Archive of Our Own ^beta

May 6th, 2012.
WSK EURO SERIES, Round 2 – KF2.
Val d'Argenton.
Charles Leclerc.

"Why does she always bite so low?" Charles Leclerc complains, pulling at the sleeve of his t-shirt, trying to cover the new bite Maman had left on his bicep before he was allowed to dive into van with Papa to make the ten hour drive from Monaco to Val d'Argenton for the weekend's race. "Everybody is going to see it."

"That your mother loves you?" Papa asks.

Charles huffs once before his expression settles into a pout. "I can't be upset at Maman for loving me." Still, he tugs at his sleeve again.

"Char."

"Yes?"

"Stop it. Leaving marks is what packmates do."

"I know." Charles' eyes fall down to his forearms littered with weeks old fading bruises from his karting pack. "But it still makes me feel like a little pup when Maman puts them in such obvious places."

"You are a pup," Papa reminds him gentilly. "And even when you present in your own time, you will still be Maman and I's little pup."

"I know." He tugs at his sleeve again. "But none of the other boys have their family marks so visible."

"Is it such a bad thing? To show that you are well loved?"

Charles casts his gaze out the window towards the rolling French landscape. "No."

Papa rumbles at him comfortingly, and reaches over the center console to squeeze Charles' hand lightly. "And, you know, if it bothers you so much, your race suit covers you entirely from head to toe."

"Which I'll be wearing all day, I know." He glances down at the mark again: a token of his mother's love. He brushes his thumb over it. "I forgot to mark Maman before I left."

"You'll make it up to her when we get home."

"I will."

George practically launches himself at Charles when they arrive at the track on Sunday morning; the younger pup sending them both tumbling into the dirt as he gnaws at Charles' forearm like it's a good rack of ribs.

"Ouch," Charles laughs. "You're supposed to only mark, Georgie—a light bruise—not tear my skin off."

"Sorry," George mumbles around a mouthful of muscle. "It's just been a while."

"Yeah." Charles saves his arm from the jaws of his friend, and adjusts them so that the younger boy's head is settled on his shoulder, and they can cuddle properly on the ground. "There is too much time between races. And you live so far away."

George nods sadly as he settles into Charles' side, and offers his own arm. "At least Alex is kind of close by."

Charles hums as brings George's forearm to his mouth before biting it with a normal amount of force. He's missed his packmate too, of course, but he doesn't want to injure his friend. "How is Alex?" he asks, lapping away any sting once he's finished.

"He's doing good, excited to be at Formula Renault with Pierre this year."

"I hope they do well."

"Me too." George nuzzles into Charles' chest, rubbing his neck along the cotton of his t-shirt as if he were leaving his own scent on the older boy. Unfortunately, as George is as unpresented as Charles is, he doesn't have his own scent to give, and instead gifts Charles the pheromones from the last person to have scented him.

Charles breathes in a hint of rain.

"You've seen Max already?" he asks.

"Yeah," George says. "He was already in the team's garage when I got in this morning."

Charles hums, inhaling deeply as he settles into the ground under his packmate. Ever since Max had presented when he'd won the Euro Series the prior year, he'd taken to scenting all of his teammates in the Intrepid Drivers' garage, including George. Charles finds that he doesn't mind Max's scent at all, despite their fierce rivalry. In fact, if it wouldn't be weird for him to go make himself at home in Max's neck, Charles would have probably done just that the first time he'd gotten a whiff of the Dutchman's flowers in the rain.

Instead of doing that, Charles had grabbed George and dragged him over to Esteban's trailer to celebrate the Frenchman's second place finish in the series. While Charlie's-Karting-Pack was decided #TeamPierre in whatever the argument that had blown up their friendship was, Esteban was still Charles' friend, and everybody deserved to be celebrated for their achievements.

Pierre hadn't even said anything when he'd noticed that Charles still smelt a bit like Laurent's apple cider during their next shared vacation.

Once George is finished with his scenting, and settled into his chest, Charles tips is nose down to his collar and inhales slowly.

So what if Charles likes Max's smell?

It's nice. It's sweet. It's calming, in a weird way. It's practically nothing like the track terror Charles drives with on the weekends. It reminds him that Max is still human, like him, even if the Dutchboy feels larger than life somehow.

Of course when Max gets mad, the whole paddock starts to smell like an approaching thunderstorm, but—like with a storm—the rain always patters out eventually, leaving the smell of dew in the evening air.

Or morning air, as it is right now, since Max hasn't anything to get mad about today, not yet at least.

Charles makes sure to practice scenting George back. He hopes the Brit's parents don't mind if he comes back to them smelling like Charles' Papa.

Eventually, their cuddle season in the dirt is cut short by a pair of approaching feet.

"On the ground, really boys?"

"Désolé Papa."

George giggles. "Oops?"

"Come on. Up you get. You both have a race today."

"Oops?" Max screams at Charles later that afternoon. "Oops? That's all you have to say to me? You pushed me off the road!"

"What do you want from me?" Charles shouts back. "It was just an incident!"

"An incident? Just an incident? Running me off the track after the flag is just an incident to you?"

"You pushed me too," Charles points out, stepping forward into Max's space until the young alpha is taking a step back into the exterior wall behind him as he growls at Charles.

"You pushed me first!"

Charles inhales sharply, ready to defend himself, when he's suddenly hit with a bout of dizziness.

He staggers.

He whimpers.

Max is there to catch him right before he falls.

Fuck, Max smells good. He smells so much better than normal. And Charles always thinks he smells wonderful.

'Good.

'Charles has always thought that Max smells good.'

"Charles?"

He smells like fresh flowers in bloom, even under the torrential downpour that has become of his usually soft rain.

It makes sense that Max smells like a storm, Charles did run him off the road this afternoon.

The feeling of dizziness increases.

"Hey, Charles, are you okay? Charles, look at me."

He blinks up at Max, warmth filling his entire being. "Hi."

"Hi?"

Charles inhales slowly, letting Max's scent wash over his hazy mind. He wants to bury himself in Max's neck, but something in the front of his mind tells him that he probably shouldn't do that, so instead to slumps into Max's arms, and tucks his nose to the alpha's chest.

"Charlie?"

Charles hums. Max has never called him Charlie before.

"Charlie?" Max tries again, shifting his weight.

Charles tries really hard to respond. "Yeah?"

"I think you're presenting."

'Oh.

'That…That would make sense.'

There's a warmth taking over his entire being, and Max's scent is so much more pronounced now that his scent glands have snapped into full development.

He sniffs the air, but he can't tell which flowers Max smells like.

He should figure out which ones they are.

He should probably also respond to Max at some point.

"Oh."

"Oh?" The storm in his scent lashes out, a band of heavy rain hitting Charles at full force.

Charles feels something in him twist. He whimpers. "What do you want from me?" he demands, on the defensive. "I cannot control it."

And then Max is rumbling. He is readjusting Charles in his arms. He is walking them backwards so that he's properly leaning against the wall behind whichever garage he'd taken them to to fight about–

'Why were we fighting, again?' Charles wonders, giving into the urge from the back to his mind to rise to his tiptoes in an attempt to burrow his nose into the collar of Max's race suit.

He smells like rain, like he's drenched.

He smells like flowers, ones that have been cut by their stems a few days ago.

'Oh. Right. Puddle.' Charles laughs.

"M still not sorry," he tells Max's still rumbling chest.

The rumbling stops. "What?"

"Running you off the road."

"Of course you aren't."

Charles feels the way Max's chest expands on the alpha's next inhale.

Charles has a scent now, doesn't he, if he's presenting?

He wonders if it's any good.

He wonders if Max likes it.

He wonders if their scents will mix well together.

He also wonders where the heck that came from.

"What do I smell like?"

"Campfires. Vanilla. Chaos."

Charles giggles. "Chaos is not a smell."

He feels more than sees the way Max shrugs. "You still smell like it."

Charles takes in another lungful of rain, despite the clouds starting to clear out above them. It helps keep the warmth at bay, dulls it down to something a little more manageable.

Campfire and vanilla.

That's nice.

Wait.

Vanilla.

Charles blinks.

"Vanilla?"

"Yeah." Max suddenly tenses beneath him, a tentative rumble escapes. "Is that okay?"

"Vanilla is normally an omega scent, non?"

"So are tulips, flowers. And I'm sti–"

Charles slaps a hand over Max's mouth. He shushes the other boy, giving him a warning look as he turns inwards to focus on what he is feeling.

Max's face is very cold under Charles' palm, and Charles feels warm all over; very warm all over; extremely warm all over.

"I think I am presenting as an omega." He frowns. "That's not right. I know I am presenting as an omega."

The statement hangs in the air.

Neither of them say anything for a long moment.

"Charles?" Max asks, muffled by the palm over his mouth.

"Yeah?"

"Where's your dad?"

"I left him with the kart when you came storming in."

"We should go get him."

"Why?"

"Because you are presenting."

He frowns. "Yes. We have figured that out."

Max sighs. He sounds disappointed; like Charles isn't getting something.

Charles doesn't want to disappoint Alpha.

'Max.

'Max. Max. Max. Max. Max.

'Not Alpha.

'Just Max.'

He lowers his hand. It clutches at the shoulder of Max's raincoat.

"We need an adult," Just Max says, unaware of Charles' internal plight. "You need family, pack. That's what I wanted when I was presenting."

