mira

Charles felt like he was always chasing Max, scurrying after the trail Max’s tenacious shoulders had cleared. When Charles’ hair flopped down into his eyes, they had karted against each other, but Max was first to progress into Formula One. Charles chased him, joined Ferrari, and felt the ever-present weight of expectations gnawing at his muscles just like Max surely had. 

But every time Charles would spy the angled eyebrows and pursed lips, the icy blue stare, Max seemed to be unfazed.

The impulsive snap of his jaws mellowed after his first championship. The frostiness in his eyes melted, darting pupils seeking out Charles in the paddock. He would gaze unabashedly at Charles, squinting in facile joy, relentlessly littering fleeting touches along the grooves of Charles’ back and waist. Max’s long fingers easily engulfed him, broad palm a steady, heavy weight on Charles’ skin.

So Max occupied Charles’ thoughts in a different way. No longer did he have to swallow down the ugly bile of jealousy clawing up his throat. Or lock away the frustration accumulating into incessant throbbing headaches. 

Charles would flinch awake, chest heaving, skin glistening under the pale moonlight that sneaked through flailing curtains. He could only remember a vague blur of his dreams; the golden flash of skin emphasised by the intense embrace of sunlight, the murky gradient of blues, and a blase rasp of laughter. 

He would fling the damp sheets off his body and rub his thighs together to confirm the stickiness painted along his skin. Blood would rush through his head like sand grains in a timer. He stripped off his underwear, silk boxers ruined, and carelessly chucked them into a laundry bin. A cold shower eased the erratic gush of blood in his heart. He’d flick the switch for the fan off, then the lights, hastily rub a towel over his body, and trundle back to a sheet-less bed and fall asleep. It became a routine that Charles found himself having to repeat at least twice a month. 

The sexual frustration was beginning to rattle Charles and his ability to function normally. A track walk became precarious, eyes itching to spot a glimpse of any Red Bull team members so he could avoid them. Max’s pallid, calloused fingers grazed the fine hair on the back of Charles’ neck. Max’s frame caged Charles in inadvertently, the sharp lines of his jaw and nose daring Charles to move away. 

Charles felt his dick twitch in his pants whenever he replayed that particular memory. He squeezed his eyes shut almost painfully, reopening them when pulsing patterns of white and black swam under his eyelids.

A woman handed him a bright, childish Santa hat which he pulled over his ears. Her hair was brown with streaks of blonde that reminded Charles of—

“Alright. Ready to find out who you’re going to be secret Santa for?” A nondescript crew member behind the camera asked, handing over a pouch with strips of paper inside.

Charles tentatively reached inside and grabbed the first piece of paper he could.

His eyes wrinkled subconsciously. His lips parted to emit a light, disbelieving giggle. 

“Max Verstappen,” he said, still laughing, unable to mask the glee blooming across his face. 

xxx

Thanks for the gift mate. Haha! Loved it.

The text was so Max, breezy and sincere all at once. Pierre had told him Max had asked for his Whatsapp so he could thank Charles for his present. 

When the video finally came out, a few days before Christmas, Charles was hunched over in his bed, sheets messily drawn around him like a nest. He turned the brightness up on his laptop and sunk back into his pillows. 

Max’s Santa hat rested atop his Red Bull cap, of course, and his erupting throaty laughter as he ripped open the wrapping paper and saw a photoshopped Charles tripled across the cover of the F1 video game, made Charles pause the video and collect himself. 

Max’s lengthy fingers delicately cradled the Ferrari notecard, turning it over and laughing that raspy, breathy chuckle of his. "For my biggest fan" he read out, voice delectable. The combination made Charles distinctly aware of the prickly sensation dancing above his skin. 

What he did next Charles was not proud of. He dragged his hoodie over his head in one rapid pull. The heater whirring through Charles’ apartment did little to alleviate the balmy flush of his chest.

The video, forgotten on Charles’ laptop, had ended. Charles manoeuvered his laptop off his lap so it lay to his left. 

With his right hand, he rubbed loose circles on his naval. With his left he replayed a section of the video, chewing on his lip as he concentrated on how tight Max’s shirt was around his upper arms. 

Charles snaked his hand under his boxers and hissed at the dry scrape of skin against skin. He’d been hard since the first viewing of Max’s portion of the video. He gathered the pre-cum that had accumulated at his tip and used it to soothe the glide of his hand. 

