Chapter Text
The paddock felt wrong.
Hungary in July, sun baking down, crowds already restless with anticipation. The Ferrari garage buzzed as usual, but when Max’s eyes flicked across, he felt the hole immediately. No red suit walking past with headphones slung loose. No flash of dimples in a fleeting grin. No low, accented mutter of bonjour to the mechanics.
Charles wasn’t there.
Instead, Ollie Bearman stood stiff in Ferrari red, a little wide-eyed but focused. Nineteen years old, thrown into a seat that should’ve belonged to the man leading the championship.
Max should’ve been studying Ollie. Daniel joked about the kid’s nerves, GP nudged Max about race pace. But Max couldn’t hear them. His gaze kept straying to the empty space Charles should’ve filled, to the white board in Ferrari’s garage where his name had been hastily replaced.
He’d spent all week trying not to think about it. About Charles in hospital. About Charles’s voice, weak and laced with venom, telling him to piss off. About how Charles hadn’t even let him explain.
But standing on the grid now, staring down the empty spot where Charles should have been? God, it felt unbearable.
Max wished it had been him instead. Wished he had been the one stuck in the hospital bed, stitched up and sidelined, because at least then Charles could still be here. Still fighting for his first championship, the one Max knew Charles deserved more than anyone.
And selfishly, horribly, he wished for something else too: that Charles might have missed him in the way Max missed him now.
The press room buzzed without him. Cameras flashed, microphones clustered, questions fired in rapid succession but Red Bull’s seats stayed empty. No Max, no Daniel.
It hadn’t been a surprise. The backlash was still burning white-hot, headlines looping endlessly with the same footage of Spa: the Ferrari crushed under the weight of the Red Bull, Charles’s body trapped, his halo fractured.
And now, Charles wasn’t here.
The world hadn’t forgotten that detail.
So Red Bull made the call: no media for Max. No exposure, no bait for questions designed to twist knives. Daniel was pulled alongside him too, “unified front,” Christian had said, though Max could see the lines of tension in his team principal’s face.
Max spent Thursday in the garage instead, surrounded by mechanics and telemetry screens, the hum of tools drowning out the noise he wasn’t allowed to face. He tried to focus on long runs, set-ups, the usual details. But every time he glanced up at the board and saw Ollie Bearman’s name slotted in beside Carlos’s, his stomach twisted.
Because it didn’t matter how carefully Red Bull shielded him. Outside those doors, the story was already written: Max Verstappen had taken Charles Leclerc out. And Charles wasn’t here to defend him.
The garage was quieter than usual, the hum of tools and mechanics’ chatter muted under the heavy awareness of what was happening across the paddock. Max sat on the steps leading up to the hospitality unit, his race suit tied at the waist, fingers drumming against his knee.
Through the thin partition walls, he could hear it.
Pierre’s voice first? tight, fraying at the edges. “He’s my best friend. I don’t… I don’t want to talk about what happened. I just want him better.” There was a crack in his tone, the kind Max had only ever heard when Pierre was laughing too hard. Except now, it sounded like he might break.
Then Carlos, sharper, every syllable lined with the strain of control. “He’s my teammate. My brother in Ferrari. We were lucky last week. Very lucky. Don’t ask me to pretend otherwise.” His voice wavered once, just once, before he swallowed it down.
Lando followed, quieter, but still raw. “Carlos hasn’t slept properly all week. None of us have, really. It’s… it’s Charles.”
And Oscar, the youngest, his voice barely above a whisper. “He texts me after races, you know? Tells me what I did right, what I could do better. He’s… he’s important to me. To all of us.”
Every answer sounded heavy. Every word was laced with sadness. Pierre and Carlos especially, both on the verge of tears in front of cameras, choking back grief they couldn’t hide.
Max pressed his palms hard into his knees, staring at the floor. He got to sit here, tucked away, spared the questions. Spared the tears. Spared the chance to fall apart on live television.
And it didn’t feel like protection. It felt like punishment.
A hand clapped down on his shoulder, jolting him. “Hey.” Daniel dropped into a crouch in front of him, grin softer than usual. “Stop listening in, mate. Not your problem today.”
GP leaned against the wall beside them, arms folded. “He’s right. Media’s going to wring them dry no matter what. You sitting here won’t change it.”
Max swallowed, jaw tight. “Pierre sounded like he was going to cry.”
Daniel’s grin faltered, but he squeezed Max’s shoulder. “Yeah. Because he loves Charles. Not because he hates you.”
Max looked up at him, throat aching. GP added quietly, “Same goes for Carlos.”
Max wanted to believe them. He really did. But all he could hear was Charles’s voice from that hospital bed, weak and accented, spitting piss off.
Daniel eventually managed to drag Max back into the garage proper, nudging him toward the screens. GP was talking through numbers, downforce adjustments, tire allocations, but Max barely absorbed it. His eyes kept drifting to the media feed on the corner monitor, the ones showing Pierre’s red-rimmed eyes and Carlos’s tense jaw.