Charles remembers when Max presented last year in Zuera, Spain, far away from home, after winning the biggest trophy yet again. He remembers wanting to burrow into Max's neck. He remembers holding himself back from those instincts.

Current-Charles shoves his nose as deep into Max's throat as he can get it.

His rain still smells like a storm, but the flowers—tulips—are doing wonders to calm Charles down. Somehow, despite Max doing nothing beyond standing there and holding him, he's doing a great job of making Charles feel safe.

"Charlie…"

"Hm?"

"Max! Have you seen Charles?" George's voice calls. "His Papa is looking for him! I can smell you back there!" he shouts again when Max doesn't respond.

Max's arms tighten around Charles.

'Oh this is nice. Alpha will protect me.

'Max.

'Max. Max. Max. Max. Max.

'Not Alpha.

'Just Max.'

George sounds far away when he speaks. "You haven't killed him, right? Lance said he saw the two of you come this way!"

Max sounds a little bit hurt when he shouts back. "No! No, I have not. Charles is fine."

Charles tries to purr, but only ends up cooing at him.

Max's shoulders relax, and he rumbles back before shouting back "Could you go get his dad?"

"That doesn't make it sound like he's fine!"

Charles can hear quickened footsteps of shoes slapping the mud.

He feels Max's arms tighten further.

He manages to unlock his purr, trying to calm Max down, to let him know everything is okay. "C'est seul George. Weren't you telling me I need my pack?"

"Yeah," Max agrees, but he sounds distant; protective.

"It's just George."

"Charlie? Is everything okay?" His packmate's voice sounds a lot closer now.

There's a dopey smile on Charles' face when he spots his friend. "Hi Georgie."

"You smell…You have a smell!"

Charles nods. He holds out an arm for George to dive into his side, keeping a firm, grounding grip on Max's raincoat. "I can scent you now!"

Max groans, when Charles starts to do just that while still trapping him to the wall. "Yes. Great. This is amazing for you all, but Charles is presenting right now, and we need an adult."

Charles hums, he understands what Max is saying—what Max has been trying to say—but he doesn't want to leave. He doesn't want to leave this little space that smells like comfort, and safety, and…and Charles can feel himself overheating in his race suit.

In lieu of worrying about any of that, Charles works on absolutely dousing George in his scent; in campfire and vanilla if Max is to be believed. Which he is, because under that dickhead asshole connard that destroys him in the corners, Max is actually really nice. He can be almost sweet when he isn't growling and glaring at everybody.

'Sweet like tulips.'

"Okay. That's enough," Max says, attempting to pull Charles away from the younger boy. "If you two are going to do this right now, then I am going to find your dad. What's his name?"

"Papa."

Max snorts. "Charles," he reprimands lightly. "That's not helpful. Do not whimper at me, I am trying to help. Please Charlie."

"Hervé," George tells him when Charles doesn't respond.

The Monegasque hisses. "Why are you helping alpha leave?"

George's shoulders drop. "I'm sorry."

"Wait," Charles rushes. "Wait. No. I'm sorry." He pulls George in closer, rubbing some more of his scent into the younger boy's hair. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that. I shouldn't have hissed at you. That wasn't okay. I'm sorry. You're just trying to help."

"You can't call me alpha," Max groans, but Charles doesn't hear him as he frantically tries to apologize to his packmates. "It's okay," Max rumbles. "It's fine. Charles, calm down. George is okay. He's not hurt. He's fine. Right, George?"

"I'm okay," he agrees.

"You just want to keep everybody close, don't you?" Max asks gentilly. "It was the same for me. I wanted to be surrounded by those who made me feel safe."

Charles remembers eating pizza in Esteban's motorhome the weekend Max presented. He remembers bringing George with him because he'd wanted pack cuddles after his DNF that day.

He whimpers again, unsure why this memory is affecting him so much; Max isn't pack. Max has never been pack. Even though they've known each other since they were five, and have been racing in the same series for three years now, Max isn't part of Charlie's-Karting-Pack.

"Is he okay?" George asks.

"He'll be fine," Max promises. "He's just a little out of it right now. He'll come back to himself. Somewhere in there Charles is aware that someone needs to go get his dad."

Charles whimpers, knowing Max is right.

Unlike Charles, he's in his right mind, not slipping away into the warmth. Max is just trying to help.

Charles swallows: mouth dry.

"Georgie can go. Scented him. He smells like me."

"Yeah?" Max asks softly. "You scented him really well, you know. Better than I do."

Charles purrs, and he feels Max's arms tighten around him.

"Run."

And suddenly the weight in his side is gone, and he's burning up again, and George is leaving.

He cries out, his hand reaching out in an attempt to grab something, anything on George to keep him with Charles; to keep him safe. He's thwarted by stupid arms that have been holding him this whole time—ever since his first stumble—as they haul Charles back into a solid chest.

"Max!"

"You said he could go. You said he could go. He's going to come back. He's gonna bring your dad, and he's going to know what to do with you. You're going to be okay, Charlie. Georgie is gonna be fine. He's a big, strong pup, and he smells just like you. It's okay. You scented him so well. So thoroughly. No one is gonna think he isn't your pup. It's okay. You're going to be okay," Max babbles as his arms remain clamped around Charles. "It's going to be okay. He's coming back, you know?"

"I know," he sniffles.

"Shhhh. It's okay," Max tells him, nuzzling his hair. "We can stay right here for now, okay?"

Charles nods.

"You're safe."

'Of course I'm safe. You're here.'

Charles tries to convince himself to relax in Max's arms again.

He breathes in deep. Max's scent had calmed him before, tempered the warmth trying to take over, maybe it'll work again.

Max's race suit is soft against Charles' face, and his raincoat stiff between his fingers. He kind of wants to rip the raincoat off of the other boy, and wrap it around his own shoulders. He wants to bury his face in its waterproof fabric, and not come up for air. Instead, Charles crowds Max into the wall; as if he weren't already halfway smushed into it.

Charles lets himself get readjusted in Max's arms. He notices that Max doesn't smell stressed anymore when the other boy lets him nose at his chest. He smells calm. He smells like morning dew on tulip petals as he continues to rumble at Charles.

Charles feels calm too.

'Max is really good at this. At this being an alpha thing. He's gonna make somebody really happy one day.'

He must feel some type of way about that—the idea of Max being somebody's that might not be him—because the next time Max speaks he sounds concerned. "Charlie? Are you okay? Your scent has gone sad. I don't know what's taking George so long, but he'll be back soon. I promise."

Charles pulls back from Max's chest and narrows his eyes at the other boy. "How can you tell I've gone sad? I just presented."

"I can't smell any smoke. It's like your fire has gone out."

"Oh." Charles shifts. "It's nothing," he dismisses, "nothing worth mentioning."

Max assesses him for a second before simply saying, "Okay," and tucking Charles securely under his chin.

He's quiet for a moment.

"There's nothing wrong with being an omega, by the way, if that's what you were worried about," Max whispers into his hair. "Anybody who says omegas can't drive is stupid. Look at Sebastian Vettel. He's on his way to a third Championship."

He says it with such conviction that Charles has no choice but to believe him. "Alonso is going to do it," he mumbles. "The Championship is going to go to Ferrari."

Max chuckles. "I don't think so, but Alonso is also an omega, so my point is still made."

Which is a good thing because Charles hadn't even started to consider what the ramifications of presenting as an omega would mean for him; for his career; for his future as a racer.

Charles is a racer. He has to race.

Sebastian Vettel and Fernando Alonso are not the first omegas in F1. Fernando Alonso is not the first omega F1 champion. Sebastian Vettel will not be the last. But those facts do not matter to the people who don't want to see omegas doing well in the sport.

Charles knows this. Charles has seen this. He's watched enough post-race, pre-race, and random-weekday interviews with Sebastian Vettel, Fernando Alonso, and Nico Rosberg to know that if he makes it—when he makes it—he's going to be shot with a barrage of questions about his mate, his future mate, if there's anybody, are there any alphas that have caught his eye.

He just wants to race.

That's not going to change because the biological lottery has decided that he's going to have heats instead of ruts, and over the next year his body is going to develop the ability to get pregnant.

Charles shivers. "They're going to ask me about children."

"What?"

"When I win the title. The media is going to ask if I'm thinking about retiring to have children when I have the title."

The smell of rain picks up, and Max's hands fall to his shoulders. He pushes Charles back a little to look into his green green eyes, a wild look taking over the other boy's baby blues. "The Euro Series?"

Charles whines at the distance, nails clawing at Max's shoulders to try to draw himself back to where he was so comfortably resting. "No!" he manages. "The Drivers' Championship!"

Max blinks. Then he snorts. Then he starts laughing.

"What?" Charles protests. He doesn't know what Alpha is laughing about. Surely he see that they will both make it to F1 one day.

'Max.

'Max. Max. Max. Max. Max.

'Not Alpha.

'Just Max.'

"Already thinking about F1?" he teases.

"Like you aren't!"

"Of course I am," Max tells him as his hands drop off Charles' form, leaving him standing on his own for the first time in a while.

And Charles…Charles feels unmoored. The warmth is coming back, bright and burning. He feels unsteady on his feet again. He wants to fall back into Max, but the other boy had let him go.

'Maybe he's tired of me. Maybe he wants to leave. I should let him leave if he wants to.'

Charles' fire must have gone out again, because Max is suddenly dragging Charles back into the safety of his space with urgency. "Sorry. Sorry. I thought…I'm sorry. I thought you'd gotten your fill."

