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31st spring spends time with you
And undoubtedly gets jealous about everything,
Breaks glass
And I
Say goodbye to the city covered in salt
Which trains don’t reach anytime
Which often left me with windburned lips
— Nochnye Snaipery, “31 Vesna” (31st spring)
It’s freezing in Las Vegas that night. The wind crawls under Charles’s jacket and makes his skin curl. He took a shower in the hotel, but all the heat from standing under a hot shower for almost half an hour — he’s not sure it’s really been that long, but it definitely felt like that, — is gone, brushed off by the coolness of the streets.
The city lights are too bright. Vegas never sleeps, with every road leading to either a club or a casino. Same as Monte-Carlo, which is full of illuminations, but it isn't consuming, isn't blinding. Maybe because Monte-Carlo is home, or maybe Charles is prejudiced because of his ambivalent mood. The race after all ended better than he could’ve imagined getting out of the car, but…
He regrets not going to the party right from the paddock. He wonders what happened in the club when McLaren disqualification was announced. He is not even sure which drivers, besides obvious, were there to begin with.
Honestly, he wasn't in the mood to go to the party. What was he going to celebrate? P6? His fucking piece of garbage of a car? All of his efforts being thrown away once again because not even Senna could’ve made the shitbox go faster? The team that couldn’t deliver a strategy good enough for him not be stuck by a teenager in his first year of racing in F1?
But after boiling himself in the shower and hearing the news about McLaren he decided fuck it. He will go to the Red Bull party and get absolutely wasted. It’s Vegas, baby!
He asked Alex whether she was willing to go with him, but she declined the invitation. She was very tired, and the party girl in her was gone long before they crossed the American border. Long before he proposed to her, actually.
That was one of the things he deeply appreciated in her. She was grown, much more grown than he himself, and she really wanted a family. He sincerely loved her in a way of trying to build something with her, something that mattered, long-lasting. Not just a perfect picture, but a meaningful one. He hasn’t achieved it yet — he hasn’t achieved most of his biggest dreams and goals in life yet, but he will keep working towards it.
He put his engagement ring off right before heading to the club — he was afraid of losing it.
***
The luminosity of lights in different colors greets Charles as he passes through security. The club is huge and crowded, despite the time closing to 3am. Charles knows that all of these people are staff — drivers, engineers, strategists, all from different teams, because Redbull decided to be generous for some reason. Maybe they’re too pleased about Max’s comeback to care about the cost cap. It’s not like they’re inexperienced with beating certain allegations. He laughs at this thought and walks straight to the bar, waving to familiar people he passes.
The area around the bar isn’t as crazy as the dance floor. He sees some Williams mechanics doing shots, judging by a view of a plate of lemons and salt it’s tequila. He wonders if Carlos is somewhere near. He’d appreciate sharing a drink with him right now. On the left side of the counter he notices Esteban and Alex. They’re discussing something, certainly tipsy, and there are around six shots in front of them. Charles doesn’t want to interrupt them, but the need to talk to someone, not to be on his own in this gigantic club under dizzying strobing lights is unbearable.
“Hey, mates!”, he greets them with a smile, “Insane race today.”
“Oh yeah”, Alex agrees with a nod — he’s definitely drunk, it looks utterly silly, “We’ve been discussing it, you know, since the news dropped. Maybe it was obvious that they were getting disqualified, but I was still so shocked!”
“I actually want to hear your thoughts on the championship ending”, Esteban says, grabbing one of the shots and moving it towards Charles, “Drink it. Et sois honnête.” (“Be honest”)
Charles is suddenly taken aback by the question. He already rehearsed different answers to it considering all the possible outcomes of the championship with his PR manager, but being confronted with it by his colleagues, maybe even friends if Alex still sees him as one, especially in an informal setting, isn’t something he was ready for. He quickly collects himself, takes a shot — it’s fucking disgusting, coffee liqueur, bailey’s and triple sec, and squeezes the safest option out of himself.
