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Chapter Text

Charles Leclerc, 2006.

One way or another, Charles instantly knew that Max Verstappen would be a name to remember. That strange-looking boy, with flushed cheeks and dirty blond hair, had fire in his eyes. Charles knew he wanted to win. He had the same look, every time he glanced at his reflection in the mirror.

Charles had always been good at making friends, thanks to his gentle smile and his charming green eyes. His maman would continuously tell him that his eyes were like an opening to his soul, but his eight-year-old self couldn’t quite grasp what she meant.

At first, he would only participate to races in France. He was born to be in a kart and, one day, he wanted to get to Formula 1. Growing up in Monte Carlo, seeing the Monaco Gran Prix with his eyes every year, it came naturally to him. So one day, when he was three or four, he fussed about a stomachache - his father understood it was a lie, he always did, and took him to the racing kart circuit that his Godfather’s family owned. Charles had never been there, but he knew what karting was, as Jules - the coolest boy ever! - talked about it continuously. He mainly explained it to Lorenzo, as they were slightly closer in age, but the older boy was never really interested in the sport. When they got there, he was mesmerized.

Jules would often accompany him to the races, first in France and then all over Europe, traveling with the Leclerc family, in a tiny, but comfortable camper. He would give Charles precious tips, delighted to share his passion for the sport. Charles will always listen, looking forward to the day that both he and Jules will drive for Ferrari.

Oh, Ferrari. The bright red cars were the first - and only ones, honestly, that Charles would see from his friend’s balcony, during the Grand Prix. Jules had explained to him that Ferrari was the greatest team of all time and to drive for them was also the greatest driver, Michael Schumacher. It was Jules' favorite team, and it quickly became Charles’ favorite, too, the Prancing Horse imprinted in his memory. One day, he said.

Charles was getting quite known in the sport, as his aggressive drive had gotten him wins and podiums. He took the sport very seriously, wanting to catch the attention of sponsors for the future. He was told by Jules that he might need them, as the road to Formula One was very long, and Jules was always right.

Competing outside of Monaco also meant that he would skip school and he could brag to his best friend, Joris, who pouted and cried because he didn’t get to travel as much. He also met Pierre, Anthoine, and Esteban, spending the night camping outside, laying in a sleeping bag, as they whispered quietly and played with their Nintendo DS.

Once he started karting across Europe, he met George and Alex, two British guys, as his English improved slightly. He also met Max. They only raced together a few times, mostly with Charles coming second behind Max. He hated it. He wished that Max would at least congratulate him, like any other boy, but no! On the podium, Max always looked forward, never meeting his gaze. He drank his fake champagne in a few gulps, looking unsatisfied even if he just won. And when it was Charles stealing the first place, it was even worse: the first time, Charles looked down to the second step of the podium, a glorious smile on his face, only to see Max eyeing him furiously, his lips pressed in a thin line. He didn’t listen to Charles' congratulation, his face contorting even more. That boy had no sportsmanship!

Every time they passed each other in the camp, Max lowered his eyes. He couldn’t help but sulk about it with Jules and his father, both of them exchanging a fond look as if they knew something that Charles didn’t. He seemed to be the only one to distaste Max, he learned when he talked about it with Alex and George. They both shrugged their shoulders, declaring that they didn’t care about that guy, but agreeing that he was rude on the podium.

So, the third time he saw Max, Charles didn’t even try to smile politely like his parents suggested, opting for a grimace. It was only after the race - Charles was happy with his second place, even more as Max arrived fourth - that he saw a different emotion displayed on Max’s face. He was running to the bathroom stalls to wash his hands, ready to have dinner with his family and Jules, when he heard Max’s dad’s scary voice. He was screaming something in Dutch, sounding like a thunderstorm. As he passed them, he saw the man’s back and Max’s crying face. The younger was crying quietly, keeping his head low, his shoulders shaking as he listened to his father’s hard Dutch.

«Wees geen poesje, Max!»

