I haven’t written a drabble in fuck knows how long, so here. Have a Lestappen drabble that came to me out of absolutely fucking nowhere.
***
P14.
Another fucking P14 at Silverstone, for the second year in a row.
As he drives his car into parc fermé, Charles barely manages to resist the urge to scream in frustration. He wants to slam his hands against the dash, rip off the steering wheel and throw it as hard as he can at the nearest wall.
His race was over the second the team decided to pit him for slicks after the formation lap, and Charles had been paying the price of it ever since.
Today really cannot possibly get worse.
Except it does. Because this is Charles, this is a rainy race day at Silverstone, and this is the Scuderia Ferrari which has been the bane of Charles' fucking existence for the past few years.
So of course the universe finds some way to make his day even worse.
The only bright spot of this race is the realization that Nico gets his first ever podium in Formula 1, after 239 race starts, with an impressive P3 finish in incredibly difficult conditions. Nico is one of the veterans on the grid – has been a figure in the sport for as long as Charles can remember – and he's happy for him. Genuinely happy for him, because Nico is a lovely guy and he's been nothing but kind to Charles ever since the first time the Monégasque met him.
So when Charles climbs out of his god-awful SF-25, resisting the urge to pick up the nearest long, hard piece of metal he can find and go to town on the car, his intention is to go straight to Nico to congratulate him. But the slight glimmer of positivity from today, the joy he feels on behalf of one of his colleagues finally achieving his dream of making that podium, fades instantly as Charles' eyes follow the movement of a familiar figure in a familiar shade of navy blue making his way towards the German driver.
Charles freezes in place, watching as Nico's hand grasps that of Max, and then Max's hand goes to the side of Nico's helmet, cradling what would had been his cheek had it not been for the helmet separating Max's hand from his skin in a gesture that looks almost intimate. The moment is made even more intimate – more unbearable for Charles to witness – when Nico grasps the sides of Max's helmet with both hands. When he lowers one hand, the other slides to the back of Max's helmet in a move that Charles himself has found himself doing so many times in the past, but without the helmet separating his hand from Max's soft hair, allowing his fingers to curl in the blond locks. He's struck by an image in his head of Nico doing that same thing to Max, and Charles finds himself gritting his teeth, shaking his head to rid himself of the mental image created by his brain for no fucking reason.
The final nail in the coffin for Charles' rationality is the way he can see Max's crinkly smiling eyes through the open visor of his helmet, the pure joy in them directed at someone who isn’t him feeling like a dagger straight into Charles' heart.
It's an overreaction of dimensions, Charles is very much aware, because Max and Nico have always been close, and Charles knows for a fact that Nico is one of Max’s closest friends in the sport. Nico is one of the few drivers who welcomed Max with open arms into the sport when he was rookie, and it is not lost on Charles how much that meant to Max because the Dutchman had confided in him years ago just how lonely he felt when he first made his F1 debut. It’s the reason why Max always goes out of his way to ensure every rookie on the grid feels welcomed, supported and included. It's one of the things Charles loves the most about him. He knows he has absolutely nothing to worry about when it comes to Max and Nico – or Max and anyone, for that matter.
But Charles' mind is not able to think rationally right now. Logic has escaped him, and the confidence Max has always given him a reason to have in their relationship is but a distant murmur at the very back of his mind as he stands there, frozen in place in parc fermé, overthinking a moment that is nothing but an innocent, wholesome moment between two friends and colleagues with an immense amount of respect for each other.
Because it’s been a rainy race day at Silverstone, the SF-25 is shit, the race strategy is even worse and has been far too many times already this season, and Charles is P14 for the second year in a row.
It's the straw that breaks the camel's back.
The moment that lasts for mere seconds feels as if it drags on for hours, and when Max finally tears himself away from Nico and starts making his way towards his post-race weigh-in, which has Charles in its path, the Monégasque doesn’t even meet Max's eyes as the Dutchman passes him, slowing down to say something.
Charles brushes past him, not giving Max the time to utter a single word. He stalks towards Nico, and refuses to turn to see Max staring after him, eyes undoubtedly wide in utter confusion.
He's too frustrated, too angry, too sad, too tired, too fucking unreasonable to talk to Max right now.
He forces a smile when he reaches Nico, clasping his hand and congratulating him in a manner he hopes sounds and looks genuine. Nico beams at him, Charles can see it in his eyes even if he can't see his mouth, completely oblivious to the inner turmoil Charles is currently struggling with which is in part caused by Nico himself.