Charles trills, trying to nuzzle back into the space below Max's jaw.

'Never. I'll never get enough of this.'

"Charles," Max breathes. "Where is your brain? Come back to me Charlie. Please."

"I'm here." His voice sounds small, even to his ears, a thrum of rejection that he doesn't quite understand pierces through him.

He tries his best to blink away the fog that had threatened to take over.

He tries to focus on staying present, on not slipping to the back of his mind.

'Don't I hate Max?' he wonders. 'Aren't I supposed to hate Max? Aren't we rivals? Didn't we come back here to fight?'

Charles still feels very warm; much warmer than before. It's like his temperature is getting hotter and hotter, but being around Max is bringing it back down to bearable levels. For not the first time in this interaction, Charles thinks that Max would be a good alpha for someone.

'For me? Maybe?' a traitorous part of his brain asks when he finally allows Max to coax him up into the collar of his race suit. 'He smells good. Need some of this for my nest.'

He reaches for Max's shoulders again only to find the stiff texture of Max's raincoat. He doesn't want that. Max can keep that. But the race suit. It's so soft, and it's going to smell like Max.

"Charlie." Another warning tone. "What are you doing?"

"Suit."

"Suit?"

"Mhm."

"You want my suit?"

"For my nest."

"W–"

And then Charles finds his wrists trapped in large hands between their bodies.

"Why?"

Charles tilts his head in confusion. "You're Max," he says.

"You hate me."

He can feel the fog descending upon him again. "I don't hate you."

"We were literally just fighting."

"Not because I hate you. I pushed you into a puddle." Charles frowns at his wrists.

Max sighs. "At least you're admitting it. I got disqualified for that, you know?"

"I'm not sorry. You pushed me."

"You pushed me first."

"And this is not fighting."

"Is it not?"

"I've seen you fight. With Esteban before he ditched us for cars with Alex and Pierre. This is having a discussion, maybe arguing."

Max snickers. "Just because I am not throwing a punch does not mean we are not fighting. Esteban punches me back. You do not. It is not fair to punch those who cannot punch back."

"I can punch you!"

Max lets go of his wrists. "Go for it."

Charles does not. Instead he goes for the Velcro collar of Max's race suit. He pouts when he finds his wrists gathered in Max's grip again.

"Good try."

"No it wasn't."

"That was a terrible attempt at a punch," Max agrees.

Charles nods sadly. "I don't want to punch you."

"I know."

"You are annoying."

"I know."

"Stop agreeing with me."

"Okay."

Charles tugs his wrists. "I am going to punch you this time!"

"No you aren't," Max laughs.

"I will!"

Max lets go of him again.

This time he goes for the raincoat. It's not the thing he wants, but this time Max lets him take it. He even shimmies to help Charles rip it off of his shoulders. Max helps him wrap it around himself because falling back into Max's chest.

Charles purrs.

"I should have run while I could," Max mutters in bewilderment, arms only loosely holding onto Charles now. "Where is George?"

"Why do you keep trying to leave?"

"Oh I don't know, because I'm an alpha?" Max groans. "And you hate me."

"I don't hate you, Alpha."

"No. Stop it. Charlie. Get your brain back online."

Charles makes eye contact. "I'm still here."

Max smiles. "That's good."

Charles likes being good.

"Charles. I can smell it. You're slipping again."

He can feel the fog starting to take over again. "I know." He buries his nose into the collar of Max's coat. It smells too much like real rain, and not enough like Max.

He thinks he whimpers about it, because Max is tucking him back under his chin.

He blinks, confused and a little dazed. "Weren't you trying to leave?"

"Well–Yes! But I'm not just going to leave you alone. It wouldn't be safe. I'm waiting for George; I'm waiting for your dad."

"I feel very safe," he mumbles.

Max rumbles.

Charles purrs back at him.

Max's head slams into the sheet metal wall behind him.

Charles cries out.

"Where the fuck is George? I'm dying here."

"Why?"

"Charles."

Charles has discovered today that he doesn't like it when Alpha reprimands him.

'Max.

'Max. Max. Max. Max. Max.

'Not Alpha.

'Just Max.'

"What?"

"You've gone to designation class, yeah? They have that in Monaco, right? And it's not one they let you skip for karting?"

The front part of Charles' brain springs forth in offense. "Obviously I have been to designation class. That's how I know I am presenting as an omega. I have all of the symptoms: feeling warm inside, feeling like I am burning, my head is getting fuzzy, it is hard to think, I want to be in a nest; I am feeling it all."

"Right. Yeah. And I am an alpha," Max points out.

"So?"

"Charles."

"What?"

"You said you've been to designation class. You know what happens when we present, right? When an omega presents?"

"Yes. It is a…what is the word in English. Je suis en chaleur stimulé." Charles wracks his brain. "Mock-heat! I'm going to have them until my body is finished changing and then I can have a real heat."

Max raises his eyebrow.

Charles gets the sense that Max is trying to walk Charles to a conclusion. One that is important.

He thinks. He tries really hard, but as more and more time passes he feels himself getting more and more sluggish.

That's the thing about mock-heats, they just make omegas want to curl up in a nest with all of their packmates; to keep everybody close, and just nap; to be surrounded by pleasing scents.

He feels very warm. His head is going fuzzy. He thinks that if he weren't leaning on Max he would fall to the ground.

He doesn't know where Max is trying lead him, but Charles makes a soft, apologetic sound all the same.

"It's okay. You're doing great. Just stay with me, yeah?"

"Don't wanna go. I want to stay with you."

"I mean in here." He bops Charles' temple with his chin. "Mentally."

Charles hums. "Thank you for staying," he says instead of promising that his mind won't continue to wander further away from him.

Max chuckles in the same way Papa does when he's at a loss at what do with Charles when he wants to drive for just seven more laps. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you," he promises.

"I know." Charles noses into the collar of Max's race suit again. "You're such a good alpha," he babbles. "You'd be good for me, I think."

Max's scent spikes again. "What?"

"Because you'd let me keep racing," Charles explains, murmuring as his mind starts to drift in another wave of warmth, of heat, mock-heat.

"What?"

"Right?" He blinks up at Max. "If you were my mate I'd still get to race? Sebastian and Nico and Jules always get questions about if they'd stop racing once they get mated. You wouldn't make me stop, right?" he asks with increasing urgency.

"What are you talking about, Charles?" Max cries. "Charles? Hello. Charlie, are you still with me? Where is this coming from?"

Charles isn't so sure, but he does know that he needs Max to answer the question right now.

Instead, Max laughs like there's no other reaction he could fathom having at that moment. "You've been an omega for maybe five minutes. You can't be thinking about mates right now," he begs. "Also, you hate me."

"I don't hate you," Charles snipes. "You're just the worst, and you keep pushing me off the road."

"Who ended up in the puddle today?"

"You deserved it."

"You pushed me first."

Charles shrinks back into his shoulders. "And that's okay, right?" he asks in a vulnerable tone.

Max gives him a baffled look.

Charles stares up at him, feeling small and unsure whether he wants to shrink away from Alpha's down pouring storm, or into Alpha's rolling flower fields.

'Max.

'Max. Max. Max. Max. Max.

'Not alpha.

'Just Max.'

He doesn't know what's come over him. The front part of his brain crawls for a wheel that's up, and vanished. He knows that this isn't something he'd ever ask, or even care for Max's opinion on. The

Max let him go.

He whimpers.

He isn't even sure where the whole 'letting Charles race' thing is coming from.

Omegas have rights now! They aren't repressed like they used to be back in the 80s. The questions Sebastian and Nico and Jules have gotten aren't even that bad. And they don't even ask Fernando those questions, because they respect that he doesn't want to answer them.

Still, it's like he can't help himself. "You'd let me continue racing, right?"

Max's confusion melts into heartbreak. "Am I so terrible you think I would do that to somebody? To you? That I'd bite you right here, right now because you are presenting in my arms, and then ban you from racing?"

Charles whines, leaning into Max. "No," he whispers.

Max's incredulous laughter returns. "That's…that's not right Charles. I want to beat you. And to beat you, I have to race you. You have to actually be there to race me back, you know?"

"So if you were my alpha you'd let me keep racing?" Charles pushes, looking for the final bit of confirmation.

"What kind of a question is that?" Max demands helplessly.

"I don't know."

But he does know that he needs Max to answer the question right now.

Charles needs Max to say it.

Charles needs Max to stop dodging the details of his question.

There's something in him that won't let this go, even if Max has already said he'd never tell his omega to stop racing, but he hasn't said anything about Charles; about if he'd let him keep racing if they got mated. "Would you?"

Max must be able to sense the desperation slowly overcoming him, because he goes limp. "Of course I'd let you keep racing. Are you worried about it? Somebody stopping you from it because you are an omega? Jules is an omega, you know your family is going to let you continue, right?"

'Yeah. That makes sense.' Charles nods, feeling settled again. "But what if I don't get sponsors?"

"Then they are stupid to not see your talent. If they cannot see past you being an omega, then they do not deserve you."

"But I'll need them."

"You aren't going to need sponsors that don't believe in you."

"Do you believe in me?"

"If I make it to Formula One, so are you," he promises. "And I am going to make it," he smirks. "It doesn't matter that you are an omega, and it never should. It's not something you have to overcome, it's just what you are. And that's okay, yeah?"

