through that wall, and, subconsciously, he speeds up as if getting out of the shower faster will make it happen.
Before he knows it. He's sitting on his bed with his knees to his chest. He reaches up toward the wall and stops himself before he can knock.
"Fuck, Max," he mutters.
And suddenly, Charles has become so crazy that he is talking to himself.
"It's not this wall," he admits. He leans his head back against it. "It's not that. This wall is not the issue. You know this. It's you, Max, you're the other wall."
He heaves a sigh and shifts forward again to put his chin on his knees.
"I'm just afraid to lose what I already have of you. That's the wall." He pauses as he chews on the inside of his mouth. "Like I have just lost this," he reaches back to press his finger tips to the wall. "I'm so afraid I'm going to lose what little I have."
His brow furrows as he takes another uneven breath. There it is, right on the tip of his tongue.
"But I want all of you, not just a little," he murmurs. The relief he feels. "Not just your voice on the other side of a wall."
His fist balls up to knock. Not because he thinks Max will answer, but instead because he feels the need to. He can apologize to whoever has the room next door if they pitch a fit at one or two knocks.
He's holding his breath as he begins to carry out the motion.
But before his fist can make contact, a noise stops makes him freeze. A knocking. Not at the wall, but at the door to his hotel room.
Hesitantly, he gets up, walking to the door, and peering through the viewing hole.
He pulls the door open. "Max?"
Max smiles. "Charles." He reaches up to scratch the back of his neck. "I am sort of an idiot, but I got a noise complaint for knocking on the wall of my room."
"You did?"
"Yeah," he drags it out. "Lewis gave me your room number. I figured I should probably stop bothering whoever has the room next door and get over myself and just talk to who I really want to talk to."
"Oh," Charles's lips are rounded with it. Max flushes.
"The wall was only really helpful because it made me realize how much I wanted it gone," Max admits.
"Me too."
Max nods his head toward the room behind Charles. "So, can I come in?"
"Yes," he says it too fast, and they're both blushing together, and grinning. "I mean, why not?" Max's smile only spreads when he hears Charles's attempt at nonchalance.
"Don't you mean 'why nut?'"
It takes everything in Charles not to slam the door in his face.