“I don’t care who wins because I’m not in a competition anymore”, and it’s the truth. To a certain extent. But that’s not what they wait to hear from him. “They all deserve it, but I am rooting for Oscar.” The words leave the sour taste on his tongue. He blames it on the terrible B-52.
“Charles, I wanted to know your real opinion!” Alex looks nearly like Charles offended him personally. He’s for sure here from the start with how unusual he acts. Charles needs to order himself a normal drink right fucking now.
“Wait, I’m gonna buy myself a cocktail. I don’t understand how you guys drink this shit.” He comes back to the center of the counter and asks the barman to make three Moscow Mules. In advance. When he returns to Esteban and Alex he hopes, he internally prays they moved on from the conversation. Of course God is never on his side, together with luck.
“This time you won’t escape,” Alex says as soon as Charles is close enough for him not to shout. “We want your real thoughts.”
“What about what I’ve just said makes you think I was lying to you?” He doesn’t need any effort to sound convincing, he indeed doesn’t understand what they expect from him.
“Mate, je sais que tu es doué pour mentir. Je vous connais depuis des années. Why is it so hard for you to say that you want Max to win?” Esteban insists and Charles barely fights the urge to shout at him. His words make him angry and, even worse, lost. They haven’t been nearly as close as they were in childhood for a decade now, how could he possibly know anything, how could he assume anything about him? (“Dude, I know you’re good at lying. I’ve known you for years.”)
“Hey, Charles, calm down,” maybe Alex sees something on his face and realises his mistake. He takes a freshly made Moscow Mule from the counter and hands it to him apologetically. “We don’t seriously think that you wish for Max to win over Oscar. We just wanted to joke on you! Sorry, we’re drunk—”
“No, no, non,” Charles comes back to his senses, realising how close he was to fucking everything up. “I overreacted, just… It’s been a long day and an even longer weekend.” He swallows half of the cocktail in his hand in one go.
“Tout va bien, je comprends. I am sorry, we really didn’t want to offend you. You just have this rivalry with Max.” Esteban shakes his hand in the air and takes a shot. He looks somewhat guilty. “Anyways, let's talk about quali. At one point I was sure Lance was going to take the pole!” (“It’s okay, I understand”)
“If only they hadn't pitted him for inters…”
***
They continue talking about quali for some time, then start sharing their plans for the winter break. By the time Esteban and Alex decide to go to their hotels, Charles feels lighter than he has been for months. He’s not a drinker or a party animal, but sometimes it’s not the worst idea to let yourself go using a good old-fashioned method. He turns his head and sees two Williams mechanics again — now they’re drinking longs. He’s surprised they haven’t already left considering the amount of tequila they consumed. He moves his gaze to the dance floor, still hoping he may find Carlos.
It’s not Carlos who he sees right in the middle of the moving bodies.
It’s Max, more specifically, Max’s back, as he’s trying to get through the crowd to DJ-booth.
Charles stares, unable to take his eyes off him, even though it’s just his fucking back. He hasn't been allowed to stare at Max for such a long time. The back is enough, it is enough, until it’s not, and he desperately wishes Max would feel his eyes boring holes in his body and turn his head to look at him.
He stares at Max’s withdrawing figure and uses all the inner strength left in him after the cocktails not to break and run after him. Max finally manages to get to his destination, standing beside the DJ and examining the club. Charles knows Max won’t catch his glance — he’s too far, on the other side of the hall, but he sees him so clearly, like the lights cornered on him, on his goddamn face, solely for Charles. His сhest starts to ache with a craving to chase him, to touch him, to show him something. Everything. He's looked magnificent all weekend, he literally has been glowing on the podium, and Charles…
His thoughts are interrupted by a snap of the fingers in front of his face. Wait, what has he been thinking? He shouldn’t have, he really shouldn't have gone to this fucking party and get so drunk and—
“Charles! Charles, mate, are you okay?” Charles shakes his head to get out of chasm and finally sees who is standing next to him.
The last person on this whole earth he wants to see right now. George Russell.
But maybe it’s for the better.
