max x charles / unrequited charles x carlos / E / 12k / one-shot
Max turns back to Carlos, a new eagerness about him, with a sharp sort of glint in his eye. “Can I show you something? I think you’ll appreciate it.”
Raising an eyebrow, Carlos nods slowly. A strange sense of unease descends over the table as Max taps around on his phone, smirking when he finds whatever he’s looking for. He lays it on the table and slides it across for Carlos to see.
Carlos’ eyes drop down… and promptly feels his stomach crawl up his throat.
“He looks so good like that, yeah?”
On the phone screen is a picture of Charles.
He’s naked.
.
.
or: After his infamous road trip with Charles, Carlos is invited to dinner with Max. Turns out, Max is less interested in food, and much more interested in making a point.
Come here! ( I miss you) - Chapter 1 - Hshuejsmxnlalal - Formula 1 RPF [Archive of Our Own]
He desperately wanted to go home. To cuddle Max and kiss his whole face and tell him how pretty he is and see how he blushes and then kiss him some more, maybe even...
Or three times Charles misses Max and makes it everybody's problem, plus one time he gets him all to himself
mystery man - an omegaverse fluff series
in which ollie bearman tries to make friends with his fellow rookies by helping to solve the age old case of who the hell charles leclercs mystery alpha is, and ends up getting a lot more than he bargained for.
lestappen mafia au - Charles is an assassin who is loyal to only two things: his own code and the person paying him for a job. And then he's tasked with destroying Max's empire. Max who is cool, calm and effortlessly handsome, and so he offers him a game. Find out who his employer is and he promises not to kill him. Fail? And Charles will finish the job at the end of the month.
Snippet under the cut ♡
It was raining outside, big fat drops of water slamming down against the concrete of the empty docks. The noise on the roof was inconsequential to the goings on inside, the wailing drowning out even the harshest of storms.
Down below stood a group of men, a matching tattoo imprinted on each of their arms, standing in a line set slightly back from an obvious leader. Opposite them hung the source of the wailing, hung up by his wrists while his insides leaked out of his open torso. Only the leader spoke, knife grasped loosely in one hand, the other gesticulating as he repeated the question he'd been seeking an answer to all evening.
“Who is he?”
—
Across town, a similar situation was unfolding. This time, two men, one bound to a chair bearing the same mark as the ones across town, the other pacing back and forth impatiently. The pacer twirled a knife between his fingers, occasionally tossing it between each hand as he gestured with the other. The man in the chair was silent, blood pouring from wounds all over his body as he slumped forward. He’d learned a while ago that his attacker hated the noise, that if he was to survive, all he had to do was stay quiet until he answered the question he’d been hounded with all night.
Max nominates himself as Charles' biggest problem.
word count: 9k
warning: almost none
East London. An industrial, anonymous pop up studio with Red Bull colored neons hanging in the background.
And a very tired crew, even though it's barely ten in the morning. Because even though they'd been here since dawn, the schedule is already running behind. Charles always checks the call sheet to know what to expect.
Two hours into the actual filming and they don't have a single take that works. Apparently, Max woke up today and decided to grace them with a full-on boycott.
Charles had spent the week wondering how Max would play it – nonchalant or flirt it off. Turns out, he picked something worse.
It's clear from the first glance Max spares him. If Charles hoped for bratty, he got bitter. If mildly provoked, he got punishing.
A helmet segment was the first thing on the list. A kind of a slow-motion moment where Max passes Charles the Red Bull helmet with an inviting grit, a clear hint to the future battles on track.
Anna shut it down immediately. "Too much symbolism," she said, tight-lipped. "This was not pre-approved."
Then they attempted a "first impressions" split-screen – each of them filmed separately, narrating their initial thoughts on one another.
It got scrapped after a long debate over tone, and Max's refusal to elaborate beyond, "He looked clean."
Charles' recording of a heart-warming, charming story about seeing the same 'racing driver crazy eyes' as he saw in the mirror will have to find use elsewhere.
He tried speaking to Max between setups, only to be shut out completely. The silent treatment, in front of everyone, was a step too far.
It's jarring. A week ago they were tangled up in a bathroom, sucking air out of each other's throats. Now Max acts like he doesn't even know him.
It only confirms what Charles expected. While Max might fold in the heat of the moment, he is little too experienced at moving along and letting people go. As Pierre eloquently put it – Max is a bit of a whore.
Usually, Charles does not care if he is one of many, so long as he's the most memorable.
But maybe this time, he foolishly thought he would be more of an exception to Max. Or didn't want to settle for anything less.
He's too proud to admit that, even to himself. Let alone anybody else.
So now, the two drivers are sat across from each other, answering questions while "taste testing Padrón alcoholic products" as a part of a sponsor engagement. Unlike the previous concepts, they can't abandon this one so easily.
The approved and "email certified" brief speaks of easy-going content of a fresh, new teammate duo, mainly aimed at adult audiences who need to indulge in safe escapism during midweek dinners.
The face Max is currently wearing screams many things, none of them would be considered anything near "easy-going". Charles wonders how far is Max willing to push. This attitude of his is playing against the likability Charles desperately worked on. Easily marketable is something he considers to be an achievement. But when Max has this face on, you could put a chocolate muffin next to him and it would look like a trap.
He is grateful that someone on the team had the foresight to swap the drink for apple juice or water. At the rate he's getting progressively more irritated with his darling of a teammate, real alcohol would be disastrous.
Their task is to take a sip out of one of the several glasses on the table, describe the taste of the product based on cues they receive from the brand representatives and then read out a question on a card under the glass. Simple. One would almost say fool-proof.
This is the exact moment when Charles becomes certain that Max is determined on finding a way to make the producer's life a living nightmare.
Once the camera's are set and the word "action" roars through the warehouse, Charles introduces the video, as per the script. Energetic, welcoming. Nails it on the first try.
He picks up a glass of clear liquid and gives Max a measured look.
Swirls it around. Lifts it to his nose, as if chasing some elusive aroma, which does not come from a glass of water. He takes a restrained sip. When he's sure they have enough footage of him 'thinking', he turns his head towards the cue card with the specific wording the client needs them to say.
A bold yet balanced profile. Zesty on first contact, followed by a slow, smoky finish. Inspired by high-pressure moments and unspoken understanding.
