Hate to race lestappen

Rivals Set Alight

The days blurred together in that strange, quiet rhythm that shouldn't have felt so natural but did. It had started with one night, turned into two, and somehow stretched past that without either of them saying much about it.

Max packed a bag once, left it at Charles' place, and then never actually used it-he just kept wearing Charles' shirts instead. It began with convenience, sure. One of those "forgot mine" moments that led to rummaging through Charles' drawers and grabbing the first thing that didn't scream Ferrari. Now? Now Max stood in the kitchen in some white tee that might've belonged to Charles' older brother once and couldn't remember the last time he wore his own clothes.

They trained almost every day, still with their separate trainers because God forbid they got too soft, but now their sessions ran at the same time.

Same gym, different ends, but Charles always waited by the changing rooms, tapping his phone, still flushed, as Max trudged in dripping sweat. They cooked sometimes-more often they ordered in.

They moved between apartments like it was second nature, like they'd always done it. Max streamed with Redline while Charles quietly scrolled through his phone nearby, or read something, or just sat and existed. When Charles played piano, Max sat by and listened, sometimes laying flat on the floor, just to feel the sound under his skin.

At one point Charles tried to teach him a few notes-an effort that lasted maybe ten minutes before they both gave up.

They agreed Max should stick to racing.

It wasn't something they defined. It just was. And Max didn't question it because questioning it meant admitting how much he liked this-liked him.

How he caught himself one morning almost grabbing a Ferrari shirt. How he kissed Charles on the mouth, soft and easy.

Today, Max was playing a 12-hour race with Team Redline-one of those endurance ones where they took turns in shifts. He'd only be on for two hours, partially because he didn't want Charles to get too bored, even though he knew Charles wouldn't mind.

He never seemed to, anyway. He just quietly sat nearby, always just out of frame in a chair they now called "his."

Charles' presence had become so expected it didn't need explaining anymore-except for chat. Max had learned the hard way that when he muted the mic midstream to say something like, "Did you eat the last protein bar, you dick," it definitely gave him away.

"Okay," Charles said before the stream, arms crossed and smirking like he was enjoying this too much. "If they ask, we're filming some promo video together after this."

Max snorted from the sim rig, adjusting his headset. "Yeah, we're pretending to be friends for sponsor money. Keeps the fines away."

"You sound very believable," Charles said, deadpan, plopping down into his chair typing something on his phone.

"Years of experience," Max replied, before leaning over to kiss him at the corner of the mouth. Charles didn't even flinch. Just hummed in acknowledgment and kept typing.

The stream went live minutes later.

Max drove with focus, bantered with his teammates, and did his job selling the brand-his brand, his name, the image they wanted. But it was easier with Charles there. Even when chat went insane because they caught sight of a shoulder or a shadow or heard an extra laugh in the room.

"Who tf just moved?" someone asked. Dozens of variations poured in.

Max barely glanced at the chat, but he smirked a little and, mid-straight, said casually, "Special guest today."