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Remember that meme? The one that goes, "This is the worst day of my life… Your worst day so far"?
Well, his life had literally turned into that damn meme weekend after weekend.
He listened to the crowd, but it was like background noise, as if he were trapped inside a glass box, and only faint sounds from the outside world reached his ears. They were probably insulting him in Dutch, for all he knew. But he didn't care; Formula 1 had crossed the limits of stupidity long ago.
He was alone anyway, even with a thousand people surrounding him.
Always alone.
He preferred it that way because, deep down, beneath the façade of smiles, good moods, politeness, and correctness, he liked to be alone. All that social charm was just part of the game, the price to pay for being "il predestinato." He laughed, a painful yet genuine laugh. It stung a bit now, like a tingle from his lower abdomen to his stomach, accompanied by a subtle but unmistakable sense of nausea that left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Il predestinato. He never liked that nickname. Don't get him wrong; he was always proud of being the Tifosi's source of hope. He wasn't afraid of pressure; he was afraid of not being worthy of the incredible gift bestowed upon him by the world's most devoted fans.
How many times had he disappointed them? He had lost count. He thought he had left behind his tumultuous past, where mistakes were the norm, but once again, he was wrong. He had sworn that another Miami-like blunder would never happen again. Yet here he was, watching Max celebrate his pole position, in the most inconvenient place for a Formula 1 driver, through a screen, with hundreds of Dutch fans at his back, a numb mind, and a broken heart.
He had fought fiercely, but as usual, he had lost. And as usual, it was Max who stood at the top. He wasn't a jealous person, but it hurt to see time pass and things remain unchanged, as if he were stuck in the same unending cycle, unable to escape.
He wished for nothing more than to become a world champion, but beating Max was high on his list too. Imagine being the world champion and defeating Max! Well, guess what? In moments like these, he felt ashamed to even be compared to Verstappen.
He could already imagine the onslaught of comments flooding social media, tearing him apart.
Oh no, why was he going back to that? Why was he torturing himself with these thoughts? He needed to return to that numbness; it was better that way. If he couldn't feel, he couldn't get hurt.
He took a deep breath and composed himself. With a forced smile – one of those he had practiced thousands of times – he waved to the fans and got on the scooter that had finally arrived to take him back to the paddock.
Time for another reality check.
***
Sunday – race day.
Remember the meme?
He was so tired, beyond exhausted. All eyes in the paddock were on him. Journalists kept asking if it was worth staying with Ferrari. Even Will had asked him off-camera when he was leaving, as if they all felt pity for him. He could see it in their eyes every time.
But he couldn't quit. He wasn't doing this just for himself; he was doing it for them.
He finally took a look at his surroundings. He was in his motorhome, completely alone, still in his racing suit. His eyes fell on a thoughtful gift from a sweet fan: a large picture of him with his dad and Jules. Instant regret washed over him. His dad's face was directed towards him, hugging him, so proud. He was grateful that his dad couldn't see him like this. He had failed the man who had trusted him more than anyone in his whole life, the man who had given him the strength, purpose, and means to be where he was. And how had he repaid him? Like this, humiliating himself and making a fool of himself in front of the whole world. And Jules, dear God, Jules should be here instead. He should be driving this car. Surely, he wouldn't have failed the team repeatedly like this.
A knock on the door startled him from his thoughts. He wasn't expecting anyone in particular, probably just Fred or his family checking on him. He didn't have the strength to face them; he had already fulfilled his duty with the media, and now he just wanted to be left alone.
But the person on the other side of the door seemed persistent.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"What?" He opened the door and found himself looking directly into a pair of blue eyes, deep and piercing. He couldn't tear his gaze away from those eyes; they seemed to draw him in like a magnetic force.
Max. Always Max Verstappen. It felt like a cruel joke. Wherever he looked, Max was there to haunt him, turn his life into a living nightmare, and prove that he would never be as good as him.
