some soft post Qatar 2025 versainz character study. I never intended to post this but since it's their anniversary and I am always a sucker for more versainz in the world, I thought I might as well. Enjoy reading mwah (the darling banner is by @uzmacchiato)
It starts with him kicking gently at Max's shin. It started the same way when they were younger, Carlos the instigator, Max the closer. He pushed, taking Max's resolve to stay focused on the car alone for a test drive whenever he could. Often he'd get brake checked but it was always worth it.
Max huffs, kicking back at Carlos’ leg and Carlos already knows it's going to be worth it again. They're sprawled awkwardly over the couch in Max's near dark hotel room. He had been allowed the courtesy of a single shower before he'd gotten the text to come over for “a real celebration.” He knew from experience this meant good beer, bad snacks and them chugging their drinks recreationally. There isn't a finish line to the end of this night, for once. They can take their time.
Carlos certainly does, assessing the mirror image illusion in front of him. The dim light plays tricks on him, hides the silhouette of Max's chin and stubble. If he doesn't look at him head on, he can almost pretend they're still on the same team. He can still pretend they'd work out.
The thought makes him mean, his breath getting tangled in the ball of memories in his throat and he pushes slightly harder at Max, jostling him enough that he lets out at indignant sound and pulls his beer away from spillage. “Stop trying your track moves on me mate, save them for Lawson or maybe Oscar.” Max spits and it isn't icy. Carlos knows what to do with that.
“If you want to talk about the Mclarens say that. Don't fool around like an idiot about it Verstappen” he hisses back, dismissing a smirk from his lip with a sip of his drink. He knows his eyes are twinkling, but it's okay because Max's twinkle back with equal mischief.
“It's not that I want to talk about them. I just found it funny. You did too, but you pitied them both. I heard it in your voice.” Max comments, his foot coming to jerk Carlos’ knee.
Carlos looks out over the horizon of Qatar visible from the windows opposite them. The glittering lights of the city were just enough to illuminate the edge of the shadowed hotel room. Something about the assurity in Max's voice as he says it has the hairs on his neck tingling. That assurity was his brand, wasn't it, he couldn't do without.
He thinks back to the beginning of the year, when he was tentative- so tentative. Failure after failure had kept him from dreaming. After each race he would stare at the data, at the numbers, at his hands. But Max had told him at the beginning of the year that he'd podium. And Max was always so sure. And Max was always so right.
“Well, anyone would find it funny, no? It's the most obvious thing, to pit when we did, and they missed it. Said something about flexibility. Stupid” he said, trying to pull off an impassive air. He didn't want to be the one to start it this time. Max's laugh tinkled through the hotel room, and despite the fact that he knew the lights were on their dimmest level, he had the insane urge to check whether they'd brightened.
“But you think it's sad what happened to Oscar no?” Max asked, that light teasing creeping into the crevices of his voice like he couldn't keep out the memory of his teenaged self when in this position with Carlos. The push and pull of them was as natural as pressing into a new bruise blooming in an old place and it certainly was a two way street.
“Because it's something they would've done to me at my other teams? At Torro Rosso?” he asks, refusing to let guilt enter his eyes. Or fear. If this moment with Max could be broken with a question like that, then it wasn't what he thought it was. He had to find out. After all these years, he had to know if they were breakable.
Max caught his eye and the blue in them wasn't watery ripples. Neither was it cold steel. There was a calm there, ever present when things were going well. “Yes. I suppose they might have if you'd let them”
“Good thing I didn't let them” he answers, taking a swing of his drink and nearly emptying it. The alcohol made the air slightly denser around him- only by a degree or so. He turned to face Max completely, to trace how his face has stretched and grown.
Max crawled over him slowly and it made him smile just a bit, his fingers flexing at his sides as he laid down, made space. The exhaustion of the day, the weekend was setting in. He felt it release in increments as Max situated himself firmly lengthwise, curling into Carlos the same way he would all those years ago on bad days, wordless and insistent. Assured that Carlos would hold him. Confident that Carlos wanted to. Always fucking right. This Max feels nothing at all like then.
“Maximilian. You're heavier now.” He grunts, wrapping his arms around Max's waist loosely. He doesn't want to crush himself under this weight, but the thought of not holding Max tugs his heart to beat behind his eyes.
“You were bigger then. Stopped working out. Your fault.” Max grumbled into his neck, burrowing there. The last time they did this was right after Daniel and Max broke up. A season later, Daniel left. Max had cried into Carlos’ shirt then. Carlos hadn't washed it, leaving it to stew in the bottom of his hamper until he threw it out.
He didn't say anything, closing his eyes and curling his nose into Max, breathing him in as deeply as he could. He smelt faintly of rubber and mostly of Max. A little of alcohol. His nose scrunched, his hands fisting to pull them into a more comfortable position. Max let out an irritated huff but settled and then let out a contradictory sigh of content. It made Carlos want to laugh.
He hugged Max closer instead. The beauty of them, he supposed, was even if Max was always right, the sometimes he wasn't- Carlos was there to make up for it.
