Archive of Our Own

I. DEVOTION

“Charles?”

Max opens the door, stares at the figure before him; only to be greeted with none other than Charles, Charles Leclerc—god knows why he’s here.

They’re… rivals, friends, he thinks, but not close enough to show up unannounced at midnight—not without question.

It’s dark outside, the unnerving silence shrouding the emptiness between the two of them. There’s no reason for him to be here, especially at such an ungodly hour. He scans the state that Charles is in, mentally noting how dishevelled he looks—the way his eyes are on the brink of collapsing, the way his hair looks even more scruffy than usual, the unkempt-ness of it all. Max is a little concerned, but he doesn’t push it.

He blinks. “What are you doing here?”

Regardless, he lets Charles in, because he’s not cruel. Charles doesn’t respond to Max’s question, seemingly internally contemplating something. Then, he blurts: “We have to talk.”

“It’s about your relationship.”

Max’s blood runs a bit cold at the sound of those words. He’s a mostly private man—always has been, and honestly; discussing his relationship with Charles Leclerc of all people would probably be awkward at best, and disastrous at worst—given the history between the two. He breathes deeply. Given that Charles is here at 12 AM, it’s bound to be important.

Max knows he doesn’t have to, he could always shut the door in Charles’ face, but he chooses to let him stay, for some unknown reason. But he isn’t exactly thrilled about it.

“Listen– this is going to sound really weird, but–”

“—I don’t like your girlfriend. I think you guys shouldn’t be together.”

Okay, poor choice of words there on Charles’ part. Technically true, but he could’ve worded that a lot better. Charles, who was now honestly starting to sound insane to Max, who probably needed to explain himself better, somehow managed to pick the worst possible way to phrase his thoughts. What an idiot.

In his defense, he was incredibly sleep deprived. Not that Max needs to know why—how was he supposed to tell Max that the thought of his relationship with Kelly kept him up for countless nights, haunting him, destroying his peace of mind?

He watches as Max stares at him blankly; watches as his eyes look him up and down as to say that he’s judging; and Charles can’t really blame him for that. Really, he needs to articulate himself better. “You need to–”

Max interrupts Charles mid sentence; “What the fuck, Leclerc?”

There's a moment of awkward quietude between the two before he continues. “I know you like me, but this is a new low, even for you.” He snaps, and each word spills like venom that seeps into even the deepest cracks and crevices of Charles’ already half broken heart.

At Max’s reaction, Charles is absolutely stunned into silence. He looks like a fish out of water, not really knowing what to respond with. Then, he snaps back to reality, attempting to clarify; “Wait, Max, hear me out–”

“One minute.” The words come out sharp and loaded.

Charles blinks, then continues. “–Look; I’m just saying that your girlfriend– I mean Kelly– She’s 9 years older than you; and she’s known you since you were seventeen.” Emphasis on seventeen. “Tell me that’s not a red flag, Max. She literally admitted it on live television– She’s been attracted to you since you were seventeen and she was twenty seven.”

Honestly, Charles is going on a tangent now, his words are spilling faster than he can process them. He doesn’t even know if he sounds coherent.

“And if you were in her position; a 27 year old— would you be attracted to a 17 year old? You wouldn’t, because that’s fucking weird and predatory.” Those last words come out with a particular bite. “And I don’t like the way she treats you, but I don’t need to get into that now. Point is—Max, this is weird at best and illegal at worst. I’m pretty sure—no, I'm certain—she's grooming you.”

For a moment, there is a tense silence hanging in the air, neither of them daring to move. Charles bites his tongue, waiting for a response that might never come. The room feels more suffocating with each passing moment. They’re standing across from each other, yet it still feels like they’re two oceans apart. 

He hopes Max will take this well. What he didn’t expect, however, was for Max to blow up at him.

“Fuck you.”

“Eh-?” Charles stutters, taken aback by the sudden aggression.

“This is actually pathetic, how desperate you’ve become.” Max glares daggers into Charles’ eyes, and he feels incredibly uncomfortable, like Max just stabbed his heart and ripped it out of his chest. “We love each other, and the age gap doesn’t matter, because we actually love each other. And I think I’m smart enough to spot if I was being groomed.” Max snaps, irritation lacing his voice. Charles notices how his jaw clenches, like it’s one second away from shattering.

He also doesn’t believe Max's words one bit.

The tone in which he says “actually love” makes him feel like he's going through heart surgery without anesthesia

“We are literally 23, Max. The brain doesn’t fully mature until at least 25;” He says on impulse; doesn’t exactly mean it. “Oh, and you wouldn’t.” There’s no malice in his tone, but it still feels insulting to Max.

God, he really needs to pick his words better. What the fuck was that?

In spite of Charles’ response, Max continues. “I’m not gullible, Charles. I know what you’re trying to do.” He sounds more angry now. God help him, or both of them. Preferably Max, first. Curse this situation of his, honestly.

“Max, please—”

“Get out. I don’t want to see you anymore.”

His tone is wounding. Charles visibly winces. He’s paralysed, not exactly knowing how to react. Eyes well up, threatening to spill tears right then and there. His vision blurs and he might just die right then and there. But he knows better than to do that in front of Max. He takes a hand, wipes his face. Doesn’t reveal his emotions to Max, doesn’t want to burden him.

Not that he’d care, anyways.

Max, the man who’d always been reticent about his personal life—the man who Charles had loved for half his life—the man who’d fallen victim to Kelly fucking Piquet’s manipulative bullshit was now telling him to leave. Frankly, Charles thinks that if they ever cross paths, he might end up killing her in cold blood. Groomers deserve no mercy, he knows.

Maybe he deserves it. 

In the years that he’s known Max, he’s never outright abandoned Charles. To fuck off, sure. To fuck himself, many times. But not to leave his life. He gets up, glances at Max one last time. Doesn’t say anything. Simply quietly leaves without another word. Even as his heart is pounding in his chest. Even as he’s internally about to implode. Even as he feels himself slowly losing it. He manages to stumble his way outside.

But as a last ditch attempt to convince Max, he speaks up.

“Please don't let her manipulate you into anything dangerous.”

Max doesn't respond.

On the walk home, the night sky is particularly dark. It’s a midnight blue of sorts; so dark it’s almost pitch black, but with enough blue in it to be noticeable. Blue—blue like Max, blue like the despair he feels, blue like the sea he can’t escape. It all leads back to Max.

How pathetic of Charles, really. Every small detail in life, every dead end leads him back to Max. Not that Max can, or would ever say the same. Footsteps echo through the night. His footsteps. Charles doesn’t know if he feels like drinking his sorrows away with alcohol or simply sleeping. He pulls out his phone, plugs in his earphones. He’s not actually listening to the songs, doesn’t pay attention to the lyrics, doesn’t notice how well the songs parallel his current situation.

You love her, it's over / You already found someone to miss / While I'm still standing at the exit

He simply takes in the tunes, the sounds, the melodies. How melancholy they sound. It’s oddly soothing, really. Walking home alone. If only Max was with him. Yes, he’s in love. Madly in love, actually. It’s a bit scary how much he loves Max. He inhales sharply, exhaling slowly, tries to distract himself. It doesn’t work. Charles looks at the stars, and wonders if Max does too. When he reaches his apartment, Charles collapses, his body slumping onto the couch. Buries his head into his hands, needing to think. He needs time.

Only then, does the realisation comes barrelling into him at five hundred miles per hour: Shit, he’s really fucked up this time.

So... he might’ve crossed the line with Max. There might be no coming back from this, he thinks. He can feel himself steadily dissociating, he doesn’t want to come back to reality—to face the consequences of his actions. Those consequences: losing Max forever. Oh, and being rejected by him. But he’s used to that by now.

Max is blunt, Charles is aware of that fact.

So why did this fuckass have the emotional availability equivalent to that of three raccoons in a trench coat?

The utter ignominy of it all is sickening.

He feels bile rise up his throat, threatening to throw up. He swallows. Swallows, momentarily feeling (imaginary) ichor—blood of gods—coursing through his veins. Charles imagines he feels like god. Imagines he’s free of the shackles that are his very unfortunate feelings for Max Verstappen. Imagines he can just move on right then and there. Imagines he is above all.

He isn’t. But it’s fun to pretend.

How sacrilegious. He’s charged as guilty for the crime of being so pathetic, thinking he’s god; when he’s really the furthest thing from it.

Charles is frankly, pissed—probably rightfully so. But he’s also worried, above all. About Max. Even after all their arguments, their fallouts—Charles still finds himself tethered to Max. He likes to think Max is like a sun in his life—and Charles is just another planet in his orbit. It’s fitting, honestly. Because just like the sun was a source of light, Max to Charles was the light at the end of the seemingly hopeless tunnel that was his life. He can’t escape Max’s gravity, Charles knows. It’s only a matter of time before fate brings Max back to Charles again.

However, when he checks his phone; it’s like he’s been pulled out of his orbit.

Max blocked you

So, it appears he fucked up royally.

Charles takes a moment to actually process the fact that he’d been blocked by Max fucking Verstappen; then dread starts to wash over him. He exhales, trying to calm himself down. His heart rate, however, didn’t seem to get the memo. Honestly, it’s hard to gauge how high his blood pressure is now. Icarus would’ve done a better job than him, at this point. If ‘flying too close to the sun only to crash and burn’ was a person, Charles would take the title. Literally, he had somehow managed to fuck up so hard that he’d gotten blocked, and he knows Max doesn’t usually block people.

Charles goes numb. Can’t feel anything except the strange feeling that’s gnawing at his heart, raw and empty.

How was it that Max had caused Charles to become undone yet again?

Charles’ love isn’t beautiful. There’s nothing beautiful about his undying devotion; the way his greed jumps at any chance to potentially get with Max, the only person he’s ever truly loved. The absolute certainty that if Max were to ever hurt him, he’d take it like a drug. He’s a pathetic shell of a man.

( Perhaps devotion is too soft a word to describe his love for Max. )

It's better than Kelly's sick, disgustingly predatory love though, Charles knows that.

