Chapter Text
Max took a moment to truly see the person across from him, Charles. Charles with his long, wavy hair that seemed to catch the light in an ethereal glow. Charles with those bright emerald eyes that held a depth of emotion that fascinated and bewildered Max in equal measure. Charles with the most adorable eyelashes that framed those captivating eyes like delicate lace. It was the same Charles who had hissed at him with every movement, the same Charles who was now sharing his morning. Max couldn't pinpoint the exact moment when this strange, infectious feeling had taken root within him. He couldn't remember when the need to seek out Charles's presence in every corner of his world had become so consuming. But now, as he sat across from the man, the threads of his thoughts seemed to converge into a single, undeniable truth.
Charles enjoys Italian foods; he was an unabashed pasta enthusiast. Max had discovered this newfound fact about the man over breakfast, a revelation as surprising as it was endearing. His love for Ferrari, however, was no secret. The Puma Ferrari shirt hanging proudly in the wardrobe and the subtle hints of Formula One paraphernalia scattered around the room were testament to his unhealthy obsession. Charles's smile was a captivating thing, a radiant beam that could light up the darkest room. But today, as he gazed at Max with gratitude, the smile held an extra special glow. It was a look that made Max's heart stutter, a look that questioned the very notion of distance between them.
"Owh," Charles exclaimed, caught off guard. Max couldn't help but chuckle as he watched the sauce clinging to Charles's hair. The man seemed to be enjoying his new reality, oblivious to the culinary disaster he'd created. "Here, let me," Max offered, moving his chair closer. He gestured for Charles to turn around, and gently began to comb through the tangled mess, expertly tying the hair back into place. The skills he'd honed while caring for his sister were proving invaluable in this unexpected situation.
"Can you walk? We don't need to force yourself," Max asked gently, his concern obvious.
"My legs is fine, we can go. And you promised to help me," Charles insisted, a touch of stubbornness creeping into his voice.
Max chuckled softly. "I do," he agreed. "Let's go."
"I have my car, Max. Can we use it instead? I don't want to draw any attention," Charles suggested, his voice low. Max's gaze lingered on Charles for a moment, taking in the man's striking features. He wanted to keep Charles safe, hidden from the world. "Sure, the key?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
"You drive?" Charles questioned, a hint of surprise in his tone.
"I will drive, Charles, don't be silly, let's go," Max replied.
Max maneuverer the Benz into a discreet parking spot, a stark contrast of parking skill to a certain someone. He pulled on a cap and a Red Bull mask, a flimsy attempt at anonymity, but it was better than making headlines. As he circled the car to open the passenger door, he caught a glimpse of Charles's face. The usual confidence and defiance were replaced by a subtle flicker of fear, a vulnerability that made Max's heart ache.
"I can't fuckin do this, no," Charles declared, turning away abruptly and heading towards the back of the car, the place is full and crowded with people. Max followed; his heart drained.
"We can go back, Charles. Order everything online," Max suggested, already pulling out his phone.
"No! I need this - I need to go back to my life," Charles insisted, his frustration evident in his voice. Max stood there, brains running thousands of miles away, then Max reached out and gently placed Charles’s hands on his arms. "Charles," Max said softly. Surprisingly, the touch seemed to have a calming effect. The tension in Charles's body slowly dissipated, and his breathing began to regulate. A faint blush crept onto Charles’s cheeks as he realized the difference in their heights. It was an oddly comforting realization, a sense of security in Max's protective presence. “Is this, okay?” Max asked.
"What if someone catches me?" Charles asked, his voice trembling slightly as he watched their shadows dance on the car glass.
"No one's will. Act normally, Charles," Max replied, trying to sound reassuring.
"But you did," Charles pointed out, his voice filled with doubt.
"It's a special case, shall we?" Max lowered his hands and instead took hold of Charles's. The contact seemed to ground Charles, and his anxiety began to subside.
"What if people recognize you?" Charles's worries morphed into full-blown anxiety.
"You are my cousins," Max suggested, a hint of amusement in his voice.
"No cousins holding hands like this," Charles retorted, a blush creeping up his cheeks.
"Charle, Jesus," Max sighed heavily, his exasperation evident. "I hold my sister's hands all the time. Shall you be my girlfriend then?" he teased, expecting a fiery retort. But instead of anger, he found a surprising acquiescence. "Okay, I don't mind," Charles replied, his voice surprisingly calm.