“Mate,” Daniel muttered, catching him again, “you’ve got to shut that out. They’re grieving. You’re grieving. Doesn’t mean they’re against you.”
Max didn’t answer, but the words lodged somewhere, heavy and sharp.
Engines roared across the Hungaroring, the first practice session alive with color and sound. Max sat in the car, helmet pressed firm, GP’s voice steady in his ear.
“Alright, Max, let’s get some baseline laps in. Build the rhythm.”
But Max’s rhythm was off. His eyes flicked to his mirrors more than usual, not for rivals, but searching. Searching for a flash of Ferrari red that wasn’t there.
Ollie Bearman’s car passed him once, steady on track, and Max caught it in his periphery. The Ferrari looked strange. Off balance, even if the kid drove it clean.
He keyed the radio before he could stop himself. “Doesn’t suit him,” he muttered, voice low, almost swallowed by static.
“Say again?” GP asked.
Max tightened his grip on the wheel, shame prickling hot under his suit. “…Doesn’t suit him like it suits Charlie.”
The word slipped out before he could catch it.. Charlie. Childhood nickname. Not Charles the rival, not Leclerc the champion contender. Charlie.
Silence on the radio for a beat. Then GP, gentler than usual: “Copy. Focus forward, Max. Data looks good. Let’s keep pushing.”
Max leaned harder on the throttle, trying to drown the ache in his chest. But no amount of speed could fill the hole the absence left behind.
Max pushed harder than he should’ve. GP’s calm reminders blended with the engine scream, but the edges of frustration gnawed at him. Every lap without the familiar flash of Charles’s Ferrari felt wrong. Ollie drove steady, precise for nineteen, but the car moved differently beneath him. The rhythm of the front end, the way the tires flexed through corners, it wasn’t the Ferrari Max knew.
He wanted to hate it. But he didn’t hate Ollie. He couldn’t. The kid had been dropped into hell and told to swim. Max knew the reason he was there, though, and that was enough to twist Max’s stomach until he overshot an apex.
“Max, calm it down. Reset. Bring it in,” GP said evenly.
In the garage, helmet off, sweat sticking his curls to his forehead, Max slumped into the chair. Daniel hovered with a water bottle and a smirk.
“You know,” Daniel drawled, “radio comms are recorded. Whole team heard you drop Charlie.”
Max froze, water halfway to his lips.
Daniel grinned wider. “Didn’t know you two were on nickname terms, mate.”
“Shut up,” Max muttered, heat prickling up his neck.
GP didn’t look up from his laptop, but the corner of his mouth ticked. “Focus on FP2. That’s what matters.”
FP2 – Afternoon
Track temperature rose, rubber streaks darkening the asphalt. Max climbed back into the cockpit, forcing himself into focus.
But Ollie’s Ferrari slipped past on an out-lap, and Max couldn’t help staring. The car didn’t dance the way it did under Charles. It looked awkward, wrong-footed, like it was missing its natural partner.
He keyed the radio before the thought had even finished. “It doesn’t move right.”
GP sighed in his ear. “Which part, Max? Front end? Rear balance?”
Max’s jaw clenched. He couldn’t explain it. “It just… doesn’t move like when Charles drives it.”
A pause. Then GP: “Copy. Eyes forward. Ferrari’s not your data to analyze.”
Still, the wrongness stuck. Max followed Ollie through sector two, every fiber of him noticing how the red car hesitated where Charles would’ve flowed. It wasn’t Ollie’s fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. But watching it hurt more than Max wanted to admit.
When he pulled back into the garage at session’s end, Daniel tossed him a towel. “You know, mate,” he said lightly, “you’re driving like you’re chasing ghosts.”
Max didn’t answer. Because Daniel was right.
The motorhome was quiet in a way Max hated. Usually, after the long blur of practice sessions, briefings, endless questions, he’d lie back on the bed, earbuds in, and let his mind drift to Charles. The easy excuse was stress relief, routine, almost a superstition. But really, it was about Charles. The way he moved on track like the car was built for him. The curve of his mouth when he bit back a smile. The sound of his accent curling sharp around insults.
It always left Max hard, needy, with Charles filling every corner of his thoughts until release hit like a car cresting Eau Rouge.
But tonight?
Max lay on his back, hand idly resting against the waistband of his shorts. He tried to summon it, the memory of Spa before the crash, Charles weaving perfectly, defending lap after lap, pure fire in red. He tried to chase the heat, the way Charles’s voice sometimes slipped in softer moments on comms, the glimpses of skin after a race when the fireproofs clung.
His cock stirred, sure. It always did. Habit, muscle memory.
But it was empty.
The room stayed quiet, the silence pressing down heavy. There was no Charles in the paddock tonight. No dimples, no sharp little glares, no rival to orbit around. Just the echo of a hospital bed and words spit in pain.. piss off.