He’d had his chance, well—in this case, not really—the concern was genuine and not just a sad attempt at trying to ‘manipulate’ Max; fuck if he was desperate, fuck if he had romantic feelings for him, this was real concern from a friend. Not whatever twisted love Kelly possessed. Trying to help Max was like playing Russian roulette with 0 out of 5 cylinders loaded; and he’d still get killed every time. But what can he do? He can’t help someone that won’t help themselves, or won't– refuse to snap out of it.

So, he waits.

Devotion is a double edged sword. And Charles’ love is nothing short of devotion. 

It’s ecclesiastical, to say the least. Charles worships Max like a god, like he was his entire universe. It’s the way Max is both god and human—human in the way he had his fair share of hurt, the way he got passionate when he talked about something he liked, the way he had major anger issues when Charles beat him in karting races. God, in the way that he was able to do the seemingly impossible—pulling off comebacks never seen before, beating world records like it was nothing, and being able to handle his real life outside of racing. 

Charles is a religious man, namely Catholic. But if there were a religion centered around Max Verstappen, he’d swap faiths in a heartbeat. Max is his god, and Charles is his worshipper.

Their first meeting goes like this: the first time they met, it was at a karting race. Max was fiddling with his helmet, and Charles sat beside him, kneeling to tie his shoes—and when he looked up; they locked eyes. It’s then when Charles realised that Max is all he’s ever wanted. He stares into Max’s ocean blue eyes, expectant and wanting. Max doesn’t notice this, obviously. He’s one oblivious man, Charles will admit that. 

“Need a hand?” Max spoke, softly. It was the first and only time Charles had, and would ever hear Max’s voice sound that pure, gentle, with a fondness he’d never seen before. That made Charles instantly melt, Max could never know that, though. His hand was outstretched, like it was ready to grab Charles, like it was so sure, like it could be trusted.

It’s then when he knows that Max is his god.

And who’s Charles to not trust his god?

—UNTIL MY DEMISE, I WILL DEVOTE MY LIFE TO MY GOD. )

He’s lost so much, from Jules, to his father, to championships. He’s lost a lot, really. And so had Max. So, he supposes they were more alike than they thought. Unfortunately, they were fated to remain rivals, until the end of time—at least, that’s what everyone expected. He doesn’t want to lose any more. He doesn’t want to lose Max, as a rival or a friend.

It’s when they first met that Charles fell in love. Love at first sight, or whatever people say. Charles always thought it was fake—that true love doesn’t happen when you first meet someone—yet here he was. Pathetically in love with his rival; Max Verstappen. It’s silly, really. Realistically, Charles knew they would never work, it’d be doomed from the start, it’d be too controversial. Max was, to many people, an amazing racer, maybe one of the best. He was basically in his own separate universe, with people who worshipped him like a god. But they didn’t truly know him, at least not like Charles did.

With fame, comes burden—expectations of society, expectations to conform to society’s rulebook of life: You, as a man, must marry a woman, you must have children, you must smile for the camera at all times, you are not allowed to have emotions, and you are at all times under the scrutiny of the public eye.

Charles thinks of it as bullshit. But he follows, because that’s what is expected of him. The consequences if he didn’t would be dire. He hates it, to be honest. Max, however, doesn’t seem to give a shit about rules. Societal norms are meant to be broken, he’d think. He’s not a filtered man, he’s raw and real. He’s intrigued, really. Intrigued by how Max just doesn’t care about what society has to say about him. Intrigued by how he performs so well under all that pressure from the public and his family.

Family.

Charles has always hated Max’s family—well, mostly his dad. Jos Verstappen. Jos, the same ‘father’—and Charles says father with such disdain because he can barely consider Jos a father—the same man who had beaten Max as a child, hitting him on the helmet, pushed him to keep driving in the rain, left him at a gas station alone—all in Max’s formative years. It’s bound to fuck the man up—Charles can see the consequences of Jos’ abuse in Max—he’s aggressive, he’s closed off emotionally, he’s avoidant, he’s... traumatised. Gets skittish whenever someone mentions his dad. Flinches at sudden movement. Jokes about his dad’s abuse like it’s normal. Charles notices it all.

The day that Charles had gotten P2 and Max had gotten P3 in one of their karting races, he’d noticed how Max had that dreadful look in his eyes, like he knew what was coming. Like he was already mentally preparing for his punishment. And when Charles is walking to the benches to rest, he notices Max—with Jos—and Max was crying.

Charles had never seen Max cry before. He’d never do that. Never felt safe enough to be vulnerable. His heart breaks completely for Max that day. Max, on the other hand, was getting accosted by his dad again.

“How did you get bested by another kid? You’re not the champion I raised you to be. You’re just a useless child.”

Jos’ words are powerful. They’re impactful to an impressionable 9 year old Max. They’re also painful. So painful. Even more so as Jos’ hand flies across his face, landing a harsh slap on Max’s left cheek—and it hurts bad. All Max wanted was to die, disappear, get away. Get away from this hellhole of a life. 

Max was never one to cry. He’d learnt from a young age that crying only got him harsher punishments—a waste of time and energy, really. Jos would only get more violent as Max continued crying. So, he stopped; preferring to bottle up his emotions and putting on a brave front. It still hurt him, though. It always did. Sadness translated to anger, channeled into racing—it paid off, but at what cost?

He was useless, really. That’s all he’d been told when he failed. He was useless, Max would tell himself.

Charles didn’t hear Max’s crying. That was probably for the best. He did, however, notice the tear stained face Max wore, and bruises on his cheeks when they crossed paths again later that day. 

Only then, does he realise.

Later that day, Charles so desperately clasps his hands together and prays to whatever deity that was out there to save Max. He didn’t know how to pray—no one really teaches you that stuff—you’re expected to just know it. Charles just wants to beg for mercy, to let Max win for the sake of his own safety, for Max. They’re only 9, yet already broken and bleeding—hands outstretched; begging for salvation. No one deserves this treatment, really. Especially not Max or Charles.

Eyes, like stained church windows. Eyes are the windows to the soul. At the age of 9, Max’s ocean blue windows are shattered, left in shards; and he’s left wondering if they’ll ever be fixed. He wishes to forget all that his father has done, he wishes to let people in, he wishes that his soul can be fixed, but it can’t.

He finds that he can’t love like a normal person, that he can’t receive or give love naturally; affection doesn’t come easy for him. Affection never has exactly come easy to him, either. His father’s approval had to be won by winning races, and his mother’s approval was handed to him on a silver platter. And while Max is grateful for his mom’s love; he can’t help but crave that fatherly love, his praise, his attention. Charles knows he can give Max that praise, that love, that attention. He knows how to love, he knows how real love looks like—and Max has clearly never gotten that.

Here’s the thing: Under all that tough exterior, lies a broken child. A fragile one, prone to cracking at the slightest provocation.

Max has never been able to be vulnerable without criticism before. Maybe that’s why he built so many walls around himself, not letting anyone in. Not his dad, not his mom, and especially not Charles. He’s grown to be an impetuous man. Reckless, rash, stubborn, that’s what makes him so raw, so undisguised. Some people hate that. Some people think it’s endearing. Charles finds it fascinating. He’s the opposite of Max—reserved, shows forbearance even when provoked, puts on an act, wears a mask for an audience, crafts a fake persona—it’s all for his public image. Charles can’t be vulnerable, but not in the same way that Max can’t; it’s like if Charles is exposed, open, his true emotions revealed; put on display like a statue in a museum for everyone to judge—he doesn’t want that. In fact, it’s the last thing he wants. 

Yet, they’re just rivals. Sempiternal rivals, at that.

Their second meeting goes like this: they’re at a karting race again, and Charles is once again against Max for P1. Charles is in the lead, but when he glances back, he notices Max—well, more like a broken child with a strong exterior—he knows that if Max doesn’t win, he would probably get beaten by his dad again. Charles isn’t a cruel boy, so he lets Max win. Somewhat out of pity, but mostly to protect the other boy. It’s the first time he’s gone easy on Max, it’s the first time he’s shown that he has a soft spot for Max, it’s the first time Charles has sacrificed for Max like a reverent to their god. His worship is a slippery slope to weakness.

Here’s the thing: Max doesn’t know about Charles' little thing for him. He doesn’t know, and he probably wouldn’t particularly care, either. His eyes cast their gaze upon the crowd below the podium as he lifts his trophy in the air, cheering with a triumphance that strikes Charles right in the heart. Not that anyone knew.

The podium, to Charles, was like a pedestal; and the God standing upon said pedestal was Max. His Max.

Again, he’s totally ‘normal’ about Max.

Forced to be, honestly.

Charles has been told that people like him are not worthy. That what he and Max could be—more like should be—was just friends, and nothing more. That if they ventured further out, they would be crucified—they would be sent to the deepest depths of hell. That no one would love and accept them for being them. And by them, they really mean being who they were. Charles would be more than happy to die on the cross for Max, though. More than happy to absolve him of his so-called sins.

Max couldn’t say the same.

Their third meeting goes like this: A karting race, a podium, and a confession.

Confessions are really weird. Especially when it comes from your fucking rival of all people. Especially when you’re both 14.

Max has never been good at love. But he knows himself well enough that he’s baffled at the thought of Charles Leclerc liking him. Charles, who was now known as Ferrari’s ‘pretty boy’, Charles, who Max did not think was gay in the slightest, or at least attracted to men, was confessing to Max of all people. His rival. 

Here’s how the confession went down: It was right after another karting race—Max in P1, Charles in P2—Max was just about to walk into the garage when he feels a hand forcefully pull him into a secluded corner. He turns his head, faces Charles Leclerc. His heart pounds against his chest, hands clammy and breath now shallower, like something knocked the wind out of them. Charles notices, but doesn’t say anything. That’d be weird, he thinks. But then again, there’s nothing normal about being in a semi public yet also hidden place with just your lifelong rival. It’s actually still daytime, but this corner had shitty lighting—so there the two of them stood, facing each other, bodies a bit close, but not touching.

It really seemed like fate found a way to tether Max to Charles every time. Like it was written in the stars, or something.

“What the fuck do you want?” Max hisses, his words cutting through the air like a knife.

“Max. Listen to me.”