The man's trust in him was a heavy weight, a responsibility Max hadn't anticipated. He'd promised to protect this fragile situation, and he would. "Okay," Max cleared his throat, his voice firm. "Share your live location with me, don't wander too far. If you can't handle it, we're going back, no negotiations."
Charles nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. "Yes, Max," he replied.
Contrary to their initial plan, Max found himself playing the role of a doting boyfriend. Hovering over Charles, ready to catch him if he stumbled. Every now and then, he'd check Charles's legs, ensuring he was comfortable. Their shopping spree was an unexpected turn of events. Charles's eyes lit up with childlike wonder at every new item, his excitement infectious. Max found himself caught up in the whirlwind, guiding Charles back to reality when the crowds became overwhelming. And then, Charles stopped in front of a beauty salon. It was a high-end establishment, the name Christian Dior emblazoned in gold letters above the entrance.
"Let's go," Max said, trying to hide his own curiosity. He knew Charles was simply curious, but a part of him was intrigued to see what would happen if they went inside.
"But, it's expensive," Charles replied, the answer surprised Max, revealing a vulnerability he hadn't expected. He looked like a little girl on the brink of a grand adventure, torn between fear and curiosity.
"You need to take care of yourself, Cha. I'll stay with you," Max coaxed, trying to sound as reassuring as possible. He felt like he was dealing with a child, and it was both endearing and exasperating.
"But, they say we have to do a reservation," Charles protested, showing Max an article on his phone.
"Well, how about this," Max replied, taking off his mask to reveal his face. He pulled out his economic face card and took Charles's hand. "Trust me, I have my ways."
"No, Max, please-," Charles tried to pull away, his anxiety growing. He knew the security guards would recognize Max instantly.
"Please, this way sir," the man said, ushering them inside with a polite nod. They were quickly guided to a waiting area by a smiling receptionist.
"Max, if anything happens-" Charles began, his voice filled with apprehension. Max interrupted him with a playful smirk. "If anything happens, you should find a way to behave like those ladies over there. Good luck," he teased. Charles's expression turned serious, a flicker of resolve replacing his previous nervousness. I can't fail this, Charles thought.
"How may I help you, sir?" the woman asked, her voice smooth and professional.
"My beloved needs some re-touch, please do everything," Max replied, offering the woman a polite smile. Charles squeezed his hand tightly, his nervousness palpable.
"Sure, consider it done. This way, my lady," the woman said, gesturing towards the salon.
"Oh, and," Max interjected, "can I stay with her?" He gave the woman a look that implied a deep connection, a sort of separation anxiety boyfriend. She nodded warmly in understanding. "Of course, please." The other concierge, who had been observing the scene, gave them an awe-struck look as Charles instinctively clung to Max.
"How may I address you, sir, and my lady?" the receptionist asked.
"Please, just Max," Max replied.
"Isabelle Saint Charles Bianchi," Charles answered without hesitation.
"Miss Bianchi then," the receptionist said, her voice filled with respect.
Max lowered his head, whispering, "Your fake ID?"
Charles looked at him, a hint of vulnerability in his eyes. "Yeah, is it weird?"
Max shook his head. "No, it's beautiful."
A soft smile touched Charles's lips. "Thank you, Max." In truth, the name Bianchi had been inspired by Jules, a spontaneous decision that felt right at the time.
“I think I can handle this.” Charles’s grip on Max’s hand loosened slightly.
“Go on, Schatz,” Max encouraged, letting the staff guide Charles into the room. He watched anxiously as the door closed, time stretching out agonisingly. Fifteen minutes passed, then thirty, an hour, and finally two. Max paced the floor, his mind a whirlwind of worry. When Charles finally emerged, Max’s breath caught in his throat. Lawd, oh fuck, oh god, Jesus fuckin’ Christ, utterly mesmerised. Charles was always beautiful, but now, standing before him in a tight Dior dress adorned with exquisite jewellery, he was unexceptionally stunning. The transformation was breathtaking, and Max felt a swell of pride and awe.
The staff guided Charles back to Max, who noticed how Charles unconsciously clung to his arm. The small gesture filled Max with a sense of protectiveness and happiness. “Well, that’s how a woman should look,” Max said, his voice filled with genuine admiration. He was almost too stunned to speak, his eyes fixed on Charles. “I knew she was beautiful from the beginning,” he added, handing over the black card to the staff without even glancing at the reaction. His attention remained solely on Charles, who radiated an ethereal beauty that took Max’s breath away.
