A/N: I hated everything about that race except the Lestappen podium 💀 The more this season progresses, the more anti-Mclaren I become because their behavior irks me to no end. A small warning for the chapter: it's an extremely sad one.
"Earth to Max!"
Max jolts in his chair. He glances at Daniel, who's sitting across from him on his private jet. They're landing in Shiphol before a taxi takes them to Zandvoort. Max doesn't even remember when the plane took off.
"You alright?" Daniel asks. Worry is clear in the furrow of his brows. He reaches out to pat the Dutchman's knee. Max recoils, causing the Aussie's frown to deepen. "Max?"
"I don't know," Max admits, rubbing his tired eyes.
His conversation with Charles on the beach earlier in the week keeps replaying in his head. He thought they were fine. Perfect even. The longer Max ponders about it, the more he's convinced it's one-sided. Charles seems unsure, yet Max's fully in. Why? What did he do to cause this?
A snort escapes Max as he shakes his head in his hands. He knows where it went wrong. Loosing his head after Hungary and not telling him about running into Kelly. Those were his mistakes. He just didn't expect this to happen.
"Mate?" Daniel's voice breaks through his thoughts once more. "Answer me, please. You're scaring me."
Max drops his hands, looking straight at the Australian with his best possible smile. "I'm simply lovely."
Daniel unbuckles his seatbelt before lunching himself at the Dutchman. The bear hug feels familiar, and Max can't help but nudge his nose against Daniel's shoulder. "No tears, Maxie. Not this weekend."
Is he crying? Max didn't even notice. Now it's painfully clear, though, as a sob escapes him. Daniel holds him a little tighter: "Whatever it is, it'll be alright. I promise you. It'll be alright."
-----
Max feels like hell when he drops his bag down in front of the Red Bull Racing motorhome. His eyes sting from crying and unshed tears. He looks up at the logo gracing the walls of his home away from home. It doesn't bring him joy. This weekend isn't going to go well. He senses it in his bones. After the simulator tests in Milton Keynes, he might as well have it printed out and given to the journalists. He's not winning anything soon.
His eyes trail off toward the Ferrari one a little bit further down the paddock. They're still building it up, but the prancing horse is as clear as day. Charles... He hasn't heard much from his boyfriend since their final conversation. They were supposed to share a hotel room, but Max decided that it might not be a good idea. He wants to stay in his motorhome this weekend. Here, he can be himself. Here, no one will bother him as he plays on the sim. Here, he's alone. Just what he needs. Just what he deserves.
-----
A bell rings through the empty space, and for a moment, Max is transported back to his Monaco apartment. "Charles?" He asks, reaching out for his phone, head warry with sleep. It's 7 a.m. No one is awake but him and the one ringing his doorbell.
Getting out of bed, he puts on some team gear before heading downstairs. The area is still empty, so it must be someone on his team. As he swings the door open, he's met by drug control, who smile brightly at him. "Do you have time for us, Mr. Verstappen?"
-----
The medical crew left some time ago, but Max is too awake to sleep. He's scrolling through his pictures. Charles's happy face greets him with every slide. He misses him so much that it physically hurts.
Trying not to overthink it, Max dials Charles's number. It rings one single time before the Monegasque's small voice comes through the speaker.
"Max?"
YOU ARE READING
If Clarity's in Death, Then Why Won't This Die?
Romance"Max doesn't know what to say. His eyes draw over every inch of Charles's face. His green eyes with brown specks, the sweat dripping down his face, his lips curled in a small smile... "If only you saw yourself the way all of us do. The way I do." Ma...