Max only whimpered. Charles didn’t understand a single word, his own scowl deepening at Max’s reaction. In that moment, the blue-eyed boy met his curious gaze. Charles shivered, lowering his head and proceeding his way. Washing his hands, Charles couldn’t help but think about the scene he’d just seen, wondering why someone would scream at his child like that. His stomach churned, curled around himself, all hunger subsiding into something else.

When he got back, Max was gone. Charles spotted him quickly, sitting all alone in the grass patch near his camper. He was no longer crying, at least. Charles wondered if he was hungry.

He wished that Jules was there. The older guy would have listened and told him exactly what to do with Max, but he was disputing his own races. As he got back to his camper and smelled the hamburgers his father was grilling outside, he smiled, knowing exactly what to do.

So, he found himself walking next to Max, who stubbornly ignored his presence. He made himself known by tapping his shoulder.

For the first time, Max’s eyes met Charles’ green ones. His eyes opened comically when he recognized Charles, his mouth falling agape. Then he frowned, confused.

«Can I- Can I sit here?» Charles asked, his voice wavering. He suddenly felt very, very stupid. The guy never even looked at him, why would he want to talk to him now? God, he embarrassed-

«Sure» Max’s voice wasn’t steadier than his, he noticed. He let a small smile form on his lips, as he almost forgot the real reason he was there. He glanced at his hands, offering Max the hamburger wrapped in paper.

Max hesitantly took it, eyes switching between the hamburger and Charles, trying to figure out what kind of joke that was.

«Sorry, I noticed that you didn’t eat dinner» he explained, scratching the back of his neck. A pink flush made its way to his cheeks, concealed by the darkness. He shivered at the light breeze, wrapping his arms around himself.

«Thank you» Max mumbled, chewing hesitantly to the hamburger. «So- uhm, are you from le Pays-Bas?»

«Yes» he answered, and then he added: «It rains a lot in the Netherlands».

Charles nodded, short of ways to continue the conversation. He felt suddenly embarrassed, and nervous, and he wished even more that Jules was there.

«Are you French?» He snorted before he could control himself. French? He pulled a disgusted face.

«I’m not French, I’m Monegasque!» He exclaimed, loudly, indignant. Max cracked a smile for the first time, his big, pouty lips curling upwards and showing his perfectly lined teeth. Charles couldn’t help but smile, too. It was the first time the Dutch expressed some other emotion, other than anger.

Years later, Charles got it: Max was never angry, he was just misunderstood. He was seen as a ruthless kid, with a scary father that got into Formula One and that no one dared to talk to. He felt strong emotions, but he could never get those out, never talk to anyone. His father forbade him to even play football with the other boys on track, including Charles.

Charles observed while Max ate the hamburger, in silence. They didn’t know enough English to entertain a conversation that was not about racing, and Charles didn’t feel like talking about anything else; Max was still a stranger to him, after all.

He got up and scrolled his clothes from the dirt only when he saw the lights of Max’s camper light up. Scared that they might get caught, he waved Max goodbye with a tight smile, while the blond nodded.

He never complained about Max again, neither to his family nor to George, Alex, and his other friends.

Chapter Text

Max Verstappen, 2006.

Racing was all he could remember from his childhood. Ever since he was three years old, he wore a helmet and sat in a kart, every day. All day. He would look at his father’s old helmets, displayed in a specific room, like statues in a museum. In his house, there were pictures of him and Uncle Michael around. Every Sunday, they sat on the leather couch, watching the race and, while Max cheered loudly at Uncle Michael, he couldn’t help but notice a frown on his father’s face. He said that it was because he raced for Ferrari and red looked ugly on him.

He didn’t know jealousy, at the time.

part from karting, he remembered his mother’s homemade tomato soup, playing with Victoria with dolls and stuffed animals, which never belonged to him. According to his father, boys only played with cars, and he had more important things to do, anyway.