Charles blinks. The script already sliding out of his brain as he glances up.
Across the table, Max is sitting crouched up like he's about to get interrogated by an immigration officer.
"Um," Charles stalls and tries to put the elaborate sentence in his own words. "It's citrusy, lemony – I mean zesty – at first," he over-corrects himself and fights the urge to look back at the cue card. "Nice smoky finish."
It's one of his weaker performances to say the least.
He looks at Max, desperate for anything to bounce back on. His teammate just sits there and nods. Any type of vibe Charles sends his way gets absorbed into the black hole.
Charles puts the glass down, trying to pretend the take was usable, then grabs the card.
"Right! Now, Max," he makes eye contact, making eye contact, forcing energy toward the barely animated corpse across from him.
"Ha, this is a great one! Max – What quality does your teammate have that you wish you had more of?"
He can't help but giggle. Takes another sip of the water – for the editors, and to have something to do while Max shoots arrows at him.
The response comes as neutrally as Max's face allows. "Confidence. Or delusion, hard to tell the difference sometimes."
Of course. Why would Max make this easy now? Charles smiles like it's a game, but his hands are gripping the stem of the glass a little too tightly. He shoots back instantly.
"Well, I wish I had the discipline and work ethic Max has. Always at the factory."
He knows he should stop. Just can't help it. "The first one to come."
They had barely spoken to each other today without the cameras looming over. In fact, ever since the bathroom incident, the amount of words they shared in the week would fit into a tweet. Max has been nothing but pain in the ass, so Charles does not feel particularly sorry for pushing few buttons. He has to find some excuse, because he's running out of the will to stay restrained.
Max does not flinch. Hell, he barely opens his mouth. And yet –
"I do like to be the first one."
Charles' heart starts beating just a bit faster. His overactive social-conspiracy-brain working overtime again. Trying to decipher whatever it is that Max is desperately trying not to tell him. He regrets not torturing him more deliberately in the bathroom.
"That's pretty obvious."
Charles can't believe he was looking forward to seeing Max. To joke with him, maybe share a sarcastic comment here and there. He expected Max to be difficult after the cocktail of events Charles intentionally and accidentally put together as a 'welcome to the team' gift for himself. But this face Max is pulling now is seriously pissing him off.
"I also like to finish when I start something. Leaving in the middle of an unfinished job is not the way to win," Max adds, as if he can sense that Charles is close to the edge of flipping out, but not quite there yet.
Charles smiles, inhales to get some fuel for his fiery response, but he's quickly stopped by one of the producers.
"Cut! Okay, um – "
The young producer looms over from behind the monitor and speaks more to the team rather than the drivers. "I think we'll just cut that after the first response."
He looks around, waiting for any pushback. When no one objects, he turns over to the reluctant actors. "Gentlemen, if I may ask you to keep the answers one-liners only. We need some bite size content for social media. And maybe…More friendly?"
The producer looks towards the Red Bull racing PR crew for some sort of confirmation. Liam gives him a small, reluctant nod.
The producer sighs.
Max does not react and simply picks up a random glass with dark liquid. Plays his part and then looks up at the cue card. Charles does not see the text, but he expects Max to do at least equally bad job at memorizing and delivering the line.
He reads for few moments, then nods at the producer and takes one more sip.
"Hm," he gulps and fakes being impressed so well that for a second Charles questions whether his drink is the real thing.
"I really like this one. A strong punch at first. The smoke tones come in layers," he tops his words with convincing gestures. Maybe too convincing. "But it leaves a nice, nice tail of," he rolls his tongue and fakes a deep thought, "What's the word…Yeah, nuttiness? Probably hazelnut. Very good."
Charles stares at him and fails on keeping his face straight. Is this guy for real? Now he decides that he can act?
Max seems awfully pleased by himself and takes another small sip before he reads the question.
"Charles – What emotion drives you the most when you're racing?"
The desire to see your angry face when I beat you. The need to watch you trying to fake losing humbly while I know you're fucking boiling inside out with rage.
"Hunger. The urge to beat everyone on track," Charles says calmly, as if he's talking about the weather. "What about you?"
Max doesn't ponder. "Paranoia."
Doesn't smile either. Just says it like it's obvious. Charles narrows his eyes, trying to tell if it's another joke or something real.
"Seriously?"
"Yes. It's much better to have to explain why you won than why you lost."
Charles does not find it funny or clever.
Max probably thinks it's both.
"Well, I do-"
"Charles," Max stops him. "One-liners, remember?" He doesn't even look at him. Just says it like he's doing Charles a favor.
Someone's getting strangled soon and Charles has a deep feeling that someone will be a Dutch person. Charles swallows his words, rage and all. He forces a closed-mouth smile that feels like chewing gravel.
"Right. Thank you, Max."
Charles reaches for a honey-colored liquid and lets half of the apple juice diluted with water wash down his throat. Reaches to the question.
"If your teammate was a track–"
"Charles, we need the description," the producer reminds him and point to the comically large cue card being held up somewhere behind Max's head.
"Yes, of course," Charles replies sincerely and reminds himself that the cameras are indeed rolling and he can't have Max shaking him up in any way.
"Silly me," he adds, throws in an apologetic smile that he knows many call 'cute' just to gain some likability points. His comment seems to work on everyone but Max.
Smoky at the start, but the herbal tones come in slowly – rosemary, sage, a touch of aloe vera. Rounded out by citrus peel and a mineral finish. Crafted for moments that start with tension and end in satisfaction, if you're lucky.
Charles wonders what goes on the mind of the crazy person writing these ridiculous descriptions. And all the people expecting him to actually read that out loud.
He takes a page out of Verstappen's Book of Convincing People I'm Cooperating and draws a breath.
"I'm getting a nice smoke at the start. Then it's almost like," he leans his nose into the glass and inhales the fumes coming from of the cheap apple juice, "Rosemary…maybe sage."
Max raises his eyebrows. "Really? What's the difference between rosemary and sage?" he asks, tilting his head. "I would never be able to tell the difference. Sage is very, very specific."
Charles does not take Max's bait, to great pleasure of all the crew standing in the darkness behind the bright lights.
"Max – If your teammate was a track, which one would he be?"
