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Repetition is the most honest form of confession. When a sentiment, habit, or flaw is repeated, it strips away the layers of denial. It proves that the action — or the truth behind it — is undeniable. In psychology and spiritual practices, this repetition reveals that the underlying desire or struggle is too persistent to ignore.
Max knows this. But knowing is often not the same as understanding, or applying the said understanding, and Max supposes that’s the reason why he got into this situation in the first place.
Listen, Max is someone who believes in repetition, routine, habit; anything that keeps rust roest at bay. He thrives in order, despite what the majority of people who know of his existence think of him. His father, a man he doesn’t like thinking of often, taught him that though a man may lie, his patterns rarely would.
Max’s routines usually looked like this:
Monday — wake up, eat, scroll through his personal ig, gym, cough up a storm, simrace, eat, simrace, pet Jimmy and Sassy, gym, eat, yap to Charles, simrace, sleep.
Tuesday — wake up, eat, yell at his team for shit car, gym, simrace, cough up a storm, eat, simrace, pet Jimmy and Sassy, gym, eat, simrace, yap to Charles, sleep.
Wednesday — wake up, eat, pray for McLaren’s downfall, cough up a storm, gym, simrace, eat, simrace, pet Jimmy and Sassy, gym, eat, simrace, yap to Charles, sleep.
Thursday — wake up, eat, cough up a storm, yell at his team again for shit car, gym, simrace, eat, simrace, pet Jimmy and Sassy, gym, eat, yap to Charles, simrace, sleep.
Friday — wake up, eat, scroll through his personal ig, gym, simrace, eat, simrace, cough up a storm, pet Jimmy and Sassy, gym, eat, simrace, yap to Charles, sleep.
Saturday — wake up, eat, learn more geography facts to impress Charles, gym, cough up a storm, simrace, eat, simrace, pet Jimmy and Sassy, gym, eat, yap to Charles, simrace, sleep.
Sunday — wake up, eat, cough up a storm, scroll through his personal ig, gym, simrace, eat, simrace, pet Jimmy and Sassy, gym, eat, simrace, yap to Charles, sleep.
Of course, the schedule changes completely if it’s a race weekend. He’s mostly on autopilot when that happens, though, mostly because he would rather think about the track and Charles when it’s race week.
Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays of race weekends tend to be unpredictable, mostly because travel comes into the equation, but Max tries his best to keep his usual routine intact on these days.
On Thursdays, Max will be going through hell and back (officially called media duties), and then he would try to strike up a conversation with Charles, and he would give Max a look that he still hasn’t figured out, and then Charles would say something in French when his media head yanks him away from Max, and then Max will feel a ping in his chest, right where his heart is.
He reckons it’s a heartbreak, and he reckons it will lead to broken heart syndrome at some point, but Max isn’t too keen to worry about it yet.
Then Friday would come, and Max would drive the shit car during FP1/2 (routine varies in case of sprint race weekends) and hope for a miracle, and then that miracle wouldn’t happen because McLaren has apparently replaced their shit cars for rockets in 2024, and Max would talk about it to Charles, and Charles would tease him about 2023, and Max would argue that it was different, because you like seeing me on top anyway, to which Charles would respond in French, and, fuck, Max should really start learning French, like, yesterday. Except he won’t, because of principles, and Charles refusing to learn Dutch for him.
Max won't learn French for a man who wouldn't learn Dutch for him. His standards are set in stone.
On Saturdays, Max would crack his eyes open, pray for McLaren’s and Mercedes' downfall, pray for Charles to look at him with those beautiful green eyes, and then he would absolutely butcher that free practice and then proceed to mess up the qualifying too. But at least Charles would wink at him terribly, so Max considers those things small wins.
And then on Sundays, Max either pulls a miracle and gets a podium, or Charles pulls a miracle and gets a podium, or both of them pull a miracle and get a podium, or both of them sit on the floor between their motorhomes and bitch about McLaren and the evil (affectionate) twinks (derogatory).