It's for the better, because even as he struggles with his own emotions, he's still hyper aware that Nico deserves nothing but happiness right now.
Charles leaves him to the many congratulations still awaiting him, and turns to go to his own weigh-in, relieved to see that Max is nowhere in sight. Once he's done, Charles makes himself scarce.
***
Charles isn’t sure how much time has passed since the race ended until he finds himself lounging in his driver’s room, taking a moment to himself before making his way to the airport. His flight isn’t for another few hours, so it's not like he's in a rush, and if he’s being perfectly honest, he doesn’t want to deal with people right now.
Not just yet.
It shouldn't surprise him that it is the exact moment that thought enters his head, that there’s a knock on the door.
Because that's just his fucking luck this weekend.
(This season, really.)
"No," Charles calls tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose.
The door opens anyway, and that tells him who his visitor is, even without lifting his gaze to look.
"There you are," Max says with a huff as he steps into the room and shuts the door behind him with a soft 'click'.
"Here I am," Charles confirms in a flat tone from where he's sitting sideways on one of the chairs by the small table, his back towards the wall, and he almost flinches at himself.
He has no reason to be annoyed. None whatsoever. Not at Max, anyway. And yet...
He doesn’t look at Max, instead pretending to look at something interesting on his phone. But he can feel the Dutchman's eyes on him and he knows Max has an eyebrow raised.
"I'm sorry you had such a shit race," Max offers, sounding genuine.
Charles snorts.
"I'm sorry you spun and lost second place," he retorts. He looks up in time to see Max lift one shoulder in a shrug.
"Shit happens," he responds, leaning back against the door behind him and folding his arms across his chest. "So are you going to tell me why you're pissed at me, or are you just going to sulk about it for the rest of the night?"
Charles lets out a soft groan, rubbing a hand over his face.
"I'm not pissed at you," he insists, lying through his teeth. He meets Max's gaze, and the Dutchman gives him a pointed look.
"No?" he asks, sounding unconvinced. He gestures at Charles with a hand. "You want to try telling that to your face?"
Charles narrows his eyes, glaring at him, but he remains silent.
Max rolls his eyes. "You're not the only one who had a disappointing race, Charles. Please don't make me dig for your reasoning right now."
Charles keeps glaring at him for a solid moment longer. But the tiredness in Max's own eyes makes something in him soften, if only slightly.
He looks away, contemplating his options. He could lie, and ensure the mood between them remains sour for at least the rest of the night, if not even longer. Or, he could tell the truth and deal with the fallout now.
"You and Nico sure looked cosy," he grits out, the words feeling like poison on his tongue. A wave of shame washes over him at the words leaving his own mouth.
Max blinks at him, an array of different emotions flickering in his icy blue eyes. Confusion, disbelief, anger, sadness, dejection, sympathy, and finally – understanding. He sighs.
"Do you actually have an issue with me congratulating one of my closest friends on the grid on his first ever podium –," Max begins, drawing out the words to make Charles realize just how ludicrous that sounds, watching as Charles' jaw clenches. "– or is this about you finishing outside of the points for the second time in a row here, and your team fucking up your strategy once again?"
Hearing it being said out loud kickstarts the rational part of Charles' brain and he quickly deflates, sitting back against the wall behind him and letting out a slow breath. He lowers his head, staring at the floor between his feet.
Damn Max Verstappen, his fucking logic, and his innate ability to understand the way Charles' brain works without Charles even having to explain it to him.
"That’s what I thought," Max surmises when Charles remains silent, uncrossing his arms and pushing himself away from the wall. He walks the few steps to close the distance between them, crouching in front of Charles.
Max looks up at him from his position on the floor, inclining his head. He places a hand on either one of Charles' thighs, squeezing gently. The tightness Charles has been harboring in his chest for the past few hours finally starts to ease slightly as his green eyes looks into the beautiful blue of Max’s.
"You know there’s nobody else for me. You're it, Charles. You've always been it," Max tells him in a soft voice — the one he knows Max only ever uses for him.
And Max is right; Charles does know that. Knows that ever since they started fooling around over three years ago, there has been nobody else for Max. Just like there has been nobody else for Charles. But Max also knows that sometimes, Charles just needs the reminder — just needs to hear Max reiterate something they both know damn well, just to ease the jarbled mess his mind sometimes becomes.
It's a small thing, really. One that costs Max absolutely nothing, and one that, to Charles, means everything.