Max curled his hand tighter, frustration buzzing under his skin, but the ache didn’t burn right. It was hollow, like the act itself had lost its weight without the man it belonged to.
Eventually, he let out a harsh breath and dragged his arm over his eyes, forcing his body to still. The silence rushed back in, thicker than before.
For once, Max Verstappen didn’t finish.
The sun burned hotter over the Hungaroring, shimmering heat rolling off the tarmac. FP3 went fine. That was the best Max could call it. The car ran smooth, setup tweaks landed well, and his lap times sat where they needed to be. On paper, it was clean.
Inside, though? Wrong. Just like last night.
He’d never admit it to anyone, hell, he’d barely admit it to himself but not jerking off to the thought of Charles left him off-balance. Like a ritual skipped. A gear grinding without oil. He told himself it was habit, routine, superstition. It wasn’t about Charles. Not really.
But when he climbed out of the car, tugging off his gloves, all he could think was how flat he felt. Like the fight had drained out of him.
Daniel slapped him on the back as he passed. “Solid run, mate.”
Max nodded, wordless, and buried himself in data. If anyone asked, FP3 was fine. Everything was fine. He’d never admit the truth, that Charles’s absence had crawled into his bones and made even this feel hollow.
The session wrapped, cars wheeled back in. Max peeled off his helmet, handing it to his mechanic, and dropped heavily into the briefing chair. The numbers on the screen were tidy, sector times neat, tire degradation minimal. It should’ve felt satisfying.
But GP glanced up from the laptop, eyebrows furrowed. “You look… off.”
“I’m not off,” Max snapped too quickly.
Daniel leaned over the back of his chair, grinning like a man who’d seen through too many lies in his life. “You sound off, mate. Lap times say one thing, face says another.”
Max stared stubbornly at the telemetry lines, jaw tight. “FP3 was fine. That’s it.”
By the time qualifying rolled around, the paddock hummed with usual tension. Engines fired, media swarmed the grid walk, and the air crackled with anticipation.
Max stood helmet in hand, scanning down the row of cars. Red Bull blue, Mercedes silver, McLaren papaya. His gaze snagged inevitably on the scarlet Ferrari. Ollie was already climbing in, shoulders squared, expression tight with focus.
It looked wrong.
Charles should’ve been there. Hands on the wheel, jaw set, that little tilt of his head before launching a flying lap.
Max exhaled hard, turning back to his own car. “Reset,” he muttered into his radio, voice low. “Focus forward.”
GP’s calm reply buzzed back instantly. “Copy. You’ve got this.”
Max pulled the helmet over his head, sealing himself inside the cockpit. But as the world narrowed to track and time, he couldn’t shake the feeling that qualifying itself had been hollowed out. Like the grid was incomplete.
Like he was chasing shadows instead of rivals.
The session burned hot, track temperature peaking, tires screaming for grip. Max pushed hard, car balanced on a knife edge, every corner calculated. Sector by sector, his name glowed purple on the boards.
Pole was his. He knew it before he even crossed the line.
“P1, Max,” GP confirmed, calm but steady with pride. “Beautiful lap.”
Max let out a breath, chest heaving. He pulled into parc fermé, climbed out under the roar of the crowd, but the sound didn’t land right. He looked up at the timing tower..
Verstappen – Red Bull
Hamilton – Mercedes
Sainz – Ferrari
There should’ve been scarlet alongside him. There should’ve been Charles in P2 or P3, jaw tight with determination, eyes locked on him for the fight tomorrow.
Instead, the red belonged to Carlos. Solid lap, steady, but the wrong red.
And behind him, Ollie’s name sat buried deeper in the order. A Ferrari that didn’t flow like it should.
Max stood on top of the world, helmet tucked under his arm, and felt absolutely nothing. Pole meant nothing without the rival who should’ve been there to take it from him.
The questions flew fast in the media pen, lights glaring on the drivers, microphones shoved forward. But Max wasn’t there.
He never made the walk down to the pen. Instead, Daniel handled the Red Bull sound bites, flashing his grin, deflecting the sharpest digs, while the cameras searched for the man who wasn’t present.
Reporters turned to others.
“Pierre, do you think Charles would have challenged Max for pole if he’d been here?”
“Carlos, is it strange not to see your teammate beside you on the front row?”
“Lando, how is Charles doing? Have you spoken to him this weekend?”
Every answer circled the same name. Charles’s absence was louder than Max’s pole.
And Max, tucked away in the motorhome, knew it. He could hear the murmur of voices from the pen drifting across the paddock, the weight of every question pulling tighter around his chest.
The circuit went quiet after dark. The hum of the crowd faded, mechanics thinning out, garages shuttered one by one.
Max lay flat on the bed in his motorhome, staring at the ceiling. He should’ve been asleep. He should’ve been calm, locked in his usual routine.
Because usually, Saturday night wasn’t just about prep. It was ritual. Years of it. A stupid thing he’d never admit, but it mattered. Jerking off before quali. Jerking off before the race. Always to Charles. The thought of him in red, the sound of his voice, the sharp lines of rivalry blurred into heat.
