MV3 🦁 CL16 Formula 1 & NH🎶

He pulls his jacket tighter, doing his best to hide the Red Bull merch shirt underneath. Ferrari wouldn't appreciate it, and it was also probably disallowed by the rules he was forwarded and only skimmed. Honestly, he couldn't give less of a fuck about that shit team's opinion, but he…well, he knew Charles wouldn't appreciate it either. Max did want to please Charles, as much as it was possible to please your favorite F1 driver who had no idea who you were.

That's also why he'd forgone his trusted cap, and now had to deal with his uncomfortably sweaty, too-long hair bothering him.

"I'm so sorry."

The familiar voice startles Max, making him tense up in what is likely an unperceptible movement to anyone else, but feels to him as if he were a cartoon cat jumping out of its own skin.

More mortifyingly, he proceeds to let out a weird sound instead of replying like a normal person. One that Charles thankfully ignores in favor of climbing into the pilot's seat.

Charles keeps babbling, "My interview ran longer than expected, and they pack all these things so tightly, and it was a bit far away…but it was on me, I feel bad for making you wait. But don't worry, they told me the time will be extended, so we will still be able to complete the lap with no problem. The others will have to wait a bit, though..."

The guy clearly feels bad about it, and Max wishes he could telepathically make him understand how little of a shit he gives about the delay. He's here, being gifted Charles full attention, practically melting under those gorgeous green eyes, hearing the voice that—he really doesn't care.

"It's okay," he says, instead of blurting all of that crap out. He clears his throat, regains his metaphorical footing: "It's great to meet you, I'm a long-time fan."

His words immediately brighten Charles up; his face lights up with a dimpled smile. "Thank you for your support, …?"

"Max, and you don't have to thank me."

"Max." Charles nods, blinking. "Right, uh, all the other cars already left the pit lane."

"Yes, minutes ago."

Charles blushes.

"I think the second round of hot laps are about to begin," Max adds, looking at the right side mirror.

"Let's get to it, then." Charles says, stretching over the arm rest to grab the two open helmets at the back. He passes the plain one to Max.

A quiet grin sneaks up on Max's face—the helmet Charles takes has his usual design printed on, which looks ridiculous without the front visor part. He gets distracted enough that Charles notices.

"Do you need help?" Charles asks, gesturing to Max's helmet, still in his hands and not his head.

On any other day, Max wouldn't think twice about telling the truth, which is that he also races endurance in the NLS Cup 3 class and more generally that he's a motorsports nerd who is very used to fastening on a helmet. Today, fortunately or unfortunately, the opportunity to have Charles be the one to put on his helmet is too good to pass up.

"If you don't mind." He hands Charles back the helmet.

Their fingers brush as Charles takes it, a small spark of electricity skittering up his skin, and it makes Max wonder if he's the only one who felt it. He pushes the thought away and stills himself to let Charles work. As expected, he is very gentle with his movements, taking care not to flatten his hair unnecessarily as he fits the helmet on.

“Lift your chin a little,” Charles orders, pulling closer.

Max obeys.

Up close, Charles smells expensive—a bad descriptor, but Max doesn't know much about cologne other than this is how the fancy stuff in stores smells—and his hands graze Max's ears, then his jaw and throat as he adjusts the security straps.

“There,” Charles fastens it tighter. “Okay?”

Max swallows. “Yeah, thanks.”

Charles lingers for half a second longer than necessary before pulling back and flashing him another smile. Weird moment, Max thinks—almost flirtatious?—but he would be crazy to complain, so he just mirrors the smile back.

Satisfied, Charles settles into his own seat and puts on his seatbelt, telling Max to do the same before turning on the engine. It roars on with a low but powerful purr that vibrates through the car, and Max leans back, letting the thrum run through his shoulder blades to ground himself in the ever-so-familiar feeling.

“First time doing something like this?”

Max huffs, unable to stop the corner of his mouth from twitching. “Not quite. You can go fast, of course, don't worry about me.”

"People say this, but then they end up dizzy and saying they want to go slower."

They pass the pit lane exit.

"Really, Charles, trust me," Max turns to him. "You can go fast."

""Trust me", I should be saying that." Charles giggles, but clearly takes him at his word and launches them off.

The acceleration slams Max's head into the headrest, giddy happiness running through him as the car surges forward, the circuit's background blurring by. Turn one ahead, and Charles brake shifts with perfect timing, taking the apex smoothly before shooting off again in full throttle.

Max laughs, then covers his mouth and laughs some more. It's not the fastest he's ever gone, but being in the passenger seat makes the elation double. Or maybe it's being in the passenger seat of his specific favorite driver.

“Still okay?” Charles asks, voice raised over the roar of the engine.

