Chapter Text
Charles has always loved music. Since he was a young boy, music has somehow been attached to him in one way shape or form, whether it be humming long to whatever was playing on the car radio, banging on all his mothers expensive furniture with filthy sticks he found outside or just vibing to whatever tune was in his head. Music has just always been there.
He remembers driving to karting tracks in the middle of winter, screaming to the lyrics of old 80’s songs with his papa, or waiting for the announcers at the track to stop talking so they would resume the music. He remembers his 7th birthday where his father had bought him his own racing helmet and kart, while his mother had gifted him a red notebook that had his name engraved on the front. He remembers how disappointed his father had looked when he spent the evening scribbling lyrics inside the red notebook instead of setting up the new engine of his kart that very same day.
So at 23, as Charles sits in his living room in Monaco with music playing through the sound system in his home, along with his special red notebook from all those years ago placed next to him, he can’t help but reminisce on his younger days, thinking about how the course of his life brought him here today. Internationally recognized, with 6 albums under his belt, 4 of those albums winning him countless awards along with 2 diamond certified songs. He really couldn’t have asked for a better outcome.
But besides the music, his family and the race tracks, there’s one thing that really stands out about his childhood, and that is a boy with the brightest blue eyes he’s ever seen. The boy who lives in his dreams and steals his breath away every time he sees him on TV. The boy with the chubby round cheeks and blonde hair with a smile that could overshine the sun.
Max Verstappen.
Charles had known Max, once upon a time. They knew one another very well, actually. Best Friends, Max had told him one day. They hadn't been older than 8.
***
Charles had met him on a Friday, he remembers that day well. Max had been standing across the road, looking at the group of boys longingly. His monster of a father stood behind him, speaking in rapid Dutch. One of the parents had called all the boys over to the ice cream truck that stopped there just after the race, offering to buy each one a scoop of their choice.
Pierre had dragged him along quickly, wanting to be one of the first in line. Max had stayed behind, his father keeping a firm hand on his shoulder, Charles to this day doesn't know what he had said to him, but whatever it was, had made Max’s face scrunch up into something of pure anguish.
By the time they had all received their treats, Jos had trudged back to the tent to work on Max’s kart. Max had stayed put, opting to sit on the ground next to his fathers van, leaning up against the tyres. Charles felt bad for the then— unknown— boy, not being allowed to have ice cream. They were all invited. And he knows Max wanted some, with that longing look in his eyes.
Max had won the race too, Charles remembers. He had finished so far ahead of everyone, surely he deserved some or other reward for his success.
So, after excusing himself from Pierre, Charles made his way across the road, looking to his left and right to make sure it was safe to cross, just as Maman had told him. Once across safely, he approaches Max.
“En veux-tu?” Charles starts off, holding his cone out in Max’s direction. Max looks up, confusion evident in his sharp features. Charles wracks his brain for the English he knows.
“You want?” He says, simply, sending Max a kind smile. Max looks shocked, looking around, worryingly. “Papa said no…” Max sighs, picking the skin around his fingers anxiously.
“But you can share with me?” Charles takes the opportunity to sit down next to him, holding the cone out in Max’s direction once again. Max takes it, his movements slow, calculated, before licking a bit of it. Charles watches his eyes close and his shoulders visibly relax.
“Dankjewel,” Max smiles, handing it back to Charles, but realizing Charles might not understand Dutch, so he follows up with a quiet, ‘thank you’.
“You are welcome, I am Charles.” The Monegasque smiles, moving his long brown hair out of his eyes and holding out his hand for Max to shake. Max shakes his hand, reciprocating the smile, “I am Max.”
***
And that's where it had started for them, an ice cream. Charles doesn't think he’ll ever forget that day.
He turns back to the TV, closing his notebook and turning the volume up, it’s nearly time for the race. Charles himself doesn't race anymore, he gave it up when he turned 14 and got a deal with a record label in America, his father made him choose between karting and music, and naturally, he chose music.
He and Max had grown up together, racing against each other nearly every weekend, until November of 2012, when he had told Max that it was his last race. He’ll never forget the devastation on Max’s face, and the way he forced himself to smile and tell Charles how happy he was for him.
Charles knows Max was happy for him, but he knows this was also hurting the Dutchman. Charles was one of his only friends in karting and he was leaving to pursue his own dream. He could understand Max’s disappointment, but he appreciated his support just as much.
He remembers the last time he ever saw Max in person, that very same day.
***
As they step off of the podium, Charles pulls Max in for a bone-crushing hug. “You did so good, Max! F3 is going to be great for you!!” He cheers, smiling big as the dutchman wipes his tears.