“Oui, yeah, yes. Hi George. Congratulations on your P2 and Kimi’s podium. Is he here?” He doesn’t know why he asks about Kimi. Maybe guarding a young man is a good explanation on why George, who presumably despises Max, is here himself. What is the other possible reason for that?
“Thank you!” George says with an easy grin, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “No, he’s not here, we’re in America. They don’t allow 19 year olds to drink for whatever reason,” George laughs a bit. “I honestly didn’t expect to see you here either.”
“Vegas has an effect on everyone, including me. Couldn’t resist it.”
“I get it,” George scans his face, his uncanny big eyes full of feverish gleam. “But why didn’t you come to Lewis’s? I’ve heard his friends organised a party even bigger. Don’t you get along well?”
George isn’t an invasive person — has never been. He knows how to mind his business, that’s one of the reasons why he and Charles get along well, but he likes a little innocent gossip. Charles can’t blame him. Lewis moving to Ferrari is the biggest news hook in Formula 1 in years and everyone still wonders how is the relationship between him and Charles building, as they’re both exceptionally PR-trained and regarding the results they delivered this year. The difference between the results, to be exact. George has his own history with Lewis too, he understands the pressure of being his teammate.
“Everything is okay between us, I didn’t want to force myself on him when he wants to spend time with his friends,” he doesn’t mention that Lewis insisted on him going before the race, but Charles didn’t consider it an option at all. “He's a very experienced driver, working with him is comfortable for me, especially after he started to understand the specifics of the team. I hope 2026 will bring us some joy.”
“So careful with words even in the middle of the Red Bull party in a private club.” George rolls his eyes. “Do you want a drink?”
“Says who?” Charles snorts at the irony. Mister “I rehearse my insults towards other drivers” teasing him about pondering the words before speaking. He hopes he hasn’t said it out loud. They are not touching that topic today. “I still have a cocktail left on the counter I think. Hope no one's put pills there.”
They go to the bar and Charles tries his best not to turn his head and check if Max is still standing beside DJ. George would definitely notice.
He orders three more Moscow Mules and waits for George in the stool Alex left. George quickly comes back with two Gin Tonics in his hands.
“When did you start drinking Gin Tonic?” Charles asks without the second thought and then realises what the fuck has just slipped out of his mouth. He’s not careful with words, he’s the worst with words. Three minutes ago he felt like Orpheus with how prohibited it was to look at Max, and now he puts the lighter directly into a canister of gasoline.
George looks at him like he has two heads and smiles, but it isn’t waggish. It is akin to more of an ominous omen. “Don’t play stupid. I’m surprised you have the guts to ask,” he sips on the cocktail and moves the glass towards Charles. “Give it a try, it’s good. But I bet you already know.”
They are not talking about fucking Gin Tonic anymore. The whole conversation seems so ridiculous, and Charles finally understands that it was impossible for both of them to avoid the topic, everything they’ve said intuitively led to it. They are sort of friends — George is closer to him than most of his colleagues, they have their history, but that’s exactly why it was foolish of him not to sniff out George’s intentions from the start. He definitely caught Charles staring at Max in the first place and decided to do something with it.
Charles demonstratively takes his Moscow Mule, not even sparing a glance at the glass offered to him.
“So we’re choosing this path, aren’t we?” He’s suddenly very intrigued about what George has to say to him. Does he need advice from a brother in mind? Or maybe Charles should help him to get out of this shit before he’s too deep in it. Like Charles himself.
George takes Esteban’s stool and moves it closer to Charles before sitting. His face is blank, but his eyes look even more frantic. Charles wonders how much he’s drunk before their little meeting.
“What was the last time you two fucked?” George is unexpectedly shameless and straight to the point, doesn’t sugarcoat. It’s not in his character to act like that. It seems like the topic worries him more than Charles expected.
