#lestappen asks

Catching a glimpse of Charles anywhere, no matter how fleeting, is almost always enough to put a silly little smile on his face that he will never explain to anyone who might notice and ask him about it. Anna, bless her soul, has witnessed that smile appear and then quickly be schooled away more times than either of them can probably count at this point, Max is sure. But yet, not once has she asked about it. And maybe, just maybe, Max should be a little more concerned about the meaning of that than if she had questioned the cause of it. But that is a concern for another day, because the shoulders of the oh so familiar Monégasque figure Max has just passed is too slumped for Max to focus on anything else.

He's still not entirely sure what happened with Charles in Q3. He's seen a quick replay of the crash that kept Charles from setting a laptime and giving him P10 for tomorrow's race, but he hasn't had time to watch it more than once, slow it down, and really analyze every aspect of what lead up to that red Ferrari ending up in the barriers. But he has every intention of doing just that as soon as he gets the chance.

Once he comes to a halt behind Anna, who quickly turns to tell him they're not ready for him just yet, Max nods his acknowledgement and uses the opportunity to turn his head to glance at Charles, and doing his best to drown out every other sound going on around him so he can try to hear what Charles is saying to the reporter. He inches a little to his left, as much as he can without anyone noticing, in what is definitely a futile attempt at closing some of the distance between himself and Charles.

Despite his excellent hearing, Max can't really make out much of the words that are coming out of Charles' mouth, and the tiny portion he does hear has him convinced that his ears are playing tricks on him. Because to his ears, it sounds like Charles is saying something along the lines of "It must be tough to stick with me". Before he can process what has to be a misheard statement on his part, Anna nudges his arm and snaps Max's attention back to what it is he's supposed to be focusing on: his own interview, which the reporter is now apparently ready for.

He silently curses the man, for more than just his usual 'I hate media duties' reason this time around, before he steps forward to do what is sadly still very much a part of his job.

***

Once Max has been released from the grips of the media and dismissed by his own team for the rest of the evening, Max wastes no time in returning to his hotel room, where the first thing he does is pull up the footage of Charles' Q3 crash on his laptop — because analyzing footage on his phone is just not sufficient when the footage he's analyzing is of himself, or of Charles — and watches the video on repeat more times than he'd care to admit.

He pauses the video at different moments, rewinding and slowing down the replays, searching the footage for any sign of mechanical failure, track debris, any sort of outside factor that could explain the next few seconds before Charles' car ends up slamming into the barriers. But in spite of his valiant efforts, Max finds none. There's only one explanation, and it's frustratingly, deceptively simple: it's human error. The type of human error Max is sure commentators and pundits would jump to classify as a "rookie mistake", even though anyone who has knows even the tiniest fraction about Formula 1 knows could and does happen to any and all drivers. There is not a single driver on the grid, current or past, that hasn't made the sort of mistake Charles made in Q3.

It doesn't matter how many years you've been in the sport, how much experience you have, how much raw talent you possess because at the end of the day, even the most successful, talented, experienced drivers are human beings. And human beings make human mistakes every now and again. Max has made them and will make them again, even after spending more than a decade in the sport. Lewis has made them and will make them again, even after two decades in the sport. And Fernando has made them and will make them again, even after walking the earth and haunting the sport of F1 for about a million years.

Max sighs, his heart aching for Charles over the disappointment he must be feeling, and his stomach twisting itself into knots at the sight of Charles barrelling into the barriers. It's a big crash, and although Max knows for a fact that Charles is physically okay, it's still a sight he never wants to see. Not with any driver, but especially not with Charles.

He closes the video and goes looking for a different one; Charles' media pen interview, because Max needs confirmation that he did not, in fact, hear what it was he thought he heard standing in that media pen earlier, a few feet behind Charles. When he finds it, he grabs his headset and puts it on before he starts the video, just to ensure that he hears every single word this time around.

The disappointment Charles expresses feeling is understandable, and although Max does not agree that Charles has any reason to feel ashamed, he understands why the Monégasque does. But it's the next part that really feels like a punch to the gut; the part Max had been so sure he misheard.

