#ur polite nonsie mwah 🌷 💞

[xiaoluclair]

2 lestappen please

2. neck kisses // lestappen // rating: T // I DUNNO WHAT THIS IS

There's a lunchable next to Pierre's bowl of shrimp and feta salad. He makes a face, glances up to see if Lando's hovering close by. Instead, what he gets is Charles one picnic table over, perched next to Max Verstappen.

Charles, who should've been in his place next to Pierre, guarding his dinner. Not doing— that. The 'that' in question: tapping heads with Max Verstappen. And they do — there's barely an inch of air between their hair. Pierre goes to nudge the lunchable over to Charles's grilled salmon aioli with his unused spoon — karma — only. There's just table. Slats of varnished wood.

Charles shifts slightly. There's a hint of pink and green in front of him. Righteously indignant, Pierre traipses over. As he is doing so, Charles leans over to say something into Max's ear, hands come up to cup either side of his mouth. He miss-aims, gets the place just below Max's ear. Pierre told him not to drink too much. Idiot.

"Hey," he says. A vat of space appears between the two in the span of his next blink. "What happened to watching my food while I pissed?"

Charles's salmon looks barely changed since Pierre last saw it. Evidently Max isn't a very good eating-partner. Pierre does not stick out his tongue.

"Your food is fine," waves off Charles. He must be properly drunk — on the bench, his hand half-overlaps Max's. He has not even noticed. Neither has Max, so he's hammered too. Pierre's not dealing with him though so that doesn't concern him.

Pierre frowns. "There was a lunchable next to it."

Max's brow furrows. "A lunchable? At dinner?" Glances to Charles. "Is that blasphemy or something?"

"No," says Pierre. "Well, yes. But no, they're — why was there a lunchable next to my food, Charles?"

Charles shrugs. He still hasn’t moved his hand. “Ask Lando.”

“Because he put that lunchable next to my dinner,” says Pierre. He knew it.

But Charles shakes his head. “No, because he is putting one in your dinner.”

Pierre glances over his shoulder. Sure enough— “Lando!” Lando drops the cracker and bolts. Esteban’s elbow tips his carrot and cashew soup over. Hilarious. But, “This is not over,” Pierre turns and vows, makes sure to drive the point home with a very point–driving finger. Charles nods. Max nods.

Pierre runs after Lando.

The sun is trying to boil off his skin. That’s through his fireproofs too. George tugs his helmet off — at least it’s some relief — pulls off his balaclava and stuffs it inside.

Black suits are great and all, really, but Miami heat is not very considerate of BLM movements. George thinks it could at least try.

He heads for the scales, where Charles already has his feet on the balance, stands behind Max. Charles’s head is tipped down for the brief few seconds, nods, turns with his body when he steps off.

Max reaches out and they share a handshake that quickly develops into a perfunctory pat on the back.

What George thinks it going to be a perfunctory pat on the back. Apparently either his Oxford Dictionary is wrong or Max has PVA smothered over his chest.

Something Lewis said last week — went on forever, man, I swear — and George hurriedly steps around the two. Yeah, no. He is not waiting around for that to be over. Weighs himself instead, has everything checked off, steps back. Glances over.

Max is already pulling away from Charles's shoulder — that wasn't too long, thinks George. He lifts a thumb, wipes his mouth. It's probably sweating too what with the absolute lazer beam that is the general outdoors, but George doesn't stick around for longer than that. Max can do all the mouth wiping he wants without him there.

On his way out, Charles gives him a nod, a smile, hand cupped to his neck. George returns it, then gets back into the goddamn sun. Fuck you, he thinks vehemently at the sky.

He swears it gets hotter.

Daniel downs the shot. It's spicy, slices its way right down the back of his throat. He can imagine it fucking up his stomach, knife to the walls, makes him cough a little. Scotty shoves another one, bright yellow this time, in front of his face. "Twenty one more to go," he tells Daniel brightly.