But it's the Monaco Grand Prix this weekend, and just like the year before, and the year before, and the year before that, Max’s routines have been fumbled with. And by that, he means that he hasn’t got a chance to yap with Charles, let alone see him for the majority of the week.
But today is Sunday, May 26th of 2024, and Charles is starting on pole, and it is his home race, and also his most cursed race, because Charles has not done well here, ever, despite getting pole here before, but Max feels it in his bones that this one is coming home.
And it did, for the first time in ninety-three years, Charles brought it home. A home race winner, Il Predestinato, Prince of Monza, now Prince of Monaco.
Max would be fine with putting a hold on his coveted yapping sessions if it meant he could see Charles smiling on the top step. Actually, no. He wouldn’t trade his yapping sessions for Charles winning a race, but he would definitely — okay, never mind. Max is not trading his yapping sessions with Charles for anything. He may be magnanimous in victory and gracious in defeat, but he, too, has his limits.
But despite all that, Max is damn proud that Charles finally got this one.
He decided to show how proud he is by attempting to dap Charles up while he was giving an interview to Chanel+. ‘Attempting to’, because the moment Max extended his hand to interrupt Charles mid-interview, Charles turned and immediately pulled him into a hug. Max has never been to paradise or had a chance to even lick it, but being this close to Charles, with his nose buried deep into the brunette’s covered neck, Max believes that this might be it.
“Congratulations, Charlie,” Max spoke into the fabric, unable to hide his grin. He is high off champagne, despite not tasting it. Perhaps Charles was the champagne all along. Maybe the ‘cha’ in ‘cha’mpagne stands for Charles. Cha-mmmhm-pain — Champagne. Yes, surely.
“Merci, Max,” Charles says, and Max can feel the grin on his shoulder, the outline of his teeth gracing Max’s fabric, causing him to enter a trance of sorts. Max hopes Charles will win in Monaco every year because this is the best hug they have shared. 10/10, would recommend again.
Charles pulls away from him a bit, causing Max to almost whine, but he doesn’t, and he wants it to be on record; MAX. EMILIAN. VERSTAPPEN. DID. NOT. WHINE. FUCK. YOU.
The green eyes meet his blue ones, and Max can’t help but smile at them. “You did so well, Mijn neukerdje,” he says before he can physically stop himself, and he hopes against everything that Charles doesn’t know what that nickname means, because Max really doesn’t want to have this conversation right now.
All of Max’s worries leave his body because Charles grins so wide that Max thinks he’s going to burst at the seams. It’s surely going to be a sight. “J’ai vraiment envie de toi,” Charles whispers, and takes his hands off Max’s shoulders.
Max doesn’t whine at the loss of contact, fuck you.
But before Max could ask what the whole ass French sentence was, Charles was immediately dragged away by the media personnel to the interview. He thinks about the sentence, but then remembers that he doesn’t have superhuman memory and, ergo, doesn’t remember a lick of what Charles had said, which is great.
Max seriously needs to learn French.
He does not see Charles again after that incident in the media pen, unless he counts the podium celebration, which he doesn’t, because Max did not get to watch Charles from P2 or P3, but from the crowd, and he reckons that doesn’t feel the same.
He doesn’t catch Charles after the podium celebration, though that was expected. Charles is, after all, a winner in Monaco, which means he will have to go to the palace with the Royal Family and vibe with them for a bit. Max reckons he will end up on a yacht by the end of the night, drunk off his brain cells, so Max is not too eager to annoy him with his yappings.
Max goes back home after getting a pat from Christian for the shit P6, and whispers, ‘We will be better in Montreal, Verstappen,’ to which Max said nothing, because he would rather not speak at the moment.
He walks into his apartment, pets Jimmy, gets ignored by Sassy, walks to his bathroom, takes a second shower, returns to the living room and plops on the couch. He does all this within twenty-five minutes, and he hopes to get the championship trophy for this alone, but he supposes that’s not how it works. McLaren is going to steal the championship, and Max is going to be left with his three WDCs, and he’s going to die alone, because Charles is not going to love him back, at least not the way Max loves him, and that’s alright because —
Sassy is on his chest now, trying to make dough out of his stomach. Her tail is essentially slapping him on either side of his face as he lies on the couch, staring up at the ceiling, contemplating life.
