Chapter Text
Charles stepped through the glass doors of the Red Bull headquarters with at least twelve cameras pointed at him.
It was bright, modern, and alive with movement. So unlike the quiet, almost reverent halls of Maranello, where history clung to the walls like ivy.
The difference was jarring. Ferrari had felt like a church, albeit with a highly modern temple one, while this felt like an open-floor stock exchange, fueled by caffeine and adrenaline.
He inhaled subtly, keeping his smile in place as yet another person was introduced to him, and he is pushed and pulled in all directions.
The conference room was already filled when he arrived, and all eyes turned to him as he stepped inside. Horner sat at the head of the table, flanked by race engineers, strategists, and key personnel. The energy was casual, but Charles knew better than to take it at face value. Everything in Formula 1 was a game of optics.
He took his seat, the subtle hum of conversation dying down as Christian leaned forward.
“Welcome to the team, Charles. Hope you’re settling in alright.”
Charles smiled. “Still need to find the cafeteria, but otherwise, good.”
A chuckle rippled around the table, but the meeting quickly shifted to business. They went over the season’s broad strategy, training logistics, team building, previews of the car. The word ‘expectations’ was thrown around a lot — subtly, carefully — but Charles could hear the subtext beneath it.
Finally, Horner leaned back, flashing one of those polished, press-ready grins. “We’re committed to giving you every chance to fight for wins, Charles, and I’m sure that once you’ve acclimated to the team, you’ll give Max a run for his money.”
Charles returned the smile, equally polite, equally unreadable. “I guess we’ll see.”
He caught the flickers of amusement in a few faces, the way some of them exchanged quick glances. It was that same smooth, rehearsed confidence that teams always carried, words designed to reassure, to motivate.
Like he said, he’d believe it when he saw it.
After strategy, the PR team took over. A new group of people entered the room, smiling, poised. Charles sat a little straighter, instinct kicking in.
The head of PR, the third Paul he met that day, had a firm handshake, a sharp gaze, and wasted no time diving in. “Charles, we have been talking through with your team, and we are all excited about your interest in brand management and the ideas you brought in.”
The man seemed genuinely excited, and for a moment, Charles felt the urge to offer his sympathies. It was clear he had been overlooked, even shut out, by the drivers who came before him.
“We’ll be working closely to transition your media presence into the Red Bull brand. You had a strong, polished image at Ferrari, and we want to build on that.” the man continues.
Charles nodded, unsurprised. He’d expected this — the inevitable rollout, the branded videos, the endless interviews with every line memorized and rehearsed. He wasn’t new to the game. He could handle it.
But as Paul kept talking — buzzwords flying about global reach, digital metrics, engagement goals — Charles thought back to another meeting, years ago.
Christian had leaned forward, his trademark charm on full display as he painted the vision: Charles’ presence could help redefine the team’s legacy, cementing their place in history. Schumacher made Ferrari immortal, he said, his voice steady and persuasive. With you and Max, Red Bull can forge its own legend—one that will stand the test of time.
Charles had smiled then, polite and unreadable, the same way he smiled now, and commented how maybe someday.
Someday had arrived.
Paul cleared his throat. “We’ll start filming the first campaign next week. We still need to organize the big challenges, so for now it’s all very lighthearted, but we want to highlight your personality. Get fans excited for this new chapter.”
Charles blinked back to the present and gave another polite nod. “Of course. Just let me know where to be.”
Polished, agreeable. Exactly what they wanted.
Charles exhaled quietly, straightening in his seat. He’d spent years learning how to navigate this game.
And this time, he intended to play it better than anyone.
[Instagram – Video Description: A fast-paced compilation shows Charles Leclerc’s first day at the ORACLE Red Bull Racing factory in Milton Keynes. The video opens with him walking through the glass-fronted entrance, exchanging greetings with staff as he shakes hands and offers easy smiles. Shows him going through at the engineering department, showing him looking through the windows of the labs, an attentive expression as he briefly studies the displayed screens.
In the workshop, Charles runs his fingers lightly over the carbon fiber of a rear wing before chatting with a group of engineers, his curiosity evident in the way he leans in, nodding at their explanations.