Max grins and raises his volume as well. “You can go faster.”

They hit the second corner, Charles braking later this time around. It feels more aggressive, with all the weight transfer from the movement, but it makes Max start analyzing whether he would've made a different choice—brake earlier, open the corner more for a faster exit—and then makes him think that Charles is trying to play with him, to scare him and make him ask to slow down.

It makes the laughter bubble up again.

In the third corner, they clip one curb a touch too much, but Charles catches the rear with ease. Then they're on to the first straight, speed climbing and climbing and climbing.

Max’s pulse spikes. He loves this feeling so much.

They reach a couple of combined turns further down the line, where they pass some other cars, barely slowing down for each overtake. The other cars are clearly not having as much fun as Max and Charles are right now.

"Show off," Max teases. "But I'm still not scared, you know."

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Charles pout. "It's not my fault, this car doesn't go faster."

They both laugh at that.

The lap is quickly over after that, and they slow down to enter the pits. The world around slowly snaps into focus, no longer blurry blobs of color flashing by, and less noisy now that the engine isn't running at full power.

It only then starts dawning on him that the last three minutes feel like out of Max's biggest fantasies—quite literally, because embarrassingly enough, they've always included a lot about being Charles's passenger princess.

He leans his head back against the seat, his accelerated heartbeat still reverberating through his upper body. There must be a big smile and a flush spreading on his face, Max thinks. They sit in silence for a few moments, almost like Charles is also basking in the feeling—or most likely just indulging Max.

Then Charles breaks the silence: "That was probably the most fun I've had doing one of these things."

Max sits up again and twists his torso towards him, noting for the first time that Charles is also flushed with adrenaline.

"I'd say the same, but this one was my first time," Max smiles with crinkly eyes.

Charles' gaze is mirthful, but then he bites his lip and says, "I'd, you know, love to continue but, ah. Other people is waiting and—"

"No, no, yeah." Max laughs awkwardly. Shit. "I didn't want to take more of the allocated time, sorry."

He releases his seatbelt and opens the door, then cringes. "Charles, um, can you do me a favor?"

Charles furrows his brows questioningly.

"I need someone to bring me my wheelchair. I told this to the staff when I transferred into the car, but they must've forgotten."

"Wheelchair."

"Yeah, I…yes, my wheelchair," Max says. He hates that everytime that someone learns this information about him, he has to explain his medical history, so he doesn't anymore.

Most of the drivers he meets at Nürburgring, when they have their first encounter with him on track and don't know about his disability, tend to treat him differently after finding out. They also pester him with many questions, and yeah, the technical details of his adapted hand-controlled Porsche Cayman are fun to explain—but recounting his life story to see the pitying faces when he reveals he had suffered spinal cord injury in his childhood while Karting? No, thanks.

So Max says nothing else until, finally, Charles snaps out of it.

"Let me see who knows where they put it," Charles says, clicking his door open and stepping out.

It takes a few minutes until he comes back, with Max's chair and an apologetic member of staff trailing behind him. Charles positions the wheelchair next to Max's open side of the car and asks if he needs help transferring into it.

It's somewhat gentlemanly, but Max wants to snicker at the hesitation in the offer. Charles is clearly thrown off, even with his best attempts to "handle" the "situation". He isn't the only one feeling awkward, though. Despite Max's usual I-don't-care attitude, he doesn't want to be othered by someone he has admired for so long.

"It's fine, I can do it," He says, then shuffles over with arm strength, grabs the inner door handle with one hand, and supports the rest of his body with his other hand on the seat. It's a bit clunky, but the low ride height of the car helps him ease down.

He rolls back and closes the door quickly, not even wanting to risk Charles moving him without permission.

The other man is still apologizing about the mix-up, but Max waves it off firmly, until he finally thanks him for being so understanding and leaves them alone.

"And then there were two," Max quips, earning a small chuckle from Charles.

He mentally pats himself in the back for breaking the awkward moment.

"Are you staying for the whole GP?" Charles asks, licking his lips and throwing a quick glance back to see if the next person is there already.

"Yeah, I'm driving back on Monday. I'm from a nearby city, actually, so uh, yeah." Max tucks his hair back. "The money I saved on flights ended up paying for a nice stay at the Hilton downtown."

"Do you want to—I mean," Charles stumbles on his words. "My Purosangue is quicker than the car we drove today, you know. We could…I could drive you around, again, after the race."

Oh.

Max's heart climbs again to his ears.

Oh my god.

"That's—yes." He commits Charles's expression to memory: his sparking eyes, his shy smile, his hesitance. He wants to remember this. Is this even happening?

No matter. Head first, always.

"I would love that."