Chapter Text

Charles’s heart hadn’t stopped pounding since he climbed out of the car. During the entire sequence of post-race interviews, his vision had blurred, red creeping at the edges, breaths coming too fast and shallow. His chest felt tight, like it might collapse inward, and his train of thought kept slipping, sentences crumbling mid-speech. Reality felt fragile, like a pane of glass ready to shatter under the slightest pressure.

"It's just frustrating when it's like this." he muttered at one point, his voice strained, cracking slightly. "And frustrating for me, but I can understand that nobody understands that."

Behind the reporter, Charles caught sight of one of Ferrari’s PR staff. Her watchful eyes bore into him, a phone in hand, likely recording every slip of his tongue, every twitch of frustration. He knew what was coming — another excruciating debrief where his words would be dissected, his tone scrutinized, and his professionalism called into question.

In his peripheral vision, Hamilton and Russell celebrated under the glaring lights. Carlos stood nearby, still in his racing suit, his expression unreadable, caught somewhere between disappointment and detachment.

“Max wins…” the commentator’s voice reached his ears, hollow and distant. Somehow, despite the crushing weight on his chest, a faint, bitter smile curled his lips. “Well, congrats to him.” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone listening.

The lights of the paddock seemed too bright as he walked away, the noise of celebrations ringing in his ears, distant and muffled like he was underwater.

He’d left the meeting with Ferrari’s director board, only moments before. And now, the words were replaying in his head, relentless and inescapable, like a sermon delivered to a congregation of one.

"You’re a member of this team, Charles." Fred had said, his tone disappointed and unrelenting. “If you think you can mouth off to the press, undermining the team’s image, and acting like you’re bigger than Scuderia Ferrari, you’re sorely mistaken.”

The memory makes his steps falter, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. His faith in the team, once unshakable, almost sacred, felt broken now, like a church abandoned, its pews empty, its altar cracked.

Mattia’s commentary from his last season, relentless, pressing harder into his mind when he tried to discuss how let down Charles has been “Everything you’ve achieved, everything, comes because of Ferrari. Without Ferrari, you're just a soft, spoiled brat playing dress-up in a man's sport, and we can replace you in a heartbeat with someone who has the balls to win.”

Or Stefano in the meeting where they told Charles of Lewis signing "Of course we will keep you, Charles, the sponsors love the way you look.”

His jaw tightened, rage simmering just beneath the surface. The words may meant no offense, but for Charles they were enough declaration of how of his worth measured in marketability, a reminder that his place at Ferrari had never been solemnly about their belief in him as a driver.

As he passed through the paddock, his eyes locked onto the distinctive Red Bull logo adorning the shirts of a few team members. The stark contrast between their relaxed, smiling faces and his boiling frustration was almost too much to bear.

Horner stood among them, a picture of calm confidence. Noticing Charles, he stepped forward. “Good race, Charles.” Christian said as he approached, extending a hand with a polite but knowing smile.

Charles hesitated for a beat before shaking it. “Thanks,” he replied flatly.

Christian turned to leave, but something stopped Charles.  The words came to him like a whispered temptation, a break in the hymn he’d been forced to sing.

“That offer still up?”

The question hung heavily in the air like  confession of a sin. Christian paused mid-step. Slowly, he turned back, a glimmer of intrigue flashing in his eyes.

Chapter Text

Charles sat on the edge of his hotel bed, completely still, head down, elbows digging into his knees. The dim city light sneaked through the curtains, casting faint streaks on the walls, but the room felt dark, heavy. His phone lay facedown on the nightstand, silent now, but its presence was loud, like it could still scream the words stuck in his head.

The decision was already made. He’d known it for months, maybe longer. It wasn’t just one moment—it was a slow build, a series of cracks that had finally shattered everything.

The way Ferrari had started positioning him for 2025 and beyond. The way they’d talked about Lewis Hamilton like he was the second coming, the revolution the team needed. Charles had tried to ignore it at first, telling himself it was just media hype, just Ferrari playing the game. But then the details had started to trickle in.

Lewis wasn’t just getting the number one seat—he was getting everything. Support for his personal projects, his foundation, his off-track ambitions. Ferrari was bending over backward to make him the face of their new era. And Charles? He was being pushed into the background, reduced to the "poster boy," the golden child who looked good in red and kept the sponsors happy.

He clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding as the memories flooded back. All the times he’d tried to pitch his own projects—charity initiatives, collaborations, even a documentary about his journey to F1—only to be shut down. “It’s not the right image for Ferrari,” they’d say. “We need to maintain the brand.”

Maintain the brand. That’s all he was to them now. A shiny prop in their marketing machine.

God, even his girlfriend had been PR-approved.

He’d nod and smile it off each time, told himself it was just part of the job. But now? It felt like another piece of his identity he’d given up, another sacrifice he’d made to keep company happy.

Stefano’s words from last season resurfaced, “Of course we will keep you, Charles, the sponsors love the way you look.”

Charles’ jaw clenched, his teeth grinding as the audacity of it hit him all over again. They’d implied it before, sure, but never so plainly, never with such venomous certainty. It wasn’t just an insult–it was an erasure. Every lap he’d raced, every podium he’d fought tooth and nail for, every ounce of talent he’d poured into the car–they were claiming it all as theirs. As if Ferrari had conjured him into existence, as if without their red suit, he was just a hollow name with no substance.

He stood up, the bed creaking under his weight. He walked to the window, his bare feet sinking into the soft carpet. The cold glass against his fingertips grounded him, a sharp contrast to the fire in his chest. Outside, Las Vegas stretched out, countlessly lights shining. His reflection stared back at him in the glass, pale and worn out. The edges of his image blurred against the lights outside, like he was caught between two worlds. He dragged a hand over his face, the rough stubble a reminder of how tired he was.

Maybe it was a stupid decision.

The doubt hung in the back of his head. The room was too quiet, the weight of everything pressing down on him. He leaned his head against the window, his breath fogging the glass as he closed his eyes.

He thought of papa. Of Jules. The dreams they’d shared, the sacrifices they’d made. His dad had believed in Ferrari, in the magic of the Scuderia, in the idea that Charles could be the one to bring them back to glory. And Jules…

Leaving Ferrari felt like betraying them, in a sense. Like he’d be turning his back on everything they’d believed in, everything they’d fought for. His dad had given up so much to get him here, and Jules had given everything. How could he walk away from that?

But then there was the other side of it—the part that made his chest tighten. Staying meant more of the same. More years of giving everything to a team that didn’t value him. And wasn’t that the real betrayal for their dreams? 

He thought of Red Bull’s own brand: The high-energy and adrenaline-fueled edginess Charles always found amusing, but exciting nonetheless. Joining them wasn’t about playing second fiddle—it was about freedom. The chance to race without carrying the weight of a legacy that felt more like a leash.

Yes, he would need to prove he was more than a second driver for Max, and he knew there would be a learning curve to it. Even so, a corporation was a corporation and whatever he built, would depend on his efforts into making himself valuable.

His reflection caught his eye again. He looked tired, the exhaustion etched into his face. For years, he’d fought to prove himself to Ferrari, to be the champion they needed. But now, standing on the edge of this huge change, the truth was solid: Ferrari had taken too much and given too little in return, and he had nothing else to give.

Well, he still had some to give.

Two races. Two chances to finish the season on his own terms. After that, it would be on him

Max sat on the edge of his chair, his fingers tapping lightly on the table as Christian outlined the team’s strategy for the upcoming season. But Max wasn’t really paying attention to talk of tires or downforce. His mind was elsewhere, waiting for the part of the meeting that truly mattered–the announcement of who would replace Checo.

For months, Max had been quietly lobbying for a safe, predictable choice. Someone who wouldn’t upset the balance of the team or, more importantly, challenge him.

Yuki? Loyal and quick, but too inconsistent.
Daniel? Experienced, but past his prime.
Liam? Promising, but far too green.

In Max’s mind, all he needed was simple: someone dependable. Someone who’d fit into the team without causing waves. If someone asked his opinion, Yuki was it.

Then Christian said it.

“Leclerc is in the running.”

Max let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Good one. As if he’d leave Ferrari.”

But Christian didn’t join in the laugh. He just gave Max that look — a steady, serious gaze that made it clear this wasn’t a joke.

“Wait… what?” Max said, his amusement replaced by genuine shock.

Christian cleared his throat. “The directors are considering him.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s the fastest driver on the grid, besides you.” Christian says, adding the last bit in that flattering way of his.

Max ignores it, leaned back in his chair, disbelief etched on his face. “So you’re going to put someone who could actually beat me in the same car? Really?”

“This isn’t about competition within the team, Max.” Christian said firmly. “It’s about securing the best for Red Bull.”

“It’s Charles!” Max’s tone hardened, memories of how the other driver has been before the Ferrari PR training kicked in. No even, sooner. “Did you hear him after Vegas? The way he went after Sainz? If you think Charles is going to sit back and be happy with second place you know nothing about him.”

Christian’s voice softened, but his words carried weight. “He has his reasons for wanting this, Max. Reasons that align with the team’s goals.”

“He already accepted it?” Max snapped and Christian just nodded. Max fell silent, his mind racing. He wasn’t sure what to make of this, of all of it. He was hoping for Yuki, for Christ sake, and still he had reservations about the Japanese’s temper.

“So, are you asking for my opinion, or just informing me?” Max finally asked, his voice edged with tension.

Christian sighed. “Max, listen. The team is struggling this season in ways that not even you can fix on your own. We need sponsors.”

Max let out a dry laugh. “Since when does Red Bull need help getting sponsors?”

“It’s not just about having sponsors. It’s about keeping them and their sizes.” Christian shot back. “Sponsorships directly influence the quality of our work, and you know that. Charles isn’t just fast, he’s popular.”

“If money is the problem, how does getting the third most expensive driver in our team helps?”

“The brands that will come with him already covered his salary.” Christian explains, before continuing, presenting the next part like a business project “Honda is interested in turning him into the face of one of it’s bike lines for this season, Tag Heuer is already planning the photoshoots and Mustang are dying to see him riding a different horse.”

Max hesitated before saying “He’s more than a pretty face to sell merch, Christian.”

“I agree,” Christian said, nodding. “And we need him for both. As a driver, yes, but also as an ambassador for the team.” the principal says, solemnly, before walking in his direction “And Max, I know you respect him. I hope this doesn’t change that, he was very mindful of both of your position. Even requested to talk to you before anything was finalized.”

“Oh, did he now?” Max said, not holding out all the irony, even as the rest of the talk rubbed him the wrong way.

Christian didn’t take the bite. “He’ll be here in twenty minutes. Talk to him. I’ll listen to what you have to say afterward, and we’ll decide how to proceed.” He says, then continues, pointedly, “Keep an open mind. If you genuinely think you can’t work with him, I’ll cut negotiations.”

As Christian stood to leave, he paused at the door and glanced back at Max. “But I have to say, I think he will be just what you need for this season.” he said with a faint smile.

The door creaked open, it’s sound sharper than expected from a highly technological company, breaking the silence that had settled over the room. Max’s gaze snapped to the figure entering. 

Charles stepped in, his movements measured but deliberate, shoulders set with quiet confidence. His eyes flicked briefly to Max before scanning the space as if taking stock of a battlefield.

Charles lingered near the door for a moment, his hand still resting lightly on the handle. He studied Max, his expression unreadable but calm, as though measuring the weight of the conversation before stepping fully into it. Then, with a slight exhale, he moved forward, his steps deliberate but unhurried, like a man walking into an arena he knew well.

Max’s eyes tracked every movement, his gaze narrowing slightly as Charles came closer. The flicker of a frown crossed his face — subtle, but telling. Charles, for his part, didn’t flinch under Max’s scrutiny. His shoulders were squared, his chin held high, but there was something guarded in the way his hands brushed against his sides before finding refuge in his pockets.

Max didn’t miss the irony of Charles' shirt underneath his hoodie being Ferrari kit.

He stopped a few paces from the table, leaving enough space to maintain some semblance of neutrality, but close enough to be heard clearly. He didn’t sit. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, considering Max with a quiet intensity that made the air between them feel heavier.

“Suppose I should begin saying that I asked to talk.” Charles starts, his voice steady but edged with something almost defensive. “Christian agreed it would be good for us to… start with the air clear.”

Max arched a brow, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth “What’s there to clear? You’re here to take a seat. Seems pretty straightforward to me.”

His tone came off more dry than he planned, but he believed at the moment he was excused.

Charles’s lips tightened for a fraction of a second before relaxing into something closer to indifference. He exhaled again, slower this time, as though trying to gather strength.

“Max, I just accepted an offer.” His tone was steady, but there was a flicker of exhaustion beneath it. He took another step closer. “I had personal problems with the team that I can't—” Charles stops, hesitating “I have been having issues with Ferrari that go deeper than what we see in the races.” Max frows at that, imagining what could be worse than 2023 issues “And now, Ferrari, they will not even adjust my salary to cover inflation—and they expect me to play second fiddle to Lewis.”

Max sighed, not surprised, but still feeling offended for the other. The idea of Charles being relegated to a supporting role, even for Hamilton, felt laughable. Still, though.

“Then why come here?” His voice sharpened, suspicion cutting through the air. “We don’t have a great history with two drivers.”

“I accepted Christian’s offer knowing I will be the second driver here, until I prove myself.” Charles admitted and for a moment, his expression softened, though his voice remained resolute. “I’m already not winning there, Max. At least here, it is my choice, not something forced on me.”

Max let out a shocked laugh and shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “You actually expect me to believe this? That you’d come here just to be second to me?”

A faint, almost self-deprecating smile tugged at Charles’s lips. “With a thirty percent raise, a new PR team, and the freedom to explore ventures Ferrari has always blocked.” he recites.

Max arched a brow, skepticism etched across his face. “So, money?”

“And payback,” Charles admitted, his voice hardening slightly, lowering. He took a step closer, the tension in his movements betraying the vulnerability behind his words. “For every time they failed me, every race they sabotaged by incompetence. And for each chance they let slip through my fingers.” His gaze locked onto Max’s, unwavering. “At least here, if I lose, it’s because you’re better, not because my team wasn’t good enough.”

The room fell into an uneasy silence. Max’s eyes flickered over Charles’s face, searching for cracks in the façade. But there were none. Charles’s expression was calm, but his eyes burned with a familiar fire–a mix of defiance and determination.

For years, Max had watched that fire waver, beaten down by disappointment. But now, it was back. Stronger. Fiercer. And, despite himself, Max felt a flicker of something he hadn't felt in years toward Charles: Intrigue.

“You’re serious about this,” Max said finally, his tone quieter now, almost introspective.

Charles nodded, his movements deliberate. “I’m choosing between being treated as a second-class driver to you or to Hamilton.” he said, his voice steady while shrugging. “And if I’m going to be a footnote in someone’s history, I’ll make sure it’s for the best.”

Max flinches back, momentarily caught off guard by the honesty in Charles’s words. He shifted his stance, leaning slightly against the table. “You can’t be saying this.”

Charles exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. His voice softened but didn’t waver. “You're a better driver than me right now, Max. I can admit that because I respect it — your talent and your effort.”

Max’s lips twisted into a faint, sardonic smile. “Flattering looks terrible on you.”

Charles let out a quiet laugh, his shoulders loosening just a fraction. “Nothing looks terrible on me. One of the reasons they’re signing me.”

Max lets out a chuckle, but there’s something else to be said. “And what happens when you want more? When second place isn’t enough anymore?”

Charles’s gaze didn’t falter. “Then I’ll fight for it. And you’ll fight back. Isn’t that what we’ve always done?"

Max rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. 

For years, their rivalry had helped mold them both in their careers. This was better. To hear Charles admit what sounded like defeat felt surreal, wrong.

But this, this he could accept. The look in Charles’s eyes wasn’t one of defeat. It was for a purpose. Determination of a different kind — the kind that didn’t seek to just topple Max over, but to make sure they would rise alongside.

Charles stepped closer, closer enough Max could see the different pieces of color in his eyes. His expression grew serious, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “I’m coming here to grow. To be more than the pieces the Scuderia let me be, and to make sure that this team and I get the best out of each other.”

The meaning of Charles’s words hung heavy in the air. Max’s jaw tightened, his mind racing. For a moment, silence stretched between them, heavy with two decades of battles, podiums, and near-misses.

Finally, Max let out a long breath and ran a hand through his hair. “I hope this doesn’t blow in our faces.”

Charles’s smirk widened into a genuine smile, the first of the night and Max couldn’t stop himself from mirroring some.

Behind them, Christian cleared his throat at the door, his gaze flicking between the two drivers. “So, are we good here, or should I start looking at other options?”

Charles, still watching Max, nodded slightly. “I’m good.”

Max didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he let his gaze linger on Charles before finally nodding. “Fine. But don’t think I’m going to make this easy for you.”

Charles’s smile sharpened, his eyes gleaming with that competitive fire Max was used to. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

As Christian began discussing logistics, Max found himself watching Charles instead–the concept of sharing a garage still felt surreal, like a strange fever dream, but there was an undeniable thrill from the idea.

Chapter Text

Max drivers’ room was heavy with silence, the faint hum of cooling fans a pale backdrop to the charged atmosphere, his frustration from the stewards’ meeting lingering. 

GP had tried, of course, cutting through the usual platitudes with blunt practicality, but Max wasn’t ready to let it go. The frustration clung to him, like the smell of burnt rubber after a crash.

The door creaked open without a knock, and Max was halfway to snapping something sharp when the sight that greeted him made the words catch in his throat.

Charles strolling in, overly casual, his easy stride an unwelcome contrast to Max’s brooding.

“Max,” Charles greeted, “Mind if I—?” he asks, like he didn’t enter his driver’s room for the first time in his life.

“Yes.” Max muttered, glaring.

Charles ignored him, salting in. “Tough crowd in the stewards’ room, huh?”

Max scowled. “What do you want, Charles?”

“Just thought to see how you’re holding.” He smirked. “By the looks of it, not great.”

Max’s glare intensified. “If you came here to be annoying, you’re succeeding.”

Charles shrugged, undeterred. “Relax, I came to lighten the mood, not make it worse.”

Max exhaled sharply, frustration still simmering. “And now you’re failing.”

“Am distractive at least.” Charles shot back with a grin. 

“How are you even here?” Max asks, checking the red clothes on him.

Charles gives him a look, “I was talking with Christian.” he says “…about the negotiation.” he completes, like Max was slow. 

Oh, that. Not in the mood to start thinking of the next season, Max didn’t reply. He just stared at the ceiling, his head supported by the back of the coach, fingers drumming against his arm, half of his mind still caught up on the race.

Charles mirrored him, sitting by his side looking up, the silence stretching for a moment. 

“I think it was cool.”

Max tilted his head to look at the other, raising an eyebrow. “What?” he asks defensively.

Charles hums, before turning to look at him, “Not the punishment, the whole standing up for yourself so… bluntly.” He says, “I used to think you were being too much.”

“Oh, if you think so.” Max says sarcastically.

But Charles just laughs, undeterred. “Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t judging, it was just the complete opposite of how I learned to deal with it.”

Max sighed, his gaze drifting upward as if searching for patience in the ceiling tiles. 

He knew what Charles meant. 

Charles had always been the picture of restraint, his words carefully measured, his emotions locked behind a polished facade. 

Max could respect the effort and discipline needed for it — of not pointing fingers when you are burning for a win and all your effort was wasted because of other’s incompetence. But respect didn’t mean he had to emulate it. Max had never been able—or bothered—to play that game.

Much to the eternal dismay of Red Bull’s PR team.

“I hope to unlearn some of it.” Charles says, quietly.

Max frowns up, turning to look back at Charles.

“What do you mean?” 

Charles hums, chewing at his lips before turning back to him, their eyes connecting and a smirking coming. “Just that I hope to enjoy the new team culture.”

“So, you’re going to threaten them with walls too?”

“No, not reckless.” Charles clarified, pointedly, “Just unapologetic.” he says with a shrug, pausing again as in deep in thought, “I miss how I was before Ferrari.”

Max paused, something flickering behind his eyes. The memory of the Charles who used to shove past on track, who didn’t care about fitting anyone’s mold, stirred something warm and nostalgic. “You weren’t exactly shy about shoving people out of the way back then.”

“Exactly.” Charles smiled, but there was a wistfulness to it now. “Somewhere on the way, I got too worried about how people see me. But I was not afraid before. I was not doubting myself or following strategies I don’t even believe, just to protect the team who made them. I feel it’s time I find this part of me again."

Max hummed, a quiet sound in his throat, half understanding, half caught up in the strange way Charles' words tugged at something in him. 

He wasn’t used to seeing this side of Charles—open, a little lost, like Max himself felt sometimes but would never admit. 

It was strange, in a way, yet Max couldn’t help but understand the impulse to connect, to share thoughts with someone who would truly understand. 

Still, a smirk tugged at his lips about the way he was clinging to such a given part of the team, amused but softer than before.

 “I’m pretty sure that is the opposite of what PR has been trying to make me act like for the past ten years.”

“Only cause your way of doing stuff doesn’t help selling anything.” Charles says and Max has to laugh at it. “All I'm saying, I guess I miss racing like we did before.” He clarifies standing up, he stops turning back to him, “And that I hope we have some of… the fun parts of it again.”  He finished with one of his awkward winks before walking off, leaving Max sitting there, faintly smiling, his earlier frustration forgotten for now.

F1 STANDINGS ·01 DEC 2024
Position.	Driver.	Team.	Points.
# 1.	VER	RED BULL	429
# 2.	NOR	MCLAREN	349
# 3.	LEC	FERRARI	341
# 4.	PIA	MCLAREN	291
# 5.	SAI	FERRARI	272
# 6.	...

The meeting at Ferrari’s office in Qatar had started about as poorly as Charles had expected. 

Stefano had traveled all the way for it, his presence crackling with the energy of someone who viewed the situation as a personal insult. Fred was there, of course, and while he had been a solid team principal throughout these two seasons, it was clear he was deeply disappointed, even if not necessarily in Charles, but in the circumstances of his decision.

On Charles’ side, though, Nicolas hadn’t appreciated the change at first, but the substantial raise in Charles’ salary had effects on his own, and the man, as connected to the Ferrari as he was, couldn’t deny the perks of his new project.

Lorenzo, however, had been another story entirely, as he had not been in the room.

Because he had never walked in.

Charles had broken the news to him that morning, expecting resistance, but not the kind of anger that had erupted between them. Lorenzo had always been the steady one, the composed one, the brother who balanced out the recklessness of his much younger brothers. But that morning, there had been no steadiness.

Lorenzo had called it a betrayal — not to Ferrari, but to their father’s and Jules’ dream, to Arthur’s future and to everything they had built as a family.

Charles had tried, truly tried, to explain. He spoke of how Ferrari could not, didn’t care to, give him what he needed to succeed, how the stifling control had become too much to bear without anything in return. 

How Papa and Jules would have known — that the dream wasn’t Ferrari alone, but the thrill of racing and the hunger to win. The team had blocked him too many times, and he couldn’t keep bending to fit the broken mold they demanded of him.

It wasn’t even about Arthur, and if Lorenzo thought otherwise, then he was wrong. Arthur had earned his place in the Scuderia on his own merit — Charles had never fought his battles for him, and this was no different.

But Lorenzo had seen right through him. He had accused Charles of thinking only of himself, of chasing what he wanted without caring who got hurt in the process. He had demanded to know if Charles truly believed Ferrari wouldn’t retaliate against Arthur, that the people in charge wouldn’t see this as an insult, as a stain by association.

And Charles, for all his conviction, had hesitated. Because of course he knew there would be consequences, but there would always be consequences — if he failed, if he didn’t deliver, if he stepped out of line and broke the perfect prince image Ferrari crafted.

He had spent years sacrificing for others — his team, his family, his father’s memory. He had given and given, letting everyone else’s expectations shape him until he barely knew where they ended and he began.

And now, for once, he was choosing himself.

Lorenzo had only looked at him, something breaking in his expression. And then, quiet but unyielding, he had told Charles that if he went through with this, he would do it alone.

The words had landed like a slap, even if Charles had seen them coming.

He had met his brother’s gaze, seeing his own reflection in eyes that looked just like his. Mirrored hurt. Mirrored betrayal.

Still, Charles had nodded and when he had walked into Ferrari’s office, Lorenzo had not followed.

The meeting was called to finally put an end to the negotiations. The legal teams from both sides, along with Charles’ own lawyers, had already been in discussions, so the broad strokes were no surprise. However, they had yet to reach a decision, which rose the need to a face-to-face meeting to settle the matter.

Red Bull’s lead counsel wasted no time in outlining their position: Hamilton’s arrival at Ferrari had triggered specific clauses in Charles’ contract, particularly those tied to his status within the team. The restructuring of Ferrari’s lineup had directly impacted Charles’ role, constituting a material change that gave him legal grounds to challenge the contract under breach of performance assurances.

That was the core argument. Charles didn’t just want to leave—he had the legal standing to do so. And if Ferrari refused to cooperate, Red Bull was prepared to back him in a formal dispute. A prolonged legal battle would be damaging for everyone, but especially for Ferrari, who risked a very public contract dispute during an already tumultuous transition.

Ferrari’s lawyers didn’t push back, surprisingly. Instead, they came prepared with a counterproposal, announced by Stefano himself: rather than terminating Charles’ contract entirely, Ferrari proposed "for the benefit of both parties and in the spirit of maintaining and showcasing an amicable and healthy relationship" a two-year trade—exactly the length of Lewis’ deal.

The move was deliberate, of course. Spiteful, even, as if to remind Charles that he had been, in the end, the second choice. 

Still, Charles didn’t let his frustration show. Part of him had hoped not to sever ties with Ferrari completely, perhaps out of a childish hope—or Stockholm syndrome—that one day, down the line, he might return. In that sense, a mutual two-year break was, in many ways, the best-case scenario. He had no interest in dragging Ferrari into a legal battle to prove that their plans for Lewis had directly undermined the commitments originally made to him.

Yet, he took special satisfaction as he walked through the Ferrari hospitality area, watching the staff already running around to scramble to shift focus from Carlos’ farewell to his own sudden departure—complete with the requisite merchandise, parties, and PR spin— and couldn’t help but smile wryly at the chaos.

Charles: So I have interesting news

Seb: That already gives me palpitations

Charles: Any tips for a new red bull driver?

Seb: (incoming call)

A week later, the restaurant buzzed with low chatter and clinking glasses as the grid started gathering for their end-of-season dinner. A private section had been reserved, shielding the drivers from prying eyes and ears and allowing them to behave normally in each other’s company.

As he scanned the room, his eyes landed on Carlos and Lewis standing together near the bar, their conversation looking animated and relaxed. He allowed himself a small smile before making his way over.

“Well, if it isn’t my non-teammates.” Charles said, his voice amused. 

Carlos turned, startled at first with the joke, but his surprise quickly melted into a grin. 

“Mate, you could’ve told me!” he said, stepping forward to pull Charles into a quick hug.

“It was not exactly planned,” Charles replied, his voice quieter now, holding on the hug for a moment longer. 

He hadn't had the chance to discuss his move with Carlos since the dealings between Ferrari and Red Bull had finished, much less before.

When Carlos pulled back, their eyes met, and for a brief moment, yet again, there was an unspoken understanding between them — a recognition of the chaos that had unfolded and a silent acknowledgment that they were okay.

The fact that Ferrari had been stumbling over themselves to stop Carlos from moving to Williams probably didn’t hurt his case.

Carlos nodded once before stepping away, leaving Charles alone with Lewis.

Lewis crossed his arms, his expression soft but tinged with disappointment. “I can’t say I’m not disappointed.” he admitted. “I was looking forward to being your teammate. I just… I hope we are okay.”

“No, Lewis.” Charles said, his tone firm but kind. He paused, searching for the right words. “I can’t lie and say your contract didn’t influence the decision, but this… this was about more than just you. I’ve had issues with Ferrari for a long time now. There were things said-- things I couldn’t get over.”

Lewis nodded slowly, his brow furrowed with thought. “I understand. I’ve been through tough spots with teams before. You have to do what’s right for you.”

And Charles didn’t doubt that he did. Lewis was one of the few drivers Charles truly looked up to—not just as a racer but as a person. In a perfect world, where team dynamics weren’t an issue and Ferrari had been just a little more competent in delivering the support they had promised him, Charles knew he would have loved racing alongside Lewis. He would have learned so much, and even have fun in the process. 

God knows he still misses Seb.

But more than that, there was the way Lewis had carved out a legacy that went beyond the sport itself. He admired that. He aspired to it. 

Because being great wasn’t just about winning races. It was about shaping something that lasted.

Something authentic that Charles wanted to reach almost as much as he wanted to claim a championship.

And individuality was not something Charles had the chance to reach.

So Charles hesitated for a moment, then took a step closer, lowering his voice. “Lewis,” he said, his tone more serious now, “you will probably be better at handling this than I am, but… Ferrari… it’s a different kind of team.”

Lewis met his gaze, his expression unreadable at first. Then, he gave a small nod, a flicker of gratitude in his eyes, “Thanks for the heads-up,” he said quietly, giving a smile “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Charles offered back a faint smile. “I hope it works out for you. Truly.”

Lewis clapped a hand on Charles’ shoulder, squeezing briefly before stepping back. “And I hope Red Bull gives you what you’re looking for. You deserve it.”

Charles nodded, a weight lifting slightly off his chest. As Lewis turned to join the others, Charles let his gaze wander over the room.

One last race, he thought, straightening his shoulders. 

The restaurant hummed with the lively murmur of the grid’s finest. Plates clinked and glasses chimed as conversations flowed freely, ranging from race strategy to holiday plans. 

Lando trying to get George and Max to sit besides each other was pretty much the highlight of the night to this point. 

He didn't miss the look Max sent his way when it happened, though, to which Charles just smiled, hiding it in his drink.

Halfway through dinner, Charles’ phone buzzed on the table. 

“Announcement in 15 minutes.” Christian texted.

He raised his head, catching Max’s gaze from across the table. The Dutchman had clearly received the same message, his lips curling into a small, knowing smile. Abruptly, Max pushed back his chair, the scrape of wood against tile cutting through the room’s buzz. The chatter dimmed slightly as curious eyes turned toward him.

Max cleared his throat and raised his voice, deadpan. “Alright, everyone, I’ve got something to announce.”

“Is Kelly pregnant?” Valtteri interjected, leaning back with a smirk.

Groans rippled across the table. Zhou elbowed Bottas hard enough to make him wince. “Dude, they broke up months ago. Keep up.”

Max rolled his eyes. “Thank you for that, Valtteri.” He grabbed a Red Bull can from the table, holding it up theatrically. “Charles, get over here.”

Across the table, Charles sighed dramatically but couldn’t hide the grin pulling at his lips. “Do I have a choice?”

“No,” Max replied, unamused but with the slightest twitch of humor in his tone. Charles stood, brushing off his shirt as he made his way toward Max.

The other drivers leaned in, intrigued.

“Oh my God, Lestappen is real.” Lando declared, hands up in mock support. “I knew it all along.”

The table dissolved into laughter, drivers nudging each other at the joke that, even inconsequential, brought a flicker of embarrassment to Charles, even if he tried to hide.

Max raised a hand for silence. “Alright, shut the fuck up for two seconds and let me do my bit.” His eyes briefly met Checo’s, and the Mexican driver gave him a mock-gracious wave. 

Carlos chuckled, already in the known, while Lewis sipped at his drink, a small, amused smile playing on his lips.

Max turned to Charles, his hand clamping down firmly on his shoulder. “Charles,” he began, voice carrying with an edge of mischief. “As your fellow driver, occasional friend, and long time pain in the ass—”

“Accurate.” Charles muttered, earning a chuckle from the table.

Max ignored him, his tone growing more serious. “I want you to have this.” He held out the Red Bull can, his expression impassive.

Some gasps, from some of the most quick guys, erupted around the table. George’s incredulous voice broke through the din. “No. Way.”

Before Charles could respond, Max pulled the can back with mock dramatics. “Wait, I forgot the best part. As my teammate in 2025-”

Chaos descended.

“What the fuck?” Lando half-yelled, standing from his seat. 

“When did this even happen?” Pierre demanded, waving his hands like he was warding off an actual explosion.

Other drivers started talking over each other, nothing smart coming out.

Charles raised both palms in a gesture of peace and shouted over the chaos. “We closed yesterday. Christian made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

“The tifosi are going to riot.” Esteban grimaced.

“I know.” Charles admitted, tensing under the weight of Max’s arm still slung over his shoulders. Still, his lips quirked into a sly grin. “But Red Bull pays better.”

“And Ferrari never gives you the strategies, anyway… No offense.” George quipped and then apologized in Lewis’ direction, earning a wave of laughter and nods around the table.

“Okay, wait.” Franco raised a hand. “If Charles is leaving Ferrari, who’s taking his seat?”

Carlos raised his glass, his expression unreadable. “I will just stay in mine.”

The table erupted again. Lando turned to Carlos with an exaggerated look, “Then why were you crying like someone killed your dog?”

Carlos groaned, his face buried in his hands. “They only told me three days ago, they were going to drop me. I was stressed, okay?”

Lewis, ever the diplomat, reached across the table to fist-bump Carlos. “Don’t worry, mate. We’re gonna do great next year.”

Max snorted, pulling Charles closer by the shoulder. “Oh that’s adorable.” 

Charles glanced up at Max, his smile edging into something sly. “Yeah,” he said, locking eyes with him. “They have no idea what gonna hit them.” 

The table groaned collectively at the smugness radiating from the pair. The ones who had grown up with them immediately launched into speculation about how long it would take before Charles and Max started a full-scale navy war , placing informal bets across the table.

Carlos leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Two races, max.”

“Oi.” Charles frowned at him, pretending to be wounded. “You could have some faith in me.”

“I do.” Carlos said. “I just also know you two.”

Max gasped in outraged and Charles throws some rapid fire Italian cursing in Carlos direction. He takes it all back, Carlos was the worst.

[Instagram - Video description: The Red Bull garage is dark and silent. A faint hum of machinery echoes in the background. Suddenly, overhead lights flicker on one by one, illuminating glimpses of the RB car—the front wing, the rear diffuser, the cockpit—still nameless, still waiting.

A figure moves through the shadows, approaching the car. The camera lingers as he carefully peel off an existing sticker, revealing "16" beneath it, as the camera pans out, a Monaco flag comes into focus, hanging on the wall behind the car.]

@redbullracing 

Welcome to Oracle Red Bull Racing, @charlesleclerc

#F1 #RedBullRacing #charlesleclerc 

[Instagram - Image description: F1 announcement template, a dark blue color with the writing. A simple photo of Charles' face, the collar of his black fireproofs from his Monza win around his neck]

@f1

BREAKING: CHARLES LECLERC to race for Red Bull in 2025. #F1

Chapter Text

[Sky TV - Video Description: A panel of F1 experts: Jenson Button, David Croft, and Danica Patrick discuss Leclerc’s shocking switch to Red Bull Racing. The three former drivers sit in the Sky Sports studio, the screen behind them flashing between clips of Charles’ best Ferrari moments and his new Red Bull press photos.

Button: “I think it’s a great move for Charles. He’s been patient with Ferrari for so long, but at some point, you have to put yourself first. This is a chance for him to really fight for the title.”

Croft: “It’s bold. Charles isn’t playing it safe, and I respect that. He’s tired of waiting for Ferrari to figure it out, and sometimes you need a change of scenery to reach an objective. Lewis did the same to Ferrari, Charles must have followed the example away from it.”

Patrick: “I’m not sure about this. Red Bull is Max’s team. It always has been, always will be. Leclerc might be trading one set of frustrations for another.”]

@skysportsf1

Croft, Patrick and Button, on Leclerc departure of Ferrari.

[Tiktok - Video Description: A blonde F1 creator sits in front of her camera, her jaw literally dropped. Behind her, a green screen shows Charles Leclerc in an edited photo in a Red Bull racing suit.

"Okay. Okay. Breathe. This is not a drill. CHARLES LECLERC IS A RED BULL DRIVER. Like… WHAT? We all knew Ferrari was testing his patience, but to actually see him in Red Bull blue? I feel like I’m hallucinating. But—listen. I’m not even mad. Charles and Max in the same car? Tell me that’s not the most exciting lineup since Brocedes. This is either gonna be legendary or an absolute disaster, and I am HERE for it.”]

@Sammieonracing

This starts a new era I never even dreamed about.

[Twitter - Subject Formula 1:

Trending Topics: #LeclercToRedBull, #ForzaCharles, #Il Rinnegato

Treads:

@PizzaLover99  

charles leaving ferrari is the biggest betrayal in f1 history. five years of “i want to win with ferrari” just for him to run off to red bull?? disgusting behavior.  

@CoffeeAddict42  

oh so he was supposed to waste his entire career waiting for ferrari to figure out how to not sabotage him?  

@EEdoard0  

YES. champions don’t abandon the team, they BUILD it. Renagate!

@StatsNerd87  

bro schumacher didn’t even win until year 5. charles put in 5 YEARS and ferrari gave him nothing but bad strategies and heartbreak.  

@RandomThoughts22  

he could’ve waited longer.  

@LateNightEater  

waited for WHAT. a pit stop that doesn’t take 7 seconds?  

@gabriele_sssss

man ferrari gave him a contract till 2029. HE SAID YES. HE SIGNED IT. then dipped. nah we’re allowed to be mad.  

@ChocoLoverX  

okay but if a team was gaslighting u for 5 years, telling u “next year will be better,” and then kept fumbling ur wins, wouldn’t u leave too??  

@AnonymousGuy99  

he could’ve stayed and fought harder.  

@EnergyDrinkFan  

fought with what? pure vibes and disappointment?  

@Internazionale_Helenio

so he ran to red bull?? max verstappen’s team?? u think they’ll let him fight?  

@CoffeeChristie1_16 

he’s fighting with an actual championship-winning car for the first time in his LIFE.  

@SadTrombone01  

bro i get why he left but like… he really left us.  

@AnonymousIT99  

yeah. and to red bull. red bull.  

@JeongcheolistShredder88  

listen i get yall are sad but it’s ferrari’s fault. how u gonna be mad at charles for choosing survival??  

@EEdoard0  

nah i choose being mad at both.  

@GhostWriterX  

bro really said “it’s time to go” like he’s leaving a toxic relationship.  

@ChocoLoverX  

because HE WAS.  

@FaithfulFollower  

so ur telling me after all the crying in italy, all the tifosi love, all the “i want to win with ferrari” speeches… he just woke up and chose violence??  

@CoffeeAddict42  

violence? no. self-respect? yes.  

@JohnDoe123  

so u actually think he’ll win a championship at red bull?  

@MaxFan88  

he’s got a better chance than whatever ferrari was planning to give him.  

@SpeedDemon99  

lowkey i’m scared. what if charles actually beats max.  

@EnergyDrinkFan  

now THAT’S a different war waiting to happen.  

@AnonymousGuy99  

good. we’ll all be back to hating red bull together. the balance will be restored.  

@CarlosFanatic  

can’t believe carlos stayed and charlos bromance is STILL over. i need a moment. 

Setting the phone down, Charles leaned back on the couch, staring out the window. 

The final race weekend of the season was already charged with anticipation, but the announcement of his departure had turned it into something else entirely. 

Outside, the tifosi were in turmoil—shocked, heartbroken, or downright furious. While inside Ferrari, the atmosphere was icy. 

No one said anything outright combative, but the shift was palpable. The air felt heavier, the silence louder. 

Charles tried to focus on his driving, but the weight of his decision pressed down on him like a lead blanket. The mechanics still did their jobs with precision, but their usual warmth was gone. A pat on the shoulder here, a quick glance there—small gestures that spoke volumes. The rest of the team kept their distance, polite but detached, their disapproval radiating like heat from the asphalt. He understood. He’d made his choice, and to them, it was a betrayal.

And for some, it was a double betrayal.

A handful of engineers and crew members would follow him to Red Bull, mostly younger ones who believed in Charles and craved new challenges. But for those staying behind, it only deepened the wound. It wasn’t just Charles leaving—it was pieces of the team fracturing away with him, like chunks of a glacier calving into the sea.

And then there was Arthur.

His brother hadn’t spoken to him since the announcement.

Arthur had been set to train alongside him this weekend, a plan that was scrapped overnight. Instead, Ferrari had Carlos step in, breaking tradition to make a point. The message was clear, and it came even sooner than Charles had expected: He was out, and Arthur would bear the consequences of his decision, too.

That was what stung the most. Charles had told himself Arthur would be fine, that he had earned his place on his own—which he had. But the truth was, Arthur would pay for this. And that was his fault.

The guilt followed him everywhere—into practice, into qualifying. The isolation was suffocating. The engineers worked as they always did, but the connection was gone. It was as if he were already a ghost to them, a fading memory falling from grace.

Qualifying was the final insult. His fastest lap in Q2—one that would have put him on provisional pole—was deleted for track limits. 

Then came the power unit penalty — he would be starting P19. 

His last race with Ferrari was supposed to be a statement, a chance to prove himself before leaving. Instead, it was turning into a disaster.

[Sky TV -  Live from the Abu Dhabi Paddock, by Nico Rosberg.

Rosberg: “Max, big changes for next season—Charles joining you at Red Bull. It’s massive news. How do you feel about it?”

Max tilts his head slightly, lips pressing into a small, unreadable smile before answering.

Verstappen: “Yeah, well… It’s exciting. Unexpected for everyone, I think, but Charles is a great driver, so… yeah. It’ll be interesting.”

Rosberg: “Interesting how?”

Max exhales, glancing away briefly before meeting Nico’s eyes again.

Verstappen: “You know, we’ve been racing together since we were kids, always pushing each other. That doesn’t change just because we’re in the same team now. It’s… different, but the same.”

Rosberg: “You once specifically mentioned Charles when saying you don’t believe in two top drivers coexisting in the same team. How do you stand on that now?”

Max huffs out a quiet chuckle, shifting his weight slightly. There’s a pause before he answers, measured but honest.

Verstappen: “I mean… yeah, it’s always a risk. When you have two drivers who both want to win, there’s always tension. But with Charles… I think high risk also means high reward.”

A small twitch of a smirk, but his fingers tap lightly against his arm—subtle, but telling.

Rosberg: “High reward in what sense?”

Verstappen: “Well, he’s fast, obviously. Smart. Tough. I know how he races, and he knows how I do. That kind of understanding—that’s rare. It can work. Or… it will be a disaster.” He smirks briefly, then shrugs. “Guess we’ll find out.”

Rosberg: “Red Bull has a history of prioritizing one driver. How do you think Charles will handle that?”

Max’s expression doesn’t change much, but his tone sharpens, just slightly.

Verstappen: “If there’s one person who won’t let himself be a number two driver, it’s Charles.”

The camera lingers for a beat before cutting back to Nico, who chuckles slightly, shaking his head before wrapping up the segment.]

@skysportsf1

Max Verstappen thought on the last race of the 2024 season and the future of the Red Bull Racing. Interview by Nico Rosberg.

Race day arrived with the brutal Abu Dhabi sun hanging heavy in the sky, casting long shadows across the paddock. The heat was oppressive, but it was nothing compared to the weight in Charles’ chest.

As he climbed into his Ferrari for the last time, a memory surfaced suddenly: Arthur, as a kid, grinning up at him with a tiny Ferrari car toy clutched in his hands. "One day, we’ll both drive for them," he’d said, so sure of it, so full of hope.

Charles shut his eyes for a second, his hand gripping the curve of the halo. That dream was gone now. He had killed it.

When he opened his eyes, he found Alessandro leaning in his direction. The Italian must have seen something in his expression because he extended his hand for a shake, his face softening with something like sympathy. The grip lingered, firm and grounding, until Charles felt himself steady. Alessandro tightened his hold one last time before letting go, a silent acknowledgment. It was a small comfort, knowing that Alessandro, at least, still believed in him enough to follow him to Red Bull. 

The quiet exchange was enough.

Charles straightened in the cockpit, his jaw tightening as he stared ahead at the grid. The fire in him hadn’t been extinguished—not yet. 

By the end of the first lap, he had clawed his way from P19 to P8, threading through the chaos with a precision born out of desperation. His brain barely registered what happened after his body made the move, as his body guided the car his focus razor-sharp. Every overtake was calculated, every move deliberate. 

In lap 2, Max collided with Oscar, sending both cars spinning. As Charles sped past the wreckage, he couldn’t ignore the bitter irony. Thanks, teammate , he thought, though the thought was fleeting. He had no time for distractions.

By Lap 32, the heat was unbearable. His throat burned, dry and raw. No water in his bottle—whether an accident or a message, he didn’t know, and he forced himself not to care. Anger was better than hydration anyway. It fueled him, sharpened his focus. 

By Lap 40, he was in P3, closing in on Carlos. The Ferrari ahead of him was fast, but Charles could see the cracks. Carlos was defending hard, but his tires were fading. Charles bided his time, waiting for the perfect moment. It came on Lap 42, as they approached the DRS zone. Charles feinted left, then dove right, squeezing past Carlos in a move that was as daring as it was decisive. The crowd roared, but Charles didn’t hear them. His eyes were already on the next target: Lando.

Lando was in P1, but he wasn’t untouchable. Charles could see it in the way the McLaren handled through the corners—Lando was managing his tires, but he was vulnerable. Charles closed the gap lap by lap, his Ferrari responding to every input with precision. By Lap 55, he was within striking distance.

The final laps were a blur of adrenaline and determination. Charles attacked relentlessly, pushing Lando to the limit. On Lap 57, he made his move. Braking late into Turn 8, he pulled alongside Lando, their wheels nearly touching as they fought for position. For a heart-stopping moment, it seemed like neither would yield. But Charles held his line, his car inching ahead as they exited the corner. By the time they hit the straight, he was in the lead.

The checkered flag waved, and Charles crossed the line in P1. The roar of the crowd was deafening, but all he could hear was the pounding of his own heart. He had done it. Against all odds, he had won.

As he climbed out of the car, sweat stinging his eyes, a wave of self-satisfaction washed over him. He wiped his face with his glove, his breath coming in ragged gasps, but there was no hiding the small, triumphant smile that tugged at his lips. 

This felt more than just a victory—it was vindication. He had taken all the anger, all the doubt, and channeled it into something undeniable.

Standing on the podium, the tifosi’s cheers ringing in his ears, Charles allowed himself to savor it. The champagne sprayed, the confetti fell, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he felt a flicker of peace. 

As he looked out at the sea of people, the red spots that would root for him just this one last time, he realizes he had shown the message: Ferrari had lost him, not the other way around. 

This was no ending, just the beginning.

Later, in the garage, he let himself be pulled into the goodbyes. Half the team was missing, but the ones who stayed hugged him, clapped him on the back, wished him luck. He thanked them all, especially the ones who wouldn’t follow him to Red Bull but were still here, sending him off with well-wishes and affection.

Their kindness chipped away at his walls, and he let himself tear up. These people hadn’t been part of his personal battles, but they had been part of his dream and now, they were letting him go.

When the garage emptied and the noise faded, Charles lingered, staring at his Ferrari one last time before walking off.

F1 STANDINGS ·12 DEC 2024
Position.	Driver.	Team.	Points.
# 1.	VER	RED BULL	437
# 2.	NOR	MCLAREN	367
# 3.	LEC	FERRARI	366
# 4.	PIA	MCLAREN	292
# 5.	SAI	FERRARI	287
# 6.	...