His favorite season was summer, when he could see Uncle Michael and Mick, one of his bestest friends in the world. Not that he had many friends. Mick raced with karts, too, but he wasn’t treated as harshly. He still got to play outside and talk to the other boys on track. Unfortunately, they didn’t get together often, mostly on holiday or during Christmas and New Year's.

The older he got, the more his dad insisted on training, for him to achieve his dream. His, and his father’s. It was often the object of discussion with his mother, which always led to a fight: mom thought that he trained too hard and that Jos was way too harsh, that he needed some time to do other things apart from racing. Dad screamed and screamed how he would never be a world champion if he didn’t train and eat healthy and concentrate. Every day, it was early in the morning when he would wake up, go on a ran with his father and to school afterward, and then his father would accompany him to the karting circuit near his home, where he would drive until the moon shone brightly in the sky.

Then, when he was old enough, he started competing in Holland and Belgium, and then in Europe. That’s when he met him.

The first thing Max noticed about Charles Leclerc, was his eyes. His green eyes shone beautifully, reflecting the sun and the trees and everything around him, a myriad of colors inside them. He smiled at everyone he met, and even exchanged some words with some of them. While Max barely recognized some faces, he never talked to any of them, while Charles seemed to get to know everyone pretty quickly. He couldn’t help but be charmed, too: he looked kind and fun, more like an angel than a boy.

His dad must have noticed that Charles had drawn his attention because he scoffed loudly.

«Pas op voor dat kind, mensen zoals hij zijn de ergste. We zijn hier om te winnen, niet om vrienden te maken» he said. (Watch out to that kid. The ones like him are the worst, we are here to win, not to make friends).

Max simply nodded, repressing a scoff of his own. Charles already seemed full of friends, there was no way that he would eye someone like him, so awkward and unapproachable. He half listened to his father blabber about the track, the kart, the weather, and the data, too much information to remember for his eight-year-old self, his eyes glued to the ground.

His ideas about Charles Leclerc being an angel, however, were thrown out the window the day after, when he won the race just by a few milliseconds. He tried not to look down the second step of the podium, observing Charles from the corner of his eye, looking delighted for his second place. He moved to his family, composed of his mother, his father, and three other boys, looking proud; he knew for sure that one of them was also racing in higher categories. He then watched his own father, with his signature scowl, which only deepened that day.

After the celebrations, he walked to his dad. His smile faltered when he entered the camper, as Jos explained coldly what was wrong with his race, how disappointed he was that he almost got taken over by that French boy. Max suppressed the need to sigh because it didn’t matter that he crossed the finish line first. He needed to do better, to be better. He needed to be perfect if he wanted to arrive at Formula One. He also ought to beat Charles Leclerc, to demonstrate that he was the best, and that’s where their rivalry began.

He was astonished, when, three weeks later, Charles materialized in front of him, looking shy and kind and holding a hamburger out for him. Max hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast and he was starving. He sat there on the grass, with him of all people, forcing his English to have a conversation.

When he saw the sour look on his face for being called French, Max faltered: he fucked up. Now, Charles would never talk to him ever again, and maybe he would also talk badly about him to the other boys in the camp. That’s it.

Instead, Charles corrected him and laughed it off. Max was delighted. He wanted to talk a lot more, to tell him how much he loved Monaco, how he wished to live there, in a big house in front of the sea, to see the track circuit every day. To race and win in Monaco, inside a Formula One car. But he didn’t know how to say that and, once he started to ramble, there was no ending to it. Mick always smiled and listened, but the kids in school were always bothered, exchanging quick glances with each other.

So, they sat in silence, until he heard his dad’s loud footsteps from inside the camper, and the click of the lights. Finally, he was allowed back inside to sleep. He gestured for Charles to go away before they got caught.

Max, for the first time, went to sleep with a big smile on his face. He was happy.

Another day passed and everyone was packing, getting ready to leave the camp. Max would have to wait two weeks before the next competition.