"Shall we head back now? It’s been five hours. Can you walk?" Max asked. Charles's eyes fluttered closed briefly, as if he were trying to process everything. When he opened them again, there was a shy, almost dazed look in them. "I can... walk," he replied softly.
"Alright, let’s go back then," Max said, his tone gentle as he reached out to offer his arm.
Max was a captive audience. His gaze was glued to Charles from the moment they stepped out of Christian Dior. The mask, a mere formality in other circumstances, was forgotten as his attention was consumed by the man beside him. Every movement, every curve of Charles’s lips as he smiled, every question posed with that endearing tilt of his head—it was all utterly enchanting. To Max’s surprise, Charles seemed completely at ease in his company. As they strolled towards the parking lot, Charles leaned into Max, his voice a comfortable murmur as he shared anecdote after anecdote. Max listened, hanging on every word. The world outside seemed to fade away as they shared this intimate moment.
Suddenly, the gentle patter of rain escalated into a downpour. The sky opened, unleashing a torrent of water. With a swift movement, Max removed his jacket and draped it over Charles’s shoulders.
"Can you wait here for me, or would you rather brave the rain with me?" Max asked, his voice laced with a playful challenge. Charles glanced down at his dress, a hint of concern in his eyes. "But the dress," he replied, his voice soft. Max chuckled, understanding the dilemma. "I know, I know. Just wait patiently here, okay? I'll get the car around."
A small smile curved Charles's lips as he nodded in agreement. "Okay."
Max shifted impatiently in the growing queue, his gaze scanning the area. His heart skipped a beat when he spotted Charles near the entrance, surrounded by a group of men. The way Charles shifted uncomfortably, his polite refusals met with persistent advances, ignited a defensive fury within Max. He'd made a grave mistake leaving such a radiant beauty unguarded. With a surge of adrenaline, Max abandoned the line, his hands instinctively sinking into his pockets. There would be no hiding his identity now. Mask, cap, or any disguise was irrelevant. This was Max Emilian Verstappen, and he was here to reclaim what was his. “My love.”
Charles's face lit up like a beacon when his eyes landed on Max.
Max then noticed the unusual things; his legs were worn out. Max fuckin Emilian Verstappen you crazy man, of course Charles wouldn’t last. His injury now you make him walked in 3 cm heels, heels is heels and Charles seems trembled a little. Leaned himself to the pillar because the weight but that’s what’s makes it more fun for the group to crowd him more. He broke free from the group's clutches and launched himself into Max's arms. "So sorry, Charles," Max murmured, his voice low and comforting as he kissed the top of Charles's head. With a protective arm around Charles's waist, he guided him away from the unwanted attention.
"You okay, Schatz?" Max's voice was gentle, carrying a concern that belied the casual tone.
Charles managed a brittle smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Just a stupid man," he replied, his voice flat. Despite the forced cheerfulness painted across his face, Max could sense the undercurrent of turmoil. Charles had always been like this, a fortress built of stoicism, unwilling to burden others with his troubles.
"Where are we going, Max?" Charles’s question was a diversion, a feeble attempt to shift the focus.
Max, his eyes fixed on the road, responded with a warmth that was both reassuring and distracting. "Dinner," he said. Charles nodded, his gaze dropping to his phone, a silent retreat into a digital world.
Charles was beginning to believe he was a walking, talking jinx. The downpour outside was a testament to his theory, and the endless traffic jam was just the cherry on top. Max adjusted the car's temperature and stretched his arms, a silent protest against their forced inactivity. After what felt like an eternity of staring at his phone screen, Charles finally found the courage to meet Max's gaze.
"Max, do you think I can go back?" A hoarse whisper escaped Charles's lips; his gaze fixed on the passing cityscape. Max followed his line of sight, his expression a blend of sympathy and something akin to weary patience. Sympathy or simply pity.
"I'm sure there's a way, Charles," he assured, his voice steady. Internally, however, he was battling a growing sense of frustration. This wasn't the first time they'd had this conversation. Charles's anxiety, once a delicate flower, had blossomed into a thorny thicket, ensnaring them both.
"It's been a week, and I've cancelled everything. It's like some kind of Disney curse," Charles murmured, a self-deprecating chuckle attempting to lighten the mood.
Max was taken aback. "Disney?"
"My niece. She's obsessed with those princess movies."