The thoughts got too dark too fast, so Max resorted to texting Charles, even though he was almost ninety per cent sure that Charles wouldn't respond.
charlieeee
wut r u upto
Max watches the clock turn to one tick, turn to two ticks, but the grey doesn’t change to blue, which means Charles hasn’t seen them yet. Max contemplates death.
Sassy is done with kneading his stomach, or he assumes she is, because she steps off his body, not having a care that she stepped right on his dick, and then jumped off the couch.
“You are an asshole, Sass,” Max groans as he clutches his pearls. “I’m gonna sell you to Lando for free.”
Sassy might have understood the gravity of the threat because she immediately looked up at him with her best puppy dog eyes. Max still doesn’t know how a cat can pull that off, but apparently, his cats are overachievers, and he isn’t surprised anyway.
Max looks back at his phone to see if Charles has seen the message yet. He has not. Max is not surprised by that either, but it doesn’t cause him to not groan into the coach.
Sassy comes back and sits on his chest again, staring at him as she licks her paws. Max doesn’t understand why she’s so touchy today, but he isn’t going to question her intentions as long as the result is getting closer to her. Worst-case scenario – he might get killed in his sleep.
“Sass, I called Charlie Mijn neukerdje today,” Max explains as he puts a hand on Sassy’s fur, lightly petting her. “Do you reckon he understood what I said? No, right?”
Sassy doesn’t provide a response, which is understandable. Sassy is a cat.
“I mean, sure, we have had sex, like, once.” Max continues talking aloud. “And that was, what, a decade ago? I doubt he even remembers it.”
Sassy is licking her other paw.
“But that’s no excuse to call him th—that. I mean, what was I thinking?” Max watches as Sassy kneads his chest. It feels nice, and Max supposes that’s probably why he hasn’t coughed much since lying down. Actually, he hasn’t coughed much all day. Perhaps correlation does not imply causation, after all. “I was probably not thinking. Maybe seeing him win had me hot and bothered and— and yeah, I just. Talked. At least Charles doesn’t know Dutch, right?”
Sassy looks at Max as if to say, ‘You are a dumbass,’ but Max supposes she was trying to say, ‘I will kill you in your sleep, Father.’ He still hasn’t figured out the fine art of deciphering cat whispers.
“I should stop worrying about this anyway,” Max whispers as he reaches for the remote. He’s going to watch the replay of today’s race.
And yes, he did say Monaco is the worst circuit, but it’s still his favourite person who has won the race, so give Max a break.
It seems like Sassy was judging him, too, so Max fixed her with a look.
Max is about to say something when suddenly a mass of darkness flies over his head and lands on his stomach, causing Max to shoot upright. Pain burrows through his skin, spreading from his chest to his stomach, and from his stomach to his chest.
The cats ran away at his sudden movement, but Max can’t worry about them too much, because he’s heaving, he’s heaving, and it hurts, and he can’t breathe.
The pain is somewhere perilously close to his heart, and it radiates outward, threading itself between his ribs, prying them apart from the inside.
His bones ache with it in a strange way, and his skin, stretched tight over it all, becomes hypersensitive, every nerve lit and trembling, every inch of him acutely aware of the pain. He cannot tell where he begins and where the ache ends, only that it is everywhere all at once. It is coiling around his lungs, pressing against his sternum, taking root in the hollow space of his chest.
Max is now bent forward and gasping, unable to do anything but endure it, and he’s coughing, but it’s different from what he is used to; this feels worse, and wet, and dry, and full, all at once, and he doesn’t know what to do except try to breathe and try not to choke and and —
He coughs, he coughs, he coughs, dragging him forward, and there’s something wet splattering out of his mouth violently, but he can’t pay attention, because he’s trying to catch his breath, but he can’t fucking breathe, because something is lodged in his throat, obstructing his airway.