“Last year in Qatar,” he answers plainly. He remembers the day like it was yesterday. They celebrated their shared podium and Max was gentle, fucking slowly into him and holding eye contact like all of that had meaning. Charles melted under his soft gaze, barely holding himself from climaxing just from how wanted he felt. Afterwards, when they were cooling down, sheets under their tangled bodies still sticky with lube, Max shared the news with him and Charles…
The almost hysterical laugh from George pulls Charles out of his memories. “Oh, God is the funniest man after all, you know?”
“We stopped because I asked him,” Charles starts to blurt, unable to control his mouth. He unreasonably needs to clarify the situation, because George supposedly couldn’t care more. “He told me about Kelly’s pregnancy and I just couldn’t continue anymore,” it sounds utterly heinous. Shame pierces through him, the guilt spilling in his limbs.
“That’s so selfless. You’re such a saint, Charles, you stopped cheating on your girlfriend — oh, I’m sorry, now it’s fiancée — you stopped cheating on your fiancée because your fuck buddy’s own girlfriend is pregnant. Maybe someone will make a monument for this sacrifice. But honestly you deserve a monument nonetheless for all your suffering in Ferrari.” Why do George’s words feel scripted even when he’s obviously full of liquor? Could he anticipate the talk with Charles and rehearse it too?
“Shut the fuck up. It’s not like you’ve never cheated. You are not in a place to complain,” he’s not certain if George's ever cheated or not, he hasn’t seen him with a WAG for quite some time, but they both are closeted professional athletes, so it’s not hard to imagine. “Now, honesty for honesty. Tell me when was the last time you two,” his face scrunches subconsciously, “ Were together.”
“We were supposed to be together today. I made it clear after the podium, whispered to him my hotel room number, you know how it happens, but he told me he’s not in the mood,” George drinks his fuckass Gin Tonic right after ending the sentence.
Charles is surprised — it has never happened to him. He has rarely been the one to initiate their meetings, besides the first time they did it, back in 2022 during the Miami Grand Prix weekend, but Max almost always texted him after the races if it was possible, especially after the ones he won. “It’s unusual for him to decline this kind of offer after a win, unless Kelly is in the city.”
“That’s exactly what I’ve thought! You’re reading my mind, Charles! But somehow he’s never in the mood since you’ve announced the engagement,” George’s voice sounds odd, apprehensive. And his words. They make Charles spiral into the thoughts he doesn’t even let pass in his head. Normally.
No, Max can’t possibly feel anything deeper than sexual attraction towards him. They fucked inconsistently for more than two years, that’s right, but if he had started to develop anything real, he would’ve thought… He would’ve thought about the future, the possibilities. He would’ve given Charles a chance.
Charles is genuinely happy that Max has a daughter now. He can’t imagine how much it means to him to have a child, to be a father. With how loving he is, how much he needs to take care of everyone around him. He understands that he could’ve never been his first choice, and yet the pathetic, disgusting “what if” haunts him before he falls asleep beside his fiancée. Charles knows — well, he is certain now that if he had stayed, they would’ve continued to hookup, but he couldn’t bring himself to. The web of lies has already squeezed around him too tightly.
After a long pause he starts speaking again. The horrors of his mind are definitely shown on his face, but it doesn’t matter. Surprisingly, it feels like George is the only one who can understand him. He seems more collected now too.
“Max doesn’t even want me anymore. He likes the tension of competition, of fighting his rivals on the track. He told me how much our battles in 2022 turned him on. I can’t give him that right now no matter how hard I try, but you can,” and that makes George snort vociferously.
“The only feeling our fights on the track give him is rage. He definitely didn’t get a boner in Spain after crushing into me,” George’s expression abruptly becomes cold, like he’s about to say something cruel. “But you’re right, you’re not as interesting to him as you used to be. That’s why he let you go.”
Charles senses the rage beginning to burn in his chest, outshadowing all the previous anxiety. He is going to choose wisely what to say to put the needle where it would hurt.
“Then what does he find in you? First you irritate him to the point there he almost hits you and now you’re fucking. It doesn’t make sense,” he comes up with the strategy to push slowly, carefully. He needs to be sure if his assumptions are correct.