Max’s section ended and Charles dutifully rewound to play it back. He briefly wondered if he should try and loop it. 

Charles’ groan snagged on his throat, hand working faster as Max giggled again, eyes narrowing until they were two arched slivers of blue. 

Charles could not help his eyes fluttering shut as he spilled into his hand, the image of Max in a stupid red hat and navy team shirt burned into his eyelids. The whisper of Max’s name curled around Charles’ tongue. 

Dick barely softened, Charles smacked his laptop shut and stretched for his phone. He unlocked it and located Whatsapp. Max’s profile picture glared at Charles like he knew what the Monegasque had just done. His face erupted into a shade resembling vermillion. The colour bled through to his neck and sweat-covered chest. 

Charles swallowed the guilt. It instead settled in his gut. 

With his clean hand, he slowly typed out a message.

Hey Max. Would you like to go to Jimmyz tonight with Pierre and me?

His phone buzzed with Max's reply as he was crumpling dirty tissues.

Lewis rubbed at his forehead softly, contemplating Max’s words. Max’s cheeks still carried a sheen of sweat, glistening in the dark blanket of the night sky. His freshly shaven jaw glittered. 

“Max,” Lewis began trepidly. His mind blurred back to previous years, 2016, 2017, and 2018, where Max was a blip on his radar, a faint crawl of smoke containing youth and urgency on the edges of his awareness; all before he had brusquely shoved and domineered his way into the forefront of Lewis’ attention. Then it had been a constant stream of Max; the lisp as he laughed dryly about track conditions, the simmering contact between their eyes as they nodded to each other after and before a race, the faint hair plastered onto his stocky arms and legs. 

“You alright there?” Max asked, a small grin threatening to eclipse his face. 

“Sorry, man, I just blanked out for a second.” Lewis unlocked his phone again and began tapping away. “What’s up?”

Max’s forehead abruptly drooped onto Lewis’ shoulder. His dirty blond hair flattened on the lithe plane of Lewis. 

The changes in Max’s body were eminent here. His widened shoulders and torso, the strong, heavy build of his arms tapering into a boxy, yet smaller, waist.

“I asked where you were,” Max muffled into the drying material of Lewis’ fireproofs. 

Lewis tried not to drop his phone. He locked it with a click. 

“The car is…”

“Shit?” Max offered honestly. 

“Yeah,” Lewis gave a curt sigh. “Honestly, yeah, it’s shit.” His arms rose to envelop Max loosely.

Max craned his neck upwards and rolled it around with a grimace. “Too short,” he teased. 

Lewis chuckled limply, the sound forced from his throat. He had qualified 15th, one of the worst in his entire career, and had been racing a Haas, almost on par, for the majority of the race. For Lewis, it was unfathomable. 

The boy—the man—who had beaten him last year had just won the race, his younger, friendlier rival clad in red with tiny, pursed lips waving to Max after they crossed the finish line barely five-hundredths of a second apart.

If Lewis was a fan and not a driver, he’d root for Charles. 

Max stretched to his full height and Lewis tried to not feel emasculated. “I finished tenth. I don’t even know if you get a point for that.” 

Max showed off his row of stubby, straight teeth. “Of course, they changed the rules for that a long time ago.” 

“I’ve never really had to focus on that, to be honest,” Lewis bit back, mirth bleeding into his tone to mitigate the arrogance of the statement. 

Max raised his eyebrows and when Lewis thought he might finally, finally have affected him off-track, Max deflated, laughing breathily. 

“That’s true. You should really retire,” Max’s biceps flexed as he scratched the back of his head. “You’re making it hard for us to beat your records!” 

Us, Lewis thought bitterly. Us as in, him and Charles. Lewis could root for Charles all he wanted. Max was untouchable. He simply did not care. 

Lewis fed the bitterness brewing beneath his skin with impulsion. Which led him to grab Max’s face with his palms and recklessly push his lips onto Max’s. 

He would deny it, but Lewis had to lift himself up to meet Max. The kiss was short and dry, chapped lips grating against each other like gravel on stone. 

When Lewis pulled away, Max chased the kiss, eyelashes brushing his cheeks. Lewis smiled, triumphant.

“Say hi to Charles for me, Max!” Lewis called out as he walked backwards, away from the young Dutchman.