It had become his anchor. His secret fuel.
But this weekend? Nothing.
He hadn’t touched himself before quali. He hadn’t done it tonight either. Not properly. His body stirred out of habit, sure, half-hard, restless but the spark was gone. There was no Charles in the paddock. No dimples, no fire, no man to fill the ritual with meaning.
Max rolled over, pressing his face into the pillow, frustration burning low and sour in his gut.
Pole position waited for him tomorrow. But without Charles, it felt like winning half a fight.
The motorhome was dark, only the faint glow from the bathroom light spilling across the bed. Max lay on his back, shorts pushed low, one hand ghosting over his cock.
He tried. God, he tried.
His hips twitched up into his palm, the movement automatic, practiced after years of ritual. A low moan escaped him, raw and strained, like his body remembered how this was supposed to go.
But it was hollow.
Usually, Charles’s face would flood his mind by now, the sharp snarl in a press conference, the curve of muscle under scarlet fireproofs, the fucking smirk after defending for lap after lap. That was what lit the fire. That was what made him come undone, every single time.
Tonight? Nothing. Just silence. Just empty thrusts into his own hand.
Max groaned again, frustrated, squeezing harder, chasing it. But the burn never caught. His cock was hard, sure, but the pulse wasn’t there. The heat wasn’t there.
Because Charles wasn’t here.
Max let his hand fall away with a sharp exhale, chest heaving. His cock twitched against his thigh, unsatisfied, aching, but he couldn’t push it further. Not without Charles in his head, in his orbit, in the paddock.
For the first time in years, the ritual had failed.
Max rolled onto his side, scowling into the pillow, his body restless and his mind louder than ever. Pole position meant nothing tomorrow if he couldn’t even hold onto the fire Charles gave him.
The clock ticked past midnight. The motorhome was still, the circuit beyond it quiet. Max lay tangled in the sheets, groaning into the darkness. Sleep wouldn’t come. His body thrummed with a restless edge, not tired, not sated, just wrong.
Finally, he grabbed his phone. A new message thread blinked open. GP first.
Max: can’t sleep.
Three dots appeared instantly, then paused. A moment later, GP replied:
GP: You’re overthinking tomorrow. Try breathing exercises.
Max huffed, tossing the phone onto the mattress. Breathing exercises wouldn’t fix this.
Another thought struck, Daniel. He always had a way of cutting through the noise. Max opened that chat instead.
Max: can’t sleep. feels wrong.
Daniel: lol join the club. what’s keeping you up, mate?
Max: …ritual feels broken.
There was a beat. Then:
Daniel: Ritual? You mean your whole “Saturday night zen mode” thing?
Max stared at the screen, heart hammering. He hadn’t meant to go this far. But the frustration boiled over before he could stop it. His thumbs flew.
Max: i can’t jerk off without charles.
Silence. Dead silence on the other end. Max’s stomach dropped.
Then, after an eternity:
Daniel: …well fuck.
Daniel: didn’t know it was like that.
Max dragged a hand down his face, groaning into the pillow. He wanted to unsend it. He wanted to crawl out of his own skin.
Another ping lit up the screen.
Daniel: look, mate. tomorrow’s tomorrow. sleep or no sleep, ritual or no ritual, you’ll drive fine.
Daniel: but maybe… I dunno… tell Charles before you tell me next time?
Max stared at the message until the words blurred, throat tight. He shoved the phone under the pillow and rolled over, wishing harder than ever that Charles was here.
The sheets were twisted around his legs, the motorhome silent but for the hum of the air unit. Sleep still wouldn’t come, no matter how many times Max rolled over, no matter how long he stared into the dark.
His thoughts kept circling the same place, Charles.
Not the Charles who spat piss off in a hospital bed, not the rival in red with fire in his eyes. But the Charles Max had first seen when he was twelve, scrawny and sharp-eyed, with the smile that turned Max’s stomach upside down before he even knew what a crush was.
And Max though.. what if I hadn’t pushed him away?
What if instead of shoving that feeling down, covering it with insults and rivalry, he’d tried to be his friend? What if he’d let himself want Charles openly, instead of burying it beneath a decade of tension?
The image hit hard: Charles not in a hospital right now, not stitched up, not glaring at him with venom, but here. In Max’s bed. Curled up safe and warm against his chest, the steady weight of him rising and falling with sleep.
Max’s arm draped over him, fingers stroking curls back from his forehead. Charles safe. Charles protected. His.
Or the other version: Charles in the hospital still, bandaged and pale but Max there too. Not as a rival standing awkwardly by the bed, not as the boy who’d put him there. As a boyfriend. Sitting close, holding his hand, brushing his thumb across Charles’s knuckles until the world outside didn’t matter.
The ache in Max’s chest was unbearable.