Just after the last race of the 2012 karting season, the team principal of Van Amersfoort Racing had approached Max and offered him a seat in F3 for the 2014 season, Max had been elated and so had Charles. He knew how much this meant for the Dutchman, how he had worked himself to the bone to get to this point.
Countless fights with his father, missing out on parties and football matches with his friends, missing school and his mom and sister, traveling across the entirety of Europe without having a home to go back to. Max had never really had anywhere he could call his ‘home’.
But now he's gotten an offer for a team that will hopefully get him into F2 and then into F1. That was Max’s ultimate goal and he was another step closer.
“Thank you, Charles,” Max buries his face into Charles’ neck, trying to hide his tears. He knew this was Charles’ last season and that after new years he would be moving to the US with his family to start his music career. If it were up to Charles, he would pack Max i to his suitcase and take him away, far away from the devil that is his father.
But he couldn't do that, Max (for some odd reason) loves his dad immensely and still feels like he needs to prove something to him. Max wouldn't go even if he had the opportunity to.
As he relishes in the hug, he’s pulled from his train of running thoughts from a yell coming from behind Max.
“Max! Kom hier nu!” Jos shouts, making Max jump away from Charles’ hold. He wipes his eyes quickly and makes his way over to his father, sending Charles a quick wave before walking away.
As Jos places a firm, possessive hand on Max’s neck, he turns around and shoots Charles an angry glare, one that makes him physically recoil.
To this very present day, the memory of that glare sends a shiver down Charles’ spine whenever he thinks of it.
***
As he watches the start of the Spanish grand prix, he sits on edge as he watches how Max battles Lewis, trying to keep up with the Mercedes driver, but it’s abundantly clear that Lewis was faster this weekend. He watches Max complain about his shifting and his tyre deg, frustrated that the race isn't working out as he wanted it to.
Charles sighs. He’s been rooting for Max since testing when Red Bull miraculously turned up with a very competitive looking car, one that was actually capable of winning races.
This was going to be Max’s championship winning season. He just knew it. He clapped as Max crossed the line in P2, grateful that the Dutchman was able to complete the race to the best of his ability safely. He smiles as he watches him on the podium, remembering the many he shared with him through their childhood.
He eventually turns the TV off, going to sit down at his white grand piano. He’s preparing to sing the anthem at the Monaco Grand Prix that is happening next week. He’s fucking nervous to say the least. Not only because he is performing the anthem of his home country, which is a great honor, but because Max is going to be there. He hasn't seen him in nearly 10 years, hasn't had any sort of contact with him.
The only time he’s seen or heard from Max was during race weekends, ever since he started racing in Formula 1. He doesn't even know if Max knows what he’s up to, Max doesn't listen to music, he never has. Charles doesn't even go by his full name, to the world he doesn't have a last name. He's only Charles.
Hell he doesn't even know if Max would remember him, though he knows in theory he will. There's no way Max could have just forgotten him after all those years they spent together in karting, competing and sharing ice creams.
Charles hasn't lost contact with Pierre, they stayed good friends. Yet, Charles has never been to a race with him before, not because he didn't want to, but with his world tour that lasted nearly 2 years and with covid, it just never happened. But Formula 1 had formally booked him for the anthem, to sing it on Sunday and he had agreed. Especially since it would be the first time that he would be performing in his home country. They don't have concert venues in Monaco, only in France.
So when he had gotten the opportunity he had immediately jumped at the offer, agreeing without hesitation. He wouldn't miss this for the world.
But with the high expectation of his performance and the probability of seeing Max again, Charles can’t help but feel nervous at the prospect of that. Seeing someone who he used to be best friends with , hell, Max had been Charles’ gay awakening. He’s the whole reason Charles hasn't been spotted with a single girlfriend like… ever.
He sighs, restarting the keys on the piano and starts to sing.
***
Charles scans his pass into the paddock on Sunday, smiling at the picture of him that pops up. It's from when he was much younger, when he was still karting. Pierre is standing next to him along with Anthoine and Esteban. Good memories.
As he makes his way down the paddock to the Formula 1 branded motorhome, he is bombarded by all the cameras and fans, thanking him for everything he’s done for them, saying how much his music means to them, asking for pictures. He gladly accepts as many as he can before he goes in, loving the interactions he has with his fans.
He eventually realizes he actually has places to be, so he hurriedly makes his way further down the paddock, politely declining any more fans of any more interactions, but before he gets to his destination he spots the Red Bull hospitality out of the corner of his eyes, he stops and stares at it for a little bit, watching the people sitting on the chairs outside, when he spots the last person he was expecting to see today. One person who has also crossed his mind nearly everyday.