The final shot lingers for a beat longs Charles looking back at the camera as he walks through Red Bull’s museum of past liveries, LEDs coloring his face.]
@redbullracing:
New colors, same speed. Welcome to the team, Charles. #RedBullRacing #F1 #CharlesLeclerc
[Instagram – Photo Description: Charles stands in front of the Red Bull Racing factory entrance, the bold logo and one of the RB cars displayed prominently in the background. He’s dressed in a very oversized Red Bull hoodie with a stitched looking part of the Red Bull logo visible along the side. The hoodie hangs loose on his frame, giving him a relaxed but confident air.
The lighting is bright, casting light and shadows across his face. There’s no smile, but the slight tilt of his head and the way his hands rest lightly in his hoodie pockets suggest calm determination.
@charlesleclerc
New colors, same passion. Let’s make history.
Seb: [screenshot of Charles Instagram post]
Seb: I send a 15 years old hoodie, and he uses it on his first day
Charles: (kissing face emoji) I love it, thank you!
Charles: Last time this team had good merch
Seb: Enjoy while you can, they will take it away for the new ones
Charles: Let them try ill start a boycott.
Charles: They have Max for the ugly ones
Seb: How was it? First day
Charles: It was good.
Charles: Weird, but it was fine
Charles: My team will start coming in this week so we will see
Seb: Growing pains
Charles: Yeah
Charles: I feel some people are looking at me like the next sacrifice, but they been nice
Seb: Second seat curse next victim?
Charles: Yes
Seb: Blame Webber
Charles: Noted
The garden sprawls, a quintessentially English affair tucked into the chilly January morning. A squash court sat off to the side, where a few attendees half-heartedly played, their laughter blending with the clinking of glasses and murmured conversations.
The annual charity event was in full swing, a showcase of Red Bull Racing’s drivers for sponsors and benefactors, and a demonstration of talent wrapped neatly in carefully choreographed PR.
For Max, it was purgatory.
He was, for lack of a better word, used to it, but the restrictive atmosphere still grated on him. Everyone milled about in expensive coats and carefully curated smiles, their small talk circling around racing, business, and thinly veiled politics. Max was certain at least half the conversations involved donors angling for influence rather than altruism.
Charity might have been the headline, but self-interest was the subtext.
His strategy was to lean into the image: the prodigious athlete, the brash champion, the man who let his driving do the talking.
It worked well enough, kept the questions surface-level and the conversations brief. He glanced down at his coat, feeling the subtle constriction around his shoulders.
These events were as much a race as anything on track, except here he wasn’t competing against peers—he was swerving egos, trying to look invested enough without stepping on any toes.
And then there was Charles.
Charles moved through the crowd with a confidence Max couldn’t decide whether to envy or laugh at. From the cut of his sporty outfit to the way he charmed laughter out of billionaires, Charles fit in seamlessly. He didn’t just manage egos; he sang to them, wielding his effortless charisma like a finely honed instrument. The way he shook hands, shared smiles, and made polite small talk spoke of a lifetime of training in high society.
Max knew better, though. Charles hadn’t grown up in wealth, not at the same level most of the grid or the polished executives surrounding him had. His childhood in Monaco had been a world apart from the luxury yachts and glitzy casinos that defined the principality.
Yet, or maybe because of it, here he was, embodying the Monaco myth so convincingly that Max imagined half the room believed Charles was a billionaire himself.
Even out here, where the cold nipped at fingers and the terrain wasn’t particularly glamorous, Charles moved with a kind of gracefulness that made him stand out. He was chatting easily with a circle of sponsors, his laughter carrying over the crisp air as he gestured towards the shotgun rack.
“Max, come on.” Christian’s voice cut through his thoughts, making the driver startle. The team principal’s hand landed on his shoulder, giving him a gentle shove toward the group. “They want to see you, not just hear about you.”
Reluctantly, Max straightened and joined the circle just as Charles stepped forward to take a turn. The Monegasque driver picked up the shotgun with a casual ease that drew attention.
“I’ll admit, it’s been a while.” Charles said, loading the gun and adjusting his stance. “But I’ve had good teachers.”
The trap whirred, releasing the first clay pigeon. Charles tracked it smoothly, firing with a sharp crack . The clay shattered in the air.