Because that wasn’t their reality. Their reality was bitterness, sharp words, mistrust so deep Charles thought Max had meant Spa. Their reality was Max lying alone in this bed, staring at the ceiling, wanting something he might never have.
Max shut his eyes, swallowing hard. He’d never admit it out loud, but the truth thundered in his head:
He didn’t want pole positions. He didn’t want headlines.
He just wanted Charles.
Max turned on his side, pressing his forehead into the pillow, trying to chase the picture he’d drawn in his head. Charles, curled against him. Charles soft and trusting, letting Max hold him. Charles smiling, dimples deep, whispering Maxie like it wasn’t venom but something sweet.
The thought made heat stir low in Max’s stomach, his hand drifting down without him even meaning to. Fingers brushing over the waistband of his shorts, then lower, ghosting over the heavy swell between his legs.
He moaned, soft and desperate, when he wrapped his hand around himself. A shaky thrust into his fist, just once, and he could almost see it, Charles above him, or beneath him, or just there, lips parted, that sweet accent asking for more…
But then it slipped away. Like water through his fingers.
Max’s grip faltered, sliding uselessly along his cock. The arousal drained as quick as it came, leaving only frustration, a hollow ache that had nothing to do with his body. He huffed out a ragged breath and shoved his hand away, rolling to stare at the ceiling again.
It was pointless. Without Charles, without the real Charles, not the dream version, he couldn’t hold onto it. Couldn’t get off, couldn’t even fake it.
He wanted the dimples, the warmth, the stubbornness, the soft pout. He wanted Charles.
And wanting that hurt more than any unsatisfied lust ever could.
Max groaned into the dark, shoving the pillow tighter against his face as his body twitched with need. His cock was hard again, straining against his shorts, and even though he knew it was useless, he let his hips grind down against the mattress.
The sheets dragged rough against him as he rocked, slow and desperate. He closed his eyes and forced the picture into focus, Charles beneath him. Charles flushed, lashes fluttering against his cheeks, mouth parted with those little gasps Max had only ever imagined.
Soft, warm, his.
Max bit down on a whimper as he pressed harder into the bed, rutting against it like a teenager. In his head, he was pushing inside Charles slowly, inch by inch, savoring every second of the stretch, every sound that spilled out of him. He could almost feel it.. the tight heat around him, Charles clinging, nails digging into Max’s back..
“Fuck,” Max hissed into the pillow, hips stuttering. But just like before, it slipped. The image shattered, his cock throbbing but unsatisfied, friction suddenly too empty to mean anything.
He shoved himself away from the mattress with a growl, flipping onto his back and dragging a hand down his face. It was pathetic. He couldn’t even get off properly without Charles there to fill the fantasy.
And god, how was he supposed to survive a whole weekend like this?
Race morning and Max felt like shit.
His eyes were gritty, his body restless, his skin buzzing in a way that wasn’t adrenaline but something emptier. Every step across the paddock was too sharp, every sound too loud, and his temper balanced on a knife’s edge.
Daniel noticed first, of course.
“Someone’s grumpy for a pole-sitter,” Daniel drawled, nudging him with his elbow as they headed toward hospitality. “What’s wrong, mate? Not enough sleep, or…” his grin widened, “…did Charlie-boy not text you back?”
Max snapped his head around, glare sharp enough to cut. “Shut up.”
Daniel only laughed, and Max hated how close he was to being right? hated how the joke stung because of the truth hidden under it. He couldn’t come without Charles, and the thought of Daniel somehow knowing that made his stomach twist.
They walked into the driver’s lounge, where Lando was already lounging on the couch with Carlos. “Oi, Max!” Lando chirped. “Don’t look so serious. You’re on pole, mate. Lighten up!”
Max’s jaw clenched. He didn’t bother answering, and Lando, sensing blood in the water, smirked. “What is it, huh? Didn’t get your pre-race… ritual in?” He waggled his brows.
“Lando.” Carlos’s voice was low, sharp, a warning. He caught Lando’s wrist and tugged him back before Max could snap. His tone was calm, but the bitterness under it was unmistakable. Not because Max was on pole but because Charles wasn’t even here.
“Leave the pole-sitter alone,” Carlos muttered, eyes cutting briefly to Max with something unreadable. “It’s not funny.”
The lounge went tense, Daniel clearing his throat, Lando mumbling an awkward “sorry.” Max just stood there, fists flexing at his sides, wishing more than anything that he could be anywhere else.
Charles should’ve been here.
The lounge never quite softened after Carlos’s words. Daniel tried to pick up the thread with some half-hearted jokes, but even he sounded off. Lando sat quiet for once, eyes flicking nervously between Max and Carlos, like he knew he’d pushed too far. Carlos didn’t look at Max again, though. He leaned back, fingers still curled loosely around Lando’s wrist, protective and closed off.
Max didn’t say a word. Not because he didn’t want to, but because everything in his throat felt too sharp to force out.
He left earlier than he needed to. The walk through the paddock was thick with noise, fans pressed up against barriers, but even the familiar chaos couldn’t fill the hollow pit inside him.
