Charles rolls his eyes, glancing over to where Max is laid out on his balcony, beer dangling precariously from one hand.
“Max, it’s the new year, not the end of the world.”
Max huffs at him, takes another sip of his beer. “That’s not what I mean, it’s just- what’s next, you know?”
Charles glances longingly at the glass double doors leading back into the apartment, wonders if Max would notice if he just dipped from this entire conversation. Lando and Carlos are playing beer pong, and it’s suddenly looking very appealing. He sighs, turning back to the blonde beside him.
“What’s next for you is probably more race wins, maybe a third championship.” Charles tries not to sound bitter, he’s not sure how successful he is.
“Sorry,” Max winces a little. “I know you should probably hate me right now.”
I’m trying to, Charles thinks, but I can’t. It’s an unfair thought really, none of this is Max’s fault. There’s plenty of blame to go around for the mess that was last season and Max doesn’t deserve any of it. Still, it feels like it would be easier to hate him, if that was something he was capable of doing.
Max rolls over onto his stomach, narrowly avoiding falling off the hammock he’s curled himself into. “Winning is great and all, and I love racing, but it just feels a little hollow or something, lately. We fly across the world, we race, we come home, rinse and repeat, same thing every week.”
Charles glances at Max where he’s sprawled out across the hammock. He looks fine, a little drunk maybe, but not like someone on the verge of an existential crisis. His hair is flopping into his eyes and Charles’ hands twitch with a sudden desire to run his fingers through the errant strands. It’s not a new feeling, exactly, it’s just that sometimes when he looks at Max under the lights like this, soft and relaxed, it makes his breath catch in his throat and his stomach whirl with an as of yet unnamed feeling.
Other times, he just wants to strangle him.
“Must be nice,” he mutters, “getting sick of winning.”
Max groans. “Fuck off, you know that's not what I meant. It's just that, it feels like there should be something more, you know? Someone to share it all with, lights on when you come home, that sort of thing.”
Charles doesn't know, not really, but he supposes it makes sense in a way. You achieve one dream - world champion, check (twice) - then you start seeking out the next. In Max's case that seems to be some sort of cosy picket fence. Like Maslow's hierarchy of needs, but for millionaires who drive fast cars for a living.
He's still stuck on the previous step of the pyramid though, so he's not feeling entirely charitable about it right now.
“Then date, find someone, it's not that complicated.” It comes out harsher than intended, but Charles is feeling a little lost at the direction of this conversation, and the image of Max settling down is rattling around in his brain for some reason, ugly and discordant.
Max is quiet for a moment, and Charles kind of maybe feels like a bit of an asshole.
“Tried that,” he says finally. “It didn’t exactly work out.”
Charles definitely feels like an asshole then, winces at the words because, yeah, he did. There’d been a ring and everything, it had been a bit messy.
“Sorry,” he tries, but Max waves him off, shrugging.
"Do you not get lonely?"
"I date."
Max snorts at that, which- rude.
“I have racing. I like racing. I'm not-” he gestures vaguely at Max's sprawled form- “losing it because I don’t have someone waiting for me when I come home. I’m happy.”
“Yeah well, I guess it just doesn’t feel the same anymore.”
“What doesn’t?”
“Racing.”
That catches Charles’ attention, sets the alarm bells ringing in his admittedly alcohol muddled mind. There are few constants in his life but Max and racing are two of them.
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