“Hatred adds a lot to sex. It’s naturally more rough when he doesn’t care for you much,” George’s face doesn’t change, but there’s a flicker of grief in his eyes. “He fucks you mercilessly, his hands leave marks all around your thighs cause he grabs them hard. One time I told my physio I fell from a bike because there was no other way to explain the bruises.”
Charles didn’t ask for the details, but now he demands more. Pictures start to flood his brain — Max slapping George’s ass before entering his fucked hole in one go, red mark in the form of Max’s hand which wouldn’t be healed in days. Charles couldn’t allow Max to leave any traces of their deeds, but he always wanted to be covered in hickeys, scratches, bruises, anything that would remind him of who he belongs to.
His cock starts to harden slowly. Fuck.
“And is it okay with you that he doesn’t care?” He chooses the safest option because his imagination can be tricky, and who knows what would happen if he gets any more information on his colleagues’ sex life.
“Of course it is. I don’t love him and I don’t expect any feelings from him. What is he going to do, leave his girlfriend of many years just because I happened to enjoy his cock on race weekends?” Here it is. George is putting a lot of effort to keep his intonation flat, but there’s an undeniable hint of restraint laced with something close to sorrow.
There’s a sound of someone’s hand slapping the counter, and it makes Charles aware of where they are and what they are talking about. “I don’t think we are in an appropriate place to discuss this out loud.”
“No one cares. We’re in the farthest corner of the bar and the music is too loud for anyone to hear us anyway,” George is calm about the issue, but he still moves his stool even closer to Charles, entering his personal space. The air between them becomes tighter.
“If anyone sees us, we can pretend we’re talking about racing, and not about Max’s cock,” George leans on his shoulder with his fingers as he speaks. Charles feels his hot breath on his ear and doesn’t miss, can’t quite ignore how his cock reacts to it. What is going on with him?
He has never been sexually attracted to George, but the intensity of this whole situation messes with his desires in a way that rejects logic and adequacy.
“How did you end up fucking?” The question falls from Charles’s tongue without thinking. He needs to get distracted from arousal, so he decides to induce his anxiety to the levels he hasn’t reached today yet.
No one knew about him and Max, not even his brothers or mother. He never told anyone because it felt like confessing a crime he won’t be able to vindicate. No one knew about George and Max either, but Charles eventually picked up on them. It was easy to recognize: the pattern shifted, but hasn’t changed completely. The glances, the whispers, the touches, he noticed them and started to look closer, collecting the evidence, until he went for a night run and ended up near the hotel where Red Bull stayed. Not purposefully, of course. It was George’s fault — he didn’t exit through the back door. Charles never made such a stupid mistake.
He isn’t sure when George figured out that Charles and Max shared their own history. Maybe he had assumptions but got a proof only today, when Charles had slipped.
It doesn’t matter. What matters to him is how much time had passed since he ended everything before Max moved on.
“He texted me during the winter break, wanting to clear things up before the start of the season. Invited me over when Kelly wasn’t at home, we had some drinks and an argument which was quite heated, not gonna lie, and then, well,” George looks almost dreamy. “The lust prevailed. Needless to say it was the best sex I’ve had in a while.”
The fly on Charles’s jeans starts pressuring on his cock. He’s fully hard now. It's so, so fucked.
There’s a vision in his mind: George lying on a kitchen counter — Charles’s back remembers its steel surface, the contrast of his hot body on the coolness of it, — Max thrusting into him, George or Charles himself? Everything blends in his liquored brain.
Charles tries to come back to his senses and eradicate the unbidden thoughts. He glances at George, whose face and neck seem a bit more red, but maybe it’s the lightning or the effect of booze. The silence isn’t comfortable, it’s stifling, the overwhelming tension combined in fiery spite and heavy desperation. The sparkle in George’s stupid alien eyes fades, the fog filling them instead, and somehow Charles knows. He is certain of what is going to be his next step.
