Hate to race lestappen

Out Of Time

Charles didn't think about it much after the first time.

Okay. That was a lie. He thought about it too much, probably. But he didn't overthink it—not in the way that would've led to a breakdown, or guilt, or a "we need to talk" at 3 a.m. with his hands in his hair and his chest hollow. Instead, he just... kept going. Kept doing whatever this was with Max. Repeating the motions they both already knew by heart.

It was like falling back into a pattern that had always been there, hidden beneath the layers of fights and headlines and podiums. Something softer, protective. Something that screamed couple even if they didn't say it out loud. Even if they didn't really know what the fuck they were doing.

There was a rhythm to it now. An unspoken beat they both followed without needing to name it. Whatever they had started that night—it hadn't ended. It just kept going. Repetitive, in the way comfort is. Familiar touches, pressed into mattress springs and stolen hours.

They started going outside together—Monaco cafes in the late afternoon sun, the marina walks, shops that sold overpriced sunglasses neither of them needed. They kept their distance when other people were around. Not far enough to be cold, just far enough that no one would ask questions.

Even though Charles sometimes caught himself smiling too wide when Max said something dumb. Even though Max's hand always hovered just close enough that Charles could feel the warmth, even if they weren't touching.

Flirting came easier now. Hidden under jokes, disguised as teasing. No one looked twice—just two former enemies playing nice for the cameras. The paddock would eat that up. "Rivals turned friends," they'd say. "Maturity." "Growth."

No one would guess they'd spent the summer bruising each other's lips behind closed doors.

They couldn't pretend they were enemies anymore. That ship had sailed with the first night Max kissed him and didn't pull away.

So they pretended they were friends instead.

Because friends smiled at each other's jokes. Friends touched each other's arms lightly when laughing. Friends shared hoodies and dinners and taxis home.

It was easier than trying to explain that they used to dream of crashing each other out and now Charles woke up when Max shifted in his sleep.

They knew people would ask. Once the season started again, the media would start digging. Every interaction would be clipped, dissected, replayed in slow motion. Headlines looking for drama, for scandal. Charles could already hear the questions: "How's the relationship now?" "Still competitive?" "Friends off track?"

Someone would throw the word "rivalry" out again just to see if it still stuck. And honestly?

Let them talk.

Senna and Prost had found their peace, hadn't they? Hunt and Lauda too. Not every rivalry ended in chaos. Some turned civil. Some turned warm.

Of course, none of those rivalries looked like this.

Those were Men with legacies and cold fury, men who raced with obsession but respected each other in a way Max and Charles never managed.

Max and Charles had hated each other. They'd screamed across garages and radio frequencies. Once, they were both pulled off each other behind the paddock in Singapore, bleeding from their faces and laughing like psychos. There was footage somewhere—never aired—of them being dragged apart in parc fermé after a quali session gone wrong. Charles didn't even remember what started that one. Probably Max's fault.

Senna and Prost never had to be pulled apart in a garage with blood on their shirts.

Lauda never stood nose-to-nose with Hunt and promised to destroy him while mechanics watched in horror.