"Yeah." Charles can feel himself melting at Max's words. He wants more of Max's calming scent. "You've got me," he mumbles. He doesn't even notice his teeth closing around the Velcro closure of Max's race suit.

"Charles!"

He whines. "Please?"

"Why do you keep trying to open my suit. I need this. I only have one of these."

"I'll give it back! I promise. I'll even wash it before bringing it back to you for the next race," he pleads.

"Liar. Don't even try that. If I let you take my suit I'm never seeing it again. I've already said goodbye to that jacket."

Charles pouts. He sends Max his best pleading eyes, and when the young alpha groans: Charles knows he's got him.

"I have some shirts in the van I'll get for you. Does that work? Would that be okay?" Max's wrinkles his nose. "Please don't be disappointed. I do really need my race suit, but I can spare a few shirts."

Charles somehow slumps further into Max. "Fine."

Max rubs his cheek along Charles' temple. "I'm sorry, but–"

"It is fine. I am being…a little unreasonable. I think it is the…mock-heat! The mock-heat. You don't have to give me your shirts. When Papa gets here I will give you back your jacket."

"Keep it."

"Are you sure?" Charles asks, hopeful.

"It is raining and you are not already in a jacket. You need a raincoat: keep it."

Charles can feel himself start to preen. He feels himself start to purr.

Max groans. "Where is your dad?"

He sounds like he is in pain, so Charles tries to purr better. "I don't know," he says. "I think he needs to get here soon. 'M slipping."

"I've got you."

"Verstappen!"

They both jump.

"If you've done anything to my son…Oh Charlo. Tu présentes."

And Charles' nose fills right up with the warm sunshine and pine of his Papa. "Oui. Oméga."

Papa nods slowly, taking in the scene before him.

Charles knows how this looks. He's pinning his Alpha to the wall, and wrapped in his jacket. His Alpha, who Papa was concerned might have done something horrible to his son. Something like decking him so hard Charles ends up flat on his back for entirely different reasons parents are normally afraid of when leaving their omega children with alphas of their age group, but Charles won't have to worry about that for a few years more.

'Max.

'Max. Max. Max. Max. Max.

'Not Alpha.

'Just Max.'

Max lets him go. "I didn't do anything," he rushes. "I haven't done anything. I promise. We were just talking about…"

Charles can feel the panic leaching through Max's frame; he smells how the storm in Max's scent picks up. He purrs at the young alpha, trying to give him any comfort he can.

"Help," Max pleads. "He needs…"

Charles is aware of Max's attempts to push him away, but thinks that's stupid: his Alpha is clearly in distress, and his scent is supposed to be calming, is it not?

'Max.

'Max. Max. Max. Max. Max.

'Not Alpha.

'Just Max.'

"Charles. Let him go. I'm here."

'Let him go? I don't want to let him go.'

"Char, s'il te plaît."

'French!' Charles wonders why he hadn't thought of that sooner. It's so much easier for him to think in French, especially with this feeling of warmth taking over all of his systems.

"Il veut partir," he croaks, nuzzling into Max.

Papa's reply is patient. "Alors, tu dois lui lâcher."

"Non!"

"Charles."

Charles can hear the light reprimand in his Papa's tone. He doesn't like it.

"Max a besoin d'y aller parler à son père."

Charles clings to Max tighter. "Non. J'en ai besoin. Et son père est méchant."

"Charles…"

He can feel Papa's presence behind him, so he pulls his head out from Max's neck to meet Papa's eyes. "J'ai besoin de lui," he implores.

And he does. He does need Max. Max and his comforting scent. Max and his nice arms. Max and his soft rumbling. Max and his ability to clear away the outermost mist of the fog continually descending over his mind.

Max and his alpha-ness.

Max and his desire to keep racing Charles forever and ever.

Charles wants to race Max until the end of time.

"T'as besoin de lui lâcher."

Charles clings to him tighter.

Papa sigh. "I'm sorry about him."

'English? Non!'

Charles' brain does not want to deal with English right now.

"It is fine," Max responds.

'Oh. Right. Max does not know French. I can… I can do English for Alpha.

'Max.

'Max. Max. Max. Max. Max.

'Not Alpha.

'Just Max.'

"Better me than some random person, right?"

"Yes," Papa agrees. "Here, let me get him off you, and then you can get back to your father."

Max's arms tighten a smidge around his body before they go lax once more. "Yeah. I promised him some shirts, so I might stop by your van later if that is okay?"

"That will be fine."

'Papa is going to take Max from me,' Charles realizes. 'Non. Papa is going to take me from Max, and Max is going to let me go.'

Charles whimpers.

Charles doesn't want to leave Max.

Charles doesn't want Max to leave.

Charles doesn't want Max to let him go!

Shouldn't Max be doing everything in his power to stay with Charles?

Shouldn't he be guiding Charles to his den so he can make them a pretty nest to cuddle out his mock-heat?

Isn't Charles supposed to be enticing, or something?

Why is Max going to let him go?

Time slows down as Charles starts to panic. He clings to Max tighter.

Does Max want to leave? Why? Is Charles not a good enough omega for alpha?

'Max.

'Max. Max. Max. Max. Max.

'Not Alpha.

'Just Max.'

Max would make the perfect alpha.

Charles reaches for Max's neck, and Max tips his head to the side for him, allowing him to tuck himself into his scent glands one last time.

No.

Charles will not stand for this. Charles noses his way back into Max's chest, and rubs his face on the other boy's race suit, leaving his scent on the fabric.

'This will not be the last time,' he thinks, and it's the clearest thought he's had in minutes.

Max said he'd let Charles keep racing.

Max would never hurt Charles. He was furious with him a few minutes ago, and now he's holding Charles close.

Max is already such a good alpha, and Charles is never going to be a good omega. Charles is going to be a racecar driver. Racecar drivers aren't soft, and sweet, and pliant, and they never roll over for alphas. No alpha is going to want him, not if the information from designation class is to be believed. But Max is going to be a racecar driver too. He's going to understand. He's going to let Charles keep racing.

And, Max is already aware of all of his sharp edges.

Charles' teeth sink into Max's chest, aware enough that Jos might get angry if he sees a mark on Max's neck. Mouth full of Nomex, Charles decides right then and there and he's going to be Max's omega.

He can learn to be good enough for Max.

He'll beat the other boy fair and square on track without running him off the road.

That will show him.

May 6th, 2012.
WSK EURO SERIES, Round 2 – KF2.
Val d'Argenton.
Max Verstappen.

Max yelps when he feels Charles' teeth sink into his chest through the fabric of his race suit. He doesn't quite growl at Charles; his inner alpha not recognizing the omega in his first mock-heat as a threat, but the hard look in Hervé's eyes certainly is.

Fear.

Max knows that Hervé is not like Jos, but Max is an alpha, and Max is currently holding the man's newly presented omega son directly after a screaming match.

Charles' teeth clamp down further. His fingers dig into Max's sides. He whines. Max watches him tilt his head ever so slightly, as if attempting to bare his neck.

Get out.

Max shoves Charles into his father's arms.

Get out. Get out. Get out. Get out.

Charles' anguished cry of "Alpha!" is going to haunt Max for the rest of his life.

Max doesn't stop running until he gets back to the garage.

Panting, he braces himself with both hands on the side of his kart.

"Max?"

He turns towards the voice, his focus lasering in on George as he tries to get his breathing to calm down.

"Is Charles okay?"

"He's with his dad now," Max tells him. He feels a slight pang in his chest. "What took you so long?"

"Bumped into my parents. I told them I needed to find Charlie's dad, but I guess I was a bit too panicked because they made me calm down and explain to them what happened slowly."

Max scoffs. "Couldn't they have helped you find Charles' dad first?"

"That's what I was thinking! And then once we found him, I had to explain everything all over again!"

Pain.

Max's chest hurts.

He presses the heel of his palm over his heart. "Ow," he mutters.

"Are you okay?" George asks, talking a half step towards him with a frown on his face.

"I'm fine," Max tells him, standing tall. "It's nothing."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah." Max swallow. "Charles…did not exactly want me to leave." Max rubs at his chest with the heel of his palm. "He bit me."

"He bit you?"

"Over my suit. It was fine. It's not like I bit him back," Max defends.

'Charles bared his neck,' he thinks. 'What the fuck was that?'

Something is missing.

Max shakes away the feeling, pushing it down instead of confronting whatever the fuck his inner voice is on.

"How did your race go?" he asks George instead. "I did not manage to catch it."

"Have you and the Leclerc boy dealt with yourselves then?" Jos asks as the two of them roll Max's kart into the back of the van.

"Yes."

Jos sniffs the air. "Do you smell vanilla?"

Max focuses on packing up the kart.

"Leclerc's an omega is he?" his dad deduces. "I knew it. Sometimes you can just tell, like I could with you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Max growls.

"Don't you growl at me, boy. I mean nothing by it."

Max's chest feels tight.

"Finish packing up, we'll have dinner on the road."

It's not until everything is neatly put away in their place that Max grabs his bag to go change out of his race suit, and into his casual clothes.

While digging through his bag for a clean shirt, Max thinks about his promise to give Charles a few of his worn shirts for his nest. He hadn't really meant it when he'd said. He was mostly trying to appease the omega, and keep him calm while they waited for an adult, but, now, staring at the crumpled up wads of fabric, Max wonders if Charles might actually want them. He'd been so desperate to get Max's scent behind the garages, but he should be in his nest now, and with his dad nearby, and it should be okay.