"Easy. Monaco."
It's the way how Max does not even stop to think about his answer that has Charles blushing. Maybe, just maybe, step by step they can make this work.
"Aw, really? That's nice of you," Charles mumbles, taking the crumbs, even through it's a pretty obvious answer.
"Yeah. Sometimes too much of a show, but nice to ride."
And just like that, the momentary warmth curdles. It's gone before Charles can even decide what to do with it.
"We will edit that out," Anna cuts in with same bluntness detected in Max's voice. Max, as if he only just now realized what he insinuated – which Charles knows is not true – locks eyes with her and gives her an approving smile and thumbs up.
Liam sighs a little too loudly and Charles flashes over to him, hoping he stands their ground. Not that he is a fan of this comment, but just out of sheer principle of being in Max's opposition. His train of thoughts seems to land.
"We will talk about it later," Liam counteracts Anna, and in a way that directly mocks his teammate, Charles gives Liam thumbs up too.
Max gives Charles a questioning, puzzled look. Which Charles loudly ignores.
"I think you're like Suzuka. Sharp and rough around the edges."
Max does not seem to be impressed by Charles' answer either. They survive the next question with neutral responses and something resembling a smile is forming on the producer's face. Peace does not last long.
Another round of playing pretend with the drink, another perfectly convincing delivery of the pre-written review, the words grapefruit zest and freshly ground up pepper sounding all too natural coming from Max's mouth.
"Charles, what's your biggest flaw?"
The urge to roll his eyes is strong. People need to get more creative with this stuff.
"I get angry behind the wheel," he says simply. It's not a confession – it's a warning. "You?"
Max is still swirling his drink like a bored teenager. "I find it hard to care anymore."
The mood shifts instantly. Semi-annoyed bouncing answers back and forth does not feel appropriate anymore.
Charles does not know how to react to that, so he just watches Max skip his round and grab another glass of water, as if it's all nothing.
Thanks to Max, he now adds the words bergamot and saffron into his vocabulary.
"Charles, what's your teammates biggest flaw?"
"He finds it hard to care anymore."
The silence after that one hangs even heavier. Even the producer doesn't jump in right away. Someone coughs near the lighting rig. It's all Max's fault. He turned the light-hearted content into existential dread.
Charles looks over to the other side of the table, half expecting a bite. "You?"
This word has probably never left his mouth with so much sarcasm packed inside.
A pause.
"Nothing. Charles is perfect. Ask literally anyone." Max drown his words in cheap ridicule and then shifts focus to the glass, like it's more interesting than anything Charles could ever say. And to add some gravitas, downs the drink as if it's the real thing.
The Monegasque has just about had enough. "They should give out interview participation trophies. Maybe that would convince you to do your job."
Charles is overstepping: he knows it, everyone in the room knows it. Max repeats his move with drawing Anna out to shut it down and Charles does not even need to look to see her stoic face twitching as she announces loudly, for everyone to hear:
"I believe we have all we need for a two minute video. Suggest we move on."
It sets off a chain reaction. This has the young producer getting up from his chair, clearly trying to fight the urge to not to let his professionalism snap under the weight of irritation. He launches towards Anna, his gestures giving away enough information even despite him trying to speak discretely. Within seconds, Liam joins them. It's not the first time this circle of people is locked in a private conversation today and not the last time by the way this day is going so far.
Charles turns back to Max, still reeling from the bizarre descent of the shoot. Now that the attention is directed at other people, he finally asks.
"Max, what the fuck?" Charles whispers, totally bewildered. To think that he was actually looking forward to the shoot, until he's encountered the wall of silence that Max became, is surreal in hindsight.
Max does not reply. Instead he just points to the microphone tapped to his shirt and theatrically shakes his head. Charles rolls his eyes so hard it's a miracle they don't fall out of his skull.
"It does not have to be all boring and annoying, you know?" he says, like a patient parent who's trying to convince their child to eat their greens.
"Oh I know that," Max leans back on his stool. "I used to have so much fun during PR. Good old days."
Charles' biggest flaw is his petty competitiveness. He's fully aware of that. Not that it affects the outcome in any way.
"So it's only boring when I'm your teammate?"
"I didn't say that," Max deadpans.
"Well then explain what the fuck is up with you today."
Max once again points to the microphone instead of providing an answer. Lips locked in a thin line and his shoulders doing the characteristic sarcastic shrug.
Charles just stares at him.
He's done PR with Lewis, and it was fun in a tightrope sort of way. Controlled, careful. With Carlos, it was relaxed, even enjoyable. His years with Seb feel like another lifetime, but still, never, not once, has a teammate actively tried to sabotage joint appearances. Max isn't even doing it aggressively. He's just… making sure nothing works. The only thing they are achieving today is a waste of everyone's time.
Charles wonders how Red Bull keeps tolerating it. Guess that multiple back-to-back championships get you different treatment. He craves that power, desperately. And Max wears it like it's not even there. Like the fact they make sure he stands by his end of the deal by doing the bare minimum is still too much of a drag.
After few minutes of awkward silence between the two, which is only interrupted by a keen make up artist, who decides that this is the ideal moment for touch-ups, the unplanned break is broken up by Anna's quiet announcement.
"We've agreed that this version will be edited in the viral "Gen Z editing" style. We will revisit this at the next Pedron shoot. Moving on."
She does not look like this solution pleases her. Like someone who just had to defend the existence of pineapple while being violently allergic to it.
Charles exhales sharply.
The crew starts to move around them to get the last set up ready before the drivers depart on sponsor lunch.
When the spotlight falls off them during the sound of tripods getting moved and the crew chatting, Charles stops Max before he leaves to the other side of the room.
"Are you mad at me?" he asks, not bothering to soften it.
Last time he had seen Max behaving in a such a punch-worthy way has been a few years ago. Well, scratch that – behaving in such way towards Charles.
"No, why would you think that? Not everything is about you," Max gives a cold-stone reply, effectively confirming to Charles that he indeed is mad at him.
Fucking hell. These will be two long days of PR hell. Charles turns over to Liam, who does not look particularly happy either.
After a semi-successful shoot of more content for Pedrón, one that does not require them being in the same shot, they're heading off. No debrief, no cool down, just a straight shot into another round of a game of charades.