"It must be tough to stick with me."

Max slams his laptop shut, throws his headset to the bed and is out the door before the full force of his anger can truly register within him.

He knows which room Charles is in. He always knows which room Charles is in whenever they're staying in the same hotel because every time it happens, he asks Lewis, who rolls his eyes at him in exasperation but tells him anyway. Before that, it was Carlos doing the exacy same thing. Not that he often uses that knowledge; the amount of times he's actually plucked up the courage to show up at Charles' hotel door remains in the single digits, and those times it has been because he's needed to make sure for himself that Charles is okay. His visits have never been long; just long enough for Max to see with his own two eyes that Charles' is alive and well, and somewhat mentally sound. He's never given in to the urge to use the knowledge of which room Charles is staying in to actually come clean about his deepest thoughts, feelings and desires, no matter how overwhelming they may have been. But this is the first time he has been driven to go seek Charles' hotel room out with rage sitting heavy in the pit of his stomach.

What Max hopes and believes — judging by the expression Charles has always worn upon opening his door to see the Dutchman standing there after a particularly devastating situation during a race weekend — has been a comforting presence to Charles in the past, is definitely not what he's bringing to the room this time around. And that seems to be clear even in the way he's knocking, no, pounding, on Charles's hotel room door minutes later.

When Charles opens the door, he looks mostly defeated, but also surprised by the intensity of Max's hand banging against the wood of his door.

"Max?" he phrases it like a question, and doesn't step aside to let Max into the room without hesitation, like he usually does.

Max doesn't care; he barrels forward anyway, pushing Charles aside and letting himself into the room. On his way there, Max had spent the time in the elevator finding the video of Charles' damning interview on his phone. Now, he holds the phone up for Charles to see the screen once the Monégasque has shut the door behind him.

"What the fuck is this?" he demands, watching as Charles squints slightly in an attempt to make out what exactly it is Max is trying to show him.

Fucking hell, the man really does need glasses.

When Charles realizes what it is, his shoulders slump and he shakes his head. "I am really not in the mood to talk about that."

"I don't give a shit," Max fires back, taking a step closer and using his other hand to point at the video on the screen of his phone. "Do you realize what you said in this?"

That lights somewhat of a fire within Charles, and he squares his shoulders and sticks out his chin defiantly. "No, Max, I was actually not present for the interview I gave," he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. It makes Max want to throw the phone at his head.

"Fucking smartass," Max mutters, taking yet another step closer. He wonders if his eyes look as angry as he feels. "'It must be tough to stick with me'?" he echoes Charles' statement from the interview. "What the fuck kind of self-deprecating bullshit is that, huh?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Overturned-a-104-point-deficit-against-a-rocketship-in-a-fucking-tractor-last-season," Charles spits back, narrowing his eyes. "Not everyone has won four consecutive championship, broken just about every record there is to break in the sport, and always manages to maintain an insane level of confidence at all times."

Max stares into those stunning green eyes, seeing his own anger reflected right back in them, and for some reason, it makes Max even more angry.

"Are you fucking hearing yourself?" Max asks with a humorless laugh, throwing his phone onto a nearby chair. It slides off the seat and clatters to the floor, but he doesn't care. "Did you fucking hear yourself spewing that nonsense in the media pen? So you fuck up in Q3, so what? Why the fuck would that make it tough to support you?"

Charles snorts, sounding about as amused as Max feels, and he looks away, shaking his head. "It wasn't just in Q3 today, Max. It was last the last race, too. Two weekends in a fucking row."

Max blinks at that, his brain refusing to fully absorb those words.

"Monaco was not on you. That was on your team for pitting you for no fucking reason and leaving you with cold fucking tyres."

Charles doesn't respond, and the Dutchman knows it's because he knows Max is right about that. But in his current state, with the disappointment and shame currently rushing through every fibre of Charles' being, Max knows that in this very moment, Charles is not only his own biggest critic, but also his own worst enemy.