A heavy sigh escaped Max's lips as the traffic began to grate on his nerves. "And you need to find your prince, Charles," he replied, his voice laced with both exasperation and affection. Before he could continue, he pulled out his phone, his fingers drumming impatiently on the screen.
Charles noticed the tightening of Max's grip on the steering wheel. It wasn't tiredness that darkened his eyes, but a growing sense of weariness. "What are you doing, Max?"
"Don't worry, Charles. I'm praying for this curse to break."
Max closed his eyes, rather than tired it’s more like he’s sick of it. A Formula One driver stuck in traffic.
Pray..
Pray…
Charles's mind suddenly flickered to his mother's tales of prayer and Greek spirituality. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was something to this after all.
"What are you doing, Charles?" Max asked, noticing the unusual tension in Charles's posture.
"I need to get on a plane," Charles blurted out.
"We can book them tomorrow," Max reassured him as the traffic finally eased, his hands finding Charles's arms in a comforting gesture.
"No," Charles insisted, frustration evident in his voice as he pulled out his phone. His attempts to book a flight were met with failure. "I need to go." His hair was a tangled mess, mirroring the chaos in his mind.
"Charles," Max soothed, his eyes darting between the road and his passenger. "Where are you going?"
"Santorini. That's where they did this." Charles jabbed at his phone screen, his voice rising in pitch. His breathing was rapid, and his hands trembled.
"Charles, we can find a ticket tomorrow. Look at the weather," Max tried to reason.
"Shut up, Max. I'm going now," Charles declared, gathering his belongings. "Stop the car. Let me out. You can keep it." His voice was a tempest, his body language a storm.
Max stared into Charles's eyes, his finger hovering dangerously close to the other man's neck. A subtle scent, a mix of perfume and something uniquely Charles, wafted towards him, making his mouth go dry. Charles swallowed hard; a silent plea trapped in his throat.
"I need to go, please," he managed to whisper, his voice barely audible over the hum of the car. The proximity was electric. A thin veneer of control was all that separated them from something more. Max closed his eyes briefly, the pressure on the steering wheel increasing. They were on their way to dinner, a world away from Santorini. Max didn't understand the urgency, but he was determined to see this through. "You're trying to book a flight right now?" he asked, incredulity creeping into his voice.
"Mate," Max repeated, his confusion growing. "I'm sure we can book you a flight."
Out of the corner of his eye, Max saw Charles's frustration escalating. "Fuck!" Charles exploded, his voice sharp. Charles was gripping his phone with a white-knuckled intensity.
"Be careful," Max said softly, his voice a soothing counterpoint to the chaos. His hands instinctively reached for Charles's, trying to ground him.
"I need to go, like—right now—there must be something at the temple. Something—something—" Charles trailed off, his words tumbling over each other. Max's gaze softened, a mixture of concern and something akin to understanding in his eyes.
"Okay," Max replied, finally releasing Charles's hands. He pulled out his phone, his fingers flying across the screen as he made a call. A moment later, he hung up with a satisfied nod. "Passport?" he asked, his voice steady.
Charles's hands shook as he reached into his purse. Max gently took it from him, his touch as soft as a feather. "Easy, Schatz," he murmured, his voice a soothing balm. "Let's go to the airport now." He caressed Charles's cheek, a silent command to calm down.
"You're going with me?" Charles asked, his voice a mix of surprise and disbelief.
Max chuckled. "Don't be ridiculous, Charles. A woman can't travel alone, especially not you." He winked, a teasing edge to his voice.
Charles huffed. "But—this is my business."
Max raised an eyebrow. "Charles, when someone offers to help, it's only polite to say thank you."
Charles sighed, his resistance melting away. "Sorry, Max, thank you," he replied, his voice filled with a mixture of gratitude and confusion.
Max couldn't help but feel a surge of pride as he surveyed the opulent surroundings. Success had afforded him a life of unparalleled luxury, a life that many could only dream of. He could travel the world on a whim, indulging in the finest experiences, and he had a team of dedicated professionals at his beck and call. But it was the woman clinging to his arm, her beauty a radiant beacon, that truly made him feel complete.
A part of him yearned for this moment to last forever, to bask in the warmth of her affection. Yet, another part of him couldn't shake the desire for the thrill of competition, the adrenaline rush of the racetrack. He was a man of contrasts, a paradox of desires, torn between the tranquility of love and the tempestuous allure of speed.