The car is silent. Each of them turned toward their own window, two sets of headphones on.
The driver is blissfully unaware of the cold war simmering in the back seat. Charles exhales slowly through his nose. Max hasn't looked at him once since they got in. Charles had wanted a reaction – but not like this. He thought pushing Max would rattle him, force him give up the practiced disinterest and respond.
By pushing him, Max would do the same to Charles and together they might come on top. But the bratty defiance, the pointed digs in front of the camera, the complete refusal to play along – it wasn't the kind of fire Charles had hoped for. Not the private heat they'd cracked open between them that night.
This? This was public sabotage. And the worst part was how precise it felt. Max knew exactly where to hit him – where it would make Charles look weak, foolish, too eager and staged. He didn't have to lift a finger. Just let Charles fall on his face while he watched. And maybe that was the answer, wasn't it? Max wasn't going to fight him. He is punishing him for trying.
They're last ones to arrive to the posh restaurant in Central London. When they enter the private salon, everyone is already sitting at the uncomfortably looking designer chairs.
Charles knows this type of lunch. Smile, nod, sell the vision. It's performative diplomacy dressed up as a culinary experience. Someone's gone to great lengths to make it look effortless. Perfectly folded napkins. Logos in all the right places: Ford, Red Bull, mapping the invisible weight of 2026.
There are fifteen people at the table. Four are drivers or team leadership. The rest are suits, consultants, or specialists with titles vague enough to mean they're important.
Max is seated diagonally across from him, which was either a brilliant seating strategy or an act of sabotage.
Charles can't tell which.
After a round of hellos and nice-to-meet-yous, they get introduced to everyone, Charles watches Christian take the lead. He's good at this – presses just the right amount of charm into each sentence, making vague promises sound like technical certainty.
"We're confident the partnership will put us miles ahead of the competition," he says, lifting his glass. "The work we've done already is, honestly, some of the most ambitious we've ever attempted."
The Ford execs nod, the ones who know the truth politely pretending not to. Charles smiles with them.
Max doesn't. Charles thinks he's the only one who hears the sly whisper, repeat of the word 'attempted'.
Max is making circles with a piece of artisan bread in a pool of overpriced olive oil, deeply focused on his activity, as if that was his life's mission. Every few minutes he glances toward the door like he wants to bolt. He hasn't said anything in twenty minutes. Which, for Max, is ominous. Charles has never seen him in a private sponsor setting, but knows Max well enough to know just how much he likes to blabber on about anything racing related when given the opportunity. No matter if the person is wearing rival team wear or a thousand Euro tailored suit.
Charles starts to feel it again – that buzzing feeling, the one that's been crawling under his skin all morning. The failed photo shoot. The fake drinking game. Monaco-is-fun-to-ride. All of it.
And now this. Max, sitting like he's a prisoner.
"So Charles," one of the Ford guys says. Todd, maybe. They all have names like Todd. "This new campaign's gotten a lot of traction already. That whole… 'Not Your Prince’…It's catchy. Bold."
Few people chuckle in reaction to Todd's insight. Charles gives the standard humble-smile. "Thank you. The idea was to do a loud transition. Let everyone know that Red Bull is my future. Make it personal."
He doesn't have to look to feel Max's eyes on him. Burning holes.
"It's a bit different than what we've seen before," someone else chimes in. "Feels a little… dangerous. In a good way. We certainly did not expect that, to be honest it was a surprise to us all when the campaign dropped."
Charles nods, because that's what you do. He's done this long enough to know which words are bait and which ones bite back later.
"Max," another exec turns, cheerful and completely unaware they've just opened a bee hive. "What did you think of the launch?"
Max swallows, smiles. It's terrifying. Charles' heart sinks somewhere below the table as he waits.
"I think it's great," he says nonchalantly. Everyone who knows Max at least half of the amount of time as Charles does could visibly see the careful sarcasm. Charles does not know what to do with his hands, so he reaches for the glass of water as Max continues. "I mean, we all need a little re-branding sometimes. New color scheme. New narrative. Makes you feel like someone else."
A quiet beat. Just long enough for Christian to hold his breath.
"Not your prince," Max repeats, tone bone-dry. "But someone's, probably."
Charles almost chokes on his water.
The whole table laughs – nervous, too polite and fake. Christian says something about talented drivers always pushing boundaries, and the moment slides under the table like a dropped fork.
Charles forces a smile. He feels his stomach twist.
He doesn't know what the fuck is going on with Max today, but this isn't funny anymore. This isn't Max being difficult. This is Max unraveling in real time.
Charles tries to signal him with a look – please, stop. But Max is looking through him, past him, behind him, like he's not even here.
And of course, someone decides this is the perfect moment for a follow up.
"So – how's it been, settling in as teammates after all these years of being rivals?" a Ford suit asks brightly. "You two go way back, don't you? Must be nice to finally be on the same side."
Charles smiles before he can stop himself. The kind of smile you give when you've lost control of the story.
"Just because we're teammates, it does not mean we stopped being rivals," he states the obvious, but it lands well with the crowd.
"But yes," he says, voice level. “It's been just few weeks, but so far so good. Familiar. In a surprising way."
He glances at Max, waiting. Hoping he'll at least meet him halfway.
Max leans forward slightly and Charles begs him silently to say something. Something normal preferably. Lie, if you have to.
Max delivers. "Feels like when you break up with someone and think, we can still be friends, it will be different this time, and then realize…No. You really can't."
The silence that follows isn't sharp, it's total. Like someone pressed mute on the room.
Max takes a slow sip of water. Shrugs. "Anyway. Early days. Maybe it will be different this time."
Charles keeps his smile frozen in place. He knows better than to react.
Christian chuckles thinly and redirects to a question about engine integration timelines.
Charles doesn't hear the answer. Doesn't notice the dessert arriving. All he hears is the steady hum of his blood, and the undeniable fact that Max just declared emotional war in front of half their benefactors. A valley of hostility forming between them. Quiet, deep. And Max just sitting there. Like he wants the whole room to fall into it.
Charles can feel the mood tipping off balance, sliding away into nothingness. He scrambles for some footing.
"Speaking of early days," he says, voice still calm, still professional, "I heard the new power unit's been progressing?"