"Today you made a mistake," Max continues, voice calmer than before. "But that doesn't mean you get to put yourself down the way you did in that interview. If anyone can make starting from P10 work somehow, it's you."

Charles shakes his head, gaze returning to meet Max's. Some of the anger seems to have seeped out of him, too. "I'm allowed to feel disappointed in myself after today, Max. I'm allowed to feel ashamed."

And yes, Charles is absolutely right about that. But that's not Max's main issue here; it's the fact that Charles thinks his mistake was so severe that supporting him as a driver — as a person — is somehow a struggle. When supporting him has only ever been anything but.

He also knows that trying to appeal to the part of Charles that's apparently dead set on bringing himself down right now is not going to work. But there's another part of Charles; the altruistic part that Max knows is ever-present, no matter how hard Charles is being on himself. That's the part that might actually listen right now.

"You are, and I'm not trying to tell you otherwise," Max admits, running a hand through his hair. "But what you're not allowed to do, is project that disappointment onto the people who support you. Onto me."

Charles stares at him then, as if Max grouping himself in with the countless people all over the world who have always and will always support Charles is somehow a shock to him. As if it's a foreign concept.

As if Max, in his own honest opinion, hasn't been one of Charles' biggest fans for almost two whole decades.

"Be as angry and disappointed in yourself as you need to be, Charles. But don't you fucking dare try to make supporting you seem like a struggle when it's the easiest fucking thing in the world. Always has been."

He knows that a lot of people that support Charles out there in the world might not be the biggest fans of Max. But that doesn't change the fact that he's still one of them.

And for all his honesty and candor for as long as he can remember, it dawns on him when he sees the way his words slowly sink in with Charles, Max clearly hasn't directed enough of that honesty and candor about his admiration and support for Charles at him. He has never shied away from singing Charles' praises to others, but saying it directly to Charles himself? It's something he obviously needs to work on.

He allows Charles a moment to process his words, and another to give him the chance to respond. But when the other man remains silent, Max knows he hasn't driven his point home quite yet.

'Not everyone has won four consecutive championship, broken just about every record there is to break in the sport.'

"Yes, I've won four consecutive championships," Max begins, throwing his arms out at his sides. "Yes, I've broken a bunch of records in Formula 1."

Charles gives him a look; one that says 'I know that's what I said, but now is really not the time to not-so-humble brag about your achievements'. Max holds up a hand and rolls his eyes.

"But you know what, Charles? When people talk about me, who's the one person they always also bring up in the same breath? When drivers, past or present, get asked about who they think the strongest driver on the grid is, who do they tend to pick? You. And if they pick me, they also always fucking pick you. As they should," he adds quickly, because it's a very important detail that cannot be stressed enough.

Charles' eyes soften at that, and he looks like he's about to say something — protest. most likely — but Max isn't having it. He's not done. Not yet.

"And I'd pick you too, every single time. It's not even a fucking contest at this point," he continues, fixing Charles with a stare to make it clear, beyond even the shadow of a doubt, that he means every single word. "Look, I know I'm an incredible driver, okay? I know that, I'm not a fucking idiot. I know I wouldn't have achieved what I have had I not been the driver that I am."

He pauses for a beat, giving Charles the chance to roll his eyes if he wants to. He doesn't, so Max continues. "And every driver on this grid is at a level above everyone else, because they wouldn't be in this sport if they weren't. And I respect each and every one of them, because anyone who makes it to this level in motorsport deserves that respect. But you know why whenever people talk about me, they also talk about you? Just you, and no one else? Because they know, just like I know, that the only driver that could actually beat me in equal machinery is you. And I'm not saying that to shade the other drivers, and I'm sure as hell not saying it just to make you feel better because you know me better than that. I don't waste my time, energy or breath on lying, or blowing smoke up people's asses."