“Impressive.” one of the sponsors said, nodding appreciatively.
Charles smiled modestly, reloading. “I used to do this occasionally at home.” he said, and Max’s brain immediately conjured an image of Charles at some fancy Monaco garden, casually obliterating clay pigeons while the Prince of Monaco handed him espresso like a personal assistant.
Charles fired again, breaking another clay pigeon with effortless precision, and Max couldn’t help but smirk at the surprised looks around the circle.
“Alright, Max.” Christian called, nudging Max forward. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Max took the shotgun with a suppressed sigh, stepping into position with a mix of reluctance and determination. The first clay pigeon shot into the sky, and Max missed it completely.
“Good try.” one of the men said, though the polite tone barely masked his amusement. Max felt a small flare of temper, but before he could formulate something to say, Charles’ voice rang, just loud enough for Max to hear.
“Eyes on the target, try anticipating it.” It wasn’t condescending, just a quiet suggestion that somehow made Max focus.
The next clay pigeon flew, and this time, Max hit it.
“There you go!” one of the sponsors said, clapping lightly.
Max handed the gun back, trying not to look too smug as the group murmured approval, but unsure in what to say next. Charles then clapped his shoulder, stepping back into the conversation seamlessly. “We should use it as reflex training.”
The sponsors laughed, their attention shifting into questions about their training, then to their thoughts on the season, and before Max realized it, he was engaged, answering their questions with natural easy.
Charles stayed quiet for most of it, interjecting only occasionally to steer the conversation or add a lighthearted comment. It wasn’t obvious, but Max could feel the subtle way Charles guided the flow, making sure Max stayed at the center without it feeling forced.
Max finds it weird, until he recalls how Christian was parading Charles around like a prized thoroughbred for hours now and this was probably his first reprieve away from the focus.
He should probably be annoyed on Charles’ behalf, but it was part of the deal, wasn’t it? Charles, like Max himself and every other driver, had signed with Red Bull not just to race, but to represent the brand.
If it meant being shown off like a new toy… well, by the looks of it, Charles didn’t seem to mind so terribly. Plus, he knew Charles was already working on his season and not only being stuck on this, since he cut off his winter break to get installed in Milton Keynes with his team.
Yet, soon Max left the circle, leaving Charles behind as he searched for a drink and maybe a table to sit.
But, of course, his reprieve was short-lived as he noticed an older lady approach. Her bright eyes and carefully styled hair bespoke old money, the kind of person who wielded power without needing to flaunt it.
“Hello, Max. It’s good to see you again. Excellent season, correct?” she began, her tone warm but formal.
“It was great, yes.” Max replied, the automatic smile he reserved for these moments slipping into place.
“And now you have a new teammate, is it?” Her gaze flickered over Max’s shoulder, lingering just long enough for Max to glance back.
Charles was only a few steps behind, coming from the same direction Max had just come. He had caught the cue and stepped forward smoothly, offering a polite, easy smile. “Hello, ma’am. I’m Charles.”
The woman studied him with interest, her expression unreadable. “Interesting accent. French?”
Max barely suppressed a laugh. Charles, however, didn’t even blink. “Monegasque, ma’am.” he corrected smoothly, more patiently than Max had ever seen him do before.
“Monaco? Oh, I love Monaco.” She brightened at the mention, her gaze momentarily distant with nostalgia. “Had a beautiful birthday party there a few years back. You said you were raised there?”
“Born and raised.” Charles’ voice carried the familiar pride that always surfaced when he spoke of home.
“I’ve never met someone from there before,” the woman mused, tapping a manicured finger against the stem of her glass. “Didn’t realize many people were actually born in Monaco.”
Charles’ smile didn’t waver, though Max caught the flicker of amusement in his eyes. “We’re a very small, select group, yes.” he replied smoothly, the laughter barely concealed in his voice.
The woman chuckled at that, then her gaze flicked between the two of them. “Is this your first time in Formula One?”
Charles chuckled good-naturedly. “No, ma’am. It’s my eighth season, actually.”
“Oh, of course you change teams, yes. So, you two must have known each other for a long time, then?”
