Chapter Text
Austria 2019
* * *
Max was born to be a champion. Maybe not born, but at least raised. His father was a Formula One driver, and he learned from a young age that’s what he was meant to be, too. Long, cold nights spent in karts, his fingers freezing and his racing suit damp; being left in a strange place alone after losing a race— he swears it made him stronger. If you asked him, the years of whatever Jos did were worth it. He was driving for Red Bull, he was their number one driver, he was a winner. And that’s all that mattered.
He had qualified third. Not horrible, but not pole. Jos was expecting a pole. It was Red Bull’s home race after all. Max shook his head at the thought. He could still win the race, he could still make Jos proud. He really wanted to. At this point, it was all he wanted— to hear those words from his mouth. “I’m proud of you.” It’s something he’d still never heard from him, even after years of winning. He figured that maybe, it’s something he’ll never hear. Focus. Max takes a deep breath as the lights begin to go out.
It’s lights out, and away he goes.
By turn two, Max had dropped from P2 to P8. He wanted to scream, maybe. He wanted to run the car into the barrier so he could save the embarrassment of a low finish. He was Red Bull’s number one. He couldn’t race like this. He wanted to cry.
Mode push, Max. Mode push.
GP’s radio snapped him out of it. What was he doing? He still had time. A lot of it. He fought his way back up to P3 by lap 9. The pressure on his shoulders only ever increases; it begins to feel like he’s being strangled. He doesn’t even know what lap he’s on anymore. Should he even care? He passed Bottas in his Mercedes a while ago. Why isn’t he P1 yet? Is the race almost over?
Leclerc in front 1.2 seconds. Striking distance 4 laps.
Of course it’s fucking Leclerc. Always fucking Leclerc. Max began to push his car further. It’s a little bit strange to him, the way that he races against Charles. They’ve been rivals of sorts since they were kids on a karting track, but it’s never been quite the same sort of rivalry as the ones he’s had with others. It’s like they’re the only two on the track, the only two that matter. With others, it’s never really been a contest with the others of who is a better driver— it’s always Max. Charles seemed like the only person who even rivaled Max, the only one who could even compete. Maybe that’s what made it so good. It’s an unspoken thing between them, to race like no one else matters. Max thinks that it’s a mindset that his dad wouldn’t want him to have, but maybe, for once, he shouldn’t care. There’s something about the Monegasque that’s always made him like that. To not care. To feel like there’s nothing else in the world but them.
That’s exactly what it’s like right now. Just the two of them, battling it out at the Red Bull Ring. Max and Charles, less than half a second apart. Chasing each other, turn after turn, an eternal game of cat and mouse, it seemed. Pushing and pulling like the moon and the tides.
Gap to Leclerc 0.3
0.4
0.3
Time seemed to slow as both cars entered turn three. He felt the push, and he’s sure Charles felt the pull. Max saw the gap. He moved to the inside. He went wide. Glanced to the side and met Charles’ eyes through the visors of their helmets. He could taste victory. He could hear the roar from the sea of orange in the stands. He could taste the champagne waiting for him on the podium. He saw Jos, finally telling his son how proud he was. He pushed. Charles went off the track. Max couldn’t seem to care.
P1, Max. You are P1.
* * *
He won the race, of course. It was the first win for a Honda since Button in the 2006 Hungarian Grand Prix. Jos said nothing.
The air in the cooldown room was thick with tension when Max walked in. Charles stood in the center of the room, glaring at Max like he’d been waiting for him. Valtteri, who came in third, could not care less about Max’s arrival. Max braced himself as Charles approached him, fire in his normally calm green eyes.
“What the fuck was that, mate? Completely unfair! You left me no room!” Charles began to yell.
Max wasn’t really paying attention. He couldn’t focus on what the Monegasque was saying. He was dreading what would happen after the podium— how Jos would manage to critique him even though he fought his way back up to the top just like he wanted. Charles was still shouting. He looked at the man in front of him. Has he always been that way? Max thinks. His beautiful green eyes seem to shine more against the red of the Ferrari fireproofs, his dark hair tousled from the balaclava under his helmet. Max had never seemed to notice before. Even directly after a race, still sweaty and theoretically disgusting, Charles managed to look… Max shook his head. These thoughts were not something worthy of a champion. Not something Jos would think is okay.
“Are you even listening to me?” Charles demanded. “Why the fuck did you push me off the track? Do you think it’s funny or something?”
Max hardened his gaze and looked Charles in the eyes. “Oh that,” he said, “just an inchident.” He smirked as Charles only seemed to become more incensed. It’s quite amusing to see Charles this way: upset and bewildered— so far from his usual calm façade of “Ferrari’s Golden Boy”. Perhaps that amusement will become a problem, but he decides it will be a problem for a Max far in the future.
“You— you fucking dick!” Charles closed the gap between the men in a single stride. He shoved Max hard, the contact of his hands against Max’s shoulders sending a shock through his body. The Dutchman stumbled back, any previous sort of amusement gone. Max wasn’t sure what to do. He wasn’t even sure why he had said that. Who was he trying to be funny for? Valtteri? Charles? Why had he even wanted Charles to be upset? Why was he feeling this way? Max shook his head again.
“Stop fucking doing that!” Charles demanded. “What kind of person do you think you are? Pushing me off the track? Insulting me? I cannot stand you!” Charles was screaming at this point— Max was sure someone could hear them. He snapped into focus. There were tears forming in the Monegasque’s eyes.
What did I do?
“Charles—”
A woman stepped into the room to tell the drivers that the podium ceremonies were about to begin. She opened her mouth to say something but paused when she saw the two drivers. She motioned for Valtteri to come with her and he simply muttered something about “teenagers” under his breath on his way out the door. Max wanted to object— he’s nearly 22. Valtteri was right. He’s no better than some schoolkid.
Podium ceremonies pass in a blur. He tried not to look at Charles. He tried.
He couldn’t help but spare a glance at him as the Dutch anthem played. He seemed so happy when he received his trophy. His eyes are clear of the tears that threatened to spill earlier. Only Max— and Valtteri, he supposed— would even know he was almost crying. He looked brilliant, shining like a star on the podium, all eyes on him. It’s strange, as Max looked at Charles, it’s almost like he could feel that pull again. Something, some sort of force pulling them together, pushing them apart. Like a planet and its sun, like two magnets, equal and yet opposite. Max wondered if Charles could feel it too. He only realized he’s spaced out again when the champagne hits his face.
The taste of alcohol and the thrill of victory can only do so much to block out the sun that is Charles Leclerc.