Max is used to spending the infamous Valentine's Day in the company of Lando and video games. When Norris snaps for some date, Verstappen has to step out of his comfort zone, only to get hit by the wheels of fate.
Warnings: a little bit of drinking and curse words
Word count: 1,446k
February thickened into a dirty grey palette and settled on the canvas of Foggy Albion with dank, lonely evenings, leaving muddy streaks of longing and fatigue. The shortest, month seemed like an unfinished essay with ink smudges, a ragged story with no confinement, a muted question hanging in the air. Inevitable.
Max often laid on the bed, too spacious for one, and stared at the grey ceiling with unfocused gaze. The exam period had passed, leaving behind circles under his eyes and a scattering of cans of energy drink on his computer desk — lousy reminders.
As luck would have it, the equator of February was Valentine's Day —a cheap vanity fair and a spectacle of relentless hearts tirelessly proving the strength of their feelings. It's not that Verstappen didn't like this masquerade, rather he didn't pay attention to it or looked at it from above sceptically. According to the good old tradition Max spent this day in the company of Norris: an ancient PlayStation, beer, sometimes even board games for two. This year, however…
"Max, I completely forgot to tell you…" Norris crumples awkwardly on the doorstep before leaving. "About tomorrow… I'm kind of going on a date. You don't mind, do you?" The intonation, the look, and the jump in her eyebrows are so naive and disarming that the only thing to do is to shrug.
Actually, he does mind. He minds a lot. And yet he's best mate, and so he smiles awkwardly — it comes out more like an embarrassed grimace — and gives a shrug. It's obvious that Lando is confused, but his legs spring down the stairs with such fervour that Max smirks, this time genuinely. His friend is filled with a stomach-tickling anticipation of romance. One can even leave out the fact that nothing ever works out and Lando is crying on Verstappen's lap afterwards, complaining about another asshole.
//
His feet took him to The Black Dog near the Thames. From the street the pub seemed a nice, quiet harbour where he could spend this stupid evening. Though Max, of course, favoured cats. Some song from the late eighties, oil glints on the lacquered counter, narrow waists of bottles. Better the hum of voices, the sticky smell of whiskey poured into glasses, and the indifferent stares of random people than the walls of his room.
He didn't often drink anything stronger than beer, but now a glass seemed the surest funnel for blood from the blunt knife of loneliness. Max wasn't looking for anyone in particular. Probably subconsciously he wanted someone to find him on his own. His gaze slid over faces — tired, drunk, lean, absent — and found nothing remarkable. The woman in the red dress is obviously overreacting, trying to get anyone's attention… yet Max doesn't judge her in the slightest. A strained smile with lipstick past the edge of her lips is the cry of a circus jester.
The night air is inexplicably lighter than its daytime sibling, and Max wanders slowly along the night's noisy highway in an unzipped sports jacket, hoping to cool his head and sober up a little. The city spills over with wet tarmac, stringy streetlights, the shadows of people he didn't know and didn't want to know.
Verstappen decides to turn down Cardigan Street, so he won't hear the increasing drumbeat of cars, and carry the body home in greater peace, since….
Flash. The roar of the engine. The scrape of rubber on tar.
A sore wrist. Leg aching. Temples throbbing. Heart is about to jump out of chest.
He's on the pavement, almost down, almost touching the puddle with the back of his head.
"What the…" Max wheezes, rising up on his elbows; the realisation of the situation brings a sharp attack of nausea and a prick in his chest. He almost got run over, dang! Nausea is quickly replaced by anger.
Max almost growls without even looking at the culprit, but stops talking when the motorcyclist is close by and deftly pulls off his impressive helmet, jiggling his head to shake off his silky hair.
"Mon Dieu," the driver nervously takes steps towards him. "I'm sorry, I didn't see you in that black… You ran out into the road like a cat," he said, a silent chuckle, a carefree juxtaposition of self-assurance and guilt, a barely audible emotion mixed with a warm, scratchy accent. Oh, shit. "Everything all right?"