He's trying to be helpful. Trying to shift the energy into safe territory.
It detonates instantly. Across the table, one of the Red Bull Development guys freezes with a fork halfway to his mouth.
A woman in a tailored blazer clears her throat. Max lets out a breath. It's not a sigh. It's too controlled for that. It's the sound of a fuse catching fire.
Christian cuts in so smoothly it feels almost rehearsed. "It's a complex project, naturally. A lot of innovation happening behind the scenes."
One of the other executives nods a bit too eagerly. "It's exciting. Still early, but exciting."
Charles concludes that keeping his mouth shut might be the only way to survive this and still have a job by the time the waiters come asking if anyone wants to order a coffee.
They share a knowing look between him and his new team principle. Not that Charles particularly understands the current coldness in his eyes. He hates failing Christian. Charles excels at sponsor events. They always bring him out in the time of crisis. He's proud of being the secret weapon to charm the bad days away.
Well, the ones for Ferrari at least. This serves as a painful reminder just how many things he took for granted.
Wave of unexpected sorrow washes over Charles. Out of nowhere, he longs to hear the Italian language again.
It's been awfully British so far. There is something deeply cold about the accent. It hits him, just how homesick is this lunch making him feel. In an environment like this, he can't do anything but just try to bury this deep, deep inside. Maybe then it'll go away.
//
Charles doesn't breathe out fully until he's alone in his hotel room. There are still few hours left before some stylists arrive to dress him and Max up for evening main event. He takes this precious time to regroup internally, before he decides to call Mia, his personal PR Manager. For advice definitely, for impromptu therapy session possibly.
He's grateful that she spares him of unnecessary pleasantries and gets straight to the point. Even though she's already at the venue where the pseudo-gala is being held tonight, she's on top of all things happening with her trusted client.
"Charles, I've just got off the phone with Liam. He's pretty concerned about today's footage so far."
If there is one thing Charles is allergic to, it's feeling like he's failing others. He paces around as he braces for more unpleasant words he deserves to hear.
"We're lucky to have full editorial control. But outside our team bubble, we can’t afford this kind of hostile vibe.…Liam says they have to reschedule the drinking segment, but apparently he'll make something up about not having enough time on set. I don't know Liam that much, but you told me I should trust them, so I do."
Charles pinches his nose and mentally thanks Liam for saving the day. "I know, I think it's safe…"
"Verstappen won't cooperate. But we knew that and it's not something you can't handle. Steer the ship in the right direction."
Charles appreciates how straight-to-the point Mia is. But right now, he's in an internal battle with his confidence. Getting beaten on track is one thing, failing at a simple task as a brand video is just embarrassing. He is supposed to be reclaiming his legacy. Not letting Max walk all over it by being a child.
He lets it all out. After all, that's partly what Mia is here for.
"I just…" He runs a hand through his hair. "I was not expecting him to be so moody. He's been so nice to me in the past years."
He sits back, staring at the ceiling. Then, quieter: "And you don't even want to know how much of a disaster the lunch was. I'm expecting Christian to call you up any minute now."
And maybe that’s what stings the most. Not just Max's mood, but the familiar sinking feeling that he's scaring people off again by being too much of himself. He knows he's not the pure, nice guy he likes to present to the masses. Many times people have drawn back when they slowly put together the truth. It's why he's insisting on keeping Mia around. She knows exactly who he is and still likes him.
"New era, Charles. You're directly targeting his spot. In the media now, on track in few weeks. He can sense that. You need to decide if you're in Red Bull to be his supporting act or on his level."
"Mia, that's not even a question-"
"Well then stop asking why he's not friendly towards you. Max is ruthless. You need to get in his head. Focus on the mission."
For a second, Charles debates whether question her claim – Max makes sure that people think he does not care about PR. So much it's bit suspicious. There are too many walls between them for Charles to get to the bottom of it.
Charles sacrificed many things for his career. This will just be another one of the list. He lets out a breath of acceptance.
"You're right."
Mia changes her tone to less unapologetic one. "Use all you have. You've done a good job so far."
She lets it hang in, he does not react. Because a good job is not meeting either of theirs standards.
"I'll hang up now, Horner is calling me," she concludes and the phone goes silent. Unlike Charles' thoughts.
//
It does not sit well with Charles. One thing is playing PR games, the other thing is wrecking a friendship. If he were still nineteen, Max would already be under the bus. Thrown there by Charles on his day off.
But he's not nineteen anymore. He's not the cold, reckless hothead people once hoped him to grow out of. He's lost many people who trusted him because of his past behavior. Lost too many people that way – pushed them too hard, worn the connection thin until there was nothing left. Life has taught him that when someone walks away, there's no rule saying someone else will appear.
That's why he keeps Mia. She sees all of him and stays.
That's why losing Max – really losing him – would feel like more than just a professional casualty.
Maybe he underestimated how fast Max would break. Or maybe he just didn't think Max would break at all.
The Lestappen thing never rose out of hatred. It came from closeness. The kind no one else would understand, not fully. And since the announcement, every gain Charles makes with the team costs him something with Max. Ever since the announcement, Max has been off. And now, it almost does not matter what happens. Whatever Charles does lately, doesn't matter if it's strategic or by chance – if it moves him one step closer to Red Bull's inner circle, it shoves him seven steps further from Max.
Maybe Charles can stop this from spiraling into pure resentment. No matter how much would his younger self be loudly opposed, there are very few people on this planet who will ever be able to understand the context of Charles' life. And vice versa. Before he sacrifices any future connection with Max, he needs do everything in order to prevent it.
He has to at least try.
He always tries. That's the deal, right? He fixes things. He holds the line. Even if it means giving up a small win for the bigger picture.
Of course he can fix this. He's Charles fucking Leclerc.
//
It's not Max's fault that the words fall out of his mouth and form sentences that make him sound either annoyed, flirty or some strange combination of the two.
Max doesn't even feel particularly fed up and definitely not horny, so there is no good reason for his voice to come out like that.
Once he saw Charles standing on the set, freshly shaven, hair on point and generally in full glory, his mind short-cut. He got so used to seeing his face in 2D on the tiny screen on his phone over this last week, that the 3D version, the non edited one, just sort of broke him in half.