Charles grabs Max’s shoulders, holding on like it’s his lifeline.

“I like you.”

The air is still for a second. Max is frozen, speechless, half processing what Charles just said– well more like confessed. 

Fuck, Charles likes him? But– he’s a guy, and so is Max– there’s so much to say about that alone, not to mention the fact that Jos would 1. kill Max (and Charles) and 2. Max doesn’t even know if he’s gay himself. He’s pretty sure his father is at least some sort of homophobic; given that he isn't the best person known to man; so that wouldn’t go down well with him. There’s also the fact that Jos wouldn’t approve of any relationship in general, he’d just call them ‘distractions’ in the way of Max’s racing career. Let alone his lifelong rival, his sworn enemy, the only man who could probably beat him in equal machinery—Charles Leclerc. 

Max also isn’t gay. But even if he was, he would not be attracted to Charles, he thinks. Why would he like someone he hated? Max hates Charles, or at least, that’s what he tells himself. He hates how Charles makes him so mad. Manages to beat him in karting races, makes fun of him; and yet here Charles was, confessing to Max.

Anger is an intense emotion. The line between strong hatred and the deep longing for another person is also known to be extremely blurry—it makes it hard to differentiate between the two.

Max blinks.

“I— I'm not gay. I don’t feel the same way.” He says flatly, with no bite, words coming out more cruel than he really means to be. He purses his lips together. Watches as Charles releases his grip on Max. The vacant stare in his eyes is more than telling of how he's feeling. 

“Oh.”

Honestly, Charles thinks that Max is bullshitting about not being gay. He's seen the man.

A small pause follows. “Okay.” Charles says, barely a whisper. He can't bear to meet Max's eyes, his beautiful cerulean eyes—Oh, Charles could drown in them.

“Bye, Charles.”

Charles doesn't reply. Simply watches Max as he walks out. 

And so, here they are again. Charles, who hasn’t moved on from that fateful day. And Max, who so desperately wanted to forget that day. Charles, who was still deeply in love with Max, who would do anything for him, who still felt the hurt from being rejected. Max knows this, even until now. He can tell—the look in Charles’ eyes are more than enough—the way he stares at Max with so much admiration, so much love, so much certainty that he’s the one. And Max doesn’t really know how to feel about that; being loved is not his norm. It’s not something he’s used to. It’s not familiar.

And maybe that’s why he could never love another normally. But he doesn’t love Charles. He doesn’t even like the guy. In fact, he’d go on tangents about how mad he was at Charles (i.e. the Inchident) to anyone who would listen. It’s gotten to the point where his friends actively have to tell to stop, because sometimes all it felt like all Max would talk about was how much he hated Charles.

Daniel is most acquainted with this—he was the one that had been subjected to most of the routine Max ‘Shit-talking-Charles’ rants. Frankly, he thinks it’s a bit obsessive, on Max’s behalf. He also thinks there’s something else going on. So, when Max comes up to him one day to talk yet again, Daniel has to say something.

“Mate, what’s up with you today? You look like death.”

“It’s nothing.”

“You get P1 and say that’s nothing? I don’t believe you,” Daniel comments, adding; “Did something happen? Was it your dad again?”

“No.” Max pauses, and contemplates whether or not he should really tell Daniel about what just happened. He knows that there’s not that much shame in it, but why does it feel so wrong? Why does it feel so wrong to say that Charles liked him?

( That’s the thing, there’s not really anything to it, it’s not that weird, if you look at it from an outsider’s perspective. But to Max, it was extremely awkward to talk about, probably given his history with Charles. )

He sighs, then faces Daniel. It comes out in one quick sentence, with no hesitation.

“Charles confessed to me.”

“He what?”

To that, Daniel is genuinely in disbelief. His jaw is hanging wide open, and Max can’t help but want to wire it shut so badly.

“Yes.” He instead nods and confirms.

“Charles. Charles like Charles Leclerc? The guy that’s been your lifelong rival for basically your entire life?”

“Yes.”

“Do you like him back?” 

“Fuck no.” Max immediately says, “Haven’t you heard all the times I’ve said I hate him?”

“Mmm… yeah, I’ve seen it, and that seems more like an obsession to me, mate. You have, like, a reverse teenage crush on him.” Max chokes on his coffee at the mere thought of that. 

“That’s literally the worst sentence that’s ever come out of your mouth.”

“Okay, but it makes sense though.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“If having a crush means that you really like someone, a reverse crush would mean that you really hate someone. Ergo, you have a reverse crush on Charles.” 

Max chortles. “Please, I’d rather die than have a reverse-crush on Charles fucking Leclerc.”

“You literally talk about him 24/7.”

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

“Sure I do.” Max concedes, more just to get past this weird topic than anything else. “It’s not like it means anything, though.”

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that.” Daniel retorts, jabbing a finger into Max’s side.

The conversation doesn’t exactly end there.

“So, what’s this about Charles liking you?”

“I don’t know… he just said it?” Max doesn’t exactly recall what happened, the whole event was just kinda jarring for him. “He pulled me aside to tell me in private.”

“Yeah, I think he could do a lot better than you, mate.” Daniel comments, laughing at the sheer absurdity of it all.

Max deadpans. “Fuck you.” He says, but there’s no bite to it. 

“If you don’t know why, I’ll just ask him myself.”

“God, please don’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s fucking weird.”

“So are you.”

The conversation ends there, with Daniel leaving the garage to go talk to Charles. Man, he’s so stupid it’s actually funny, he thinks.

“Hey Charles!” 

Daniel rounds the corner, wrapping an arm around Charles’ shoulder—he notices how Charles is visibly upset. He doesn’t want to intrude, so he doesn’t pry.

“Hi.” Charles responds, his voice more monotone than usual. A bit off. “What do you want?”

“So, I heard about your little confession,” As soon as those words spill out of Daniel’s mouth, Charles' face goes pale, he swears he’s going to pass out right then and there. Confessing to Max was like confessing to his sins; not that it’s that far off. Charles supposes his deepest sin was falling in love with Max. 

“Mate, it’s okay, I’m not judging.” Daniel tries to reassure, but Charles is almost too far gone by now. “Max told me.”

“I— I think he hates me.” 

“He does not hate you.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because if he really hated you, he’d say it to your face.”

And that’s the truth, really. Because Max wasn’t that type of person—except he kind of was. Doesn’t do well with affection. Runs away whenever shit gets serious. Doesn’t know or care about his emotions—it’s all for his survival. Anger, red like the fire in his soul, is all he’s ever known. Anger, which can easily be translated into fuel for racing. Any positive emotion is deemed unnecessary, any negative emotion is thought to be obstacles in the way, useless. Max learnt to suppress it, to push it down to the bottom, never let any emotion show.

The ire in his eyes still burns strong at the end of the day.

“...I’m sorry, I just—” Charles starts, feeling more anguish than anything else. “I can’t– don’t think I’ll ever get over him.”

Cut back to the present: Charles and Max are still rivals, still racing against each other, but more awkward now. Max has been aware of Charles’ crush on him for a long time, he thought he’d gotten over it—but he’s seen all the edits and posts made on social media with the #Lestappen tag—it kinda makes him uneasy. Not in a negative way or positive way, just… uneasy. Weird. Like there’s butterflies in his stomach.

He’s also aware that Charles has not gotten over him in the slightest.

He also thinks he doesn’t like Charles—even if he was gay, or bisexual—there’s just no way he would like Charles. He thinks of the concept of them—they would probably fight all of the time, they would probably be those couples who break up with each other within the first week of dating—wait, he’s probably going on a tangent now. He’s thinking about this too much.

Max has thought about being with both men and women. He also doesn’t think he has a preference—gender doesn’t really matter when you’re marrying the love of your life—not that anyone knew that, though. He admits, he doesn’t remember if his first kiss was with a man or a woman, he’d also been on Grindr in the past—he’d explored his options, basically. But if that information were to ever come to light, he'd be fucked.

He doesn’t like Charles, though. Never will.

II. WRATH

Max is fucking pissed.

At Charles, mostly. First of all, who was he to comment on his relationship with Kelly? Max knows Charles likes him, but it’s not any of his business. Max will tell him when he’s ready. He didn’t really process any of the words Charles had said; rather just tuned him out the whole day.

He’s not a victim. He’s smarter than that.

( But; he was also only 17. 17 years old when a 27 year old Kelly Piquet decided that she wanted to ‘score’ with a minor, seventeen years old when he let himself get wrapped around her finger, seventeen years old when he would become almost completely subservient to her—if not for Charles. )

Charles was, to a 17 year old Max, a rival. His biggest rival, actually. But also, the only exception.

He’d talked to Max about shit that could distract him from running back to Kelly twenty-four seven. Dragged him into more competitions and practices. Brought him to places. Away from Kelly. Even tried to set him up with other girls (because clearly, Max did not like him). But in the end, it was all for naught; she still weaselled her way into Max’s heart.

Stole his heart from Charles.

Again, he doesn’t think he got groomed. Or rather, doesn’t accept it.

Back to Max—he’s drowning in oblivion as his mind races, thinking about what just happened a few hours ago. Without thinking, Max fumbles for Charles’ profile; and with trembling hands, blocks the number—like the absolute idiot that he is.

The absolute travesty of it all is sickening, Max thinks.

But it does get him thinking. Not too deep, but enough to plant the thought in his head. He doesn’t let it linger, but it remains at the back of his mind.

Max is… still conflicted, to be candid. He’s at home, alone. At midnight. Kids are asleep, and Kelly’s out. He has no regrets about cutting Charles off, the guy had it coming. Trying to sabotage his happy relationship? Max just chalks it up to jealousy. It’s not his fault that Charles couldn’t find someone that loved him like Kelly loved Max; He thinks.

[ He’s so naive, it’s actually hilarious. ]

He doesn’t dwell on Charles’ words. Pushes them to the back of his head. So what if she was 9 years his senior and had known him all his life. It’s not weird—it’s just true love; He convinces himself.