"I'm fine," Verstappen mumbles, slamming his eyes shut twice and rejecting the helping hand. He almost falls on the young man, however, hissing at the pain in his foot. "Shit…"
"Wow," the motorcyclist picks Max up with his strong arms and catches his balance. "Well, well, I guess you're not that fine," he grins again, as if it's not about a possible injury, but about the ice-cream flavour.
"What's your name, black cat?" The stranger helps the Dutchman to lean on the motorbike.
"Max."
"Bene, Max. I'm Charles. Charles Leclerc," the driver introduces, putting his hand on his chest for clarity.
"Char Liquor," Verstappen mumbles in a slurred tongue.
"Well, that will do for now," warm enveloping laughter, wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, dimples on cheeks. Max seems to be drifting off somewhere. "You don't seem to be getting there on your own. I'll give you a lift home as an apology. You good?"
Max is in absolutely no position to object, and is generally not opposed to the idea of being home as soon as possible. Leclerc winks and gives the passenger a separate helmet, putting back on the helmet he'd recently taken off — Max manages to spot the tiny silver horse badge.
//
The road back blurred like a film shot on a cheap camera. Max remembered the warmth of someone else's hands, which he clutched almost desperately, afraid of falling, the lights of the night city, the sound of wind and engine, the feeling of something unexpectedly right.
"You live alone?" Charles asks, swinging open the door and helping Max in.
"With cats," Verstappen corrects, and Leclerc smiles silently, raising his eyebrows in surprise.
It's hard to trace the moment they were on the bed — Max remembers only that he wanted to sleep. It's nothing like that, both of them in their clothes. Just talking. Just looking at the ceiling. And yet Charles' smile is insanely close, and the bed is suddenly small. And God, how that's been lacking.
"Yeah, on my way back from a bad date," the motorcyclist admits and rubs his face to hide his embarrassment.
"I can't imagine that you ever had a bad date," Max shakes his head and bends his arm at the elbow, making himself comfortable on the palm of his hand, repeating the pose of his interlocutor, getting a little closer.
"Imagine that! It happens even to the best of us," Leclerc smiles conspiratorially, hiding the whiteness of his teeth.
"I'm glad it did. Otherwise you would not have hit me," without filtering his thoughts, Verstappen gives out, than causes genuine surprise and bright overflow of laughter.
"How's your leg?" softly asks Charles, glancing down to where their knees are barely touching. Where the buckle of someone else's belt glistens in the night-light...
"Moaning. I demand to pat her as compensation for moral and physical damage," Verstappen says in all seriousness, forcing Leclerc to hide his face behind a tanned palm with a bunch of rings. Quietly he adds: "You're beautiful."
"Max, you're still drunk."
"Tomorrow I'll be sober. And you'll still be beautiful," Verstappen exhales, admitting defeat and straining to keep his eyes open and not to pass out.
"Well, today is Valentine's Day", Max almost whispers, with a slight resentment and despair.
"Ha, indeed. Valentine's Day," Leclerc agrees, a little embarrassed and thoughtful, and leans closer. "Close your eyes. Sleep well."
It burns. A sip of the strong drink. Spills under the skin. Goosebumps crawl up the back of your neck and the back of the neck. Softly numb, like a lavender haze in the evening. Soft. Delicious. Tea and sugar. Smudgy. Thick. A cloud of candyfloss. Warm. Sunset on the azure coast.
Darkness.
//
In the morning, his hands can't find the warmth that escaped. The ceiling is the same white, the bed is the same empty.
Was it a dream? Fingertips run slowly over my lips, clinging to the ephemeral presence.
Max rises in bed, thievingly, excitedly darting his gaze around the room, trying to pick up on other traces. It doesn't take long to find one.
A black motorbike helmet lies proudly on the computer desk. The badge of a horse quietly silvers in the midday sun.
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