There is a switch inside his brain. When it flips, he can't control his speech. Typical effect once he's overstimulated, after spending too long in joyous and safe solitude. When he's encountered with real life, back surrounded by other humans. People you cant mute on Discord, or ignore over email. And suddenly, the words just… happen.
When this mystery switch gets flipped, it takes a miracle for Max to control himself. The best thing about this whole experience is that he has no idea why he's like this.
It's not like he can't see what he's doing to his surroundings, to virtually anyone who has the misfortune of being in the same room.
He's aware that the sound guy must properly hate him after Max muttered something about the boom mic looking like it had more charisma than half the people in the room. Of course the PR team must be pissed, because Max is media literate enough after years of being forced into being a public figure, he can tell when the footage is tragic.
He does not feel guilty about the sponsor lunch. Horner should know better than have him there, when they both know the engine has been nothing but a total fuck-fest so far. That one is not on him.
Don't even get him started on whatever concoction of badly muted reactions he accidentally ended up summoning on Charles' face. Max could physically see how Charles tried to create a vibe, a connection, based on which they can film some nice content off, or impress pseudo-important people.
But no, Max's brain is on a strike and when that happens, he can't possibly be blamed for that.
His reprimand will be the hours he'll spend groaning when he's alone, replaying every cringe sentence that left his mouth and graced the ears of others. While they might be asking in the moment "Why is Max being such and asshole?" and then move on to other things, Max will sit with that question for days on time.
So in a way, he's on the worst end of this deal.
And now he can add another layer – Why is he sitting here, making shit aggressive double entendres when speaking to…Charles? (he wants to call him his teammate – they hadn't even raced in the same car yet, so Max is not married to the idea; calling him his crush seems over-the-top, and the words random night club hook up usually don't apply to someone you watched go through puberty and see every other weekend)
He's always hated how media have the tendency of sexualizing Charles, yet here he is, saying things like "I like to finish when I start," while staring in his face.
When Max's brain is like this, it's hard to recall the chronological order of events and sentences, so he's not sure which one of them started this, but he is damn sure about himself being the one who crossed the line.
Frankly, it's embarrassing.
Nothing new in the world of Max.
He's almost looking forward to burying himself in the bed and wallowing until the end of time. At least under the duvet, he doesn't have to make sense to anyone.
He's still wearing half of his formal clothes, sprawled sideways across the mattress like someone crash-landed there. One sock on. Hair flattened in weird directions. He hasn't moved in twenty minutes.
His illusion of few hours of peace, before he has to parade to the world like the sheep they make him cosplay as, is apparently not on Charles' today's agenda.
Because he calls him. Max declines. The phone rings again, Max puts it on silent.
Two minutes later, the same thing happens and Max makes a mental note to disable vibrations. He kicks the duvet off. Grabs the phone like it insulted his mother.
He picks up the phone with a loud groan and does not give Charles a second to react. "What? Can you leave me rest? You'll see me in like two hours. Bro, whatever it is, it can wait."
Charles stays silent and Max rolls on his back as he waits for the royal response.
"You and I need to talk before that, bro. If we continue like we did today, I'm sure the only thing we'll achieve is having to sit in 'chemistry meetings'...Bro."
Okay, so Charles is not happy about Max calling him a 'bro'. Noted. Max will make sure to use it as often as possible.
"What the fuck is a 'chemistry meeting'."
"Ah, makes sense that Red Bull does not have those. If you continue acting like a dick, I'm sure they'll introduce you to the concept and trust me, nothing will make you hate life more."
Max doubts that Charles comprehends how much that already happens.
"There's nothing to talk about, Charles." He rubs a hand across his face, scrubs at his eyes like his intention is to erase the entire day off.
This is the last thing he wants: deep talks. Especially in daylight.
"Max, I'm not some random teammate who'll let you get away with acting like an asshole. So, either we talk or I'll make sure you walk out of this experience with reputation so fucked you'll have to move to a deserted island."
For a brief second, Max plays with the idea or having him do as such. But then he figures islands are usually hot as fuck and he does not wish to spend his life looking like a roasted carrot. Also, he still loves racing. Maybe clearing the air up with Charles might resolve in both of them finally focusing on racing and not the circus around. No matter how much his body is opposing the idea of complex sentences.
"Fine. Go on then."
"Good boy, Max. I'm glad you want to work it out."
Charles can get fucked.
"So?"
"So, tell me your room number, this is not a phone conversation."
"No."
"Max."
"Charles, I don't want to see you right now."
"Max. I do not care," he says, making sure ever syllable lands.
Max stares out of the window to the grim, foggy London scenery. Wishes he could dissolve in it.
"Fine, Christ."
Oh, how he longs to be in the safety of his Monaco apartment with his cats providing emotional support.
"1006."
"Great. The same floor as me."
Of course it is. Of fucking course it is.
Max prays, for the first time in years, for any form of divine intervention that would stop Charles from finding his door. Nothing like that comes. Unlike the knocking, which plagues the room like a morning alarm clock. He accidentally steps on his own toe while searching for the second sock.
Opening the door is a bad idea. Letting him is a terrible idea. Failing at avoiding Charles' face is just one tiny cherry to add at the top of Max's tragic cake.
And now he's here, bringing that signature scent with him. Designer fragrance and arrogance.
As expected, he lets himself in and does not wait for permission. All that Monaco charm and zero boundaries.
He looks around as if to judge Max's hotel room. When he's satisfied, he finally speaks. "Are you gonna offer me a glass of water or something?"
Charles invites himself over and proceeds to judge Max on his hospitality. This man, seriously. Max will rather shoot himself before admitting his presence is affecting him in any way. Which is probably why he can't shut up.
"Sure. Would you like one with citrusy finish or with smoky aftertaste?"
Max does not move. He really needs to find the source of his bitchiness, because these are new levels even by his standards. But, when a car aqua-planes, not much can be done when it's already happening.
Since Max stands still, Charles just nods condescendingly and walks over to the sink. Pours one glass, and then another. Takes his time to admire the view as he goes back to Max, who still hasn't left the hallway. The silence is obnoxious.
"I'm not thirsty."
Charles is clearly not amused with his refusal of the peace offering. "Well then be a sweetheart and hold it for me."