Panic claws in, followed by more pain. His eyes are watering, his heart aches, and his chest aches, and it feels like the pain is blooming from his core, from his aorta, and spreading to every point in his body, and he tries to stop the fit of coughs.
The pressure in his chest begins to recede slowly, retreating in increments; his ribs no longer feel like they are being pried apart, his heart has begun to steady, but his breathing is taking more time to even out, so Max concentrates on that.
He stays where he is, hunched forward, one hand braced against a cushion, the other hovering near his throat. He inhales again.
Air fills his lungs, and for a moment, he holds it there before exhaling slowly.
The room comes back to him gradually. First, the silence. Then, the sound of cars moving fast on the telly, with the Italian commentator’s voice cutting through it. Max doesn’t remember when he clicked on this video, but he isn’t going to complain.
And just like that, everything comes back to normal. And by everything, he means everything.
Well, not quite everything.
Because when he lifts his head, his vision sharpens enough to take in something beyond the vague patterns in the room, he finds Jimmy and Sassy sitting on the coffee table a few meters away, and between them, beneath them and on them is a small scattered pile of something that does not belong in his living room, something soft and irregular and —
Are those —
— petals?
Max frowns as he leans forward slightly, looking at the mess on the coffee table. Sassy gives him a disapproving look. Max ignores it because he has more things to worry about.
Case in point: Petals. Red petals. Soaked red petals. They are darkened at the edges, glossy in a way that catches the light just to confirm what his brain had already processed.
Blood.
His eyes follow the trail of blood-soaked petals on the coffee table and then onto the floor between him and the mess, and he sees more petals splashed right over his white marbles.
He studies the pile, tilting his head slightly.
Neither the blood nor the petals were here before his coughing fiasco, so Max arrives at the only conclusion available to him.
He coughed the petals covered in blood out of his body. Out of his lungs, more specifically.
“Huh,” Max says with a staggering IQ of 103. “Well, this is inconvenient.”
❀ ✿ ❀ ✿ ❀
Hanahaki follows distinct seasonal cycles which influence the onset and progression of symptoms, the article reads.
He has heard about the disease before, of course. Pierre’s got it, or at least that’s what Yuki told Max.
Jimmy slides off his lap and goes to fuck-knows-where, leaving Max with the petals and the blood and his laptop as he continues reading from the couch.
During spring, germination occurs, marked by the accelerated onset of symptoms. In summer blah blah blah stabilisation blah blah more manageable, blah emotional suppression.
May is technically spring in Monaco, Max reckons. Perhaps that’s why he coughed up this mess.
Autumn… expulsion… coughing phase — physically painful.
He looks incredulously at the screen. But it’s May, and May is spring in Monaco, so he’s going through whatever germination bullshit symptom this is. Except coughing is for autumn, and autumn’s only until September.
Max is questioning the legitimacy of this page the more he reads it.
Winter represents dormancy, where symptoms are significantly muted but not fully absent.
Once the condition is triggered by a specific individual, it does not reset. Instead, it remains permanently reactive, with symptoms re-emerging whenever emotional or physical proximity is re-established.
Oh. Oh, fuck.
“Kids, I think I am gonna die if I look at Charles ever again,” Max whispers to the cats. “Fuck this shit.”
He scrolls past a few random stuff, not imagining they would be of significance, but his eyes caught the title ‘Flower Taxonomy’.
Max skims through it, something about romantic emotional responses typically manifest as roses, camellias and blood lilies, while brotherly attachment is daisies, lilies and violets. And paternal attachment is—
He pauses and looks down at the mess. He picks up a petal and looks at it more closely, squinting at it.
It’s red, surely. It’s red without the blood, too.
Max takes a sniff of it, and besides the ferrous smell, he’s also catching remnants of rose. Hm. His suspicions were right, after all.
That motherfucker in Ferrari is the reason why he’s dying. Is this their new Italian strategy? ‘Coz it’s shit.
“McLaren is winning, you moron,” Max whispers fondly as he takes his phone out to check for any replies from Charles.