To Max, it looks like Charles is going through a million emotions all at once, and he can't decide which one weighs the heaviest. So he just stands there, looking at Max as if he's seeing him for the first time. And maybe he is, because Max is saying what he's always thought, what he's always felt, directly to Charles' face for the first time. Without saying it through a third party. Without a filter. Without wanting anything or expecting anything in return. Just because he means it. And Charles deserves to hear it, straight from the source. Every. Single. Word.

"I'm saying it because it's true. And if you can't have that belief in yourself right now because of what happened in Q3, that's fine. But don't you ever forget that, no matter what, I will always have that belief in you. And so will every other person out there who supports you. You don't get to diminish that, even if you don't mean it that way, no matter how upset you might be feeling. Supporting you has never been tough. And it never will be."

His long-winded speech finally comes to an end, and Charles continues to just stand there, staring at him. The silence stretches on for such a long time that Max is beginning to wonder if his words has somehow broken something inside of Charles; some vital part required for the other man to function in the most basic ways. And he reads that silence as Charles needing some time to himself, to let it all sink in.

Max clears his throat. “Well, that’s all I wanted to say,” he adds, and then turns and bends to pick his phone up from the floor next to the chair and pockets it. He offers Charles a small smile, and walks towards the door. 

Once he’s a full step past Charles, one hand reaching for the door handle, the Monégasque grabs a firm hold of his elbow and yanks him back, using his hold to tug and position Max in a way that allows Charles to meet Max’s eyes with only a tiny amount of distance between their face. The look in his eyes is intense, but in a way Max doesn’t think he’s ever seen before. Never directed at him, at least.

But had he asked Charles, that’s only because Max hasn’t been paying attention to that particular detail over the years; too preoccupied with his own longing to ever see the exact same longing mirrored in Charles’ eyes.

They stare at each other, the silence heavy and loaded between them. Max wants to speak, but he doesn’t know what to say even if he could find the words. He can see some sort of struggle in Charles’ eyes, and he knows that right now, Charles is the one who needs to make a decision. Because what happens next can potentially change everything, and there’s no going back if it does.

It doesn’t take long for Charles to make his choice and the second he does, Max’s back is pressed firmly against the wall by the door as Charles finds Max’s lips with his own. And that’s the moment Max’s brain short circuits.

It’s a punishing kiss; one that lacks any sort of finesse and grace, but one that is undeniably fitting given the situation. And when Charles’ tongue laps at Max’s lips, his brain restarts and allows his lips to part for Charles’ searching tongue. The sensation drags a quiet moan from Max, and he grabs a firm hold of Charles’ hair with one hand while the other finds its way up under the hem of Charles’ t-shirt and settles against the bare skin of his waist, pulling him closer and making sure there’s not an inch of space left between them. Charles’ hands come up to cup the sides of Max’s neck as he explores the inside of Max’s mouth, occasionally engaging in a fight for dominance with Max’s own tongue. 

Max’s entire body feels like it’s on fire, and judging by the way Charles’ crotch is growing increasingly firm where it’s pressed and gently rubbing against his own, Max isn’t alone in that. It’s all entirely too much and not nearly enough at the same time, and when there’s a sudden knock on the door, Max wants to throttle and curse the entire bloodline of whoever it is on the other side of that door for putting a cruel and abrupt end to a moment he has been dreaming about for years.

Charles looks as furious as Max feels, if not even more so, when he reluctantly pulls away from Max’s mouth enough to glare at the door. “What?” he calls out, probably not intending to sound as pissed off as he does. 

“We’re going to the gym,” Andrea calls in Italian from the other side of the door, and Max has to bite back a laugh. His Italian is far from perfect, but he does know enough to understand that his surprise visit to Charles’ room appears to have caused the other man to forget his gym appointment with his trainer and close friend. 

“I’ll meet you there in five,” Charles calls back, giving Max a pointed look for appearing to be on the verge of bursting out in laughter. “Shut the fuck up,” he mouths at the Dutchman. 

“Five minutes means five minutes this time, Charles,” Andrea tells him, knocking twice on the door to make his point. “Not ten, or fifteen, or twenty.”