[ But it is weird. He can’t really deny that. ]

Still, he’s in denial. Doesn’t want to ever accept the fact that he’d been groomed—being taken advantage of—the concept itself is revolting to him. Because if he were to come to terms with that reality, he would also have to admit that he’d been stupidly blind. He’d have to accept that he had a moment of vulnerability. But;

He’s not some weak boy. He’s Max Verstappen, World Drivers Champion of 2021, for Christ’s sake.

[ Now, that’s where he’s wrong—what he fails to realise is; you can be strong and yet easily manipulated. ]

Max thinks to himself: Why does he love Kelly?

That one’s easy, Kelly had been there for him since he was 17—since he started F1—been there to emotionally support him, provide reassurance and all. Yeah, she was supportive. Sure, there was no underlying motive to her support; Max thinks.

[ But when you’re seventeen—not even an adult yet—and the person that was ‘caring’ for you is twenty six; it raises a couple of red flags. ]

Max had thought it to be just genuine concern from a platonic standpoint; Kelly had intended it to be her way of getting into Max’s life.

But he had trusted her, because she seemed dependable to him. Because he didn’t know what real love looked like—if his home life had taught him anything. His father was… violent, to say the least. Hitting him as a child, verbal abuse disguised as ‘tough love’, and the occasional leaving-Max-at-a-gas-station punishment. It didn’t stop with him, though. Jos’ abuse extended to his mother; and fuck, even the outside world.

(Did you know that Jos Verstappen once stabbed a mechanic with a fork? Yeah, like that’s totally normal.)

Max’s father has drilled into him from a young age that he ‘should’ trust those with more experience than him. Because they’re more mature, or whatnot. Max has gotten used to it over the years. Learned to brush it off, learnt that it’s the norm—for him, at least. This is normal, you’re just overreacting, he tells himself. Gaslights himself into a state of mind where violence equals ‘love’ and affection is to be earned and not to be handed out freely. Makes himself believe that he’s not worthy of love.

Max turned out to be a mostly well-adjusted individual, at least that’s what he thinks. But he can’t really be the judge of that.

So, when Kelly slid into his life, he just let her in. Because… she was his senior; because he had been taught to trust her. Because she felt… familiar? It was more like one day, she had shown up, made him feel special, made her presence significant in his life. Lent Max a shoulder to cry on, a place in her heart for him. Never mind the fact that she was 9 years his senior. Never mind the fact that he never actually had any real feelings for her—he just liked the familiarity she gave him. Familiarity feels safe, that’s why he ‘loves’ her—he isn’t aware of that, though.

[ Familiarity can easily be misconstrued as safety. It’s not the same—not at all, really. In some cases, it can be extremely dangerous. ]

The first time Max met Kelly, it was in 2015. He’d been 17, and she’d been 26—she said there had been “a lot of chemistry and magic”, like that was normal. Like it was normal for a fully matured adult to be attracted to someone who wasn’t even an adult yet. A 26 year old should’ve looked at a 17 year old and seen a child, a teenager. Not as an equal, and especially not a potential partner. There’s nothing to gain dating someone that young as a fully grown adult—other than power, control, and monetary gain. Someone she could exploit easily, someone she could own.

[ At 26, the prefrontal cortex is fully developed. At 17, key developmental changes are starting to happen in the prefrontal cortex; responsible for stuff like decision making and impulse control. So, that begs the question: Why would a 26 year old ever look at a 17 year old like they were equivalent? ]

How Kelly saw Max in a romantic light, Charles has no idea. Just the thought alone makes him sick to his stomach.

Max calls it love, Charles calls it predatory.

Kelly is, to Charles, incorrigible, like a bad habit, like an incurable disease. Frankly, it’s odious. It’s vile. It’s absolutely exploitative. Charles wishes on every star out there that Max will realise this soon.

Max is lying on the couch, contemplating what to do again. He’s blocked the guy, so there wasn’t really anything else to do. Strangely enough, he feels the slightest pain in his chest. He had never wanted to remove Charles from his life permanently—just needed a break. Especially after what had just happened—and he didn’t know the best way to get around it.

Charles was the one constant in his life, the one who had stayed through it all, and Max didn’t want to lose that.

His finger hovers over Charles’ profile, contemplating whether or not to unblock him.

He can’t bring himself to press the button.

“I’m home.” The familiar voice of Kelly calls out from down the hall, ringing in Max’s eardrums like a sweet melody—yes, he loved her. Only her. When he hugs Kelly, it feels like home. Most of all, it feels familiar. It feels ‘safe’. Never mind the fact that she wasn’t excited. Never mind the fact that she looked like she was bored, unwilling to be there.

When Kelly reaches for Max, it’s restrictive, like a noose that’s tightening around his neck. But not because her love feels suffocating—Max wouldn’t sense it anyways, but that’s not the point—she wanted control. Control over him—his life, his world. Her hands grip Max’s love in her hold—so desperate, so rough, so vicious, threatening to release at any time. Like a knife to his throat, threatening to slice it open.

How callous.

She’s a serpentine, Charles decides.

And after all these years, she’s gotten Max in her relentless hold. Waited, bided her time, been so patient and loving, then swooped Max away from Charles. His Max. Max stares at Kelly like she’s the light of his life. Kelly just looks to Max for money, love, and her sick fantasies.

Charles ponders on the thought: Max is fucking blind if he doesn’t notice how Kelly is so obviously taking advantage of him; everyone can see it, why can’t he?

The answer is obvious—Max is blinded by love. Well, it’s more like infatuation than love. It’s more that that sense of familiarity is the one binding him to Kelly. Charles will never understand how someone as good as Max ended up with someone as horrible as Kelly. He doesn’t know what Max sees in her.

“Hi,” Max responds, and reciprocates her hug. “How was your day?” He’s not feeling the best, honestly. Doesn’t know how to feel.

He thinks back to Charles, and thinks about them. Max still remembers the exact day that Charles had confessed to him—it’s burned into his memory. The pained look in his eyes, the despair, the desperation—and yet, Charles still let go. And Max let him, because he didn’t love Charles the same.

He doesn’t—except, he kind of did. He loves the way Charles has stayed, stayed through everything. It’s the way Charles has been there by him for his whole life, even if Max never let him in. He’s the one that stayed even when shit got tough, he’s the one who actively tried to set him up on dates with other girls even when he liked Max. He’s the one that made Max’s life so interesting. He’s all Max has ever wanted in a competitor—someone who he could fight without having to hold back, someone who was on his level, someone who could challenge him.

He loves Charles, but he doesn’t. And can’t, either. What would people think?

(Yeah, he doesn’t love Charles. Hates the guy, actually. At least, that’s what he tells himself.)

He also hates how he makes him feel. Hates that Charles is the one to make him feel this way. Hates that he doesn’t just feel pure hatred for him. It’s confusing, really. And Max is not good at figuring out his own emotions. He’s a mess, he’ll concede. He’s also not attracted to men (that was a lie).

Fuck that. It’s a lie, and he knows it. But he can’t accept it.

For the most part of his racing career, he’s been honest, unfiltered with his emotions. But when it comes to Charles— he can’t admit anything. He can’t, because saying anything would be like confessing to his worst transgression, an admission of guilt, a disgrace to his family name, his reputation, a curse on his life.

There’s also the fact that he’s too used to being rivals with Charles, hating him, fighting with him—frankly, anything that strayed from their current dynamic—meant that their relationship would be unusual, unfamiliar. And Max doesn’t like wandering into uncharted territory.

Maybe if they’d been born in another universe, they wouldn’t be like this. They wouldn’t have to be enemies in every universe. Maybe in another life, Max and Charles could’ve been together. But not this one.

“It was fine.” Kelly’s voice comes out flat, monotone, apathetic. Like something had shifted. Like something changed. Like he was about to lose another pillar of support in his life.

Max notices.

Something feels different in him. A mix of paranoia, shame, something he can’t really put his finger on. Maybe he had done something wrong? Why was Kelly disinterested all of a sudden?

But he doesn’t push it.

Partly because he’s too distracted with the mess that was his already sinking relationship with Charles Leclerc, and partly because continuing to talk to Kelly might make things worse.

“Okay.” He responds.

It’s then when life decides it’s time for someone to be mad at Max yet again.

“Max. We need to talk.” Kelly says, gentle, comforting, inviting. It’s enough for Max.

“Yes?”

“You barely hang out with me anymore.”

That’s a lie, actually—Max hasn’t really spent any time with anyone lately, deciding to play sim racing 24/7 instead—and when he’s not doing that, he usually takes care of the kids or goes out with Kelly.

“I do?” He says, doubtful, because he really wasn’t aware of anything.

“You keep spending all your time on sim racing– for god’s sake, Max, you’re a fully grown man! You should be devoting your life to your family, not your stupid races!”

There’s a moment of stunned silence where Max is processing what she just said. He doesn’t even consider the fact that she’s insulting him right then.

“But that’s my job,” He starts, “And I do spend a majority of my time with you and the kids—aside from races during weekends.”

“You should stop racing. And stop hanging out with your friends. I don’t like them.”

“What?” Max questions, genuinely shocked at her suggestion.

“It’s distracting you.”

“I–” He tries to reply, but he’s quickly interrupted by Kelly. “It’s me or your races and friends. Your pick. Who’s more important to you?”

The air is colder, more tense now. Then, Max voices; “I need time to think about this.”

See, the thing is: Max doesn’t know what to pick. In all honesty, he had not seen this coming.

Then, his mind shifts to Charles—his words, their conversation. “Please don't let her manipulate you into anything dangerous.” Fuck, maybe he had a point? Maybe he was right? But no– Charles can’t be right, because Kelly loves him. He reassures himself, thinking she’s just giving him this ultimatum for his own good.

But, something deep in him doesn’t believe it.

He ignores the feeling, pushes it down, where it remains unreachable. Because he needed to get his priorities straight—his family, and Kelly.

It’s all a bit disorientating for Max.

He complies with Kelly’s demands anyways.

The first week with the weight of Kelly’s ultimatum passes, and Max finds himself more stressed than ever. He’s been ignoring all his messages, not bothering to check in on anyone. It makes his friends worried. But he doesn’t know that.