Max
charlieeee
wut r u upto
Charlie
tu peux me faire l'amour quand tu veux
tu peux me garder autant que tu veux
maxie tu me manques
je suis ta petite pute
Right. That’s definitely something important that Charles is trying to tell him. Max tries not to roll his eyes as he puts his phone down. He has bigger things to worry about, bigger things than translating whatever French nonsense the Monegasque has typed out.
Charles usually sends long-ass texts like these, expecting Max to somehow decipher it. Max chooses not to, upon principle, and also out of spite.
Besides, Max doesn’t traumatise Charlie with Dutch, so why wouldn’t he get the same treatment?
A quick view to the past reminds Max of what exactly he had called Charles this morning, but Max chooses to forget it… also out of principle.
(It’s a good thing Charles doesn’t speak Dutch. Max is NOT good at controlling himself when he’s around Charles)
Anyway, none of this matters right now. What matters is that Max now has Hanahaki, and he needs to solve this somehow. Hopefully, without having to kill Charles, he quite likes that man, despite popular opinion. Reference: le inchident circa 2012.
His eyes drift back to the laptop screen, which now has the title ‘Thorn Mechanics’. What in the ever-loving fuckity fuck.
Thorn development increases in response to emotional denial, sustained physical proximity without acknowledgement, and suppressed jealousy.
Max reads on with devastation, only to come to the conclusion that he will either have to kill Charles or tell Charles.
Thorn severity is classified into multiple levels. Mild irritation presents as persistent background pain. Tissue tearing results in intermittent speech interruption. In severe cases, lung obstruction may occur, leading to collapse episodes under emotional or physical stress.
And Max is dealing with none of that tissue-tearing lung-obstruction bullshit. He’s not suffering at the hands of a man who’s built like he’s Ares’ and Aphrodite’s son.
He needs cure cure cure where’s the cureeeeeee—
Acknowledgement of the underlying emotional cause results in a reduction of symptom severity but does not eliminate the condition.
Fun-fucking-tastic.
Following admission, symptoms become intermittent rather than continuous, and pain is reduced to a chronic but non-lethal level. However, recurrence remains possible and may be triggered by emotional spikes or separation events.
This is all Charles’ fault. All of it. Max is gonna die on this hill because Charles couldn’t stop looking so freaking pretty for even a fucking second, that absolute flipping moron.
His eyes drift to the next title, ‘Additional Optional Mechanisms’.
Shared exposure effects may occur when multiple affected individuals are in close proximity, resulting in synchronised symptom expression.
… That sounds an awful lot like that one time when Victoria said girls tend to have synchronised periods if they spend too much time together.
Max isn’t sure if that’s true, but it is the first thought that graced his brain. So.
So.
Well.
“Jimmy, Sassy, here are my options,” Max says, his head tilting towards the ceiling. “Option A, I could hide this and avoid Charlie at all costs. This is not happening because I refuse.
“Option B, I tell Charles. This could end in two ways. Way 1: Charles says buongiorno, Maxie baby, let’s get married. Way 2: Fuck you, Maxie baby; we should continue being friends just like we said when we were seventeen after we had drunken sex, which we (both?) regretted the next morning.”
Max stares at the cats. They do not provide him with any sort of wisdom.
“Option A is a no. Option B Way 2 could potentially kill me. Option B Way 1 is most favourable,” Max concludes, sitting up straighter. “Wait, should I call Charles?”
The cats continue to stare at him with ridicule. He gets it, too. He, too, would be traumatised if his owner puked out roses and then continued talking to himself about his long-time crush.
Max takes his phone from the cushion and goes to his favourite contacts and clicks on Charlie. “I’m gonna call him.”
ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring
“Mon roi, heyyyyyyy,” Charles screams into Max’s ear, which he always loves, especially when it breaks his eardrums into pieces. “Guess whatttttt????”
“What?” Max says, softly, even though he can kinda guess where this conversation is going.
“I have won Monacooooooo,” Charles screams, and Max distances his phone from his ear a tad bit. “Do I get a treat from you?”
Max chuckles, but then coughs, and then he remembers the real reason why he called Charles in the first place. But that could probably wait a minute, no? “What do you want, Lieffie?”