Chapter Text

Charles loved Monaco in the winter. Loved window shopping around the festive displays—twinkling lights, glittering ornaments, and delicate snowflakes that seemed out of place in the temperate climate but felt magical nonetheless. 

Charles loved walking through the Marché de Noël, the Christmas market, where the scent of mulled wine and freshly baked gingerbread filled the air, often to simply admire the handmade ornaments or pick up small trinkets for himself and his family.

Though this year, he wasn’t sure those would be even accepted.

His move to Red Bull had fractured his world in ways he hadn’t completely anticipated. He did, to an extent, braced himself for backlash from the outside — media, from fans, even from Ferrari and Red Bull itself. 

What he hadn’t prepared himself for was how hard it would ripple through his family.

Arthur hadn’t spoken to him in weeks. Every message Charles sent was ignored, every call rejected, every try to talk face to face was met with Arthur avoiding his gaze, muttering curt replies before slipping away.

Lorenzo was no better. He had always been deeply involved in Charles’s career decisions, but this time, Charles had made the call on his own, knowing full well that Lorenzo would disagree. 

And disagree he did, loudly and often. 

Every conversation between them now turned into a confrontation, Lorenzo’s words always filled with frustration and disappointment.

Then there was his mother caught in the middle of it all. She tried to keep the peace, organizing family dinners and making quiet suggestions to talk things through, but even her presence couldn’t bridge it all.

Christmas Eve was supposed to be different. Pascale had gone all out, the house decorated with twinkling lights and setting the table with the family’s best china. She had even managed to coax Arthur into attending, though his presence felt more like a favor than a genuine desire to be there.

The evening started off tense but quiet. Charles tried to focus on the food, complimenting Pascale’s cooking and avoiding direct eye contact with either of his brothers. His mother, as well as Alex and Charlotte were even able to keep conversation going, but it didn’t take long for the underlying tension to boil over.

“So, are you keeping Perez’s race engineer?” Lorenzo asked after a brief lull in conversation, after Alex mentioned something about her travel to Mexico in the morning.

Charles exhaled, bracing himself for another round. “No, I’m picking someone new.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Lorenzo’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And your mechanics?”

“Alessandro is coming…”

“He’s leaving Ferrari for Red Bull?”

“He used to work for Red Bull, Lorenzo.” Charles points out, “His wife wants to move back to England anyway.”

Lorenzo sighed, and it was more than just disappointment—it was frustration, exhaustion, something deeper that Charles couldn’t quite place. “And Andrea?”

Charles hesitated. “He’s coming with me.”

Lorenzo’s jaw tightened. “I can’t believe you took Andrea.”

Charles sighs, rubbing a hand over his face before saying, “What was I supposed to do? Tell Andrea I didn’t want him when offered?”

“Maybe that you would look at the bigger picture and not pull anyone else down with you.”

The words stung. More than they should have. Charles swallowed hard, gripping his fork just a little too tightly. “I took an opportunity, they decided it could benefit them too. What else do you want me to say?”

“I want to know why you didn’t come to me before making this decision,” Lorenzo said, his voice low but firm, finally being direct.

“I have been trying, but you never let me talk!” Charles snaps.

Charles was willingly, he really was. Ready to discuss his thought process, the issues he was having with the team, what this meant for him.

Because, fuck, Charles was hurt too. He failed his damn dream too. He was the one choosing to walk away, but it was Ferrari who gave up on him — no, worse, pig banked him for another two seasons while tripping over themselves to give Lewis an eighth title.

But no one was trying to listen .

Arthur didn’t even look at him and while Lolo made all those question, he never let Charles get a word in to explain what really was going through his head.

“I told you when I decided.” Charles’ voice was tight, restrained. “I wasn’t holding this information in.”

“Oh, so you just woke up one morning and signed with Red Bull?”

Charles gulps, trying to put in words what even he was having a hard time wrapping his thoughts around.

“Christian offered in Las Vegas,” Charles says, even if he hated distorting the truth, “He had before, but then he saw how I was after the race and offered again.” 

Lorenzo scoffed. “Why would you even want a seat there?”

Charles’ grip on his fork loosened, then fell away entirely.

“Cause it’s best chance I got. Ferrari will always prioritize itself, and with Lewis coming they will put my career on hold and–”

“Your career?”

The words came from Arthur this time, cutting through the room like a blade. Charles stiffened. It was the first thing Arthur had said to him all night.

Arthur leaned forward, his eyes cold, voice laced with quiet fury. “You mean the career we’ve all supported since day one? That we all sacrificed for?”

“Arthur.” Charles starts.

“You couldn’t wait two years! You had to destroy everything for me, because you couldn’t wait. Two. Years!” Arthur says standing, his hands braced against the table. “All because of a bigger paycheck, and still a second seat cause you’re never beating Verstappen!”

Pascale’s voice, sharp and commanding, cut through it. “That’s enough.”

But the damage was already done. Charles felt something in his chest snap, sharp and painful. He pushed back from the table, chair scraping against the floor. His hands trembled as he curled them into fists at his sides.

“You think I just want money? I want a chance to actually fight! Fight Max, Lewis, McLaren.” His voice growing louder every word. “You think I didn’t try a million times to make it work before leaving? Do you have any idea what it’s like knowing that every decision I make affects not just me, but all of you?”

Arthur didn’t flinch. “Don’t make this about us. This was about you, Charles. It’s always about you.”

A long, heavy silence. Then Arthur grabbed his coat and stormed out, the door slamming shut behind him. Lorenzo didn’t move, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

Charles exhaled slowly, then turned and walked toward the balcony. The cold air hit him immediately, sharp and unforgiving. He welcomed it, closing his eyes, letting it bite at his skin, his lungs.

He stood there for a long time, staring out at the glittering lights beneath his childhood home, the usual comfort feeling so distant. He heard the sliding door open behind him and turned to see Alex stepping out, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

She didn’t say anything, just handed him a cup of tea and leaned against the railing beside him.

“I didn’t want this to happen.” Charles said quietly, his voice breaking, barely audible over the wind.

Alex looked at him, her eyes soft but sad. “I know.”

They stood there in silence, the weight of the evening hanging heavy between them. Charles wanted to say more, to explain himself, to tell her everything that was going through his mind, to try to make her, at least, believe him.

But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he reached out and took her hand, holding it tightly in his own. 

Max’s Christmas should be, in a word, uneventful. You’d think being a four-time World Champion would provide endless fodder for conversation, but in his family, the novelty had worn off years ago. If anyone mentioned his latest title at all, it was in passing, sandwiched between inquiries about the relative's personal lives and, “actual famous” celebrity gossip.

It was usually what he preferred—staying out of the focus, letting the chatter focus on anything but him. But right now, he was practically begging for someone to start talking about his work, or whatever the nepobaby of the month failed at. Anything would be better, because this year, the focus had shifted entirely to his breakup.

“I thought you’d be married by now.” his grandmother said, her voice tinged with disappointment.

“It just didn’t happen, Grandma,” Max replied, forcing a tight smile and poking at his food.

“You should talk it out then, fix it,” she continued, undeterred. “She comes from such a good family.”

Max’s grip on his fork tightened as he heard his mother snort quietly into her wine glass. He shot her a look, which only made her grin.

“What?” she said innocently, raising her glass. “I hated her family. Nelson was always a sexist pig.”

“They were good!” his grandmother countered, visibly affronted. “Raised such a polite woman.”

“Yeah,” Victoria chimed in her voice dripping with sarcasm, “as long as you’re not black, right?”

Dammit. 

The table fell silent, the tension crackling in the air. Max’s glare at his sister could have frozen the wine in her glass.

“You broke up.” his mother said with a shrug, breaking the silence. “We can criticize her now, can’t I?”

“She was trying to defend her father.” Max says, without heat, “It’s not easy to speak with media about someone that close.”

“We know.” Victoria said, not missing a beat. “You’re real good at staying quiet when it’s convenient.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Max shot back, his voice rising.

“Just that sometimes you could stand up for things that don’t involve four wheels.” she said, crossing her arms and leaning back in her chair.

Max clenched his jaw, his fingers curling into fists beneath the table. He wanted to argue, to defend himself, but it’s hard to desconstitute facts.

He had spent his entire life laser-focused on his career, blocking out anything that didn’t serve his singular purpose of winning. And somewhere along the way, he had become an expert at shutting out the world beyond the track.

More than that, though—he felt stuck. The people who built this world, the ones who gave him the chance to live his dream, had their own histories, their own legacies. How did he begin to speak against the very people who had made his success possible? And if he did—would it even matter? He had seen it before: no matter what he said, some would still hate him for who he was as a driver, for how he won, for the privilege he had. So why bother?

“I’m a driver.” he said finally, stubbornly, his voice low and measured, “I race. That’s what I do. That’s who I am.”

“And what happens when the racing ends?” Victoria asked, her eyes boring into him.

Max didn’t answer.

The next morning, Max woke up to find Victoria already sitting at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and scrolling through her phone.

“I know you are right.” Max said, leaning against the counter.

“I usually am.” Victoria says, in typical younger sibling fashion, but her expression was softer than it had been the night before when she looks at him, “About what, though?”

“About standing up for… things.” he admitted, reluctant, his voice quiet.

She set down her mug and studied him for a moment. 

“It’s not about being perfect, Max. You don’t have to be the face of anything, but I know you and I just wish you would be honest about where you stand.”

Max sighs, taking the words and let them sink in. It wasn’t nothing Max already didn’t know and believe in, he just didn’t know where to start.

After lunch, he found himself scrolling aimlessly through his phone, having already burned through last night's dinner energy chasing his nibblings around all morning. 

Just as he was about to give up and look for a second round with Leo, a notification popped up.

“ Merry late christmas, mate. Hope youre having a nice time.” Charles texted.

Well, that was surprising. Even if Charles had always sent him happy holiday message, it usually felt more like a message sent to all his coworkers instead of a personal thing.

This, though, was different. No fancy design, no polished grammar, no corporate sheen. Just a simple, slightly tardy message that felt oddly genuine. Max could almost picture Charles typing it out—maybe halfway through his morning coffee— thinking how he should probably wish a merry Christmas to the guy he would be stuck with for the foreseeable future.

Max smirked, tapping out a quick reply.

“Same to you. Surviving family drama as we speak.”

Charles responded almost instantly. “ Tell me about it. Monaco feels like a battlefield right now.”

Max’s eyebrows furrow at that. That was surprising too. First because he had never heard about Charles having anything but the picture-perfect family

And it wasn't even the type that was obviously fake if you’re even a little around the people. No, Charles always looked genuinely happy and at peace with them.

Second, it also felt yet oddly personal to speak with him about this. But again, sometimes family drama wasn’t such an issue when you come from a well structured family. 

So Max leaned back against the headboard, fingers flying over the screen, trying to answer in kind.

“Will trade you my grandmas opinions on my love life for whatever hell you’re dealing with.” he texts back, feeling it was non-descriptive enough to not make it weird or too closed off.  

“Deal. But I’ll warn you it’s pretty bad trade.”

A real laugh bubbled out of Max at that, genuine.

He and Charles weren’t exactly close. Sure, they exchanged pleasantries in the paddock and talked a normal amount of work related gossip given the chance, but outside the racetrack? Their conversations rarely went deeper than polite acknowledgment and race talk. 

Maybe that was the nature of their rivalry, or maybe they’d never taken the time to try.

Still, with Charles joining Red Bull next season, it was only a matter of time before they’d have to figure each other out. Teammates couldn’t afford to stay strangers, unless they planned on spending a very uncomfortable, very long season.

“I wish I could just forward a few weeks, christmas been rough.” Charles texted after a few seconds. “I feel should be working with everything coming.”

And now, the pieces begin to click together in Max’s mind. 

With such a big change coming, it’s no surprise Charles would reach out to someone… closer, someone more involved. It wasn’t just a casual holiday message. It felt like a quiet acknowledgment that their dynamic would be changing. Maybe he even believed bettering their relationships was a small way of working on his season. And Max was good with it.

“nye will be better. Any plans?”

“Getting shit faced.” the next text says, with an upside down smiling emoji, “ The specifics arent planned yet. u?”

“Same.” he first says back, but hesitated before typing more, the words coming less sure.

On the other side of their chat, Charles sat on his couch, his phone resting loosely in his hand. The room was eerily quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos of last night.

Alex had flown in the morning to visit family for the rest of the holidays. She’d suggested he join her, but between lingering tensions with his family and the awkward logistics of playing the doting boyfriend, he’d declined. Now, sitting alone with nothing but the glow of his phone to keep him company, he wonders if he’d made the wrong choice and should be going to Mexico with his best friend instead.

He had got out of the WhatsApp app after Max didn’t immediately answer back, half expecting not to hear about the other until the new year. Now, a text popped up over the TikTok he was watching.

“We can meet up.” Max had texted, “Start the year off right.”

Charles blinked at Max’s text, feeling a short flood of surprise. And, well, relief. 

Maybe he wouldn’t have to spend New Year’s Eve with complete strangers, pretending to enjoy a glass of champagne while watching the clock tick down to a year he was already starting to dread.

“Yeah. Id like that. Lets do it.” he texts back, a small smile tugging at his lips. 

Max arrived in Nice two days later, stepping off his flight just as the sun dipped below the horizon. 

Sliding into the sleek car waiting for him at the airport, Max pulled out his phone and shot Charles a message. “In town. We still meeting?”

Charles’ reply came almost instantly — the one ever so glued to his phone.

“I have this yacht party. Its on the pier. Not super full. Pretty sure Lando will be there too.”

“Send me the info.”

As the car wove its way through Monaco’s narrow streets, Max’s gaze drifted to the window, the city stretched out before him, glittering against the deep blue of the Mediterranean, lights dancing on the waves. 

It hadn’t changed—still opulent, fast-paced, and achingly beautiful. It was the first time he’d come back in almost a month, and now he wasn’t sure if he was here to unwind or just escape the quiet monotony that had settled over his days since the end of the season.

When they finally pulled up to his new building, he hesitated a second before stepping out. 

It was a place he’d picked in a rush, with his assistant and realtor doing most of the work and a decorator filling everything for him.

That's to say, when he opened the door, the place still felt like a stranger’s home.

The space was half-empty, like he left, as if it had been staged for a magazine shoot and then abandoned. Stark white walls, modern black and leather furniture, a few impersonal art pieces hung without any meaning. The kind of place where silence echoed too loud, making it both too small and entirely too big for Max alone.

The moving boxes had been delivered long ago, and yet, aside from a few things in the kitchen and some clothes in the closet, everything was still packed.

Max sighed and closed the door behind him, finally lowering the two cat carriers he had been carrying since Amsterdam.

“Ssshhh, we’re here.”

His voice was soft, tired. His hands fumbled with the latches before carefully opening each door. The cats, hesitant at first, peeked out before padding silently into the still unfamiliar space.

Jimmy was the first to emerge fully, trotting straight toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, pressing his nose to the glass to look out at the city lights. Sassy followed, slower, tail flicking as she examined the strange scents in the foreign walls.

Max crouched, watching as they ventured farther, their paws quiet against the polished floor.

“At least you two know how to make the place yours.” he murmured, rubbing a hand over his face, before moving to his bedroom.

When Max arrived at the pier, the yacht was already buzzing with life. Music drifted over the water, blending with the hum of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter. Silver and gold decorations shimmered under the soft glow of string lights, making the yacht look like something out of a movie.

Max stepped aboard, his demeanor standing out among the effortless glamour of Monaco’s elite, but if he felt out of place, he didn’t show it. 

Some people took second looks at him, recognizing him, but Max moved through the crowd with ease, clearly not being the biggest fish in the pound,

He spotted Charles quickly. The Monegasque driver was standing near the bar, looking sharp, a small circle of people around him. When their eyes met, Charles broke into a smile, weaving through people to greet him.

“Max!” Charles’s hug was quick but warm, surprising both of them with its easy familiarity, “You made it.” he says, a tad of surprised excitement about seeing him in his voice .

“Wouldn’t miss it.” Max said, feeling oddly sincere in his words, his grin breaking through. He gestured at the deck, the polished wood reflecting the glow of the lights. “This is more your style than mine, though.”

Charles chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “I figured a bit of champagne and fireworks never hurt.”

Max nodded, taking in the crowd. “Looks like your friend invited half of Monaco.”

“Something like that.” Charles said, his smile lingering before he added, “Lando’s around somewhere. You’ll probably find him in the middle of everything.”

Max grinned. “I’ll let him enjoy the spotlight. I’ll survive without being the center of attention for one night.”

Charles laughed at that, but his eyes gave him away, he seemed distracted, his thoughts elsewhere. Max caught it but didn’t press, instead asking about his pre-season plans and accepting when the man gone on a rant about the logistics of emptying his apartment in Italy

As the night unfolded, Max found himself mingling more than he expected, Charles soon being pulled away by people, sending a reluctant parting look his way. 

Max had the firm impression Charles wasn’t feeling this party that much.

Still, even if Max wasn’t one for small talk in a strange crowd, there was something liberating about a party where no one wanted to talk about racing for once. He struck up a conversation with a sharp-witted brunet, whose heavy accent and quick retorts kept Max on his toes. The man’s teasing remarks were a welcome change from the usual small talk.

“So, you don’t really come to these kinds of parties?” he asked, tilting his head.

Max shrugged, his lips quirking into a small smile. “I figured I’d try something different. New year, new habits.”

He laughed. “Well, if you’re looking for distractions, Monaco’s a good place to start.”

“Noted.” Max said, his tone light, not offering how he lived in the place for almost a decade at this point.

But again, Max was being honest when he said this was different.

For once, it was the first major social event he’d attended since his breakup—one that had nothing to do with work or networking.

And, of course, it was the first party where he could truly look around as a single man. The thought lingered in the back of his mind, not as a pressing need but as a quiet realization. He wasn’t here to search for anything—or anyone—in particular, but for the first time in a long time, the possibility was there, floating in the periphery like the soft glow of the string lights above. 

Eventually, as people mingled in and out of conversation he found his way back to Charles, who was standing by the railing, staring out at the water. The music and chatter faded into the background as Max joined him, leaning casually against the railing.

“Not bad for a yacht party.” Max said, breaking the silence, noticing how Charles was still looking a little dim amidst the celebration.

Charles turned to him, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Not bad company, either.”

They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, the kind of quiet that didn’t need to be filled. Max let the peace settle over him, taking a chance to recharge a bit before coming back to the loud noise and random subjects.

He watched Charles for a second, taking another note of how he looked distracted, but not in the ‘I'm enjoying myself in this big fancy party’ type of way.

He was about to bring something up, maybe where his girlfriend was, but then someone called out, “Five minutes to the countdown!” and Charles nudged Max with a smirk.

“Go on, I’m sure you can find someone to kiss at midnight.” he teased, back still to the rest of the party.

Max chuckled, his eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on the brunet from earlier. The man caught his gaze and raised an eyebrow, his smile playful.

He looks back at Charles, seeing he didn’t look like he would move from his place. He hesitates for a second, before bumping his shoulder to Charles’, raising his glass. “Here’s to surviving another year.”

Charles raised his own glass, his expression softening. “Next year, let’s make it a good one.”

Max clinked their glasses, his grin widening. “Deal.”

As Max walked off towards the brunet, Charles stayed behind, eyes in the sky. The first burst of fireworks lit up the sky, vibrant colors reflected in the water.

Charles lifted his glass again, watching the display with a quiet hope.

“Here’s to it.” he murmured to himself, letting the words carry over the shimmering water.

[Instagram - Image description: Photo uploaded at 00:00, January 1st, 2025. The profile picture shows Charles sitting confidently in an undefined boat in the sea, Monte Carlo’s skyline visible in the distance. He wears a dark blue sweater, sleeves pushed up, with the sunlight highlighting his sharp green eyes, giving them an intense, piercing look. The photo also doubles as his profile picture.]

@charles_leclerc

1.633 posts 16,8 mi followers 1.361 following

Charles Leclerc

Formula 1 driver for @redbullracing

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’s 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’s 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 casually 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 stared, wide-eyed. Charles blinked down at the mess, lips parting in disbelief before he burst into laughter—a short, a genuine, breathless laugh that made Max snort despite himself.

Max shook his head. "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’s 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.

Chapter Text

Another day, another meeting. Charles scanned the space as he walked in, noting the printed material with Red Bull logos splashed every surface. A long table dominated the room, already crowded with marketing heads, PR leads, and a handful of others he hadn’t managed to place yet.

He slipped into a seat beside Max, who lounged in his chair with the kind of indifference only Max could pull off. Charles, however, was locked in the moment the presentation of the season’s designs began.

The team kits were fine, Charles didn’t mind the design of either the off track or the race suits. In the first week when they went on and on about the concepts and branding, Charles had requested some adaptations and was pleasantly surprised with how acceptable the team were and how quickly the changes were made.

Within days, he had that design in different fits, including the hoodies he preffered —soft, oversized, the kind he could disappear into after a brutal session. And the fireproofs? Gone was the sterile white that made him feel like a kid playing dress-up in his old Alfa Romeo days. "Could you consider black, please?" he’d said, "This white washes me off terribly, no one wants that." A joke, but not really. They’d switched them without argument, to his absolute shock.

Then came the first few slides about the F1-75 event and those were enough to make him scrunch his face in barely masked disgust. He didn’t notice how his opinion was written all over his face, and the PR team immediately caught on, so when Paul — the public relation’s one, not the engineer (so many Paul's) —, hesitated mid-sentence, eyebrows raising and asked “Something wrong, Charles?” 

Charles snaps back, trying to put his expression under control. Beside him, Max let out a badly hidden chuckle, and Charles shot him a glare, heart pounding in his chest.

He hesitated. His instinct was to shake his head, to deflect. His opinion wasn’t as important as theirs, surely. 

But… no.

The concept for the season launch event was painfully… well, speaking plainly cringe worthy, actually. It was cheerful, something that would have suited the Red Bull drink ad, more than a team that prided itself on being bold and ruthless.

“The concept is great.” he lies, “I just found it weird how it doesn’t… click with our other projects for the season.” He paused, exhaling softly when everyone’s attention turned to him. His pulse thrummed in his ears. “We talked about my image,” Charles continues, forcing his voice to go out smoothly, “the way I’m supposed to bring something fresh, while sharper to fit into the brand. But that works both ways, no? The team itself could use something… like that, to match what me and Max represents.”

Paul folded his arms, clearly intrigued despite himself, yet again happy to have a driver being interested in his part of the grind. “Go on.”

Charles picked at the bracelet in his wrist, heart hammering now. Was he saying this right? Would he sound stupid? He could feel Max’s gaze flick to him again. He didn’t dare look back. 

“It’s how me and Max have… all those comments coming about how we are the strongest team and how we are…”

“Aggressive, psychotic, will kill each other?” Max offers, a smirk Charles didn't turn to look at, sounding in his voice.

“The challenge.” Charles corrects, holding back a smile by Max’s addition helped with proving his point. “You offered the chance of doing all those awesome challenges on ice, on sand, the skydiving—”

“Are you trying to get Liam a seat?” Max interrupted again.

“Mate, I’m so into it, I’m actually giving them ideas.” Charles shot back, unable to hide the tilt of excitement in his voice this time, before turning back to the table. “All I’m saying is the team’s concept is not that easy-going party thing, but it’s actually about doing something unexpected and wild.” he finishes.

A silence stretched across the room as the idea sank in. The branding team shifted, trading uncertain looks. This wasn’t the neat, polished marketing strategy they had been planning.

Silence stretched across the room as the thought sank in. The branding team shifted, trading uncertain looks. Charles could feel the flicker of panic creeping in. He half wanted to backtrack, to smooth things over, to say never mind and agree to bow down to their expertise. 

But he didn’t want to.

Charles was part of this now, he was literally contracted to improve the overall success of the whole team. He couldn't do anything to fasten the upgrades on the car, but he could at least force a second thought to what the team looked like from the start. Perception matters. Not just to the fans who buy the merch, but as a signal to the entire grid. It's psychological warfare at the highest level. A team that struggles with it's identity broadcasts internal struggle to every rival in the paddock. Most dangerously, it determines what sponsors are willing to invest. 

Moreover, if Charles wanted to build something beyond racing for himself and use his career as a stepping stone, he needed more than generic “Oh, Red Bull is so cool” to relaunch himself. Ferrari could be inept in a lot of things, but their branding was impeccable, and Charle didn’t want to settle for less in any way. 

He was trying to pick a line of thought, another argument, when Max let out a quiet hum of approval, “I don’t really care either way, but I like his way better.” Max said lazily, breaking the silence.

The PR team hesitated, in part surprised Max even added anything. Then Charles saw the first spark of possibility cross Paul’s expression. One of the creative leads by his side murmured something to the next, too far away for Charles to get, but suddenly the room felt alive. Ideas started spilling in, bolder concepts forming.

As the discussion continued, Charles leaned back in his chair, his mind buzzing, pushing down the giddiness the validation brought. 

His gaze flickered to Max, who had remained silent after his brief endorsement, arms still crossed, expression unreadable. He was thankful about the support, but curious too, realizing some of his side quests for Red Bull seemed a little… individual.

He didn’t have a problem with it, he was being paid to go through all those adventures he would love to experience. But at the same time, it did feel like the type of stuff he would be doing with someone by his side — he very pointedly tries not to think the last time he done anything like that both his brothers were with him.

“You’re going to do it, right?” Charles asked, nudging him slightly with his elbow.

Max raised an eyebrow, turning to him to hear over the chatter of a the rest of the table. “Do what?”

“The challenges.” Charles smirked, “Ice racing, jet skis, skydiving… A entire calendar of these.”

Max looked at him, unimpressed by the idea, “Seems like just a lot of more work.”

Charles hummed, pretending to think it over.

“I mean… if you’re scared—”

Max cut him off immediately. “Don’t.”

Charles’ grin widened, “I’m just saying, it’s okay if you’re not comfortable.”

Max shot him a dry look. “Charles, you’re not tricking me into jumping out of a plane.”

“Don’t, then.” Charles shrugged, turning his attention back to the discussion, as if he couldn’t care less.

But Max kept glaring. Charles felt the weight of his stare from the corner of his eye, biting back a smirk. He didn’t push further—he didn’t have to.

As the idea was planted and the brainstorm session carried on, satisfaction curled deep in Charles’ chest.

It felt good to have control over the narrative.

Charles: I need a race engineer

Seb: My retirement plan doesnt include babysitting you through radio messages

Charles: Come ooon I need someone that will make me cry

Seb: I thought you wanted a CHANGE from ferrari

Charles: (side eye emoji)

Charles: (pouting emoji)

Charles: !!!!!

Seb: Alright

Seb: I do have someone in mind actually

Max propped himself against the garage wall, arms crossed as he observed the flurry of activity around his car. The engineers moved with that particular brand of restless energy he'd come to recognize—the kind that spoke of limited time and small returns. Another set of adjustments, another round of data collection. Same song, different verse. He'd lost patience weeks ago.

The lead mechanic caught his eye and offered a tired thumbs-up — silent code for we're trying. Max just nodded, the familiar frustration sitting heavy in his chest. How many more tries before they found what they were missing? How many more sessions before this car became something worth driving?

God, he misses Adrian.

He turned to walk away, to prepare himself for the gym session he had in a few minutes, when Christian fell in stride down the corridor.

Max had to acknowledge the man had been much more present this preseason than usual. Whether it was about the car's struggles or to supervise the new driver and mixed team, Max wasn't sure, but it was yet another disturbance in the usual routine of his team.

“Charles is adjusting well to the car until now, his numbers are similar to yours.” Christian said, nonchalant while checking his phone. “We are having a issue with matching him with a race engineer, but we are working through it. Charles is putting in the hours, he’s not taking this lightly.”

Max hummed non-committal, already aware. 

Charles was a quiet guy, despite the loud presence of someone who brought crowds at any given place he stepped in. Still, it was hard to ignore the man. The guy was everywhere, for one. Every time Max glanced around, there he was, deep in conversation with Christian, poring over data with engineers, or scribbling in that ever-present notebook. Asking the right questions, making the necessary demands, all delivered in that uniquely polite – almost sweet even — way of his.

But then again, Charles had always been serious. He wasn’t the type to coast through work, to count on politics or take things for granted. And now, as the new guy at Red Bull, he was clearly determined to prove he deserved his seat.

Max got it, Charles was new to the team.  And while he himself had been in the Red Bull system since his junior years, Charles was raised in Maranello. With different language, different politics, different expectations. 

"Guess he's not wasting time." Max remarked, with a shrug.

Christian sighed, before a knowing grin appeared. "He's working his ass off. Making the rest of us keep up too."

A month into pre-season, Charles had expected the tension to ease. 

And in some ways, it had—his engineers were starting to find a rhythm, and the handful of Ferrari transplants were adjusting. But there were still moments, sharp edges that hadn’t been sanded down, reminders that no matter how much effort went into merging the teams, Charles, and his cluster of loud Italian men, were still considered outsiders.

The garage was busy, with a steady hum of voices and machinery filling the space as Charles leaned over his car, going over the latest setup adjustments. 

The car was still average. Good enough, in the sense it was similar to what Ferrari's car was last year. Nothing he couldn’t work with, but yet, not what he was promised.

His fingers tapped idly against the halo as he listened to Alessandro’s low voice nearby, explaining something to one of the Red Bull engineers working on the car upgrade. At first, Charles didn’t pay attention. Then he caught the shift in tone.

“I’m telling you, this is how Charles prefers it.” Alessandro said, clipped but calm.

“That’s not how we do things here.” The response was immediate, firm.

Charles turned his head slightly, eyes flicking toward the exchange. Alessandro’s posture was rigid, arms crossed over his chest. The other men was mirroring the stance, jaw tight.

“It’s his own wheel.” Alessandro pressed. “We always—”

“And we don’t set it up like that because it doesn’t work in this car.” the other cut in.

Charles exhaled through his nose, pushing off from the car and stepping between them before it could escalate further. “What’s going on?”

Both men straightened. Alessandro was the first to look at him, the expression hard to read, but Charles could see the frustration simmering beneath it. The engineer hesitated, then gestured toward the car. “Your guy wants to tweak the wheel, but we don’t usually run it like that.”

Charles glanced between them, then at the data displayed on the nearby screen. The adjustment Alessandro wanted was minor, but it was something Charles was used to—a fine margin in feel that had taken years to develop. 

Still, this wasn’t Ferrari.

He nodded slowly. “Let’s meet in the middle.” He turned to the Red Bull mechanic. “We make the change.” Then, to Alessandro, “But if it doesn’t work, we adjust.”

Neither man looked particularly satisfied, but they both nodded, stepping back to get to work. The tension didn’t break, not fully, but at least the argument was diffused.

Charles let out a slow breath. He had expected resistance — change was never easy — but the constant pushback, the unspoken battle for authority in his own garage, was wearing him thin. 

If he had to break another fight about music…

He caught the engineer before he walked off. "Look, I know this transition hasn't been easy-"

"Don't bother smoothing things over, I don’t have an issue with your team." the engineer cut in, wiping grease from his hands with more force than necessary. "I'm just serving out my notice. Came with Checo, leaving with Checo." A bitter chuckle. "No offense to you, but I didn't sign up to rebuild another driver a car from scratch."

The words landed sharp, unexpected. Charles opened his mouth to argue, temper rising for a second. To defend how he deserved that seat and that tone and dig wasn’t acceptable.

But he stopped. The set of the man's shoulders, the way his eyes flicked toward Checo's old garage—this wasn't about steering wheel adjustments or setup preferences. Whatever resentment simmered beneath the surface didn't speak Italian. It spoke of loyalty.

The engineer hesitated at the garage exit, half-turning back. "Just… take care of your people."

Charles met his gaze squarely. "I will."

As the engineer disappeared into the paddock chaos, Charles flexed his hands against the sudden urge to call him back — to demand what exactly Red Bull had promised Checo's team that they'd failed to deliver. 

Instead, he turned back in Alessandro’s direction.

The late afternoon sun streamed through the sheer curtains of Charles’s Airbnb, casting a warm glow over the sparsely furnished living room. The place was temporary — too temporary, if he was being honest. He just never got around into looking for a long term place, instead staying here where the only sign of life was the groceries slumped around the open concept kitchen.

Charles sat cross-legged on the couch, his phone propped up against a throw pillow as Alex’s face filled the screen. She was in her apartment in Monaco, her hair piled into a bun and a cup of tea steaming in her hands. She looked relaxed and Charles couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy.

“So,” Alex said, her tone teasing, “how’s life at the energy drink empire? Have they brainwashed you yet?”

Charles groaned, leaning back against the couch. “Don’t remind me. They have it everywhere.”

Alex laughed, the sound warm and familiar. “For the sake of your taste buds, resist.”

“I’m trying.” he said, grinning despite himself. “Max keeps shoving cans in my face like it’s some kind of initiation ritual.”

“The Red Bull evangelist.” Alex said, shaking her head.

There was a pause, the kind of comfortable silence that only came with years of friendship. Alex took a sip of her tea, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studied him through the screen.

“So,” she said, her tone casual but with a hint of mischief Charles grew to sense even miles apart, “how’s everything else? Met any guys yet?”

Charles froze, his smile faltering for a fraction of a second before he forced it back into place. “Alex,” he said, his voice warning,  "We've been on this call for thirty seconds."

“What?” she said, feigning innocence. “I’m just asking. You’re in a new city, new team, new life. Seems like the perfect time to…”

"Get fired before the first race?" Charles deadpanned.

“Oh, please.” Alex rolled her eyes. “You’re not at Maranello anymore. Red Bull’s supposed to be different. The cool, innovative team, right?”

Charles let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah, sure. I’m not testing how cool and innovative they will treat gay rumours.”

Alex’s expression softened, her teasing giving way to something more serious. “You don’t know that, Charles. Maybe it’s different there. Maybe they’d surprise you.”

“Maybe.” Charles said, though he didn’t sound convinced. He glanced around the room, his gaze lingering on the empty walls. “Anyway, I’m not… ready for that, either.”

Alex nodded, her silence encouraging him to continue.

“I mean, look at this place.” Charles said, gesturing to the room around him. “I haven’t even rented an apartment yet, let alone bought one. I’m living out of three suitcases, Alex.”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure a closet is not a prerequisite to finding someone to sleep with.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, my dear girlfriend.” Charles says, with sarcasm and intend, “The closet is the most important of me finding someone to fuck.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“I’m not.” Charles said. 

“You are,” Alex said, her tone gentle but firm. “But it’s okay. You don’t have to have everything figured out right now, I know there's too much happening right now. Just… don’t shut yourself off completely, okay? You deserve to be happy, Charles.”

Charles didn’t respond, his gaze drifting to the window. The sun was beginning to set, and for a moment he misses the orange and pink sunset from home. 

He let himself imagine going out – some place far away from where his team would go, high scale enough to be exclusive, but not too much he would be noticeable, queer friendly, but not a legit LGBTQ+ place that even a leaked photo would be too telling — meeting and talking with new people with purpose. 

But the thought was fleeting, chased away by the weight of everything he stood to lose.

“It’s just…Red Bull feels unstable, you know? One wrong move, and…”

“And what?” Alex said, her voice steady. “They’ll drop you? They’re lucky to have you.”

Charles smiled faintly at the optimism, though it didn’t reach his eyes. Alex sighed, leaning back in her chair. “I get it, ok, sorry. I just… I wish you could have better.”

“I’ll think about it.” he said finally, though they both knew it was a deflection.

Alex nodded, her expression understanding. “I’m coming next week.” There was another pause, the silence stretching between them, then Alex grinned, her teasing tone returning. “I do have some friends in–”

The call ended with Charles’ exaggerated scream.

The door to the Red Bull strategy room clicked shut, muffling the sound of staff working on the other side. Around the long table, yet again the team’s heads gathered, each of them with various degrees of unhappy expression. Wache sat stiffly between two junior engineers, his knuckles pale around a stylus as the performance data  they shouldn’t have flickered on the wall: fourth-fastest car. 

Behind McLaren. Behind Mercedes. Behind — Christ help them — Ferrari.

Christian entered with his usual brisk cheer, tossing a stress ball between his hands. "Right then," he said, taking in the performance charts with what might have passed for optimism to someone who didn't know him. "Who wants to explain how Ferrari outdeveloped us with half our wind tunnel time?"

The junior aerodynamicist opened his mouth. Wache shot him a look. No one says anything.

Monaghan cleared his throat. "And both drivers are starting to get fed up. Max didn’t even finish the debrief today, and Charles-" He hesitated. "Well, Charles is much more… cooperative, but that includes him breathing down our necks nonstop."

Another engineer, a younger one, nodded. "They’re overdriving. You can see it in sector three today. Max was pushing way beyond what the car could give, and Charles almost clashed trying to overcompensate the speed on the turn.”

Christian exhaled, rubbing his temple. "Fifty million a year for Charles Leclerc do damage limitation." He let that sink in before continuing, his tone shifting to something more constructive. "Pierre. Tell me why I shouldn’t scrap this concept tomorrow."

Wache’s jaw worked silently. Across the table, Hannah uncrossed her arms, "What do you expect us to do? Unless you’ve got a miracle car hidden somewhere, I don’t see how we fix this before Bahrain."

Christian’s eyes narrowed slightly, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"A miracle car, no," he said slowly, gaze flicking to the race data on the screen. "But Adrian gave us enough cars.”

Hannah blinked, her brow furrowing. "What that means?"

"I mean that genius leaves patterns. And right now? We’d be fools not to follow them." he answers. 

Wache studied his hands—the same hands that had once traced Adrian's chalkboard sketches, now gripping a pen that felt suddenly useless. "I'll need to review the correlation data."

Christian's smiled, "Of course. Take all the time you need." He checked his watch. "Shall we reconvene Thursday?"

Chapter Text

The cold bit harder than Charles expected. Even through the layers of fireproofs and the thick Red Bull-branded snow jacket zipped up to his chin, the chill seemed to seep in. Breath misted in front of him as he stood near the edge of the frozen track, hands jammed deep into his pockets. Around him, the crew bustled — camera team setting up wide angles, drones test flying, mechanics adjusting tire pressure on the modified F1 cars, everyone moving with a sense of practiced urgency.

He didn’t know most of their names, if he was honest. Something about how the challenge using last season's cars meant they had brought in none of his own mechanics and how the team needed most of the main engineers and mechanics to stay back at the factory to build and test the new updates Wache designed.

So it meant a bunch of support mechanics — most of them not usually working directly with the drivers, and many who were actually just here because they specialized in ice, nto even working on RBR for real.

Charles was excited, he really was. But he was also sleep-deprived, and his anxiety was flaring up a bit — it didn’t help that he had to postpone his biweekly therapy session since he was literally on a plane full of Red Bull personnel at the time.

So between the cold, the tiredness, and his general social anxiety, he was having a harder time keeping up the mask of comfortable authority a driver needed in front of his team, specially when he was new in the place.

Charles shuddered, sighing as his teeth clicked together before he clenched his jaw.

Max found him soon enough, walking up with his helmet tucked under one arm. “Why are you hiding?” he asked casually, eyebrows raised.

Charles glanced at him, forcing a smile. “I hate cold.”

Max hummed, noncommittal. He clapped Charles lightly on the shoulder and left without another word. Charles watched him go, eyes narrowing slightly. There was something to think about there, but before he could figure out what, Max returned, this time holding two steaming cups.

“No excuses now.” Max said, handing one over.

Charles took it without hesitation. It was tea, hot and spiced, rich enough to warm him to the bones. He murmured a quiet thanks, and they sat down on the edge of a stack of tires, staring out at the ice track where the cars gleamed under the pale winter sun.

“Wanna bet we can race better here than back in our cars?” Max spoke, breaking the silence.

Charles huffed a laugh. “Christian said the updates would be ready when we get back.”

“Been hearing that for a year.” Max glanced sideways at him, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “But yeah, he probably means it this time.”

Charles hums back, still a little stuck on that odd place where he didn’t find his words as easily, but would still enjoy listening and have company. Max didn’t seem to mind, starting on a tangent about the new front wing and accepting Charles’ minimal addiction.

While they talked, the teams continued moving around them, some people coming and going to talk to them and Charles noticed having Max presence made it easier to be back in the work mindset, like sticking to a friend at a party full of strangers and finding confort in knowing at least one person there he didn't need to make a good first expression.

That rang quite true, if he thought about it.

They had been busy with the preseason, not having the chance to really talk, but each time they did, the conversation flowed easily, without tension. Charles hoped that wouldn’t change. For all their differences and rivalry, Max had always been kind and respectful. He’d said more nice things about Charles than anyone else on the grid and Charles appreciated it more than he ever let on. Still do.

The truth was, Max was one of the reasons he chose Red Bull’s offer instead of looking for another team. He could see himself much more clearly at Mercedes than at Red Bull, with their traditions and expectations aligning more closely with his experiences—or he could’ve pursued the technical prowess of McLaren, or the massive salary from Aston Martin.

But if he was going to have to relearn team politics and dynamics anyway, he’d rather be teammates with someone who respected him and wouldn’t greet him with the sole intention of beating him down no matter.

He wasn’t naïve — Max would try to beat him down, as Charles would back, and he knew how quickly relationships could sour when two number ones shared a garage.

But Max had always felt genuine, and wouldn't play with his emotions for it, and in moments like this—shoulder to shoulder with the cold biting at their faces while Max kept rambling about some stats from the last week—there was comfort in it. 

So when the crew called for them, Charles was much more unwinded than before.

Charles was still warming his fingers against the cup when one of the mechanics passed by — Calum, the one in charge of supervising the event stopped. Charles had half a second to prepare himself, before Calum clapped Charles on the back with a grin.

“He took the last croissant this morning, so let’s kick his ass, huh?” Calum said.

Charles smiled, ignoring Max’s snarky reply, something warmer than the drink spreading through his chest. “Yeah. Let’s.”

Calum watched from a distance, arms crossed, breath misting in the cold air. The race on ice had been chaotic, nerve-wracking — but fun. At least for the drivers. Max had been laughing like it was karting all over again. That carefree, full-body kind of joy. It was… different. Callum couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Max having that much fun. 

The cars rolled to a stop, engines ticking as they cooled. Calum’s gaze followed Max as he practically launched himself out of the cockpit, beelining straight for Charles. Even from a few feet away, he caught the tail end of Max’s breathless comment about one of Charles’ overtakes.

"Reckless." someone had muttered over the radio during the race — Calum couldn’t remember who — but Max didn’t seem to agree. He was laughing, hands gesturing wildly as he recounted the moment.

Max had finished first, but Charles had made him sweat for it. The overtakes had been on the edge — aggressive, precise. The kind that made the entire team hold their breath. They’d skidded around ice banks, tires clipping snow walls, but they never missed an apex. Never touched.

Their radios had been loud — too loud, both men had cursed their way through the entire race. There was no chance any of it would make the final cut for social media. 

Which was a shame, really. They’d sounded really happy.

When Charles was announced, GP had been convinced tensions on the garage would be insufferable. Calum had a different opinion. GP, in his view, was too emotionally invested for Max — too focused on the risks, the ways it could all go wrong. But Calum had the benefit of having eyes on them during race weekends. He was the one close enough to watch how Max and Charles interacted in the garage after races.

He’d seen them at each other’s throats on track, only to end up huddled together off it, gossiping like they hadn’t just spent two hours fighting for every tenth. 

And Max wasn’t the same desperate kid from before 2021. He was serious and wanted to win, sure, but he’d learned to control his emotions. 

And Charles? Calum had watched enough of his races, heard more about him from Max than from anyone else added together, to know he wasn’t the type to play stupid games either.

That didn’t mean Calum wasn’t worried. He was still expecting insufferable tensions, just not of the kind GP was thinking.

Now, watching Charles pull off his helmet, his face lighting by something Max was rambling about — and Max, fidgeting, bouncing on his feet, entire body tuned to Charles — Calum winced.

Yeah. Max didn’t stand a chance.

After a long shower to shake off the chill from the recording session, Charles left his hotel room, intending to find something good to eat. The warm water had done little to ease the tension in his muscles, but he told himself that food would help. 

His phone buzzed insistently in his pocket before he even made it to the elevator. The moment he saw Lorenzo’s name flashing across the screen, his stomach tightened. He considered letting it ring out. He already knew what this was about. But ignoring Lorenzo never made things better—it only made them worse.

Sighing, he swiped to answer, bringing the phone to his ear. “What is it now?” His voice was taut, bracing for the storm.

“You have some nerve asking that.” Lorenzo shot back, sharp and immediate. “Do you even realize what’s happening with Arthur right now? Or are you too busy playing Red Bull’s golden boy to care?”

Charles leaned against the hallway wall, rubbing his temple. “Don’t start with that.” he warned. “If you’re calling to guilt-trip me, save it. I’ve already heard it all.”

“Oh, have you?” Lorenzo’s voice was biting. “Did you hear how Ferrari’s is giving him simulator time, no serious projects – he’s a ghost in his own team, Charles.”

Charles exhaled sharply. The guilt clawed at his chest, but he refused to let it show. “You think I wanted this to happen? That I planned for Arthur to get caught in the crossfire?”

“What I think,” Lorenzo interrupted, his voice rising, “is that you didn’t think at all. You made your move, forced my hand, and now everyone else has to deal with the fallout.”

Charles pushed off the wall, pacing in slow, measured steps. His jaw clenched. “I know he’s upset, Lorenzo. But what can I even do, beg Ferrari to take me back, just to make it easier for Arthur? Is that what you want?”

“I want you to act like you care.” Lorenzo said, his voice low. “Arthur isn’t you, Charles. He can’t bulldoze his way through everything and survive the fallout.”

The words cut deep because they were true. Arthur had always been softer, less calculating in the way he approached the intricate politics of sport. Charles had spent years shielding him from the worst of it, less purposefully on it, but as a second nature.

This time, he had been the one to push him straight into the fire.

His breath hitched, frustration curling in his chest like a knot he couldn’t untangle. His vision blurred for a second, and he blinked hard, willing the sudden stinging in his eyes to disappear.

Fucking stupid, he thought bitterly. Always so fucking emotional.

It had taken him years to stop crying after losses. Years of standing his ground against team principals and engineers without letting the frustration crack through. He’d learned to bite back his temper, to swallow down the unfairness, to push the right words instead of useless anger. He had to because showing weakness only made them push harder, made them dismiss him, made them take more and more until he was backed into a corner with nowhere to go.

So he learned to take the hits. To play the game. To survive in a world that didn’t care if he drowned.

Arthur had never needed to fight like that. Had never learned how. And maybe– maybe he needed to learn how.

Charles sucked in a breath, his voice coming out colder than he wished.

“Maybe if Arthur can’t handle the pressure, he shouldn’t be in this sport at all.”

The silence was immediate. Heavy. Suffocating.

“You don’t mean that.” Lorenzo said finally, his voice quieter now.

“I’m tired, Lorenzo.” He says, “You forget I was the one dealing with Ferrari’s bullshit for years. I made one choice for myself, and I won’t apologize for it anymore.”

“Yet, it’s always Arthur who pays the price.” Lorenzo murmured. 

The beep of disconnection sounded louder than it truly was.

Charles looks to the window by the end of the hallway, the snow covering what was used as a track.

Arthur would have loved today, he thinks. Lorenzo would’ve rolled his eyes at the show Red Bull put on, but later, he would have made some LinkedIn post about perseverance and success. They should be here. Charles should be sending them snippets, should be stepping aside to let Arthur have a go at it. He was sure he could talk people around to make it happen.