Max and Charles shared a look, something passing between them unspoken, their amusement deepening.
“For twenty-two years, actually.” Charles answered.
“Going on twenty-three,” Max added, smirking as he glanced at Charles.
The woman’s brows lifted, surprised. “All that time? How old are you two?”
“Twenty-seven.” They answered in unison. Their smiles met for a fraction of a second before Charles looked away, swirling the wine in his glass.
The woman’s curiosity deepened. “And you met competing?”
Both nodded.
“At… five?”
Another pair of nods.
She blinked, as if doing the math in her head. “I didn’t realize you started that young.”
Max leaned slightly against the high table beside him, resting his weight lazily on one foot. “Both our fathers were into racing.” he explains simply. Fragments of memories surfacing, faded and broken, him and Charles, small and grinning, racing around in cars too big for them, Spider-Man helmets slipping over their eyes as they somehow still managed to outpace some of the older kids.
“Of course.” She nodded at him. “Your father was a driver, yes? And yours, Charles?”
Charles lowered his glass slightly, his fingers tightening minutely around the stem. “He did some racing, but he didn’t make a career of it.”
“But it was enough to make you love it?”
“Yes.” he said simply. “But I also had my godfather to support me. He was a Formula 1 driver himself. My first coach.” Charles said, his voice steady, though Max could sense the undercurrent of emotion beneath the words.
“They must be proud of you.” the lady said warmly.
Charles’ smile didn’t falter, but Max caught the subtle shift in his eyes. It was a small thing, a flicker of pain so fleeting that no one else would notice.
The chatting continued for a moment, but soon the lady moved on. As she walked away, Max turned to Charles, the two drivers alone for the first time the whole day. “You’re annoyingly good at this, you know.”
Charles tilted his head, his smile faintly amused. “At what?”
“Never mind.” Max shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching up.
They stood in comfortable silence for a beat, the murmur of the event filling the space around them, accepting drinks when the waiter passed by them. Eventually, Max tipped his glass slightly toward Charles. "How’s it been so far? Milton Keynes. The team."
Charles exhaled softly, as if weighing his words. "It’s been fine. Lot of work, not enough work.” he says, “People have been receptive, though."
Max watched him carefully, catching the mix of sincerity and professional detachment in his tone.
"That’s good." Max took a sip of his drink. "They can be a lot, sometimes."
"Maybe I just haven’t seen it yet," Charles said with a faint chuckle. His eyes flicked across the space before settling back on Max. "Or maybe they’re on their best behavior."
Max huffed a quiet laugh. Before he could respond, Charles tried to lean back against the table and missed. His elbow slid off the edge entirely, nearly sending him stumbling. He caught himself just in time, but not before sloshing a good portion of wine onto his own shoes. Max shook his head, amused. "Smooth."
Charles smiled, looking a little embarrassed despite himself, his nose more red now than it has been before with just cold. "At least it wasn't on a sponsor.”
Max rolled his eyes, but his smile lingered. He took another sip of wine, eyes drifting over the crowd. In the distance, through the wide windows leading to the garden, he spotted Yuki and Liam standing outside. The cold British air misted faintly as they spoke, huddled in coats.
"What about them?" Max nodded subtly toward the far end of the garden, where Yuki and Liam stood talking. They were barely visible in the cold British evening, breath fogging in the air as they spoke in animated gestures.
Charles followed Max's gaze. "A little. Mostly Yuki." he admitted, before smirking. "Liam is not my biggest fan right now."
Max laughed, nearly choking on his sip of wine. "Really? No idea why."
Charles laughed, leaning lightly against the edge of the nearest table. "I can't imagine."
Max shook his head, still chuckling. He took another sip of his wine, letting the warm bitterness settle on his tongue. "He'll get over it. Or he won't. Either way, you’re here."
"Exactly." Charles agrees, giving him an easy smile.
A week later, Max’s winter break ended, and he could finally get back to work.
For Max, the pre-season was supposed to be about fine-tuning the car, pushing the limits, and getting everything in place for the testing.
Even so, when the car got ready, Charles seemed to disappear, skipping the first two days of testing sessions.