Max takes the glass. Then puts it over at nearest possible surface, making sure to use just the amount of force for the thing to make a noise, but not cracking. Charles watches the move like it's a bad sitcom sketch. Max doesn't meet his eyes. Just crosses his arms and wishes there was a wall behind him to lean against to.
"Typical. You spent the whole day acting like a spoiled little shit, and I'm the one who has to clean up after you."
Hard to fight him on that one, Max has to give it to him. Silently, of course.
"Wow. Thanks for stopping by. Want me to sign your t-shirt?"
Charles drinks his water and also puts his glass down. Dramatically enough that Max assumes he's suppose to be searching for some kind of a message.
"You think this is funny?"
"I think you're very upset for someone who got all the attention he wanted."
Charles raises his brows. "Are you jealous of the attention?"
Max is many things. Jealous of attention is probably the last one.
"Have it all, Charles. Be my guest."
He scoffs. "With a host like you, it sounds like an insult."
"Then get the fuck out. Door's right behind you."
Max realizes he doesn't mean it. Not fully. Probably. But he wants to see if Charles will cave.
He doesn't.
He takes a step forward instead. Max does not feel like fighting a silent proximity war, so he just walks over to the living room situation in the center of the suite. More space. Less hallway.
Charles follows him, annoying Max with the ability to talk while walking. "Max, what the fuck is bothering you so much? Is it the campaign? Because – fucking hell, Max."
There's frustration in his voice, but it's laced with something that dangerously resembles real concern. Max knows better than to trust that. He keeps his gaze on the coffee table, willing Charles to shut up or blow up. Either would be easier.
Charles keeps going, voice thick with impatience. "If it's really pissing you off this much, so much that you won't talk to me the whole season, I will dial it down."
They share an empty look. Charles waits for any reaction and when Max does not grant him the pleasure, he just he just he spreads his hands, palms up, like he's laying the whole thing down between them and walking away from it.
"There, you win," he says, voice quieter and less packed up with pressure. "Now go and be normal. Like you used to be."
Like Max used to be.
Energetic. Enthusiastic. Full of fire.
Seems like a distant memory.
Max fought a little too hard for the peace of mind. When he earned it, there happened to be very few things left in his life.
When Max finally turns to him, he finds that Charles is not done with his speech.
"You've got everything – team built around you, unlimited tolerance of your moods, insider information…And you're still sitting there acting like you're being screwed over."
Max does not know how to respond to this train of though. So he stalls. Laughs.
"You think that's what this is?"
To add some more spice, he shakes his head, like whatever Charles is saying holds no ground. Which, of course, is not true and Max is almost glad for new material to ponder on during his self-hate sessions.
Charles, quite predictably, finally snaps. A wrinkle forms on his forehead.
"Well, what is it then? You won't talk to anyone, don't think I've seen you in the factory once! You won't even joke like a normal human being."
It's almost sad to watch Charles even try.
Max tells the truth. As it is.
"Because I don't trust anyone to tell me the truth. Not the team. Not Christian. Not you."
Despite the fact Max delivers his line without any intended poison, Charles takes it personally.
"What the fuck did I do?"
What did Charles do? It's a good question and Max has to dig a little in order to internally justify his anger towards Charles.
Crossed a line while playing a game of jealousy with Pierre. Used Max. Which is not the thing that makes him furious, it's the fact Max made it so easy for Charles to do so.
But the whole 'photo shoot thing with the finger' might just be the best exhibit. Max sighs.
It's been like this for years.
Charles smiles and Max comes forward, running.
Charles glances and Max ends up staring.
Max does not particularly mind the fact he's being used. Especially not if he gains pleasure from it. Use him day and night, for all he cares. Being left stranded and rejected is what pisses him off. Failing at setting his own boundaries is what kicks him down.
Charles certainly does not need to know all of that.
"You started believing your own PR."
Max remembers very well that only few nights ago, it was him who asked very similar questions. But that was before they fucked it up. Now Charles is here, demanding answer he frankly probably deserves and Max can't help but be a never-ending problem.
"Max, stop bullshiting me."
Letting him in this room is proving to be a bigger mistake than expected.
"Leave me alone, Charles."
"Do you even know why you're angry at me?"
"I'm not angry," Max tries to state calmly, but his gritted teeth betray him.
Charles grants him a punch-worthy smile. "Could've fooled me."
Max throws his hands up and then down. Because what is he suppose to say to that. He's already got Charles over here, angry, disappointed and fed up, so in a way Max's job is done. Push Charles as far away as possible so that Max's inner peace stays protected.
The glint in Charles' eyes is nuclear.
"Max. I don't like this."
He says it with a tone that would convince fire to apologize for burning.
What is it with this man and his indestructible determination?
"While I'm over here, having the time of my life," Max responds dryly.
"I don't like when you're being a dick towards me."
Max does not like it either. But if he admits that, he will once again have to face the insanity allegations.
Charles looks like he's about to explode. "And don't make that face – this isn't about everyone liking me, alright?"
He gestures vaguely, almost pacing now, like the words are spilling faster than he can shape them.
"I don't care if random people hate me. I really don't. But you..."
He cuts himself off, jaw tight, then forces it out. "I didn't think you would."
Charles looks away, embarrassed by his own honesty and to be fair, Max is too. It sits in the space between them like a dropped glass. Max doesn't pick it up.
Charles is as wrong about this as they possibly come, but Max doesn't correct him. It's safer.
He speaks slowly, letting each word land, hands on his hips and eyes locked in.
"Boo hoo. You're at Red Bull now. Get used to people not liking you."
It's true. For some reason, part of Max wishes Charles manages to break the anti-Red Bull fans. He saw him getting slandered once and people like Charles are not born to experience that. Max can handle it – he does not care. The fragile man, hidden behind countless protective layers, standing in front of him, might not. It's something Max does not want be a witness to.
Charles groans, sharp and frustrated. "You act like everyone's against you. Maybe you need that to feel like a genius, a racing prodigy."
Deep breath. Patron saint of headaches, that's what this man is.
"Better than needing everyone to love you so you can feel real."
It slips out before he can think it through. Judging by the frown he's met with, he should have spared a moment of thought.