Charles stared at him, unable to articulate a word. His heart raced, and he felt his mouth go dry, his hands sweaty, his heart broken.
"Hi," Max said. ‘Hi?’ Charles thought. Was that all Max had to say?
Charles still couldn't say a word; he was too tired to even contemplate why Max Verstappen, the legend, the prodigy, the messiah, was standing outside his motorhome. Max should be celebrating his win, and Charles couldn't even imagine what he'd be doing in Max's place.
But it's not like you'll ever be in his place, the same voice in his head mocked.
He tried to decide if he wanted to kick Max, slam the door in his pretentious face, or just give up. Giving up didn't sound like a bad option. After all, he had already lost everything he had fought for his whole life, so in perspective, he had nothing left to lose.
"What the hell do you want?" Charles finally said, officially losing his composure.
Max's eyes widened, and for a brief moment, Charles thought he saw a hint of panic. Max swallowed nervously, trying to control his accelerated breathing.
"I... I just wanted to check how you're doing." Charles found it hard to believe that Max sounded genuine. "Come on," Max continued, "I thought we'd left all this shit in the past, Charles."
Charles sighed wearily and released his grip on the motorhome's door, clearing the way for Max.
"I don't know what you want to hear, Max. I'm fine, or I'll be fine." Max was still, but his hands moved nervously. Finally, he stepped forward, almost entering Charles' personal space.
"I know you'll be fine," Max said. Charles looked at him in disbelief. He was getting angrier and angrier. "But I know how hard you are on yourself..."
"I'm used to living with myself. Thank you very much for your concern." Charles interrupted before Max could say anything else. Anger was better than pain. If he needed to scream and fight with Max Verstappen, of all people on the planet, he would do it. "Don't be a jerk, coming here pretending that you don't know how I am. But no worries, it's not the first time, and surely it won't be the last one. But at least now I know that I'm not good enough, so it'll be easier to move forward." Max remained still, his eyes locked onto Charles'. "There you have it. You have your answer. Now, leave me alone... please."
But it was Max Verstappen. He wouldn't just give up and walk away without a fight; he had a purpose.
"I'm sorry for your race," Max said. Charles blinked, trying to process what Max was saying. It felt like he was in an alternate universe or something. He should be hallucinating. "I'm going to leave now. I didn't mean to disturb you at all."
Max turned around and left, just as he had arrived, without being asked to. Charles was stunned. Had that really happened? Had Max Verstappen come to his motorhome to show sympathy?
He didn't have time to process it; he reacted on instinct and grabbed Max's hand. He didn't know what he was doing. This was new and strange for him. Max had always been a part of his life, one way or another, but they had never been close or friends. They talked to each other, even partied together a few times, but they had never gone beyond that, unlike Charles with Pierre or Max with Lando. Yet something inside him was screaming at him not to let Max go.
Max turned around, looking a bit flustered.
"I have gin and vodka. It's not the best quality, but it'll do," Charles offered. Max raised an eyebrow. "To celebrate your win and drown my misery away?" He hesitated a bit, unable to decipher Max's expression.
"Oh," Max said. Something unreadable crossed his face, and then he turned back toward the door and stepped inside the motorhome again. "I hope you have enough because it'll take a long time if we need to go through all of Ferrari's screw-ups." Charles laughed. He couldn't help it. He needed to stop justifying his team constantly.
And then they were both drunk and messed up, with an empty gin bottle in the middle of the room and sharing a half-empty vodka bottle. It felt good, like freedom, like a 'fuck you, Ferrari!'
"You were really a pain in the ass, you know? You loved pushing me off the track, you little shit! My father must have yelled at me at least a hundred times to man up and finally stop letting you bully me race after race," Max said, half-lying between the couch and the coffee table, a bottle in his hand, looking disheveled and messy.