“Hm,” Charles hums, and Max can faintly hear the song playing in the background. “Un bisou?”
“Charlie, you know I don’t speak French.” Max has half a mind to just translate it, but he reckons it’s pointless when he could just ask him to say it in English. “English, Lief.”
“I want you here, Max,” Charles says, this time more a whisper than a shout. “Can you come pick me up?”
“Yes, of course, Schat.”
❀ ✿ ❀ ✿ ❀
Max reaches the location that the Find My app is showing. He had told Charles to stop walking to his apartment at this time of the night, to which Charles had responded, ‘I’m the KING OF THE WORLD NO ONE’S GOING TO TOUCH ME.’ And Max didn’t want more of that sweet voice screaming into his ears, so he decided to just track Charles down.
If Charles dies, Max also dies, so that’s kinda great too.
He looks at the harbour side in hopes of saying a hair full of brunette, and lo and behold, it’s Charles, sitting by the waters, looking up at the stars.
It’s a wonder no one has recognised him and kidnapped him for ransom. He is, after all, the most important person in Monaco today.
Max gets out of his car and walks towards Charles. The brunette hasn’t noticed Max’s presence yet, so Max sits down next to him. Charles turns back, and when he recognises his friend, he beams, showing off all his teeth. By the way he is wobbling a bit, Max can tell he’s still got that alcohol in his system. Not by much, but it's still there.
Charles looks at Max’s Red Bull hoodie, his Puma shorts, and then back at Max’s eyes. “C’est pour me chauffer que t’es aussi sexy?”
Max didn’t catch a lick of that except — “Wait, did you just call me sexy?”
Charles rolls his eyes, giving Max more attitude than he usually does. Max supposes the liquor is holding weight here. “You should seriously learn French, Maxie. You literally live in Monaco.”
Max shrugs as a response. He doesn’t speak French because Charles doesn’t speak Dutch. Simple as that. “So?”
“So?”
“Did you just call me sexy?”
“No,” Charles says, and his eyes dart back to the sky. “What I said was much more poetic. But you don’t deserve to know that because you are — how do you say — disrespectful.”
It’s Max’s turn to roll his eyes. “And how, pray tell, was I being disrespectful?”
Charles turns back again and puts a hand over Max’s shoulder, bringing them closer to each other. “You refuse to learn French! That, that is very disrespectful!”
“And you refuse to learn Dutch,” Max says, booping Charles. “I would call that even.”
“But Dutch is difficile!” Charles says, frustrated. His hand continues to run through Max’s hair, slightly pulling at the roots. “French, on the other hand —”
“It's like trying to talk through a horn.”
Charles gasps. “Blasphemy!”
“What are you going to do? Tell the Prince?” Max chuckles as he boops Charles again. At this point, he needs a certificate for successfully ragebaiting Charles Leclerc every single time. “I know you would never snitch on your number one best friend like that.”
“Who said you are my number one?” The brunette asks as he pulls at Max’s hair a little more harshly. Max yelps. “Lando might be my number one. Actually, Oscar is quite good too, I reckon.”
“Oh, is he now?” Max whispers, but there’s no serious hurt in his tone. At least, there wasn’t until he felt a familiar pang in his chest. Right. The reason why he’s here in the first place.
“Listen, Charlie,” He says, sobering up. If he’s going to have this conversation, might as well do it with the stars as witnesses. “I have to tell you something.”
“Is it that you have finally decided to learn French??” Charles asks, and he genuinely lights up that Max kinda feels bad about telling him that no, actually, I will never learn French. Also fuck you.
So he just… doesn’t say that. He instead gets directly to the topic.
“I have Hanahaki,” Max says, and closes his eyes to exhale without having to see the reaction. But when he senses that Charles hasn’t said anything yet, he opens his eyes slowly.
Charles is looking at him with his greens filled to the brim with tears that Max wishes he had said the whole Fuck The French monologue instead.
It’s too late now.