'He doesn't need my scent anymore, does he?'

Max feels a pang in his chest, right over his heart, where Charles had bit him.

'This should have stopped stinging by now,' he thinks.

Max shakes his head.

'He doesn't need these. He's with his dad. He's fine.'

He's not going to be okay until he has my clothes.

Max pushes it down.

'He doesn't even like me.'

Max sniffs the air. It still smells like a raging fire, but Max knows that it's just Charles in his first mock-heat.

Everybody knows that he's in heat. They can all smell him. Everybody knows where he is. He isn't safe.

'He's with his dad.'

You can't leave him like this.

Max's chest aches.

Max remembers how desperate he was to burrow into Max's chest, and how happy he smelt when Max had promised him those shirts.

Max takes a deep breath, gathers his worn shirts into his arms, sneaks over to the Leclerc' trailer, places them in a little heap on the step, knocks on the door, and doesn't wait around to see what becomes of his belongings.

Early June, 2012.
Interim.
Maaseik.
Max Verstappen.

Audio Recording – Jos Verstappen's Phone

Jos: Okay, it's recording. Would you mind repeating that for me?

Nurse: All signs indicate that Max is experiencing mate withdrawal.

Max: But I do not have a mate.

Nurse: Except that you do. If you look at these scans here: do you see this area? Sort of in the front of the middle? This zone only activates when a bond is formed, a full bond.

Papers shuffle.

Nurse: Do you see these scans? These are the scans of an average boy about your age. Do you see how that zone I was pointing out to you is empty, devoid of any activity?

Max: Yes, but I didn't bite anyone. I thought you could only get bonded if you bit somebody, and then they bit you back.

Nurse: Or the other way around, yes. The alpha doesn't have to bite first, medically.

Max: Well I didn't bite him at all!

Nurse: And I believe you, Max.

Jos: How did this happen?

Nurse: I am unsure. Max, would you mind if I checked your chest again, just to make sure you have no mating mark? You said that is where the omega bit you, right?

Max: Yes, and yes. But he bit me through two layers of clothing.

Fabric rustles.

Nurse: No. Nothing. Not even any sort of scaring. How was he, the omega, when he bit you? What was his mental state?

Max: He was mad at me, then he was presenting, then he was trying to get as close to me as possible.

Nurse: Presenting? First mock-heat?

Max: Yes.

Nurse: And he bit you?

Max: Yes.

Nurse: And you didn't bite him first?

Max: We've been over this, no I didn't. He was out of his mind, and he doesn't like me very much.

Nurse: Hmm.

Papers shuffle.

Nurse: Could you look here, for a second?

Max: Why are we looking at my brain scans again?

Nurse: I want to explain something about your bond.

Max: Is it bad?

Nurse: Not necessarily.

Max: That sounds bad.

Nurse: Do you see here, how in the bond activation zone you have these light spots, and these dark spots?

Max: Where is the bond activation zone again?

Nurse: Right here.

Max: Okay. Yes. I see it.

Nurse: Bonds are made up of two parts, a call and a response.

Max: Okay.

Nurse: In normal bond formation, when you or your partner bites the other a pre-bond is created in the form of a call for short period of time. That call appears around here in the brain.

Max: That is a dark spot.

Nurse: Yes, and that is were the irregularities in your bond arrive. Normally, this pre-bond will then either fade away with time, or it will turn into a full-bond when the other partner bites the caller back, and we call that a response. Which sits here.

Max: Right.

Nurse: As you can see, you have activity in the response section, but not in the call section.

Jos: How is this possible?

Nurse: I do not know, but if Max says he didn't bite this other boy, but the other boy bit them, then to appears that this other boy's bite acted as a response instead of a call, where he has confirmed that is he your omega, but you never asked to be his alpha. Does that make sense?

Max: Not really.

Nurse: It is difficult to take in, I know.

Max: Are you saying that he is my omega, but I am not his alpha?

Nurse: That is what I and the bond specialist I was talking about earlier are hypothesizing, but it is impossible for us to tell you anything more without seeing your mate's scans.

Jos: Not that I don't trust your judgment, but could we perhaps make an appointment with this specialist ourselves?

Nurse: Yes of course. The front desk should have her on file.

Jos: Thank you. In the meantime, what can be done about this? My son has been sick for weeks now.

Nurse: Like I said, it is mate withdrawal. Sustained fatigue and headaches are a very common symptom of scent withdrawal, but the addition of a low pulsing pain near the mating mark—or where the mating mark should be in Max's case—narrows it down to mate withdrawal.

Jos: What can be done?

Nurse: With the scent withdrawal, the best medicine is for Max to get scented by the person he is in withdrawal from. If that boy is not around, which it seems like he isn't, then imitations of his scent will do. But, because this is mate withdrawal, there is another option of breaking the bond.

Growling.

Max: No.

Nurse: Right. Well…if his mate's scent is not an option, then at this stage of Max's discomfort, general strength acetaminophen will continue to combat his headaches, and a stimulant such as caffeine will deal with the fatigue. If his symptoms worsen, come back and I'll prescribe him something stronger.

Jos: Thank you.

June 10th, 2012.
CIK-FIA EUROPEAN CHAMPIONSHIP, Round 1 – KF2.
Wackersdorf.
Max Verstappen.

"I will not let your infatuation with that omega ruin your future."

Max pops open the cap of his little bottle of vanilla extract. "Well the only way to get out of this 'infatuation' is to break the bond, which we both agreed not to do. I don't want to, and because this is a half-bond none of the doctors you looked into will do the removal surgery, so the only way to break the bond is the old fashioned way with a year long scent-cleanse," Max reminds his dad. "And he smells like campfires, so my progress with be set back every time somebody burns something." He sniffs close to the opening of the bottle of vanilla, letting the building tension dissipate from his shoulders. "I'll be fine. I've been fine."

"One day the simple fixes you have been relying on will stop working."

"And we'll deal with it then," Max snipped. "Besides, I'm literally going to see him today. I'll go back to normal, and then the withdrawal will set in again, just in time for the next race where I'll top back up on the real stuff."

Jos' eyes turn skyward. "I cannot believe you two bonded."

"I didn't mean to! And I didn't do anything!"

It's fine. Max is fine.

He kneads over his heart with the palm of his right hand hoping to alleviate the ever-present pang in his chest. He's got a headache, but he also hasn't drunk from his water bottle in at least as hour, so maybe it's that.

It's not that. Max knows it's not that.

He reaches for his bottle anyways.

Max tries his best to focus on the man at the front of the room giving the briefing about driver expectations for the race day, but Max's can't pay attention, at least not to the official. No, instead, all of Max's attention is on Charles who is sat across the room next to George: his packmate.

'Maybe this is what Dad was talking about.'

Max doesn't particularly enjoy being fixated on Charles, but the bond specialist said it would be healthiest if he let his instincts play-out rather than constrict them. He would just have to manage them so that it doesn't affect his day to-to-day.

It clearly isn't affecting Charles.

Maybe it is a real half-bond. Maybe it is only Max dealing with this. Maybe Charlie isn't his.

Mine.

'No, what did the doctor say? He's mine, but I'm not his.'

Charles looks up from his notebook and their eyes meet.

He smiles, and Max is filled with light.

He can't smell Charles properly from all the way over here, but the faint notes of campfire and vanilla that have wafted towards his side of the room have helped a little bit: he feels less irritable already.

Eventually the meeting is adjourned, and George bounds to his side for the not-so-long-but-feels-like-it-takes-forever walk back to the Intrepid garage. He smells freshly scented, like Charles had given him one last mark before he'd been allowed to leave.

Max's headache loses its grip, the pang in his chest fades, and his senses feel sharper than they have in weeks.

'Wow. Mate withdrawal fucking sucks.'

Don't be away from him for so long.

'Shut up.'

Max tucks George under his arm for a quick scenting of his own, but only a little. He doesn't want to overpower Charles' scent. If anything he wants to mix them, smell how they meld.

Max revels in the mixture of fire and rain.

Max doesn't get a chance at the real thing until he's standing below Charles on the podium of the first race.

"Only 2.7 seconds," he tells Charles, their respective first and second place trophies hoisted over their heads. "I'll get you in the next one."

"Bring it."

Max does bring it. He wins the second race, clear of Charles by 17.3 seconds down in eighth.

Charles finds him after the race, tugging him away from his go-kart and his father to debrief about the race. They sit on side by side on one of the concrete barriers, pointing to each corner as they become relevant in the conversation.

Max finds himself leaning into Charles' space, searching for his campfire and vanilla scent. He lets it wash over him, and breathes a sigh of relief when his headache finally clears up completed, and the ache in his chest fades to nothing.

He wants to scent Charles, but he doesn't know how to ask, or if Charles would even appreciate it.

'I'm not his alpha," Max reminds himself.

He wants to ask about his shirts, the ones he'd left behind. He wonders if Charles had used them; if he'd liked them; if he might want more of them; or if he'd like Max to give them a scent refresh.

'Assuming he even likes my scent.'

June 10th, 2012.
CIK-FIA EUROPEAN CHAMPIONSHIP, Round 1 – KF2.
Wackersdorf.
Charles Leclerc.

