𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴~ Lestappen

falling

It had been a few days since Max and Charles successfully faked their stomach bug and dodged that dreaded team meeting. They’d spent the following days slipping into a comfortable routine that consisted of racing, eating takeout, and watching the most random shows on TV. Neither of them would admit it, but it was nice having a routine—too nice, even.

The lines between "teammates," "roommates," and "something else entirely" were beginning to blur, but neither of them was ready to acknowledge it. Instead, they just carried on, pretending everything was perfectly normal—despite the increasingly not normal situations they kept finding themselves in.

It all started innocently enough. Charles had taken to lounging around their room shirtless. It was a habit that had evolved from “I’m too lazy to put on a shirt” to “I’m going to walk around like this until Max says something.” Max, for his part, had noticed—and not just in a casual, “oh, Charles isn’t wearing a shirt” kind of way. No, it was more like, “oh God, why do I keep looking, stop staring, Max.”

One evening, Charles had sprawled across the couch, shirtless as usual, scrolling through his phone while they waited for their dinner to arrive. Max was in his usual spot, leaning against the headboard of his bed, pretending to watch TV but actually watching Charles out of the corner of his eye.

“Hey, Max,” Charles said, not looking up from his phone. “If you had to choose between pizza or sushi for the rest of your life, which would it be?”

Max blinked, thrown off by the random question. “Uh, I don’t know. Pizza, I guess?”

Charles smirked, still not looking up. “You hesitated. You’re clearly a sushi guy.”

Max frowned. “What? No, I just wasn’t expecting the question. Pizza’s great! Who doesn’t love pizza?”

Charles finally glanced up, raising an eyebrow. “People who don’t want heartburn for the rest of their lives, that’s who.”

Max rolled his eyes, but the smirk playing on Charles’s lips caught his attention. He felt a weird flutter in his chest—something that definitely wasn’t heartburn. He quickly looked away, focusing on the TV screen even though he had no idea what was happening in the show.

“Why do you ask, anyway?” Max asked, trying to sound casual.

Charles shrugged, tossing his phone onto the coffee table and stretching his arms out, somehow managing to take up even more space on the couch. “Just thinking. Trying to figure out your vibe.”

“My vibe?” Max raised an eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure my ‘vibe’ is all over the internet already.”

“Yeah, yeah, ‘fierce competitor,’ ‘intense on track,’ blah blah,” Charles said, waving a hand dismissively. “But I’m talking about off-track Max. You’re a mystery, Verstappen.”

Max felt himself smile despite his best efforts. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe. But I’m not wrong,” Charles said with a playful wink.

Max felt his heart skip a beat, but quickly brushed it off. It was just Charles being Charles—flirty, carefree, and constantly messing around. Max wasn’t about to read into it.

Except he was.

That night, after they’d finished dinner and Charles had finally put a shirt on (much to Max’s simultaneous relief and disappointment), they ended up in one of their typical late-night conversations. It started with cars—naturally—but, somehow, the conversation drifted into more personal territory.

“I don’t get it,” Charles said as they sat cross-legged on their respective beds, both of them clearly avoiding sleep. “How do you handle the pressure? Like, the constant expectation to win every single race?”

Max shrugged, picking at the edge of his pillow. “I don’t know. I’ve just always had that pressure, you know? From my dad, from myself… It’s like I’m wired for it. But sometimes it’s… a lot.”

Charles nodded, his expression softening. “Yeah. I get that. I’ve had moments where I just want to disappear, you know? Like, go somewhere far away where no one knows who I am, and I can just… exist.”

Max looked up at him, surprised by the sudden vulnerability in Charles’s voice. “Yeah. That sounds nice.”

For a moment, they just sat there, the air between them feeling different—heavier, but not in a bad way. It was like they were finally seeing each other, not just as competitors or teammates, but as two people who understood what the other was going through.

Max broke the silence, his voice quieter than usual. “You ever think about what you’d be doing if you weren’t racing?”

Charles smiled wistfully. “All the time. I’d probably open a little bakery or something. Nothing big, just a small place by the sea where I could make croissants and coffee for people.”

Max blinked. “You… want to be a baker?”

Charles laughed. “Why do you sound so surprised? I make a mean croissant, Max. Don’t underestimate me.”

Max couldn’t help but laugh. “I’ve gotta see this. You, covered in flour, making croissants.”

“Oh, it’s happening,” Charles said, smirking. “One day, you’re going to wake up to the smell of freshly baked croissants, and you’ll never doubt me again.”

Max felt that now-familiar flutter in his chest. There was something about the way Charles was talking, something that made him want to believe in that ridiculous croissant dream. He could almost picture it—Charles in an apron, the two of them laughing in some tiny kitchen by the sea.

He blinked, shaking the image out of his head. Where was that coming from?

“Alright, deal,” Max said, trying to keep his voice steady. “But I’m holding you to that.”

Charles grinned. “Good.”

They lapsed into silence again, the only sound the faint hum of the air conditioning. Max glanced over at Charles, who was lying back on his bed now, staring at the ceiling with a soft, content expression on his face. It struck Max just how comfortable they’d become with each other, how easy everything felt when they were alone like this.

He didn’t know when it had happened—this shift from “just teammates” to… whatever this was. But he wasn’t sure he wanted it to stop.

“You know,” Charles said suddenly, his voice quiet. “I like this. Just… hanging out with you. No racing, no media, no pressure. It’s nice.”

Max felt his heart do that annoying flutter thing again. “Yeah,” he agreed, his voice barely above a whisper. “It is.”

And in that moment, Max realized he was in trouble. Big trouble.

Because maybe—just maybe—he was falling for Charles Leclerc. And worse still?

It didn’t seem like such a bad thing.