"You didn't tell me there would be a woman," Jerry, the Red Bull management, exclaimed, his eyes widening in surprise. The once casual atmosphere was suddenly charged with a mix of interest and unspoken judgment.
"Because you can't keep your mouth shut, Jerry," Max retorted, drawing Charles closer for emphasis. The physical closeness was a silent assertion.
"And how may I call you, miss?" Jerry inquired, leading them towards the tarmac.
"Isabelle," Charles replied, their voice steady.
"You're working with him? Red Bull personnel perhaps?" Jerry asked, gesturing for the waiting team.
"I—he is my boyfriend," Charles clarified, their voice barely audible over the increasing volume of background noise. The statement hung in the air, a bombshell amidst the professional setting.
"Did you tell the team about this, Max?" Jerry questioned, his voice rising in pitch. The situation was rapidly spiralling out of control.
"No need. With or without her, people would know," Max responded, his voice a low growl. His protective instincts were fully engaged now. His stance was wide, his arms subconsciously guarding Charles.
"Max," Jerry warned, his voice laced with both frustration and a hint of fear. The situation was escalating beyond his control.
"And it's my responsibility to keep her safe. Is that enough?" Max finished, his voice hard and uncompromising.
The attendant and Jerry exchanged a knowing glance, their curiosity piqued but their discretion intact. They dared not question his decisions, not when the honey-like love in his eyes was so evident, so palpable. The woman beside him was a vision, a masterpiece of nature, breathtaking from head to toe. It wouldn't surprise anyone if she turned out to be a former Miss France or a luminary from a similar world.
One thing was certain: Charles would never regret choosing Max. The way the man treated him was an unwavering source of comfort. Max matched his tiny steps, a silent acknowledgment of their physical disparity. The gentle pressure of Max's hand on his waist as they climbed the stairs was a grounding force. And the constant, protective presence behind him created a cocoon of safety. Charles found himself relaxing into this rhythm, his body instinctively responding to Max's touch.
Max knelt in front of Charles; his long legs folded beneath him. The soft glow of the cabin illuminated the concerned lines etched on his face. He reached out, his fingers gentle as they traced the contours of Charles's leg, from the ankle to the knee. With each touch, he examined the skin for any signs of swelling or discoloration. His eyes, a deep shade of blue, held a concentration that belied the tenderness in his touch. Charles's breath hitched as Max's warm fingers brushed against his skin. A shiver ran down his spine, a mix of discomfort and an undeniable sense of intimacy. He tried to pull his leg away, but Max's grip was gentle yet firm.
"Relax, Cha," Max murmured, his voice low and soothing. "I just want to make sure you're okay."
"I—M—Max, please, I can do it myself," Charles stammered, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
"Ow—M—Max," Charles winced as Max's fingers pressed a little too hard on a tender spot. A sharp intake of breath escaped his lips, and he tried to pull his leg away.
"You're beautiful," Max murmured, a soft smile playing on his lips. His eyes held a warmth that seemed to melt away the discomfort in Charles's leg.
"Don't call me beautiful, Max. It's so unbefitting for me," Charles protested, his cheeks flushing a deeper shade of pink. He felt exposed, vulnerable in a way he hadn't expected.
"What can I say, Charles? You're the most wanted driver on the grid," Max replied, his voice laced with a playful charm. He leaned in closer, his breath warm against Charles's skin.
"Max, are you drunk?" Charles asked, his voice laced with disbelief. The proximity between them was intense, and he was struggling to focus on anything other than the man's intoxicating scent.
"I am sadly, perfectly sober, my dear," Max assured him, his voice low and husky. A mischievous glint appeared in his eyes as he noticed the flight attendant approaching. With a swift movement, he pulled back and stood up, his hand reaching for Charles's shoulder in a comforting gesture. "Rest now," he said, his voice gentle.
Charles remembered Belgium when he visited with his family, with his beloved and caring papa and maman. The air was crisp and cool, carrying the scent of freshly baked waffles. The sound of laughter and chatter filled the air as they walked through quaint cafes. Charles looked up at his papa, his twinkling smile crinkling with amusement. His brother, pointing out interesting things, added to the joyous atmosphere. He remembered how his papa held his hands as they strolled around the city, the warmth of his hands and the way his brother surrounded him with love. The memory of the karting accident jolted him awake. He saw Max's kart spun out just ahead. A surge of adrenaline coursed through him, the taste of burnt rubber lingering in his mouth. In his dreams, Max remained a comforting presence. He spoke in hushed tones, his voice a soothing balm to Charles's racing heart.