Charles finds himself leaning into Max, hanging onto every word that he says. At least that's what he's telling himself, since it's a lot less embarrassing than the truth: he really likes the way Max smells. His tulips were a little wilted in the morning, but after two podiums his flowers are in full bloom, and Charles cannot get enough.

It makes him wish he'd brought Max's shirts with him to Germany, if only to get them coated in tulips and rain once more. He's just not sure how he was going to get the shirts back, if he hands them over to Max. Those are his shirts at the end of the day. But it doesn't matter because Charles left threaded through his home nest.

If anybody asked, which nobody has done yet, Charles was going to tell them that the extra shirts hadn't fit in his suitcase when he was packing for the weekend. In truth, Charles doesn't want to give the shirts back, even though he knows that he has too.

Eventually.

When they stop smelling like Alpha.

'Max.

'Max. Max. Max. Max. Max.

'Not Alpha.

'Just Max.'

Mid-June, 2012.
Interim.
Monaco.
Charles Leclerc.

Maman had laundered his nest.

She'd told him that she was going to do it: take apart his nest, throw everything in the wash, and leave everything in nice folded piles on his bed for him to use for rebuilding. She'd told him that if there was anything he'd like to keep scented, he should take them out of the nest, and put them by the window.

Charles hadn't, because he knew that some items in his nest hadn't been washed for weeks, and were probably getting gross. It felt right to make sure everything was clean. Besides, he could always get the items rescented, or maybe he could exchange them for new things; like that old Christmas sweater Pierre had given him, but was a little too scratchy for Charles' liking.

He remembers how Lorenzo had been searching high and low for a shirt he'd wanted to wear for his date last week—as it would be the perfect shirt to wear to the arcade—and Charles had had to sheepishly tell his older brother that it was in his nest, and even if Charles had gone to get it for him, it would probably be too dirty for a date.

He'd felt bad, but he'd been forgiven. Maybe this time he'll ask Lolo for his least favourite shirt, so they don't have this problem again.

Medium favourite.

But Charles isn't exactly concerned about Lolo's shirt right now.

Charles can see that Maman has organized the materials that made up his nest into piles for him, organized by owner of item.

Maman had washed Max's shirts.

There they are, piled neatly in the corner with the rest of the stuff from his karting pack.

Charles grasps the topmost shirt from the pile, and he brings it up to his nose. It smells like detergent and Maman, but neither of those smell like Max: like tulips and rain.

Charles…Charles wants to cry.

This is what Maman was talking about, when she had asked him if there was anything he hadn't wanted washed. He clutches the shirt close to his chest, burying his nose in the fabric.

He sniffs.

At least the scent of tulips is still in the air, thanks to the stems in the vase on his nightstand.

'Well. Max probably wants his shirts back anyways.'

But Charles doesn't have to pack for the next race against Max just yet, so he threads their soft cotton through his new nest.

The pitter-patter of raindrops against his window match his mood perfectly.

June 24th, 2012.
WSK EURO SERIES, Round 3 – KF2.
La Conca.
Charles Leclerc.

It's the worst part about having presented as an omega, Charles decides. Having to lug around a whole extra suitcase full of nesting materials just for his stupid comfort. It's big, its cumbersome, it takes up so much space, Charles could never live without it, and it scares him every time the two entire throw blankets he always shoves into his nesting suitcase explode out when he unzips it.

It hurts a little bit when Charles unthreads Max's shirts from the folds of those blankets, but it has to be done.

Charles knocks on the door of the Verstappen van, Max's folded and clutched to his chest.

Then the wrong Verstappen opens the door.

"What have you got there?" Jos asks.

Charles eeps, and then suddenly Max is there, darting out from behind his father to stand between them.

Charles' nose fills with rain soaked tulips, and heavy showers.

Max's hands hover between them, like he was reaching out to pull Charles behind him, hide him from his dad's view. He could probably smell Charles' distress when Jos opened the door instead of Max.

Max's eyes dart between Charles, and his dad.

He clears his throat. "I have your shirts."

Max's eyes dart downwards, and his tulips wilt.

'What's wrong? Wait, what's wrong?' Charles wonders desperately. 'Alpha?

'Max.

'Max. Max. Max. Max. Max.

'Not Alpha.

'Just Max.'

Charles can feel himself starting to panic. He can feel his pheromones releasing in an attempt to self-sooth. He doesn't know what's wrong.

'Why are you sad?'

Max clears his throat. "I see," he says. "Thank you for returning them."

"You're welcome." It feels hollow to say, as he tries to convince himself to hand over the fabric.

Something's wrong. Something's wrong, and Charles can't figure it out. Jos is staring at him like he's going something wrong, Max smells like he'd just DNFed a race, Charles really doesn't want to give Max his clothes back, and he doesn't know how to ask for replacement pieces without it being weird. He'd already presented in Max's arms, and tried to worm his way into Alpha's skin.

'Max.

'Max. Max. Max. Max. Max.

'Not Alpha.

'Just Max.'

"Just ignore him," Max says, like that's the biggest problem. "It's okay. I promise." He holds out his hands properly now, reaching for his shirts.

Charles clutches them tight to his chest like he hadn't walked all the way over here to return them.

Max rumbles at him softly. It's soothing, smoothing out his fraying nerves, but Charles can still tell that something is off.

'What's wrong? Why is something wrong? I thought you'd want them back? Do they smell too much like me?' he wonders desperately as he finally passes the shirts over.

Max smiles at him, but it's brittle.

Jos growls, and Charles takes that as his cue to scamper away.

"You smell like Max," George tells him, when Charles invites him into his nest during the lunch break.

"You always smell like him," Charles points out.

George rolls his eyes. "That's because we're teammates, and Max scents all of his teammates."

"And when I scent you, some of his scent gets on me."

"No." George shakes his head. "He was…we haven't scented today yet, but you already smell like him."

Charles flounders. He's not going to tell George that he went to go return Max's shirts, and that Max had to calm him down after Jos was the one to open the door.

"Uhm." George shuffles in his seat. "Did something happen in Val d'Argenton?"

Charles tilts his head. "How do you mean? I presented. You know this. Everybody knows this."

"I meant with Max."

He frowns, wondering where George is going with this. "You saw us. He was with me when I presented, and stayed with me until Papa brought me back to the trailer."

"Max is being a little weird, and smells like your vanilla, and so the other boys are saying that Max bit you."

"What!?" Charles demands.

"And," George continues, "they are saying that you probably bit him back, and then they were being very mean about you being an omega, so I kicked them in the nuts."

"Who?"

"Doesn't matter," George dismisses, "because I won."

"Georgie…" Charles reprimands, but his mind is racing. "Do they really think that?"

"Yeah. I guess. But Max says he didn't bite you, and then called them stupid for thinking he would do that to you. Then he walked away in a huff—and that's why we didn't get to scent this morning—and then the other boys said those things, and then I kicked them," George explains.

Charles is already shaking his head. "He didn't bite me. Papa said Max didn't bite me, and Maman checked me over when I came out of my mock-heat. I…Papa said I bit him through his suit, but he has to bite me back for the bond to hold. Which he did not do."

"Okay." George nuzzles Charles' shoulder. "I believe you, and I believe Max. He's not like that. I know he's not like that, but… he smells like you, and you smell like him."

Charles swallows. "I had to return something to him this morning," he shares.

George hums. "And you guys scented? You hate him most of the time."

Charles blushes, and tucks his nose into George's hair. "I am always scenting everybody, Maman says it's because I have presented now."

"If you say so."

"You do not believe me."

"I do! I just…We could all hear the two of you shouting, and everything stopped, and then there was a long period of silence where everybody was a little bit scared you two had killed each other. That's when I drew the short straw to go check on you guys. And then, y'know, I saw you two and went to find your dad, but to everybody else they saw me go, and then your dad go, and then Max was running away, with your dad hustling you to your trailer as you screamed for Max."

"I was screaming for Max?"

"Yeah."

"And everyone saw?"

"And everyone who didn't see heard," George confirms.

Charles sinks into his nest.

He wants to drown himself it in.

"Oh. I see."

Private Messages Between Charles Leclerc and Esteban Ocon

Charles
I bit Max.

Esteban
What?

Charles
I bit Max.
He didn't bite me back.
But I bit him.

Esteban
Charles, what are you talking about?

Charles
Have you not heard?

Esteban
Heard what?
That you and Max are being weird about each other?

Charles
So you have heard!?

Esteban
You and Max are always weird about each other.
That's like your thing.

Charles
What did you hear?

Esteban
I heard that he triggered your presentation heat in Val d'Argenton by biting you to shut you up because you guys were fighting about something.

Charles
That's not what happened!

Esteban
I didn't think so.
That doesn't seem like something Max would do.
That also feels like the sort of thing you'd have told Pierre, and Pierre was telling everybody that it wasn't true.
That you and Max hadn't mated.
You would've told him.

Charles
I haven't told Pierre that I bit Max.

Esteban
Oh.

Charles
You can't tell him.

Esteban
Okay.

Charles
I'll tell him.
Eventually.
Soon.

Esteban
Okay.

Did Max bite you back?

Charles
No.
You are not reacting.

Esteban
Should I be?

Charles
I don't know.

Esteban
Are you okay?

Charles
I think so.
I just…
I needed to tell somebody.
Because George was saying that the other boys were saying that he bit so that his alpha voice would be more effective.

Esteban
Because of the fight?

Charles
It was just an racing incident.
He was fine.
He were both fine.

Esteban
What happened?