But instead, Arthur was somewhere else, probably fuming, probably pretending Charles didn’t exist.

He sure was hell didn’t help.

A sudden voice pulled him from his thoughts.

“Well, that didn’t seem fun.”

Charles turned sharply, his shoulders tensing before he recognized the familiar voice. Max stood a few feet away, watching him with that knowing look—head tilted slightly, arms crossed, his weight shifted lazily onto one foot. The casual stance wasn’t deceptive; Max had clearly been paying attention.

Charles exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders to shake off the lingering frustration from the call. He knew the other driver didn’t know enough french to understand what he said, but the residual shame of his words stung.

He forced a small, uncomfortable smile. “Just…” His tongue felt heavy, but he shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Family drama.”

Max nodded, his expression flickering with something unreadable, but he didn’t push. “Well, that’s the worst kind, isn’t it?” He didn’t wait for an answer, smoothly shifting gears. “I heard you picked a new engineer?”

The change of topic was a relief, a lifeline Charles grabbed onto eagerly. His face brightened, some of the tension melting from his posture. “Oh, yes!” He ran a hand through his damp hair. “Rocky and I had some good talks. He’s got a fresh perspective, and he’s really excited to be back. I think we’re fitting in well so far.”

Max’s lips quirked into an amused smirk. “Picking the last Red Bull world champion’s engineer for yourself, Charlie?”

Charles chuckled, shifting his weight and tucking his hands into his hoodie pocket. “Seb suggested it, and we hit it off. He is very passionate and detailist.”

“Plus, you can speak French.” Max smirked.

Charles grinned, tapping his temple. “Yes! If shit hits the fan at 300 kilometers per hour, I won’t need to translate in my head.”

Max laughed, the sound warm and easy. “I’m glad you’re settling in with the team.”

The words caught Charles off guard in their sincerity. His smile faltered for just a second, an emotion he couldn’t quite name stirring in his chest. There was something grounding about hearing it from Max—a reassurance he hadn’t realized he needed.

He hesitated, then bit his lip, his gaze flickering away for a moment before settling back on Max. “Hey, Max… Are you busy? Or would you maybe want to grab a coffee or something?”

Max raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering across his face. “It’s 7pm and you want coffee?”

Charles hesitated again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well… I meant eating something. I don’t actually like coffee.”

Max’s smirk grew, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Said the Red Bull driver.”

“I just don’t like caffeine.” he muttered under his breath, shifting uncomfortably. He could feel Max's stare at the side of his face, before he stopped walking, touching Charles' arm to do the same.

“Oh my god, you don’t like Red Bull.” Max says in realization, Charles sights and Max lets out a bark of laughter, the sound echoing through the hallway. “Oh my god, that’s hysterical! Mate, you’re gonna have to drink so many for marketing—”

Charles groaned, rubbing his face. “Do you wanna eat or not?”

“Oh, definitely. But I’m ordering you a Red Bull. We’ll have to drink the metaphorical Kool-Aid.”

Charles groaned again. “I don’t even know what that means.”

Max slung an arm around his shoulder as they walked toward the exit, his grip firm and easy in a way that felt oddly reassuring. “Don’t worry. You’ll learn.”

<Joris
Subject: Urgent – LEC Expansion Meeting Reschedule
Charles, Red Bull’s partnership team moved the call to Thursday—apparently, Paul has a conflict. Also, the UK distributor needs confirmation on the strawberry flavor stock before...  

<Joris 
Subject: Reminder: LOEWE Fitting @ 3PM  
Don’t forget, the stylist is coming to the apartment today. They’re bringing three options for the Monaco event. I’ve attached the mood boards Alex approved—please look before they arrive because last time you...  

<LEC Ice Cream – Distribution Team  
Subject: UK Sales Report + Red Bull Collaboration Update
Good news—sales in England exceeded projections by 17%. Red Bull’s retail contacts in Germany and Austria are interested in stocking LEC in their stores. We need your approval on the proposed flavors for...  

<Kaye Castilho 
Subject: Feedback on F1-75 Outfit
The navy blazer worked, but the team thinks the trousers were too casual. I still think it looks good and the brand would love it, talk to me if I should fight back. Also, we need to discuss the Milan on September...  

<LOEWE Marketing Team  
Subject: TikTok Trend Analysis for Collab
Our data suggests the “Get Ready With Me” trend would work best for your upcoming campaign. Proposal: a 60-second clip of you getting dressed in the new collection, ending with the signature...  

<Paul Smith
Subject: TAG Heuer Shoot – New Dates  
The promo was pulled back to before China. They’re adding a segment with Max. Logistics want to know if you’ll fly private or with the team.  

<LEC Ice Cream – Social Media  
Subject: APPROVAL NEEDED: New Ad Storyboard 
Attached is the script for the summer campaign. The director wants you to taste-test flavors on camera. Are you okay with the mint chocolate bit? It’s a little messy but...  

<Joris 
Subject: TODAY: 6 Unread Contracts  
I’ve flagged the most urgent ones. The APM collab is non-negotiable on the timeline, and the FIA charity event waiver is still...  

Charles found the garage already alive despite the terribly early hour, a controlled chaos of murmured conversations, clicking laptops, and the rhythmic clatter of tools against metal. Charles made his way through the organized mess, nodding to a few mechanics as he passed. He could feel the anticipation in the air—new updates, new potential.

Not only the car was new, but this was also his first real session working with Rocky. They had met before, him and Roquelin, years back and briefly, through Seb. Back then, Seb had still been at Ferrari, and their interactions had been nothing more than passing conversations in the paddock. He’d known of Rocky, of course. But it wasn’t until Seb brought him up that Charles considered him an option for his race engineer.

So they’d met, just the two of them, a quiet sit-down where Charles had made it clear what he was offering and what needed. Someone who could break things down for him mid-race, give him the full picture, make the calculations and strategy calls so he could just drive. No sugarcoating, no hand-holding—just straight facts and clear instructions. Rocky had listened, nodding along, and when Charles was done, he simply smiled and said, "That works for me."

Now, standing beside him in the garage, Rocky was watching him with that same unreadable expression, arms crossed.

“Morning, sunshine.” Rocky’s voice cut through the noise, amused and easy. “Ready to drive this thing, or do you need a coffee first?”

Charles huffed a laugh, shaking his head at this team obcession. “I don’t drink coffee.”

Rocky raised an eyebrow. “That explains a lot.”

Charles narrowed his eyes but didn’t bother responding, instead, he climbed in the car and finished getting ready.

“Alright.” Rocky's voice rang through the radio. “Let’s get a feel for it first. Clean laps, nothing fancy.”

Charles gave a small nod out of habit, even though Rocky couldn’t see him once he settled into the cockpit. The visor of his helmet clicked into place. The world outside narrowed until it was just him, the car, and the track ahead. He rolled out of the garage, the machine rumbling beneath him.

The first laps were smooth, uneventful. Just him and the machine, the tires gliding over the tarmac, the engine’s steady purr vibrating through his bones. The wind noise, the slight rumble of the track, the world blurring at the edges—it felt familiar. He sank into the rhythm, hands light on the wheel, every motion second nature.

But something was different.

It was subtle at first. A slight hesitation here, a flicker of resistance there. The car wasn’t fighting him—it was almost too eager, reacting quicker than he expected. He adjusted his grip, adjusted his lines. He could adapt.

Then Rocky’s voice came through. “Alright, let’s push a little.”

Charles didn’t need to be told twice. His foot pressed heavier on the throttle, the car leaping forward, hungry for speed. The next corner approached, and he turned in with more aggression —

— and the car twitched beneath him, suddenly too light, too sharp. The rear stepped out just enough to make his stomach drop, and before he could fully correct it, he was in the grass, kicking up dust.

His heart pounded, breath coming sharp inside the helmet. He swore under his breath, wrenching the car back onto the track. The steering felt fine, nothing broken, but the unease remained.

“What happened?” he muttered, half to himself, but with the radio on.

Rocky was calm on the radio. “Lost the rear there, yeah? Felt snappy?”

Charles exhaled sharply. “Yeah.”

“Alright, reset. Back out there.”

He tried again, this time with more caution. He eased the car into the turns, searching for the limits without stepping over them, but no matter how careful he was, the feeling remained.

It was like being back on ice. Every input felt magnified, every slight correction ballooning into something bigger. He braked a fraction too late into a corner and the car snapped sideways again, the rear tires scrambling for grip before he caught it. He adjusted. Tried again. Another lap. Another mistake. It was fast, so fast, but it felt unstable, unpredictable.

Charles kept pushing, chasing that elusive balance, but it refused to settle. His frustration grew with each lap, his grip on the wheel tightening, his jaw locked. He was sweating now, breaths coming short, the same mistakes repeating themselves. Every correction felt too much or too little, the car still not doing what he wanted. It felt like the car was mocking him, daring him to find its limits when they kept shifting beneath him. The pit wall called out minor tweaks, but nothing seemed to click.

Time stretched. An hour passed. Then another. Then Rocky’s voice cut through. “Box this lap.”

Charles pressed the radio button, irritation bubbling up. “No, I can fix it.”

“Box.”

There was no room for argument in Rocky’s tone. It wasn’t a suggestion.

The moment he climbed out of the car, Charles strode straight to the monitors, arms crossed, jaw tight. He stared at the data, but it was a blur of numbers and lines, his mind racing too fast to process anything.

What was he doing wrong? He was supposed to be fast. He was fast. So why couldn’t he control the damn thing?

Rocky stepped beside him, silent for a moment before tapping the screen. “This car isn’t the same from last week, Charles. You’re driving like it is.”

Charles barely looked at him. His fingers drummed against his arm, irritation simmering beneath his skin. “I know that.”

“You’re overcorrecting.” Rocky’s tone remained level. “You’re expecting a lag where there is none. You’re reacting too late because you’re waiting for something that isn’t coming.”

Charles clenched his jaw. “So what do I do?”

Rocky didn’t hesitate. “We start by stop trying to fix it in a single run.”

Charles turned to him, frustration flashing in his eyes. “I don’t need to stop. I just need more laps.”

Rocky’s expression didn’t change. He wasn’t angry, wasn’t impatient. But he also wasn’t backing down.

“I know we don’t know each other yet,” he said, voice steady, “but I’m telling you right now—you’re going to break this car before you learn. Take a shower, calm down, and when you come back we will have the data on the sim, and you can race there to your heart’s content.”

Charles’ first instinct was to argue. To insist the real car was better, that the time before the season was too short to focus on sim work. The he could figure it out if they just let him go again.

But Rocky was already turning away, already speaking to the engineers, already making it clear the conversation was over.

Charles stayed rooted in place, hands clenched at his sides, heart still racing. 

His skin still felt hot, his mind buzzing with too many thoughts. 

He wasn’t used to this—being stopped . At Ferrari, it had always been his job to figure it out. The car would be handed to him with data, sure, but no real guidance, no voice in his ear telling him when to push or when to step back. Just cold numbers and the unspoken expectation that he’d stitch it all together himself. He’d learned to adapt that way, sharpening his instincts like a blade, because no one else was going to do it for him.

It was the same way he’d learned everything as a kid—alone. A gifted child who never needed help, who was praised for figuring things out before anyone even had to explain. And now, as an adult, he didn’t know how to ask for it. Not really. Even when he wanted to.

And here was Rocky, on day one, already stepping in. Already telling him no.

It felt... strange. Uncomfortable. Like someone had suddenly switched the lights on in a room he’d spent years navigating in the dark.

Charles exhaled, rolling his shoulders back. The frustration was still there, simmering, but beneath it—something else. A flicker of relief? Maybe.

He glanced at Rocky, now deep in conversation with the engineers, already adjusting the plan without him.

This is what you wanted, he reminded himself. Someone who doesn’t just watch you struggle.

He swallowed the last of his pride, turned on his heel, and headed for the showers.

Chapter Text

Max stepped through the quiet hallway, thumbing a reply to his financial adviser’s message as he walked.

“Monaco apartment expenses for this quarter is settled. I have been meaning to ask, should I add the selling of it for this year financial plan, or you will be keeping it after Miss Piquet moves out?”

Max let out a quiet sigh, his jaw tightening for a moment. His thumb hovered over the reply box before typing,  “For now, just keep it in good condition.”

He slipped the phone back into his pocket and pushed open the door to the sim prep room.

Inside, the air was tinged with that familiar hum of electronics, dim blue light from the monitors casting long shadows against the walls. The technician on duty looked half-asleep, scrolling his phone, barely glancing up as Max entered.

Not that it was surprising. Simulator sessions this late didn’t need a full crew. There was only one other person there — Andrea, sitting on a sagging sofa in the corner, phone in hand. He glanced up as Max stepped in and offered a small nod.

“Charles still in there?” Max asked, tilting his head toward the door leading into the sim room.

“Yeah.” Andrea replied, lowering his phone. “He works better at night. He’s been at it for a while though.” Andrea added, glancing at the clock. “If you wanted the sim, I can get him to wrap up.”

Max shook his head, offering a faint grin. “Nah. I’m just looking for my watch. Think I left it in here earlier.” He answers back, honest, but his gaze soon drifted to the screen where the simulator’s telemetry scrolled by — sector deltas, throttle traces, lap times, flickering fast. Max squinted at the hours written, leaning in slightly. 

Max eased down onto the couch beside Andrea, watching the data stream past.

“He’s adapting fast.” he said, quietly impressed. He didn’t say it out of politeness — it was just true. “He’s picked up more in the last two weeks than I did when the update first came in.”

Andrea let out a short laugh, nodding. “He does that.” He sounded proud — openly, unabashedly so. And why wouldn’t he be? Charles was his driver. His responsibility. His work.

Max remembered how the latest updates to the car had thrown him off balance too. It was quick — unbelievably quick — but unstable in a way that made it feel like it wanted to kill you if you stepped even a fraction outside its narrow window of control.

“How about you?” Max asked, conversational. “Adapting alright?”

Andrea made a face, waving a dismissive hand. “Eh, it’s fine. Miss speaking my language, but nothing compares to the food.”

Max chuckled. “Yeah. Can’t imagine going from Italian to British.”

“It’s inhuman.” Andrea said, dead serious, then grinned, a little silly looking.

Max shook his head with a soft laugh, but his attention was already drifting back to the screen. “Is he… alright?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

Andrea glanced over at the screen too, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. He’s getting it.”

There was a warmth in his voice, tinted with pride, like it wasn’t just about lap times. Like it was personal.

“Where’s he struggling?”

Andrea hesitated — just a flicker — and Max didn’t miss it,nor condemmed him for it. The instinct to guard Charles’s weaknesses was probably very ingraned one the man after so many years supervising him.

Finally, Andrea sighed, rubbing a hand through his hair.

“On wets.” he admitted, reluctantly. “It’s the only thing slowing him down right now.”

Max looked at the watch on the wall, and the times in one of the screen. Session time: 05:43:24, and counting. “Isn’t he pushing too hard?”

Andrea gave him a look — not defensive exactly, but wary. “He understands his limits well.” Andrea said, his voice firmer now.

The Dutchman hummed back, watching as Charles spin out of the track and picking back with less of two tenth lost. 

Max's phone buzzed a little past 8 o’clock, the vibration muffled under the hum of fluorescent lights and the rhythmic thud of gloves against the heavy bag.

He threw one last half-hearted punch, then dropped his arms with a huff of relief, pulling off one glove with his teeth and shaking out his hand. 

"Please tell me youre not wearing that for the event?"

He frowned. He didn’t know what shocked him more, the audacity of the text or the fact that Charles was awake at this hour.

Max wiped his forehead with the edge of a towel slung around his neck, then typed back one-handed:

"How do you even know what im wearing?"

The response came almost instantly.

"Made friends with Kaye"

Attached was a forwarded image. One Max instantly recognized as the outfit he had sent to Sarah just last night.

Max glare sharpened. Who the hell was Kaye? And how the hell did Charles get a private photo from his personal assistant?

"Who??"

"Our stylist Max, keep up. He saw what you picked, nearly had a breakdown, and needed to vent."

Max exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples. "Why do you even care what I look like?"

The dots keep showing up and disappearing, with Charles taking his time answering.

“Max Emilian, we are a duo now. If you look frumpy, i look frumpy.” Max groaned. Duo. Right. That corporate, media-friendly teammate branding all teams were so obsessed with. “And im so done being known as a bad dresser, so im BEGGING you here, please just listen to what he says and help ME.”

"Charles, I dont even want to go to this thing"

His thumb barely left the screen before the next reply came in: "Great! So you dont CARE! I'll tell Kaye to pick something better for you. Just wear whatever he hands you."

Max stopped pacing, staring down at the message in disbelief.

"Did you hit your head?"

"We’re going to look amazing!" He receives back, with a kissy emoji.

Max stared at the little heart floating over that obnoxious emoji face. Then, with the deepest sigh of the morning, he dropped his phone back into his gym bag like it had personally offended him. He had the distinct impression he wouldn't be winning this fight.

Charles adjusted his collar for the fifth time, the thick fabric of the race suit suddenly feeling too tight around his neck. The noise backstage was of controlled chaos — PR representatives rushing around, tech crews giving last-minute checks, and the occasional clink of glasses as team members toasted to the season ahead. 

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, the sleek red accents on the navy suit catching the light. 

He looked the part of a Red Bull driver. 

“You’re fine.” Max’s voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. Charles turned to see his teammate lounging nearby, one leg draped lazily over the arm of a chair, his phone in hand. Max, in his matching suit, exuded a put-upon ease, bored almost.

“I know I’m fine, I look perfect.”

“Then stop fidgeting.” Max added without looking up. “You’re gonna wear out the fabric.”

Charles rolls his eyes, his hands didn’t stop adjusting. “Easy for you to say. No one’s questioning your place here, I still need to prove it.”

Max finally looked up, his smile equal parts teasing and reassuring. “Win a race or two, and suddenly you’ll be the, second," he points out, finger raised, "best decision Red Bull ever made. Now quit strangling yourself, Christian prefers his drivers breathing.”

A stage manager waved them forward and Max got up with a sigh, suddenly not looking all that confident himself. “With you.” Max said over his shoulder.

Charles dropped his hands, willing them to stay still and followed.

The lights dimmed, and the room fell into a hushed silence. The stage, a sprawling platform flanked by towering LED screens, pulsed with anticipation. 

Finally, it was Red Bull’s turn.

The lights in the venue dimmed, plunging the audience into darkness. A low, rumbling bass began to pulse through the air, vibrating in everyone’s chest. The massive screens around the stage flickered to life, displaying a montage of Red Bull’s greatest moments in Formula 1.

The video opened with Vettel’s dominant years, his car slicing through tracks with precision, followed by Webber’s racing. The tempo of the music quickened, the bass growing into Max unoficial anthem as the scenes shifted to his rise—his daring overtakes, his podiums, and finally, his championship wins. Then, the scenes shifted, the racing now specific duels between Charles and Max — 2019, 2022, 2024, 2014 — the ever synchronized battles in contrasting colors thoughout the year, all the while the music transitioned seamlessly into Charles’ own song, his surname being yelled the infamous 'TU-TU-TU-TU'  of his teammate. Carte Blanq, visiblly ecstatic about being invited in, stationed at the side of the stage, remixed the tracks live, blending Max’s and Charles’ songs into a unified sound that echoed the team’s new era. As the music reached it's peak, the massive doors at the back of the stage slowly began to open, revealing the RB-21 in all its glory, the car’s iconic livery gleaming under the spotlights.

Max stepped onto the stage first. The reigning champion, dressed in the sleek navy-and-red of Red Bull, moved with the controlled easy of someone who may not have cared about it, but also wasn't comfortable with the sheer ammount of public watching.

And then, Charles followed.

It was the first time he’d appeared publicly in full Red Bull racing gear — the team had deliberately hidden records of him suiten up. Now, the navy was a stark contrast to the orangey red he’d worn for so many years. The roar of applause, of yelling and booing, was deafening, and Charles felt a flicker of amusement mixed with satisfaction raise in himself. 

Christian took the stage when the crowd noise lowered, his voice cutting through the remaining applause. “This season, we are working with the strongest, most talented line up I have ever overseen. Line up that is, already, testing my heart by deciding they would participate in a series life risking challenges this year.” Behind him, the screens lit up with a whirlwind of visuals: team-branded helicopters slicing through the sky, skydivers plunging toward the earth, ice sharps flyng around cars, and rally cars kicking up clouds of dust. Max and Charles exchanged a quick glance. Charles smiles excited, lifting an eyebrow, while Max held himself from laughing at the other.

“But it does show the spirit of these two drivers; they’re here to push not only each other to excellence, but the limits of the sport itself.” Christian continues. “They’ll push each other and this sport, to places it’s never been.” A pause. A smirk.

“And as always, we’re committed to bringing our fans closer to the action. So, for 20 of you watching?” The screens cut to the two-seater streaking through the Red Bull Ring. “You’re coming with them.”

[Instagram Reels - Video description: The camera cuts to the gleaming black vintage Honda pulling up to the red carpet, the low rumble of the engine blending with the distant buzz of paparazzi and fans. The headlights flare dramatically before the car slows to a stop.  The door swings open, and Max emerges first, his monochromatic black set sleek yet relaxed. The knitted shirt underneath softens the tailoring of the suit and black dress shoes. He adjusts his sleeve slightly, then turns, just in time for Charles to step out beside him.The camera slows down just enough to capture the way the navy blue suit moves with him. No shirt underneath, just the bold cut of the wool jacket, emphasizing his throat and the encrusted chain around it, catches the light of the cameras. The sound of shutters clicking intensifies as they walk forward together.]

@f1

The champ is here, and his new teammate is looking good in his new color.

#f175LIVE #charlesleclerc #maxverstappen

[Instagram - Photo description: The image presents the complete Red Bull motorsports program with all drivers wearing full racing suits and secured helmets. In the front, Verstappen and Leclerc stand centered in their Red Bull Racing F1 team's navy suits, their helmet designs clearly visible - Verstappen's homage to his father, white, blue and red, and Leclerc's displaying black, yellow and red.
Directly behind them, Visa Cash App RB drivers Yuki Tsunoda and Liam Lawson are positioned in their team's white-and-blue race suits, their helmet designs distinct from the F1 pair. The background consists of multiple orderly rows representing Red Bull's junior programs: F2 and F1 Academy drivers, F3 participants at the rear, all in their respective team's color schemes.]

@redbullracing 

The charge. Bring on 2025, the bulls are ready.

[Spotify - Album image description: An unclear image of two formula one drivers, undefined amist the black and blue splashes]

Album: 3316
Carte Blanq and Maxx Power - 2025
Total Duration: 5:24
Tracklist:
1. 3316 (33 Max Verstappen and Charles Leclerc remix)

[Instagram - Photo description: 1. The background is seamless navy with a raised, red LED-outlined bull logo, the shot captures from just above the Charles’ chest. Navy suit shoulders in frame, a hand in a dark glove gripping the edge of his helmet’s visor, partially lifted. T he helmet features a glossy black background, reflecting the red light of the studio backdrop, decorated with bold yellow stripes wrapping around its surface. Above the visor sits a small the Red Bull symbol, it’s sun matching the yellow lines circling the helmet. Green eyes stare straight into the camera.

2. A closed up of the helmet, being craded against Charles’ navy covered chest, showing the side of the helmet where a bull, in red, appears. Subtle brass watermarks are scattered across the helmet, only revealing themselves by the direct light.

3. Charles' back to the camera, showing how the Red Bull symbol matches the yellow lines from his helmet and the letters the  elongated Monaco flag that stretches along his nape, the names “Papa” and “Jules” inscribed just above it.

4. A photo of Charles sitting, legs half stretched out, the helmet by his side, showing a new angle of it where "16" is embedded

5. Overhead angle, slightly off-center. Charles’ race suit is unzipped to the waist, exposing the fitted black fireproof layer beneath. Hair slightly disheveled and a faint smirk plays at the corner of his lips.]

@charlesleclerc

New colors, new helmet, let’s go babyyyy. 

Drivers crowded the backstage, a loose but familiar gathering of rivals and teammates alike. Charles, after exchanging a few words with Carlos, slipped away to look for a drink, when a voice piped up beside him.

"Not bad for your first Red Bull appearance." Lando remarked, his McLaren suit standing out under the fluorescent lights.

Charles turned, unsurprised to see him already grinning. There was always something about Lando’s expressions—half amusement, half mischief—that made it hard to tell if he was joking or genuinely curious.

"Thanks." Charles said lightly, "Though I think Christian stole the show."

Lando laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. "Give it time. You’ll get used to sharing the spotlight."

Charles huffs a laugh, not missing the bait, but before he could respond, George and Alex joined them, George eyeing him with that ever-measured expression of his. "So, how does it feel?" he asked, crossing his arms. "Trading red for navy?"

Charles met his gaze, "It suits me, doesn’t it?"

Alex smiles, shaking his head. "You do look the part, I’ll give you that."

"I still don’t understand." George commented, with a thoughtfull, almost calculating, tone in his voice.

Charles raises an eyebrow. "Sometimes you have to pick the best chance to grow." he countered.

"Fair." George admitted, though his expression remained unreadable. "You seem awfully confident about it."

Charles chuckled, easy, his confidence unwavering. "Guess I just know more than you do."

Lando let out a low whistle, clearly entertained. "That cockiness might come back to bite you."

Charles arched a brow. "Personal experience, Lando?"

The way Lando’s grin twitched at the edges made Charles suppress a smirk. There it was. Maybe Lando and Max could laugh about the few on and off clashes and snide remarks from the season, but that type of loss, the one where you are given everything and still ends beaten, it lingers. 

And the two could be friends, probably closer than Charles and Max were themselves, but Lando didn't have the history of competing during their formative years, did had the chance yeat to experience burning out the hate at Max’s tallent, like Charles had before even stepping into adulthood. 

(Lando didn't grow up watching that tallend being forget, the way Max was focused from childhood. The way he was inside a kart before everyone and stayed in later than everyone, under sun, the rain and the watchful eyes of his father.)

George laughs at Charles’ answers, though, "Wow, Max is already rubbing off on you."

Before Charles could throw something back, Max reappeared, effortlessly slipping into the conversation, two champagne glasses in hand. "Who am I rubbing in?" he asked, handing one to Charles. “Here, thought you would need it.” 

Charles smiles, thankful at the gesture.

"Charles." Alex supplied, clearly enjoying himself.

"Ah, that sounds fun." Max said smoothly, his smirk barely contained, "Why am I rubbing on Charles? Besides the fact that he looks great in navy." he says with a slow, deliberate once-over in Charles direction.

Fucking Max, Charles thinks, rolling his eyes and hiding the laugh against the rim of his flute.

"Oh, gosh." Lando groaned. "Cut the fan service, no one is watching."

Max’s eyes sparkled with mischief as he tilted his head toward Lando. "Call it team bonding."

“You gonna need to fight the host for it.” Alex says, getting a laugh from the rest of the group.

Charles huffs instead, feeling his face warm, “Can we just, like, never mention that guy ever again?”

“Oh, come on, since when being called hot is a problem?” Lando says.

“Since the event host said he wanted to fuck me on live for the wide world.” Charles says back.

Alex choked on his drink, while George, unbothered, just grinned. "Poor guy, he’s too hot, life is so hard."

Charles inhaled, clencing his jaw and pushing down his irritation by draining his flute instead. Lowering his glass, he caught Max’s eyes. His usual teasing expression had faded slightly, replaced with something more watchfull.

On the flight back to england, Charles finally allowed himself to exhale — out of the suit, and away from the necklace that lived up to its name, choking him the entire time he was forced to wear it again to leave the venue. He would’ve stayed in his racing suit if it hadn’t been tailored so tightly for the sake of the event photos.

He slumped into the seat beside Max, letting his body relax as he pulled out his phone. It was one of Red Bull’s smaller jets, the seats mostly filled with social media staff and company personnel he barely knew. He’d half expected Max to fly on his own, but the man had mentioned he wasn’t about to spend a single coin on that event — so, here they were.

Max nudged him lightly with his elbow, phone in hand. “Check this out.” he said, showing Charles a video someone had already made — a side-by-side of them in their black fireproofs captioned, behind the scene, taken just the right moment for them to look closed off. We’ve got 007 Aston Martin, but I fear I’m rooting for Red Bull villains.

Charles laughed, shaking his head. “Told you the black was a good choice.”

“Yeah, yeah, your fashion sense is great, whatever.” Max said. He caught Charles scrolling through some less-than-flattering pictures of his, some badly edited stickers around his face while an angry italian man mocked him. “You’ve got to stop watching those. It’s all noise.”

“Easy for you to say.” Charles sing-songed, but shut his phone anyway, closing his eyes. “The booing was fun.” he added after a moment, mostly sincere.

And it was kind of funny, Charles realized. If there was a ranking for most hated driver this season, he was probably halfway there between joining Red Bull and betraying Ferrari. Still, when the booing started, Charles didn’t feel a rush of anger or sadness. Instead, he had to force himself not to laugh.

There was something so freeing about receiving hate because of his team, and not because he didn’t perform a miracle with whatever the team itself failed into providing.

Max nudged him lightly. “The real talk comes from us on the track, not from people. And trust me, you’ll have plenty to say there.”

Charles opened his eyes, surprised by the way Max was watching him — not smug or teasing, but intensely, almost cautiously. He smiled, warmth he hadn’t expected flickering in his chest, and pressed his knee lightly against Max’s.

Max had a habit of being surprisingly sweet in the oddest, quietest moments.

“I’m fine, Max.” He promised, and Max seemed to read his sincerity by the way his shoulders relaxed. Charles took the moment to switch the subject. “Carte Blanq was actually good, huh? Do you think he’ll release the remix?”

Max huffed a laugh. “Hope so, I’m kinda tired of mine.”

“Listen to mine instead.” Charles offered with a grin.

“So it's just me and that host suffering through it together?”

Charles literally flinched, “Ugh, don’t remind me of him.” The words slipped out too sharp, too raw. Charles winced internally. He hadn’t meant to let that crack show.

He’d already picked up on the tension Charles carried through the whole evening — laughing on cue, reacting politely to bad jokes, getting progressively more stiff as the night dragged on. Max had assumed it was nerves, maybe annoyance about their later appearance, or because the jokes were objectively terrible.

But then came those digs from George and Lando, and Max had the first sense it wasn’t nerves.

"It really got to you." Max said, quieter now. 

Charles glanced out the window, easier to look at than Max’s face. “It just gets old.”

“What?” Max pressed.

“The jokes.” He says, only, but Max nudges his knee, insistent.

When he finally looked up, Max’s teasing glint was completely gone, replaced by open attention. Charles exhaled. 

He hated this conversation. 

Most of the guys shrugged it off, even leaned into it. Flattery was flattery, after all, another trophy for the ego. 

Instead, all it did was erase everything Charles did work for. 

Usually he knew better than to try and explain how being one of the best drivers on the grid, yet constantly reduced to his looks, felt degrading. 

That would only make the jokes worse, meaner, weaponized.

But Max… Max wasn’t one to pry for weakness. He was waiting.

"I was third last year." he said, voice low. "My drive in Abu Dhabi was called the best of the season, even after what you did in Brazil. All of that despite Ferrari. And I moved to Red Bull, that was shocking, right? And what did they talk about tonight?" A bitter laugh. "How I look."

Max’s jaw flexed. “He is a nobody, Charles. He knows shit about racing.”

"It’s not just him." Charles’ fingers ran along the band of his watch, the sponsored one with he picked to match his helmet. He stared at it, avoiding Max’s gaze, the ‘Senna’ written in it and for a moment he wondered the if the late driver ever had a reporter talk about his eyes instead of his overtakes. "You know what people hear when someone say I’m their favorite driver?" He pitched his voice higher, mocking. “‘Because he’s hot.’"

“Which is bullshit, Charles.”

"Yeah?" Charles finally met his eyes. "And when Stefano told me I was there for sponsors, not championships? Not with those words, of course, but when Ferrari’s two-year plan had more merchantside campaings for me than strategy meetings, the message was clear.”

“That’s insane.” Max’s voice was sharp, his disbelief clear. “You’re better than that. Better than Lewis, even.”

“Lewis is the greatest of all time.” Charles recited, resigned. “I hated it, still do, but it’s not like I don’t understand the decision.”

“You were above him last season, Charles!”

“And he was above me in 2023 when they sign him.” 

“You had a tub for a car in 2023 and the worst strategies I’ve ever seen.” Max shot back, the tone raising exponentially from what was until then a quiet conversation. “Why are you even defending them?”

Charles blinked at him, genuinely puzzled at the escalation.

“Why are you defending me so much?”

Max threw his hands up, frustration bubbling to the surface. “Because it pisses me off! It is so frustrating to watch how a team with so much legacy make someone with your talent waste years. And now you’re telling me they treat you like some damn poster boy? Screw them! Had they gave you the car, and you’d be handing them trophies, not just smiling for photos!"

Charles was momentarily stunned into silence, watching Max, wide-eyed. He knew Max respected him — the competitive digs, the open praise. He had joked before about Max being his fan, and there were always a hesitant truth in it. But this was different. This was fury, on his behalf. It felt… strange. Foreign. Warm.

Yeah, his fans — the real ones, not the ones that were only behind him, if he was behind the wheel of a red car — had spoken up for him, for years.

But not his team, not his managers, not even his old friends back home had defended him like this. Looking back, he knew it was because they too didn’t want to offend Charles, or had, themselves, the shared loyalty for the team Charels was known for.

So he swallow it all, time and time again, as nobody was listening.

It made he want to yell, to rebel. To fly military jets, jump of planes, climb mountains he was contractually forbiden too. His therapist was very insistent it was bad copying mechanism, but there was not much you could do to let off steam when his day job was racing 300km/h and find sex required group effort and paperwork.

And now Max—Max Verstappen, his best rival—was the first to say it aloud?

A hysterical laugh bubbled in his throat. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to cry or hug the man.

He watched the moment Max seemed to catch himself, deflating under the weight of his own outburst.

“What I mean…”

“I love the team.” Charles hurries say, not willing to let Max dwell, and thinking that if he didn’t get off his own head he would ended up actually crying there. “It was my dream, my dad’s dream and Jules’ dream. I tried so hard to make it work.” He explains, “But I couldn’t.”

“So you left.” Max says, and Charles feels he was relieved in his behalf.

“I did.” Charles confirmed. “I’m supposed to help the team image, yeah, but Christian also sign into giving me a competitive car, better calls, a chance to race. And that’s all I wanted.” 

Charles ran a hand through his hair, leaning back against the seat, the hum of the engines filling the quiet between them. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. It wasn’t the brittle silence of a podium missed, or a conversation dodged between people who knew each other so much and not enough. It was easy. Steady.

Yeah — that host had made his skin crawl. The jokes had grated. The old insecurities had come clawing up the back of his throat, and for a moment it felt like nothing had changed, like he was still the pretty face they dressed up to sell the fantasy.

But then, there was the rest of it.

The way Carte Blanq had shake their hands so happy, grinning like he was in on some private joke. The way Max had hung back for him during interviews, nudging his elbow, making sure he laughed. The Red Bull crew who pulled him into group photos behind the scenes, not because they had to, but because they wanted to have team photos to only be shared in the team’s group chat. And even the booing — it didn’t sting the way it once would have. It felt like background noise now, like a storm he could finally outrun.

For the first time since signing the contract, since putting on the navy suit, Charles felt it. Felt like this wasn’t just a survival strategy, or a desperate attempt to prove something to ghosts.

He felt like part of the team.

He glanced at Max, who was now fiddling with his phone, brows furrowed, pretending not to watch him out of the corner of his eye.

Charles smiled, a real one this time — small, a little tired, but honest.

“Y’know,” he murmured, “Tonight… it wasn’t so bad.”

Max snorted, but continued to avert his eyes. “High praise.”

“I mean it.” Charles said, softer. “I’m… I’m sure of my decision.”

Max’s grin was crooked, but his eyes warmed. And just like that — something settled. Not perfect, not all at once, but enough. Enough for now.

Chapter Text

The gym was quiet, apart from the rhythmic hum of treadmills and the occasional clank of weights hitting the floor. Max kept his pace steady, eyes fixed ahead as his feet pounded against the belt.  

Across the room, Charles was at the weights, muscles tensed as he pushed through another set. He had been at it for a while now, sweat darkening the fabric of his shirt. He let his gaze linger for a moment longer before turning his attention back to the treadmill’s timer. A few more minutes, then he’d call it a day.

By the time he slowed to a walk, Charles was still going. Max wiped a hand over his face, then hopped off, grabbing his water bottle. He wandered over, leaning casually against a bench as he took a slow drink.

“You’re not overdoing it, are you?” Max asked, breaking the silence as he tossed his water bottle into his bag.

Charles barely looked up as he set the weights down with a controlled motion. “Says the guy who just spent an hour running.”

Max smirked. “Just making sure you’re not trying to keep up with me. Wouldn’t want you pulling something before the season even starts.”

Charles huffed a quiet laugh, then—too casually—stepped closer. Too close. Close enough that Max felt the heat radiating off him, the sharp scent of sweat and expensive cologne in air between them.

“You really wanna compete for who’s in better form?” Charles murmured, his voice just a little too smooth, a little too amused.

Max stilled. His eyes flickered. Just for a second, barely noticeable, the way Charles shirt clung to his frame, the easy confidence in his stance.

He scoffed, forcing a sarcastic laugh. “We could test it right now, if you’re so sure.”

Charles smile widens, but before he could answer, a voice cut through the moment.

“Hey, you ready?” Joris called out, leaning through the doorway and breaking the moment.

“Sure, just a sec.” Charles replied, giving him a quick nod before turning back to Max. “We can finish tomorrow?” he says, tone light even with the challenge.

“Yeah, no problem.” Max says, centering himself, watching as Charles grabbed his gym bag and made his way toward the door.

Just as he reached it, Charles paused, pivoting back with a curious look. “Hey, we’re playing some football with the team. Want to join us?”

The question came out casual, but Max could sense a hint of hesitation in Charles’ tone, like he wasn’t sure how it’d land.

“Who’s going to be there?” Max asked, glancing down as he mentally scrolled through his schedule. Technically, he didn’t have anything planned until a late-night streaming session, but he wasn’t sure if this was worth his time.

Charles tilted his head, thinking it over. “Not sure. It’s a mix from people from all around the team. They’ve been planning it for a while, it’s like… team bonding before testings.”

Max hesitated. He worked well with his team, of course, and they bonded plenty over work and celebration dinners. But casual mid-week outings like this were not really his thing. Especially not during pre-season.

Even with Charles, most of their interactions so far had been limited to work, or around work, between traveling or some shared lunches at the Red Bull cafeteria. 

“Come on.” Charles urged, flashing that bright, boyish grin of his. “You can leave early if you’re tired. It’ll be fun!”

Max let out a sigh, pretending to be more exasperated than he felt. “Alright, fine.”

As it turned out, Charles was terrible at football. 

Somehow, Max was worse.

“I wasn’t even near the ball!” Charles groaned, sitting on the ground and nursing his shin.

“I’m sorry!” Max said, breathless and kneeling beside him, his face a mix of guilt and panic.

Around them, the team rounded them, laughing at the drivers.

“He didn’t touch the ball once the whole game!” Joris teased, grinning as he gestured toward Max.

Charles shot Max an incredulous look. “You kicked me more than the ball!”

“I said I was sorry!” Max repeated louder, although he was genuinely worried as he glanced at the rapidly forming bruise on Charles’ leg.

Charles collapsed onto his side, clutching his shin and groaning dramatically. “I’m dying, you killed me.” he declared, drawing a mix of amused chuckles and eye-rolls from their teammates.

One of the Italian crew members who’d joined the game crouched down beside Charles, rubbing his shoulder with mock sympathy. “Oh, Principe.” he cooed theatrically.

“Max is taking out the competition before the season even starts.” someone joked, earning another round of laughter.

Max shot his mechanic a glare, flipping him the middle finger. Then he turned back to Charles, offering his hand. “Come on. Let’s get you some ice.”

With one arm around Charles’ bicep and another on his shoulder, Max helped him up. Charles limped theatrically off the field, leaning heavily into Max.

“You’re not actually that hurt, are you?” Max muttered as they walked.

“I might be.” Charles said, his tone exaggeratedly tragic. 

The sports center was large and private, complete with a small food court. Max guided Charles to a bench and jogged to one of the food stalls, asking if they had ice. The girl behind the counter nodded knowingly, returning with a plastic bag of ice, and Max thanked her before jogging back to Charles.

Charles sat slouched on the bench, his earlier theatrics fading into a more casual air, though he was still rubbing his leg.

“Here.” Max said, handing him the ice pack.

Charles adjusted himself, pulling his leg up onto the bench and pressing the ice against the bruise. Max took a seat at the other end, near his feet.

“You good?” Max asked after a moment.

“Yeah, yeah.” Charles replied, then glanced at Max with a teasing smirk. “I’m fine. But seriously, if you hit the ball instead of me, your team maybe had the chance.”

Max exhaled heavily, relieved that Charles was clearly okay. “I only play football on FIFA.” he muttered defensively.

Charles propped his chin over his bent knee. “Is that excuse or a blessing disguised?”

Max raised an eyebrow, feigning offense. “First of all, I’m not that bad. Second, I’m quite decent at racing if you noticed, which, last I checked, is the sport that actually matters here.”

Charles laughed, tipping his head back. “Okay, fine. But you should’ve seen your face when you kicked me. I thought you were about to faint.”

“I thought I broke your leg!” Max shot back, leaning forward in exasperation. “You looked like you were dying!”

“That’s called acting, I learned something with Brad.” Charles said, putting his contempt for the actor by the pronounce of his name. “Maybe I should quit racing and go into Hollywood.”

Max snorted, leaning back again. “If you say so. Just don’t expect me to join you ever again in a set. It was bullshit.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Charles said, waving him off with a lazy hand. “But you’d come watch my movies, right?”

Max tilted his head, pretending to think it over. “Depends. Are they comedies? Or are we talking action movies where you do all your own stunts and probably end up in the hospital?”

Charles shot him a mock glare. “It’s going to be a critically acclaimed drama, thank you very much. Something in french. I’ll win an Oscar for best international pic, and you’ll regret underestimating me.”

“Do you, like, have any plans?” Max asks, ignoring the drama.

Charles shakes his head, “No. It’s just… vibes.” Max burst out laughing. “I mean...” Charles gestured vaguely, embarassed. “someday, if the opportunity’s there. Probably after racing, I trully only want to do it if it was serious.” The silence stretched, Max studying him with amused curiosity. “Look,” Charles huffed, “I know it’s not your thing, but don’t judge me.”

Max lifted his hands in surrender, shaking his head. "I'm not." he insisted at Charles' skeptical glare. "I swear, it's not that. I just..." He sighed, fingers tapping an uneven rhythm on the armrest as he searched for words. "I've never seen someone so… ready to experience stuff."

“I mean…” Charles says, taking the words in. “We already have to sacrifice so much just by being athletes and famous… What’s the point of being young and rich if we don’t do the stupid things available?” 

Max hummed, looking away. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess." The words came out quiet.

Charles' grin faded into something more curious, more probing. Max could feel that green-eyed gaze dissecting his reaction.

Max sighed, and wondered when these heart to heart with Charles Leclerc became his reality.

"There's a reason I accepted these challenges." Max continued suddenly, the admission surprising himself as much as Charles. "I just… am kinda bored." 

Charles' brow furrowed, but he nodded encouraging. 

Max ran a hand through his hair, the movement agitated. "We see the world, but it's all the same. Fly in, eat the same approved meals, stay in the same bubble, show up at some sponsor event, maybe get drunk enough to forget which city we're in—"

"Then wake up and do it again." Charles finished, nodding slowly. 

Max exhaled sharply. Exactly. The realization settled between them, heavier than he'd intended.

"I love racing." Max said quickly, needing Charles - needing himself - to understand that wasn't the issue. "But these days it feels like… I’m wasting whatever time I got when I'm outside of it.”

He still loved racing—he truly did, wasn't nearly close of being done with it. But lately, it felt like it was all he had. The paddock, the routine, the constant cycle of training, performing, and repeating. His life was built for this, and he excelled at it, but somewhere along the way, it had started to feel… empty. 

Max had what he thought was a good work-life balance, at least good enough for what his career required. He had a fulfilling personal life with people he loved close and building to something.

Until he didn’t. 

And now his hobbies felt few and far away, the same as his family — his mother, retired, enjoying the peace and freedom of her new life, Victoria busy with her own family, his youngest sibling practically strangers. And his father...

Well, that was a whole issue of its own. Things had been tense since he broke up with Kelly and Jos was so decidedly opposed to it. His dad also had lots of opinions on Charles moving to Red Bull, opinions that felt so pointless, so grating, to his ears. He didn’t even know why it bothered him this much. Maybe because Max wasn’t used to this amount of scrutiny from his father on his career anymore, maybe because he knew it came all from a place of doubting Max’s abilities while still being unfair to Charles’.

He let out a quiet exhale. He wasn’t unhappy, not really. But there was something suffocating about the repetition, the expectations, the way everything in his world stayed the same while time kept moving forward. He felt stuck. He felt old.

Charles studied him, then said carefully, “When I was signing.” He hesitated before adding, “Christian gave me the impression he thought you were leaving.”

Max stiffened. "I'm not." The denial came too quick, too sharp.

“I don’t think you are.” Charles said, holding up a placating hand. "I didn't, even then." His fingers tapped restlessly against his knee. "But I do think you're..." He trailed off, mouth working around unspoken words as Max watched, curiosity prickling down his neck. “Uninspired." Charles finally settled on, shifting in his seat.

Max forced himself to breathe through the sting. He owed Charles the permission for the same brutal honesty he'd always freely gave. He waited, jaw clenched, for the rest.

"Still," Charles continued, gaze flicking to the Red Bull logo on Max's shirt, "a team principal has to plan. Christian could gamble on finding the next Max Verstappen in some junior driver..." A calculated pause. "Or he could bring in the annoying childhood rival. Maybe light a fire under the reigning champion while he's at it. Pick up a few constructors' trophies along the way."

Is that all you are to him? The thought struck Max with unexpected force. A pawn. A motivator. A fucking benchmark. His fingers curled into the fabric of his shorts.

“Sounds like a stupid idea.” Max muttered, the words tasting bitter.

Charles smiles. “I think it is the right idea.”

“It makes you sound like a supporting character, though.” Max points out, back, willingly to shift the subject away from his personal life. “If you don’t think he will give you the chance to win, why come?”

Charles accepts the bait graciously, “I have a very good contract. Equal opportunities, with the same that made even Ferrari let me go.” His smile turned sharp. “So, I do think he will give me the chance, even tentatively, or forced to.” he says, “It’s just that he doesn’t believe I can beat you.”

“But you do?” Max has to ask.

Charles' answering smile wasn't the cocky smirk Max expected. It was simpler. Truer. Bright, like the place he was born and raised. "Oh, I will."

It was the eyes, though, that said the most. The look of hunger Charles usually hides underneath a carefully made mask of approachability and sportsmanship, there, openly shown. Max felt it like a jolt to the system, that old electric thrill crackling down his spine. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to be in the garage tomorrow, pouring over Charles' lap times, finding every tenth, every hundredth he could claw back.

Max hated to admit it, but maybe Christian had a point about him. About them.

Still, when it came to Charles’ chances of winning — Christian had it all wrong. Charles wasn't just a spark to reignite his own ambition. He was the fucking wildfire.