When he climbed onto the grid, helmet in hand, the absence hit him like a blow. No red suit in P2. No familiar figure adjusting his gloves, shoulders set with that stubborn determination. Just Carlos in P3, Ollie Bearman stiff and nervous in the Ferrari instead.
Max tried not to stare, but his gaze caught on the empty spot where Charles should have been. He swallowed hard, pulling his balaclava up to hide the twist of his mouth.
The anthem came and went. Mechanics cleared. The formation lap began.
And still, all he could think was: Charles should be here.
His hands itched on the wheel, restless, unsettled. Normally pole filled him with calm, with control. Today it only made him feel exposed. The lights above the grid blurred for a moment as he blinked too fast, heart hammering in a way that had nothing to do with the start.
Then the lights went out, and instinct shoved everything else down.
The Red Bull leapt forward, engine screaming, and Max threw it into Turn 1 like his life depended on it. But even as he settled into the rhythm, every corner whispered of Charles, the way he’d defend, the way he’d bite back. The shadow that wasn’t there.
Every lap just felt wrong.
Lap after lap, Max should’ve been in control. He was in control, the Red Bull was smooth, balanced, untouchable. He was leading. Dominating.
But it didn’t feel like it.
Every corner felt off, like he was missing half the rhythm. And every time the car shuddered over the kerbs, a jolt shot through him that had nothing to do with racing. His cock twitched in the confines of his suit, the vibrations sparking empty, unsatisfying little pulses of pleasure. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, trying to shove it away, but it kept circling back, the memory of how he used to get off the night before, the thought of Charles’s soft lips, his flushed skin, the sounds Max had imagined a thousand times.
The car bounced, and Max gasped, low and quiet in his helmet. Pathetic. He was getting hard mid-race because his brain wouldn’t let go of Charles.
“Gap to P2 is stable. Just keep it clean,” GP’s voice crackled in his ear, steady as ever.
Max hummed in reply, jaw tight, pressing harder on the throttle as if speed alone could burn the ache out of him.
But nothing worked. Every vibration was just another reminder of what he didn’t have.
By the time the final laps came, his body was tight with more than adrenaline. He forced himself to focus, lights on the dash, the rhythm of the corners, every braking point drilled into instinct.
The chequered flag waved, the crowd roared, and Max crossed the line first.
Pole to win. Perfect race. On paper.
But when he eased the car down on the cool-down lap, when his engineer congratulated him and Daniel whooped into the radio, it all rang hollow.
Because Charles wasn’t here to fight him. Wasn’t here to scowl at him on the podium, wasn’t here to make Max’s victory mean something.
Max sat there, cock still half-hard, body twitching from the race, and felt nothing but empty.
The cheers hit him like static as he walked out. Flashbulbs, smoke, the blur of red and orange flags waving in the stands, all of it should’ve been electric.
But as Max stepped up onto the top step, the absence was louder than any of it.
No Charles. No dimpled smirk, no sharp glare at the Dutch anthem, no Ferrari red alongside him. Just Carlos on one side, Ollie on the other, both looking hollow in their own ways.
Max lifted the trophy when he was meant to, smile plastered on, but his mind wasn’t there. His cock still twitched faintly, half-hard from the race, a humiliating reminder under his fireproofs. He shifted awkwardly, angling the heavy silver cup down in front of his crotch, praying the cameras wouldn’t catch it.
The champagne came next. Max yanked the cork free, the spray cool against his face as the crowd roared. He kept the bottle low when it was his turn to pose, holding it square over his groin, covering himself.
No one seemed to notice. But he did. Every second. Every shift of his hips, every tight line of his body screamed the truth.
He’d won. And still, without Charles here, it meant nothing.
The motorhome was quiet when Max shut the door behind him. Too quiet. The muffled noise of the paddock faded instantly, leaving him alone with the pounding in his head and the throbbing heat between his legs.
He ripped his race suit down to his waist, fireproofs sticking damp to his skin. His cock pressed hard against the thin fabric, aching, desperate.
God, he needed to come. He wanted to so fucking badly.
Dropping onto the edge of the bed, Max shoved a hand down, curling his fingers around himself. A moan broke out of him, low and rough, as he stroked once, twice..
But it was useless.
Every pull felt empty, his body straining for something that wasn’t there. It was like his cock knew the truth: it didn’t want just release. It wanted Charles. Wanted to see him, to touch him, to worship every inch of him until he was trembling and pliant beneath Max.
Max squeezed tighter, trying to force it, trying to imagine Charles? soft lips parting, his breathy little noises, the way his body would give under worship. The way Max would make him feel like a god.
But even with the fantasy, even with the desperate strokes, it slipped. Pleasure sparked and fizzled out, leaving him frustrated and aching, precum wetting his palm but no closer to the edge.
He groaned and dropped back onto the mattress, cock jutting up from his fireproofs, slick and hard and useless.