Charles
He drove into a puddle after the flag, and got disqualified.
Not my fault.

Esteban
I'm sure.

Charles
Are they actually saying we are mated?

Esteban
Yeah.
I don't why people think that.
People are just saying that you two are being more weird about each other than normal.
Not sure how many of them believe it though.
They stopped talking about the mated thing when Pierre told them to shut up about it, but they still talk about Max biting you.

Charles
But he didn't.
Esteban please believe me.
He didn't bite me.
He didn't mate me.
He didn't use his alpha voice.

Esteban
I believe you.

Charles
Thank you.

Esteban
I'm here for you.
Anytime you want to talk.

July 22nd, 2012.
CIK-FIA EUROPEAN CHAMPIONSHIP, Round 2 – KF2.
PF Int'l, Brandon.
Max Verstappen.

The next two weeks in between races without Charles aren't so bad. His vanilla has been baked into the fibres of his shirts, and Max wonders if that means Charles had slept with them; if he'd woven them into his nest after his mock-heat had broken.

Curled under the thickest blanket they'd brought with them to the track, Max grips one of the shirts close to his chest, sniffing periodically.

Pre-rut sucks.

He just feels cold, and uncomfortably present: like he's on guard, like he needs to make sure everything is in order before he becomes indisposed for a few days.

He also has to urge to wrap Charles up in his arms and never let go, but he chalks that one up to his instincts thinking the Charles is his omega.

He still isn't used to it: having an omega.

It's weird to think of Charles as his, especially when they only see each other for a few days at a time across paddocks in random small towns all over Europe.

Max practically clings onto George after he comes back to the garage after spending some pack time with Charles during the lunch break. At least George doesn't seem to mind it, even it Max is probably being a little weird.

'This is probably why the other boys think you are mated.' He groans. 'Shut up brain. Not helping.'

George telling Max all about Charles' nest is also not helping. It's just making Max want to be in Charles' nest. It's making him want to offer Charles his whole den, to see if there anything in there that he'd like.

Except that would be a monumentally bad idea: his den is in his trailer, and his trailer has his dad, but Charles doesn't seem to like his dad, and he probably wouldn't want to make a nest where Max's dad is—if he'd even want to make a nest in Max's den at all.

His dad definitely wouldn't want to see the nest either. His dad would rather pretend that him and Charles weren't mated.

Half-bonded.

Whatever.

Max takes a deep breath, soaks up as much warmth from George as he can, and lets the hints of campfire and vanilla wash over him.

He has races to run this weekend.

His inner alpha may yearn to have the omega close, but racing comes first. Racing always comes first.

Max has already done a few races in pre-rut since he'd presented. He will be able to do this one as well.

Max gets disqualified from both races.

Racing in pre-rut has never affected him this much, but this weekend has felt like everything was wrong.

Everybody is looking at him weirdly, and George says he smells like an oncoming storm.

Max feels like one.

His dad must be able to tell to, because he sends Max out on a walk while he loads up the van.

Max finds himself sitting on the edge of the treeline. He breaths in, and then out.

Omega.

Max's head snaps sideways, and there's Charles. Charles is sitting next to him, and he's talking about racing lines, and he probably wants to debrief even though Max doesn't have anything good to debrief about, and neither does Charles really—with a DNF and a seventh place this weekend—, but he's here, and he's talking to Max, and he's sitting next to Max, and he wants to debrief, and who is Max to deny him?

My omega. Have to make him happy.

He does deny his own desire to pull Charles off of the ground, and into his lap.

'Stop it.'

Max tries so hard to be normal, but he's been avoiding Charles all weekend, and—while his mate withdrawal symptoms haven't flared up—his pre-rut symptoms are the worst they've ever been.

It's very hard to be normal with the way Charles keeps leaning into his space.

Max keeps waiting for Charles to bring up his presentation, or the half-bond that has been—and is currently—driving Max mad, but he never does.

Any maybe he never will. Maybe Charles isn't feeling anything from his side. Maybe the half-bond only exists in Max's brain. Maybe Charles truly doesn't know that his biting of Max did anything at all.

Max juts out his chin to illustrate a point, exposing his scent glands to the open aria round them unconsciously. He only notices because Charles starts purring lightly.

Charles is Max's omega, and he's making it very hard for Max to remember that he's not Charles' alpha.

And he's okay with that.

Probably.

Mine.

Late-July, 2012.
Pre-rut.
Maaseik.
Max Verstappen.

Max is out of the van before the wheels have rolled to a stop. He flies through the front door, bag scuffing the wall as he makes the final apex before he can throw himself onto the floor between the piles of fabric in his den.

He inhales deeply, letting the mixture of muted scents fill his lungs. Eyes closed, and laying on his back, he picks them out: mom, Vic, Michael, Mick, Gina, Corinna, Jenson…

With each scent he recognizes, Max's senses calm.

It's a weak imitation of being surrounded by pack, but it works for him with everybody spread to the wind.

"Max!"

"What?"

"You left your extract in the car."

Max flings his door open. "Did I?"

His dad holds it out for him, and as he goes to snatch it up his dad dodges, bringing the little bottle up over his head.

Max growls.

"Don't you growl at me. I have something to tell you."

His eyes dart between his dad and the bottle, legs itching to jump for it. Max grips the doorframe hard with his fingers. "What?"

"This rut is going to be different. It is going to be worse than any you've had before."

"Yes, dad: Verstappens rut rough, and they rut hard," he repeats from conversations past. "And I know ruts are worse when done alone, but mine have been fine so far."

His dad's expression pinches.

"What?"

"You are mated now," he grounds out. "Half bond or not, you have an omega. Your instincts believe you have an omega, and that omega is not here."

"So?"

"The point of a rut is to breed, Max."

"I know that!"

"Your body will be calling out for your omega."

"I know how ruts work, dad," he growls.

"And you have an omega who won't be here to fuck, so your instincts are going to call, and call, and call, and it's going to suck when he doesn't respond."

Max freezes, eyes wide.

Jos' voice softens. "I know your first few ruts have not been bad up until now, but you have an omega now. You've been having mock-ruts, now that you're bonded you will likely be having real ruts."

"Real ruts don't come until at least seventeen," Max counters.

"Unless you are bonded."

Max clenches his jaw. His eyes dart back up to the bottle of vanilla extract.

His dad's eyes do the same. He lowers his arm, holding out the little bottle to his son. "I just wanted to warn you that it will be rough."

"Will I be okay?"

"Of course," he assures. "You'll be fine. You'll be more out of it than you have been, but I will be in the house. I will keep you safe."

Max takes the bottle from his dad's hand. He cradles it close to his heart. "Okay."

"It's going to feel like you're dying," his dad tells him when Max turns to slink back into his den. "But I promise that you aren't, okay?"

Max straightens his spine. He stands tall. "Okay."

Jos nods. "That's all. I will bring you food in about an hour."

"Thank you."

Max feels cold. He feels so cold. He feels so so so cold.

The shivers have been building, and building, and building throughout the entirety of the car ride home—throughout the entire weekend—, and Max is so thankful that his dad had turned up the heat in the car.

Max is okay with the cold, Max is good with the cold, but this isn't the kind of cold that comes from running laps in the rain until his fingers feel like falling off, or playing in the snow until he can't feel this toes. This is a cold that he feels in his chest; a cold that emanates from his heart.

'Where Charles bit me. Where my mating mark should be.'

Alphas run cold. Omegas run hot. This is something that Max does remember from class. He also remembers that heats and ruts exasperate those temperature differences.

Maybe his dad was right: about this rut being worse than any he's had before.

He's never been this cold before.

He digs around his den, search for something.

Omega. Omega where are you?

He unearths the rest of the shirts that still smell like Charles.

My omega.

Come.

Warm me up, please.

I'm so cold.

He brings the shirts over to his bed, crawls under the covers, and buries his face in their cotton fabric, inhaling the scent of a dying fire, and stale vanilla.

It calms him: only just.

'It's so cold.'

My omega would warm me up.

Max swats at the part of his brain that whimpers for Charles. 'I'm not his alpha,' he reminds himself. 'He doesn't want me as his. He doesn't even remember biting me. He's not coming to help me.'

Need my omega.

Needing his omega more than he's ever needed an omega before during his mock-ruts does not change the fact that Charles isn't coming.

'Charles is in Monaco–'

Where is my omega? Do we know that he is in Monaco? Did he make it home safe? If he is not here than I don't know that he is safe. I will not be able to protect him during my rut.

'Charles is with his family,' Max reminds himself. 'He should be safe.'

But he will be safe here.

'He…'

You have to make sure that he is safe while you are not there to protect your omega.

Max's instincts aren't too pleased when he points out to himself that he is never there to protect his omega in between races. He's barely even there to protect Charles during a race weekend, what with being too busy trying to beat the other boy.

It's another surge of protectiveness that propels Max out of the modicum of warmth that has started to develop in his bed, and towards his phone.

His almost empty Facebook message history with Charles stares back at him.

His fingers hover over the keyboard.

'Charles is going to think I'm weird.'

You have to make sure that he's okay.

Private Messages Between Charles Leclerc and Max Verstappen

Max
Did you make it home okay?

Charles
Yeah :)
Long drive, but Papa and I played radio karaoke, so it went quickly.
You?

Max
I did.
My dad and I analyzed Michael's race in Hockenheim from this weekend.

