Hate to race lestappen

Hungary

FYI : In this chapter there is the Belgium race aswell and i forgot it was. So there are two spa chapters on accident. For this one just imagine its in Mexico instead. Im really sorry, once I finish the story i will fix it along with the chapter names :) Just so you are not confused later in the story <3 Thank you

Max's fingers gripped the steering wheel as he sat in his Red Bull, the roar of the Hungaroring surrounding him like white noise. His mind should have been on the race, on the track, on the launch he needed to get right if he wanted any chance of beating Oscar to Turn 1. But instead, his eyes flickered to his mirrors.

There it was. The bright, unmistakable red of Charles' Ferrari behind him.

Max exhaled sharply, chest tightening as a hundred different thoughts clashed inside his head all at once.

Did Charles understand? Did he really understand why Max had ignored him, pushed him away, done everything in his power to make sure Charles stayed as far from him as possible?

Was he angry? Would Max always be like this?

Would he always be the guy who shoved away the people who cared about him, then chased after them when it was already too late?

Max clenched his jaw, forcing himself to focus. But the more he tried to shut out the thoughts, the faster they raced through his mind, circling like vultures over a carcass.

Like—what the fuck had that been in the parking lot? They'd fought. They'd kissed. It hadn't been soft or careful, not the kind of thing Max had always assumed kisses were supposed to be. It had been teeth and hands gripping at fabric and anger that bled into something Max couldn't name.

And they'd done it sober. He almost wished he could blame it on the alcohol, like they had the last time. It would have been easier that way. But he couldn't. There had been nothing in his system except adrenaline, and nothing in Charles' either.

That was what scared him the most.
Charles had every reason to leave him. To walk away and never look back. And Max had spent the entire night waiting for it to happen.

But it never did. Instead, Charles had told him not to ignore him again.

Instead, they'd sat together in that hotel room, talking until exhaustion won, until the weight of everything pressing down on them finally loosened just enough for Max to close his eyes without seeing ghosts.

And now, just days later, here they were.
Max Verstappen, sitting in his car at the Hungaroring, stalking Charles Leclerc in his mirrors.

God. He was fucked in the head. Because if he was being honest with himself—if he really let himself think about it—then none of it made sense except for the part where Charles looked at him with fear in his eyes and Max ran after him without a second thought.

It had been instinct. Pure, uncontrollable instinct. Some guys had touched Charles. Some guys had grabbed him, dragged him, tried to take him somewhere he wouldn't have come back from, at least not sane.

Max didn't care who they were. Didn't care why they did it. Didn't care that it was reckless, that he hadn't even stopped to think.

He just knew that Charles was in trouble. And there was no universe in which Max wasn't going to be there when Charles needed him.

So yeah. Maybe he had stalked Charles.
Maybe he had fought a group of men like he had nothing to lose.

Maybe he had kissed Charles like he was trying to take something from him, and maybe Charles had kissed him back just as hard.

And maybe—just maybe—he had dumped his entire fucked-up existence on Charles' lap in the middle of a hotel room over a fucking pizza.

What the hell was wrong with him?