"Hey! It's not true that I bullied you every weekend! The track isn't yours to do whatever you want, mate. If you're going to overtake me, do it with a battle; I'm not rolling out the red carpet for you, Verstappen."
There was a pause in the conversation, but it wasn't uncomfortable. In fact, Charles felt strangely at ease sharing a moment of complete silence with Max.
Max seemed lost in his own thoughts, with the bottle halfway to his mouth, gently biting his lower lip. Charles couldn't help but watch him. The blond man, with his tousled golden hair and piercing blue eyes, exuded a raw, primal magnetism that stirred something deep within Charles. It was almost surreal, sitting there on the floor of the motorhome, with the vodka bottle passing between them. Charles watched as Max's gaze seemed to wander into the depths of his own thoughts. His lips were nervously being nibbled, an endearing habit that sent shivers down Charles' spine. There was something about the way he did it, a mix of vulnerability and sensuality that was impossible to ignore. As Max raised the bottle to his lips, Charles' heart skipped a beat. It was as if time stood still, frozen in this moment of shared intimacy. He was both drawn to and unsettled by the magnetic presence of the blond man. The warmth of the vodka couldn't chase away the chill of uncertainty that settled over him.
They had always been there, in each other's lives, but now, in the close confines of the motorhome, Charles couldn't help but wonder if they were teetering on the edge of something more. A deep attachment had always been there, unspoken yet palpable, like an uncharted territory they both hesitated to explore. The realization that he actually liked the blond man was both exhilarating and disconcerting, like discovering a hidden treasure that came with its own set of risks.
"When I think I've got you all figured out, you go and throw in the most unexpected shit." This caught Charles off guard; he was completely absorbed in scrutinizing every detail of the Dutchman. He was so engrossed that he couldn't help but jump a bit in his seat when Max broke the silence. "I don't want to sound like a total idiot here, but I know what's keeping you tied to Ferrari. And trust me, it's not about pride, legacy, or all that shit people like to talk about." Charles squirmed uncomfortably in his seat; moments like these reminded him just how blunt and direct Max could be, which was why he had subtly kept his distance from him for so long.
“And according to you, what exactly has kept me trapped with Ferrari?” Charles rose to the challenge, even though he didn't feel comfortable at all. He had never been one to back down from a challenge, especially not against Max Verstappen.
"Them," Max gestured to the very same picture Charles had observed a few hours ago – himself, his dad, and Jules. "And I respect the hell out of everything you've done because of them. And because of you." Max concluded his sentence and took a swig from the vodka bottle for emphasis.
Charles froze.
A rollercoaster of emotions crashed through him. He felt incredibly unsettled and torn inside. He was pretty damn angry because Max had just poked at an extremely sensitive nerve. His dad and Jules? He'd never bring them up, not in a million years. They were like old scars that still throbbed. But on the flip side, there was this strange sense of relief. Finally, someone had the guts to lay it all out on the table, to call him out on stuff no one else dared to touch. Max was like a whirlwind he couldn't escape. And in moments like these, it hit him like a ton of bricks that Max meant more to him than anyone could have ever guessed, not even himself.
Then Max was right there, by his side, touching his leg with his hand and looking directly into his eyes. Charles didn't know how to react; Max looking so good and caring was more than he could handle right now. He wanted to cry, scream, laugh, kiss, hug, and say 'screw it all.' But he didn't do any of that. He just looked directly into Max's eyes.
“You'll do it, Charles. Because there's no one better suited for this." Max's voice was soothing, and Charles couldn't help but lean forward, seeking Max's warmth, yearning for his comfort. “You're the strongest stubborn motherfucker I've ever met in my life. And I've been waiting far too long for you to realize it, Leclerc."
Charles examined him. Really examined him, and in the depths of those blue eyes, he didn't see lies or hesitation but a challenge.
“Come and try to push me off the track, Leclerc; this time, I'm ready."
And Charles laughed. A happy laugh. It’s been so so so long…
What happened next is a story for another time.