"You should let me in, Cha," Max said, his voice low and carrying a peculiar intimacy.
Confusion washed over Charles. The simple request hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. Let him in? To his life? To his carefully constructed world? The question was absurd, yet it stirred an unsettling tremor within him. Max had always been a formidable opponent, a rival in the cut-throat world of their profession. But this was a new level of intrusion.
"I don't understand," Charles managed to say, his voice barely a whisper.
Max stepped closer; his eyes boring into Charles. The proximity was unnerving, a physical manifestation of the man's relentless pursuit. "You came to me first, didn't you?"
Charles's denial was immediate and emphatic. "No," he stated, his voice hardening. "You forced your way into my life."
A wry smile crept across Max's face. "Really, Cha? Is that how you see it? Or perhaps you secretly wanted me close?"
The suggestion was a dagger to Charles's heart. He was disgusted by the idea, by the mere contemplation of it. Dependence on Max was anathema to his self-image.
"You are my rival," Charles replied, his voice cold and distant.
Max chuckled, a sound that grated on Charles's nerves. "Yet, the idea of speaking in your language seems to be mine to know, Charles."
A chill ran down Charles's spine.
Charles jolted awake, his heart pounding like a frantic drumbeat. Sweat slicked his brow as he gasped for air, his breath coming in ragged, stuttering bursts. Tears streamed down his face, leaving twin trails of devastation.
"Jesus," he murmured, his voice a mere whisper in the quiet room. His eyes flickered open to take in the unfamiliar surroundings. A crystal chandelier cast intricate shadows on the ceiling, and the room was bathed in a soft, ethereal glow. The bedroom was adorned with roses and lilies, their scent filling the air with a heady sweetness. He wiped his tears, his mind racing to piece together how he'd ended up here. A wave of disorientation washed over him. Then, he saw him. Max, standing in the living room, a glass of wine in his hand. He moved with an effortless grace, casting a long, lean shadow on the wall.
Charles blinked, unsure if he was dreaming or hallucinating. The man looked unreal, almost ethereal, with a sense of calm that seemed utterly at odds with the turmoil within Charles himself.
"You awake?" Max's voice, smooth and low, broke through Charles's reverie.
"Max," Charles managed to croak out, his voice rough with sleep. He sat up abruptly, pulling the blankets around him tighter. He was acutely aware of his dishevelled appearance, his hair a tangled mess, and his cheeks flushed. His eyes darted between the half-empty wine glass in Max's hand and the man himself. Max was dressed in a beige turtleneck, his glasses perched neatly on his nose. He looked impossibly composed, a stark contrast to Charles's own disarray.
"We're here, but you were asleep, like... for a long time. How do you feel?" Max asked, setting the wine glass down on a nearby table.
Charles's mind was racing, trying to process the situation. "Fine? I think?" he managed to reply, his voice filled with uncertainty. He couldn't shake the feeling of unreality, as if he were trapped in a dream.
Max narrowed the space between them, his hand reaching out to tuck a stray strand of Charles’s hair behind his ear. The intimate gesture was lost on neither of them.
“Would you like a dinner—” Max began, his voice soft.
“It’s all because of the prayer—” Charles interrupted, their words colliding in the still air.
They both paused, their gazes locking. A heavy silence descended upon them.
“I thought you would finally ask,” Charles said, their voice low.
Max averted his eyes, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he cleared his throat. “I didn’t want to pressure you, Charles.”
“I thought you cared about it,” Charles replied, their tone laced with a hint of accusation.
Max’s response was immediate. “I do care,” he insisted, his voice firm. “But only if you want to share. It’s not something I’m demanding.”
Charles couldn't help but notice a new side of Max today. He matched Charles’s pace. Max was kind, gentle, and persistent, pushing Charles without being forceful. It was a delicate balance.
“We’re enjoying summer,” Charles murmured, taking a sip of Max’s wine. A contented sigh escaped his lips. “My mother prayed, you know I don’t. But one morning, I woke up like this.” He gestured vaguely at himself, before burying his head deeper into the pillows. “Beautiful features, ethereal eyes, yet... they're irrelevant to my career.”
Max's hands kneaded his knees rhythmically as he listened. "What exactly did you pray for, Charles?"
Charles's voice was soft. "Maman simply asked for guidance.” Charles stopped to scanning the latter, “What would I do if I were a woman, you know? What would you do, Max?"