Pre-Season Testing Report (February 2025)
Location: Red Bull Test Track, Milton Keynes
Testing Focus: Real-car performance (weekdays) & simulator validation (weekends)

VERSTAPPEN – Performance Summary

Key Data
Testing Days: Monday–Saturday (AM)
Best Real-Car Time: 1:25.75 (Feb 23)
Best Sim Time: 1:25.50 (Feb 25)

Daily Progress

Date	Session	Best Time	Notes
Feb 03	Car	1:28.45	Strong start, immediate comfort with RB21.
Feb 05	Car	1:28.12	Improved high-speed stability.
Feb 07	Car	1:27.95	Focused on race-pace consistency.
Feb 09	Car	1:27.60	Minor setup tweaks, strong one-lap pace.
Feb 11	Simulator	1:27.30	Tested aggressive rear-wing setups.
Feb 13	Car	1:27.10	Optimized tire warm-up procedure.
Feb 15	Simulator	1:26.85	Simulated wet-weather runs.
Feb 17	Car	1:26.40	Fastest car lap of test.
Feb 19	Car	1:26.25	Evaluated new suspension geometry.
Feb 21	Simulator	1:26.05	Worked on race-start simulations.
Feb 23	Car	1:25.75	Perfect quali sim in cool conditions.
Feb 25	Simulator	1:25.50	Final sim session, focused on tire deg.

Analysis
Strengths: Exceptional one-lap pace, rapid adaptation to setup changes.
Area to Improve: Slightly slower than Charles in quali simulations.
Overall: Confident start; remains the benchmark for real-car performance.

 

LECLERC – Performance Summary

Key Data
Testing Days: Monday–Sunday (PM)
Best Real-Car Time: 1:25.85 (Feb 23)
Best Sim Time: 1:25.40 (Feb 25)

Daily Progress

Date	Session	Best Time	Notes
Feb 03	Car	1:28.80	Early struggles with RB21’s rear sensitivity.
Feb 05	Car	1:28.40	Adjusted driving style for better traction.
Feb 07	Car	1:28.05	Improved confidence in braking zones.
Feb 09	Car	1:27.55	First sign of adaptation—outpaced Max.
Feb 11	Simulator	1:27.45	Focused on tire management strategies.
Feb 13	Car	1:27.15	Strong long-run pace, close to Max.
Feb 15	Simulator	1:26.80	Excellent sim race stint consistency.
Feb 17	Car	1:26.45	Minor DRS activation issues.
Feb 19	Car	1:26.18	Best car lap after floor upgrade.
Feb 21	Simulator	1:25.95	Dominated wet-weather sim runs.
Feb 23	Car	1:25.85	Close to Max’s quali sim time.
Feb 25	Simulator	1:25.40	Fastest sim lap of the test.

Analysis
Strengths: Rapid learning curve, exceptional simulator performance.
Area to Improve: Still fine-tuning real-car setup preferences.
Overall: Impressive adaptation—could challenge Max in mixed conditions.

Internal Use Only – Red Bull Racing Engineering 

The late afternoon sun bled across the Bahraini skyline, painting streaks of orange and violet across the desert sky. The final day of pre-season testing was winding down, but inside the Red Bull garage, the energy still pulsed, the hum of chatter, tools, and engines refusing to die out.

Charles sat on the edge of a workbench, gloves half-off, eyes fixed on the towering timing screens overhead. His name held second place — two tenths off Norris, but crucially ahead of Max.

The car felt good. Better than it ever had, honestly. On pure pace, it was everything Christian had promised. Every corner felt sharper, every exit cleaner. But in traffic… it wasn’t quite there yet. The car’s behavior in dirty air, the way it shifted under braking when boxed in — it made overtaking harder than he wanted to admit.

He exhaled, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, watching Norris finish another clean lap, locking himself in at the top. That McLaren was quick. Really quick. And Mercedes wasn’t far behind either — George had been lurking in the top three all day, their long runs looking suspiciously consistent.

Charles knew it wasn’t about one-lap pace anymore. The season ahead would be a war of margins.

"Still can’t touch them on the straights." Rocky’s voice pulled him out of his head, scrolled through telemetry, brows furrowed but not worried. "But we’re there in the corners. You carried three kph more through five and six than Max did. Consistently."

Charles hummed, nodding, but his eyes were still on the screen. Lando. Himself. Max. Then George. Too close for comfort. He ran a hand through his hair.

"Not enough." he muttered, almost to himself.

Rocky clapped a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "It’s testing, mate. We’re better than we thought we'd be two weeks ago. That’s a win."

Charles gave a small nod, though his stomach still sat tight, coiled like it was waiting for lights out on Sunday. He wanted to believe it. He did. But everything felt temporary until the wheel-to-wheel fights came. That’s when he’d know if this car — if him in this car — could really fight.

He watched the way the mechanics worked around him, the quiet jokes, the comfortable chaos. Hannah caught his eyes over tossed him a thumbs up, looking up from her tablet.

Still, his gaze drifted back to the big screens as they began rolling through replays of the day’s best laps. Norris in papaya orange, smooth and fast.

He grabbed his water bottle, took a long sip, then let the bottle drop to his side. As he turned to leave the garage, he caught a glimpse of Max again, deep in conversation with Hannah and some engineers, already dissecting every tenth they’d left on the table.

A flicker of a smile crossed Charles' face.

[Instagram - Video Description: A wide shot shows the 2025 driver lineup posed on oversized red staircase-style platforms for the official grid photos. The drivers stand mixed together in their race suits and helmets—Carlos Sainz in Ferrari red takes center position, while Charles Leclerc in Red Bull navy sits lower, positioned beneath the F1 logo. An awkward gap separates Charles from Franco Colapinto in Williams white beside him.

As the photographer calls "That's a wrap." the scene shifts—rookies Oliver Bearman, Kimi Antonelli, Gabriel Bortoleto, and Jack Doohan begin moving toward Max Verstappen, but before they reach him, Max is already striding purposefully toward Charles. The video cuts as Max reaches Charles' side, already mid-conversation.]

@Formula1

BTS’ of this season grid.

[Formula 1 TV - Video descriptions: The bright, well-lit room hums with the buzz of cameras as five drivers—Max, Lewis, Albon, Lando, and Jack—sit stiffly on a long white couch. LED clocks on the far wall tick away the time. Max leans back slightly, his eyes flicking between the cameras and the clocks, his answers automatic and practiced as he occasionally checks his phone under the table. Albon keeps glancing at his watch, as if willing time to move faster. Lewis reclines into the couch with crossed arms, smirking when answering questions. Lando shifts in his seat, nudging Jack with his elbow occasionally, while Jack sits rigidly upright, hands on his knees, barely moving.

A journalist directs a question to Lewis: "Since you took Charles' seat at Ferrari, did you notice anything in his results during testing?"

Lewis rubs the back of his neck, grinning. "Besides his great hair?" he says, pausing before adding, "I mean his eyes? He is a good-looking lad, y'know?" The room responds with polite laughter.

The journalist then turns to Max: "Max, anything to add?" Max doesn't sit up, keeping his tone flat. "On his hair? It's better than it was at twelve." he deadpans, sparking another round of laughter. He shrugs slightly. "Seriously, though, he's doing well. We had a new update four weeks ago, so he basically had to adapt to two cars. And he's handling it."

A follow-up question comes: "Is there any tension... with Charles accepting his position as second driver?"

"That question's wrong." he states, and the room falls quiet. His voice remains steady as he continues, " There’s nothing for him to accept, Charles isn’t a second driver. Since day one, it was made clear: the team supports both of us. Race by race, whoever’s got the better chance, that’s the one backed. The strategy’s to win. Both cars. As many points as possible.” He continues. “The better question is whether I’m used to sharing the position, and the answer is I don’t care. My job is to be first. Every time.” His voice didn’t waver, steady as the hum of the lights overhead. I’ve still got the upper hand. I’m more used to the setup, I know how this team works. But Charles will have wins this season. No doubt in my mind.” He glanced toward one of the monitors showing qualifying sectors from testing. 

Another journalist presses, "You think he can properly challenge you this year?"

Max gives a slight, unimpressed look. "He always did. That doesn't change because we're in the same car. That's what the team wanted—two drivers pushing each other. Makes the whole operation sharper." He gestures loosely. "The car's good. He's good. We've got different strengths. Some tracks, some qualis, it'll shift." His tone remains firm and calm as he finishes, "I still believe I'm the best. I wouldn't be here if I didn't think I'd win it."

Max stretches slightly, glancing at the cameras. "It's a long season. A lot can happen. McLaren's quick. Mercedes looks better than people think. That's the job. It won't be easy. It shouldn't be." He concludes with a matter-of-fact statement: "If it's mine, I'll take it. If someone else wants it. Well... they'll have to be better. Simple as that."]

Formula 1 TV

F1 Pre-Season Testing Press Conference 2025 | Day 3

[Tiktok - Video description: Split-screen, the top half showing clips of Max publicly shutting down a journalist calling Charles a second driver, and Charles backing Max's comments on team equality. The bottom half is a blonde girl with a green sreen effect floating.

"Y’ALL. I AM LOSING IT. Max and Charles DEFENDING EACH OTHER in interviews? Excuse me?!! Max literally said there’s no second driver, Charles saying it’s ‘fun’ working with him?! WHO ARE THEY?! Rivals-to-teammates realness. If they ever team up in a sprint race, I will combust.”]

@SammyOnRacing

[The four drivers sat around a high-top table, their team kits clashing like a mismatched grid. An abandoned can of Red Bull, its orange logo sweating condensation, sat between them. Charles nudged it away with two fingers, the aluminum scraping against the table as he leaned into the conversation.

Liam picked up the question card, lips quirking as he read aloud: “The four of us on a road trip—who’s driving, who’s riding shotgun, who’s navigating, and who’s DJing?”

Max slouched in his chair, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his face. “Well,” he drawled, “let’s make sure neither Yuki nor Charles drives.”

Yuki stiffened, hands flying up in protest. “Oh, come on!” His voice cracked with indignation.

Charles tilted his head, one eyebrow arching. “Oi?” The single syllable dripped with mock offense.

Liam nodded, grinning. “Firmly agree, actually.”

“I’m the safest driver!” Yuki crossed his arms, chin jutting out.

Liam barked a laugh, shaking his head. “Definitely not.”

Max pointed at Yuki, eyes alight with mischief. “Absolutely not.”

Yuki exhaled dramatically, throwing his hands up. “Fine, I’ll DJ. I’ll play Japanese songs.”

Max chuckled, but Liam leaned forward, palm raised like a stop sign. “You don’t want him DJing either.”

“Is it really that bad?” Max’s brow lifted.

Liam shrugged. “I don’t think any of us will agree on who should drive.”

Max’s grin turned razor-sharp. “How old are you, Liam?”

“Twenty-three.”

“You guys can’t even rent a fucking car yet.”

Yuki jabbed a finger toward Charles, triumphant. “Charles can!”

Charles gave a small, gracious nod. “Thank you, Yuki.” Then he turned to Max, shoulders relaxed but eyes glinting with challenge. “We can take turns driving.”

Liam flopped back in his chair. “Just because you’re old enough doesn’t mean you’re the right choice.”

Charles smiled, slow and deliberate. “I think the team already decided who’s the best driver between us two, Liam.”

Max hide his smirk by taking a swig at the half-drunk Red Bull can Charles had discarded earlier.A beat of tension. Yuki’s laugh cut through it, nervous hands fluttering. “Guess Charles can navigate. Max would listen to him better.”

Max tapped his chin, feigning deep thought. “I think he’s better as a passenger princess.”

Charles burst into laughter, rubbing his face to hide it, though his shoulders shook. “Oh, screw you, Max.”]

@redbullracing

These plans may never make it out of the group chat

Melbourne was wet.

Which, frankly, couldn’t have been worse news.

Not just the usual sticky summer humidity — this pressed down like a physical weight, thick and relentless. By mid-afternoon on race day, the skies had turned a heavy, bruised gray, and the first drops had started falling during the anthem. By lights out, the track was slick and treacherous, a thin film of rain blurring the tarmac’s edges, making everything heavier, sharper, riskier.

It amplified everything. The nerves. The tension. The mistakes.

For Charles, it wasn’t the clean start he’d imagined for this new chapter of his life. New team. New strategist. New engineer. Three months of relentless pre-season prep, and it still hadn’t fully prepared him for this — for how exposed he’d feel wearing a Red Bull suit, expected to perform at the sharp end right away.

Red Bull had sent him and his team ahead on a separate flight. Private. Efficient. Gave him hours to sit with his new engineer, swapping theories and dissecting race strategies in quiet hotel lounges. He liked Rocky, genuinely. The man had stepped in and fixed things Charles hadn’t even realized were problems. He’d been pivotal in helping Charles adjust, sitting him down with Andrea and pulling apart data like it was life or death.

It was exactly what he’d asked Seb for. Someone who wouldn’t fold. Someone who would fight him for every tenth. And Seb delivered.

But no amount of strategic talks could untie the knot in his stomach.

Charles had never loved Melbourne. It wasn’t a bad circuit — just one whose rhythm never seemed to fit naturally in his hands. The stop-start layout, half-street, half-circuit, too many awkward cambers and tightening exits. And when the rain came down? It stopped being a test and became a war.

The RB21 was a masterpiece. A breathtaking, merciless piece of engineering.

And still an absolute nightmare in the wet.

Twitchy. Temperamental. Always right on the verge of snapping. He knew Max was wrestling it too — even if Max, being Max, carried that battle in silence, jaw tight and eyes sharper than knives.

And qualifying had proved it.

Neither of them could fully wrangle it. Charles landed P6, Max in P4. Respectable. But far from Red Bull’s usual dominance. And then there was Lewis — grinning from pole, the press eating up his every word about Ferrari’s phoenix-like return.

Of course, Charles thought bitterly. Of course they’d give Lewis a car that worked.

It was like a goddamn fairytale Ferrari was writing without him.

That night, frustration choked him. He lay in his hotel room, staring at the ceiling, mentally cycling through the track layout again and again. His phone was a blur of notifications — he didn’t need to open them to imagine the Tifosi celebrating his P6. His fall. His karma.

Alex sent a few check-ins and a ton of Leo videos. It helped, in its way — but it wasn’t Lorenzo. It wasn’t Arthur. The silence from his brothers gnawed at him. No teasing. No advice. No shared irritation. Nothing.

And the race itself…

Chaos.

Rain that came and went. Drizzle, then sheets of water at Turn 9. The track slick and volatile. Grip as unreliable as the weather.

Charles fought. Gaining positions in the wet was one thing — keeping them, another nightmare entirely. Every hard-won gain threatened to slip from his fingers with the rear end of the car, the RB21 skating over the wet line like it had its own agenda.

Crashes piled up. Rookies. Spaniards. Bins everywhere. At one point, three yellow flags in as many laps.

"We losing half the grid today or what?" Charles muttered to Rocky between ragged breaths under Safety Car. He would probably feel bad for doing so, so publicly.

"Looks like it." Rocky deadpanned. "You’re doing well, Charles. Keep going."

By the flag, he clawed his way back to P6. Max, rain-whisperer as always, managed P3.

Solid points. Good, for a debut. But not enough. Not for him.

And in the whirlwind of post-race chaos, with headlines already framing it as “Another Red Bull car only Max can tame” , it was hard not to let it get under his skin.

He wasn’t here to be sixth. God, he wasn't here to even be second. Not to Max. Not to anyone.

And that night, as rain ticked against the glass of his hotel window, Charles lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling — wrestling with the same impossible weight.

F1 STANDINGS · 16 MAR 2024
Position.	Driver.	Team.	Points.
# 1.	NOR	MCLAREN	25
# 2.	HAM	FERRARI	18
# 3.	VER	RED BULL	15
# 4.	RUS	MERCEDES	12
# 5.	ANT	MERCEDES	10
# 6.	LEC	RED BULL	8
# 7.	STR	ASTON MARTIN	6
# 8.	PIA	MCLAREN	4
# 9.	TSU	RACING BULLS	2
# 10.	ALB	WILLIAMS	1

Chapter Text

The flight from Melbourne to Shanghai had been long, and Max had spent most of it reviewing data — both his own and Charles’s.

It was strange, analyzing Charles’ numbers as his teammate. The data coming from the team itselt, doc branded with Red Bull logo - the same way he imagined Charles had his.

Charles had been quick — stupidly quick — in Melbourne, but he was still learning the car to be completely competitive on it. Max could see it in the way he wrestled with the steering, the micro-corrections mid-corner that cost him time. Sixth place was respectable for a debut, but Max knew better than anyone that Charles wouldn’t see it that way.

He’d caught glimpses of him in the paddock after the race — tense shoulders, that too-polite smile in interviews, the way he’d vanished early without his usual post-race debriefs with the press. Max had thought about seeking him out, but between his own obligations and Charles’s abrupt exit, the moment had slipped away.

Now, in Shanghai, they had free practice the next day, so Max hoped to get a feeling on how Charles was feeling, but the media day kept them busy earlier. So Max returned to the hotel the team was staying at, planning to shoot the guy a quick text and call it a night after grabbing dinner at the hotel restaurant.

That was when he saw him. Charles had been sitting with Andrea earlier, deep in conversation, but as Max finished a quick discussion with one of his engineers he met at the lobby and glanced over again, the other man was alone.

Max hesitated, despite himself.

Socializing with teammates during race week has always been tricky territory for him.

With Daniel, everything had come effortlessly — easy banter, shared meals when their schedules aligned, but they didn't really seek each other out, a camaraderie that balanced competition without tension. Checo, on the other hand, preferred to be left alone, retreating to his room to avoid unnecessary interactions. Max respected that. People needed different things.

But Charles?

Max wasn’t entirely sure where they stood.

They’d known each other for years, but their relationship had always been defined by rivalry. And now things were changing, Charles would seek him out between work on Milton Keynes, text and share stuff on WhatsApp…

The same easy they had been cultivating for the past years every time they shared a space, with just more forced proximity and shared subjects to debate on. 

And Max had never been good at navigating the unspoken rules of closeness.

He could command a team, banter with his mechanics, even entertain a camera when needed. But reading the unspoken expectations of people who mattered? That was still a work in progress. And yeah, they got some heart to heart in the pre season that Max wouldn’t even dream, or even expected himself to not hate. Still, pre season was one thing, race weekend was another completely different.

As he debated, Charles caught sight of him. Recognition sparked in his expression, and to Max’s surprise, he stood, a warm smile already spreading.

“Hey.” Charles called, raising a hand in greeting. “Didn’t know you were staying here.”

Max approached, clapping the offered hand. “Got in a few hours ago.” he said, running his other hand through his still-damp hair. “Just had time to shower before my stomach started protesting.”

Charles chuckled, nodding to the empty chair across from him. “Sit. Andrea just left to sleep after nagging me to order something ‘acceptable,’ so I’m on my own.”

Max grinned, sliding into the seat. “Anything good on the menu?”

“For me? Healthy soup, apparently.” Charles said, with a grimace. “Andrea wasn’t thrilled I ate at the airport.”

Max snorted, scanning the menu. “Rubert’s still on my case about weight, so… chicken it is.”

“You okay with eating here?” Charles asked, tone light but eyes sharp.

Max recognized the question for what it was—a check-in, an opening. He shrugged. “Yeah. You?”

Charles leaned back, fingers tapping idly against his glass. “Definitely. We can talk about racing.” he tilted his head, “Or not. Up to you.”

“Doesn’t matter to me.” Max said. “You?”

Charles exhaled, a grimace turning into small smile. “Eh, I don’t mind either way. I don’t particularly enjoy this track, so I'm trying to manage expectations.”

“Me neither.” Max agreed. “I’m hoping the straights help with this spaceship of a car.”

Charles let out a genuine laugh at that. “God, yes. That P6 still annoys me. Let’s hope we get a double podium soon, or Christian might fire me mid-season.”

Max hummed a laugh, glancing at Charles.

He should probably say something comforting. Maybe.

The thing was, Charles was still such a strange person to talk to, despite so long of knowing him. Cause what that even mean, if they only ever spoke about racing? Or the orbit around it—media, sponsors, team obligations. Where did that leave them?

Still, Max had learned more about Charles in the past month than in the twenty years before it. And if he were being honest — not that he ever would, not out loud—he liked it. He liked him. More than anyone else on the grid, talking to Charles was… easy. Familiar, even. There was a strange comfort in it.

That mattered. And Max didn’t let himself feel that way about many people.

“I don’t have any doubt it’s coming.” he said at last.

His tone was quieter now, steadier.

And in the next afternoon, Max stared at the Red Bull screen displaying the final qualifying results. P4—not ideal, but not disastrous either. Then his gaze flicked upward, landing on Charles’ name on top of his.

Fuck, if Max didn’t know what he was talking about.

Now it was time to get it back.

From the moment the lights went out, the car was alive under Max’s hands.

It still fought him, of course it did. Through the tight twists of Sector 2, the rear snapped unpredictably, demanding corrections mid-corner, but Max had spent the last year working with much worse. He adjusted, adapted, made it his.

And then, the straights. The Honda hybrid system roared to life, the acceleration slamming Max back into his seat as the RB21 devoured the asphalt. They were already on lap 45, pit stops done, it was all about managing the tires, getting the places and finish well.

Ahead, Charles was putting on a masterclass. On Max’s steering wheel display, the gap between them shrank, then stabilized. Then a flash of navy and yellow livery darting down the inside of Sainz’s Ferrari.

Charles’ move was perfect — late braking, inch-perfect placement, the Ferrari forced wide as Charles claimed the position with surgical precision.

It was a fucking nice move, Max recognize, grip tightening on the wheel.

Picking Carlos was easy after the man overheated his tires trying to defend against Charles.

He pushed harder. The McLarens were next — Norris and Piastri, cars driving defensively. Charles reached, feinting left before slingshotting past Norris on the back straight to claim P2. 

Charles defended like a man possessed, slamming the door shut every time Norris threatened, forcing the McLaren wide, daring him to try around the outside. The orange car was quick in the corners, but Charles was quicker where it counted — smarter on exits, ruthless on the brakes. Curve after curve, Norris tried, but Charles held firm.

Max watched it unfold, adrenaline pumping in waves. 

God, this is what he lived for. Racing at this level. Not politics. Not sponsor events. This.

And fuck, Charles was flying.

Max could see the way Charles placed the car, the way he risked it all on corner entries, the precision in every line. And Max wanted in. He wanted to fight him, properly. No DRS trains, no traffic — just them. Show the team and the world they were the top team.

When Charles finally shook Norris off and built a small gap, it was Max’s turn. The tires in the sweet spot, fuel load light. He stalked Norris for half a lap, waiting for the smallest slip — and there it was, a fraction too deep into Turn 10.

Max pounced.

Late braking. Inside line. No time for Lando to shut the door. The McLaren twitched under braking, and Max was already through, carving a perfect arc into the apex. Clean, clinical, brutal. 

Now it was Charles.

Max could hear his heartbeat in his helmet, the excited rasp of his own breath. The RB21 felt electric beneath him, weightless almost, and his world narrowed to the car ahead.

Let’s go, mate. Show me.

He closed the gap, corner after corner, two relentless, stubborn racers on the edge. Charles fought tooth and nail, defending like it was the last lap of his life — squeezing Max toward the grass, covering every inside, every switchback.

Wasn’t for the G force and the need to focus completely, Max would be trully laughing here.

This is it. This is what it’s supposed to feel like.

Lap 52. Max finally got the overlap down the straight, DRS open, tires screaming. Charles edged him to the very limit of the track, but it wasn’t enough. Max dove down the inside into Turn 1, braking impossibly late, RB21 barely clinging to the tarmac.

Wheel to wheel.

For a second, it looked like Charles might hold it — biting back into Turn 3, but Max had the line, the grip, the momentum.

He was through.

Now, only Piastri remained, but the Aussie was too far ahead, the gap too much this late in the race.

Final laps ticked by.

Piastri crossed the line P1. Max followed in P2. Charles, battered and brilliant, in P3.

As they rolled through the cooldown lap, Max’s heart still hammered in his chest, mind replaying every corner, every brake point. His gloves were damp, his muscles aching, but God, he felt good.

The champagne stung his eyes, but Charles didn’t care.

P3 wasn’t victory. It wasn’t even P2. But as the crowd’s roar vibrated through his chest and Max’s laughter cut through the haze of carbon fiber and spilled bubbly, Charles couldn’t stop the grin splitting his face.

This.

This was what he’d craved—real competition, not just against the field, but to win against himself.

The RB21 had fought him all race, its rear snapping like a live wire, but he’d wrung its neck anyway. He’d held off Norris, traded blows with Max, pushed until his vision blurred at the edges. And when Max had finally squeezed past—god, it had been exhilarating no matter what.

Because it was progress! Tangible, real, undeniable, progress.

Now, drenched and breathless, Charles watched as Max hoisted his champagne like a trophy, his usual intensity softened into something bright, almost boyish. Their eyes met—a flash of understanding—before they turned as one, showering Oscar in a tidal wave of navy and gold.

Oscar yelped, laughing as he ducked, but Charles barely registered it. Max was still looking at him, bottle raised, that challenge glinting in his eyes.

“First of many?”

Charles clinked his bottle against Max’s, the ring of glass lost in the noise. The champagne was sticky on his skin, the podium hot under the lights, but none of it mattered.

“First of many.” he agreed.

It was the morning after the Shanghai Grand Prix, and Red Bull’s media commitments were finally starting to wind down. The last photoshoot had wrapped maybe fifteen minutes ago, and they were both running on dangerously low sleep and last night hangover.

So, way past the point of trying to be photogenic.

Max had zoned out completely, still half-dressed in whatever the stylist shoved at him, counting down seconds to be let go.

“Let’s go shopping.” Charles said out of nowhere. 

Max didn’t even turn his eyes away from where the phoshoot director was still talking, and Max still not listening. “In what world do I look like someone who willingly goes shopping?”

“Exactly.” Charles countered, quietly, to not call attention to their lack of attention to the debrief happening. “You said you wanted to do more different things.”

“And shopping is where you go with that?” Max turned to glare at him.

“I just want to get out.” Charles replied with a shrug, but there was some restless energy on the way he fidgeted with a bracelet. “If we go to a mall, we can… see stuff.”

“Wow.” Max deadpanned, “a mall. So adventurous. Nothing screams culture like escalators and air conditioning.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “Then let’s go somewhere culturally relevant.” he fired back, voice low but with a bite to it. 

“On the weekend of a Formula 1 Grand Prix? In the city ? We’ll get recognized in five seconds.”

“Max Emilian, I’m trying trying here.” Charles… well, pouted, dragging out the words like a petulant kid.

Max sighed, because — well, honestly, why was Charles even asking ? “Why me, anyway?”

Charles blinked at him. “Because we’re bored?”

Max hesitated. Part of him — that stubborn part that came from years being forbidden to play with the other kids, with Charles specifically — was still always a little surprised when Charles actually wanted to spend time with him, without cameras, without a reason.

He must have been taking too long. Charles groaned and grabbed his shoulder, shaking him in that same annoying way Max had seen him do to Andrea a hundred times.

“Come ooooon.” Charles dragged out and Max could see a bunch of supposdely important people looking in their direaction.

“Okay, okay!” Max gave in, rolling his eyes. “But I’m not actually shopping.”

“Awesome.” Charles grinned, already pulling out his phone. “I’ll tell Sarah.”

They ended up at a narrow, crowded maze of open markets and tiny shops tucked into a cluster of old alleys — not a traditional mall, but better, with sleek storefronts of high-end brands glow beside vibrant stalls selling handmade crafts, bubble tea, and sizzling street food. A translator and a Red Bull-assigned bodyguard trailed a polite distance behind as the two drivers strolled beneath led shop signs reflected in puddles.

It was… nice. Max hated to admit it, but it was better than sitting alone in a hotel room.

Charles darted from stall to stall, ignoring the high end brands entirely in favor of the weirdest trinkets. In forty minutes, he’d bought nothing but cheap jewelry, a knockoff watch he insisted "come on is ironic, we just shoot for the real thing" and a carved wooden frog he claimed Andrea would like.

People did recognize them now and then — snapping pictures, shyly approaching for autographs — but it was mostly quick, easy. Charles handled it like breathing, pulling Max along when he slowed, waving off attention like it was nothing.

So yeah, Max was having fun, he even got some shit for himself, his cats and that half empty apartment of his.

A toy stall caught Max’s eye — a bin full of bizarre-looking plushies, their faces permanently stuck in confused, slightly terrifying expressions. 

He picked one up, inspecting it. It was the type of useless, ugly thing he would’ve brought home months ago as a trinket for P. He was about to put it back when Charles appeared beside him.

“Oh, I like those.” Charles said.

“Hm?”

“They’re quite popular. You hang them on your bag.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re cute.”

“They’re ugly.” Max snorted.

“That’s the point.” Charles laughed.

Max looked at them, their little creepy faces reminding him of one of his minor childhood traumas. “They just look like Gen Z gremlins.”

Charles hid a laugh behind his hand, before pulling it away and gesturing, “First of all, nothing wrong with that, gremlins are cute…”

“The hell they were!” Max turned toward him, scandalized. 

“Second of all.” Charles continues, ignoring him, “We are Gen Z, Max, so get off your high horse.”

“No, we are not.”

“Yes, we are. 1997 is the threshold.” Charles said, already anticipating the protest. “So we are like, the oldest possible Gen Z out there. But still — there.”

“You seem to have had this conversation before.” Max points out.

Charles’s shoulders dropped a bit, and his hand drifted to rest idly against the edge of the display, fingers tapping a soft rhythm against a box of keychains. His expression shifted — not quite fond, not quite annoyed, but something in between.

“Arthur is…  completely annoying about it.” Charles says, growing quietly as he speaks, studying the display instead.

Max hums, watching the other check at the boxes.

“Pick one then.” Max says.

“What?”

“You said they’re cute. You’ve got a bag.” Max said, gesturing to the leather messenger slung over Charles’ shoulder, or whatever it was, he wasn’t really up on bag classifications.

Charles looked at him, puzzled, then shrugged and grabbed one.

He went to tap his phone against the reader, but Max pushed his hand down and handed over his own card instead.

Charles blinked up at him.

“I told you to pick one.” Max shrugged.

He feels a little stupid doing it — but whatever, it was thirty bucks and he wanted to buy the stupid thing. He missed gifting stuff and Victoria refused to let Max buy stuff for his niblings outside special occasions.

Charles smiled as the vendor handed him the tiny box. 

“Which color did you pick?” Max asks.

“It’s a blind box. Can’t choose.” Charles explained, turning it over in his hands like a kid. Max pulled him aside, making room for people to pass. “I hope it’s the blue.” Charles grinned, showing the little chart on the back of the box.

He ripped it open, handing Max bits of paper and plastic to hold.

“Oh, that is perfect.” Charles laughed, holding up the small beige plush. “His face is orange, I'm gonna name him Max.” Charles attached the keychain to his bag, grinning like an idiot, before continuing down the street. 

Max watched him go, the little gremlin thing dangling from his bag now, its face twisted in some mischievous expression like it had done unspeakable things.

God, the dude was weird.

Max huffed a quiet laugh, falling into step beside him.

Charles was again buried in his phone, scrolling between the GPS app and a text from Alex about some restaurant he and Lily swore was a must-visit. 

Max was just following along, waiting the moment Charles would realize he was failing miserably into finding it by himself, when he noticed something.

He laughed to himself and prepared his phone, opening the camera app and hiting record.

“Charles.” Max said casually, getting a distracted hum back, “Hey, Charlie.”

“What?” Charles glanced up, and just as he did, Max kept recording laughing. “What is it?” Charles asked, frowning.

Max gestured up.

Charles followed the motion and visibly flinched. “Oh, shit.”

Above them, plastered across the side of a building, was a massive backlit poster of Charles himself, posing for jewelry in front of Monaco sea, half-obscured by rain streaks.

Max kept laughing, and stopped recording. “Come on. Pose.” 

“No fucking way.”

“Charles, come on.” Max insisted.

“Why?”

“Because it’s funny. You’re in China and there’s a giant-ass photo of you.”

“The brand is quite liked here, okay?” Charles says defensively.

“Charlie.”

“Ugh… fine.” Charles glanced around awkwardly, suddenly weirdly shy for someone who spent his life with his face on billboards. He did a half-assed smile and thumbs up.

Max took the picture. “I’m gonna post this.”

“No, wait, what? Max! ” Charles lunged for his phone, but Max laughed, dodging easily. “Do you even know your own Instagram password?” Charles grumbled.

Max paused. That was actually a fair point. “I’ll just send it to the media team, then.”

Charles steps back, a thoughtful expression in his face before he smiles. “You do that, Verstappen, and war is on.” He warns.

Max grinned, tucking his phone into his pocket before Charles could swipe it. “We probably should follow each other for that.” he said, too casual to be casual.

Charles raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Sure. You first.”

Max just hummed, he wasn’t’ folding first at that. Not even Red Bull social media team desperate pleas had worked, three months in of them in the same team and they still didn’t do that.

Instead he pivoted in the direction of their translator, not missing a beat. “Let’s just ask the lady for that restaurant.”

[Instagram - Image Description: Photo 1. Close-up of Max in the cockpit, helmet visor up, eyes locked ahead as he adjusts his gloves; 

Photo 2. Max leaning against a Red Bull garage table, arms crossed, smirking at the camera, personal moving around him; 

Photo 3: The podium, Oscar in middle of Charles and Max; 

Photo 4. Another podium photo, Charles and Max drenchet in champagne posing together, Max’s arm around Charles’ waist, their bottles touching; 

Photo 5. A plaque with MAX P2 and CHARLES P3, the drivers at each side while the Red Bull team cheers; 

Photo 6. Charles looking put upon by having his picture taken, a hoodie above his head, posing in front of a giant APM ad featuring his own face, a Loewe leather bag on his shoulder with a Labubu charm on it.]

@maxverstappen 

Shangai weekend! @redbullracing

[Instagram - Image Description: Photo 1: A low-angle shot of Charles Leclerc standing beside his RB21 in the pit lane, helmet tucked under his arm, staring down the straight.

Photo 2: A head-on, low-track-level shot of Charles’ RB21 storming down the main straight. The halo and front wing sharp in focus while the background smears into streaks of wet asphalt and grey sky.

Photo 3: Candid shot of Charles in the Red Bull garage, sitting on a stack of tires, headset half-off, smiling as Rocky leans over to explain something on a tablet.

Photo 4: A trophy-side table shot: Charles’ Red Bull cap tossed next to his trophy, champagne stains on the tabletop.

Photo 5. A plaque with MAX P2 and CHARLES P3, the drivers kneeling at each side of it while the Red Bull team cheers, water spraying high.

Photo 6: Closed up photos of Charles on the podium, champagne bottle in hand.

Photo 7. Max mid-chew, eyes narrowed, struggling to wrangle a pair of chopsticks around a dumpling, a few stray noodles on the table.]

@charlesleclerc

First podium of the season! Amazing work, team! Let’s keep going!

F1 STANDINGS · 23 MAR 2025
Position.	Driver.	Team.	Points.
# 1.	NOR	MCLAREN	37
# 2.	VER	RED BULL	33
# 3.	PIA	MCLAREN	29
# 4.	LEC	RED BULL	23
# 5.	HAM	FERRARI	22
# 6.	RUS	MERCEDES	18
# 7.	ANT	MERCEDES	12
# 8.	SAI	FERRARI	8
# 9.	STR	ASTON MARTIN	6
# 10.	TSU	RACING BULLS	3
# 11.	ALB	WILLIAMS	1
# 12.	...

Max found him in the hotel restaurant again the night before Suzuka’s free practice. The Monegasque driver sat alone, fiddling with his phone in a way that made it clear he wasn’t truly engaged with whatever was on the screen.

Suzuka was hard.

The track itself didn’t give drivers much room to breathe—its sharp curves and high-speed straights left no space for error.
Every year, Charles faced this place, postponing the realization of the dream they’d once shared—a dream Jules had passed on to him. Usually, his brothers were here. They’d have dinner, reminisce, say a prayer for Jules. But this year, they weren’t. Neither of them was even in the same country.

And so Charles sat, alone, sipping on virgin cocktails and swallowing back the tears threatening to escape.

That’s how Max found him.

“I think we might be turning this into a tradition.” Max joked lightly, stopping at Charles’ side.

Charles tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace. Max must’ve noticed, because his expression shifted, a flicker of concern softening his sharp features. “I can go sit somewhere else.” he offered, not unkindly.

“No, no!” Charles protested quickly, pulling out the chair beside him. “I just…” He trailed off, grasping for an excuse but coming up empty.

“Is it the car?” Max asked, his voice quieter than Charles had expected, but still direct in that uniquely Max way.

“No.” Charles said, shaking his head. The pause that followed was tense, and then, finally, he admitted, “I just hate racing here.”

Max blinked, his eyes widening as realization dawned. His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out.

Of course. Max remembered the news. He’d been not much more than kid, but he remembered how everything went quiet for a while. And he remembered Jules. Not as a headline. As the calm, soft-spoken man who used to ruffle Charles' hair after karting heats and compliment Max driving.

It was strange—almost surreal—how kind the man had been. Not just with Charles, but with everyone. That wasn’t how things worked in Max’s world. In his world, most adults were transactional. They praised success, ignored failure, expected more always. Jules had been different. Gentle.

Max had been a bit jealous, back then. He didn't know what it was called at the time.

“I’m sorry. You don’t have to say anything.” Charles said quickly, his voice steadying. “I guess the whole team change is making it harder to be here, but I’m fine.” He said. Lied.

“What do you usually do?” Max asked after a beat.

Wasn’t that the question? Charles thought for a moment before answering, his voice low.

“I usually have dinner with my brothers, by call if needed. We’d talk about him.”

“What about your brothers?” Max asked. He’d heard mention of some family tensions before, but it wasn’t a topic they’d ever delved into.

Charles sighed, his fingers tracing the edge of his glass.
“Let’s just say I’ve never been the biggest Tifosi in my family.”

“They don’t like the team change?”

“They don’t even accept it. They took it personally and…” Charles stopped himself, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters enough to have you sitting here crying alone before a race at the place that killed your godfather.” Max said, blunt as ever.

Charles looked at him. The bluntness of the words, with whatever limited closeness they’d been growing, could probably offend someone else.

Instead, yet again Max was just putting out the words Charles was too controlled to do so. It was reassuring.

It stroked a part of him that was angry. 

Angry at his brothers. Angry at Ferrari. Angry at himself.

The part of him that wanted to yell that he got where he was by merit, that he had earned the right to make choices. That he wasn’t betraying Jules’ memory by chasing his dream in a different uniform.

That this was the only way to fulfill it.

He couldn’t stop thinking Jules would understand if he were here. That he would hear him out, at least.

“I miss him.” Charles admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’ll be ten years in a few months, and… I hate this place, I hate racing here.”

Max hesitated, then offered, “I’m not your brothers, but… you could talk to me, if you feel like it.”

Charles tilted his head, surprised.

“I remember him from when we were kids. He used to be your mechanic, right?” Max half-joked, and Charles laughed. “He was… so calm. He would congratulate me when I won.”

Max remembered. The rare warmth in Jules’ smile. The way he spoke to Charles after bad days like nothing had shattered. He may not been able to understand french, but he could see the tone, the way Charles would nod attently, like losing was just part of the learning.

Nobody had ever told Max that growing up.

A small, sad smile tugged at Charles’s lips. 

“He was like that. You know, when I was little, he’d let me win at karting sometimes. Pretend like he made a mistake, spin out. I’d be so smug about it.” He laughed softly, eyes distant. “When I got too angry after losing, he would sit me down and explain what I did wrong, and what you or Albon did right. He just… always pulled me down to Earth.”

Max stayed silent, letting him speak.

“I’m putting his picture on my helmet tomorrow.” Charles went on, his fingers absently tracing the condensation on his glass.

Max hummed, his agreement quiet but firm. “What does it look like?”

“It’s a replica of a style he liked. In all white, with his number and his name on the side, just like his helmet.” Charles paused. “I miss his face sometimes.”

Max reached out awkwardly, his hand settling on Charles’ shoulder.

“It hurts worse since I left Ferrari.” Charles admitted. “It was his dream too. And it feels like I gave up another part of him.”

“Charles…” Max started, not knowing what to say.

“He was the project, not me.” Charles said, letting the silence settle for a moment. “I just inherited it.”

There were days he could pretend Ferrari hadn’t broken something in him—days where the Red Bull garage felt like a clean slate. But Suzuka brought it all back.

Jules had wanted him in red. Had told him, as a child, he’d get there.

And he had.

And somehow, Charles still wasn’t sure he’d deserved it.

He had always tried to earn it. Every point, every podium, every drop of performance. But deep down, he’d never stopped hearing the voices that told him he only got there because Jules had paved the road. That if he hadn’t died, Charles wouldn’t have made it to F2, let alone F1.

“You deserved that seat.” Max said. “You deserved more than it.”

Charles just shook his head, rubbing his eyes. “I just wish I could’ve raced him once.” he said instead, his voice cracking slightly. “You know?”

Max leaned back slightly in his chair, his eyes scanning Charles’ face, assessing.

He wasn’t good at this. Not comfort, not softness. But Charles didn’t seem to mind.

So Max did what he always did: defaulted.

“You know, Suzuka isn’t that different from Monaco.”

Charles raised a brow, the heaviness in his expression softening just enough to let curiosity through. “If you’re about to call Monaco boring…”

“It is, but,” Max interrupted, cutting off whatever defense Charles was about to make, “it’s about pole position and pit stop strategy. And those are things Red Bull can give us.”

Charles watched him. 

“I’m still learning the car. And McLaren’s still faster.”

“But we’re better.” Max insisted. “Lando and Oscar are good. But you’re the better qualifier.”

Charles stared at him, the words settling like dust over the ache.

Max exhaled, forcing the words out. “You don’t need a red car to make him proud.”

The engine’s rumble thrummed through his chest, but Charles barely felt it.

He rested both hands on the halo, eyes closed, head bowed. It wasn’t a long prayer—just a moment, barely a breath, for Jules. For the boyy who dreamed of a seat, in this very sport and handed the dream down to him like a legacy. For the man made possible for Charles continue his dream. 

Be with me today. Just this one. He let go of the halo. The lights blinked red overhead.

Pole position.

Suzuka spread before him like a ribboned blade—merciless curves, sudden drops, speed so violent it blurred the edges of vision. But Charles wasn’t afraid. Not today.

Rocky’s voice crackled in his ear. “Okay Charles, let’s bring it home. You know what you have. You know who’s behind.”

He did. Max.

In his mirrors, Verstappen’s car shimmered like a threat. A Red Bull twin, but driven with the sharp, relentless force Max had perfected over the years. Aggression was Max’s love language on track. He attacked gaps that didn’t exist, dared others to blink first.

Charles had blinked before. He wouldn’t today.

Jules once told him how Max raced—back when they were still kids, back when Charles would get furious watching Max divebomb into corners like he had a death wish. Jules had leaned on the karting fence, arms folded, voice calm.

"He pushes until you yield. You don't have to yield. Stay close. Make him show his hands. You dance with him—don't fight. Dance."

The lights went out.

Charles launched off the line clean, the car humming like it wanted this as badly as he did. Behind, Max was already there—barely a heartbeat behind. They barreled into Turn 1 side-by-side, Max nosing up the inside with a hungry lunge.

Charles didn’t yield.

He turned in with precision, holding his ground even as Max’s tire nearly kissed his sidepod. No contact. Barely. He held the line, exited clean. Max didn’t fall back.

They danced.

Sector after sector, Charles placed the car exactly where Max didn’t want it—tight into the Degners, wide on the hairpin exit to kill momentum, defensive but fluid. Max’s aggression was like thunder; Charles responded with lightning.

Lap after lap blurred together. Rocky’s voice anchored him.

“We’re faster in clean air. If he gets DRS, we’re still safe into Spoon.”

They’d planned for this. Two-stop strategy.

Medium–medium–soft. Max had mirrored it, of course. Red Bull left nothing to chance, and Max never accepted a slower plan. So Charles changed the tempo instead.

He slowed in places Max expected him to fly, then punched the throttle early where Max set up to dive. Forced the overtake to come in a zone Max hated, outside into 130R. Not even Max could justify a move there.

And still, he tried.

Charles saw the shadow move. Max angled in just a hair too wide. Jules’ voice echoed in his memory.

"Let him show you the move. Then shut the door, gentle. Make him doubt it next time."

He did. Charles lifted half a beat early, tricked Max into taking the outside, then edged him onto the curb. Still clean. Still legal.

Max swore into the radio.

Charles smiled.

They came in for the second stop—clean, fast, perfect. Rocky was calm.

“You’re still leading. He’s pushing hard, gap’s under one.”

He knew. He could feel the pressure like a phantom hand on his neck, but the final stint was softs. And Charles had saved his best for now.

The tires gripped like claws through the esses. Charles threaded the car between apexes with surgical control, using every centimeter, every twitch of the wheel Jules had taught him to trust. The final laps were a storm of precision, Max looming large behind him, trying everything—feints, braking late, crowding lines.

Charles danced.

When the checkered flag waved, the Red Bull pit wall erupted in cheers, but Charles barely heard it over the static of his heartbeat. Max crossed just behind, no more than half a second back.

He exhaled.

Rocky was in his ear, laughing. “That was it. That was everything.”

Charles smiled, slow and exhausted, looking up at the sky above Suzuka. The pain hadn’t gone. The ache for Jules, the anger at his brothers, the doubts—none of it had vanished.

But he had raced like himself.

[Sky Sports F1 Coverage - Live: Footage fades in from the final seconds of the race. Charles Leclerc brings the car to a halt on the main straight. The Suzuka grandstands are a sea of red and blue, flags waving, the crowd on its feet.]

CROFTY (voice over):  "Listen to that crowd. You can feel it, can’t you? This isn’t just another victory—it’s the moment. Charles Leclerc wins at Suzuka… for the very first time in his career, in his 150th Grand Prix start, and it’s his first win in Red Bull colours. What a story."

SIMON:  "It’s monumental, Crofty. For Charles, this circuit has always carried a shadow. Jules Bianchi’s memory is woven into every corner of this track for each driver."

Cut to Charles standing on the car, arms raised, helmet lifted high for the cameras. On the back, a tribute photo of Jules Bianchi is visible.

CROFTY: "There he is. That helmet says it all. Jules, his sport race godfather, childhood friend. One of the biggest and most recent losses of the sport. That’s not celebration. That’s tribute."

Charles carefully climbs down, places the steering wheel back in, then walks toward the barriers, where Red Bull, including Max stand.

Max offers a hand. Charles claps it and Max pulls him into a hug.

SIMON: "And this… this is special. These two have known each other since they were kids. Karting rivals. Formula 1. And now, teammates. 

Max is seems saying something and Charles visibly starts crying in Max’s arms.

CROFTY (voice quieter): "That is the image. Two rivals, and look at that. Max offering more than just congratulations. He knows what this means. You can see it in his face."

Max holds him, saying something with a smile and Charles laughs, pulling away. Max slaps his shoulder and pulls him in back again before they walk off toward their team together.

SIMON: "That’s what sport is about. That’s what Formula 1 is about. Legacy. Rivalry. Respect. And emotion that cuts through the noise."

Footage cuts to Charles and Max leaping the barrier together into the waiting arms of their Red Bull crew. The crowd continues to roar.]