Internally, Max has been facing a dilemma: Keep this facade of a happy family with Kelly up, or just leave. But he can’t leave, can’t leave the only place he’s called home for the longest time, can’t leave the comfort he finds in familiarity.

He also decides he’ll try to keep a secret from Kelly. Even he needs some freedom, sometimes. So, he’s been concealing from Kelly that he’s actually been communicating with Daniel. It’s not that big of a deal, really—except it kind of is. Kelly would probably, no, definitely, kill Max if she ever found out.

On a random Tuesday, Max finds himself lying to Kelly about his whereabouts. “I’m going to the supermarket.” He had said, but he hadn’t meant it. Instead, he’d taken a quick detour down to the bar, to meet Daniel.

“So what you’re saying is that you and Charles had a fight, you blocked him, and now you and Kelly had a fight?”

“I wouldn’t call it fighting, just…” His voice trails off, hesitant. “She’s just concerned about me. For the family.”

“Mate, I think it’s controlling.” Daniel says, serious. “No wonder you haven’t been responding to your messages.”

“Is it really that big of a deal?”

“Yeah, it is.”

“Why?”

“You think her making you decide between your friends, your job and her is healthy? What about your social life? What about racing? It just feels a bit weird, man. But at the end of the day, it is your decision. I just hope you don’t let yourself get manipulated by her.”

“You know what’s funny, that’s what Charles said too.”

“He has a point, Max.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

Just then, Max spots a probably very drunk Charles sitting with Carlos, seemingly rambling about something loudly. He doesn’t try, but he can’t help but eavesdrop on their conversation.

“–No, it’s so unfair. Why does she get to be with him and not me? What does she have that I don’t have? I swear to god, Carlos, she gives me such a weird vibe—”

“—Did you know she said she was attracted to Max since he was 17 and she was 28? That’s so fucking weird—”

“—And now I’ve lost Max too—”

“—I just miss him. I hope he’s—”

“Hey.” Charles is instantly snapped out of the trance he was in due to his incessant ranting earlier—and realises that it’s Max’s voice gracing him.

“Max?” It’s Charles’ turn to say his name, and he sounds insanely drunk. He looked like it too, the man could barely stand.

“Maxie!” Charles exclaims, puts both his arms on Max’s shoulders.

Max flinches at the nickname.

“I wanna talk to you about—”

They’re rudely interrupted by a notification from Max’s phone. He checks it, because it could be an emergency—and it turns out to be one, because it’s Kelly, asking him where he’s at.

“Nevermind, can we talk another time? Maybe text me?” Max apologises, genuinely sounding sorry.

“Only if you unblock me first.” Charles giggles, clearly sarcastic; but it hurts Max a little. Because he regrets it. “Okay,” He smiles. “I’ll unblock you.”

Max thinks Charles is messing his head up.

When he checks his phone again, he finds himself staring at the notification.

Charles: Hey, just checking, did you get home safe?

He’s deliberating over whether or not to reply to his message, before a yelling voice cuts through his thoughts, pulling him out of his thoughts.

“Max.”

“You’re late. Where were you?”

“I was shopping,” Max lies, and that’s the only time he’s lied to Kelly; though he doesn’t know why.

“You smell of alcohol, Max. Don’t lie to me. I am warning you.” Kelly, for the first time in their relationship, actually gets violent; scarily so. She shoves Max against the wall, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt as she accosts him. His body slams against the pillar, landing with a thud, sending waves of pain through him.

“And tell me the truth, because you won’t like what will happen if you don’t.” Her tone now threatening, like a dictator, controlling, unmasked, it's then when her true nature is revealed. Max is well, panicking would be an understatement, his throat closes up, and he realises he might actually be fucked—he hadn’t seen this coming. 

Maybe he should’ve listened to Charles.

“Kelly– we can talk about this—” Max tries to protest, but to no avail. “Please, I promise didn’t do anythin—” He’s cut off by a slap across the face, how familiar. It’s just like when his dad had slapped him all those years ago. That doesn’t mean it hurt any less, though.

( YIELD, FOR YOU ARE A NOTHING BUT PATHETIC— ) 

Here’s the thing: Max doesn’t know what to do now. He’s not the best at handling conflict, and he’s a people-pleaser—especially when it comes to those he loves—but he knows that this is unusual. Kelly shouldn’t lay hands on him. He wants to fight back, to retaliate—but he can’t. In that moment, he freezes.

In that moment, he becomes that 8 year old little boy that just wants to be loved again.

( —YOU DEPLORABLE WEAKLING. YOU ARE MERELY A COWARD. )

What a failure of a man he is, really.

But he can’t do anything about it.

His thoughts drift to Charles. If only he were here right now, Max thinks. He doesn’t think straight, and sends a message over to him—not Daniel, not his friends, but Charles, his rival, the man who he’d wronged countless times—again, he isn’t thinking coherently.

Max: pls come over 

He doesn’t bother to make it properly grammatised. Just sent it, and prayed for the best. Meanwhile, he’d have to deal with the situation that is… whatever this fight was. Scars line his body, the pain from the slap still lingering, and his ears still ringing from Kelly's screams. At some point, he stars blaming himself—anger turns inwards, raging, a fire in him, a war between him and his mind.

It’s 9 PM when Charles sees the notification from Max. It’s late—honestly, he’d planned on just turning in for the night; until he heard the chime from his phone. As his eyes scan the phone for the first, second, third time; Charles grapples with the decision—help Max or not?

No, he can’t leave Max alone in his time of need—he’d just be proving that no one in his life was dependable—and there’s not really any real reason to not help him—other than the fact that he was still mad at him.

So, Charles is confronted with the decision: Help Max; his god, or abandon Max like he’d abandoned Charles.

Here’s the thing: Charles is still reeling from Max’s very recent rejection, still mad at him, but still worried about him. Charles isn’t a cruel guy, he thinks, and it’s Max, so he’ll help him.

Even though he probably shouldn't.

When he knocks on Max’s house door, a sense of deja vu fills him—it’s like he’s been here before, like he’s been in this situation. He knows how this will end.

For all of Max’s life, he's been told to obey. Do as people say, follow the rules—he’s complied, for the most of it—but frankly, he’s sick of giving in. It’s exhausting, not having any freedom. His ears are going deaf from the sheer volune of Kelly’s yelling and his shaky, shallow breaths—he’s fairly certain he’s panicking.

A knock at the door, like a sign from god, comes.

For Max, some part of him feels relieved, he's honestly just thankful. When the knock comes, both of them freeze, and Max goes to unlock the door instinctively. Turns the door handle with shaking hands, still trembling from his ongoing altercation with Kelly. 

“Charles…” Max's voice trails off, genuinely shocked at his presence. “...You came?”

“You texted.” Charles responds, barely a whisper.

“Hey,” he continued. “Is something wron—”

Before he can continue, they’re interrupted by Kelly throwing a vase in their direction, landing inches away from Charles. It cracks, sending glass shards flying in the air. Max kind of stares at it for a moment, before snapping back to reality. He takes a moment to contemplate—and thinks perhaps its better to not burden Charles with his and Kelly's problems.

“—Nothing. It’s nothing.” He dismisses, “It’s fine.”

Charles doesn’t believe that. “No, we’re leaving.” He says, and pulls Max out of his house—and Max doesn’t protest, because he can’t. Which leaves Kelly in the house, alone.

The moment they’re somewhere further from Max’s house; Charles loosens his grip on Max’s hand. His eyes fall on the latter—noticing the visible bruises and cuts, presumably from the fight earlier. Somewhere in his heart, a twinge of pain emerges; for Max. For the little vulnerable, fragile child in Max, for not protecting him. For failing Max. Regardless, he persists.

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

“You have bruises, mate. That’s not nothing.”

“Oh,” Max mutters, quickly using his hands to cover the visible injuries. “Yeah, Kelly got upset with me, because I didn’t tell her I was going to the bar—”

“What the fuck?” It’s now Charles’ turn to say that, because, frankly, What the actual fuck? Who was Kelly to attack Max over something as simple as him going to a bar?

“I— I mean, I don’t really know if that was fine, or if it was my fault–”

“It is not your fault, Max.”

“But–” Max tries to protest.

“Max. Listen to me. Do you think this is normal?”

“Define ‘normal’.”

“No, Max, she’s abusing you. This is not healthy.”

“But she wouldn’t do that—”

“She would.”

“Charles. You breaking Kelly and I up won’t get me to love you any more than I do.”

“What?”

It’s then when Max realises what he just said, and technically just admitted. “No, I mean,” He sighs, pinching his nose bridge. “I don’t love you, Charles. We both know that. So why do you keep trying to separate us?”

For a moment, there is a pause, a moment of silence between the two. It’s dark outside—how familiar. Under the constellations, under the night sky, Max and Charles stand; one ready to sacrifice their soul and one hesitant to continue running.

They’re not forgiven by the stars they were written in.

“Because,” Charles starts. “I don’t come to you saying the stuff I do because I want to sabotage your relationship, I am genuinely concerned for you as a friend— my romantic feelings for you have nothing to do with this.” He states, the sincerity in his tone speaking for itself.

Max takes a moment to process what he actually said.

“Oh.”

“I— Charles, thank you.” A deep sense of warmth fills Charles at the sound of those words.

“So… what do we do now?”

“I don’t know. But just– Can we be friends?”

Max hesitates for a moment, then confirms. “Yes.”

They embrace, hug; before Max walks away. Charles almost reaches out for him, not wanting to lose this moment, not wanting to lose his god. But he restrains himself.

Are we still friends?

Can we be friends, in this lifetime and every other lifetime? Or was it fate that decided that we could never work out?

Doubts fill Charles head like waves—swirling around, never stopping. But when Max reassures him, he thinks the consolation might just be enough for him.

Maybe Max won’t abandon him.

But, point is: He has a chance. Maybe, after all this time, all the prayers and worship Charles has done has worked.

Maybe the stars have aligned and forgiven them. Absolved them of their sins.

When Max reaches home, he’s hit with a barrage of questions from Kelly—he swears it’s more like an interrogation at this point. But he manages to dodge them, manages another day of this social isolation. It’s draining, honestly. Max doesn’t know how long he can keep going with it.