"Fuck you." Charles' face grows red and Max has to swallow about four different Ferrari jokes before they leave his mouth.
"Exactly."
Maybe this will finally make him leave.
Charles doesn't. He steps closer instead and Max instinctively backs into the edge of the coffee table. His knee clips the corner, a dull jolt of pain grounding him just in time for Charles tilt his head like Max is an object of his scientific research.
"Do you get a kick out pissing me off?" he asks, scientific and spiteful all at once.
Max snorts, unamused. "No, you drive me fucking insane."
Especially the overplayed memory of Charles' thin skin on his neck under Max's lips. Quick flashes, faster than a breath, uninvited and too vivid. No wonder he's losing it.
Charles finally smiles again. "Good."
Oh my fucking God!
Max has had just about enough. Why should Charles get to be the only one to flip out.
"What do you want? You come here, begging for peace and a minute later you're saying you're happy about making me miserable!"
"Insane is not miserable."
Charles grin comes as a free bonus.
"You would know something about that."
"Happy to teach you," Charles states, eyes deadlocked. "Maybe it would bring back the fun Max."
Max tries to pace himself with a deep breath.
"You can't just order me around so that I fit into your idea of reality."
Charles scoffs, mocking him. "No? Funny. You folded pretty fast in the bathroom."
Max freezes. That hits like a slap. Charles watches him, unreadable, except for the glint of cruel amusement.
"You didn't even pause," he adds, since Max makes the mistake of leaving him space to do so.
Max doesn't think. It slips out. Reflex he can't fight. Switch flipped.
"You told me to."
He hears it the moment it's out – too fast, too unfiltered.
And fuck, for one breathless second, he feels it. A rush of pressure drops into his stomach. Hot, wrong, electric. He hates it. How part of him feels alive when Charles confuses him enough that he forgets that's he's suppose to be opposing him.
One second. For just one second he lets it run freely and revels in it. Because the last thing Max ever wants to do is admit to anyone, especially Charles, just how much the planet spun of its axis when Charles perked Max's chin up and demanded. Something in him had clicked into place.
He wants to disappear. He wants to do it again. He hates it.
There's a beat – tenth of a second – where the world narrows to just the distance between them. For that moment, the rush runs wild. Similar feeling that ruled before Charles left him stranded.
Just like that, it's gone. Rush quickly boils into something sour. His own skin feeling too tight, too present.
The feeling of failure, of not being good enough, exciting enough for Charles to keep his attention on him for more than two minutes crawls up into every empty space in Max. He straightens up, fast. Like he can shake it off. He looks back at Charles, desperately trying to hide it all in.
The stare off is mutual.
Never again, he tells himself. It won't happen again.
But it already did. And worse, some traitorous part of him wants to chase it.
The pile of his errors is getting too high for Max's comfort. Charles can't just come in, dissolve Max into particles and walk away winning this conversation.
Charles has stayed silent. Looking, examining.
Max is not sure if he even wants him to react. That's when Charles' voice lowers, too calm, too precise. Max tries and fails to ignore the fascination that laces each word.
"And you always do what you're told?"
That gets a breath out of Max. Defensive, sharp and dry, like a laugh that's lost its humor. Because despite all of his wishes, Charles noticed his temporary slip up. He does not get to make fun of Max like that. The audacity.
It brings back the fury. The excitement, the urge to fight back. To see how far Charles is willing to take this. Make it seem like Max is winning, even though he already knows he'll spend hours replaying the way all those foreign emotion dance on Charles' face. Being this beautiful should be a crime. In Max's book it is.
He takes a half-step forward – enough to make it uncomfortable, but intentional. But in his head, the ground is slipping under his feet. Still, his expression does not betray him this time as he holds his lips thin and stares at the man dares to toy with him.
“No. But I do love watching you think you're in charge.”
Charles doesn't move. Unlike Max, he does not need to.
"I don't have to think. I just am."
They're too close now. Not touching, but standing like two fighters before a bell. Charles' arms stay at his sides. Max's fists curl, then unclench. Like they're both waiting for an excuse. He tries, desperately tries to keep his inner thoughts buried deep. His longings don't align with his actions. This is spinning out of Max's control at a speed he never agreed to. If someone asked him why Charles came over, his cloudy mind wouldn't be able to come up with an answer.
"You're always performing."
It's a desperate attempt at gaining an upper hand over Charles. It's obvious in the crack of his voice.
"And you're always watching," Charles strikes back, unaffected,
Max is doomed. They are so close, he could count the colors in Charles' eyes. He tries to save his dignity for one last time.
Charles shuffled closer, touching the alpha’s arm to bring it to eye level. It could be a snake bite which was usually small yet poisonous. But surely not so small where even an omega’s enhanced vision couldn’t pick up?
“A rabbit bit me.”
The omega gaped. Open mouth. Utterly shocked.
“A rabbit?” He repeated incredulously, dropping the alpha’s arm.
Max huffed. “Yes, a rabbit. It fucking hurts.”
Or; Max makes silly excuses to keep visiting Charles at the medical hut, not knowing this would throw the two of them into a tale of longing, heartbreak and survival.
The thing that is not a thing is that they fuck sometimes, after a race, when either of them wins. It started out as a joke, Charles very drunk and very stupid, clinging to Max’s side in the private section of a club, saying Max can win 10 races in a row, but he still can’t take Charles home. Max tried. Max could. Max can.
Charles Leclerc/Max Verstappen | 2025 F1 Season | Porn with plot | Body Worship | Rule 63 | Max is going to worship that Chussy | Charles is in way over his head | WIP
Sitting just a few tables away, Max’s piercing blue eyes locked on him. There was something idle but deliberate in the way Max watched him, like he wasn’t just looking at Charles, but seeing him.
Assessing him. Studying him.
The weight of Max’s gaze sent a shock through Charles, almost causing him to spit out the mouthful of his drink onto the gentleman next to him. He coughed, barely managing to save face, but the flush of heat that crept up his neck was unmistakable. His collar was suddenly too tight over his thick neck, and his tie felt like it was strangling him.
Max, the bastard, didn’t even flinch. He just smiled, the corner of his lips quirking up in that maddeningly confident way that made Charles feel like he was being toyed with—like Max already knew the answer to a question Charles hadn’t even asked himself yet.
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