[Instagram - Image Description: Charles stepping on the car his helmet high, Jules’s image on full display. The crowd is blurred in the background, a smile streachs despite the raw emotions.]

@charles_leclerc

"Forever grateful. For the car, the team, the lessons, and for him. Merci, Jules. This one’s for you. #1 for Jules #Suzuka2025"

The party at Suzuka was everything one would expect from a Red Bull celebration - loud, alcoholic, and brimming with energy. The private lounge glimmered with a mix of neon lights and sleek, understated decor, ensuring it felt exclusive but not over the top. Half of the grid was there, along with team members, engineers, and a smattering of familiar faces. It was a night to revel in success, and Charles’ victory was the crown jewel of the evening.

Charles was standing near the bar, a half-empty drink in hand, when Pierre made his way over. His grin was wide, the sort of expression that immediately set Charles at ease.

“Well, well, look at you.” Pierre teased, nudging him lightly. “Keeping those Honda fans out there happy, huh?”

Charles laughed, his shoulders relaxing for the first time all evening. “Took me long enough. You know, no pressure or anything. Just the need to prove myself to my new employees.”

“Right.” Pierre said, raising his drink in mock solemnity. “No pressure at all. You just casually pulled off one of the cleanest wins of your career. And breaking Max’s streak, no less.”

The two shared a laugh and a side hug, but as the noise of the party swelled around them, Pierre’s expression shifted, the humor dimming slightly. He helf his shoulder so a moment, his tone quieter. “Jules would’ve been proud, you know.”

Charles froze for a moment, the mention of his godfather cutting through the haze of champagne and adrenaline. He swallowed, then nodded, his voice steady but soft. “Yeah… I thought about him a lot today.” Pierre simply, nodded, knowing. Charles looked at his friend, a lump forming in his throat. “Thanks, Pierre.”

For a few moments, they stood in companionable silence, letting the roar of the party fade into the background. Then Pierre leaned in slightly, his voice dropping further.

“You know… I gotta say, kinda weird you didn’t tell me about Red Bull. Not a text, not a ‘hey, I might be leaving Ferrari,’ nothing.”

Charles stiffened imperceptibly, his fingers tightening around his glass. He glanced away, his gaze sweeping over the crowded room. 

Well, that was a long time coming talk.

“There wasn’t much to talk about. It was just… the right time.”

Pierre raised an eyebrow, his skepticism unspoken but palpable. “The right time.” He took a sip of his drink, then tilted his head. “You really wanna deal with Helmut though?”

Charles grimaced with a dry laugh. “Helmut kinda likes me.”

Pierre made a face. “I’m not surprised. You’d be able to manipulate Putin into liking you. It’s honestly terrifying.”

Charles snorted, shaking his head. “It’s not like that.”

“Uh-huh.” Pierre leaned back with a grin.

Charles forced a smile, raising his glass in mock cheer. “Come on, let’s have fun and enjoy the party. You owe me a dance after this.”

Pierre laughed, the tension dissolving. “You wish.”

Charles excused himself quietly, leaving Yuki and Pierre mid-story, their laughter chasing him down the corridor. The lights in the hallway were dimmer here, the bass of the party pulsing faintly through the walls, but it all felt a world away. He needed a moment to breathe, to cool the mix of champagne and adrenaline still buzzing in his blood.

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair as he pushed open the door, a little too tipsy, far too tired.

He turned the corner, heading toward the bathroom—eyes slightly unfocused, mind on nothing in particular—until movement in the alcove just beside the door pulled him back to the present.

Then he froze.

The scene before him was not what he expected.

Max was there — which wasn't surprising, it was a Red Bull party about their 2 podium earning drivers, of course Max was at attendance, they had seen each other before.

But it wasn’t Max' presence that was surprising in this, but how. For one, he wasn’t wearing a team shirt, which alone was shocking enough. 

And then there was the person with him.

Max had one hand pressed firmly against the wall, the other resting casually at the waist of his companion. He was smirking, his lips curved in that self-assured way he often wore on the grid–but now, it was different. Intimate. Personal. The kind of look Charles had never saw on the man.

Charles blinked, his gaze shifting to the person Max was practically pinning against the wall. They were shorter than Max, noticeably so, with dark, fluffy hair. Asian, Charles noted absently, his brain lagging as it worked to process what he was seeing.

Max was about to kiss him.

Charles felt his stomach flip. He blinked again, harder this time, as if he’d walked into some alternate universe. Max. Kissing a guy.

Oh. That was new.

Charles shook himself, forcing his legs to move before he stood there too long and made it even more awkward. As he stepped past them, the pair shifted slightly, and Charles caught a better look at the guy — pretty, with a sharp jawline and an easy confidence in the way he leaned into Max’s space.

He caught a snippet of Max’s low voice, murmured words Charles couldn’t make out, but that were clearly meant for no one else. 

Charles felt his face and neck warm.

He moved, focusing straight ahead, determined to pretend he’d seen nothing. He pulled open the bathroom door and slipped inside, the cool air hitting him all at once. He didn’t look at the mirror. Just stood at the sink and washed his hands, fingers trembling slightly beneath the stream of water.

He washed his hands quickly, the running water masking the faint murmur of conversation behind him. By the time he left back to the corridor, Max was standing casually now, his companion adjusting his shirt. They looked... normal. Like nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.

Charles swallowed hard and left it behind, stepping back into the buzz of the party. His mind raced as he walked, the scene replaying in his head.

Yeah, that was definitely new.

F1 STANDINGS · 06 APR 2025
Position.	Driver.	Team.	Points.
# 1.	VER	RED BULL	51
# 2.	NOR	MCLAREN	49
# 3.	LEC	RED BULL	48
# 4.	PIA	MCLAREN	37
# 5.	HAM	FERRARI	26
# 6.	RUS	MERCEDES	24
# 7.	SAI	FERRARI	18
# 8.	ANT	MERCEDES	14
# 9.	STR	ASTON MARTIN	12
# 10.	TSU	RACING BULLS	5
# 11.	ALB	WILLIAMS	2
# 12.	...

Chapter Text

Back in Monaco, Max managed to convince Rupert that a padel match would suffice for the day’s cardio. He texted Lando to see if he was around and up for a game, but the Brit replied he wasn’t in the city. Resigned, Max figured he’d be stuck playing against his trainer, when he caught sight of someone already on the court. 

Charles was mid-game with Andrea. 

Charles didn’t usually join in on padel games with the other drivers. He often spent his time with his family and local friends when in Monaco. 

Curious, Max wandered over to the court, leaning against the fence and watching the match. Charles was laughing, in that boyish angry behaviour when he missed the ball, pointing at his trainer and yelling something in italian. Max huffed a laugh, ignoring what Rupert was saying besides him.

Andrea noticed him first and gestured for a pause, making Charles turned, his gaze sweeping over the court before landing on Max. For a brief moment, his expression seemed disappointed, but then recognition lit his face, followed by a warm smile.

"Max." Charles greeted, jogging to them, his voice carrying that melodic accent of his. "Hey, how are you?"

Max the handclap. "I’m good, mate.” 

“Are you finishing up?", Rupert asked, shaking Charles’ hand.

Charles shook his head. "We barely started. Want in?"

Max nodded, pleased at the invitation. "Us versus you two?" Max suggested, motioning to Charles and Andrea.

Charles agreed with a grin, meeting Max in the center for a quick greeting before they separated to their respective sides of the court.

There was something refreshing about playing with the other drivers, to feel that familiar competition in a different setting. And Charles had a knack for making things fun. This season just felt… lighter, in a sense. Checo was a great teammate, but their attempts to create content never really clicked. They both went through the motions, but neither truly cared.

Charles went all-out in everything, from racing to a botherline terrifying UNO experience, and that silly, sincere, intensity pulled Max in every. single. time. He turned boring PR events and interviews into easy, natural chit chat. It was almost scary how Charles could get Max to drop his guard, like peeling off armor he didn’t even know he was wearing.

He chalked it up to some sense of missed opportunities, the kind where that amount of forced proximity could have turned them into close friends if not for the rivalry.

The game began, and Max quickly realizes Charles was better at padel than him — not that he’d admit it. Max and Rupert lost the first two sets, but Charles’s laughter and good-natured ribbing kept the atmosphere light. Max found himself smiling where he would normally start getting frustrated and annoyed. 

Determined to even the score, Max called for another game.

Rupert chuckled, sipping from his water bottle. "Maybe you two should team up." he suggested, his tone full with amusement.

"And play against the two trainers?" Max countered, not liking the odds.

Andrea laughed again. "You two are the high-performance athletes, no?" he joked, accent thick.

Charles and Max exchanged a glance, instantly picking up on the teasing.

"I don’t like his tone." Max said, raising an eyebrow at Charles.

"Not one bit." Charles agreed, that familiar competitive fire lighting up his features.

They joined forces, stepping onto the court with renewed effort. The game that followed was much faster paced and intense, both drivers pushing themselves harder than necessary for what was essentially a friendly match. 

Yelling echoeing off, balls flying, and Rupert barely dodged one straight to his face when Charles swung with too much enthusiasm.

Despite never playing together before, they easily found a rhythm together. Twenty years of studying each other's every move on track translated perfectly to the court. They won the match, sealed with a triumphant cheer that echoed across the court. Max and Charles celebrated with exaggerated fist pumps and laughter, their excitement almost childlike.

"You’re happier about this than a Grand Prix win." Rupert teased, shaking his head.

Andrea let out a whistle, chiming in with a grin. "You did play well. Always covering for each other."

Max glanced at Charles, who met his gaze with his awkward wink. "Guess we’re finally getting the hang of it." Charles said, his tone light but with an undercurrent of sincerity.

The trainers had won the third game, clinching the best-of-three match after a tiebreaker. It had been fun, even if Charles had spent the last few minutes sulking dramatically after missing a critical defense.

“Unbelievable.” he whined, turning to Max with a pout. “That wasn’t even a hard out.”

Max, sitting on the edge of the court with his bottle of water, just laughed. Charles’ indignation was always entertaining, especially considering how dumb the game had been.

“You’ll survive.” Max said dryly, stretching out his legs.

Charles huffed, flopping onto the bench next to him, letting his head drop back. The two sat in companionable silence while their trainers got lost in a heated, jargon-heavy debate about fitness techniques, Charles tried to keep up for a minute before giving up.

“I still think they counted it wrong.” Charles grumbled.

Max smirked. “I totally agree, mate.” He leaned back, making a show of relaxing, arms folded behind his head. “So, how’s it going?”

The question was casual, mostly to fill the silence, but Charles hesitated before answering. “I invited my brothers over.” he admitted. “As you can see, they didn’t come.”

“They still being assholes about it?”

Charles exhaled a short, dry laugh. “I mean… they congratulated me on Suzuka. We texted a little, but then they stopped answering me.”

“My sister would be yelling instead of giving me the silent treatment. I don’t know which is worse.” Max mused, Charles could feel him watching the side of his face. “I don’t think they are the only ones hung up on Ferrari, though.”

Charles frowned, looking down at the man. Max nods pointedly to where Charles was toying with the 'Forza Ferrari' bracelet he definitely shouldn’t be wearing in public, twisting it around around his wrist.

He froze for a second, noticing it for the first time, then sighed, pulling off and putting it in shorts pocket. “A fan gave it to me a long time ago. I used to wear it all the time… guess I picked for emotional support when my brother said they wouldn’t come.” he joked, feeling a sad smile stretch in his face.

Max hummed, his knee nudging Charles’ in that inept way of showing support of his. Charles chuckled, a tense sound, before he nudged Max’s knee back. “How are you, then?”

“There’s not much happening, to be honest.” Max shrugged.

Charles hummed, looking away. Without meaning to, he remembered the last time he saw Max and looked away, the memory making him feel confused, again hitting too close home.

“What?” Max pressed, noticing his silence.

Charles hesitated, caught between asking or staying in the dark with that knowledge.

“Did you… have fun at the party Sunday?” he asked, voice careful, measured. Max blinked, thrown off by the question. Charles pondered how to continue for a moment. “I saw you with that guy.” Charles clarified, trying to go for natural and hitting embarrasse.

Max visibly froze, eyes widening. “Oh.” He said, simply.

Charles winced. “Sorry for bringing it up.” he continues quickly, gesturing. “It just, hm, felt wrong to know and not tell you that I do. When I don’t know how open you are about this.”

Max scratched the back of his neck, “Well, yeah. That’s something.”

Charles nodded, his nervous smile almost a grimace. He didn’t know if he should let go, or continue to try and show he wasn’t being weird about it, despite clearly being weird about it, “Well, was it good?”

Max laughed, sitting up and nudging Charles’ shoulder, “If you wanted gossip, Charlie, you can just asked like a normal person.”

“I am normal.” Charles muttered, though his ears were still pink and his eyes off. “Just… you aren’t exactly the most open, so it fells weird to know this about you and hide.”

He just wanted to know. 

It wasn’t his place to, but Charles just wanted to connect on this, even if a little, even if he wasn’t ready to actually open back  to Max.

The past two months turned things between them different, Charles thought. Easy in a way Charles hadn’t expected. Max had become a constant and unexpected font of comfort. 

But it also felt uneven.

Max never talked about himself. He played the part of that perfectly blunt, “fuck-off mentality” man Charles knew he wasn’t. 

And then there was this. The hookup. The thing Charles couldn’t pretend was just casual curiosity. Because Max was… Max. But he was also, apparently, like him — yet again, Max was like him. A fact that sat in Charles’ chest like a secret he’d stolen.

He hadn’t meant to pry. But when he’d seen Max at that party — Christ. It had been like spotting a reflection in a crowd. Familiar. Terrifying.

And now here he was, fumbling through this conversation. Not just because it felt unfair to know and not say, but because—

Because some pathetic part of him wanted to know.

How long had Max even been into men? Also, who hooks up with someone like that in what was essentially a work function? Had it always been this easy for him? Did he–

Oh God. Was Max just better at being queer than Charles?

That was an annoying thought.

He’d heard rumors before, seen the online jokes, but it always felt like social media noise — either overzealous fans thirsting or idiots trying to emasculate the reigning champion. Lewis had gone through it, Senna too. This kind of speculation was nothing new.

And what if Max, with his stupid confidence and complete disregard for people’s opinion and brand management, just did it? What if he gave an interview, confirmed the jokes weren’t jokes, and suddenly Charles had to act like he wasn’t screaming internally about the fact that yet again Max reached a milestone he, himself couldn’t reach?

Would that make it easier for Charles? Would that make it harder? Would people look closer at the other drivers? At himself?

It wasn’t that he had internal struggles with being gay. The issue wasn’t self-acceptance, it was logistics.

Formula 1 was a PR minefield. Everyone had an opinion, and the media could twist even the most innocent interactions into headline-worthy scandals. And Charles had spent years curating his image, keeping his personal life private, while appearing enough for people not to go digging that much. 

Not out of fear or shame, but because he understood the game.

And sure, he would go public someday — when he wasn’t actively driving, when he didn’t have sponsorships and a career to protect. But now? No. It wasn’t worth the risk.

Max huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “It was fine.” he said honestly.

Charles nodded, “Yeah?”, he asked, quieter this time. 

“I’m not… out.” Max admitted after a moment. “My sister knows. A few people at Red Bull do, too. Some of the other drivers might suspect from when I was younger, but they probably just think I was some stupid kid experimenting.”

Charles tilted his head, his curiosity not quite hidden. “Were they wrong?”

Max hesitated, then exhaled a small laugh. “Timing-wise? No. At the time, it was experimenting, but I am bi. I just stuck with women after, so people assumed.”

“And now it’s started back?”

Max nodded,shrugging too, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. “I was just drunk, Charles. But it’s hard meeting people in general, let alone people I trust enough to share this. I can’t exactly wave NDAs around at parties.”

Wow, that was familiar. The laugh that bubbled out of Charles was startled out of him, light and warm with recognition. “God, tell me about it.”

Max turned his head, surprised by the sudden shift in tone. “Are you and Alex having issues?”

Charles hesitated for half a second, Wasn't this supposed to be about Max? About Max being vulnerable? “Not really. We just… have a different type of relationship.”

Max gave him a look. One very judgemental one, if Charles was reading this right — fuck, Charles hated the cheating rumours.

Charles sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Let’s just say we have much more separate lives than we show.”

Max frowned. “So, are you guys, like, open?”

“No, I mean, that too, I guess, but we’re just not… dating, exactly, either.”

Max’s frown deepened. “You’re not —”

“She’s my friend.” Charles cut in, almost too fast, like he wanted to get ahead of whatever Max was thinking and defend her place in his life. “So we’re kind of… friends with benefits, except the benefits include helping our careers, too.”

Except the benefits were everything but sex, Charles corrected silently. 

Max raised an eyebrow. “That makes it sound like some kind of PR contract.”

Charles huffed a quiet laugh. “It’s real, for us.” Charles defends, “We just don’t show the real to the world, you know?”

Max just nodded, digesting all of that.

They sat in silence for a while, the distant chatter of their trainers the only sound. It wasn’t awkward, exactly. Just a lot to take in.

Their trainers seemed to be wrapping up their conversation as they walked back over. Charles glanced at Max. “Should we get lunch?”

“I’m in.” Max said.

Fuck, it was hot.

Charles tugged at the collar of his blue team kit, already damp with sweat. He liked the design well enough — Alex had been working some magic helping him pick the right bottoms to match it — but Christ, Bahrain was merciless.

Normally, Charles hated ice baths. He hated the biting shock of cold, the way it crawled up his skin. But today? He was practically dreaming about it.

The inflatable tubs were being filled when Antoine wandered over, camera slung around his neck.

"You want to get some footage for the vlog?" Antoine asked, grinning. 

Charles hesitated, then shrugged. He was in a good enough mood to be generous. 

They were chatting as the tub slowly filled, when Max appeared at his side.

"You getting a bath?" Max asked, his voice low and amused as he nodded at the tubs.

"Oh yeah." Charles said, grinning over at him. "You?"

"Yup. I'm melting" Max replied, swiping a hand across his forehead.

He wasn’t lying. His face was flushed, cheeks a shade too red. Charles bit back a smirk; Max really wasn't built for this kind of heat.

Charles turned back to Antoine. "We can record something else later." he said casually.

Anthoine raised an eyebrow in question, but Charles just nodded slightly toward Max. The photographer caught on quick, clapping Charles on the shoulder before exchanging a little fist bump with Max and walking off.

No way was Charles about to record Max half-naked without his say-so, he didn’t even want to ask this.

They slid into the tubs at the same time. Charles let out a loud moan as the freezing water hit his skin, sinking down inch by painful inch. Max barked a laugh at his side but didn’t look much better himself, grimacing as he lowered into the ice.

"Fuck." Charles hissed, shivering. "Why do people do this for fun?"

"Beat me." Max said, voice tight from the cold but smiling all the same.

They sat there, water sloshing around them, steam practically rising off their skin from the contrast. After a moment, Max asked, "What was Anthoine going to do?"

Charles grinned, teeth chattering a little. "We were gonna record this."

Max raised an eyebrow, lips quirking. "Selling naked pics, Charlie?"

Charles stuck his tongue out at him, juvenile and unbothered. "Call it community service, it's only right to share." He said, with a wink.

Max laughed, tilting his head back against the rim of the tub, a real belly laugh that made his whole body shake slightly under the water.

"So why’d you stop then?" he asked, turning his head to look at Charles.

Charles pivoted on the place so they could face each other fully, propping his chin on the edge of the tub. He let his gaze skim — briefly, carefully — over the way Max’s shoulders and chest cut clean above the waterline, the light catching the pale skin still wet and gleaming.

He wasn’t going to be the one to expose that. Not when Max so rarely let the world see it.

"Just didn’t feel like it." Charles said lightly, shrugging one shoulder.

Max hummed in response, a low sound as he mirrored Charles’s position, resting his head on the crook of his arm. The casual sprawl of him made Charles's throat dry. He quickly looked away, gulping quietly.

"Excited about the rappelling next week?" Charles asked, fishing for safer ground.

Max groaned, scrubbing a hand down his face. "Oh, fuck, don't remind me."

Charles’s grin was immediate, teeth bright and wicked. "Oh, please, tell me you're scared of heights."

"I'm not!" Max shot back, instantly defensive. "There's a difference between being scared of heights and being scared of rappelling down a fucking skyscraper."

Charles burst out laughing, smacking the water with his hand and sending cold splashes everywhere.

The race… happened. A problem with his wheel, Max getting a 5 seconds penalty for crossing the chicane. P4 and P5.

After his win in Suzuka, that result was like another ice bath.

Charles gone back to his hotel after the race, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. He was angry at himself for letting the car’s potential slip through his fingers yet again. The track had been unforgiving, and he’d made mistakes — small ones, but enough to cost him valuable points.

He was supposed to leave that night. Joris and Andrea, along with most of his team, had already headed to the airport. But a sudden storm had grounded all flights, leaving Charles stranded in Bahrain for another night. He’d barely made it back to the hotel when he ran into Max in the lobby.

“I thought you would’ve left already.” Charles said, stopping by his side.

Max shrugged, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Flight got cancelled.”

“Ah.” Charles said, nodding. “Same.”

There was a pause, the kind of heavy silence that only comes after a disappointing day.

“You didn’t want to go out?” Max asked, glancing at Charles. 

He snorted, his expression darkening. “To what, celebrate barely scraping into the points?”

“Yeah. Same.” Max said, his shoulder bumping on Charles.

Charles sighed, yes, thank you. Charles didn't understand how other drivers would go party after a dissapointing race — unless it was about getting shit faced, to forget. 

They stood there for a moment, the weight of the day pressing down on them. Then Max tilted his head, studying Charles. “You look like you’re about to punch a wall.”

“Look who is talking.” Charles says back, copying much less naturally bump to Max's shoulder. He sighed, “I was thinking about the gym. Or maybe the pool. Something to burn off this… whatever.” he gestures.

Max raised an eyebrow, looking genuinely annoyed. “It’s 2am, we just raced for 2 hours, and you want to go for a swim?”

“Why not?” Charles shot back, though, considering how truly exhausted he was, it was maybe not his brightest idea.

Max shook his head, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like ‘crazy person’, but then he sighed, glancing at Charles. “Come on. Let’s just… watch a movie or something. Before you do something stupid like drowning yourself.”

Charles sighed, wondering if it was a good idea to put two equally pissed and exhausted of drivers together, but he ends up nodding. The worst it could happen is them re harshing this shit weekend.

“Fine. But I’m picking the movie.”

“No way, you gonna pick something stupid.” Max said, throwing an arm over Charles shoulder.

“You wouldn’t know good cinema if hit you in the face.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, just in a language I don’t need to read, please.” Max retorted, pressing the elevator button.

They bickered all the way up to Max’s room, and by the time they settled in to watch the movie — The Fifth Element, cause it was a classic, thank you very much, Max — Charles felt himself starting to rewind. 

The room was dimly lit, the glow from the TV casting flickering shadows across the walls. Max sat on his side of the bed, propped up against the headboard, while Charles sprawled beside him. 

The movie played quietly in the background, but neither of them was really watching. Instead, they talked.

“The wheel was so heavy today.” Max said, his tone matter-of-fact. “I couldn’t get the traction I needed out of the corners. It felt like the car was fighting me.”

There was a pause, the kind of silence that only came when two people were too tired to fill the space with words. Charles shifted slightly, pulling the blanket higher over his shoulders. “Do you think it’s the setup? Or is it something deeper with the car?”

Max frowned, considering the question. “Could be both. The setup wasn’t ideal, but there’s something about the way the car handles corners that feels… inconsistent. Like it’s not responding the way it did last week.” He rubbed his face, letting out a prolonged groan. “Then that fucking penalty.”

Charles didn’t respond right away. “Your interviews was something.” Charles started, smirking slightly. 

“Yeah, I was pissed.”

“The whole silent act too, very entertaining.” Charles teased, turning on his side.

“What else I was supposed to do? With those fucking rules, I can’t open my mouth without getting community service.”

Max let out a sigh, sinking lower into the pillows. As he turned to look at Charles, he realised how close they were — Charles watching him with a strange kind of quiet, like he was trying to see through him.

“Christian was wrong.” Charles murmured.

Max blinked. “What?”

“It’s not that you just don’t care about politics. You don’t see the bigger picture.” Charles’s voice wasn’t cruel, just… matter of fact. “I’m honestly shocked it lasted this long. You do know Red Bull’s been struggling with cost cuts, right?”

Max frowned, actually confused about what the man was talking now. “I still don’t get it, we didn’t lose any sponsors.”

“No,” Charles said, sitting up slightly, “but the size of the deals shrank. Less money means cutting people. The people you don’t really notice. Fewer support staff. Less prep. And when that happens, everyone get stretched thin. That’s why the car’s was inconsistent last season, how still is.”

Max threw his hands up. “I won four championships, like how hard is it to sell this?”

“And that’s the only reason you get away with being this bad at communication.” Charles shot back, his voice sharper now. “You hate the media, the team PR stuff, the branding… but this, it matters, Max. When you win all the time, people begin to hate you. And that, it cannot last. And you refuse to give them something else to sell, so it becomes one crisis after the other.”

Max fell silent, jaw tight, knowing Charles wasn’t wrong. “I can’t switch it off, Charles. I don’t work like you.”

“Oh, you think I enjoy it? I left the my dream team because of shit like this, but I can’t ignore the fact it’s part of the sport.” Charles sighs, before continuing, voice softer now. “It sucks, but acting right to the public softens the penalties, makes the stewards feel less attacked. Media’s less brutal. You play the game, they back off.”

Max exhaled, looking away. The idea of having to control every word, every expression — it was suffocating. 

(Get out and I do not want to hear you anymore.)

“You know… Pierre said something to me in Suzuka.” Charles said, and yet again Max was having a hard time keeping up with Charles mind. “He was annoyed I didn’t tell him about the Red Bull move. Said something about me actually wanting to deal with Helmut.” Max grimaces, Charles let out a dry laugh. “Truth is, of course I don’t. This team’s a mess sometimes. Real, bad shit piling up, making more people hate us. But the mechanics, the engineers, the real hard working talented people — they’re good. They deserve better. So do the fans. I want… I want to build something they can believe in. Something that is worth to support.”

Max lets out a slow breath, staring at the ceiling, taking Charles’s words in.

“So what, I’m just supposed to smile and nod when they ask me stupid questions? Pretend I don’t care when they screw me over?” Max asks, turning to study him. Charles looked exhausted, but there was something stubborn in his expression, something unshaken. It was the same look he had when he was discussing strategies and cars updates.

Charles groaned, like he was trying to explain french grammar. “No, Max, is not about lying, is about how to work the true in a way people will listen to you.”

He wasn’t saying anything new. Tens of people had told Max to watch the way he spoke. PR team, management, his friends, Christian at least a dozen times every season.

Is not that he didn’t understand the logic — he did — he just didn’t want to do it. It felt stupid, like a clown's make up he needed to put on to be able to drive. He just wanted to fucking drive.

But Charles had a point. Christian may have never approached Max about the budged issues until he had to defend Charles contract, shieldering the driver from anything that would take his focus away from his performance — it helped Max couldn’t care less about most gossip around himself — but Max was aware, from his personal team dealing with things that would mess his sucess, that things were off.

Then Christian signed Charles, for the peformance and the sucess, and the money.

It made fucking sense. 

“Do you want me to go?” Charles asked, voice now losing the confidence of before, like he expected Max to throw him out for saying some truths. 

Max exhaled, pulling at the blanket at their feet, and throwing over the man. 

“No, watch your movie.”

F1 STANDINGS · 13 APR 2025
Position.	Driver.	Team.	Points.
# 1.	NOR	MCLAREN	64
# 2.	VER	RED BULL	63
# 3.	LEC	RED BULL	58
# 4.	PIA	MCLAREN	55
# 5.	RUS	MERCEDES	49
# 6.	HAM	FERRARI	32
# 7.	SAI	FERRARI	26
# 8.	ANT	MERCEDES	24
# 9.	STR	ASTON MARTIN	16
# 10.	ALO	ASTON MARTIN	6
# 11.	TSU	RACING BULLS	5
# 12.	ALB	WILLIAMS	4
# 13.	GAS	ALPINE	1
# 14.	...

Charles woke up slowly, the faint light of dawn barely shining through the curtains. He blinked, disoriented, as he took in the unfamiliar room. Waking up in different hotel rooms around the world was something he was used to, but this time, something felt off.

There was a warmth beside him, a steady presence that made his heart skip a beat. He turned his head — and nearly yelped when he found Max’s face just 20 centimeters from his own.

“Shit.” Charles muttered under his breath, scrambling to sit up. His thoughts raced as he looked around the room. 

He glanced down at himself, for a moment panicking for a moment, relieved to see they were both still fully clothed. Why was he in Max’s bed— 

Oh, right, the movie. They had been watching a movie last night, and he must have fallen asleep. That was all. Nothing weird. Kinda new, but totally normal.

Charles let out a quiet sigh, running a hand through his messy hair. He turned back to look at Max, who was still asleep, his face smushed into the pillow and one arm stretched out toward the empty space where Charles had been lying.

It was the first time Charles had ever seen Max asleep. 

Even on long flights, Max always seemed to be awake, between working and annoying someone. He looked... different. Unguarded, softened by sleep, his breathing slow and even. Reminded Charles of an younger version of the man, he only got glimpses from afar.

Charles realised he was staring a little too long and quickly looked away, his cheeks warming. He needed to get out of there before Max would wake up and turn this into something.

As quietly as he could, Charles slipped out of the bed, careful not to disturb the other man. He grabbed his shoes and tiptoed toward the door, glancing back once more to make sure Max was still asleep.

The door clicked softly as he closed it behind him, and Charles let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding.

He shook his head, a small, nervous laugh escaping him as he made his way down the hallway. He was overthinking this. It was fine. Totally fine.

In Jeddah, Charles sought Max out himself at the hotel restaurant again. This time, it felt more like an emergency strategy meeting.

“How the fuck we are supposed to control the cars on this track?” Charles announced instead of greeting, plopping into the seat across from Max. Without hesitation, he reached for Max’s untouched complimentary bread.

Max raised a brow but didn’t stop eating. “You eat bread during a race weekend?”

“Carbs aren’t your enemy, Verstappen.” Charles shot back.

“Says the twink.” Max replied with a casual smirk.

Charles gasped, “How dare— Let’s go bench press. Right now.”

Max grinned, unbothered, and cut another piece of chicken. “For what it’s worth, I’m DNFing in the sims like a fifth of the time when I try to push for competitiveness.”

Charles groaned, stuffing more bread into his mouth in frustration.

Carlos ended up getting that one, but mostly cause Max and Charles couldn’t stop trading places fighting for P2. The end result was Max in second, while Charles crossed less than 5 tenths behind him.

F1 STANDINGS · 20 APR 2025
Position.	Driver.	Team.	Points.
# 1.	VER	RED BULL	81
# 2.	NOR	MCLAREN	74
# 3.	LEC	RED BULL	73
# 4.	PIA	MCLAREN	67
# 5.	RUS	MERCEDES	55
# 6.	SAI	FERRARI	51
# 7.	HAM	FERRARI	40
# 8.	ANT	MERCEDES	26
# 9.	STR	ASTON MARTIN	16
# 10.	ALB	WILLIAMS	8
# 11.	ALO	ASTON MARTIN	7
# 12.	TSU	RACING BULLS	5
# 13.	GAS	ALPINE	1
# 14.	...

Qualifying had been going well — Max on pole and Charles in P3 — until George decided to pull a move that forced Max into the gravel and made Charles swerve to avoid the mess.

At the stewards’ meeting, George was in full defense mode, arms crossed, trying to explain his move as if he hadn’t nearly caused a multi-car disaster. Charles was there too, having been right behind George and directly affected by the chaos. Max sat beside him, alternating between defending himself and shaking his head with a mix of disbelief and amusement.

It wasn’t lost on either of them that this felt eerily similar to last season’s Qatar drama — only this time, the roles were reversed.

When the stewards turned to Charles, expecting him to support George’s side since a penalty could benefit him strategically, the Monegasque grimaced and said flatly, “Your move wasn’t legal.”

George rolled his eyes. “Of course, he’s gonna say that. It’s in his interest.”

“He doesn’t need to fuck everyone over to get his position.” Max shot back, voice sharp.

“They’re teammates.” George said with a dismissive wave. “They’re against me. Look, the move was legal because I stayed within track limits, and I left Max enough space. It’s racing - what, am I supposed to just let him through?”

“You almost put me into the wall!” Max interjected, voice rising.

“I didn’t hit him, did I?” George argued, shrugging as if that settled it. “It’s aggressive driving, sure, but it’s not illegal.”

Max’s laugh was humorless, laced with frustration. “You can’t do aggressive, you just dorced me off the track. That’s bullshit.”

Charles sighed at the diplomatic finesse of a bull in a china shop, os his teammate.

The debate dragged on, and despite Max’s best efforts to press the point, the stewards ultimately ruled in George’s favor. No penalty.

As they left the meeting room, Max walked away fuming, muttering curses under his breath. “Fucking ridiculous. ‘Not illegal,’ my ass. He’ll kill someone driving like that.”

Charles watched him go, deciding if he should follow and discuss the result. 

George caught up to Charles in the hallway, “You know you don’t have to defend him, right?”

Charles stopped and turned to face him.

He thought about Max — about the way he’d been open with sharing insights, strategies, and even car setup tips since they’d become teammates. Max was honest and relentlessly competitive, but never reckless. 

Yeah, he toyed with what was legal in a race and could bully someone off track, but it was about knowing how to race the man. Be better than him, and you could win.

Max was all effort and talent and the best driver Charles had ever driven against, and seeing George twist the narrative to get advantage made Charles’ blood simmer. 

So Charles let a small smile curve his lips. It was friendly enough to disarm George at first as Charles reached out and patted his arm.

“You pull that shit with either of us again,” Charles said, voice light and almost sweet, “and I will put you in the wall myself.”

Before George could respond, Charles was already walking away, leaving George standing there, shocked into silence.

Charles caught up with Max, who was still stomping around in anger, his frustration spilling into every word as he cursed George and the stewards' decision. Max’s assistant, Sarah, stood nearby, her grimace deepening with every heated outburst. The rest of Max’s team wisely dispersed, leaving him to vent in peace — or rather, whatever this was.

Charles placed a hand around Max’s bicep. The Dutchman turned sharply, anger still shining in his eyes, though he visibly held up when he met Charles’ face.

“Let’s have dinner” Charles said, his voice even but firm.

“Charles...” Max started, his tone warning, as if to decline.

“Let’s have dinner.” Charles repeated, his tone leaving no room for debate.

Max inhaled deeply, his chest puffing up as he tried to reel himself in. After a tense pause, he nodded. Charles smiled and turned to Sarah, his hand still resting on Max’s arm. “Can you find us a car back to the hotel, please?”

The woman blinked, surprised, but nodded. Charles didn’t wait for a reply. He gently pulled Max toward a nearby lounge, leading him to sit down.

“I won't be the best company right now, Charlie.” Max grumbled, slumping into the couch with an exasperated sigh.

“Yeah, but how can I plan George's downfall without my teammate?” Charles quipped, sitting beside him, one leg crossed under the other.

“It’s not funny.” Max said, but there was no real bite to it.

“I’m not joking.” Charles replied, deadpan.

“Charles.” Max reprimanded, narrowing his eyes.

“Okay, I’m mostly not joking.” Charles conceded with a slight smirk. “Still, you has to calm the fuck down.”

Max sighed again, his head falling back against the couch. He was quiet for a moment, breathing deeply, trying to regain control. Charles watched him, leaning back himself, and suddenly felt a wave of déjà vu.

“Remember Qatar?” Charles asked, his smile softening.

“I am.” Max replied pointedly, not bothering to open his eyes.

“Shh.” Charles said, giving him a soft, playful, tap on his shoulder. “Remember what we talked?”

“Something to do with racing like we did when we were kids.” Max muttered, eyes still closed, Charles noticed how Max’s damp hair clung to his forehead, the sweat from qualifying making it stick. He resisted the urge to brush it away. “Do you wanna throw George into a hole?”

“Yeah.” Charles admitted, leaning back.

That got Max to open his eyes and look at him. “What did you say?”

Charles shrugged. “I told him I’d put him in a wall, actually.”

Max blinked, then let out a surprised laugh. “ You did what now? ”

Charles confirmed with a grin. “It won’t do anything to shit talk him publicly. George understands the dynamics of FIA better than anyone. So we need to do our talking on track.”

Max raised an eyebrow, his amusement starting to replace his irritation. “What are you suggesting?”

Charles leaned in slightly, conspiratorial. “Tomorrow, we work together. Overtake George — cleanly, of course.” he added with mock innocence. “But let’s make him sweat for it.”

Max chuckled, his frustration visibly melting away. “So, you’re saying we gang up on him?”

“I like the term team strategy.” Charles corrected, his accent making the word click, smirking. “We make it impossible for him to defend against both of us. We pressure him and wait for him to crack.”

Max grinned now, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “And if he doesn’t crack?”

“Oh, he will.” Charles said confidently. “He hates being boxed, you know it. Just don’t take him out or chances are that will get punished.”

Max kept smiling, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. “Alright, Charlie. Let’s make Regina’s life hell tomorrow.”

Charles leaned back, satisfied. “Now you’re talking. But first, dinner. You’re paying.”

Max groaned but got up, offering his hand to Charles, finally looking more like himself. Charles accepted it, letting himself get pulled up, his grin widening. 

The lights went out, and the Miami Grand Prix was underway. George launched off pole, keeping his lead into the first corner, while Charles darted forward from P2 to stay close behind. Max, in P3, played it cool, holding back slightly to avoid tangling with the chaos behind them.

The race settled into a rhythm, but it quickly became clear that Charles and Max were not running a traditional strategy. Lap after lap, the two Red Bull drivers played a tactical game, boxing George in with subtle but relentless pressure.

Charles would push on the straights, forcing George to defend aggressively, only for Max to swoop in from behind, keeping George's mirrors full of navy. They weren’t even trying to overtake. Not yet.

(George’s engineer came over the radio, sounding frantic. “George, keep it steady. Don’t let them bait you.”

“Easier said than done!” George snapped, his voice tight with frustration.)

Meanwhile, in the Red Bull garage, Christian was pacing. Charles’ and Max’s strategists were equally confused, trying to make sense of what the drivers were doing.

“What’s the plan here?” GP asked over the radio.

"Just maintaining the gap… to each other." Max replied, a laugh in his voice.

Charles, meanwhile, got a similar question. “Why aren’t you overtaking?” Rocky asked.

“We know what we’re doing.” Charles responded coolly, focused, his voice matching his calculated driving.

Back on track, George’s frustration was mounting. His tires were degrading rapidly as he spent lap after lap defending, his car sliding more with every turn. Charles and Max were relentless, trading positions and keeping George pinned.

Christian finally had enough. “Max, stop playing games and attack! You’re faster, go for it!”

On the next straight, Max and Charles were side by side, their cars nearly touching as they roared down the stretch. Charles lifted one hand off the wheel, index fingers and little finger up.

Max laughed, the sound audible through the team radios. “Alright, Charlie.” he said, easing off just enough to let Charles pull ahead and ignoring his principal orders.

Now leading the charge, Charles went to work. He feinted left, then right, darting across George’s mirrors like a phantom. Max stayed close behind, ready to pounce if needed and protecting their position from Carlos behind them.

The decisive moment came three laps later. On a fast approach to Turn 11, Charles set up a fake dive down the inside. George reacted instinctively, locking up his tires and veering wide. Charles slipped through effortlessly, while George, panicked, skidded into the gravel trap.

Max breezed by moments later, his laugh echoing over the team radio.

As Max stood on the top step of the podium, he couldn’t stop grinning, the thrill of victory still coursing through him. Charles stood to his side, beaming like he hadn’t this much fun in years. Carlos, in P3, looked mostly confused.

When they posed to the Red Bull photographer, bottles touching. Max threw a arm around Charles neck, pressing a playful kiss to his hair. Charles laughed, pushing him away and throwing the rest of his champagne in his face.

The media pen later was buzzing, reporters firing questions at the drivers as they moved down the line. Max had already gone through a round of questions about the race and was now being pressed about the stewards' meeting with George.

“I don’t have much to say about it.” Max replied with a shrug, a look sent in Charles way. “The move was ruled legal, so that’s the end of it. Nothing more to add.”

Sensing another round of non answers from the Dutchman, the reporters quickly pivoted to the team’s strategy during the race. “Could you explain what you and Charles were doing out there? It looked like a coordinated effort to box George in.”

Max smirked, glancing briefly at Charles sitting besides “We lost positions on Jeddah because we were fighting too soon, so we worked together this time.” he said simply, his tone light and amused.

Charles was next. “Charles, was the plan to work together from the start?”

“Well,” Charles started, tilting his head thoughtfully, “we wanted to manage the tires to have a better chance to finish the race with a better gap.”

A reporter then asked, “George Russell has claimed that you purposely tried to attack him, Charles. What’s your response to that?”

Charles raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a small, nonchalant smile and let himself act like he was thinking about it, “I understand that George is disappointed with his performance, but we didn’t hit him, so I don't understand why he panicked to be honest.”

The interview continued, questions about other parts of the race, like how Carlos got the fastest lap of the race and the overtakes that got the Spaniard from sixth to third.

Mostly of it Charles and Max were chatting quietly, both trying to hide their giddiness by hiding the smiles with their hands, until a different reporter pressed Charles about the critical move that sent George off. “How would you describe that moment?”

Already done with this, Charles looked back, paused and said “It was just an incident.”

Max, sitting beside him, couldn’t help himself. As he exploded in a laugh fit, though it wasn’t picked up by the microphones. Charles glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, his lips twitching in amusement before he composed himself to continue answering.

F1 STANDINGS · 04 MAI 2025
Position.	Driver.	Team.	Points.
# 1.	VER	RED BULL	106
# 2.	LEC	RED BULL	91
# 3.	NOR	MCLAREN	84
# 4.	PIA	MCLAREN	75
# 5.	RUS	MERCEDES	67
# 6.	SAI	FERRARI	66
# 7.	HAM	FERRARI	46
# 8.	ANT	MERCEDES	26
# 9.	STR	ASTON MARTIN	17
# 10.	TSU	RACING BULLS	9
# 11.	ALO	ASTON MARTIN	9
# 12.	ALB	WILLIAMS	8
# 13.	GAS	ALPINE	2
# 14.	...

Max offered Charles a ride back to Monaco the next day, and while he was occupied with a meeting on his laptop, Charles settled into his seat, scrolling through his phone.

The fans’ reactions online were gold. The George-versus-Max debate had fizzled out since Max hadn’t fed into it, but the buzz around Max and Charles’ on-track antics was thriving.

Edits of their side-by-side driving flooded social media. Most focused on the now–considered-iconic moment of Charles throwing up the bull horns hand symbol and Max’s laugh that followed. Their radios had gone viral, too: “We know what we’re doing. and "Just maintaining the gap."

Charles couldn’t help but admire the creativity of their fans. One edit in particular caught his attention. It showed their synchronized driving, transitioned to Charles flashing the horns sign. The clip ended with the podium shot of Max leaning in to kiss Charles’ hair.

Charles paused the video on the frame of Max’s kiss. He stared at it for a moment, feeling warmth rise in his chest.

Looking up, he saw Max seated across the cabin, still deep in his meeting. As if sensing Charles’ gaze, Max glanced up, meeting his eyes. He smiled — soft, easy, and completely Max.

Charles smiled back instinctively, then quickly looked down, feeling oddly flustered. His phone was still on the paused video.

He stared at it for a beat, then chuckled quietly to himself. Taking note of the username, Charles switched to his main account and reposted the video. 

[Tiktok - Video description: A fast-paced edit of the radio exchanges and chaotic moments during the Miami GP. The video follows the “Sniper, Sniper, Wifey, Wifey” trend, starting with Charles and Max driving in perfect sync, showcasing their teamwork on track. The edit transitions to Charles flashing the bull horns towards Max, then cuts to George’s panicked fell to the gravel while the Red Bull driver flew by. The video finishes with the podium moment, where Max leans in to kiss Charles’ hair, before reversing back to the beginning for a loop.]

@jeongcheolist

Because this moment felt like a dream.

Chapter Text

In the Wake of Wildness: Remembering 2024’s “Superfine: Tailoring Black Style” as the Met Gala Turns Toward the Untamed

April 2025 | By: Luisa Arquette for Mode & Meaning

As the world of fashion turns its gaze toward the 2025 Met Gala and its stirring new theme — “Feral Grace: Elegance of the Untamed” — we pause to honor the brilliance, depth, and political beauty of last year’s groundbreaking exploration: “Superfine: Tailoring Black Style.”

Launched in Spring 2024 and co-hosted by Pharrell Williams, Lewis Hamilton, and the ever-watchful Anna Wintour, “Superfine” was more than a red carpet spectacle. It was a statement. An assertion. A reclamation. At its heart, the exhibit and gala paid tribute to the Black dandy tradition — a sartorial movement steeped in elegance, resistance, and cultural remix.

Style as Survival, Dress as Defiance

As the Met Museum itself wrote, the exhibit “explores the importance of style to the formation of Black identities in the Atlantic diaspora, particularly in the United States and Europe.” The fashion was impeccable: velvet jackets in deep jewel tones and sharply creased trousers, ruffled blouses echoing 18th-century silhouettes — each look more than decoration. Each look was language.

What made “Superfine” revolutionary wasn’t just the beauty, though there was plenty. It was the intention behind the tailoring. For centuries, Black communities have used dress as a tool — to shield, to subvert, to shine. During slavery and colonialism, when control of the body was wrested away, dressing well became a radical act of self-possession. “Superfine” honored this lineage — from the street corner to the ballroom, from Zoot suits to Savile Row — showing how fashion has long been used by Black men, women, and gender-expansive individuals as a tool of visibility and dignity.

But it wasn’t just celebrities. The night became a platform to elevate Black designers, stylists, historians, and curators, many of whom had never had a seat at fashion’s most powerful table. For once, the story wasn’t being borrowed — it was being told by those who lived it.

From Refined Resistance to Wild Reverence

As we step into 2025’s theme, “Feral Grace: Elegance of the Untamed” which will highlight endangered species, ecological grief, and nature’s wild beauty, the energy shifts — but the spirit remains. Once again, the Met calls on fashion to do more than dazzle. It asks us to confront, to consider, to care. If last year taught us how style can challenge power and reclaim identity, this year challenges us to rethink our place in the natural world — not as conquerors, but as kin.

Into the Wild: The 2025 Met Gala Embraces “Feral Grace: Elegance of the Untamed”

April 2025 | By: Grover Underwood for Vérité Mode

The world’s most lavish red carpet is heading into the wilderness — not to escape, but to confront.

This morning, the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the Costume Institute unveiled the official theme for the 2025 Met Gala and Spring Exhibition: “Feral Grace: Elegance of the Untamed.” A powerful follow-up to 2024’s acclaimed “Superfine: Tailoring Black Style” this year’s vision takes a sharp turn from the cultural to the ecological — inviting the fashion world to look nature squarely in the face.

A Theme That Howls with Meaning

More than a dress code, “Feral Grace” is a call to action. The exhibit explores the tension between wildness and refinement, celebrating nature’s raw beauty and the grace of species that are quietly — or violently — disappearing.