Max paused, his hands stilling. A long moment passed before he replied, his voice low, "I’d come to you."
Charles's head shot up, surprise evident in his eyes. "Excuse me?"
Max’s gaze was steady. “We grew up together in Monaco. You know me, and I know you, Charles. I would recognize you instantly.”
"How do you know?" Charles asked, his voice laced with disbelief as he handed over his empty wine glass. Max took a long, contemplative sip before replying, "You would, Charles. It’s as simple as that." Confusion etched itself onto Charles’s face. "I don’t understand."
Max shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. "You don’t have to, Charles."
Charles' mind raced, replaying Max's words about coming to him. It was a proposition both logical and absurd. A lifetime of friendship and shared experiences made the idea of seeking Max out in a time of crisis seem natural. Yet, the absurdity of their current situation cast a long shadow over this logic. He was at the pinnacle of his career, a man with the world at his feet. And now, here they were, in Greece, a world away from the glamorous life he once knew. He gazed at his reflection in the still pond, a man transformed.
"It's ethereal," Max murmured, breaking the silence.
Charles blinked, pulling his attention back to the present. "What do you mean, Max?"
Max's eyes were fixed on him, an intensity in his gaze that made Charles shiver. "You. Whatever this is, this... curse. You're ethereal in both genders."
Charles chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. "How so?"
Max's cheeks flushed a subtle pink, a rare sight that surprised Charles. "Can you... race me in this form? With your long hair and your... eyes."
A playful glint appeared in Charles's eyes. "You're flirting with me," he teased.
Max stammered; his embarrassment evident. "Sorry, I... you're just beautiful."
Charles grinned. "Max, you're blushing. And yes, I can race you. Same skills, different body."
"Same Charles, same skills," Max said, a grin spreading across his face. "You're still a Ferrari driver."
Charles returned the smile, his eyes sparkling with a familiar fire. Racing had always been a passion shared by both of them, a common thread that bound them together. But racing with Charles? That was something truly special, a unique dynamic that had propelled them both to the heights of Formula One.
"Charles?" Max halted abruptly, his voice filled with a mix of awe and trepidation.
Charles turned, his face illuminated by the temple's ancient aura. "Here, this is the temple," he said, his voice carrying a sense of reverence.
Max extended his hand, a silent invitation. "Let's pray then," he suggested, his voice steady despite the turmoil within. "Come now."
Charles hesitated, his brow furrowed. "Who?" he asked, confusion evident in his voice.
Max's grip tightened slightly on Charles's hand. "I don't know, Charles. Jesus, Goddess, anyone. Just pray." His words belied the warmth and reassurance in his eyes, a comforting presence in the face of the unknown. "Pray," he urged softly, his voice filled with gentle encouragement.
Max stepped back, granting Charles the solitude he seemed to crave. He found himself drawn to the serene beauty of the surroundings - the gentle sway of palm trees, the rhythmic kiss of waves against the shore. Yet, his gaze kept returning to Charles. The sunlight bathed his golden hair in a halo, casting an ethereal glow upon his delicate features. As Charles spoke, his voice, soft and melodic, carried on the breeze, captivating Max's attention entirely.
He was damned, utterly damned. The sun beat down on him, a fiery, relentless force, but it paled in comparison to the inferno raging within. Max’s mind was a chaotic maelstrom, thoughts swirling and colliding like cars on a treacherous track. The man beside him was the sun, moon, and stars, all rolled into one dazzling celestial body.
Their history was as intricate and complex as the fastest racing line. Rivals since go-kart days, they'd engaged in a fiery dance of aggression and admiration. He’d sent Charles spinning off the track, and Charles had retaliated in kind. A turbulent tango, it was. Beneath the rivalry, though, a profound connection had simmered, an unspoken understanding forged in the crucible of competition. On the track, the world narrowed to two, and their focus honed in on each other with a clarity and intensity unknown outside that high-speed arena.
A yearning had always lurked in the shadows, a silent ache both exhilarating and terrifying. He yearned to know if the feeling was mutual, or if he was the protagonist of a solitary drama. Was Charles trapped in the same labyrinth of desire, or was he the architect of an entirely different narrative? The questions raced through his mind, a relentless pursuit of answers he feared he might not be ready for.
"You've always been beautiful," Max murmured, his voice barely a whisper, carried by the gentle breeze.