It doesn’t erase the frustration of today, or the pain of the overall season so far. Not even Max has that power. But it does make everything else — everything that isn’t Max — just that tiny bit easier to bear.
Charles lets out a relieved sigh, leaning that tiny bit down further so he can capture Max's lips in a kiss. It’s soft and slow; a familiar brush of lips, a swipe of Max's tongue against his bottom lip in a silent request for access to his mouth, which Charles grants him immediately. There’s no urgency, no aggression, no frantic desire for something more. That will come later, Charles knows, once they’re back in Monaco and safely tucked away in Charles' apartment. But as Max's tongue pushes against his, it still drags a soft moan from Charles' throat and Max's hands slides up his thighs to hold on to his hips instead as Charles' hands find their way into Max's hair, tugging gently at the strands, just so he can hear that soft hum Max always lets out every time Charles plays with his hair.
The kiss lasts for a solid minute, before Charles pulls back slowly with one final peck to Max's lips as a parting gift.
"I'm not sure Ferrari is my future," Charles admits quietly, looking down at Max.
The Dutchman holds his gaze, nodding.
"I'm not sure Red Bull is mine," he responds, and Charles knows it's the first time he's ever said those words out loud. But to his surprise, Max doesn’t look all that torn up about it. Because at the end of the day, Max is a winner, and if the team can no longer enable him to continue winning, he has no reason to stay with them.
And Charles is starting to realize that he might actually have to put what has been his unwavering loyalty towards Ferrari to the side if he, too, wants to achieve what Max has achieved — if he wants to win championships. If he wants to keep being a winner himself. Which he does.
Charles nods.
"But, I do know that my future is you," Max continues, offering Charles one of his brilliant smiles — the one that makes the crinkles appear by his eyes, the one that could light up a small city. The one Charles loves more than anything.
And Charles grins right back at him, unable to stop himself, his heart fluttering happily in his chest – the way it always does when Max says things like this.
When Max promises him forever.
"And you're mine," Charles echoes, moving a hand from Max's hair to cup the side of his face, brushing his thumb over Max's cheekbone.
Max turns his head to place a kiss to Charles' palm before returning his attention to Charles' face.
"You're damn right I am," he says firmly, squeezing Charles' hips before pushing himself to his feet. He takes a small step back, reaching out to drag his fingers through Charles' hair, pulling at the strands at the base of his skull.
The Monégasque shivers at the sensation, looking up at Max with darkening eyes. Max winks at him.
"I'll make you prove it to me when we get home," he promises, voice low as his fingers tug at Charles' hair again, his tongue coming out to wet his bottom lip.
Charles follows the movement with his eyes, failing to suppress another shiver at the promise. He nods, eyes shining.
Max lets his hand fall away slowly, taking another step back towards the door, away from Charles.
"Nico is flying back with us. I promised him we'd celebrate on the flight," Max informs him.
Charles narrows his eyes playfully, feigning annoyance that would have been far more real if Max had come into his driver’s room and lead with that particular tidbit of information.
"He's not getting my seat next to you," Charles tells him indignantly, straightening in his seat and sticking out his chin stubbornly. Max snorts at him.
"Don’t worry, babe," Max drawls, taking yet another step backwards. He reaches for the door handle without taking his eyes off of Charles. "Even if he claims it before you do, you can always just sit on my lap. You know, to mark your territory."
Charles hums, mulling the prospect over in his mind. Then, after a moment, he gives a curt nod.
"He can have my seat," he announces, only half-joking.
Max pulls the door open with a wide smile.
"I knew you'd see it my way," he teases. He gives Charles an obvious onceover, where he's still sitting there with his race suit undone, bunched at his hips and his fireproofs exposed, before he glances at the watch on his wrist. "Now, you better get moving, or we're leaving without you."
Charles' gapes at him. "You wouldn’t dare."
Max's wink is almost more ominous than his words. "You really want to take that chance?" he challenges, as he steps out of the room with one foot, raising an eyebrow.
Charles scrambles to his feet, shoving his racesuit down as he stands and almost tripping over himself in the process.
The door clicks shut behind Max, but Charles can hear his retreating laughter through the wall and the sound warms him to his very core.
"Asshole," he mutters to no one but himself as he finally manages to step out of his race suit. But he can't hold back the smile tugging at his lips even as he says it.
***
Charles arrives at the airport fifteen minutes late, but Max's private jet is still there, waiting for him. Just like Charles knew it would be.
And suddenly, a rainy race day and a P14 finish at Silverstone is the furthest thing from his mind.
Just like Charles knew it would be.