That night, his phone lights up. A notification from Charles.

Charles: We’re friends, right?

He doesn't hesitate.

Max: Yes.

That reassurance is all Charles needs. The hope that maybe, they’ll be okay. The scars from yesterday still remain, but Max doesn’t mind, really. He’s just content with Charles being his friend again. Maybe they can go back to being friends.

Maybe he’s not pissed at Charles anymore.

III. GLUTTONY

Charles’ eyes are green. A striking, vibrant green—yet so green with envy, so vibrant with jealousy. Envious that it’s that bitch that Max chooses, loves, cherishes at the end of the day.

Charles misses when that spot was his.

Back then, they’d been rivals, so to speak. ‘Enemies’ that were inseparable, bound by fate to be up against each other until the end of time, but with each other nonetheless. Parallel lanes that never intersected but remained side by side.

Back then, Max and Charles were rivals. Rivals that were against each other, but were also against the world together. Now, they were against each other again—but now, it was different. They were against each other—more hostile, more like they were fighting one another than everyone else.

Max’s eyes are cerulean blue. Blue, like the unwavering loyalty he was so full of. Blue, like his trust in the ones he loved. 

Charles thinks his green mixed with Max’s blue diluted Max’s allegiance to him. It’s different with Kelly. Her blue eyes with Max’s own probably strengthened his loyalty to her.

Max’s blue, and Kelly’s blue. A perfect match, puzzle pieces that fit exactly. Charles imagines he and Max are like mismatched puzzle pieces.

Charles thinks it to be unfair.

She’s the one that took Max away from him, the one that stole him. His Max.

That witch has gotten Max under her spell, Charles thinks, but doesn’t say out loud. 

She’s a knave, really. How deceitful.

Here’s the thing: He hates Kelly, but not exactly for the reasons Max thinks. He hates Kelly because she was a predator that saw a 17 year old, naive, innocent Max—and decided that that’s what she wanted. It’s disgusting, really. Not because he wanted Max to himself—which he really did—but that was irrelevant.

There’s nothing beautiful about Kelly’s ‘love’ for Max. 

One doesn't possess true love if the same so-called love is exploitative. Heart maw red, stained with the impurity of one’s greed. 

Lust. Lust, like blood on one’s hands, a reminder of how painful it is to be so full of desire for someone. Lust, like cloy cravings. Sweet, so sweet it’s tooth-rotting. Ever consuming. Painful.

Now, things have changed. In a good way. At least Charles has Max as his friend now. Even if they’ll never be more than friends. 

( TIME IS NOT ON YOUR SIDE. YOU MUST DECIDE SOON— )

Even if they might be doomed. Even if Max is too blind to realise the situation he’s in before he’s already caught in Kelly’s control-hungry jaws, desperate for ownership over his life. Even if he realises it when it’s too late. Even if their two souls overlap yet never intertwine. Even if they are bound together by rivalry yet torn apart by it.

( —BETRAY YOUR LOVER OR YOUR LIFE. )

So many times Max didn’t see the red flags incoming, and once where he will. This is not the route that would lead him to freedom—to deliveration. Lying in his bed, Max realises he has a choice. A choice: his friends, his passion, his livelihood—or Kelly.

( THE DECISION IS YOURS. PICK WISELY. )

Max can feel his heart lurch. He doesn’t want to pick, doesn’t want to suffer losing another loved one. He stares at the scars on his hands, his arms, the blood-stained soul he possesses. It’s then when he snaps out of it.

This isn’t real love. 

He looks at his reflection in the mirror—and realises: the person standing before him doesn’t belong to him. This isn’t right.

At some point, Max’s numbness transforms into sorrow. His rage remains caged in him, instead turning inwards. He truly is a fool, isn’t he?

But he has to keep pretending.

( YOU ARE RUNNING OUT OF TIME, YOU MUST SPEAK NOW. )

Max doesn’t.

And then, in the blink of an eye: Kelly’s proposal greets him, daring to haunt him, like a ghost, like dread. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, in all honesty. Doesn’t know how he got here. He says yes, but he doesn’t really feel it.

His fate is sealed, then.

( THERE IS NO GOING BACK NOW, YOU ARE A TRAITOR TO YOUR DESTINY. )

Well, at least he has Kelly for company. Even if it’s slowly killing him. It’s like Kelly stole his soul and left him the shell. If Max could go back, he’d kneel and repent, and swear he never had accepted her proposal. Scars, scars on his body still remind him of that night—when Kelly became unrecognisable to him. When the safety of familiarity came back for revenge. To cut him open.

Yet, he stays with Kelly, because it’s all he’s ever known. Because she’s familiar. Because anything else would seem too scary.

Charles is stalking Max’s instagram on a burner account (like the fucking weasel that he is) when he comes across a post—Max hugging Kelly, Arms wrapped around his shoulders, his Max—it makes Charles sick. He notices how Max doesn’t look happy to be there, with a “Blink twice if you need help” sort of expression; and something stirs in him. He zooms in, analysing the pixels; and his eyes fall on the ring.

Wait, no. No, he doesn’t believe it. Denial is deep in his blood, he literally can’t accept this. His gaze shifts to the caption; staring blankly at it.

So happy to be engaged to the love of my life, Kelly Piquet ❤️💍

Charles’ heart immediately drops to his stomach. 

What the actual fuck?

No, this was actually weird, now. A 32 year old engaged to a 23 year old? That’s not normal. Look, he isn’t one to judge; but Kelly’s known him his entire life. Watched him grow up. Probably had an elaborate plan to prey on him. Waited for her chance to dig her greedy claws into him. 

Sure, Charles himself was no better, (i.e. see his own obsessive, everlasting desire for Max’s love for 16 years) but at least he wasn’t a fucking pedophile. 

What was Max thinking? The fucking fool. 

Charles doesn’t really fault him though. Can’t. He’s just a victim, after all. 

A sort of sick feeling overcomes him. The type that makes you want to throw up. The type that resembles when you’re three seconds away from combusting on the spot. It’s nauseating, really. His hand instinctively grips his shirt, knuckles quickly turning whiter by the second.

Repent. Repentance, like remorse for feeling so fucking strongly in love with Max—Charles wants to repent. Repent to God. Repent to Max, his god. Repent for ever falling in love with him and burdening Max with his emotions and sick desires. 

He’s guilty, really. But if all Charles can do as a human is to love his god, that’s what he’ll do. He’ll chase the ends of the world, he’ll sacrifice, he’ll pray, he’ll beg at Max’s feet to be saved. Guilt comes in waves, guilt for betraying the catholic in him, guilt for liking another boy, guilt for that boy being Max fucking Verstappen of all people, guilt for loving someone he can’t have.

Fuck.

He’s stressed. For Max’s safety. For Max. After what he’d seen last time, the scars, the way Max had that terrified look on his face—just like the one he wore when his dad had reprimanded him all those years ago—the way he was just… so broken, the way he looked so defeated.

Charles wants to text Max right then and there, even if he can’t have him all to himself. He does, actually.

Charles: Do you have a moment?

The first day of love that binds Max to Kelly like a red string dawns like this: Kelly sitting across from Max, both staring at each other, with a look of infatuation so deep and impure it’s prone to bursting and ripping at the seams. Her hair, sunkissed and smelling like honeyed sunshine as she drinks from the coffee cup that she’d ordered. The sun hangs above them, casting pools of sunlight on them—warm, warm, so beautiful, so pure—a contrast to his current situation. When they first kiss—it is romantic, it is soft, it is seemingly perfect; except it is not.

There is a sick, twisted, comfort in the knowledge that Kelly has Max wrapped around her finger—the thrill rushes in her blood, the pure adrenaline from the control that she possesses, that she is aware of.

Max was surprisingly easy to manipulate—all it took was some trust gained, and the sweet facade of a healthy, loving, relationship—was rather easy to maintain. Was rather easy to make him her little puppet.

( IT WAS NEVER MEANT TO BE, THIS LOVE IS CURSED AND WRETCHED— 

The last day of freedom dawns like this: A date, and a proposal. The rays of sunlight fall onto them, just like the first time—but this time it’s different. Red hearts, red strings, bonding them together. A ring, so shiny, glowing, bathed in the sun’s light—yet so dark, like handcuffs, like it’s binding. A curse of binding, so to speak. Kelly’s proposal feels like a siren’s call, like Max can’t say no, like he has no other choice. Like his fate is already decided in the stars.

—THIS IS NOT PURE. IT WAS TAINTED FROM THE BEGINNING. )

Five years. Five years is all it takes for Max to crack. Five years for Max to realise—

He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to be trapped in this relationship—but he finds too much solace in the familiarity that is toxic relationships. (i.e. look at his relationship with Jos; everyone hates Jos ‘Left Max at a gas station’ Verstappen), yet Max still stays by his side—because suffering is all he’s ever known. It’s molded him into who he is today. On the outside he wears a mask of being bold, tough, unbreakable; but that’s not what he is. Under all those layers of facade, lies a child that is desperate for validation, attention, love. And that makes him easy to manipulate, she supposes. Because someone who is so incredibly full of want will do anything to get what they crave—even as far as sacrificing themselves, what they are—all for some ‘love’. Even if it requires suffering, even if that love is translated into hate. Because pain is love.

Scars, scars traced around his body, scars that will never heal, scars that remain till the end of time. Kelly with sharp teeth, gleaming fangs that sink their way into Max’s soul. Biting into his skin, sucking the blood—

( RETRIBUTION. THE DAY WILL COME AND—

One day, Kelly will be condemned, cursed to eternal damnation. One day, revenge will strike. One day,

—POETIC JUSTICE WILL BE SERVED. )

There is only one way this will end. This must end soon. This will end. Eventually. 

Charles will make sure of it.

Greed. Greed, like a wretched desire. Consuming, eating away at one’s soul. Greed—Kelly’s greed for Max, wanting, hungering, eager for Max in her sinful grasp. There’s not much to it, just the perfect image. The pristine reputation she needs, wants to uphold. Flawless, the model family, the one everyone envies. Greed, greed for the comfort of the validation of strangers online.