Sober prick.

“That looks like piss,” says Daniel. He picks it up, downs it in one go. It’s so bitter it makes him shudder.

Scotty laughs, delighted. It grows when Daniel’s hand slips and the shot glass wobbles onto the table with a small slink. He picks it up, places it upright. Nudges Daniel off the bar stool. “Okay, dance break, Dan. Before you’re too zooted to breathe.”

Daniel thinks that sounds like a good idea. He trips barely eight times on the way into the throes, Scotty’s hand on his back. A few minutes in, Daniel reaches back and tugs him in. He points across the floor — as far as he can before some girl nearly takes his fingers out with her ponytail. “Is that Max?”

He can imagine Scotty squinting. After a billion years, he says “Is that Charles?”

Daniel face–palms. “No,” he says, “is that Max?” Then the music gets a little loud and he can’t hear Scotty’s reply.

He considers asking Max to join, if he wants company. Puts forth the idea. Scotty speaks right into his ear. “I think he already has company.”

And — oh yeah. Max’s tilts a little to the side and Daniel can see his hands, pale and lit in strobe colors, wrapped around something. Some–one. And then he moves further and Daniel can see the lump on his shoulder. A head–shaped lump on his shoulder. It’s moving a little. Like a sea urchin or something.

“Oh my God,” says Daniel. Grins. “Get it Max!”

Max, across like a million people, lifts his head up. Freak. He glances in Daniel’s direction. The head that was previously next to his does too.

Daniel can feel his grin widen, like it’ll slide off his face probably. “Charles!”

Charles gives him a wave. “Scotty,” says Daniel, “Scotty, are you waving?”

When he looks at him, Scotty’s got his fingers pressed to his skull. He looks like he’s fighting off a migraine. Which is not waving. “You’re so rude,” Daniel tells him. Scotty gives him a look Daniel is simply too drunk or too old or all of the above to interpret.

"More shots?" he asks.

Scotty nods almost desperately.

Interviews finished for the day, Christian heads back to the hospitality. The team's spread out on the front tables, dripping off rails and chair, chatting. There's a noticeable absence.

He finds Gemma, legs slung over the arm of a deck chair. "Where's Max?"

She gestures inside. "Went in a couple minutes ago."

Christian nods, heads through the doors. He checks the engineer's room, wardrobe stash, canteen, driver's room. He's on his way back out again, can feel the frown on his face, when he hears a noise from the cleaning closet. Curious, he opens the door.

Things he half-expects to see: Max, walls, and a bottle of Limescale Shine.

Things he does not expect at all to see: Charles Leclerc sucking out Max's blood against the wall.

Christian opens his mouth, is about to say something. He doesn't know what, can hardly comprehend. I've got garlic and I'm not afraid to use it—

"No marks," bites out Max. Hisses, really, not very lion-like, "no fucking marks." Tilts his head back all the way until it's rolling, legs hiked up and around Charles. If Charles says something, it's very effectively caught in the skin of Max's throat. Skin that is between his fucking teeth.

Right.

"Max," says Christian. There's a bang. A squeak as Charles's shoes slip across the floor, another bang. Not because Max's elbow hits the frame this time, but because the Limescale Shine has gone toppling into a mop bucket.

Christian nods vaguely over his shoulder. "Team photos."

Max makes a sound. It isn't very coherent.

"Charles." Christian glances at him. His face that could put his fireproofs to shame. The thought drags a corner of his mouth up. "Good drive today."

Charles blinks. "Thank you?"

Christian nods. "We're not currently accepting cleaner's applications, I'm afraid. And seeing as you saw yourself in, I trust you can see yourself out too?" He gets a small, mute head-jerk in reply that could construe as a nod under a looser definition.

Satisfied, Christian, leaves, shuts the door behind him.

Gemma gives him a questioning look when he steps outside again. Christian tells her, "He'll be out in a second."

Maybe more than literally.