Charles is properly crying now, so Max pulls him completely onto himself, with Charles halfway on his lap. If Max were to suddenly move from this position, Charles would be in the water. Max is not going to move, but he just likes to know that the choice is there, just in case Charles picks Option B Way 2. But of course, Max won’t do it.
No, he won’t.
Nope.
Charles sniffles onto Max’s hoodie and looks at Max with such sad eyes that Max wants to wrap him up in a blanket and hide him from human civilisation forever. But then Max remembers that Charles is sad for Max, so the chances of Charles wrapping him up are higher.
“But… But you were fine in the morning,” Charles sniffles, holding the front of Max’s hoodie in fists. “You weren’t… You didn’t… Who…”
“I read some things regarding it,” Max says, “And apparently there’s germination, stabilisation, expulsion and dormant phases. But if you are close to the trigger, expulsion tends to happen despite the phases.”
“And… and you.”
“Yeah,” Max whispers, keeping a hand on Charles’ hip to make sure he doesn’t roll off into the water, while the other comes up to hold his cheek to wipe off the tears. “I got home after the race and then just… projectile vomited flowers.”
“Which… Which flowers?”
Max didn’t think Charles knew much about Hanahaki, but if he knows the significance of types of flowers, then Max supposes this conversation could work out a lot more easily.
“Roses,” Max says, but decides not to mention the blood. At least, not yet. Mayhaps he will mention it when Charles stops crying, which could be a few minutes from now, or never. It’s very difficult to tell anything when it comes to him.
“Oh,” Charles whispers, and it’s a sound that’s so soft that Max wishes he had never told Charles about this. “So… Who… who are you in love with besides m— whos are you in love with? Daniel?”
Max doesn’t howl out a laugh and accidentally pushes Charles off his lap and into the water, but he’s fucking close. “I’m sorry… Daniel?!? Out of all the people, you landed on Daniel??”
He chokes again, but this time it’s more ridicule than pain.
“What?” Charles whispers, still sounding sad. Max doesn’t understand why Charles is still crying. Does Charles seriously not know that he is the reason Max got Hanahaki, and he could absolutely fix this by staying with Max forever and ever and ever?
“What?” Max mirrors him.
Charles shrugs. “Daniel is charming. Besides, it's not like I know your type anymore, Verstappen.”
Verstappen? Oh, this is new.
Max pulls him closer, so now Charles is fully on his lap, sitting sideways, with a hand wrapped around Max and the other still fiddling with his hoodie. Max puts a hand on Charles’ chin to make him look at him. Charles does, and Max sees a mix of sadness and anger in those eyes.
“Is it Checo then?”
“Schatje, you are just making me laugh now,” Max says, completely serious. There’s literally no way in heck and back that Charles is this dense. Surely.
Charles worries his lips by biting on them. “Is it not someone in the paddock then?”
“Liefe,” Max whispers as softly as he can, looking right into those green eyes. “Who took my virginity?”
Max has the privilege of seeing Charles Leclerc blush under the starry sky. “...Me?”
“Uh-uh,” Max nods, but doesn’t stop staring at the beautiful redness spreading all over his cheeks. “And who has been with me since then, despite not having sex ever again?”
“Me,” Charles says, “but that was because we both agreed to put our careers in front. Besides, you were joining F1 in a month, so I didn’t—”
“Shush, shush.”
“—Did you just shush me?”
“I’m trying to make a point here, Liefe.” Max puts a hand over Charles’ hair, patting him a bit. “I will give you time to do your leclarifying later, k?”
“Ok.”
“So I think what happened is that I forgot to stop being in love with you,” Max says, trying to speed up the convo before Charles interrupts again and tangents the fuck out of it. “Which is my fault, completely. But yeah, it has caused me this chronic illness now.”
“You… you.”
“Yeah. Me.”
“No… you,” Charles stares in ridicule. He pushes Max off and stands up, almost tipping over onto the water, but he catches himself before Max will have to yank him back. “You!”
“I’m not getting the vibes you are going for, Schatje,” Max says. This is going better than he thought. By the looks of it, Charles is picking Option B Way 2, and Max is picking Option-méditerranée Way-throw-this-french-toast-right-in.