( SMILE FOR THE PICTURE. NO ONE WILL KNOW. NO ONE—

Max doesn’t particularly care about what the internet says about him. But Kelly does, so he goes along with whatever she wants. Keeps up the facade, does whatever Kelly demands; like a dog on a leash. Photoshoots, social media posts, whatever. He goes along to make her happy, because he’s learnt it’s better to just keep people happy—because who cares if he isn’t content?

Who cares if he’s been isolated from his friends and family? Who cares if his freedom has slowly been stripped from him, trapping him in this cage that is his relationship with Kelly?

Kelly.

17 year old Max would’ve looked at her and still loved her blindly, overlooking her flaws—but 23 year old Max now looks at her in a different light (Mostly thanks to Charles). He’s gradually realising how fucked this is—but still struggles to accept it.

That’s what keeps him trapped, confined in the four walls of this relationship. 

At some point, his house that Kelly lived in and moved into starts to feel more like a jail of sorts. Less like a home, and more like a dungeon; and he’s the prisoner caged in this residency. (Kelly’s the warden.)

Time is ticking. 

—NEEDS TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS BEHIND THESE WALLS. BE A PERFECT FAMILY. )

Another day passes, and another. Max is still newly engaged—but he doesn’t feel anything. Can’t. All he feels is dread and the urge to run away. Honestly, not showing up to the wedding looks rather tempting to him right now.

He notices the text from Charles.

‘Do you have a moment?’

Fuck.

Well, truth be told, he does. But now wasn’t exactly the best time—he’s still coming to grips with the reality that he’s engaged. It’s not something Max has exactly cared for most of his life, yet it’s staring him in the face.

It’s—

( DO NOT BETRAY YOUR MIND YET AGAIN. )

Fine.

Max makes up his mind, and decides he’s going to actually talk to Charles this time. Because he doesn’t want to run away. His fingers flicker across the screen, typing away.

Max: Yes, I'm free. Where do you want to meet?

The meeting goes like this: It’s 5 PM, and Max finds himself at a café. Waiting for Charles. He doesn’t know why or how they picked out a café of all things, but he doesn’t question it. Weirdly enough, the café seems like one of those romantic types—couples everywhere, love themed shit; heck, even the music they played was romantic. Max personally finds it a little sickening, but in an ‘anti-PDA’ way, not in a ‘no-to-love’ way.

Brick tiles line the cafe wall, the sweet faint scent of coffee lingering in the air. Max is here earlier than Charles, it seems. Based on the fact that he’s nowhere to be found, it’s likely that he—

Nope. He’s here. Literally just popped out right then. And fuck, Max can’t deny that he’s absolutely gorgeous—from a objective standpoint, of course. He’s wearing a buttoned up collar t-shirt with oversized jeans, so plain and simple, yet so fucking pretty—

(It’s unfair, really. Charles is insanely beautiful. And skilled. Although he’d like to remain impartial, Max can’t deny the truth: Charles is—)

Max can practically feel his ears go red. And Charles notices.

“Mate. You good?” Charles asks, very obviously concerned.

“Huh–? Oh yeah, I’m fine.”

It takes a moment for Max to register that they’re here for something. “So… you asked if I had a moment? What was that about?”

There’s a split second of hesitation on Charles’ end before he speaks up. “Yeah, are you okay? I kinda noticed in your latest post that you were—”

Max doesn’t tune in the rest of what he said, because he’s zoned out thinking about something else; How Charles had noticed—he’s usually good at keeping a straight face, acting fine, even if he's not.

“—And congratulations on the engagement, by the way. If that’s what makes you happy, of course.”

Fuck that. He’s not happy with the engagement. He isn’t happy with life.

“Charles, I’m going to tell you something.” Max begins. “I don’t think I want–

(Inside of Max lies nothing but unbridled turmoil, deliberation; what to do? Uncertainty and doubts whirl within him: He has a choice; admit to his desecration, or run away like the coward he is.)

—to be with Kelly any more.” Max concedes.

Wow. Thank god, honestly. Charles can’t help but (internally) grin like a cheshire cat at that. He’s so gleeful, so happy, so—

But Max looks like he’s genuinely upset, and Charles isn’t that cruel, so he’ll comfort him.

So; he listens.

“Oh, I see. If you don’t mind me asking, why?”

The clock ticks.

“It’s like,” Max hesitates, “I think her being violent was the straw that broke the camel’s back. That's when I realised that this wasn't normal.” Charles reaches out, grabs his hand, puts a plaster on it, just because. Traces his fingers along the previously bloodstained skin—Max’s skin.

“Oh, and I still have scars from that fight.” If there is more for Max to add, he does. And he says it like it’s the most normal thing ever, which it really isn’t. “I think I realised how weird Kelly was actually being. It's like she was actively trying to isolate me.” It’s then when Charles stares into his eyes, and asks. Simple, direct, but compelling.

“Why did you come to me?”

Max ponders over that for a moment. Why?

Then, he responds.

“It just… felt right.”

—

Silence fills the sky; silence that shrouds, silence that reminds Max of the fact that he and Charles are two souls that can never overlap. It’s times like this that he thinks that maybe life would have been easier if Charles wasn’t a guy.

He feels terrible, he feels like shit, because all he’s ever wanted is someone that could be his equal. Someone that challenged him, someone that he could be as unfiltered with, someone that accepted him for anything—Charles Leclerc did fill that spot; but—

They’re both men.

Too bad Max is one ravenous soul. He wants, he longs, he yearns for one that is his. The one that’s just for him. What he wants, what he so desperately needs—yet can’t have. Can’t have, because of standards set up by society. Mere constructs, if you will.

Here’s the thing; Max has never been one to bend to people’s will, a rule breaker of sorts, people say. But: Some things just cannot be broken. At least, not for them. Max dating another man would be one thing—Max dating another driver would be a completely different issue altogether. Not to mention the fact that they’re supposed to be rivals, they’re supposed to be against each other, cars parallel, maybe wheel to wheel, but never colliding. And it appears the pair are slowly, yet surely inching closer. Subtle enough for no one to notice, hopefully.

Charles notices. And that’s perhaps as much a blessing as it is a curse. Charles will love Max like a god, and Max will betray him like a man. It’s such a shame that things wouldn’t turn out differently regardless of what he could do. But time waits for no one, especially not the reluctant.

So, Max needs to do something. And fast, too.

Most days, Max finds himself simply going through the motions; surviving but not living, his life is a lie. After five years, five years too long, he’s finally reached a conclusion: He can’t do this.

He can only hope and pray that Kelly will take this well.

—

“Excuse me?” Those words come out charged, loaded, filled to the brim with an unbridled anger. Max has never seen anything like it. “You’re breaking up with me?” Kelly cackles, like she’s not taking this seriously, like this is all a joke to her.

“Yes.” Max firmly says, confirming, yielding no longer. It’s then when something in Kelly snaps—and in a second, her fingers find themselves around Max’s neck, tightening like a noose, confining Max to the prison that is her.

The situation dawns like this: Max breaks up with Kelly, and shit takes a turn for the worse. Screams and the sound of cracking shards hitting the ground echo along the walls of their house—Max’s house, really—but that wasn’t important. Max finds fresh new scars painted on his body, a body that doesn’t feel like his anymore, his mind possessed by another—it’s all too disorientating for the guy. At some point, that once relieving familiarity distorts into pain, a presence that once brought comfort was now stealing it, the reason for his torment, it's like he’s in purgatory.

A knife in his back. A betrayal, one that hurts as it stabs into his wounded heart and one that stings even more on the way out. He’s a martyr, he supposes—the sacrificial lamb for his greed, in the end, it is his fault.

( BURN AT THE STAKE, FOR YOU, SINNER, BACKSTABBER, YOU—

He was doomed to suffer in his fate anyways. Meant to be stuck in this picture-perfect relationship with Kelly, meant to be trapped in the cage labeled ‘Society’s Expectations’. Destined to always learn to hate Charles, never consider him as a potential partner. 

He doesn’t want this.

But he hates Charles. Meant to hate him. Even if he doesn’t really hate him. Even if he’ll never admit it to himself—he’s slowly warming up to Charles—he knows. It’s not really of his own volition, though. It’s never been.

But then again, he has a choice. But does he really?

—OUGHT TO BE CRUCIFIED FOR YOUR SINS. DEATH WILL NOT COME EASY FOR YOU. )

A fist being thrown at Max is all he needs to activate his flight or fight response yet again. Violence, so hungry, so consuming, so tiring. Yet, Max and Kelly are trapped in this vicious cycle of push and pull—

But, Max is slowly realising. And he will fight.

He has a choice. He has a way out of this. Something in him clicks, and Max, for the first time in his life, stands up for himself. For what he wants, for what he needs. Three seconds is all it takes for Max to defend himself against his warden, the one holding him captive in his own house, Kelly. Three seconds to run out of the house, to escape, to run from this hell.  To look up, from where he lies on the floor, look to his saviour, Charles. Kneel to his saviour, worship, worship, never let go. To apologise, repent, beg for mercy.

He finds himself by the ocean when it’s late. The sun hangs high in the sky, shining a glow so warm and comforting on Max. He’s alone, alone, with no one interrupting him, no one there to annoy the shit out of him. 

He wants to be left alone, with only his thoughts as company—there’s a certain consolation that he feels from it. His hair is tousled, like always; flapping in the breeze that carries the loose strands like flying papers. 15 minutes pass, and Max is sitting on the sandy beach, just feeling the waves as they advance and recede. It hasn’t always been like this. It’s been a while since he’s felt this tranquil. It’s been a while since he’s caught a break. It feels calming, at last he finds peace, solace, an escape.

Max stares at the night sky, and thinks about freedom. So in reach; so close, yet so far. The night sky’s caliginous, with pitch black darkness enveloping the atmosphere, stars scattered and illuminating. 

He wants out. He needs an exit. Max is hungry to break free from the shackles that hold him down, that restrain him from attaining freedom, that—

But in the end, it is his choice. Not that he knows that. He has a choice, and he has to realise it fast. Fortunately, there is always someone to help him.

Charles: Hey, wanna meet up?