“It is an invitation to embody beings that live on the edge of extinction.” the Met announced. “Majestic, primal, dignified — yet threatened.”

Expect fashion that snarls and seduces. Looks that echo wings, scales, roots, and skeletal forms. Textures that evoke bark, fur, exoskeletons, and ash. But beneath the beauty, a deeper question lingers: What does it mean to be civilized in a collapsing world?

The 2025 Hosts: Icons of Wild Protection

This year’s gala will be co-chaired by a striking, globally conscious group of voices who have spent their lives advocating for the earth and its people:

Quannah Chasinghorse, Indigenous model and land protector, whose activism for Native sovereignty and environmental justice has reshaped how fashion talks about the land it walks on.

Leonardo DiCaprio, longtime environmental philanthropist and founder of Re:wild, who continues to fight for reforestation, wildlife corridors, and climate policy worldwide.

And of course, Anna Wintour, the Gala’s visionary constant, curating fashion’s place in the global conversation.

Each host represents a different facet of the theme — from frontline defense of the natural world to global awareness campaigns to couture as a storytelling tool. Together, they form a coalition that is less about fame, and more about ferocity and care.

The Dress Code: Wild, With Responsibility

For “Feral Grace” sustainability isn’t a suggestion. It’s the canvas.

Attendees are encouraged to wear fashion that is ethically sourced, biodegradable, or upcycled. Designers are already rumored to be working with mycelium leather, recycled ocean plastic, natural dyes, and even bioengineered flora.

The Met Gala’s proceeds this year will support grassroots ecological efforts, Indigenous land defense movements, and global wildlife preservation, with transparency as a key priority.

What’s clear is that 2025’s Met Gala is not about quiet luxury. It’s about loud survival.

From the edge of extinction, the Met Gala dares us to imagine a future where fashion doesn’t conquer nature — it protects it.

[Instagram – Photo description: Charles and Alexandra on an opulent golden staircase. Her hand rests on his shoulder as they pose beneath vibrant, ornate wallpaper. Charles wears a deep violet suit, while Alexandra stuns in a flowing lavender gown — both perfectly at home in the lavish setting. Music tagged: So High School – Taylor Swift.]

@loewe | @charles_leclerc | @alaxandrasaintmleux

Caption: Together in stillness. Charles Leclerc and Alexandra Saint Mleux in custom LOEWE at the Met Gala 2025.

[Tiktok - Video description: The back ground is a well decorated hotel room, the camera pans on Alexandra mid turn to the camera, then moves to Charles who winks to the camera — the couple seems to be finishing getting ready — and down to Leo, sitting majestically on a hotel carpet, a little purple collar, looking up like he owns the place. Text overlay: (lion emoji). Audio: “Mother, Father, Gentleman”.]

@loewe

Caption: Royal family energy only. Leo, Charles and Alexandra in custom LOEWE. #MetGala2025 #FeralGrace #LOEWE

[Tiktok - Video description: Reviewer, speaking calmly with clips of the couple on screen “Charles Leclerc and Alexandra Saint Mleux hit the carpet and I went looking at their stylist’s post. As their debut, I think they went a little safe on the choice, but I believe it’s somewhat on theme.”

Cut to Charles’s look, He’s wearing an eggplant Loewe suit, clean lines, very understated, but as he moves and camera's flashlight flashes, the woven pattern of the Loewe logo and the lion embroidery on the back becomes visible. “In custom LOEWE, and yes, the brand took the theme a bit literally, but as their new ambassador, it fits. LOEWE literally means ‘lion,’ but I actually appreciate how they at least leaned into the symbolism of lions, not just as animals, but to symbolize regal figures. This is ‘untamed royalty,’ not jungle cosplay.”

Zoom on Charles’s neck, where a gold necklace rests against his skin.

“The standout detail for me was definitely the necklace. Charles, being from Monaco, is wearing a piece once owned by Grace Kelly: the coffee bean necklace by Cartier, lent by the Monegasque royal family. It hasn’t been seen publicly in over 40 years. It ties the look to both nature and legacy, quiet, but deeply symbolic.”

Cut to Alexandra’s look, different zoomed in shorts “Now, Alexandra Saint Mleux’s dress is where, to me, Loewe really expanded. You’ve got recycled silk fringe moving like a lion’s mane, an open back framing the back necklace with the sculpted lion’s head at the centre.”

Final shot of the pair talking quietly to each other with subtle smiles while posing for photos.

“I really like how the couple’s looks echo each other, the shades of purple tie together through tone and texture, and continue the theme of royalty. There’s something almost mythic about it — a modern take on the Monaco fairytale, but with teeth. Elegant, grounded in the theme, and actually walking the sustainability talk. Easily one of the more conceptually sound appearances so far.”]

@bruno_castilho

#Alexandra Saint Mleux #CharlesLeclerc #MetGala2025 #FeralGrace

[Tiktok - Video description: "CHARLES LECLERC AT THE MET? With a princess necklace?" in a high-pitched voice. Clip shows Charles stepping out onto the Met Gala carpet, spotlight catching the shimmer of the Loewe logo pattern on his suit. Camera zooms in on the coffee bean necklace.]

@sammieonracing

Thank you, LOEWE for dressing the people’s princess as such. #CharlesLeclerc #MetGala2025 #FeralGrace

[Tiktok - Video description: "Continuing the series of jewelry used at the MET Gala. Formula 1 driver, Charles Leclerc, came using a necklace that belonged to Grace Kelly and hasn’t been seen in decades. I find it interesting how to accommodate the size of his neck they created an extension in the clasps that blended in the original piece." in a calm, archival-style voiceover. Footage of Charles in the necklace fades into vintage photos of Princess Grace wearing the same piece. Subtle harp music in the background…]

@jewelarchives

The coffee bean necklace — discreet, historic, and unexpectedly on the carpet. #MetGalaJewelry #GraceKelly#CharlesLeclerc

[Tiktok - Video description: "This Loewe gown turns Alexandra Saint Mleux into a lioness, literally." in confident, fashion-analysis tone. Close-up on the movement of the fringe, a slow pan across the open back with the lion-head medallion, and a final wide shot of her walking up the stairs, perfect posture...]

@redcarpetdecoded

one of the sharpest thematic gowns of the night. #AlexandraSaintMleux #MetGala2025 #Loewe

They’d be heading to the afterparty soon, but Charles was already trying to figure out how long he had to stay before it’d be okay to leave.

It had been a long day, from traveling in the morning from Florida, getting ready, and being briefed repeatedly about the safety of the necklace.

The Gala was a great opportunity for Charles, but even more so for Alexandra. So when Loewe picked him, them, to be one of their ambassadors to the event, he accepted, albeit with an internal groan — a habit he’d picked up from Max, he recognizes, honestly, the whole reaction had felt like Max was sitting on his shoulder.

The Gala itself was nearly behind them. Too much money and glamour. Charles had the face and image of someone who belonged at a gala. But a party with these people…

Charles might have grown up in Monaco clubs and attended wild driver parties, but in both cases, he had been there with friends. With family. With drivers he’d grown up alongside and mechanics who spent forty to eighty hours a week with him.

Which is to say: his favorite part of the day had been the exhibition.

Alexandra had taken her time moving through the space — pausing in front of the more obscure pieces, pointing out details and backstories most people would’ve skipped. Art historian at her element.

Now, she was off somewhere, talking to people in expensive clothes with names he’d only ever read in magazines. She looked relaxed. Confident, even. But he knew she’d be nervous later, ranting about everything she could’ve said better.

And he was... lingering.

He’d play his part, was going again soon, mask on, but now he needed a momento to just... be. The social sheen was starting to wear thin, even to himself. His anxiety crept in, quiet but persistent, like tire degradation he couldn’t ignore. At most events these days, he had Alex sticking by his side — or at least Max — but now she deserved to make the conections without sharing the spotlight.

“Hey, mate.”

The voice came with a friendly smack on the back.

Charles turned, already smiling. “Hi, Lewis.”

“Having fun?” Lewis asked, sipping what Charles knew was a virgin drink.

Charles shrugged, trying to look at easy. “Trying.” he said.

“You look good, though.” he added, nodding at Lewis’s outfit. Lewis looked good — his outfit was wild but cool, all sharp lines and layered textures, with a huge horse design down the side. Rosso Maranello.

Thematic.

They saw each other before, but didn't had a chance to have a proper conversation. Lewis had been busy taking photos and chatting with his friends, and Charles had no interest in imposing himself.

Lewis smirked. “I’d say the same, but you’re kind of cosplaying Verstappen.”

Charles groaned. “Don’t start. Max already gave me crap about the lions.”

The lions. Right.

The embroidery on his suit was subtle, but still, there were lions stitched into the jacket. Regal, classy, symbolic. Loewe had made it sound deep, Max had just offered him a spot to model for Verstappen.com instead.

“Couldn’t convince him to come?”

“Max?” Charles raised his brows, confused. “It’d be easier to convince him to let me win a race.”

Lewis laughed, nodding. “It’s good to see you here, though." He said, giving Charles' shoulder a shake. "Boss has been posting Aston Martin like crazy, so I half expected them to show up.” he continues, conspiratorially.

“If Alonso walks in, I’m out.” Charles said, earning a laugh from the Brit.

Then someone else joined them. Charles caught the shift in Lewis’s posture first — a little more formal. She appeared beside Lewis like it was choreographed, not a hair out of place, eyes already on Charles.

Anna Wintour. Charles straightened up without even realising it. His brain went a little blank despite himself, and his eyes jumped to where Alex was.

Girl, come here, a part of his brain shouted. She didn't hear.

“Lewis.” she said, with a small smile. “Why don’t you introduce us?”

Lewis nodded. “Anna, this is Charles Leclerc. Formula 1 driver. Currently making my life very difficult in the championship.”

“Charles.” she repeated. “My father’s name.” She leaned in, gave him two kisses on the cheek. Her perfume was light and expensive. “So you’re making Lewis sweat this season?”

Charles glanced at Lewis, who kept a perfectly neutral face.

“It’s always an honor to race the greatest.” Charles said. Smooth. Friendly.

Anna’s eyes flicked to his chest.

“I heard you brought something special tonight.”

He instinctively touched the necklace resting against his bare skin—a delicate string of gold and diamonds that weighted a million times more in meaning than in price.

“Someone much more shameless on my team requested it.” he said. “I didn’t have the nerve to say no when I learned.”

“Oh, please.” Lewis cut in. “You’re basically Monaco royalty. Don’t you have the prince’s number?”

“I do.” Charles admitted, laughing. “Which makes it even more awkward.”

“Just win Monaco again. I’m sure he won’t mind.” Lewis offered.

“That’s the plan.” he answers back, with a wink.

Anna smiled at their back-and-forth. “It’s nice to see someone speaking Lewis’s language.”

“Well, he was supposed to be my teammate.” Lewis added. “Then he bailed.”

Charles gave a dramatic sigh, accepting the joke.

“What’s better than Ferrari?” Anna asked, a teasing edge to her voice.

He smiled, at the innocence, the ignorance. “Sometimes, you just need a better fit.”

Anna nodded, clearly pleased. “Speaking of fit, your partner looks stunning. I approved her look personally.”

“She’s got a good eye.” Charles said. “French art school. She knows her stuff.”

“Well, I’ll have to say hello, then.”

And with that, Anna turned and glided away. 

Charles watched her reach Alexandra, who was talking to Lisa and Hailey. Alex said something that made them all laugh — Anna included.

He felt a little squeeze of pride in his chest. 

She may not have picked this life, not without a set of circumstances pushing her into finding it, but where he could be here because a brand thought his face would sell something, she was fluent in the language.

(And if he was honest, he liked to think she was better.)

“She fits right in.” Lewis says, confirming his point.

“I know.” Charles says, not even attempting to hide the pride in his voice. 

Lewis claps his shoulder. Before they continue, another group of people reach them. Actors, wanting to meet Lewis. Charles was introduced, but it was clear their interest rested more on the celebrity side of Lewis and not on Formula 1.

The people moved, and Lewis kept by his side, despite another group trying to call his attention.

“You know you don’t have to babysit me.” Charles said, voice low.

Lewis didn’t look at him directly, just leaned in slightly, gaze sweeping across the glittering crowd like he was checking for exits. “Come on, mate, half of this is fake.” he shrugged, “We are at each other’s throats on track, but no one gets us like each other.”

Charles nodded once. There was a truth there—small, quiet, and shared. Another language, spoken between people who lived by the same brutal code. Where everything—sleep, food, privacy, identity—was weighed against tenths of a second. 

Lewis let out a dry breath. Then, softer: “Everything good at Red Bull?”

Charles hummed, used to the curiosity of it all. “The points speak for themselves.” he said, expecting Lewis to, at least, take it at face value and drop it. But Lewis didn’t. 

“Yesterday…”

“It was racing.” Charles interrupted, clipped, being done with this subject around thirty six hours ago.

“George told me you threatened him.” Lewis said. “For Verstappen.”

Charles exhaled, sharp but quiet. “George needs to stop whining every time things don’t go his way.”

“I’m not against the race.” Lewis said. “Just… you’re different. Since the switch.”

Charles turned toward him fully now, a smile still at his lips, for the photographer who was watching them, even if there was something sharper behind his eyes, “Please. You’ve been at Ferrari for two months and you’re already watching your words. You think I haven't been too?”

Lewis didn’t smile back, just studied him.

Then, slowly, “All I’m saying is… if Horner and Max…”

There it was. It was always the same story: Max as the bully, Charles as the delicate flower who let his team walk over him for years. Like he didn’t know how to draw his own lines. Like Red Bull was some spell he’d fallen under, and Max was not a teammate, a rival, a man he'd spent two decades chasing through corners and breaking zones.

“Don’t bring Max into this.” Charles said, softly enough that it didn’t draw attention. “You have your own history with him, I’m not touching it, but he is a solid teammate.”

Lewis raised a brow. “Until you’re a threat. You’re, what, twenty points off now? How will that team stand once you close that gap?”

Charles let the silence settle between them. He didn’t argue. Because a fight now with hundreds of people and cameras wasn’t possible. 

And because Lewis wasn’t entirely wrong — rivalry sharpened everything. 

But Max didn’t scheme. He thought about this season. Max waiting for him after a difficult quali. The way they broke down data together, shared notes, helped each other find tenths even when they didn’t have to. The way Max could be harsh, yes, but never once undermined him. Never once played politics.

Max and Charles weren’t built for mind games and suspicion. They didn’t orbit each other with knives out. They were both too blunt for that. They were equals.

For Charles, that meant more than friendship, but it didn’t erase the fact that they were friends. 

Maybe Lewis couldn’t imagine it, because he had survived Alonso. Survived Nico. And maybe — if Charles were being honest — this season was already pushing Lewis into places he didn’t want to be. And Charles understood Ferrari better than Lewis did. Understood the way it lifted you up while quietly grinding you down. The way it dresses pressure in poetry. Worship, then doubt. Hope, then heartbreak.

Charles had been carved by it. Lewis was still being introduced.

“'The team’s always bigger than the driver.'” Charles said. “I learned that in Maranello. You will too.”

Lewis gave nothing away. Not a twitch.

Charles looked away, nodding toward a photographer who’d been eyeing them for the last minute.

The man raised his camera instinctively, Charles stepped in a fraction closer for the shot, just enough to make it personal, and Lewis followed it. They smiled, relaxed, posing.

Then Charles said, still smiling, “And Max and I aren’t you and Nico.”

In the corner of his eye, he saw Lewis flinch.

A flash. A thank you. Charles turned back to Lewis, waiting for the reaction. 

That was what most people still didn’t get about Charles.

He was the son of a hairdresser, growing up surrounded by billionaires and royalty. He’d learned early how to belong somewhere he didn’t come from. How to charm without grovelling. How to listen closely and speak softly, until it counted.

Every choice he made was calculated. Every alliance, every silence. He made mistakes, yes, but they were his. Fully. And no one could act like he didn’t know what he was doing.

Lewis was quiet for a long beat, then he nodded, “Maybe it’s for the best that we're not teammates.” He adjusted his cuff with careful precision. “You’re just like him.”

Charles blinked. “Max…”

“I’m not talking about Max.”

And with that, Lewis reset his expression — back to neutral, polished, unreadable. He looked around the room like nothing had been said at all.

“Enjoy the party.” he said, already turning. “I’ll see you in Imola.”

Alex had decided they were going to the after-party. No debate. And Charles had agreed, mostly because she looked like she needed it. She’d hit it off with some people during the gala, spent most of the night in a whirlwind of laughter and flutes of champagne, hugging new fashion friends like she’d known them for years.

Charles, on the other hand, had gotten his second wind from that interaction with Lewis — if it could be called that. People called him petty before. So what? Petty was honest. Petty knew where the line was.

Back at the hotel, he was mostly just relieved he’d returned the necklace safely.

He felt ten kilos lighter and that his citizenship in Monaco was no longer under threat.

Now he sat cross-legged on the plush hotel room couch, waiting for Alex to finish getting ready. She was pacing between the bathroom and the mirror by the closet, eyeliner in hand, ranting in a way he found oddly comforting.

“I swear to God, Charles, I’ve never been that starstruck. She asked me where I got my earrings. Can you imagine?” Alex called from the bathroom. “I had to pretend like I didn’t borrow it from my mum.”

“You pulled it off.” Charles called back.

“And don’t get me started on the models. It’s like staring into the sun. They’re all so tall. Like physics defying tall. I felt like a Hobbit.”

“You are one seventy-eight tall.”

“With heels.” she shouted. “Barefoot? I am Leo’s height.”

Charles snorted.

She reappeared in the doorway a second later, one earring in, the other dangling between her fingers, giving him a look. “By the way, I will be talking about tonight for at least the next three years. So prepare yourself.”

“Noted.”

“Oh! And someone—don’t ask who, because I will name them if I have another glass of champagne—had the audacity to say, ‘It must be nice, dating someone famous.’” She tossed the earring onto the bed. “Like, yes, sweetheart, it is nice. Especially when he pays for the minibar.”

Charles laughed. “What a luxury.”

“I’m practically living the dream. All I had to do was sacrifice my entire identity to become arm candy.”

“Please, tonight I was your arm candy.” he said, smirking.

Alex rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

Charles leaned back, looking at her now. Really looking. Her hair was half done. Her heels were still by the bed. But there was something vibrant about her tonight. Alive. Like she belonged in rooms, even though she still didn’t quite catch up that she deserved to.

“You deserve better.” he said quietly. “Than being known as arm candy.”

Alex paused. Turned to him fully. “I was joking, you know that right? I love what we have, and I wouldn’t be having these opportunities if it weren’t for it.”

He didn’t respond. Not immediately. Instead, he picked at a loose thread on the couch cushion and said, softer now, “Look… I’m not in a rush. I love what we’ve built, too. But if you’re ready, when you ever get to that point, I want you to know you don’t have to keep doing this. Being my beard.”

She blinked.

“You never owed me that.” Charles continued, a little rambling. “I know we said it would be useful. That it would buy us both time. And maybe it did. But if staying in this makes you feel smaller than you are, you don’t have to stay.”

The room settled into silence.

Alex walked over, earring still forgotten in her hand. She sat beside him on the couch and leaned her shoulder into his.

“You know,” she said after a moment, “you’re not the only one hiding something.”

He turned to her. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” she said. “Maybe I’ll tell you about it someday.”

He smiled, soft at the edges, and thought how much she had matured in the past two years and how young she still was. “Looking forward to it.”

She reached for his hand and squeezed it. “Let’s go charm some yankees with our french.”

“God help them.”

Charles stuck to the bar at the after-party even after Alex had disappeared into the crowd again — still somewhere in the hotel, probably tucked into a velvet booth gossiping with people she really vibed with. He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for, only that the music was still too loud, and the drink in his hand had gone warm.

Their story had begun at a party like this, in a year that had nearly broken him. 2023. One of the worst seasons of his career. Worse, even, in his head. In his skin. By that night, he’d just ended things with Charlotte — finally, painfully, admitting to himself that it hadn’t just been about her. That he didn’t feel what he was supposed to feel. That he never had.

He’d always known he liked men. That truth had arrived early, like instinct (and a very uncomfortable talk with Lorenzo after he caught him looking too long at a friend). But realising he felt nothing for women, nothing real, was harder. A different kind of reckoning. Lonelier.

That night, he'd gotten drunker than he should have, let himself be pulled below deck by a stranger. It had been good at first — exciting, new, freeing — until the man’s hands grew too rough, his words too mean. Until excitement twisted into fear.

Charles had a good punch when needed. Thank God for that.

The man had stormed out, making a scene, his anger loud and ugly. Charles had been too drunk, too shaken, nursing a sore neck and the sharp edge of panic climbing his spine, to defend himself.

And then Alex appeared.

She’d been standing nearby, laughing with Marta and Riccardo, and when they heard the yelling and saw Charles’ state, she hadn't hesitated. Told Ric and Marta to go off and start talking about how Charles and her were hooking up. 

Instantly, what could’ve turned into ugly rumours about Charles’s sexuality twisted about the new couple — and how Charles had definitely cheated on his ex with her. Spicy enough for it to spread quickly.

Everything shifted after that.

They’d met before, of course, Monaco was Monaco, but they hadn’t been close. After that night, though, he stayed near her. At first, out of gratitude, not just for the cover, but for how she stayed after. When the adrenaline wore off and his hands started shaking. When he couldn’t even say what happened.

She stayed anyway.

And she knew about him. Ric and Marta learned it that night, of course. Eventually, he told the others — Gui, Thomas, Joris, Andrea, Nico. They accepted it. Of course they did, but they were also terribly heterosexual, so at the time, it had still felt like something he had to keep tucked away. Something too raw for a full group conversation. Alex hadn’t made him feel like that, she was new, she didn't had the same expectations..

And so, when the rumours kept growing, they decided to just... let people believe it. For a while. But for Alex, the attention opened doors neither of them had seen coming. She had a brilliant eye — for fashion, for art, for momentum — and when opportunities appeared, they sat down together and said, Why not?

So they made it official. Traveled the world side by side. Shared hotel rooms and long-haul flights and one very spoiled dog neither had the time to raise alone.

And she flourished.

Charles had loved watching it happen. She deserved every bit of success she carved out of being the, albeit fake, girlfriend of a Formula 1 driver. She deserved even more than it.

“Charles, hi?”

He turned. A man stood in front of him — shorter than him, broad-shouldered, with ash-gray hair and a quiet intensity. Something about him was familiar, a Korean singer. Someone had introduced them briefly at the top of the carpet.

“You want another drink?” the man asked, his accent thick but his tone light. There was a spark in his gaze—searching, maybe even daring. Like he was already reading Charles, trying to see where the cracks were.

Charles hesitated. He scanned the room—and spotted Alex across the crowd, mid-conversation, catching his gaze. She raised her brows, exaggerated, and gave him a dramatic thumbs-up like some teen rom-com sidekick. Charles bit back a smile.

“Alright.” he said, setting his glass down.

They walked together toward the bar. The other man leaned against the counter, shoulder brushing Charles’, close without pressing. They talked—barely. English wasn't easy for either of them at this moment, but the man chuckled anyway, his fingers drumming a slow rhythm against the marble bar before drifting—almost absentmindedly—toward Charles’ forearm.

The touch was light, casual, but unmistakably deliberate. Charles didn’t pull away.

The man leaned in again, his breath soft near Charles’ ear. “You want to dance?”

Before Charles could answer, a hand slid gently to his waist, nudging him toward the mass of bodies moving under pulsing light. He followed.

For a moment, he let himself get lost in it—the rhythm, the heat, the way the music blurred the edges of his thoughts. But when the man leaned in again, lips hovering just above his, Charles turned his face away.

“Not here.” he said, quietly but clearly.

The man only smiled. Unbothered. “I have a room upstairs.” 

The room was dimly lit, the curtains drawn. As soon as the door clicked shut, the man pulled Charles in by the collar, catching his mouth in a kiss.

It was immediate. Breathless. Charles felt that first sharp hit of want, the kind that bypassed thought and settled low, buzzing beneath his skin. The kiss deepened as the man pressed closer, lips parted, coaxing rather than rushing. Charles’ breath stuttered when a tongue slid against his lower lip, asking for more.

He gave in.

His hands found the man’s waist, sliding under the edge of his shirt, thumbs grazing bare skin. Heat bloomed deep in his chest, in his belly, in his hips.

“You good?” the man asked, his voice rough, lips brushing Charles’ jaw.

“Yes.” Charles breathed.

The man grinned, then dropped to his knees.

The parade truck rolled slowly around the Imola circuit, its flatbed crowded with drivers waving to the roaring crowd. Charles stood near the edge, the sound of the Tifosi crashing over him like surf. He was used to this noise—loud and alive, always a mix of excitement and tension—but this time, it hit differently.

The cheers came first. Familiar. Expected.

Then, scattered, sharp, came the boos.

He kept walking along the truck bed, shoulders squared against the weight of unfamiliar hostility. There were Red Bull flags in the stands, banners with his name, some even affectionate, but the sting from that morning’s entrance to the paddock hadn’t quite faded. Not when the memory of a man yelling “traitore!” still echoed in his head.

Ferrari red bled across the grandstands. Carlos basked in it—smiling, waving, soaking in the love. The new darling. And Lewis, of course, had already slipped seamlessly into their hearts, as if he’d been a Tifoso his whole life.

Charles didn’t try to join them. He stayed by Pierre and Yuki, exchanging a few quiet words as the truck rolled on.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Max with Kimi and Gabriel, laughing at something Kimi was saying—big hand gestures, bright expressions. Probably about racing at home. They were just meters apart on the same truck, same orbit, but different circles.

Charles watched them for a second. Max looked... happy. Sunlight caught the gold strands in his hair. Max is such a bully, people would say. But it didn’t quite fit when Max was laughing like that, nose scrunching in amusement.

Charles drifted closer, almost without realising it.

Gabriel spotted him and grinned. “We’re setting up a quick football match later. Boys’ rules. You in, Charles?”

Charles lifted an eyebrow. “Max always cheats.”

“I don’t cheat.” Max cut in smoothly, turning toward him. “I just win.”

“You kicked me last time.”

Gabriel let out a dramatic 'Ooooh!”, delighted.

Max rolled his eyes and slung an arm lazily over Charles’ shoulders, shaking him a little. “Stop milking it, princess.”

Charles elbowed him in the ribs, earning a mock groan, but he didn’t shake Max off.

“Maybe we can just stick to FIFA?” Kimi offered diplomatically.

Pierre wandered over and smirked. “You don’t wanna play video games with Charles, either.”

Charles shot him a glare. “Don’t start.”

Gabriel looked between them, amused. “Sore loser?”

“The worst. ” Pierre said, hands raised. “He has a box of broken consoles.”

“I do not! I had one broken console. In a box. To throw out.”

“I’ve seen you break it, Charles.”

“Fuck off, calamar.” Charles cursed, but he was laughing.

As the truck turned a corner, the laughter faltered for a moment. They passed a cluster of banners. A few bore Charles’ face — crossed out or scribbled over in red. Someone had written “venduto” across one of them in black marker.

His smile twitched, faltered. Just for a second. He turned to Kimi with it. “Maybe we can skip the football and go straight to lunch? Trattoria?”

Kimi’s eyes lit up. “You know Trattoria da Pino? In the hills?”

“Of course.” Charles said, easily slipping into Italian. “They do the best tagliatelle.”

The two of them slipped into fast-paced Italian, debating sauces and wine pairings like locals, shutting out the rest of the truck for a moment. In the back of his mind, Charles briefly wondered what the odds were of getting poisoned by an overzealous Tifoso.

The lights went out, and instinct took over.

A clean launch. The tires bit into the tarmac, and Charles surged forward, gaining a position in Turn 1 to slot into third. Adrenaline surged through him as he held the line, weaving past chaos. For a few glorious laps, the car felt like it belonged to him. Smooth. Responsive. Almost perfect.

But perfection didn’t last.

On Lap 21, Lance and Ollie tangled in the midfield. Carbon fiber shattered across the circuit like glass, and the yellow flags flew. The safety car was deployed.

“Safety Car.” Rocky’s voice crackled through the radio.

Charles sighed, gripping the steering wheel tighter as the field bunched up. He listened to the updated strategies, small shifts in fuel usage and pit windows, tire plans that might no longer apply. Every calculation had to be redone now.

When the race resumed, the balance felt... off.

The tires, once sharp and alive, began degrading at an alarming rate. Charles adjusted his driving, trying to manage the wear, but it quickly became a no-win game. Push too hard, and the rubber would collapse. Go too slow, and he’d be eaten alive.

“Try Mode 6 for a couple of laps.” Rocky suggested.

“Copy.” Charles replied. But there wasn’t much left in them.

Ahead, the McLarens were gone. Oscar and Lando looked like they were driving a different species of car, gliding through corners like they were on rails. They hadn’t just nailed the setup—they had nailed the entire weekend.

Behind them, Carlos swept into third. The Tifosi roared, and Charles could hear it even from inside his helmet. Then came Max, just a heartbeat behind.

And then it was him. Fighting to hold off Lewis.

The last ten laps became a personal war — corner after corner, Charles defending with grit. Lewis was relentless, always there, always threatening. There was no margin for error. Every exit, every apex had to be perfect. He gritted his teeth and held the inside line, lap after lap. Lewis tried to play with him, but he didn't let it happen.

This wasn’t just about points.

It was about fighting. 

It was about showing he could go wheel-to-wheel with his substitute. That Red Bull hadn’t made a mistake. That he wouldn't became a mistake.

When he crossed the line in fifth, just a whisper ahead of Lewis, Charles felt it, not triumph, exactly, but with a flicker of satisfaction. He hadn’t stood on the podium, but he’d held his ground.

He’d beaten the man Ferrari had chosen over him.

The crowd cheered, loud and passionate, but not for him. It was for Carlos. For the McLaren. For Ferrari. For the heroes of the day.

Charles climbed out of the car, kept his expression neutral, and walked to the media pen. The questions came quickly and polished, delivered with artificial smiles and knowing glances.

“The yellow flag caught us off guard, but it's like this.” he said evenly. “We’ll analyse what went wrong and come back stronger.”

He’d said those words before. He knew how hollow they sounded. But they filled the silence, and that was the best he was willing to go now.

As he turned to leave, he caught Lewis in another interview nearby, frustration clear in his voice as he talked about Ferrari’s strategy decisions.

Charles couldn’t help the faint smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Some things, at least, didn’t change.

He walked back toward the motorhome, his suit unzipped to the waist, gloves still clutched in one hand. Charles expected the Red Bull hospitality suite to be quiet after the race, but when he opened the door it was full of energy. People were talking, laughing, moving around and a cake was being offered.

Some of the older mechanics clapped him on the back as he walked in. One ruffled his hair with a grin.

“You’re our prince now.” the man said.

Another handed Charles a slice of cake. “Here, comfort food. Chin up!”

Charles let out a real laugh, taking the plate. He didn’t even mind the kiss to the top of his head.

Rocky came over a moment later, waiting until the noise faded a bit. His voice was calm and steady.

“I know today didn’t go the way we hoped, especially being here.” he said. “But listen, what you did out there? That was real fighting. You kept pushing, you didn’t give up. That kind of grit? Most people never find it. The team saw it. I saw it.”

Charles swallowed, something tight building in his chest. He hadn’t realised how much he needed to hear that.

Rocky gave a small smile. “We’re not done. There’s still work to do.”

Charles didn’t answer right away. Then he reached out, shaking Rocky’s hand with a firm grip. His voice was soft but steady.

“Thanks, Rocky. Really.”

Rocky nodded, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Anytime. Now go eat your cake. We’ve got a season to win.”

As Rocky walked off, Charles let himself breathe. For the first time all day, he felt a little light.

Seb: saw the race. imola is tough as always.

Seb:  u did good, mate. clean launch, smart into T3. didn’t overdo it. car looked stable early, but yeah—after SC, balance was off.

Seb: graining came fast. prob front-left. too much load mid S2, then snap on exits. think u & rocky were expecting longer tyre life. maybe look at diff setting & engine brake—might help reduce stress next time.

Seb: hybrid delivery looked too soft vs lewis. maybe use aggressive mode earlier in DRS zone? yes, u burn more early but u defend better. and u can handle it.

Seb: ur defending vs lewis? (clapping emoji) (clapping emoji) that was sharp. smart reads. instinct still there.

Seb: will send u something on brake settings later. but pls rest first.

Seb: it was a good job kid, dont forget

[Twitter - Subject Formula 1:

Trending Topics: #ImolaGP, #Norris, #CharlesLeclerc

@sainzmafia99     carlos gets P3 in front of HIS fans and we still talking about the guy who LEFT? ferrari made the right call. il rinnegato belongs to milton keynes now.
#Sainz #ForzaFerrari #ImolaGP

@ciao_cavallino     charles waving at the crowd like imola didn’t boo him in quali, il traditore era lì come se nulla fosse successo
(See Translation: charles waving at the crowd like imola didn’t boo him in quali, the traitor was there like nothing ever happened.)

@martiFerrari66     sainz podium. leclerc fourth. hamilton fifth. remind me again who got replaced?

@vespasAndVinyls     no but seriously. charles dragged that RB21 like it owed him money. it’s not domination if he’s fighting every lap. if he wanted easy mode, he’d have stayed in Q2 at Ferrari  #LECBULL

@silva38     O povo vaiando o charles como se a ferrari não tivesse dado só tratores e decepção pro coitado Kkkkk #ImolaGP #Leclerc
(See Translation: people booing charles like ferrari didn’t gave the poor guy only tractors and disappointment lmao)

@f1peroni     he’s not even italian. the predestinato was PR. he’s Monegasque. always was. let him go.

@luca_dalla_romagna     NO BECAUSE Y’ALL FORGET. this man loved ferrari more than management ever loved him. shame on you. #Leclerc #IlVeroTifosoLoSa

@mameilleureennemie     Il Predestinato < L’Elu (Monaco flag emoji) #TeamCharles #LElu
(See Translation: The Chosen One < The Chosen One)

@sns.kishi     oh, calling him the chosen one in his own language is so much cuter, fuck ferrari 

@nam80085     he cried on their podium yeah, and then he LEFT. Sainz stayed. Hamilton’s coming. Ferrari’s future is BRIGHT without the drama. #ForzaFerrari

@lauraaaa     leaving ferrari is such a sin, should we start calling alonso il rinnegato too. or is that word only for leclerc?
(See Translation: Should we start calling alonso the deserter too, or is that word only for leclerc?)

@caffzane     today’s leaderboard:
1. Lando
2. Carlos
3. Max
4. Charles
5. Lewis
and yet the only person trending is #leclerc. rent free, huh?

@debbylecbullrider16     me watching ferrari fans cry while charles is still above their fave in the championship #lecbull > #lecfosi

@flaviof1boi     max gets hate for domination. charles gets hate for moving for survivor. tells you everything about the narrative machine.

@alonsofanaccountsays      not to be That GuyTM but charles has almost as many points as ferrari on the constructors #ImolaGP

@botamito22     charles stans cry ‘he carried Ferrari’ when he also crashed them out of more points than I can count. Sainz delivers. Facts.

@semisucrelec     charles switching to red bull was the best thing for my mental health and the worst thing for ferrari propaganda machines #IlRinnegatoMyAss #LElu

@JaceCole     mattia binotto watching all this chaos with a glass of wine like]

When Charles left the hospitality suite, he ran a hand through his hair, fingers tugging absently at the curls at the nape of his neck, in much better humour he expected to be by this point. Then he saw it.

Leaning stiffly against the Ferrari garage wall, arms crossed, Arthur looked like a misplaced shadow in team gear. His posture was closed off, defensive. His gaze stayed locked on the ground, as if the concrete held answers.

Charles stopped short. The sight of his brother — still wearing red — sent a jolt through him.

“You waiting for me?” he asked, his voice low and rough from the race.

Arthur startled slightly, pushing off the wall with that awkward, familiar energy, the kind that had once belonged to a shy seven-year-old asking if he could tag along.

“Thought we could talk.” Arthur muttered, not looking at him. He scuffed his shoe along the pavement like it was an excuse to stay rooted.

Charles jerked his head toward a quiet corner near the motorhomes. Arthur followed, silent except for the shuffle of his steps. The silence stretched between them as they walked — long, brittle. Charles could feel Arthur measuring the space, weighing every word before it came.

When they stopped, Arthur spoke first, voice low.

"It was a good race."

Charles nodded, "Thanks." he said back, not knowing what else to say.

"I..." He started, before rubbing his face. “Heard some suits talking today, at the hospitality.” He picked at the Ferrari logo on his sleeve. “They’re… glad you’re gone. Said you took the problem with you.”

The words shouldn’t have hurt. They did anyway. Charles felt his jaw tighten.

“Yeah.” he said simply.

Silence again. The distant drone of a generator buzzed at the edge of his hearing. Somewhere, a mechanic shouted something across the paddock. Charles didn’t look.

“And Lewis…” Arthur shrugged. “'Global reach', right?” he quoted.

“Global reach.” Charles echoed, bitter. The words tasted like ash. That choice had never been just about racing.

Arthur looked at him sidelong. “They really never planned to let you win?”

The question struck deeper than it should have. Charles followed the path of a mechanic pushing a warm tire toward the garage. He stared at the rubber, still soft from the heat. So many races. So many times he thought maybe this one.

“No.” he said at last. His voice was quiet, steady. “They would not give me the tools to even try.”

Another silence. This one felt longer, heavier—like they were both trying to hold the shape of what had been lost.

Arthur finally looked up. His eyes gleamed—not tears, not exactly, but something sharp. “You still fucked me over, Charles.”

Charles didn’t flinch. He didn’t run from it. “I know I did. And I’m sorry, Tu.”

The old nickname slipped out before he could stop it. It felt wrong and right at once.

Arthur’s mouth twisted like he didn’t know whether to smile or spit. “Still think you’re an idiot, though. Red Bull’s not exactly saint material.”

Charles huffed a laugh — small, tired. “The people are good.” he said, nodding to where the engineers clad in navy were leaving the hospitality with paper plates full of cake. “They listen.” A pause. Then, softer, almost ashamed: “I was considering leaving, but I had no... plan, before I accepted it. I didn't think, but I should’ve talked to you first.”

Arthur was quiet again. Studying him. There was always something surgical about the way Arthur looked at him when he was hurt — like he was trying to cut open the why of it.

Finally, he sighed. “Yeah, well. Guess we both know how Leclercs and impulse decisions go.”

He nudged Charles’ shoulder, but the gesture was gentler than the words.

“We’ll talk better at home, yeah? Not here.”

It was an olive branch. Not forgiveness, but something close.

Charles felt something loosen in his chest—just enough to breathe. He gave a short nod, words caught in his throat.

Arthur turned and walked away, the red of his Ferrari jacket cutting sharply through the darkening paddock. Red against blue. Past against present.

Charles stayed where he was, watching until Arthur disappeared into the crowd.

F1 STANDINGS · 18 MAY 2025
Position.	Driver.	Team.	Points.
# 1.	VER	RED BULL	121
# 2.	LEC	RED BULL	103
# 3.	NOR	MCLAREN	102
# 4.	PIA	MCLAREN	100
# 5.	SAI	FERRARI	78
# 6.	RUS	MERCEDES	75
# 7.	HAM	FERRARI	54
# 8.	ANT	MERCEDES	30
# 9.	STR	ASTON MARTIN	17
# 10.	TSU	RACING BULLS	11
# 11.	ALO	ASTON MARTIN	10
# 12.	ALB	WILLIAMS	8
# 13.	GAS	ALPINE	2
# 14.	...

Chapter Text

After Imola, he was burning for Monaco.

It wasn’t just his home — it was everything. The streets he’d grown up on, the corners he could trace in his sleep. Winning there once hadn’t been enough. Not with the whispers still hanging around him. Not when people still questioned his move. He couldn’t let Monaco slip away. Not this year. Not when he still had so much to prove.

So he shut the rest of the world out.

Media duties? Deferred or declined with a smile. I always play nice, he told the PR team, charm covering steel. He’d earned some leeway, and he cashed it in without hesitation. Most of his off-track responsibilities were quietly moved or delegated — his management had prepared the local campaigns months in advance, anticipating exactly this kind of tunnel vision.

He still had obligatory media day and the Hot Lap to record, but besides those Charles moved into the simulator like it was his second home. Days blurred — sim work, physical prep, and meeting after meeting with the strategy department. He was relentless but precise, trying to align his racing instincts with Red Bull’s data-driven machine. Finding common ground was harder than he liked to admit. Especially with how the team still, to extent, was still in Max’s tune.

Still, he came in early. Stayed late. He sat with engineers, had one on one mettings with Hannah and Rocky daily, going over tire degradation curves and virtual safety car probabilities. Monaco was chaos by nature, he knew that. But he wanted every variable pinned down, every risk mapped.

The team was deep into a Friday post free practice debrief, the room cool and clinical, everyone gathered around the long table. Data sheets glowed from tablets. Engineers spoke in clipped phrases. It was all business. And then Max surprised them all.

Then, out of nowhere, Max leaned forward and offered a strategy suggestion — a shared strategy. Not a personal advantage. A team approach for Sunday.

The room went quiet.

Not awkwardly quiet, intentionally quiet. People didn’t react immediately because they weren’t sure they’d heard him right. Charles turned his head slowly, fixing Max with a stare that could’ve frozen fire. 

Before Max could elaborate, Christian cleared his throat, smoothly steering the room back into motion.

“We’ll see how qualifying plays out.” he said. “We need the qualifying results to define the race’s foundation. We’ll revisit the team approach based on that… But thank you, Max.”

Charles didn’t say anything. Not yet. He just looked down at the telemetry in front of him and flipped to the Monaco sector breakdown again.

As the meeting broke up, Charles walked away briskly, making no effort to acknowledge Max, let alone wait for him to catch up. Max, however, wasn’t about to let him leave without a word.

“Come on, let’s eat, you said no yesterday.” Max called, picking up his pace.

“I need to go.” Charles replied without looking back, voice short.

Max sighed, pushing a hand through his hair and jogging to the man. He reached out and caught his arm, not rough, but firm enough to make him stop. “Charlie.”

Charles turned slowly, jaw tense, eyes sharp as cut glass. There was a line drawn there, an invisible one, and Max knew how close he was to stepping over it.

“I don’t want your help there.” Charles said, voice low. “I won here last year. I can do it again.”

“I’m not handing you anything.” Max said, holding his ground. “I’m trying to plan the weekend. Logically.”

Charles met his gaze, frustration and anger warring in his expression. “Are you serious okay with sacrificing points for me?”

“Fuck no, but it’s Monaco.”

Charles crossed his arms, still stone-faced.

Max exhaled through his nose, the next words hanging in the air before he spoke with uncharacteristic softness. “It’s Monaco, Charles.” he repeated, “There’s barely room to breathe, let alone overtake. If you’re ahead, and you’ve got the pace, I’m not going to do something reckless just to prove a point. Forcing a fight is suicidal for both of us. I want to win, but I’m not going to sabotage us to do it. Not here.”

The words landed between them with quiet finality. Max didn't do grand gestures, but he meant every word — this wasn't some dramatic concession. He didn't care that it was Charles' home race, but he understood what that kind of pressure did to a driver. The way want could curl around your ribs and squeeze until every breath came with teeth. 

Monaco wasn’t a track for ego. It was a track for survival. Efficiency. That’s what this was all about.

That made Charles pause, if only slightly. Max saw it.

“I’m not throwing anything.” Max went on, steady now, calm like he was laying out tire strategy, not their entire dynamic. “This isn’t about emotions or loyalty or pity. You’ve been saying we’re a team. I’m buying into it.”

Charles studied him, his expression unreadable, but there was a flicker of something underneath—uncertainty maybe, or the beginning of belief.

“So if I get pole tomorrow…”

“I’ll play safe, just like we did on Saudi.” Max said. “And if it’s just both of us there, then I will fight for the win as I would anywhere else. We worked together before, that’s all I'm offering now.”

Charles watched him for another moment again. Then he stepped closer, barely a breath between them, “Don’t go easy on me.” he said, lowly, and a small part of Max took notice of the scent of fresh, expensive cologne.

Max forced a grim, nodding, “Never.” he said, the weight on his shoulders lifting. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Charles blinked, thrown off, confused. 

“What does that mean?”

Max chuckled, throwing his arm around his shoulder, feeling safe the other wouldn't cut it off by this point. 

“It’s just a promise.” Charles looked like he was about to protest, but Max cut him off. “I bet you’re busy tonight, so let’s at least grab a snack to keep the tradition.”

“I… I’m just having dinner at home with my mum." Charles admitted, sounding uncharacteristically hesitant. Then, after a beat, he added, “If you want to come.”

Max raised an eyebrow, surprised. “What’s the plan?”

“She’s going to cut my hair and probably lecture me about not calling my brothers enough." Charles said with a sheepish grin.

“Let me guess, she’s also anti-Red Bull?” Max teased as they walked toward the parking lot.

“No, she supports my decision. But she’s trying to keep the peace. She’s worried about Arthur.”

“Why? What’s going on with Arthur?”

Charles hesitated before humming in thought, Max didn’t hear the sound as much as he felt it through the arm slung over his shoulder.

“More like Ferrari wants to distance themselves from our name. He’s been pushed into less public roles.”

Max didn’t know what to say, so instea he rubbed Charles’ arm reassuringly before stepping back in the direction of his car. “Did you drive?”

“Walked.” Charles replied.

Max tilted his head. “So… no plans for the rest of the day, right?”

“Just the dinner with my mom.” Charles said “You want to come over now? I was thinking about sim work, but Rocky told me to unwind. So probably video games instead.”

Max laughed, nodding and unlocking his car. 

“Feels like you’re messing with the competition.”

Charles leaned in closer, fluttering his eyelashes dramatically. “What competition?”

Max shoved his face away, chuckling. “Get in.”

Charles’ apartment reminded Max of his first place in Monaco — although it was noticeably more organized and well-decorated than the one he had at 18. Posters from musicians, tracks and movies adorned the walls, between trophies and medals. There were at least three instruments casually propped near the sofa, as well as stylish pieces of decor all around the place.

Before he could dwell on that, a clattering sound came from the hallway — then the unmistakable scamper of paws. Leo barrelled into the room with the energy of a dog who knew exactly how charming he was. His ears perked up at the sight of Max and then promptly darted past him, circling the couch twice at full tilt.

“Leo.” Charles warned with absolutely no authority in his voice.

Max leaned down, hands outstretched. “Come here, little monster.”

Leo skidded to a stop just out of reach. He wagged his tail. Max beckoned again, playfully tapping the floor.

Nothing.

Then Leo trotted back the other way, grabbed a toy from under the coffee table like it was a prize, and zoomed off toward the hallway again, tail high with victory.

Max blinked, unimpressed. “Your dog hates me.”

“He knows you’re trying too hard.” Charles’ grin was wide, warm. 

Max glanced toward the hallway and narrowed his eyes. “That’s psychological. Takes after his owner.”

Charles laughed, “Come on." He said, switching on the PlayStation. “Grab something from the fridge.”

Max opened the fridge, half-joking as he called out, “Got any Red Bull?”

Charles groaned audibly from across the place and Max smiled to himself. The fridge was well-stocked, filled with pre-prepped meals and a variety of drinks – including, surprisingly, a few cans of Red Bull. Max pulled out a diet one for himself and the peach-flavored one Charles tended to pick.