It was pathetic. He couldn’t even make himself come without Charles. His body was begging for him, and nothing else would do.
Hours later, Max sat stiff in his first-class seat, the hum of the engines a steady drone in his ears. He hadn’t slept. Couldn’t. His body was still wound tight, cock sore from trying, chest aching from emptiness.
Monaco blurred below as they cut through the night sky, but his mind wasn’t on home. It was on Italy.
Charles had been moved there, not kept in Spa. Safer facilities, better specialists. He knew because Carlos had said it, casually, like it was nothing, but Max had caught the edge in his voice. Carlos had already gone. Of course he had. Charles was his teammate, his friend. Protective to the bone.
Max stared down at the glass of water on his tray, thumb tapping restless against the plastic.
Could he go too?
The thought sat heavy in his chest. He wanted to. God, he wanted to see Charles, to prove he didn’t mean Spa, to sit by his bedside even if Charles told him to leave again. He needed to see with his own eyes that Charles was okay.
But what if he wasn’t wanted there? What if Charles looked at him the way he did in the hospital last week, lips curled, accent sharp, piss off spit like venom?
Max gritted his teeth, staring out at the endless dark.
He couldn’t help it. Even with the risk of rejection, even with the whole world already calling him reckless, dangerous, the boy who nearly killed Ferrari’s golden son, he still wanted to go.
Because it was Charles.
And nothing else mattered.
When the plane touched down in Monaco, Max didn’t head straight for his apartment like usual. No victory high, no debrief thoughts looping in his mind. Just one single purpose, clear and heavy: Charles.
If he was going to Italy, if he was going to see him, Max wasn’t going to show up as the exhausted, sweat-stale version of himself from race weekend. Not when Charles already thought he hated him. Not when every word between them lately had been sharp edges.
He stepped into his bathroom, stripped down, and let the shower run hot until the glass steamed over. He scrubbed every trace of the race away, the sweat, the champagne, the faint rubber-and-oil scent that clung to his skin. He washed his hair twice, careful and deliberate.
When he stepped out, dripping and raw, he stared at himself in the mirror. He looked less like the driver who’d stood on the top step, and more like the boy who still, at twelve, had wanted Charles to like him.
He reached for the cologne he knew Charles liked. He’d noticed it years ago, the faint curl of Charles’s lips when Max wore it once, tucked away in a crowded paddock. It wasn’t much, but Max had remembered.
Then came the clothes. Nothing flashy. Nothing that screamed Red Bull, nothing that could be mistaken for arrogance. Just jeans that fit well, a soft white shirt, and a jacket Charles had once teased him about, said it made him look almost approachable.
He sat on the edge of the bed afterward, staring at the packed bag by his feet. His heart hammered as if he was about to start another race.
He didn’t know if he’d be let in. Didn’t know if Charles would tell him to leave, again.
But he knew he had to try.
The Italian hospital was quieter than Max expected. White walls, muted voices, the faint squeak of shoes on polished floors. His palms were sweating by the time he reached the front desk, heart thumping unevenly under his clean shirt.
He cleared his throat. “Hi. I’m here for Charles Leclerc. Could you… tell me his room number?”
The nurse smiled, tapping something into her computer. “Of course. You’re the eighth person today!”
Max blinked. “The eighth?” His frown deepened. “Who else came?”
She started ticking them off casually, like she was reading from a list. “Lando, Carlos, Oscar, Pierre…” She paused to check the screen again. “Lewis, Sebastian, Daniel.”
Max stared at her, stunned. He’d expected the first four.. Pierre especially, Carlos and Lando hovering over Charles like guard dogs, Oscar quiet but loyal.
But Lewis? Seb? Even Daniel had gone?
The knot in Max’s chest pulled tighter. He wasn’t just Charles’s rival. He was the one person Charles didn’t want here.
The nurse looked up, oblivious to the storm inside him. “Do you want me to give you the room number?”
Max swallowed hard, forcing himself to nod. “Yeah. Please.”
She scribbled it on a slip of paper, sliding it across the desk.
Max took it with careful fingers, staring at the numbers like they might burn him.
Room 312.
Charles was just a hallway away.
Max stood outside Room 312 for what felt like forever. The slip of paper was crumpled in his fist, his other hand hovering over the handle.
He could hear faint sounds from inside, not machines, not beeping alarms. Just the crinkle of something, then a soft sip.
His stomach knotted. Charles was awake. Awake and alone.
Max pressed his forehead briefly against the door, whispering under his breath, come on, don’t be a coward. Then, before he could lose his nerve, he pushed the handle down and stepped inside.
The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and apple juice. Charles was propped up in bed, Capri Sun straw between his lips. He looked… better than a week ago. Less pale, less dazed. Still heavily bandaged across his torso, but his right arm was free now, not strapped to his side.
He glanced up at the sound of the door and immediately looked away, jaw tightening as he sucked on the straw.