Apparently, he was busy in Milan, locked in negotiations with a fashion brand. Something about the brand wanting to link itself to Charles rather than to “Ferrari’s driver”, Max wasn’t entirely sure about the details.
And, if going through that whole ass event from the previous week wasn’t proof enough, Max understood sponsorship. He knew that his own career was built on the backing of financial partners who saw him as a good investment.
But still, racing came first for him, always. It was the only thing that mattered. It was a new car for both of them, more to Charles than to Max himself, so when Charles wasn’t at the sessions, Max found it a little hard to shake the weird feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Of course, it was beneficial to Max — an extra opportunity to get a feel for the car and squeeze in more training before the competition officially began. But as much as he wanted to win, a nagging sense of unease tugged at him. It didn’t sit right. Charles deserved better, he deserved a fair shot. This competition was already skewed in Max’s favor, and the last thing he wanted was to win under circumstances that felt… crooked. Nah, he wanted a fair and good fight.
The thought left Max feeling oddly unsettled, a flicker of annoyance in Charles himself for his choices.
Charles, of all people, should want — no, demand — a level playing field.
That to say, by the time Charles finally arrived at the paddock for the third session, Max’s mood had twisted. So he sat, watching intently from his spot in the garage, a strange, almost surreal feeling settling over him as he saw Charles in full Red Bull gear for the first time.
It was jarring, seeing such a familiar painting suddenly splashed with unfamiliar colors.
When Charles finally climbed into the RB21 for the first time, he wouldn’t ever deny it: Charles was smooth. Fast, he thought begrudgingly, watching the way Charles handled the car through Sector 2. His movements were fluid, almost too calm, like he wasn’t pushing the limits. The lines were good, but they weren’t aggressive.
Tentative, Max thought, narrowing his eyes. Figuring it out.
GP, who had elected to be nosey with Max, noticed his gaze and raised an eyebrow. “He’s learning the car. Give it time.”
Max shrugged, his lips pressing into a thin line.
By the end of the session, Charles had closed the gap to Max’s fastest lap to a mere two tenths of a second. Max was impressed, despite himself. It was clear Charles would adapt quickly.
As he stepped out of the car and took off his helmet and balaclava, Max caught the furrow of his brows as he scanned the data on the tablet handed to him. He couldn’t hear the exact question forming in Charles’ mind, but he knew where it was going.
The car wasn’t good.
Not terrible, but not good enough. Max had felt it over the past few days, had gone back and forth with the engineers trying to iron out the issues and fight for something better — he wasn’t in the mood to carry a flawed car through another season.
Christian and Monaghan, who had come to see the new driver, were already discussing the data with Charles when Max finally let himself step closer.
He caught the tail end of what must have been a long list of complaints. The chief engineer looking at Charles, slightly surprised. Max understood why. Charles was precise, technical — reading the data with complete fluency.
More than that, he articulated the issues with a measured clarity that even the heavy accent and the odd grammar mistake didn’t dismiss his authority.
“We understand, Charles. We are already working on it.” Christian says, with calm reassurance.
Max watches as Charles takes the team principal in, before his eyes move to Max, searching.
He didn’t know what answers Charles was looking for, but Max had none. He hoped and would fight for a better car for himself, and consequently for Charles, but there was just as much as he could do.
Charles looks away first, focusing back on Christian and giving him an easy smile, and for a moment Max wonders if Charles saw something that wasn’t there in his own face.
“Good.” He starts, giving back the tablet to the engineer by his side. “I think we both agree I didn’t come here for an average car.”
The words were light, almost casual, but there was an edge to them — one that made the chief engineer straighten slightly and made Christian’s easy reassurance falter for just a second.
Max pushes back a smirk. He just watched as Charles smoothed a hand over his hair, the easy smile still in place, but his posture just a little too controlled. He wasn’t angry, not yet, but he wasn’t satisfied either.
Good. Max didn’t need Charles to be satisfied. He needed him to keep pushing.
Christian let out a short chuckle, clapping Charles on the shoulder. “No, you didn’t.”
Charles nodded, his expression unreadable, he turned to the engineer and requested, oh so politely, to send it to his mechanic, and they would go over it again, before turning on his heel and walking away. Max followed him with his eyes, previous doubts satisfied in his chest.