“Max once fucked me so hard I couldn’t drive in free practice properly. I was so full of him that I started crying, and he kissed my face and told me I was the most beautiful thing in his life.” The words leave Charles’s mouth lightly, like it isn’t a big deal, like it isn’t the one most cherished memory of the last years of his life, the same treasure as his long awaited Monaco win. But it works — he sees it in George’s abruptly hunched posture and in the way his hands can’t find their place. He wipes them off of his jeans and exhales deeply, his expression changing drastically. He’s going to say something vile, isn’t he? He looks like a serpent, who is ready to sink his venomous fangs into Charles’s neck.
“You’re aroused,” George states it as an undeniable fact. “You’ve started imagining sex with him and it turned you on,” he pauses for a second. “No, not just that, my words turned you on, the way I described our sex turned you on. How is the revelation of the cuckold fetish going?” He recites the question mockingly. Charles was waiting exactly for this, for one of them to announce the dawning aberration the topic led them to, and he didn’t want to be the one to do it.
“Don’t try to make it look like you’re not as aroused as I am. You’ve been pent up since I first saw you cause you thought you still have a chance with him today. That’s why you came to the Red Bull party—”
“At least I hoped for sex. You came here just to stare at him like a stalker.” George’s gaze falls to Charles’s mouth and he bites his lower lip. “Do you want to do anything about this,” he gestures between them, “situation?”
“What do you mean?” Charles plays stupid and they are both aware of it. George grabs his thigh and moves so close to his ear that his lips touch it as he shouts:
“You’re a slut, you know what I mean. Do you want it?”
Charles doesn’t waste any more time and shoves all the doubts deep down to his gut.
“Let’s go to the bathroom.”
***
The bathroom door closes behind them with a thud, and George immediately grabs Charles’s shirt, tugging him closer, thighs to thighs, closing his hand around his waist.
“You’re not going to fuck me, are you?” Charles asks, steadying himself in George’s grip and leaning against his chest, head placing on his shoulder.
“I can, but—”
Charles cuts him short, “No.”
George giggles in his ear. “Sweet boy Charles. Saving his hole for his one and only.” He unbuttons Charles’s jeans, opens the fly and slides his hand inside them, instantly squeezing his erection. “Already leaking, how pathetic.” He mutters under his breath as he presses on a wet spot on the boxers with his fingers. Charles gasps at the feeling of the fabric rubbing against the sensitive head of his cock.
“It’s not… It’s not like that.” Charles wants to touch George or at least see his face, but their position doesn’t allow him to control the situation in any way.
“I won’t push you into anything,” George says as if he can hear his thoughts, “We will just jerk each other off like highschool boys. You can even close your eyes to pretend that I’m not a man. Or that I’m not me, I think it’s closer to our case.” He clenches his fingers on Charles’s length and at the same time waggishly bites him near the carotid. Charles catches himself wishing it was rougher, sharp and painful.
“Are you going to tease me or are you going to finally do something?” His english sounds awful, syllables unable to come out correctly because of saliva in his mouth. He swallows loudly, the skin of his neck hot and tingly.
“So desperate, Charles,” George moves his hand to the rubber band of his boxers, but doesn’t reach his bare cock yet, just guides the tips of his finger to his crotch. “Or should I call you Charlie?” He doesn’t let Charles answer right away, slithering lower with his palm and pressing the finger on the moist slit.
Charles can’t resist the urge to moan — his cock is aching, the desire to be touched, to be devoured by someone’s lechery is consuming him, making his knees weak.
“I understand why he still can’t forget you. You’re a perfect slut, you’re meant to take. You are fucking melting in my hands.” George finally pulls down his jeans and underwear in one go. He starts stroking Charles’s shaft methodically, smearing his precum to make the slide easier.
“I don’t understand how you can work together if you're this dominant,” Charles uses all the concentration left in him to form a coherent sentence. His fingers are tangled in his shirt, which he’s sure he’s already stretched. His mind would’ve been long gone if it was Max with him, but with George there isn’t enough trust.
“Sometimes I like to fuck pretty dolls like you,” George licks the shell of his ear, and it causes the jolt of electricity come down Charlse’s spine. Suddenly he drops George’s hands from his body and turns around, facing him.