Jos Verstappen.
He shakes his head and makes his way into the other building quickly, trying to will away the sinking feeling in his stomach. He didn't factor the fact that Jos would be here into his plans. But of course he is, Max lives here. He’s probably staying with Max at his apartment while he’s here.
His running thoughts are interrupted by a man with short, thinning gray hair approaching him. “Charles, so great to have you here, we have communicated on the phone, I’m Stefano Domenicali, CEO of Formula 1.” He holds his hand out for him to shake.
Charles reciprocates, sending him a sweet smile. “Glad to be here.”
“So we are going to make our way onto the grid now, the microphone is already there waiting for you, you can just show a thumbs up when you are ready for your queue and the music will start.”
Charles nods, suddenly feeling giddy at the prospect of performing again. He’s taken a few months off to write and work on his album but inspiration has been tough to come by these last few months, he’s got a song he’s still working on, but he’s struggling with it still.
Anyway, he’s getting distracted.
“Sounds good.” Is all he says as he’s led out onto the start/finish like straight, he spots the colorful line of race suits, the drivers already standing and waiting on his entrance. He makes eye contact with Pierre who sends him a wink, Charles waves back, restraining himself from running over and hugging his best friend.
As he gets to the microphone, he realizes he hasn't spotted Max yet, so he takes another look along the line of drivers, and that's when he sees him.
In his navy race suit, cap in his hands that are locked behind his back. His golden blonde hair is darker than Charles remembers, but his eyes are just as bright. He’s larger than when Charles last saw him, larger than what Charles thought he would be, but he’s just as beautiful, just as powerful. It makes the Monegasque weak in his knees.
He smiles and waves at Max, momentarily forgetting where he is. Max sends back a stiff smile and a curt nod, which makes Charles frown. He doesn't remember him?
Once again he’s knocked out of his thoughts as the music suddenly starts to play. Fuck. He’s missed his queue. He grabs the microphone and instantly starts singing. The notes leave his mouth easily, hitting each of them with perfection and grace, he closes his eyes as he finishes off, letting out a sigh of relief once it is over.
He smiles and takes a small, respectful bow to the crowd, waving at their cheers as he turns to the drivers once again, smiling at Pierre and keeping Max in his peripheral vision. He mutters a few ‘good lucks’ to Pierre and lets the Frenchman get to his car, before he approaches Max who is talking to one of the kids they have on the grid, he's just in time as the little girl runs off to wherever they're being told to go.
Max looks up at Charles and gives him one of those stiff smiles again, Charles hates it.
“Hey, Maxy,” Charles says, trying his best to remain calm and keep his face neutral.
“What did you just—”
“Maxy! Max, Max Verstappen, it’s me, Maxy, it's Charles, Charles Leclerc!” Charles cuts him off, impatient that the one person that he's thought of everyday in his life for the last 10 years can't remember him.
“Maxy… it's me…” Charles says, voice soft. Max shakes his head and walks over to where his mechanics are working in his car, not even looking at Charles again. Charles doesn't know what to do with that. How can someone who called him his best friend not even remotely remember him? Someone he saw nearly everyday for almost half his life. Charles shakes his head and makes his way to the Alpha Tauri garage, since he was technically a guest of Pierre’s this weekend.
He excuses himself after the start, opting to go sit in the hospitality instead of staying in the garage. He had managed to find a guitar from one of the mechanics who often traveled with it from race to race, so he had asked if he could use it.
He gets comfortable on the couch, pulling out his red notebook and opening it up where he had written the last lyrics. He has the chords and the instrumental done, he just needs to finish the lyrics which has been a tough thing to do. He strums the guitar, playing the intro to the song before starting with the lyrics.
“I got the good side of things, left you with both of the rings. My fingers danced and swayed in the breeze, the change in the wind took you down to your knees. I got the good side of you, sent it out into the blue. The people danced to the sound of your heart, the world sang along to it falling apart…” He sighs, finishing what he has written down.
Be turns to the next page, reading the pre-chorus and chorus before starting to play again.
“But I sympathize, and I recognize— and baby, I apologize that I got the good side of things…”
In all honesty, Charles loves the song, he loves what it’s about, but he hates it at the moment because he can't think of anything else to add to it. There’s so much he wants to say in the song. So much and it’s so difficult to put into words.
He sighs, closing the book and playing the guitar down next to him on the couch gently. He doesn't know how to feel. Because seriously, how the fuck can Max not remember him?