“Of course, you’d like the fruity one.” Max grumbled, handing it over.

“What’s wrong with it?” Charles asked, cracking it open. “It’s the only one that doesn’t taste like piss.”

“Don’t insult the hand that feeds you.” Max shot back, smirking and falling down the coach into Charles’ space, at easy.

It struck him how much had changed between them over the season–how much Charles had changed. He wasn’t the same fiery rival Max had butted heads with in karting or the frustrated driver stuck in underperforming cars.

This Charles was confident but grounded, ambitious but approachable. And for the first time, Max realized how much he liked being here, in this space, with someone who understood. Just easy.

Charles was one of his favorite teammates he’d ever had. For starters, Charles had delivered the team’s best results in recent memory. A feat that, on its own, came with significant advantages as it eased the relentless pressure on Max to carry the team single-handedly, a relief he hadn’t expected but deeply appreciated.

Beyond that, Charles had natural affinity for PR and networking. Max had seen him effortlessly endorse Honda’s bicycle line and charm his way through business dinners with Red Bull investors and sponsors. What stood out most was how Charles always made a point to include Max in the conversations, seamlessly bridging gaps Max wasn’t particularly interested in navigating himself.

Charles just had a gravitational pull Max couldn’t replicate and, to be honest, didn’t care to. Yet, Max wasn’t immune to it either. He genuinely liked Charles, and all the extra time they spent together had only solidified his initial impressions, giving him even more reasons to appreciate the man.

So yes, the weekly dinner traditions were something Max valued–a chance to share time with someone who was just as passionate and acknowledged about racing as he was. Relaxing on Charles’ couch, being ignored by his dog and waiting for dinner with his mom, felt exactly like how he wanted to spend an evening.

Max was much better at FIFA than Charles, though. This fact did not amuse the monegasque. It very much amused Max.

“Are you even trying?” Max teased, clearly enjoying himself.

Charles groaned, tossing the controller onto the couch. “This is rigged.”

“It’s your game!” Max says laughing, Charles turns to him with a glare.

His instinct was to start fighting, but Max was… ugh, Charles just couldn't yell at the man. They would banter during games for social media, each getting competitive, but unlike with Carlos, it wasn’t the cameras that would stop Charles from starting a fight. Shouting at Max… brought bad memories, in a way Charles was sure Max would be pissed if he knew.

So instead, Charles inhaled, holding his breath in for a moment, calming down himself, and ignoring the way Max was still beaming, almost childlike, about winning.

The doorbell rang, and Charles got up to answer it. He opened the door, already smiling in anticipation of his mother, but paused in surprise when he found not just Pascale but also Arthur and Lorenzo standing behind her.

“Oh." Charles muttered, startled, though he quickly composed himself as Pascale stepped forward, wrapping him in kisses and a warm hug.

Arthur followed next, leaning in and, unexpectedly, kissing Charles on the cheek in their usual greeting.

“Hi." Arthur said, his voice casual.

“Hi." Charles replied.

Lorenzo came next, offering a quick hug and a brush of kisses to Charles’ cheeks. Pascale nudged Arthur firmly, her expression clearly urging him to follow through with something.

“I know we’ve had disagreements." Arthur began, his tone careful, “but… I know how important this is to you.”

“I still don’t get it." Lorenzo interjected, earning a light smack from Pascale. “But if Arthur is fine with it, and you think Red Bull is the best shot you’ve got, then… I trust you know what’s best for you.”

“Let’s not talk about Red Bull tonight, alright?” Arthur said, stepping aside.

Charles nodded, about to agree, but then recalled something important. “Oh, about that…”

He turned and walked toward the living room. Max stood awkwardly in the center, his Red Bull team kit unmistakable, his smile awkward.

“Good evening?” Max greeted tentatively.

Charles smirked, glancing back at his brothers. They gave Max a look — part confusion, part judgment. Charles raised an eyebrow in response. After six months of giving him the cold shoulder, they didn’t get to judge the friend who had actually been there for him all this while.

Pascale, ever gracious, stepped forward and extended her hand warmly. “Max, it’s good to see you!” she says, thick accent on the voice.

“Thank you, Mrs. Leclerc, you as well." Max replied, visibly relieved as he shook her hand.

“Please, call me Pascale." she said with a radiant smile before turning to Lorenzo. “Lorenzo, darling, why don’t you order dinner for all of us? Something nice for five people. And Max, of course, we’ll need to know what you need!”

“Oh, uh, anything’s fine." Max said, but Pascale waved off his nonchalance.

“Nonsense, we want you to enjoy yourself, and I’m sure you have a diet to follow. Charles, help him decide while Lorenzo orders.” She paused, giving Charles a meaningful glance. “And while we wait for the food, I’ll get started on cutting your hair, Charles.”

Charles groaned lightly but didn’t argue. Pascale then turned her gaze to Max, a playful twinkle in her eyes. “Max, do you need a haircut too? It’s tradition on this race.”

Max blinked, caught off guard. “Oh, no, I’m fine-”

“Are you sure?” Pascale pressed, her tone sweet but insistent. “It’s no trouble at all, and I’m very good. I promise you won’t regret it. Plus, it’ll be nice to have you fully settled in with us for the evening.”

Charles chuckled under his breath, sensing Max’s hesitation.

“Well, if you think it’s a good idea…” Max relented, scratching the back of his neck.

“Wonderful!” Pascale clapped her hands. “I’ll set up everything while Lorenzo finishes ordering. You’re in good hands, Max.”

Max gave Charles a sideways glance, muttering, “There’s something wrong with my hair?”

Charles just grinned.

The haircut went well, Charles had to admit. Since joining Red Bull, he had opted for a cleaner look – shorter hair, cleaner facial hair. Somehow of a more modern and fresh look to match his new team aesthetic. It was a quiet statement of change, unadvertised but noticeable. His mother was particularly pleased, having always preferred this style.

Max, for his part, had watched the entire process with casual interest, sticking to chalres and his mom instead of trying to talk with his brothers. But when it came time for his own haircut, he looked noticeably hesitant.

“How do you like it?” Pascale asked, her tone gentle as she wet Max’s hair with a spray bottle.

“Just short, I guess." Max said, “I think it’s pretty long already.”

It was true, Charles noticed, studying Max’s hair as it fell into his eyebrows while wet, a little longer than usual.

Pascale hummed thoughtfully, running her fingers through the strands. “You look better with it long.”

Charles let out a laugh, half embarrassed by his mother’s directness, half entertained by it. Max turned to him with wide eyes, clearly surprised by her bluntness.

“I agree." Charles added, grinning. “You have no idea how many edits I’ve seen of you with long hair.”

Max raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You watch edits of me?”

“Gotta keep tabs on the competition, non?” Charles says back, but he feels his ears heating up by the glint in Max’s eyes.

Max laughed, his shoulders relaxing as Pascale shot Charles a playful, reprimanding glare. 

“I’ll trust you then, ma’am.” Max said, surrendering to the process.

Taking advantage of the time, Charles excused himself to check on their food and found Lorenzo and Arthur in quiet conversation near the doorway. Their expressions were easy but curious, and Charles approached cautiously.

“Hi." he said, his voice tinged with hesitation, unsure if his absence had shifted the mood.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “So… Verstappen is here. At your apartment. Getting a haircut from Mom?”

Charles shrugged, trying to play it off. “Yeah, he is.”

Lorenzo, crossed his arms and studied Charles for a moment. “You are… friends, now?”

“Yeah. We’ve connected a lot since the… team trade." Charles explained, half-hesitantly.

They had talked, a bit, since Charles got home from Imola.

Not about anything that mattered, of course. He hadn't had the time, and truthfully, he wasn’t sure he would’ve given the chance if he did, not this week. But there was some logistics about the campaigns and business Lorenzo was a partner, and they’d all ended up at their mum’s flat for dinner a few nights ago, an old habit none of them had quite outgrown. It had been… fine. Comfortable, in that way family dinners could be, with Pascale insisting on second helpings and Arthur monopolizing the wine and Lorenzo pretending he didn’t still have work emails on his phone under the table.

The conversation had stayed light: Leo, Lorenzo’s wedding, neighbourhood gossip. Someone had even brought up a ridiculous online forum post accusing Charles of cheating on Alex. He hadn’t commented, of course — not with their mum sitting there, still unaware of the real nature of his relationship with Alex, let alone his sexuality. Jokes on the poster, though, before the MET, he hadn’t slept with anyone since November.

So, yeah, easy topics, carefully selected. Red Bull and Ferrari weren’t brought up.

“You’re saying everything’s good?” Lorenzo pressed, his tone taking a protective note, that both amused and irked Charles a bit.

“Yes, I promise." Charles said, offering a small smile. “It’s better than I could’ve hoped for.”

Lorenzo nodded, the gesture uncharacteristically clumsy for someone usually so composed. In that moment, Charles realized just how much he'd missed this — the messy, complicated comfort of family.

They still had things to work through. Whatever root problem that caused this all, unspoken doubts and resentment to finally voice. But right now — with both trying so visibly to understand, and Max of all people getting his hair cut by their mother — Charles allowed himself to enjoy this fragile truce.

Before the conversation could continue, Pascale and Max appeared in the hallway. Pascale was smiling, clearly amused by something Max had said. Max himself looked relaxed, his hair freshly cut. The sight warmed Charles in a way he wasn’t expecting, a comforting glow spreading through him as he watched.

“Here we go.” Pascale said, beaming. “Perfect hair to secure second place this weekend.”

Max laughed good-naturedly, walking up to Charles. “How do I look?” he asked, turning slightly for effect.

Charles smiled softly, his hand reaching out instinctively to brush a piece of hair back from Max’s forehead. “Looks great." he said honestly. Pascale had cleaned up the sides and left the top longer, and with his hair still damp, it suited Max perfectly.

Max’s smile in return was warm and genuine.

“...Okay." Lorenzo interrupted, drawing their attention back. “Food is downstairs.” 

He gave Charles a quick look, and Charles oddly enough, realised how much he missed being scolded by his brother with a glare. Still, he cleared his throat, trying to shake the moment, and moved to finish setting the table. 

Dinner started with a hesitant energy, but it didn’t take long for the atmosphere to shift. Lorenzo, ever the business-minded older, found common ground with Max, discussing logistics. It seemed that, despite his initial reservations, Lorenzo seemed to warm up quickly, nodding along as Max shared insights about his own off-track ventures and balancing his racing career with personal business.

Arthur, on the other hand, jumped in with unexpected animation of a Formula 1 fan and fellow driver. He couldn’t resist asking Max about specific moments in races, strategies, and the challenges of adapting to different cars over the years. Max, even if a bit reserved in unfamiliar settings, let himself be pulled into debate, matching Arthur’s excitement with his own. 

It was cute. It reminded Charles how he usually talked with the grid rookies.

Charles observed it all with quiet contentment, chiming in occasionally but mostly enjoying the sight of his family getting along with Max. 

Later in the evening, after the dishes were cleared and the conversation had mellowed into comfortable chatter, Charles pulled out his phone for a quick photo. First, he posed with Max and Pascale, their matching freshly cut hairstyles the center of the joke. 

“Mind if I share this?” Charles asked Max, showing him the picture. It felt different from the usual funny pictures he started sharing since Shangai… it felt personal, even if it was Charles’ family.  

Max leaned in to look. “Sure, go for it.”

Charles sent the picture off to his social media handler, with instructions to save it for Monaco's weekend photo dump post, regardless of how the weekend played out.

But as Charles looked around the room, at the laughter still lingering and the easy connections they’d shared tonight, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the weekend had already started on the best possible note.

[Tiktok - VIdeo description: A bright, airy space tucked just off a sunny Monaco street near the Grand Prix circuit. The decor is playful and eye-catching: baby blue walls, sunshine yellow details, and cheerful banners that read “LEC ICE CREAM” in bubbly letters. A massive, silly photo of Charles Leclerc in a plastic ball pit—grinning in a stylish pullover, surrounded by cartoonish ice cream tubs—dominates one side of the wall.

White plastic balls fill the corner like a ball pit for grown-ups, and soft indie pop plays in the background. Tourists and fans mill around, laughing, taking selfies, and taste-testing flavors from branded cups.

Sammie (to the camera, excited): I’m at Monaco for the Grand Prix, and obviously I had to make a pit stop at the LEC Ice Cream pop-up. 

Quick cut to her sitting in the ball pit beside the giant Charles poster, flashing a peace sign.

Sammie: "This place is extra in the best way. It’s giving summer dream. The spoons are biodegradable, and yes, Charles is watching you eat."

Close-up of the ice cream cup, then a bite.

Sammie (mouth full, approving): "Okay wait. This is actually really good. I’m not even kidding. You can still pick a bit of the artificial sweetener, but the taste itself is very rich."

Cut to footage walking near the pier. Small branded carts sell mini tubs to tourists. Fans crowd around with spoons and sunglasses.

Sammie (voiceover): "They’ve even got mobile carts near the water selling the mini tubs for tourists all weekend. Monaco’s basically CharlesLand right now—and honestly? I’m not mad."

Video ends with a close-up selfie, the track just barely visible behind her. Background song - LAS-24]

@sammieonracing

(yellow heart emoji) (ice cream cone emoji) (blue heart emoji)

#MonacoGP #CharlesLeclerc #F1

[TikTok - Video Description:  Back ground sound: Offenbach’s “Can Can”

Overlaid text: “POV: You try to walk through Monaco without seeing Charles Leclerc’s face.”

Monaco’s train station, a sequence of digital ads with both Red Bull drivers in fireproofs, faces closed off, posing with their wrists flexed to show the watch. The ads start shadowy, focusing on the watch’s glow in the dark feature, then slowly brighten to reveal the drivers in full.

As the creator steps outside, they’re met with a massive banner of Charles Leclerc biking through the city’s sun-drenched streets. 

A cut, then a building side with 25-meters tall mural of Charles in a navy race suit, with a Monaco flag background, resembling propaganda.

Another cut, to the pastel storefront of an IceCream Parlor, Charles’s silly ball pit photo looms in the window.

Walking up a stone alley, the camera zooms in wildly as banner after banner reads “Leclerc,” “C. Leclerc,” "L'Elu", “Charles.”

Camera slowly zooms on a sleek black Ferrari with red and white lines on the hood, and the number "16" at the side.

Another cut, Charles himself walks in front of the creator, headphones in, calm, in team gear. 

Creator finally turns the camera to himself, he wears an Orange McLaren shirt and a blank face.]

@pieatree

I am not surviving this weekend. #MonacoGP

[Youtuber - Location: Monaco Grand Prix circuit, early morning. Setting: Closed F1 prep session. Pristine weather. Film crew, light security presence. No major audience.

Drone over the harbor. Charles stands besides a black aston martin sport car, a special edition for the monaco GP redbull team kit - with drawings of the monacos streets as a background, the red bulls of the team on the side - helmet tucked under one arm. 

Prince Albert approaches in a black driving jacket, smiling politely.

Charles: "Good morning, Your Serene Highness. Are you ready for a quick tour?"

Albert (in good humour): "I should not had done that bet with you."

Charles laughs smoothly, gesturing for him to enter the car.

A staff member helps buckle Prince Albert in, both men wear helmets. The camera watches from the dashboard as the engine revs to life.

Charles (grinning): "Thank you for letting us borrow your car."

Albert: "Let’s just bring it safely, please."

Charles: “Should we do with or without emotion?”

Albert hesitates but says: “I feel it would be a waste of time to go without.”

Charles (chuckling): “Well, I just needed your permission.”

Without warning, the car lunges forward, tires squealing through Sainte Dévote, making Albert get pushed back in his seat. Charles downshifts into the hill climb, grinning under the helmet.

Albert (subtitled, laughing nervously): “I see we’re skipping the warm-up.”

Charles: “I’m counting it as bonus practice for tomorrow's qualifying, make it worthy it!”

The Aston Martin snakes past Massenet, climbing toward the casino.

Albert (smiling, but his voice breaks as the car shakes through curves, his torso moving side to side): “I see why the road budget’s so high–” he is cut by the way Charles drift the car in the hairpin before picking speed, the nose tucks in tight — millimeters from the guardrail.

They plunge into the darkness — engine echoing violently off the walls, speed climbing fast.

Albert (shouting): “My God!”

Out of the tunnel. Charles takes the chicane with a wild but controlled slide. Tires kiss the curb. Prince Albert actually laughs.

Albert: “I heard of your parking, but this is a little too much, Charles.”

Charles makes an offended sound, before saying: “I’m not that bad!”

They roar across the line. Charles eases off the throttle, car humming in protest. Prince Albert exhales loudly, hands unclenching.

Albert (subtitled): “Oh, God, you did not gone easy.” he says, laughing.

Charles (bowing slightly): “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

They remove their helmets. Hair tousled, faces flushed. Prince Albert fixes his collar, still catching his breath.

Albert (genuine now): "In all seriousness, Charles, good luck for the race. We’ll all be watching."

Charles (giving a solemn bow): "Thank you, sir."

Cut to wide drone shot of the car rolling slowly past the paddock. Orchestral theme blends into the hum of the track.

F1 THEME MUSIC PLAYS]

@formula1

Monaco Royalty for 2025 GP. The influence is palpaple.

Qualifying day arrived, and the tension in the air was palpable. Charles had pushed himself harder than ever, and it showed. He secured pole position, the roar of the crowd barely reaching him as he soaked in the moment.

Max, on the other hand, was in P4 — nowhere near the front, where he usually found himself.

After the session ended, Christian gathered the team. “Alright." he said, glancing between Charles and Max. “It’s clear who’s in the best position to win today. We’ll give Charles preference in the race. Let’s execute it well.”

Max gave a nod, his eyes meeting Charles’, who was standing slightly apart from the group, arms crossed. There was a silent understanding between them now. 

The streets and skies of Monaco watched as the cars lined up on the grid. Thousands of eager eyes looked down from balconies and grandstands, waiting for the show to begin.

Charles sat on pole. His car wore a special livery — now white with the bull in gold and diamond-shaped accents along the body. His helmet matched in gold, with just an extended flag on his nape.

And he felt... at ease. Confident.

The lights went out, and the race roared to life.

Charles shot off and knew from the start it was a good reaction time. He navigated the tight Monaco corners with ease, his experience on this circuit shining through  — each turn felt like an extension of himself. By the end of the first lap, Charles had already built some gap, setting a good pace that would be hard to challenge.

Max, however, was locked in a different battle. The tight streets left no room for error, and his vision was filled with the aggressive red and orange of Carlos’ and Oscar’s. Sainz had been pursuing Oscar since the start, looking for any opportunity to pass. 

Behind him, Russell and Lando were fighting between them for P5, but they weren’t gaining ground.

On Lap 5, Max held P5, but Sainz was growing increasingly impatient. On the run to Casino Square, Carlos dove inside – trying to sneak through to catch Oscar closed, making the Ferrari swirl off track into the barriers. Max’s heart rate quickened, but his response was immediate. He covered the line, forcing Sainz to concede the position. Not today, Carlos, Max thought to himself, holding his ground. 

But Monaco had more to throw at them, of course. The skies, once clear, darkened quickly, and the first drops of rain began to fall. The drizzle wasn’t enough to change tire strategy, but the slick conditions added a new layer of difficulty. Max gritted his teeth, focusing on keeping his car on the track as Sainz closed in.

As they entered the tunnel for the tenth time, Max could feel his tires losing grip, and his rear end wobbled slightly under braking. He glanced at his mirrors — Carlos was right there, but Max wasn’t about to let him through without a fight.

“Sainz seven tenths away.” GP warned.

“Copy." Max muttered, tightening his grip on the wheel. Catching up with Oscar secondary now.

Lap 25. Carlos made his move again, this time with a better run down the straight. He pulled up alongside Max, but Max wasn’t going to give in. He braked late, positioning his car defensively. Lewis was forced wide at Mirabeau, and Max held on, refusing to let him past.

Meanwhile, Charles was in his element. By Lap 60, he was still out in front, building a gap that seemed impossible to bridge. He was navigating the wet track like a man who’d driven these streets a thousand times before. Every corner, every apex - Charles was in perfect harmony with the car. The rain had stopped, but the slick patches remained, making it a constant challenge to find grip.

“Keep pushing, Charles." Rocky urged, sensing the opportunity for a dominant performance.

“I’ve got this." Charles responded, his voice calm, confident. He had this race and was gonna hold it to the end.

Max, however, was still holding off Carlos in P4. The gap was small, but Max wasn’t backing down. With each lap, the tension grew. His focus never wavered as he fended off the Ferrari driver — maintaining his pace while keeping Hamilton behind him, just close enough to pressure, but never close enough to overtake.

For Red Bull, the pit strategy was spot on — quick stops and perfect timing. Charles regained his position without much trouble, while Max used his fresher tires to overtake Oscar with ease.

Lap 78 — the final lap. 

Charles was now just two corners away from the victory. He had driven flawlessly, always maintaining control. As he came through the famous Monaco hairpin for the final time, the checkered flag fell, and the roar of the crowd blurred into the hum of the engine slowing beneath him. Charles crossed the finish line, his grip on the steering wheel tightening for just a moment before he exhaled sharply, releasing all the tension that had built up over 78 laps.

“You did it, sunshine, Monaco is yours again.” Rocky said in his ear, his voice barely containing the pride.

Charles yelled into the radio, raw joy pouring out of him. It was done. He had won. God, Monaco was his again.

As he guided the car through the cooldown lap, his thoughts raced even faster than the RB21 beneath him.

Each corner had felt like a quiet conversation with the city itself—familiar, intimate. The car had responded to his every input as if it, too, understood the weight of this moment. This was home. These were the streets he’d walked as a child, staring through the fences, dreaming of one day being the one behind the wheel.

He pulled the car into parc fermé. The engine shut down with a final, echoing growl, and silence filled the cockpit. For a moment, he just sat there—helmet on, hands resting against the halo, heart still hammering in his chest. His eyes fluttered shut as the full weight of it sank in.

He remembered the last time he also felt this breathless. Back then, the adrenaline had come with disbelief. Now, it came with clarity.

A memory came — his first time behind the wheel. He had thrown a tantrum that morning, crying and refusing to go to daycare. Not wanting to disturb Maman, who was exhausted with baby Arthur, Papa hadn’t scolded him. He had simply picked Charles up, calm and quiet, and taken him to the Bianchi house.

There in the back garden, his three year old self found the old, worn-out go-kart that had belonged to the family. Tiny, battered, and loud. Papa had strapped him in with practised hands, crouched beside him, and smiled. Charles didn’t remember if he ever said anything, he just remembered papa’s smile and crooked glasses, and smiling back.

God, he missed him, he should been here.

He smiled faintly beneath the helmet.

The doubts he had carried after joining Red Bull, the pressure to prove himself, the comparisons to Max — it all evaporated in that instant. This win wasn’t just for Monaco or for the team. It was for him. A reminder that he belonged here. That he was more than capable.

Climbing out of the car, the noise of the crowd hit him like a wave. This was his people. His home. They were chanting his name, and he allowed himself to soak it in. Charles climbed up his car and waved to them, his gloved hand high.

He took his time at the weigh-in, catching his breath, accepting every handshake, every pat on the back, every clap on the shoulder. No rush, he wanted to savour it.

As he finally turned toward the barrier where the Red Bull team waited, Charles spotted Max among them, surrounded by engineers and crew, their navy uniforms flashing with celebration. Embers of adrenaline still sparked in the air. Their eyes met, and Max gestured for him to come.

Charles grinned—soaked in sweat, flushed from the race, but absolutely glowing. He sprinted toward the team, legs light with joy, aiming to leap into their arms, but Max stepped forward before he reached them, catching him mid-motion, grabbing the front of his suit and hauling him into his arms.

The team roared around them, engulfing both drivers in a wave of navy-blue. Cheers, claps, and laughter echoed as they were pulled into the crush — dozens of hands wrapping around them, bodies pressing close in celebration.

And Max — Max felt the weight of Charles wrap around him. Legs settled instinctively at his waist, an arm hugging his neck. The moment stilled. Charles looked down at him through damp lashes, his grin wide and trembling, tears caught at the corners of his eyes.

Max’s breath hitched. The roar of the crowd continued, but for Max everything narrowed down to just Charles.

[Instagram - Image description: Pictures of Charles with his team, full of navy blue uniforms, champagne flying. The moment when all his team engulfed Charles while in Max’ arms, Max’s face smiling up to him. The podium pictures, with Max and Oscar on each side. Charles being hugged by Prince Albert. Arthur and Lorenzo clinging to him in the after-party. Max, Charles and Pascale's picture after dinner, their hair cut. Charles and Rocky. The anthem photo with Charles in front of the royal family.]

@charles_leclerc

Thank you for this moment. All my love to every person that helped me get here.

[Youtube - Video description: The screen shows Charles in his Red Bull car, speeding through the narrow streets of Monaco, as he navigates the tight corners of Sainte Dévote and Casino Square. The sound of the engine roars, and the crowd cheers in the background.  

Charles crosses the finish line, the checkered flag waving. His car slows as he takes the final corners, the crowd’s cheers growing louder. The camera cuts to his face inside the cockpit, a mix of relief and joy visible as he removes his helmet.  

Charles is lifted into the air by Max and the Red Bull team surrounding them, clapping and cheering. The camera captures the smiles on everyone’s faces, a shared sense of triumph.

Charles stands on the top step of the podium, his Red Bull race suit gleaming under the lights. The crowd below chants his name, their voices echoing through the streets. Tears well up in his eyes as he lifts the trophy, the Monaco anthem playing in the background.  

He makes his way through the crowd to his family. Pascale pulls him into a tight hug, her tears of joy evident. Arthur and Lorenzo clap him on the back, their faces glowing with pride. Andrea and Joris shake his hand, their smiles wide as they congratulate him.

The camera follows Charles and Max as they run toward the harbor, laughing and shouting. The two of them pull Christian in the sea, then Charles pushes Max before jumping himself. The team cheers from the edge, their laughter filling the air as the three emerge from the water, soaking wet but grinning from ear to ear.  

The streets are packed with fans, their faces painted in yellow and blue. Children wave flags, and adults hug each other, tears streaming down their cheeks. 

The video ends with a wide shot of Monaco at night. The city glows with lights, the harbor still alive with celebration. Fireworks light up the sky, their reflections dancing on the water. The banners in his name sway gently.]

@charles_leclerc

New home win. Monaco 2025.

F1 STANDINGS · 25 MAY 2025
Position.	Driver.	Team.	Points.
# 1.	VER	RED BULL	139
# 2.	LEC	RED BULL	128
# 3.	PIA	MCLAREN	115
# 4.	NOR	MCLAREN	102
# 5.	SAI	FERRARI	90
# 6.	RUS	MERCEDES	81
# 7.	HAM	FERRARI	58
# 8.	ANT	MERCEDES	32
# 9.	TSU	RACING BULLS	21
# 10.	ALO	ASTON MARTIN	18
# 11.	STR	ASTON MARTIN	18
# 12.	ALB	WILLIAMS	8
# 13.	GAS	ALPINE	2
# 14.	...

The Barcelona post-race press conference had been going for a while, the room buzzing with questions as Max and Charles sat side by side, their black fireproofs contrasting against Lewis’ bright red. Max held the winner's cap at an angle, a relaxed smile still lingering from the victory, while Charles leaned back on the couch, his third-place finish doing nothing to dim the team’s dominance.

A reporter took the mic, her expression sharp and purposeful. “This question is for both Max and Charles. The FIA just released a statement saying they’re opening an investigation into Red Bull’s cars. Any comments?”

The room stilled.

Max’s eyebrows lifted slightly as he processed the question, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before it settled into something more neutral. Charles blinked once, his features giving nothing away.

But inside, his mind jolted like the snap of a gearbox catching wrong.

Why now? The cars were fast, yes—but they weren’t untouchable. McLaren, even Mercedes, had been quicker on more than one Saturday. Their upgrades came faster, their development package constantly evolving. Red Bull, by contrast, had made only marginal gains. Strategic excellence, consistency, driver synergy — that was their edge. Not something suspicious. Not something worth this.

And still, here they were.

It wasn’t even shock anymore. It was something colder. This again. The subtle accusation woven into every headline, every question. The unspoken implication that their success couldn’t possibly be real.

Never mind the battery of post-race checks. Never mind the impromptu tear-downs. Never mind the drug testing Charles had been summoned to four separate times already this season alone — Max, even more.

His jaw tightened. The math didn’t add up, but it didn’t need to. Not for them to investigate. Not when the results had become politically inconvenient.

He kept his face still, unreadable. No flash of emotion, no rise to the bait. He didn’t glance even at Max, didn’t fidget. 

Max leaned into his mic, his voice smooth. “Well,” he said, “that’s… something, isn’t it?” he continues, as if he was waiting for Charles' direction.

They traded a look, and Charles subtly sighed. “They do their job, and this is fine. Our cars, they are entirely in the regulations. What you see out there, it is nothing questionable. It is only the result of an incredible effort from the team and a car optimised for drivers who push it to its limits.”

The reporter shifted to Max. He didn’t flinch. If anything, his relaxed posture made him look amused.

“If anything, it’ll only confirm what we already know: that our cars are just as good as the drivers who race them.” Max says.

Max turned slightly toward Charles, his mouth twitching upward. Charles didn’t return the smile, not quite, but his eyes flicked toward his teammate, gaze softening minutely.

The journalist moved on, but the atmosphere had shifted. 

Charles leaned back again, hands folded loosely in his lap. His posture was effortless, but for anyone watching closely, it carried weight—a quiet tension. Not resignation.

Resentment.

F1 STANDINGS · 1 JUN 2025
Position.	Driver.	Team.	Points.
# 1.	VER	RED BULL	157
# 2.	LEC	RED BULL	153
# 3.	PIA	MCLAREN	125
# 4.	NOR	MCLAREN	106
# 5.	SAI	FERRARI	96
# 6.	RUS	MERCEDES	89
# 7.	HAM	FERRARI	73
# 8.	ANT	MERCEDES	34
# 9.	ALO	ASTON MARTIN	30
# 10.	TSU	RACING BULLS	22
# 11.	STR	ASTON MARTIN	18
# 12.	ALB	WILLIAMS	8
# 13.	GAS	ALPINE	2
# 14.	...

Chapter Text

The late afternoon sun hung lazily over the harbor, casting a warm golden glow across the bobbing yachts. Charles sat barefoot on the deck of his boat, legs stretched out, a half-empty bottle of water rolling lazily beside him as the sea rocked them. Somewhere toward the bow, a few of their friends were laughing and shouting, out of sight but still close enough to feel their presence. It was peaceful. 

Charles really needed it.

Joris leaned against the wheel, fiddling absently with one of the lines. His movements were slow, distracted. Charles noticed it.

"You know." Joris started, hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he should bring it up, "I saw the pic with your mum and Max.”

Charles tilted his head back against the deck cushion, squinting up at him. "Hm?" he asked, the memory unfurling easily, making him grin.

"How did… that even happen?" Joris said, voice cautious. 

Charles shrugged lazily, feeling far too content to think much of the question. "I just invited him. We were free, and mum was going to come." 

Joris hummed under his breath, shaking his head as he turned the wheel idly. Then, after a beat, he asked, quieter, "So, you really are friends now?"

Charles blinked at the tone — not accusing, exactly, but loaded. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, giving Joris a confused look.

"I mean… yes? He’s nice." Charles said simply, like it was obvious.

Joris watched him carefully, still toying with the wheel, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. Charles caught it and frowned, defensive before he even realized.

"What? He is!" Charles insisted, sitting up straighter.

He thought about it — how Max was so much easier to be around than people gave him credit for. Everyone bought into that angry, asshole image. But if you actually knew him... if you let yourself know him... it was bullshit. Max was blunt, sure, but he was kind. Loyal.

Charles had never bought into the way Max performed for the media—the gruffness, the sharp edges. He’d seen past it early, recognized the quiet steadiness underneath. Max didn’t fill silences the way others did, but that was the thing—he didn’t have to. They could sit for hours in the same room, Charles scrolling through playlists while Max muttered about some in-game strategy, and it never felt like too much.

They didn’t need to like the same things. Max didn’t care about fashion, and Charles had zero interest in geography debates, but somehow, it worked. They shared workout sessions, traded music recommendations — Max’s taste was surprisingly decent, when he wasn’t pretending otherwise — and after China, they’d started slipping into these unplanned detours, walking through cities after races, Max pointing out random facts about streets and buildings while Charles dragged him into cafés and stores.

He was the one who sought Charles out before the weekend, insisting on dinner because they’d agreed — needed — that time to talk, to truly understand each other. The same guy who, despite his disdain for social media, let himself be dragged into those ridiculous games and challenges. 

And fine, maybe Charles didn’t love them either, but he tried to find the fun in it — especially when Max was there, not just tolerating but enjoying it, laughing at his dumb jokes like they were actually funny.

It was easy. It was good.

"I know." Joris said, grinning now, like he was holding onto some inside joke. "He’s very nice to you."

Charles stilled at the word choice. "What do you mean?"

Joris raised an eyebrow. "Come on, Charles. You know."

"No, I don’t know." Charles said, folding his arms. "What are you talking about?"

"Max is nicer to you than to literally anyone else." Joris said. "You think that’s normal?"

Charles stared at him, unblinking.

"Okay." Charles said, voice tight. "We’ve known each other since we were kids. Of course, we’re closer."

Joris gave him a look. "Man, I was there. So was Pierre, George, Esteban… none of them babies you."

Charles opened his mouth, but nothing came out at first. Because… okay, yes. He got closer in five months than Charles was with most of the drivers who, although friendly, weren’t close.

Joris sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. The late sunlight caught on his wristwatch, flashing gold.

"Y'know there's… gossip about Max." Joris muttered.

Charles narrowed his eyes. "What gossip?"

Joris shifted uncomfortably. "Look, I’m not saying this to stir shit. I just think you should know. Some people are saying Max… you know, might like guys. And—"

"Stop."

Joris looked at him, startled.

"I mean it." Charles said, sharper now. "Stop."

Joris held up his hands in surrender. "Alright. Just— I'm not trying to be a dick about it. I just think if you keep getting closer, people are gonna start talking about you too and I know how you get about this stuff."

Charles’s jaw clenched. His chest felt tight in a way that had nothing to do with the gentle rock of the boat.

"There’s nothing happening." Charles said firmly. "He’s my friend. I like being his friend. And I’m not gonna screw that up because people can’t mind their own business."

Joris studied him for a long moment, then sighed again, softer this time. "Okay." he said. "Okay, man."

The breeze picked up, tugging at the loose strands of Charles’s hair. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the noise of the city just a faint hum in the background.

And if Charles was suddenly thinking way too hard about what Max meant to him… well. That was his problem to deal with.

Later.

In a stroke of cosmic balance — or maybe just bad timing — all the campaigns had to be shot within the same week. 

Charles didn’t mind the chaos too much, his schedule was jam-packed anyway, as the week prior brought a slew of campaigns to shoot, thanks to APM and Loewe, both eager to capitalize on the summer season. Max had a field day with the situation, teasing Charles mercilessly.

“Thanks for the vacation” Max texts smugly. “With you stuck there theres no tiktoks challenges its bliss.”

Charles, unimpressed, sent him a middle finger emoji and vowed to ignore Max for the rest of the week. That resolve lasted precisely one day.

The next afternoon, Charles was already complaining. 

“ THEY DONT COUNT FOR DRIVERS NECK! ” he texted Max after a long session with APM. Attached was a short video of himself, exasperated, showing a choker awkwardly tied around his neck. The clasp, meant to sit comfortably, was instead held together with a thread to accommodate his neck.

Max read the text immediately, but the typing bubbles blinked in and out for ages, annoying Charles who waited bored. Finally, Max replied, “It’s pretty thou Looks good”

Charles couldn’t help but smile at that. And spent the rest of the shoot sending Max pictures.

(If those pictures ended up saved on Max phone, it was just because his WhatsApp settings were on downloading all media.)

The media day passed in a blur of interviews, with reporters hounding both drivers about the FIA’s ongoing investigation. 

Charles, still, didn't mind playing PR babysitter to Max as the others' patience continued to thin. So Charles handled the press with easy, giving lighthearted but measured answers. 

By the time the interviews wrapped up, Max was visibly drained and pissed off. As they walked toward the car that would take them to their hotel, Max slung an arm over Charles’ shoulders with a heavy sigh.

“Thanks.” he murmured, his tone unusually soft.

Charles smiled, looping an arm around Max’s waist in return. “Anytime.” he said simply.

When race day arrived, so did the rain—transforming Montreal into a heart-pounding, spray-soaked showdown. Max, predictably, carved through the field with ruthless precision, leaving Charles a distant P2 in his wake. 

Further back, Lewis battled Oscar in P4, though something was clearly amiss with the McLaren — not that Ferrari could capitalize, because, well… Ferrari things.

Chaos erupted as McLaren botched their pit stop, then a yellow flag flew when Carlos and George tangled mid-overtake, sending them both spinning. But the real shock came next, what could only be called a miracle, Lance, who’d stunned with P6 in quali, somehow emerged in the madness to take P3, sealing arguably the best drive of his career as rivals failed around him.

Christ, Charles loved this season.

The party thumped around them, all pulsing bass and champagne bubbles, glitter catching on shoulders and eyelids alike. Charles had claimed a booth tucked into the corner, surrounded by a few Red Bull engineers who’d wandered over despite this being Aston’s celebration. The party had been going long enough that Charles was definitely tipsy, enough to feel warm, not yet enough to be careless.

Max returned with two drinks, sliding into the booth with the smugness of a man who’d just stolen a crown.

“Aston Martin’s still trying to romance me,” he said, nudging one of the glasses toward Charles. “Their hospitality fridge is basically a free buffet now.”

Charles took it without hesitation.

“Should I be jealous?”

“Only if you want their expensive champagne.”

“Or Adrian Newey.”

Max sighed, the kind that came from somewhere deep. “Okay, that I miss.”

Charles laughed and bumped their shoulders, taking a sip of the drink. It was sweet, fresh, dusted with those ridiculous gold flakes people insisted on using, strong too.

They settled back into conversation with the rest of the table — voices rising, music vibrating the floors. Max’s thigh pressed against Charles’s. Neither moved away.

Then Max stiffened. Not dramatically, just a subtle shift in his spine Charles felt against his side. Charles followed his gaze.

Near the bar stood Lawrence Stroll, one hand clasped on Andy Cowell’s shoulder, the other mid-gesture as he held court. There was a brightness to his expression — pride that radiated like it had weight.

“Can you imagine?” Max murmured, voice just above the music, almost sarcastic.

Charles tilted his head. “Hm?”

“This amount of paternal pride for a P3.” Max swirled his beer, staring at the foam like it held answers.

Charles hummed, watching from his periphery the guarded way Max delivered the… joke? 

It was always like this in the rare times Max mentioned his father — the unspoken tightrope Max walked between respect and resentment. Charles had seen the way Jos used to scream at a nine-year-old Max in karting paddocks, yet Max still spoke of him with a twisted sort of respect, still chased his approval.

For Charles, Jos had been, frankly, a mid driver at best — one decent season with Benetton, then a career spent mostly as a backmarker or a pay driver. Sophie, Max’s mother? Now there was a legacy worth admiring.

Lawrence’s laughter boomed across the room, his hand now clapping Andy’s back. The way his eyes tracked Lance — proud, uncomplicated, present — sent an old ache through Charles’ ribs. So many of them had fathers like this: Ollie’s dad doting on every move, Carlos Sainz Sr. haunting every paddock and FIA. Anthony Hamilton’s entire existence.

And that’s why Charles still didn’t hold against Max the way he respected and wanted Jos around, because Charles? He had a ghost who’d died believing in a lie.

He bumped shoulders with Max, a silent I know. “Well, I did.”

A beat. Max grimaced — fuck, that was a landmine — but before he could dwell on it, Charles lifted his fist. Max looked at his face for moment, before tapped his own against it, their knuckles brushing.

“For all the flavors of daddy issues.” Charles deadpanned.

Max’s laugh punched out of him, sharp and startled. He buried his face in his hands. Charles watched, pleased. 

It was good, seeing him let go.

“Max!” Red Bull member yelled from the end of their table. “You have to settle this,” a Red Bull strategist said, already pulling out his phone. “Monaco 2022, was your pole lap actually better than Checo’s or was it just track evolution?”

Charles groaned softly. Max, on the other hand, lit up. “Are you serious? My S3 was two tenths up even before—”

“Bullshit!” cut in a mechanic.

And that was that. More engineers got pulled and Max had that dangerous gleam in his eyes. And trully, trully, Charles loved to talk racing with Max, but the man got so passionate when there was a team of people he wanted to convince about something Charles didn't have the energy for it.

Quietly, he slipped out of the booth and headed toward the buffet, muttering something about needing food. 

That’s when he saw Lance.

Tucked near a window, half-concealed behind an oversized fern, Lance looked like he’d carved a calm pocket out of the chaos. Charles approached, steps measured. 

He pulled out the chair opposite him, the scrape of wood nearly lost beneath the bass.

“Mind if I join your exile?” Charles asked, voice low enough to be ignored if necessary.

Lance glanced up, surprised but not displeased. He nudged a plate of untouched hors d’oeuvres toward the center. “Be my guest. Estie just left.”

Charles smiled, grabbing a crostini.

“Congrats again on the podium, it was a great race.” 

Lance gave a simple shrug with a small grimace, but muttered a thank you. Charles didn’t mind; that was typical Lance. Painfully introverted, outworldly privileged, and somehow still nicer than most of the drivers. 

Across the room, a shout erupted from Max’s corner. Charles flinched, sighing.

Lance caught it. That earned him a real smile — small, genuine. “You’re seriously dodging whatever’s happening over there, huh?”

“Pot,” Charles replied dryly, “meet kettle.”

Lance raised his hands in mock surrender. His glass clinked gently against the table. 

Charles exhaled and let himself enjoy the quiet and peace for a moment. A quiet chuckle from Lance pulled him back. He was looking across the room, towards…

Lawrence again. Laughing with Alonso now, one arm slung around Fernando’s shoulders like a proud uncle. The pride on his face hadn’t dimmed.

“He must be proud.” Charles said.

Lance blinked, caught off guard. “Hm?”

“Your dad.”

“Oh, yeah.” He said simply, after a moment, he continued oddly sincere, “At the end of the day, that’s why we all do it, no?”

Charles huffed. “There’s also the money.”

Lance huffed a laugh but tapped a jittery rhythm against his glass. The quiet that followed was comfortable in the way it sometimes is between people who've hovered around the same orbit for years without ever quite connecting, and for a moment, the fern didn’t look like camouflage. Just shade. A hiding place, maybe. But a gentle one.

And Charles, like before watching Lawrence with Max, wondered how it would be to have this piece of privilege, to not need to perform.

Charles’ eyes lingered, watching Alonso wink at Lance, making the younger man laugh again. 

Teammates, he laughed and looked for Max.

He was at the bar now. Head tipped back, laughing. His hand braced on the shoulder of someone Charles didn’t recognize — tall, tousled hair, probably a junior engineer or PR flack from another team. Sharp cheekbones, confident grin. 

Max leaned in to say something. The guy murmured something back. Max leaned closer to hear.

Charles felt it before he understood it, a slow, prickling cold up his spine.

There are rumours about Max, Joris had said.

Of course Max could talk to whoever he wanted, but the guy’s hand was lingering near Max’s elbow, and Max wasn’t shaking him off. And… 

Idiot. 

This wasn’t a Red Bull event. This was Aston Martin’s party, full of FIA suits and sponsors who absolutely noted things like World Champions getting handsy with random men in dark corners. Max knew better, should know better. 

Charles tipped back the rest of the drink Max had gotten him, “Congratulations again, mec.” he said quietly to Lance, tapping his shoulder.

Then he moved. Three long strides, effortless, cutting through dancers and engineers alike.

“Max.” he said, light and easy, like he hadn’t crossed the room with a mission. “Can you grab me another one of those drinks? The barman didn’t know what it was.”

Max turned, blinking at him. “Now?”

“Unless you’re busy.” Charles asked quietly, but held Max confused glance.

The stranger caught the shift instantly and stepped back. “I should… find my team.” he mumbled.

Max gave him a short nod, already facing Charles again. “What is this about?”

Charles tilted his head. “My drink?” he said, all innocence, even though now the man left, Charles felt a little embarrassed about his reaction.

Max stared at him for a second, then his mouth twitched. “You could’ve just said you missed me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Charles said, nudging him toward the bar.

And if his hand lingered on Max’s elbow a second longer than it had to, well, that was just to make sure he actually went.

Charles was absolutely wasted. There was no other way to describe it. He was in the middle of the room, dancing, or at least attempting to, which only showcased his utter lack of rhythm and, frankly, self-awareness. Most of the party had cleared out by now, leaving him as one of the last few stragglers.

And Max.

Always Max, who’d spent most of the evening playing bartender to Charles’ demands, despite the barman knowing Charles' simple order by the third drink he got.

By the fifth round, Max had caught on — Charles wasn’t just drunk. He was competitively drunk. Now, at drink number eight — or maybe nine, Max had lost count — Charles was spinning in slow, lopsided circles, his dress shirt untucked and his grin sloppy at the edges.

The game had officially stopped being fun.

Max returned, a bottle of sparkling water in hand, weaving through the scattered cups and wasted people. He approached Charles, who, oblivious to the world, was swaying like the music was still playing full blast.

“Here,” Max said, holding the bottle out, “please drink this.”

“Oh, my Max!” Charles greeted him like they hadn’t already spent the entire evening together, slinging an arm over Max’s shoulder with a lopsided grin. “What it?” he asked, already grabbing for the bottle.

“Just try it,” Max said, twisting the cap open. Charles took a sip and immediately scrunched his face like a child tasting medicine.

“Ugh.”

“Nope, keep drinking.” Max said, tilting the bottle back toward his mouth, holding his nape. Charles reluctantly complied, grimacing all the way.

“You should head back to your room.” Max suggested, glancing at the other man’s dishevelled state. Charles’s hair was damp with sweat, strands falling messily across his forehead.

Max wondered for a second when, during Charles' rebrand after moving to Red Bull, the man decided shorter hair was his new style.

“I don’t remember where.” Charles admitted, pouting slightly, his accent even thicker in his current state.

“Do you have your key?” Max asked, trying to suppress a sigh.

Charles nodded enthusiastically, nearly losing his balance as he fumbled around in his jeans. After a small eternity, he produced the key card, waving it triumphantly.

Max scanned it, noting it was on his floor. Convenient, at least. “Alright, come on, I’ll take you.”

“Really?” Charles beamed, his face lighting up like Max had offered him a million euros. His eyes were half-closed now, and he was leaning heavily against Max, who suddenly became acutely aware of how close they were.

“Yeah, Charlie. Let’s go.”

Charles didn’t argue, keeping his arm draped over Max as they stumbled outside for an Uber. 

By the time they were parking in front of their hotel, Charles had almost fallen asleep and Max had to pull him out of the car.

In the elevator, Charles let his weight fall on Max and fully rested his head against Max’s shoulder. Max tried not to watch them on the elevator mirror, but found it was impossible to take his eyes off where Charles watches him back – the messy hair, the relaxed curve of his mouth, the foggy eyes.

When the elevator dinged open, Max gently nudged Charles “Let’s get you to bed.” he said, hesitant to break the quiet.

Charles blinked at him, a soft, sleepy smile spreading across his face as he followed Max out into the corridor. With Charles practically glued to his side, they made it to the door.