The sudden notification absolutely scares the shit out of Max, considering it’s late and there’s no reason for someone to be texting him at random; but it’s Charles, so he’ll reply. 

Max: Yeah. Meet me at the beach.

Within fifteen minutes, Max finds himself to be dragged out of his isolation. 

“Hey—” He greets, not before he’s interrupted by Charles.

“Mate, why do you have blood on your arms? Who did this?” A worried voice rushes out, like a cascading waterfall. To that, Max is stunned into silence for a few seconds, then hesitatingly replies, “Uhm,”

“It’s complicated.”

"So... Kelly has been hitting you?"

“Well, I guess? I don’t really see any issue with it… I think…?”

“There is blood on your arms.”

“Oh, right.” Max says. “I do want to break up with her, though.” He admits, looking a little sheepish. “It’s just…” His voice trails off, leaving only silence to hang in the air.

“Hm. I think you should do it.” 

And maybe that’s the deciding factor to Max’s internal dilemma.

Guilt pours like blood from his veins. Guilt, like a tidal wave, washes over him. Consumes him whole.

Max has given his whole life to racing, to Kelly, to his family, like offerings at an altar. Sometimes, it’s a blessing, but most times, it’s just a curse. He kneels before those he has loved, he kneels to give and give and sacrifice, and never expect anything in return. He gives everything, everything that he is—and what does he get in return? His soul, replaced by someone he can barely recognise. Invaded from the inside out.

Greed, from the people who have taken from Max. 

Exhibit A: Max’s father, Jos Verstappen. Took away any chance of Max having a normal childhood and morphed him into a champion—not really by choice. Hunger consumes, the want— no, need;  to live vicariously through Max’s achievements swallows Jos whole.

Exhibit B: Kelly. She’s a different case—more of genuine evil than greed. Okay, maybe a mix of both. Isolation, distancing Max from his friends and life. And Max thinks it’s just normal. Even though it really isn’t. She wants him in her grasp, him under her control—just Max. Forever. To herself.

How repugnant.

Kelly, a parasite, sucking the life out of Max. And Max, the host, blissfully ignorant of her. She’s a pretty one, Charles will admit that. But under that facade, there is nothing else worthy of praise. She is consumed by selfish wanting, and all that ends is the careless breakdown of Max’s precisely constructed life.

Kelly will pay. She will repent her wicked deeds; she will reap the guilty seeds that she has sown. She will pay for her sins in blood—Charles has decided that much.

The sand in the hourglass has almost reached its end. Someone must budge.

—

Sometimes, Max really forgets how much the public  matters in his life. He was never one to care about what people online had to say about him, however—

This is different.

It’s not the fact that he’s… Charles. Well, it is, but it’s also because he’s a man. Oh, and a fellow driver, and rival, and the list could go on and on, honestly. Max doesn’t know why he cares so much. But then again; Oh right, it’s Charles. He wishes this was easier. He wishes that Charles wasn’t Charles. In any other universe, this would have worked out just fine, honest to god. Yet, here they are. He isn’t in love with Charles, he thinks, but god, has the concept of them intrigued him. 

Sometimes, he wishes that this would be simpler. Something like if Charles were a girl, then Max  wouldn’t have to be crucified for the sin of homosexuality. Even if it isn’t really a sin, anyways.  The very notion that Max and Charles could be a thing stirs something in Max. Something disturbing. Butterflies? No. Maybe caterpillars.

The spotlight is painful. Frankly, Max doesn’t like it. It’s where his flaws come to light. Charles carries that spotlight flawlessly. Like a god. Bears the cross of the watchful gaze of the public eye perfectly. Always knows what to say—every response rehearsed, PR-trained, whatever. Max doesn’t know how Charles does it. He also thinks it’s a pain in the ass, and he feels sorry for the guy.

Maybe Charles is his god.

—

They don’t understand.

Maybe it’s greed. Greed for attention, greed for the validation of people—whether that be from Ferrari, strangers online, or anyone else. Max finds that exhausting, Charles finds it to be his sole reason to keep going. Max also thinks it’s silly, really. Because his, and he means Charles, genuine self is so much more raw, so open, so real; that it’s—

It’s almost lovable.

Wait, scrap that. It’s almost likeable. Yeah, that’s the right word.

When he reaches home, he finds that Kelly has left. Good riddance, he thinks. Because fuck, if he had to deal with another fight, he probably would’ve just driven himself off a cliff. He also finds that the children are gone, which bothers Max a little—but he’s exhausted, this can wait another day.

He lies in bed, staring at the scars that carved so deeply in his skin, violence seeping into his soul. Kelly’s the cause. Really, five years is too many. 

Relief is not what he should be feeling right now, if this was a normal, healthy relationship. But it isn’t, it never was. So he’ll have to make do with the fact that his relationship with Kelly was never real, in the sense that he’s— well they’re not normal. In that branch of thought, lies another; Charles. Probably the only reason why he’s not dead right now, if he’d ever admit that.

Max thinks about Charles, and falls asleep to that train of thought. Who says he’s not obsessed? It’s just like he’s always been. He is absolutely obsessed with Charles. Not that he is aware of that, or going to accept it, anyways.

Yet, his sleep is peaceful. It hasn’t been in a good while.

IV. MUSE

If Max held a gun to Charles’ head, Charles thinks he would pull the trigger for him. Because sacrifice is the deepest act of love. His greed to love, devote all his life to Max—and not let Max have any say in it—consumes him whole.

Say, if Max was any different, Charles would still fall for him; hook, line, and sinker. Max probably wouldn’t, in any universe. Maybe it was meant to be, in the way that they were destined to be apart. Opposites, or whatever.

Charles is an attractive man, he’s been told that enough times to know it. Or at least accept it as fact. It’s enough to give his ego a boost, but he doesn’t let it get to his head. He thinks Max is attractive too, (even if other people don’t think so) in his own way; the way he’s so carefree, the way he does what he wants without giving a shit about how others will react, the way he doesn’t keep his hair neat—his messy hair is honestly even more attractive than his neat hair, Charles believes.

He’s free to do what he wants. Charles also envies that; frankly.

Charles Leclerc; dubbed Ferrari’s ‘golden boy’. Charles Leclerc, who is basically forced to play the part of a god; all because he’s a Formula 1 driver. A good one, at that. Could be one of the best, if not for Ferrari and their shit team and shittier car.

Charles wouldn’t mind it if Max had his way with Charles. He’d love it, really. Being Max’s little pawn. Okay, maybe that’s too far.

Charles, the artist; and Max, his muse.

His love for Max is nothing short of pathetic—yearning for 14 years for someone who (he thinks) will never reciprocate his feelings, who will never look in his direction again after what he had done. Yet, deep in him, lies an insatiable hunger for retribution. Even if he will never get his happy ending with Max, he will save him. Call it a saviour complex or whatever, but Charles just knows he’s being a good friend. 

Max, blue, like tranquility. Calm; or is it the result of repressing his emotions throughout his entire life? He doesn’t know, and doesn’t particularly care, either. He’s not one to reveal his emotions; see: his reticent personality. Always on guard, reserved—vigilant, might Charles add.

Charles doesn’t think he’s got Max figured out. Heck, Max himself can’t even figure himself out. (See: look at what he’s gotten himself into. Again, not to victim-blame; but the man’s not exactly got his shit together. Not mentally, at least.)

Charles, red, like intensity. Like fire, passion that flows through his veins. Red, red like Ferrari. Like the loyalty that binds him to Ferrari. It just goes to show how blindingly faithful he can be. It happened with Ferrari, and it’s the same for Max.

Max is Charles’ opposite. The Yin to his Yang, the water to his fire, and the lock to his key.

And yet, Charles has managed to break down Max’s carefully, meticulously constructed walls. That, he thought he’d never do.

The very notion of that sends Max into slight rumination.

He finds that there’s even a sliver of a chance; that maybe he’s made way for this thing—this emotion, resembling the ties that bind, something that traverses across time and space, seeping from even the smallest of cracks, infecting even the purest and cleanest spaces. Nothing will stop it, even the destruction of it would only cause a resurgence. something more intense; too much, like an overdose. Eons will pass, and it will continue to subsist.

It’s terrifying, the very concept of that. An obsession, devotion, perhaps even a desire? 

Max doesn’t want to put a name to it. Any further down this rabbit hole could open Pandora’s box, and that’s the last thing he needs.

Oh right, he forgot about his situation with Kelly. Issue at hand: how to leave? How to pick up the pieces and move on? Max feels as if his life has, in the span of a day, been uprooted, like how ice cold water drenches him, like how a mirror shatters upon immense pressure.

It’s his incredibly visceral fear of new things; namely: change. So foreign, so alien a concept—even if it may be good for him—and still, it’s the only restraint that’s keeping him from just completely fucking going off the deep end. It’s an imaginary cage, so easy yet so fucking difficult to overcome. Fear truly is something.

But then again, Kelly’s just gone. And Max, frankly, has mixed feelings. One: Grief, because he did really love her, trusted her, believed that she wouldn’t abandon him like everyone else did. 

It seems like everyone in his life just had to leave, and the only thing left at the end is Max feeling like shit and blaming himself once again—it’s his fault, he fucked up, always his fault and never anyone else’s. But he can’t really blame them. Who would want to tolerate Max Verstappen of all people? Even so, who would want to be friends with him? The very concept of a person—if they are real—that accepts Max as his whole, that loves him unconditionally, that truly does love him; that concept does not seem attainable, if it is even real.

Max is holding his breath when he gets the call from Charles.

"Hello." He says, out of breath.

"Hi."

"Can I... say something?"

"Okay."

"I love you."

Max winces a bit. Well, he's been knowing that, but he cant bring himself to admit to Charles that he likes him too. But what else does he have to lose anyways?

"I love you too."

They meet up again. This feels like déjà vu. Except this time, it’s Max that’s chasing Charles. The moment Charles sees Max, he immediately runs to him and holds him in an embrace, kisses him.

The kiss is messy, it’s rough. But it’s real. It's real and it's meant to be. Yes.

Perhaps this is what real love is supposed to be like.