George looks disheveled, his usually perfectly styled hair sweaty and his shirt a crinkly mess. His eyes are darkened and frenzy, and Charles could’ve been scared by his intensity if only he hadn't mirrored it.
He grabs George’s shoulders, pushes him to the surface of the bathroom door and kisses him roughly, biting his lower lip so hard it would definitely leave it bruised. His cock is brushing against George’s jeans and he decides to swiftly unbutton them and push them down, only to find out that George doesn’t have anything under them.
He’s so taken aback by this revelation, he breaks the kiss just to check if he’s not hallucinating. He’s not. George really is that shameless…
“And you have the audacity to call me a slut? When you came here without fucking underwear?” Charles sounds almost enraged, looking at George, who doesn’t show any signs of embarrassment, quite the opposite — he smiles like he’s proud of himself.
“The difference between us is that I don’t come when someone calls me a slut because it humiliates me. I can admit it directly.” George pulls his jeans even lower and grabs Charles by his waist. “Now you’re the one who wastes our time on useless talk.” He brings their bodies as close as possible in the standing position and takes both of their cocks in his hand. Charles whimpers, his sensitivity failing him, heat occupying his brain once again and reducing the ability to think. All the anger in him vanishes, replaced with craving, with hunger beyond his command. George spits on their shafts, and the sound of it, the sensation of saliva on the head of the cock, it is so goddamn filthy, even though it isn’t anything unusual — merely everything feels new in this fucked up situation. He starts stroking slowly, experimentally, and Charles rests his head on his shoulder to support himself, panting heavily. The soft skin of George’s neck is sweaty and it tastes like salt on Charles’s tongue.
Charles can’t pretend it’s Max, nothing about the way George touches him, handles him even slightly reminds him of Max, and he doesn’t want to, but he wonders how Max would’ve reacted if he was here with them, watching them do what they do. Would he be jealous, and if so, of whom would he be jealous more? Or would he be debauched enough to find the sight before him hot? Max isn’t arrogant, his ego won’t be affected by the fact that both Charles and George desire him so much they are ready to be with each other to have a phantom piece of him.
George speeds up his movements, takes his other hand off from Charles’s waist and puts it on his neck, as if in the intention to choke him, but after a short doubtful motion of the fingers on Charles’s adam apple, he moves it higher to make him lift his chin. There’s this sheen in his eyes that doesn’t bode well. He has the idea that will destroy Charles to his core, isn’t he?
“I want to suck you off,” George announces casually, like he’s telling him what he had for breakfast. His calmness is clearly artificial, forced to snow Charles. There's something fishy going on.
“Why?” His brain is too messed up to strain and come up with a comprehensive question.
“I like when people come in my mouth.” The answer doesn’t convince Charles, although he knows that George is telling him the truth. He’s a dissolute promiscuous fucker, of course he loves it when men fill his big mouth with cum. That’s the only way to shut him up. But there’s still some underlying meaning in this gesture of goodwill, besides his whorish tendencies.
“And that’s it? I know you have a plan. Just tell me what you want to do and then go do your job.” He decides to be straightforward because he’s here to at least have an orgasm, not to dissect George Russel and examine his insides. Unfortunately.
George considers something, his forehead scrunching a bit, but then visibly gives up.
“If I will be able to see Max today, I want to know if he would recognize your taste.” He blurts out and quickly gets to his knees, once again robbing Charles of the chances to digest his words and retaliate by taking the head of his cock between his lips.
Charles isn’t capable of stopping him cause it feels so fucking good. George doesn’t spend time on playing with the tip and goes all in, sucking on his full length. The thought of Max remembering his savor, licking it out of George’s mouth is somehow not only appealing, it gives Charles tremendous thrill, almost sending him into complete exaltation. He weaves his fingers in George’s sweaty hair to steady himself, but doesn’t try to navigate his motions — he relaxes in the sensation of warmth and pleasure given by a skillful mouth.