Max’s chest squeezed. The sight should have been funny, almost sweet, Charles sipping juice like a sulky kid, but the way he refused to meet Max’s eyes made it hurt instead.
The silence stretched, broken only by the faint slurp from the Capri Sun.
Max swallowed. “Hi.”
No answer. Just another sip.
Max cleared his throat, stepping further into the room. His voice came out softer than he intended.
“Your arm looks better.”
Charles glanced down at the bandaged limb, flexing his fingers once as if to check, then shifted his eyes back to the bed. No words. No acknowledgement. Just silence.
The only thing that moved was the faint pout tugging at his lips, accidental, unguarded, when the Capri Sun crinkled flat in his hand, straw sucking empty.
Max’s chest tightened. God, even sulking Charles was adorable. It wasn’t fair.
But the silence pressed in heavier, and he knew if he didn’t say something else soon, Charles would shut him out completely.
Max spotted a fresh Capri Sun on the bedside table and picked it up, holding it out carefully. “Here. You want another?”
Charles didn’t even look at him. He just batted at Max’s hand with his left like an annoyed cat, crinkled empty pouch still dangling from his other fingers. The pouch fell onto the blanket, discarded, and Charles turned his head away.
Max froze, the little box of juice still held out uselessly. He swallowed hard and set it down on the table again.
“Right,” he muttered, more to himself than to Charles. His throat felt dry. “Guess not.”
Charles shifted against the pillows, gaze fixed firmly on the floor, lips still pouted just slightly from the effort. Every line of his body screamed the same thing: I don’t want anything from you.
And god, it hurt more than Max thought it would.
Max shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then finally forced the words out.
“The grid was worried about you, you know.”
Charles’s lips pressed tighter, his voice rasping low. “Go away.”
Max’s chest clenched. He stepped closer anyway, his tone sharp with the emphasis. “I was worried.”
For the first time, Charles’s eyes flicked to him, a quick glance, the faintest flicker of surprise, before he dropped them again, back to the untouched Capri Sun Max had tried to give him. His fingers tugged at the corner of the blanket, twisting the fabric as he muttered, bitter and soft:
“You don’t have to act for media.”
The words cut sharper than any glare.
Max’s breath caught in his throat.
Charles really thought that’s all this was. That Max’s concern was fake. Just another performance.
Max’s jaw tightened, but he forced the words out steady. “It’s not an act, Charles. I meant it. I was worried. I am worried.”
Charles stayed silent, gaze locked on the bedsheets like he could burn a hole through them. The only movement was his thumb rubbing absently at the edge of the blanket.
Then, after a long pause, his voice came quiet, reluctant.
“Daniel said the Red Bull car malfunctioned.” He shifted slightly, still not looking at Max. “That you were shown it. Did your car malfunction?”
Max’s throat worked as he swallowed. Of all the questions Charles could’ve asked, this one cut straight to the bone.
Max leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice low but urgent. “Yes, it malfunctioned. I swear on everything, Charles, I didn’t… I’d never aim at you like that. The data shows it. The steering locked mid-corner, just for a fraction, but enough. The three laps before, it twitched the same way, only I caught it. On that lap…” his breath hitched, “I couldn’t. It wasn’t me. It was the car.”
For the first time, Charles glanced at him. Just a flick of his eyes, doubtful, but searching. His lips pressed into a thin line, like he wanted to say something but the words wouldn’t form.
Silence stretched.
Then, very slowly, like his body didn’t quite trust itself, Charles’ left hand edged across the blanket. Fingers brushed against the crinkled foil of the capri sun Max had set there earlier. He paused, hesitated as if unsure he wanted anything from Max’s hands. Then, without a word, he drew it toward himself.
The sound of the straw puncturing the foil was quiet, almost delicate, but to Max it might as well have been a thunderclap.
Max watched Charles sip, slow and careful, the corner of the straw pressed to his lips. It was nothing, just a drink, just a movement but Max’s chest eased for the first time in days. Charles had taken it from him. Not batted it away. Not turned his back. He’d accepted something, however small.
Max let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, a flicker of warmth rising against the cold pit in his stomach. That has to mean something. A start. Right?
But even as the hope swelled, the truth pressed down on him. Out there, in the paddock, in the media, even among other drivers, it was known that Max Verstappen hated Charles Leclerc. That they’d been rivals since karting, that every glare, every aggressive overtake, every clipped word was fueled by dislike. The story was written, repeated, believed.
And Charles… Charles probably believed it too.
Max’s jaw clenched. He wanted to shake him, to tell him the narrative was wrong, that every so-called “hate-fueled” move was just him being reckless, stupid, desperate to be close. That for years the only constant in his head had been Charles, Charles, Charles.
Instead, all he said was a quiet, “Thanks for… not throwing it this time.” His voice carried more weight than he meant it to, softer than it should’ve been.
Charles didn’t reply. Just drank. His lashes lowered, hiding his expression.
And Max sat there, swallowing his words, praying one tiny crack in the wall between them meant more than the world outside believed.