Charles rolls his eyes. “Yes, mother.”

“Fuck you,” is the last thing Andrea responds before walking away from the door and making his way to the hotel gym.

“You two are cute,” Max tells Charles after a long moment of silence, just to make sure Andrea isn’t still lingering about right outside the room.

“Fuck you,” Charles responds, echoing Andrea’s statement and pulling a chuckle out of Max. The Monégasque regards him for a moment, unmoving, before claiming Max’s lips in another kiss.

It ends way too quickly, and Charles slips out of Max’s grasp before the Dutchman can stop him. He won’t go as far as to claim that the disappointment he feels rivals the disappointment Charles felt after crashing out in Q3 because he’s not dramatic. But, he imagines it’s not that far off. 

Okay, maybe he’s being a little dramatic. 

Max remains leaning back against the wall, watching as Charles walks over to his open suitcase and begins rummaging through it for what Max assumes is a pair of shorts he can work out in. He watches the other man bend over with no shame whatsoever, and allows his eyes to roam all over Charles’ very fine form from behind. 

Once Charles straightens and turns to catch Max staring, he raises an eyebrow. Max responds with a wide grin and a shrug, and he can see that Charles is trying and failing miserably at suppressing a smile of his own.

“I guess I should leave you to get changed and enjoy your workout,” Max says, pushing away from the wall and moving towards the door, not once taking his eyes off of Charles as he does. 

The Monégasque undoes his jeans and shoves them down his legs, stepping out of them, and then stepping into his shorts. He doesn’t break eye contact with Max once, and makes a point out of pulling his shorts up slowly to give Max time to enjoy the very obvious outline of his still-interested dick within the confines of his black boxers. The sight has Max clearing his throat and absentmindedly adjusting the front of his own jeans. Charles follows the movement with his eyes, before returning his gaze back to Max’s face. 

“Yeah, you need to go so I can calm down before going to meet Andrea,” he tells the Dutchman pointedly. 

Max smirks, and begins moving towards Charles instead. The Monégasque points at him in warning, narrowing his eyes. “One more step, and this stops right here.”

It’s an effective threat that makes Max come to a halt, and he inclines his head to regard Charles. He’s not at all convinced that the other man means it, because it’s pretty damn clear that what just happened between them has been a long time coming for them both. But he also knows that Charles can be stubborn as hell when he wants to be, and he’s not one hundred percent sure Charles wouldn’t deprive both Max and himself of something they both so clearly want, just to make a point. He’s ninety-nine percent sure, but that one percent is still enough to make him listen.

This time, at least. 

So he begins backing up towards the door again, and reaches behind him to blindly find the door handle with a hand. 

“You’re a terrible liar,” Max tells him, pausing with his hand on the handle and not letting his gaze leave Charles’.

Charles smirks at him. “I know.”

Max smiles back, completely unable to stop himself. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, then: “And I guess I’ll also see you back in Monaco?” 

“I can promise you that you will,” Charles assures him, and there’s not a single shred of doubt in Max’s mind that Charles means that with his whole being. 

Max nods, allowing himself another moment to take in the sight of Charles, before he turns to open the door. 

“Max,” Charles says, just before Max can pull the door open. He half-turns to look back at Charles. 

“Yeah?”

There’s a moment of hesitation where Charles bites at his bottom lip, before he says: “Thank you. For what you said.”

Max, for his part, doesn’t miss a beat. “I meant every word. Always have.”

“I know.”

“Good. Now start really believing it for yourself, too.”

Charles doesn’t respond verbally, but he does give Max a small nod. It’s not an entirely convincing one — not yet — but Max will happily take it. And he will make sure to give Charles as many reminders as he might need, right up until the moment he stops doubting it entirely. The way Max has never doubted it. The way he has never doubted Charles. 

He does open the door, then, and slips out with one final glance and smile for Charles. The smile Charles offers him in return is enough to keep Max’s smile firmly in place the whole walk back to his own hotel room.