Both of them are dying tonight. Charles will be Romeo to Max’s Juliet. Or vice versa. He’s not too picky with his Shakespearean comparisons.
“You are in love with me,” The brunette says, only a decibel off a proper shout. Max gets up too, figuring that sitting down and looking up at Charles will crane his neck even though he’s happy to have Charles on top.
“Yes, I know I was pretty good at hiding it.”
“You were shit at hiding it.”
Max stares in disbelief and a ton of other similar emotions. “Excuse me?”
Charles runs a hand through his hair and looks up at the sky, presumably to scream. Max is grateful that he doesn’t, though.
The brunette looks back at him, now washed with glorious purpose. His eyes were twinkling with something that was different from what Max was used to. This feels… psychotic. “You were so shit at hiding the fact that you are in love with me, you absolute Knapperd!”
Max’s eyes widen into the size of saucers. “Wait, why the fuck do you know that word?”
“Because I learnt fucking Dutch for you, you— you bitch.”
“What?!”
“When you were too busy learning geography, I was too busy learning languages,” Charles says, running his hands through his face. A maniacal cackle comes out of him. “And I am still pretty shit, but that doesn’t matter, because me learning an extra fucking language is not what it takes for the love of my fucking life to know that Ik wil voor altijd bij jou blijven!”
Max gasps. That's all that he can do now.
I want to be with you forever.
Ik wil voor altijd bij jou blijven.
“Because surely, surely, he would know that I am in love with him anyway, right?” Charles says, yanking Max forward, grabbing a fistful of his hoodie. “Because I knew he was head over heels for me, despite him not saying a word. Surely he would know I am the same for him, especially since I told him to his face almost every day that I love him.”
‘When,’ Max wants to ask, but then he remembers… French. Fucking French.
French is ruining his life, fucking fuck.
He regrets every day he chose not to translate the absolute fuckery Charles texted him.
“And now he has developed Hanahaki because what?” Charles yanks him even closer, so close that their chests are touching. “Because he believed I didn’t love him back? In what universe does Charles Leclerc not love Max Verstappen back, bitch?”
“You are calling me bitch a lot today,” Max says, but his eyes are watery, and his throat is clenched, and he’s not sure those words actually got out of his system or if he’s imagining it because of the high that is this moment.
Charles fisted his hands impossibly on the front of his hoodie, pulling Max closer than he thought was possible. “Are you not a bitch for being so stupid as to get a chronic illness for worrying so much?”
“You are victim-shaming me right now.”
“Well, it’s good that degradation is your kink, then.”
Max puts his hands around Charles and presses his face into the crook of Charles’ neck. “You learned Dutch for me?”
“No, I learned Dutch for Garrix.”
Max whines.
“Fine, I learned Dutch for you,” Charles whispers, placing a kiss on Max’s cheek. “But I’m still pissed off that you developed Hanahaki because of me. I would have thought that all my flirting was obvious enough, but I didn’t take into account how you are as thick in the head as your butt. But at least we could die on the same day, so I suppose that’s a good thing–aaahhhhh”
Max lifts him up before Charles can so much as gather breath to object; Charles’ indignation arrives late as Max turns with him. Charles’ feet leave the ground, his startled sound breaking into something that is almost laughter, and Max holds him with ease, as though Charles has always been meant to be held exactly like this.
“Max!!!!”
“You love me, Liefe?”
“Yes, I love you, Chou. Now put me down.” Charles protests, but there is no real weight in it, at least not by the way his hands are on Max’s shoulder, keeping them close.
“Now tell me that in Dutch, Schatje.”
“You and your— fine,” Charles rolls his eyes, and Max feels something lift off his heart with it. “Ik zou jou wel mee naar bed willen nemen.”
Max gapes at the man he’s holding up. He stops spinning almost subconsciously, caught up in what the actual filth just came out of the brunette’s mouth. Charles looks down and grins his wicked grin, sharp at the edges and far too pleased with itself.
Yeah, Max is gonna die the day Charles dies, alright.