Lestappen and the Grid

I swear to god...I don't check 抖阴社区 for two days and this story blows up like...

It had been a ridiculous qualifying.

Max P2, Charles P3.
The tension had been loud. The waist grab from a week ago still hadn't been forgotten — in fact, it had basically turned into a meme across F1 Twitter and the media. Every presser since had at least one question along the lines of "So, Max... about that podium celebration?"

And now, post-quali, as both of them waited for their turn for post-session photos, Max was standing there, a little ruffled from taking his helmet off too fast.

And his hair — oh, his very expensive, annoyingly good hair — was sticking up in about five different directions at the back.

The cameras noticed immediately.

Photographer (grinning):
"Max, mate — hair's doing its own quali lap back there."

Max tried to flatten it down awkwardly with one hand.

Failed miserably.

A couple of the media folks started snickering.

Charles (from behind, deadpan):
"You look like a hedgehog."

Max (glancing over his shoulder, smirking):
"Still faster than you."

Charles (rolling his eyes, biting his grin):
"Barely."

The photographers, absolute agents of chaos as always, started muttering amongst themselves.

And then one of them called out:

Photographer #2:
"Oi, Leclerc — help your boy out, yeah?"

Max's ears went red immediately.
Charles blinked.
The grid's groupchat somewhere exploded.
Pierre 100% live-texting.

Charles (mock sighing, stepping up):
"Honestly. What would you do without me?"

Max (low, quiet, fond):
"Be a mess, probably."

Charles reached up — on instinct, one hand braced against Max's shoulder while the other smoothed down the unruly hair at the back of his head.

And Max?

Max went still.
The kind of still that comes from being acutely, devastatingly aware of every molecule of space between them.
His heart did an embarrassing little lurch.

Charles (trying to act casual, face a little too pink):
"There. Better. Try not to embarrass me now, Verstappen."

Max (grinning, voice low enough for only Charles to hear):
"Can't make promises when you keep touching me like that, Leclerc."

Charles's fingers fumbled. His ears turned red.
The press was eating this up.

Photographer (chuckling):
"Christ, you two are worse than a rom-com."

Max took a step back, shooting Charles a look that could only be described as fond menace.

Max:
"See you on track, trouble."

And then he was gone.

Charles standing there, fiddling with his suit collar, trying not to look like he was about to combust.