Charles
But he got seventh? Why not Fernando's? He won.
And beat your Sebastian.
And is leading Mark by 34 points.

Max
Red Bull is beating Ferrari in the constructors.
And it's because we like Michael.

Charles
Michael is great.
He brought many championships to Ferrari.

Max
One day I will convince you to care positively about Seb.

Charles
Forza Ferrari.

Max
Yeah, yeah.

Late-July, 2012.
Interim.
Monaco.
Charles Leclerc.

Private Messages Between Charles Leclerc and Esteban Ocon

Charles
Does it mean anything, if an alpha checks in with you before he goes into a rut?

Esteban
What?

Charles
Max has been smelling like a coming storm all weekend.

Esteban
And you can tell?

Charles
Everybody could tell.

Esteban
Ah.

Charles
Can people not normally tell?

Esteban
My teachers say that our noses are not yet developed enough be able to tell.

Charles
Everybody could tell.
Max's scent is very strong, you remember.

Esteban
Yeah.
It means he cares about you, if he checks in.

Charles
Okay.

Esteban
Has Max checked in?

Charles
Maybe.

Late-July, 2012.
Pre-rut.
Maaseik.
Max Verstappen.

Private Messages Between Esteban Ocon and Max Verstappen

Esteban
Hey.

Max
Now is not a good time.

Late-July, 2012.
Post-rut.
Maaseik.
Max Verstappen.

Private Messages Between Esteban Ocon and Max Verstappen

Max
Fuck.
Okay, I'm alive.
Ruts suck.

Esteban
Tell me about it.

Max
I felt like I was dying.

Esteban
?
Mine aren't that bad.

Max
No they wouldn't be.
Did you need something?

Esteban
What does that mean?
And kind of.

Max
It's nothing.
Hit me.

Esteban
It's about Charles.

Max
What about Charles?

Esteban
I think Charles is freaking out about something, but he won't tell me anything.
Pierre's noticed it too, but apparently he isn't talking to Pierre either.

Max
Is he okay?
What happened?
Do you actually know anything, or is this just a feeling?

Esteban
I think the rumours about you and him mating at getting to him.

Max
I've been telling everybody to shut up about that.

Esteban
That's just making everybody see you as a protective alpha.

Max
But if I say nothing then we are keeping it a secret.

Esteban
Right.
He told me that he bit you.

Max
Oh.
I didn't think he remembered that.
I didn't bite him back, obviously.

Esteban
I know.
He said the same.

Max
You are being weird.
If you have something to say, say it.

Esteban
Pierre said that Charles told him that his presentation heat was very bad, and that only the scent of tulips would calm him down.
And we all know an alpha who smells like tulips.

Max
I didn't do anything!
We were fighting when he presented.
I only held him.
Nothing happened.
He probably imprinted on me or something.
Cause I kept him safe while we waited for his dad.

Esteban
I'm not accusing you of anything!
I'm just telling you that Charles is being weird.

Max
Why?

Esteban
I'm wondering if you know anything about why that might be.
Cause Pierre and I think it's about the mating thing, and you're the other guy.

Max
Since when are you and Pierre talking?

Esteban
Oh shut up.
The other boys don't believe Pierre when he tells them that you didn't bite Charles.

Max
Oh.
They don't?

Esteban
Not a chance.
They're also being dicks, and asking when Charles is going to have your puppies.

Max
We are fourteen.

Esteban
I am aware.
I know it's all bullshit, and gossip, and rumours.
So you think he just imprinted on you?
And it'll fade?

Max?

Max
It'll fade?
Has it not faded yet?

Esteban
No.

Max
Oh.
My doctor says we are half-bonded.

Esteban
WHAT?
Half bonds do not exist.

Max
It was explained to me like this: a bond is made up of two parts: a call and a response.
Charles biting me acted as a response to a call I never made.
BECAUSE I DIDN'T BITE HIM.
This is not how bonds work, so I now have a weird half bond because Charles' bite didn't act as a call to me, even though it was first.
I have seen multiple specialists about it, but I cannot feel him through the bond, so we have been working under the assumption that he does not have a bond with me on his side.
But if he is still needing my scent all these months later then maybe he also has some half-bond.

Esteban
SO YOU ARE BONDED?

Max
No.
He is my omega, but I am not his alpha.
So I'm getting fucking mate withdrawal between races, which is why my rut sucked so much, by the way.

Esteban
You're getting mate withdrawal?

Max
Yeah.

Esteban
So it's not just an imprint?
Does Charles know you have a half-bond?

Max
One of the specialists said it was like a really strong imprint.
I have not told him

Esteban
Of course not.

Max
Esteban, he hates me most of the time.
I am good for racing, and debriefing, and making sure nothing happens when he goes into heat at a race track.
You understand.
It is the same for you.

Esteban
We're not talking about me right now.

August 5th, 2012.
WSK EURO SERIES, Round 4 – KF2.
Zuera.
Charles Leclerc.

It's only when he's up on the podium, and spraying champagne with the other boys that Charles realizes that Max has finished in 10th; that Alpha isn't on the podium with him.

'Max.

'Max. Max. Max. Max. Max.

'Not Alpha.

'Just Max.'

Podiums are more fun with Max.

He turns to the crowd, hoisting his trophy high once more.

His eyes meet Max's in the crowd.

Max is smiling at him. The corners of his eyes are crinkling in that way that they do when he is pleased.

'Alpha is pleased.

'Wait. Not Alpha.

'Max.

'Max. Max. Max. Max. Max.

'Not Alpha.

'Just Max.'

Walking back to the garage, Charles can feel the warmth descending upon him again. It feels a bit like last time, but also less scary because he's deal with it before.

'Where's Max?

'Wait.

'Why do I want Max?'

Charles shifts in his feet. He feels unmoored. Maybe it's because they haven't gotten the chance to debrief after this race yet.

Charles finds him in the Intrepid garage.

"Hi."

"Hi." Max's eyes dart up and down, assessing him. "You smell…"

"I smell…"

Max swallows.

Charles stands perfectly still, not sure if he should lean in or away, but hoping that the other boy thinks he smells good.

"Burning."

"I am." Charles takes a chance, and steps into Max's space. He feels emboldened in a way he's never felt before. And so so so hot. "I am burning. Help me cool down?" He hits Max with the doe eyes that always get him what he wants. "Please?"

Max shudders.

Max shudders and it's the worst thing that could have happened to Charles.

'Why did Alpha shudder?

'Max.

'Max. Max. Max. Max. Max.

'Not Alpha.

'Just Max.'

He whimpers. He pulls away. He thought that Max would help him. He'd helped him so much last time. He'd held him while his world was burning up. He'd kept him safe, and calm, and cool, and–

Max is grabbing Charles' forearm, and pulling the omega into his chest.

Charles purrs.

It's like an ice bath, but so much more pleasant. The brain fog hasn't descended on him yet, but was little was there has been beaten back by the aroma of Max.

"Please don't leave me," Charles whispers, nuzzling into the space between Max's neck and shoulder. "Don't leave me this time."

He remembers how terrible it was when Max left last time. There's a sense of belonging when he's in Max's arms, surrounded by his scent. He digs his nose into Max's scent glands, where the tulips bloom at their fullest.

"Please."

Max's arms tighten around his waist for one brilliant moment, but then loosen once more. His thumbs draws little circles into his sides.

Charles lets his teeth scrape the Velcro of Max's collar. He delights in the way it makes Max's breath hitch, and the way it causes the scent of tulips in the rain to intensify.

"You can have this suit."

Charles freezes. "What?"

"This is my last race with Intrepid. I'm going to be with CRG from now on."

Charles pulls away, and blinks up at him.

"So I'm not going to need the suit anymore." Max shifts in his arms. "If you still want it."

Charles' brain is on the fritz.

Max's race suit. The one that he wears. The one that he races in. The one that smells like him. The one that will have the most concentrated amount of Max. Of Alpha.

'Max.

'Max. Max. Max. Max. Max.

'Not Alpha.

'Just Max.'

"Please," he breathes, fist closing around the Nomex in a death grip. "Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please."

Tulips bloom, and Charles drowns in them. Charles clings onto Max, he leans so far into him that the two boys go tumbling into the ground, but then Max's arms tighten around him and Charles has never felt more safe.

"Please. Please. Please."

A hand comes up to pet Charles' hair.

He feels so warm. "Can I really have it?" he asks, pulling up and away to look into Max's eyes.

There's a little conflicted wrinkle in his brow, but he's still holding Charles softly, and still smiling at him.

"You are going to leave me, aren't you?" he asks, already knowing the answer.

"I have to go home," Max says in a soft voice, "and you do too."

Charles swallows, mouth dry. "I know." He burrows back into Max's neck, nosing at the other boy's scent glands. "Just let me…"

"I've got you," Max promises. "I am going to call George to get your Papa, okay?"

"Okay," Charles agrees sadly.

It's sound. He knows it's sound. He's in pre-heat in public—again—, and Max is just trying to make sure that he's going to spend his heat somewhere safe.

Alone.

Without Max.

He's rather crawl into Max's skin if he could. Which he can't. But Max said that he could have his race suit, so maybe Charles can crawl into that.

For now, he matches Max's rumbles frequency for frequency with his purring.

Late-August, 2012.
Drive Home.
Middle of a Highway.
Max Verstappen.

Max doesn't know it yet, but that was the last time Charles would let the alpha hold his omega for many years.