He makes his way back into the garage just to see Max cross the finish line first, he smiles to himself despite his anger and sadness. He’s happy for the Dutchman, he really is, but his heart literally aches.
The podiums go by in a flash, but Charles misses it in favor of spending some time with Pierre, catching up after the race. He is able to forget about the Dutchman for an hour or two, until Pierre has to go debrief and Charles is ready to go home and get ready to go out with the Frenchman for drinks.
He greets everyone as he takes his leave, walking back towards where he can scan his pass to get out, but before he can get there, he’s pulled into a small passage between the Ferrari and Mercedes motorhomes, letting out a little surprised yelp. And as he looks up to see who dared yank him so roughly, he’s pulled into a bone-crushing hug.
“Charles…” The unknown man lets out a breathy sob, clinging onto Charles tightly. Charles smiles as he realizes who that voice belongs to, that accent, who’s yanked him into an alleyway.
Charles pulls back to get a better look at him, his eyes threatening tears as well. He can feel them burn from behind his eyeballs.
“You remember me.” Is the only intelligent thing his brain can come up with, he feels overwhelmed, elated that Max actually remembers him. He doesn't know whether to laugh or to cry, or whether he should slap Max for doing that to him earlier.
“Of course I fucking remember you! You're my best friend…” Max wipes his eyes, looking very embarrassed suddenly. He fidgets with the zip of his race suit awkwardly.
“Why did you lie to me earlier then?”
“My dad…” Max starts off, looking behind Charles cautiously as to see if anyone could see or hear them. “He—”
“Don't finish that sentence,” Charles cuts him off, pulling him into a tight hug again. “I’m so proud of you, Max. You did it, you’re in F1, winning races!” Max smiles and nods, pulling Charles in for another hug.
“Are you coming out tonight? We’re heading to Jimmy’z for drinks,” Max asks, enthusiastically as ever. Charles shakes his head. “I’m going out with Pierre, he hasn't said where but I’ve already said yes to him.”
“Ask him to come to Jimmy’s okay? I’ll be there then we can talk, but I have to go debrief now. It was so good seeing you again, Charles,” Max smiles, literally beaming at the Monegasque.
“I’ll see you later, yeah?” The Dutchman yells as he runs off quickly, not giving Charles the time to respond. He giggles to himself and makes his way out of the paddock.
***
Charles wakes up with a start, literally leaping out of the bed. The first thing he notices is that his head fucking hurts. The second thing he notices is that he's not in his room, in fact he’s not even in his own apartment.
What the fuck.
He looks down, seeing himself in his black boxers before looking up at the bed he just jumped out of, seeing a fully dressed Max Verstappen on his stomach, arms shoved under the pillow as he sleeps.
What.
The.
Fuck??!!!?!!!
Charles quickly and quietly gets dressed in his clothes from the previous night and makes his way out of the bedroom and into the living room of the house, he quickly gathers that he’s in Max’s house if the huge simulator and racing memorabilia is anything to go by.
What the fuck happened last night?? And why wasn't he at home??
He sits down on the couch and rubs his eyes, pressing the palms of his hands into the sockets of his eyes, trying to will his headache away.
“Hey,” Max walks in, looking fresh as ever even in his sleep-disheveled state. Charles groans in response. “Sleep well?” The Dutchman asks from the kitchen, turning the kettle on. Charles just groans again.
Max giggles and walks into the living area, shoving a glass of water and some pain medication under Charles’ nose, which he gratefully accepts, mumbling a quick ‘thank you’ and downing the pills along with the water.
“What the fuck happened last night?”
“Well when we wanted to go home, you could barely walk or talk so I offered to take you home but you refused to give me your address so I just brought you back here. I hope you don't mind. Also you refused to sleep in a shirt or pants so I spent 15 minutes trying to help you out of your jeans.” Max supplies, trying to keep his giggles from bubbling up from his chest.
Charles goes bright red. God, how embarrassing.
“It’s alright though, I don't mind.” Max smiles, walking back into the kitchen. “Would you like some coffee?” He asks, already getting out two mugs, but Charles shakes his head, getting up and handing the empty glass back to Max. “I have to get home, I have to work on my album today, my producer is coming over to help me with a few songs.”
He watches Max’s shoulders visibly drop, but he quickly schools his face into something more neutral. “Oh uh, yeah, yeah sure cool.” The Dutchman stutters out hurriedly, taking the glass from him. “So uh, see you around?” He offers a small smile.
Charles nods, offering a smile back before making a beeline for the door and letting himself out quickly, leaving Max alone to stew in his thoughts and many, many feelings.