Charles managed to unlock it himself, swaying slightly as the door clicked open. He nearly lost his balance when he turned, and Max instinctively reached out, his hands steadying Charles at his waist. 

He turned in his grip, chuckling softly, and Max couldn’t help but laugh with him. The sound was infectious and, again, Max wasn’t even close to sober himself.

“Thank you.” Charles said, his voice warm and low as he reached up, wrapping his arms around Max’s neck.

Max froze for a second, but quickly leaned into the hug, as it lingered on. 

It felt good, grounding, even. But then Charles shifted, his nose brushing against Max’s neck and stopping at the corner of his jaw.

“Thank you.” he murmured again, the words ghosting against Max’s skin.

Max shuddered, his breath hitching, and then Charles pulled back slightly, but not far. His eyes, though still heavy with alcohol and sleep, had a clarity that wasn’t there earlier.

Before Max could process it, Charles leaned in, placing a gentle kiss on his cheek. His lips lingered for a heartbeat too long, and Max’s hands reflexively tightened on Charles’s waist.

Max swallowed hard, closing his eyes, and forced himself to step back. 

“You should drink more water and get some rest.” he said, his voice steadier than he felt.

Charles smiled again, soft and content, standing there with the same relaxed look on his face. Max gave a quick nod, then turned and left, the image of Charles’s warm gaze seared into his mind long after the door clicked shut.

F1 STANDINGS · 15 JUN 2025
Position.	Driver.	Team.	Points.
# 1.	VER	RED BULL	182
# 2.	LEC	RED BULL	171
# 3.	PIA	MCLAREN	133
# 4.	NOR	MCLAREN	116
# 5.	SAI	FERRARI	102
# 6.	RUS	MERCEDES	89
# 7.	HAM	FERRARI	85
# 8.	ANT	MERCEDES	36
# 9.	ALO	ASTON MARTIN	34
# 10.	STR	ASTON MARTIN	33
# 11.	TSU	RACING BULLS	28
# 12.	ALB	WILLIAMS	8
# 13.	GAS	ALPINE	3
# 14.	...

Max leaned against the wall of his drivers room, glaring at the floor as the FIA official exited. Another doping test. This time, before qualifying. He wasn’t sure whether he was more annoyed at the constant disruptions or the insinuation itself.

He was somehow used to it, but he didn’t like the look in Charles' eyes when they were approached, or the way the Monégasque had skipped away to his room after and, seemed, if the noise Max could hear through the wall was anything to go by, cursing in French to someone.

As if Charles – hardworking, talented, blisteringly fast Charles – needed doping. 

Max sighed heavily, scrubbing a hand down his face. The whole thing was ridiculous, but only added to stung from Jos’ recent behavior. His dad had been making snide comments since the moment Red Bull announced Charles’ signing. Jos hadn’t outright said it, but Max could read him well enough. The older man was worried Charles might overshadow Max, might become the team’s golden boy because of his marketable image and undeniable skill.

The thing was, Jos wasn’t wrong about Charles’ talent. Max knew that better than anyone. Charles was good. He was a threat – not because of favouritism or branding, but because of raw performance. That fact didn’t make the snide remarks any easier to stomach.

Which made it even more frustrating when he remembered Montreal.

The memory had looped through his mind way too many times: Charles’ lazy, tipsy laughter; the lopsided grin; the unexpected weight of him leaning against Max like it was the most natural thing in the world. And then that kiss — if you could call it that.

Not even a real kiss, Max reminded himself for the hundredth time. Just Charles’ type of European behaviour. Just a casual, cheek brush Charles probably didn’t even remember.

But Max did. Too clearly.

He ran both hands through his hair, tense. What he needed was a strong gin and tonic and maybe an hour at the boxing gym. Preferably in that order, for added fun. 

The sound of footsteps broke through his thoughts, and he looked up to see Christian approaching, phone in hand.

“Max,” Sarah said, her tone measured, “we need you in the briefing room in ten. FIA follow-up.”

Max clenched his jaw and nodded, pushing himself off the wall. He wasn’t in the mood for more FIA nonsense, but that didn’t matter. It never mattered. He was a driver; his job was to show up, race, and win.

By the time dinner rolled around, Max was still simmering with tired irritation, but Charles seemed to sense it. Without a word, Charles steered the conversation away from racing entirely, probably to diffuse whatever anger the man himself feels.

“I told Arthur about tomorrow.” Charles said, grinning as he topped off their lemon water. “He wants to rope Lorenzo into it, too. I have to talk to Christian. It would be hilarious.”

Max huffed a reluctant laugh.

“We… are doing family therapy during summer break.” Charles continued, casually. “To hash things out. But now we’re keeping it light again. Because of the season, you know?”

Max hummed, nodding along. “I couldnt imagine doing family therapy. To open this type of Pandora's box.”

Under the table, where their knees were just barely touching, Charles nudged his.

“‘Pandora box’?” he teased.

Max rolled his eyes, “You dragged me to buy Pokémon cards last week, we're both nerds.”

Charles chuckled and popped another bite from his plate. “Do you do therapy, though? For yourself?”

“Performance therapy, yeah.”

“Not… regular therapy?” Charles asked it gently.

Max barely restrained another eye-roll. “I know what’s wrong with me, Charlie. I don’t need to pay someone to remind me.”

Charles didn’t flinch, “Well, I also remember my dad dying of cancer, how Ferrari took years of my career and I sometimes race through anxiety attacks cause I think of Jules.”

Max blinked, turning to look at him. Charles didn’t meet his gaze, eyes on his plate, voice even.

“It’s not about remembering the past, it's about reading your present and planning the future. I wouldn't been able to leave Ferrari, with my dad's and Jules’ dreams there, if I didn't work on it at therapy.”

“And you think I have problems to deal?”

Charles took a moment to answer, “I don't think anyone in this line of work doesn't have some.”

He’d been with Charles long enough to know when the man was trying to push without pushing. It was something Charles was weirdly good at — talking about Max, to Max, without making him feel cornered. And Max knew himself well enough to know how easy it was for him to snap. He had a hair-trigger temper, a tendency to shut down or pull away the second things got too personal.

But Charles had a way of getting past that. His words were never careless. They came with weight, with meaning—but without pressure. He spoke from his own mess first, made space, never demanded.

And maybe that’s why Max didn’t get angry. Didn’t throw up his walls. Instead, he just reached over, stole a piece of fish from Charles’s plate, and popped it into his mouth, not even attempting to dodge the napkin thrown in his face.

The Red Bull Ring shimmered under the afternoon sun, the mountains behind it hazy and golden. Charles adjusted the collar of his fireproof undershirt and glanced toward the familiar curves of the track. Spielberg had always been neutral ground for him — pretty, efficient, never emotional, but today felt different.

It was his first race as a Red Bull driver at their home race. And despite everything — despite the years at Ferrari, the drama of his transfer, the never-ending doping tests and the whispers about car legality — he felt a peculiar itch to prove himself here. Like a student desperate to impress his new school.

He hated that feeling, but knew it well.

Still, today wasn’t for racing. Not technically. A two-seater Formula 1 car, and matching bright yellow helmets so cheerful they were borderline cruel.

He rolled his shoulders and turned toward Max, who was analising his own helmet beside the car. The thing was a gaudy yellow, the Red Bull logo practically screaming from every angle. Max caught his eye and raised an eyebrow, smirking.

“Look at us.” Charles muttered. “We never looked so good.”

Max snorted, but before he could respond, someone behind the cameras yelled, “Recording in three, two—”

Max elbowed him. “Go on. Do the intro.”

“No, you do it,” Charles said, stepping back.

“You’re the new guy.”

Charles shoved his shoulder laughing. “You’re the champion.”

Max shoved him back. “You're prettier.”

“Cut!” the director barked. “Guys, please , not again. Just one clean take.”

They both turned to glare at the crew, then at each other.

Charles sighed dramatically, stepped toward the camera, and muttered, “Fine. I will start.” He kicked at Max’s boot as punishment for the smug smile he was wearing.

“ This afternoon,” Charles began, slipping into his announcer voice, “we’ll do something we never thought we would: race together.”

Max immediately cracked up beside him.

Charles kept going, lips twitching. “Thanks to the innovation of one very ambitious Red Bull engineering program, we’ll be driving a two-seater F1 car and experiencing first-hand how the other handles with added weight.”

Max leaned into frame, deadpan. “Okay. Who goes first?”

“You.” Charles said, no hesitation.

“Why?”

“Because I did the intro.” He winked at the camera.

Max sighed like a martyr. “Whatever I do, you’re gonna make me pay twice later, aren’t you?”

“ Yup. ”

The crew gave them the go-ahead, and they moved toward the car. Charles ducked into the back seat while Max slid into the front cockpit. A mechanic handed them back their matching helmets—  yellow, smiling, indistinguishable. He put it on anyway.

As Max clipped into the seat ahead of him, he twisted back. “Do you think this is actually safe?”

Charles rolled his eyes. “Please. We’re too expensive for Red Bull to let us die.”

Max barked a laugh, shaking his head as he adjusted the steering wheel.

Charles leaned back in his seat, listening to the engine fire up, the roar dulled slightly by the helmet. Through the sliver of visor, he could still see the track ahead.

The car jolted forward, the sound of the hybrid engine reverberating through Charles’s chest like a second heartbeat. He braced instinctively, even though he trusted Max’s driving more than almost anyone’s. Still, sitting in the back seat with no wheel, no pedals, no control — it was both thrilling and mildly terrifying.

The car surged onto the Red Bull Ring like it belonged there. The g-forces pressed him into the seat, and Charles couldn’t help the loud, whooping laugh that tore out of him.

The radio crackled. “You alive back there?”

“ Barely! ” Charles shouted, grinning inside his helmet. “I think my stomach is in my throat!”

Max laughed, too, a short, pleased sound. “Lightweight.”

“You’re taking the corners like we’re in Q3!”

“We are filming.” Max replied flatly. “You want them to say I’m slow?”

Charles shook his head. “No, no, keep going! I love it.”

Max hit the apex of Turn 3 with a little flair — nothing unsafe, just showy enough to make the back end dance for a second.

Charles howled through the radio. “ Madman! That was gorgeous.”

“You sound like you’re enjoying yourself a little too much.”

“I am enjoying myself,” Charles said, surprised by how true it felt. “This is the most fun I’ve had all year.”

There was a pause. The engine’s hum filled the silence, and for a moment they were just flying. It felt so good.

They took a few more laps. Max still pushed it — probably to impress the engineers, maybe to make the footage look good — but he was clearly having fun now too. Charles could feel it in the way the car moved: precise, playful, almost like Max was dancing with the track.

When they finally pulled into the pit lane, the brakes were hissing. Max got out first and gave Charles a hand up, the Monegasque holding on his shoulder, got out of the car altogether. There was something about being driven at that speed that made even his trained body a little dizzy.

Charles yanked his helmet off and ran a hand through his damp hair, grinning from ear to ear.

“You screamed like a child.” Max teased.

“I had fun like one.” Charles shot back. 

Max smirked. “Your turn to drive.”

Charles raised an eyebrow. “Hope you’re ready to lose your spleen.”

Max handed him the helmet. “I’m ready. I trust you.”

Charles froze for a beat.

It was said casually, just another quip in their back-and-forth, but the weight of those words lodged in his chest. In this world — this circus of them — they didn’t say things like that lightly.

Charles took the helmet, holding Max’s gaze for just a second longer than necessary.

Then he smiled, sliding it on. “Buckle up, Verstappen.”

Still, he wasn’t going to go easy with the man. 

Where Max had performed in the track, Charles attacked it — clipping apexes, braking late, accelerating hard, taking every corner like it had personally offended him. At the 9th Curve, the car tilted just enough to make Max’s voice explode through the radio.

“ CHARLES! ”

Charles grinned under his visor.

“Max, keep it steady. Lewis is 1.4 seconds behind.” GP’s voice brought him back to the present.

“Copy.” Max replied, his tone clipped. He adjusted his braking point into Turn 3, smoothing out the corner as GP fed him updates about the cars behind.

“Lewis is 3.2 ahead.” Rocky’s voice cut through the roar of the engine. “Oscar and Carlos are fighting behind you. Watch your mirrors.”

“Copy.” Charles muttered, his eyes flicking to the mirrors. The orange and red were locked, but they were closing in fast. He tightened his grip, defending into Turn 3, thinking strategy – Max and Lewis hadn’t pitted yet, and Charles tires were well enough, if…

Then, chaos.

Oscar lunged into Turn 4 — too late, too sharp. His front wing speared into Charles’ rear tire, sending the car into a violent pirouette. For a heartbeat, the car hung sideways, wheels clawing at empty air — then physics took over.

The world inverted in a sickening lurch. The car flipped, crunching onto its halo before the barrier rushed in like a freight train. Metal screamed. Carbon fiber shattered. The impact ripped through the chassis, the car bouncing in a shower of sparks before slamming down again, skidding on its side in a grotesque slide.

Silence. Then the crackle of radio static.

"Charles! Charles, respond!"

But all that answered was the hiss of twisted steel and the distant wail of sirens.

Everything went black.

Around the final third of the race, GP’s voice broke through the calm. “Yellow flag in Sector 2. Incident between Leclerc and Piastri.”

“Are they okay?” he asked immediately, his voice sharper than he intended.

“Piastri is out, Charles at the barriers. We are checking. Focus on the track for now, Max.” GP replied firmly, but there was a tightness in his tone that made Max’s heart skip and felt cold wash over him. 

Max’s grip on the wheel tightened. He kept his car steady, hitting his apexes, but his focus was already slipping. He passed the crash site on the next lap, his eyes flicking toward the barriers. Charles’ car was in pieces and flipped over, lodged deep in the tires. Marshals were waving flags, and Max’s stomach twisted at the sight of the ambulance pulling up.

“GP.” Max tried again, his voice taut. “What’s going on with Charles?”

There was a pause, static filling the gap, and then GP replied, “Still no updates, Max.”

Max felt cold run over his entire body. He powered through the next few laps, but his thoughts kept drifting. 

(“I sometimes race through anxiety attacks cause I think of Jules.”)

He could picture Charles in that car, hands gripping the wheel in frustration, trying to signal that he was okay. 

But what if he wasn’t? 

(“We’re too expensive for Red Bull to let us die.”)

The unknown grasped at him, threatening to derail his focus completely.

“GP.” he said again, sharper this time. “Get Christian on the radio. I need an update on Charles.”

It took a moment, the longest moment of the race for Max, before Christian’s voice finally came through. “Max, Charles is responsive. He’s out of the car, but he’s injured. He won’t finish the race.”

Max let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Injured but responsive. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough for now. “Got it.” he muttered, forcing himself to push the worry aside. Charles wouldn’t want him distracted.

He clenched his jaw and refocused, his eyes narrowing on the track ahead. There were still laps to go, and Lewis was closing the gap. The fight to the finish was intense, the Ferrari driver pushing hard, but Max held firm, defending with precision until the checkered flag waved.

He crossed the finish line, victorious, the crowd roaring in celebration. But the usual surge of triumph wasn’t there. As he rolled into parc fermé, he didn’t leap out of the car or revel in the moment. His eyes scanned the sidelines, searching for any sign of Charles.

Stepping out of the car, Max handed his helmet to a crew member as soon as he left the scale and headed straight for Christian. He accepted the congratulatory handshake for the hundreds of cameras on them, but didn’t bother with pleasantries.

“If I'm asking for news on Charles, you tell me.” Max said, his voice tight.

Christian blinked, caught off guard. “Max, I–”

But Max was already walking away. He spotted his personal assistant hovering near the media line.

“Sarah.” he called, his tone brooking no argument. “Get in touch with Joris. Find out what hospital Charles is at and get me an update.”

Sarah’s eyes widened, but she nodded quickly, pulling out her phone. Max didn’t wait for her response before heading toward the podium preparation area.

He went through the motions of the interviews and celebrations: standing on the podium, spraying the champagne, and answering questions during the interviews. But the whole time, his jaw was clenched, his smile forced. Every cheer from the crowd felt muted, drowned out by the pounding in his chest.

Later, in the quiet of the cooldown room, Max sat on the edge of a chair, rubbing his hands over his face. His head was spinning, and his heart wouldn’t stop pounding.

Why?

He had seen crashes before, terrible, fatal ones. Racing was dangerous — they all knew that. But this… this was different. The image of Charles’ car in the barriers wouldn’t leave his mind, nor would the tight knot in his chest.

With a frustrated sigh, Max dropped his hands and stared at the wall. 

Sebastian sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, Maya curled up against his side. The Austrian sun streamed in through the tall windows of the farmhouse, but inside, the air was heavy.

On the screen, Charles’ Red Bull spun violently into the gravel. The camera caught the impact from three angles — the sickening snap as the car hit the barriers, the silence that followed, and then the smoke curling gently into the sky.

Charles didn’t move.

The replay played again, slower. The halo had taken the brunt of it. But still — he didn’t move.

The broadcast crackled with desperate radio chatter.

Oscar, Yuki, Liam, Lewis: “Is he okay?”

Pierre’s voice: “Charles? Can someone answer?”

Max’s voice, clipped and sharp: “I need an update on Charles.”

Sebastian leaned forward, one hand gripping the throw pillow like a lifeline.  “Come on, Charles…” he muttered.

He hadn’t known Jules well. Not like Daniel, who had grown up alongside him, or Massa and Alonso, who’d lived within the heart of Ferrari when it happened. But he remembered Jules' voice — soft, unfailingly polite. The way he moved on track: fluid, fearless. A good racer, a future champion.

And he remembered Charles at his funeral.

Come on, come on, come on, Sebastian thought, as the screen stayed frozen on the wreckage and the halo.

Beside him, Maya’s small voice trembled. “Daddy… is he going to be okay?”

He wrapped his arm around her instantly, pulling her onto his lap, her cheek against his chest. He doesn’t say anything because he wouldn’t lie.

Come on, kid, come on.

The medics were at the car now. Stewards surrounded it, crouched low. The camera panned in—

—and there. Charles’ hand, grabbing at the halo. Clutching it like a tether.

Sebastian let out a breath that he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“He’s awake.” he told Maya gently. She didn’t answer, just held onto him tighter.

They stayed like that as Charles was lifted from the wreck, carefully loaded into the ambulance.

Behind him, quiet footsteps. Hannah was there, standing just past the couch. Her hand settled lightly on Sebastian’s shoulder. No words. Just a steady presence.

Finn had come into the room too. He stood in the doorway, pale. “I’m glad you don’t race anymore, Dad.” he said.

Sebastian gave him a small smile, but his eyes soon went back to the screen.

Thank you, Jules, he thought.

F1 STANDINGS · 25 MAY 2025
Position.	Driver.	Team.	Points.
# 1.	VER	RED BULL	207
# 2.	LEC	RED BULL	171
# 3.	PIA	MCLAREN	133
# 4.	NOR	MCLAREN	126
# 5.	SAI	FERRARI	114
# 6.	RUS	MERCEDES	104
# 7.	HAM	FERRARI	103
# 8.	ALO	ASTON MARTIN	42
# 9.	ANT	MERCEDES	40
# 10.	STR	ASTON MARTIN	39
# 11.	TSU	RACING BULLS	30
# 12.	ALB	WILLIAMS	9
# 13.	GAS	ALPINE	3
# 14.	...

Chapter Text

Charles sat alone in the hospital room, the sterile white walls and faint hum of machines surrounding him. His shoulder throbbed dully, a constant reminder of the crash — as if Charles needed more. 

The adrenaline that had masked the pain on track was long gone, leaving him with a sore, heavy ache and a gnawing anxiety.

He glanced at the clock on the wall, its ticking amplifying the silence. The wait felt endless, his mind spiralling into worst-case scenarios. 

What if it was worse than he thought, felt like? What if his season was over? 

He hated how easily his mind went there. How fragile his faith could be, even now.

He thought of the way his father used to say before every race. Head high. Always. But for what?

And Jules — Jules who had believed in him more than anyone ever had. Jules who never even got to fight this fight.

He thought of the headlines that would come. “Red Bull’s Risk: Leclerc Out, Title in Jeopardy”, “Same Story, Different Color”, “The Prince Without a Crown”.

He shook his head, trying to push the thoughts away, but they clung to him stubbornly.

The sound of the door opening broke his reverie. Andrea stepped in, followed by a doctor holding a tablet. Charles sat up straighter, wincing as the movement pulled at his shoulder.

“Finally.” he muttered, his voice strained. “Please tell me what’s going on.”

Andrea offered him a reassuring smile as he pulled up a chair beside the bed. “Let’s take it one step at a time.”

The doctor spoke first, the soft accent pronounced in every word in her calm and professional tone “Mr. Leclerc, the good news is that your injuries are not severe. Your CT scan is clear, so the concussion is not worrying. Your shoulder, though, you have a complicated sprain. It’s painful, but it won’t require surgery.”

Charles let out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding, relief washing over him in waves. “So, what does that mean? How long until I’m back?”

She nodded, “With proper rest and physiotherapy, you should recover in two to three weeks. It’s important to avoid putting strain on the shoulder, though. Your medic is setting the recovery plan.”

Charles frowned, the timeline sinking in. 

Three weeks. The words hit Charles like a hammer. His mind raced, calculating what that meant. That means another race zeroed. Two missed opportunities. Two chances for someone to surpass him and for Max to extend his lead.

“The championship...” he murmured, barely aware he’d said it out loud. His chest tightened.

All that work. The points lead he’d clawed for. The hours in the sim. The sacrifices. The doubts he’d pushed down all season. 

Every year, it was something. A DNF. A shitty strategy. A crash. A body that betrayed him when he needed it to be perfect.

“Don’t. Don’t start this.” Andrea sighed, already hearing the familiar rhythm of Charles’ spiral before it picked up speed.

“Your best chance is to be patient on recovery…” The doctor tried to offer optimism, but it didn’t help.

“But three weeks?” Charles snapped, sharper than he meant to. “Do you even know what that means? Max, Oscar, they’ll-”

“Charles.” Andrea’s voice cut in. Low. Firm. Strange. “Look at me.”

He didn’t want to. Not really. But he did.

The doctor took the cue and quietly excused herself, shutting the door with a soft click. The silence that followed was sudden, almost suffocating.

Andrea shifted in his chair and ran a hand through his hair. Then, without preamble, he said, “Do you know why I left Ferrari for Red Bull?”

Charles frowned, caught off guard. 

“What?”

“I left because I’ve known you since you were what, thirteen? Fourteen?” Andrea’s voice was unpolished, almost sheepish. “You were a lanky little string bean with too much hair and this ridiculous fire in your eyes.”

Charles blinked fast. His throat was already tightening, but he tried to swallow it down. “Andrea...”

“I believed in you back then.” Andrea went on, awkward but unwavering. “And I still do. You could be driving a tractor in a muddy field and I’d still say you’re championship material. Because you are. Team doesn’t matter. Points don’t matter. Two zeroes don’t matter. You matter.”

Charles stared down at his lap.

“You’ve come back from worse, Charles.” Andrea said gently, and Charles shakes his head. “You’ve dragged yourself out of more holes than I can count. You don’t give up. It’s not in your bones.”

“It’s two races.” Charles whispered, still stubborn. Still scared. “That’s a lot of points.”

“And?”

It was such a simple word. But it landed with unexpected force.

Charles hesitated. He didn’t want to ask the next question, but he needed to.

“Do you really think I can still fight for the title?”

Andrea didn’t even blink. “I’m a man named Ferrari who followed you to Red Bull. I think that says everything about how much I believe in you.”

That made Charles laugh — a short, startled sound that tugged on his shoulder. It hurt. He didn’t care. The pressure in his chest eased, just a little.

Andrea leaned back, hands behind his head now. “Two weeks is nothing. You rest. You come back. And when you do, we go full beast mode.”

“Please never say ‘beast mode’ again.” Charles groaned.

“No promises.”

Charles laughed this time. “Thanks, Andrea.”

"Always." Andrea answered back, a crooked wink sent Charles' way.

Charles had just finished a call with Lorenzo and his mum when the hospital door creaked open. Joris was nearby, hunched over a small table with his phone pressed to his ear, coordinating the logistics of Charles’ recovery.

“Hey.” Charles greeted softly, attempting to sit up before his body reminded him otherwise. He winced and gave up with a sheepish smile. His voice was a little drowsy, his words tinged with the lingering haze of pain meds.

“Hey, yourself.” Max replied, stepping in and giving Joris a quick nod before making his way to the foot of Charles’ bed. “I was going to bring flowers, but it was closed.” he joked, his lips curving in a dry smile.

Charles chuckled, the sound light but genuine. “Disappointing.” he teased. “How was the race?” Charles continued, his tone turning wistful. “They won’t tell me anything, and they don’t not let me have my phone with a concussion.”

“I told you!” Joris protested from across the room, barely pausing his phone conversation.

“Telling me the podium isn’t enough.” Charles shot back, rolling his eyes.

Max raised a hand in mock surrender. “It was boring. Your crash was the only interesting part. 54G, I heard. Beat my record of crashes.”

“Cinema-worthy?” Charles asked, a hint of playfulness cutting through his grogginess.

“Definitely.” Max said with a grin. Then, softer, “How are you?” He moved to sit carefully at Charles’ side, just near his hip.

“Bad shoulder sprain. Three weeks off.” Charles’ voice was regretful.

Max let out a low whistle. “That sucks.”

“Good for your championship, though.” Charles quipped, but his smile was teasing, lacking bite or resentment.

Max shook his head. “That’s boring. I prefer winning with you on track.”

The sincerity in Max’s tone made Charles blink, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks. “You do?” he asked, voice quieter than before, tinged with emotion he wouldn’t normally let show.

“Yes, come on.” Max replied, his ears turning pink as he looked away for a moment. “When are they letting you out of here?”

“They said I can fly today.” Charles answered, suppressing a yawn. “But apparently Red Bull’s fretting. They’re pushing the plane for tomorrow night”

Max chuckled. “Are you going to Monaco?”

Charles nodded. “Yeah.”

“I’m flying tonight.” Max offered. “If you want a ride.”

Charles’ smile in response was radiant, lighting up his bruised and bandaged face.

Max hadn’t actually been planning to go to Monaco. He was set to head to Silverstone after Spielberg, but seeing Charles in that hospital bed, his shoulder wrapped and his face bruised, Max couldn’t deny the instinct to get him home personally as quickly, and safely, as possible.

As soon as he left Charles’ room, Max pulled out his phone and texted his pilot to rearrange their plans. Nice would be their destination now.

Later, Max sat in his usual seat on the back of the jet, trying not to hover when Charles was helped aboard by Joris and Andrea. His fingers itched to offer support, but he stayed put, watching as Charles slowly made his way to sit beside him. Andrea gave Max a nod before heading to sit in the row in front with Rupert, leaving Charles to collapse into the seat.

Charles’s laugh was soft but genuine as he picked up the flowers with his uninjured hand. “Thank you, Max.” he said, bringing them to his face. The smile that followed was warm, even if his movements were sluggish.

“How are you?” Max asks.

“Glad that I get to go home tonight.” Charles replied, turning his head toward him. “Thanks.”

Max nodded. “Your mother must have been scared.”

“She is fine.” Charles said, then added with a small sigh, “Lorenzo is worse.”

Charles was relieved to be flying out tonight. His mother had been strong, gentle as always. But Lorenzo — Lorenzo had been a storm. One Charles was very reluctant in having to deal with.

“Yeah... I’d lose it if I saw Vicky crash like that.” Max nodded slowly, like he understood more than Charles had said. 

Charles hummed in reply, his body too heavy with medication and exhaustion to keep the conversation going. 

Just then, Gracie, one of Max’s stewards, stepped over. “We’ll lift off soon.” she said gently. “But I’ll take care of your flowers until then.”

Charles handed them over with a small smile and a quiet thank you.

“You sure you’re okay?” Max asked again once the jet began taxing.

“Yeah. Just tired.” Charles mumbled, his head already leaning against the seat. Max hummed back, but said nothing more until the seatbelt signs turned off. Then, he leaned closer.

“Do you wanna lie down in the back? It’s a two-hour flight.”

Charles blinked up at him, confused for a second. “Huh?”

“The bed.” Max said, tilting his head toward the back of the jet. “You can rest there. If you want.”

A beat passed. Then from somewhere ahead, Joris let out a chuckle, though he pointedly wasn't looking in their direction when Charles looked up.

Charles hesitated.

Max didn’t share the bed. That was a known thing. He let teammates and friends fly with him all the time, but the private cabin? The jet was basically Max's second home, and the bed was his and his alone. Jet’s law. 

This... he wanted to say it was different, but it wasn't, not really, if he was honest it wasn't any different than what else Max did for him.

“If that’s okay?” Charles asked, voice quieter now.

Max nodded once, already standing to help him up. His hand hovered, unsure of where to offer support without hurting him. Eventually, he just let Charles use his arm as balance.

Charles felt heat rise to his ears. Even though no one was watching, he felt watched. They moved down the narrow aisle, Max leading. At the rear of the jet, he opened the cabin door and stepped aside to let Charles in. Inside was a simple, clean bed, barely a double.

Charles sat on the edge of it slowly. Max crossed the small space, pulled out a pillow and a folded blanket from a closet, then placed them gently near Charles’s side.

He ran a hand through his hair, hesitating for a beat — then gave a small smile and turned to leave. The door closed with a soft click behind him.

Charles stared at the wall for a moment. Then, with mechanical motions, he slid off his shoes and carefully laid back against the pillows. The mattress dipped slightly under him, and the blanket was soft, smelling faintly like Max’s cologne.

He pulled the second pillow close without thinking, his mind foggy. Somewhere beneath the sleepiness was a strange thought, that maybe Max would stay. Maybe they’d talk a little more.

Which made no sense.

Charles blinked at the ceiling, too tired to hold the thought in place. Within minutes, he was asleep.

Lorenzo was already waiting by the terminal lane when the stairs from the jet touched the tarmac.

Max had asked earlier if someone would be picking Charles up, and Charles had said no—just a driver. But apparently, Lorenzo had decided differently.

The second Charles stepped off the jet, he saw him. Arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes darting between Charles’s sling and the bruises on his face. Charles let out a long breath before turning to Max.

“Thank you.” he murmured, offering a quick hug — awkward, one-armed, his flowers a little squeezed between them, but genuine.

“Get well soon, okay?” Max replied, low and steady, against his hair.

Charles lingered a beat longer than necessary. Then he turned, adjusting the grip on the flowers as he limped toward Lorenzo.

Lorenzo didn’t speak right away, just moved to open the car door for him. They slid into the back seat together, and the silence was heavy.

Lorenzo followed Charles up to the apartment without asking. He didn’t speak, just quietly carried the small luggage. The tension stretched thick between them, like something old and fragile pulled too tight. Charles didn't protest, but every step down the corridor echoed louder than it needed to. His breathing was shallow. His left arm was a quiet, aching reminder of the weekend they were both trying not to name aloud.

The apartment was dim. Charles hadn’t been back in weeks — there was still a bowl of fruit on the counter, all of it gone soft and sweet. The air smelled faintly like lavender and plastic, the scent of unopened mail and forgotten laundry. He walked to his kitchen to find a place to put his flowers, then stopped to watch it for a moment, touching one of the yellow petals before turning back.

“You don’t need to stay.” he said, his voice even, but thin like paper left too long in the sun.

Lorenzo hadn’t answered. He walked a slow, deliberate loop around the apartment — his fingers brushed a framed photo on a shelf: the three of them, little Charles grinning with a gap in his teeth, Arthur still round-cheeked and clinging to his older brothers, Hervé’s shadow behind the camera.

“You’re hurt.” Lorenzo finally said, turning back.

“I noticed.” Charles replied dryly. “It’s just a sprain.”

But the sharpness in his tone lacked any bite, and Lorenzo’s eyes narrowed in that way that meant he knew — he always knew — when Charles was lying.

“It’s not just a shoulder when you end up in a hospital.” he said. “When you black out on track. You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”

Charles flinched. Subtly. But Lorenzo saw it.

“I’m fine.” Charles said, pushing off the door and walking past him toward the living room. “You can go.”

“You shouldn’t be alone.”

“I want to be alone.”

That landed like a brick between them.

The silence turned thick. Stagnant. The kind of silence that wasn’t empty at all, but crowded with ghosts. They both stood in it, knowing what was trying to claw its way out — what the crash meant. What it dragged up from the mud and memory.

Lorenzo’s voice cracked when he finally spoke. “You scared the hell out of me. It was just like-”

“Don’t.” Charles spun around, sharp and fast. 

“Why not?” Lorenzo’s voice rose, frustration bursting through. “You think I don’t remember Jules every time you get in that car? That I wasn’t there? That I didn’t watch him disappear in that car, and then watch you come this close to-”

“Stop!” Charles’s voice raised, sudden and violent. “You’re not the only one who lost him, Lorenzo!”

“I know that!”

That was the thing — they had both lost him. People always talked about what Jules meant to Charles, how he’d been there from the beginning, like a godfather of sorts. But no one ever talked about what he’d meant to Lorenzo.

Jules had been Lorenzo’s best friend. The one person who saw through all the anger and silence of his early years. Their fathers were best friends too, but when Pascale moved in with Hervé, Lorenzo had shut down — prickly, private, brittle. And then Jules came around. Somehow, he cracked through it all in one go and they were inseparable from the start, always moving as one — at the track, at school, at home.

When Lorenzo started racing, it was Jules who cheered the loudest. It gave them something else to share — speed, adrenaline, dreams too big.

And Charles? Charles had been the little one. Always tagging behind, always trying to keep up. The shadow chasing two suns. He remembered Jules sneaking him snacks after training, ruffling his hair, laughing that karting should count as babysitting. He remembered wanting to be like them. To belong with them.

When Jules died… something broke in both of them that never fully repaired.

Charles turned away, pacing now, cradling his injured arm like it might anchor him. He stared at the wall but didn’t seem to see it.

“This always happens.” he muttered. “You come here, pretend to check on me, and then make it about everything else.”

“You think I’m pretending?” Lorenzo said. “Charles, we haven’t really spoken since you left Ferrari-”

“And whose fault is that?”

Lorenzo’s expression broke for a second. “You left.”

“I left because I had to!” Charles snapped, spinning back toward him. “Because I was drowning. You didn’t see it. You refused to.”

“It was your dream!” Lorenzo’s voice cracked. “Hervé’s dream. Jules’ dream. Arthur’s.”

“Yours too?” Charles snapped back.

Lorenzo stiffened. The word landed like a slap.

“I know you wanted to race too, I know it sucked when you needed to stop.” Charles said. His voice was quiet, too quiet — not cruel, but exposed, raw. “I know you did.”

“Well, I couldn’t.” Lorenzo bit out. “And I’m happy. I have a life. I’m proud of you.”

“Stop it.” Charles said. “Can we just admit it? That I was the spoiled brat who got everything while the rest of you gave up everything you had?”

“Nobody resents you.”

“Yes, you do.” He paused. His voice cracked. “I do.”

Lorenzo’s face crumpled in disbelief. The words hung there, awful and honest.

Charles kept going. Couldn’t stop now.

“He was your dad too, Lorenzo. But he gave everything to me.”

He paced again, faster now, as though if he stopped moving it would crush him.

“And now Arthur’s stuck doing shitty little brand deals to get noticed. Mama won’t accept help, even when I beg. And you-” Charles’s voice faltered. “You ask before you use my name. You ask, like you need permission when we both know it’s you who holds all the business up.”

Lorenzo didn’t speak. His mouth was tight. His eyes glassy.

“I wish I could time travel.” Charles said. He sounded small now. Young. “Back to when it started. To when we could’ve done things differently. When we still had time. If I had money, back then — enough to give you and Arthur a shot — maybe it would’ve been fair, maybe you would have raced, and Jules could be-”

His voice cracked.

“But it wasn’t. And I can’t fix it. And I hate that I cost everyone so much. That I keep costing you.”

“You didn’t.”

Charles shook his head. “But it feels like I did.”

The quiet that followed wasn’t peaceful, but it had softened. Like something cracked open between them.

“You never talked about it."

"What was the point?"

"The point was that we would have told you we were all willing.” Lorenzo said. “For you. Don’t carry it like we weren’t.”

Charles didn’t look up. Just let his head fall back, eyes to the ceiling.

“I don’t know how not to.”

The quiet stretched between them — not sharp anymore, but full. The kind of silence that holds the weight of too many years, too many unspoken things.

Lorenzo let out a long breath. He moved slowly, deliberately, and lowered himself beside Charles onto the couch. His knees bumped Charles’s. He didn’t pull away.

“I can’t lie to you and say that I don't think about what it could’ve been.” Lorenzo said after a beat, voice low. “If things had gone another way. If I’d pushed harder, or asked for more, or if we’d had even one year where money wasn’t a cord around our necks.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes fixed somewhere across the room. “But it’s been twenty-five years since, Charles, and I made peace with it. And I’m happy with my life, and I’m happy with the business we were able to build because of you."

He broke off. The silence held him for a moment before he found the words again.

“When you left Ferrari, I didn’t handle it well. And I know that now.”

Charles didn’t say anything. Just looked at him, eyes dark and unreadable.

“I wasn’t angry because… because I thought you failed.” Lorenzo continued. “I was angry because I thought you were giving up and throwing it away. I thought... I thought it would ruin you. And Arthur.”

He swallowed hard, voice roughening.

“But I was wrong.” he said. “I was so wrong. You didn’t burn it down. You built something else. You grew. And now you’re winning again. You’re... flying.”

Charles blinked. His fingers curled around the edge of the cushion like he needed something to hold onto.

Lorenzo looked down at his hands. “I should’ve trusted you. Not just as a driver. As you. And I’m sorry for not doing it then.” A long pause, “I love you so much, Charles. God, I do. I’m proud of you every damn day. But sometimes I still look at you and see that kid who used to cry himself to sleep because he was afraid to disappoint Herve. That baby who couldn’t reach the pedals but begged to try anyway.”

Charles let out a shaky breath.

“I guess I’m still learning how to let that version of you go.” Lorenzo said quietly. “And maybe I was scared that if you changed too much, I wouldn’t know how to protect you anymore.”

Charles’s voice, when it came, was hoarse. “You are always protecting me.”

“I know.” Lorenzo whispered. “And I didn’t always know how to and it seems I still don’t. But I’m behind you from now on. All the way. Even if I don’t understand every choice. Even if I get scared. I’m behind you.”

Charles closed his eyes, head dropping forward like the words had physically hit him.

“I’m sorry.” he said, barely audible.

“You don’t have to be.”

“But I am.”

Lorenzo reached out, uncertain, and laid a hand lightly on Charles’s good shoulder.

“You don’t have to carry it all alone.”

It was all he needed to hear.

After everything—the crash, the looming loss of the championship again, the weight of failure pressing down like it always did—Charles had been holding himself together with threads. But Andrea had been there, quiet and steady; Max, impossibly gentle in the silence between them; and now Lorenzo, speaking truths that had waited years to be said.

He let himself be held, just for a moment longer. Let himself feel small, and loved, and safe. No pressure, no helmet, no spotlight. Just his brother’s arms and a grief shared enough to carry — for once — together.

And in that quiet, Charles finally let himself go.

Seb: Are you really good? 

Charles: Yes. 2 weeks off tho

Seb: I saw the crash, that could have gone really bad.

Charles: I know. 

Charles: It is still 2 weeks

Seb: Well you were getting far too comfortable.

Charles: (tongue out emoji)

Charles: Did Hannah email you?

Seb: Hannah?

Seb: My Hanna?

Charles: No

Charles: Schmitz

Charles: She asked for your 'best email'.

Seb: Why

Charles: dunno

Seb: You didn't ask??

Charles: when it comes to hannah my answer is always yes ma'am

The email from Red Bull had been polite, almost casual: an invitation for Charles to spend race day at the Silverstone paddock. They framed it as entirely optional, emphasising that he could stay home to focus on healing if he preferred. But the undertone was clear: the PR would be really good to see the teammates supporting each other.

Charles didn’t mind. Honestly, he wanted to be there. Watching from the paddock, being around the energy of the team and the sport, felt better than being holed up in his apartment with nothing but Sky commentary and his own spiralling thoughts.

Later, as Charles packed his small suitcase, wobbling slightly with his one functional arm, his mother peeked through the doorway.

“Why are you taking so long for a two-day trip?” she teased, arms crossed.

“I’m thinking about what to bring.”

She rolled her eyes. “Just take whatever’s comfortable. You’re not the one racing.”

Charles pouted at it, but as she walked away, Charles was struck by an idea that made him grin to himself.

The morning of the race, Charles decided — on impulse, though he told himself it was strategy — that he’d ride with Max to the paddock.

Technically, he didn’t need to. His own obligations started later, and no one would question him for showing up on his schedule. But something about starting the day with Max felt... right. Grounding. Like he could catch some of the steadiness Max carried into race days, even when cloaked in his usual gruff silence.

He texted Sarah under the guise of curiosity but checked his phone five times in the minute after sending it. When she replied with Max’s departure time, Charles grinned to himself and headed to the hotel entrance to wait.

The morning air was brisk, a soft chill brushing against his face, cutting through the heat building under his skin. He was nervous. Ridiculous, really — he had nothing to be nervous about. But the sweater he wore clung oddly around his shoulders, too loud, and he couldn’t stop adjusting the sleeves.

When Max finally appeared, Charles caught sight of him before he was seen. Max was gesturing, mid-conversation with Sarah and Rupert, his hands sharp in the air, brows furrowed in a way that meant he was either focused or frustrated. Or both. 

Charles stepped forward, making his entrance deliberately light. Almost casual. He reached out and tapped Max’s arm.

“Good morning.” he said, voice breezy. He smiled, because he couldn’t help it.

Max turned to him, words falling off mid-sentence. His eyes landed on Charles’s face — then dropped, sharply, to the sweater.

“Is that-” Max started, squinting.

“Yup.” Charles nodded, smug.

A beat. “Why?”

He could have said a hundred things. Because it was funny. Because it would piss off the press. Because he wanted Max to notice. But all he said was the most basic part of the truth:

“I’m supporting my teammate.” Playful. Safe. 

Max stared, and Charles saw it — the flicker of disbelief, the pink crawling into the tips of his ears.

“Come on.” Charles said, nudging his arm gently. “Everyone hates you here. Since I can’t be in the car supporting you, the best I can do is make my position clear.”

It came out half-joking, but the truth beneath it sat stubborn in Charles’s chest. He hated how they treated Max here, the strongest place to treat the man like a villain he was not. It made something twist in him. Made him want to protect Max in ways that weren’t always practical or possible. And this — the sweater, the presence, the early wake-up — was his way of trying anyway.

Max shook his head slowly, somewhere between confusion and reluctant amusement. “And the best way to do that is wearing my merch?”

Charles tugged at the hem of the ‘Unleash the Lion’ sweater, a bright blue beacon of absurdity against the muted tones of the hotel exterior. “Exactly.”

Max just stared again, more of that familiar weight. And now Charles felt it, heat rising in his own neck and wondered quietly if maybe he was over doing this. Max wasn’t smiling, not yet. Just looking. Quiet and intense in that way that made Charles feel more than he expected to with this little stunt.

Before it could stretch into something unbearable, Sarah cleared her throat. “The car is here.”

Max blinked, like he was surfacing from something. He gave a curt nod, but his eyes lingered on Charles a second longer than they needed to. Then they both moved toward the waiting car, steps falling in sync.

Without a word, Max reached for the door and opened it for him. Charles ducked into the car, biting back a smile.

And maybe — just maybe — he let his arm brush against Max’s as he slid in, close enough to feel the warmth of him even through all that ridiculous, Lion-branded fabric.

The paddock was buzzing with energy as the race time loomed closer, but Charles couldn’t shake the irritation bubbling beneath his calm exterior. Most of his team was preoccupied with getting Liam ready for the race. And as much as he was getting used to the kiwi presence, it still pissed him off how a rookie driving his car.

His too fast, too responsive — but entirely in regulations, thank you very much, FIA — car.

Charles sighed inwardly, his arms crossed as he leaned against a wall. The car wasn’t easy, not for him, not for Max. There was no way a rookie would manage to finish a clean race in it, let alone score points.

At least there would be time to fix the inevitable damage before Spa. That was the silver lining. He focused on that thought, trying to ignore the itch of frustration crawling under his skin.

A Red Bull staff member approached him with a polite smile, gesturing toward the team’s waiting area. Charles hesitated for a moment, half-considering turning back. Maybe he could sit with Lawson’s family instead? It’d be better to endure the smug satisfaction of people who seemed a little too pleased about his injury than having to sit near Jos.

He rolled his shoulder, wincing slightly as the movement pulled on his still-healing injury, and decided to face it.

“Good morning.” Charles greeted curtly as he entered the waiting area. His gaze flicked around the room, carefully avoiding Jos, who gave him a brief, almost dismissive nod.

The man gave Charles chills. He always had, it was practically a lifelong condition by now. Charles couldn’t deny he felt partly relieved with how little the man showed up on the paddock these days.

Instead of lingering, Charles moved to chat with one of the engineers. It gave him an excuse to sit near the monitors, far away from Jos, but close enough to keep an eye on the race preparation.

The minutes dragged, and the weight of the impending race settled heavier on his shoulders. Now that the whole shirt thing cooled down, Charles’ mind kept going back to the fact the car, his car, was out there on the grid without him. He knew it was temporary, but it didn’t feel that way. Not entirely.

Eventually, the restless energy got the better of him. He stood, adjusting his jacket, and headed toward the fan area to sign autographs and take some pictures. The fans at least were lively, their cheers and questions swirling around him like a storm.

Between them, a reporter got close and asked about his injury, and when he would be back.

“I’ll be ready for Spa.” Charles said confidently. “I’m healing quickly, and I’ll be fully prepared by then.”

Another asked about Liam stepping in for him. Charles allowed a small, wry smile. “I just hope he doesn’t total my car.” he joked, earning a few laughs from the crowd.

“Who are you rooting for today?” one reporter asked.

“Max, of course.” Charles replied without hesitation.

The follow-up question came swiftly: “But a good result for him today could widen the gap between you two in the championship standings. Does that worry you?”

Charles tilted his head slightly, considering his words. “I’m not in the mood to wish my teammate a DNF.” he said, his tone light but firm. “I’m sure Max will have a great race, and we’ll work on bridging the gap later.”

Then came the inevitable question about the ongoing investigation into their cars. Charles sighed, rolling his eyes subtly.

“Well,” he began, a touch of dry humor in his tone, “we’ll have Liam proving just how much of our performance comes from the car, won’t we?”

The crowd chuckled, the tension breaking slightly, and Charles allowed himself a small smile. It wasn’t the most satisfying way to spend race day, but at least he could hold his own, even when sidelined.

Max was mid-conversation with Sarah, leaving the Red Bull drivers’ room, distractedly trying to remove his bracelets and watch. The watch clasp was stubborn, as usual, and his fingers fumbled with it while Sarah held his spare gloves.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Charles chatting with GP, rapid-fire Italian between the two. His easy smile and chill demeanour were out of place amidst the pre-race tension, and he now wore a jacket covering that damn sweater.

Small mercies for his busy mind.

“Shouldn’t you be at the hospitality?” Max called out, his tone somewhere between teasing and exasperated as he kept struggling with the watch clasp.

Charles glanced over, a grin tugging at his lips. “Yeah, it was boring.” he said simply, before strolling toward Max, GP following a bit back.