As he’s coming closer to climaxing, he tilts his head to check out George, and what a sight it is, George fucking Russell devouring his shaft like it’s the only important thing on earth, his eyes closed and his chin smeared with saliva. It’s dirty, inappropriate, sinful and if George would’ve looked back at him now, Charles would have seen the reflection of his own insanity. Out of the blue he notices the spot on the hand he placed on George’s head — the little whiter line on the tan skin of his finger. Of the finger where his engagement ring used to be before he left the hotel.
The realization of what they’ve just done hits him right before he comes into George’s throat, the whiteness covering his vision and his knees trembling. The orgasm is much stronger than everything he experienced in his sex life since he left Max, but it can’t overpower the guilt already eating him alive. He stares at the ceiling of the bathroom, at its blackness, interrupted by the flashing of a disgustingly bright lamp. The club administration should call for electricians or something.
He is a normal member of society now. He has a precious fiancée and a cute little dog which he loves like a mother loves her child. He’s saving money to have a lavish wedding and he has a dinner planned with his family next week. But what makes it worse is that he doesn’t drown in regret only because of Alex, because of his responsibilities and another fracture in his picture-perfect life. He’s sobered, the spell is broken and he’s thinking about Max. It isn’t betrayal, they aren’t together anymore — Max is the one who started fucking with George in the first place, but Charles feels like he did something Max will never forgive. What has been moving him, how did he end up caught by George’s trap so easily?
He awakens from trance when George stands up from his knees. It turns out he fixed Charles’s jeans while he was in a deranged state.
“You don’t need to return the favor, I’ve already came,” George says nonchalantly, and his tone casts out the gratefulness that appeared in Charles only a second ago. His sentiments immediately change from absorbing guilt to unmanageable wrath, sweeping away everything in its path. It isn’t fully George’s fault, of course it isn’t, but does it matter? He didn’t do it because he wanted pleasure, he did it because he knew it would hurt. And it shouldn’t be only Charles who’s in pain.
“I thought about something, you know,” he gives him time to wonder. To imagine what this can possibly lead to. George isn’t patient.
“What?”
“You told me that you don’t love Max. That you don’t care for what he feels about you.” Charles concentrates on his face, trying not to miss anything that it could show him. “I think you lied, but I don’t know if you lied to me or to yourself.” He grabs the collar of George’s shirt and kisses him fiercely, more teeth than anything. It's short but brutal enough to leave his lips red and used. “You want to be with him, but you know you’re not even his second choice, that’s why you thought it would be a good idea to leave a stain on me.” Charles continues after breaking the kiss not even caring to restore his breathing. “But deep down you know he would choose me any day, even if you fucked me bare, because he doesn’t consider you a threat, only a treat to his boredom.” He ends his speech and heads to open the door and leave this goddamned bathroom, club and party, but George stops him, catching his elbow.
For the first time this night he is genuinely furious. His composure is ruined, and Charles knows he did everything correctly.
“And you’re a whore,” George venomously spits the last word. “You say how much you love him, but can’t stop yourself from moaning like a bitch when a man beckones to you with his finger. You left him only because you thought it would help you to save the last part of you which you consider good,” he releases Charles’s arm and smiles hideously. “Say hi to Alexandra for me.”
Charles turns away and starts running the second the door closes behind him. He doesn’t look around, his only wish being to escape the club as soon as possible. Once he reaches the street, fresh cold air filling up his lungs, he throws up in the closest garbage bin. He wipes his mouth and takes the phone out of his pocket. It’s almost six o’clock.
He observes the view of morning Vegas before him. The sun hasn’t started its rise yet, but the streets are as shiny as they always are in the city that never sleeps. He chooses to come back to the hotel by foot, to blow the cobwebs away before collecting himself to return to his reality. The reality of Charles Leclerc — soon-to-be husband and the golden boy of Ferrari. Charles Leclerc — the one who finally made his choice to leave his sins behind. From now on and forever.
Sun., 23d of Dec., 6:15
Max Verstappen
Saw you at the party
Are you still around?