«Charles, are you happy to go back to school?» Max recognized George Russell’s loud voice, right outside his camp. He was playing with some rocks and wooden sticks he found in the back, getting the last bits of fresh hair - and freedom - before his father returned.

«Yes, of course! I will see Joris and my other friends in school» Charles answered. Max’s mouth twitched in disgust at the thought.

«Max» he didn’t see them coming. Max looked up to Charles, George Russell, and Alex Albon. There were also two other boys with them - one was Charles’ younger brother, and the other looked uncannily similar to Alex.

«We were going to play football, do you want to tag along?» Charles asked, gesturing towards the ball that Alex held between his arms.

«Max kom, we moeten weg» his dad appeared from behind the van, eyeing the small group suspiciously. (Come here Max, we are leaving).

«Ik kom zo» he answered.

«I’m sorry, but I have to go» he mumbled as he got up, his face distorting sourly. Charles nodded.

«See you in Belgium? In two weeks?» He asked. «Yes, see you there, then»

Max smiled, mostly to Charles, bidding goodbye to the others.

As time passed and summer approached, their rivalry only increased. They were often wheel to wheel on track, while off track they started to exchange a bit more words and praises, discussing the race together. Max’s dad would ofter sold him for “befriending his enemies”, but he couldn’t help it. He convinced him that it was useful to know his “enemies'” tricks. He also got along with Alex and George.

So, at the end of the championship, Max had found some new facts about Charles: he was Monegasque and not French and he lived in Monte Carlo, he cheered Ferrari and wanted to get into Formula One and, hopefully, drive for them. He had two brothers, one of whom was into karting, too, and the third boy he saw a few times was Jules Bianchi, his beloved godfather.

In the end, Charles Leclerc was nice, more than an acquaintance but less than a friend. He made the sport more interesting, more fun even.

It came as a surprise when he found Charles crying alone in a bathroom stall, confessing that he didn’t know if he could continue racing.

Chapter Text

Charles Leclerc, 2008. 

As summer 2006 approached, and so did the last race of the championship, Charles started to notice how his parents seemed more stressed out than usual. He could hear them whisper late at night when he was supposed to be sleeping and with all the lights off. His dad always tried to play it cool, showing his smile as always, but he could still see the worried look on his mother’s face when she thought that no one was paying attention. The rest of the family slowly started to stop accompanying him to races, making it only him and his dad and, sometimes, Jules. 

Jules, of course, seemed to know what was going on with his family but refused to tell him. 

As usual, it was late at night. Charles couldn’t sleep, too adrenaline high to even close his eyes. It took both his dad and Jules and a call from his mother to convince him to get out of his racing suit. He wanted to wear it to bed so that it would take less time to get ready in the morning. In the end, he wore his Lightning McQueen pajamas and slipped to bed.

He closed his eyes shut when he heard Jules and Dad’s footsteps. They were talking quietly. 

«Je ne sais pas si nous y arriverons sans les sponsors» his father said, «le karting coûte cher».
(I don’t know if we will make it without the sponsors; karting is expensive).

«Ma famille et moi allons vous aider» said Jules. 

«Tu es trop gentil, Jules, mais évidemment je ne peux pas te laisser» 
(You are very nice, Jules, but I won’t let you do that).

Charles’ heart was beating loudly against his ribcage, so much so that he feared he would get caught awake past his curfew. He listened closely as his father and Jules went on to talk about how to attract sponsors to let him continue his career. Charles’ eyes stung with unshed tears. In the end, the discussion was delayed to another time, and he heard the shuffling of blankets. 

After hours and hours of lying in silence, Charles couldn’t take it anymore. He slowly got up and made his way outside the van, heading towards the toilet. There, he let himself slip against the wall, sinking to the ground. He started to cry, unable to contain his sobs any longer. 

He didn’t know how much time passed before he felt a cold hand on his shoulder. Looking up, he yelped in surprise when he saw Max Verstappen. 

«Uh, are you- are you alright?» He asked, voice groggy with sleep. He used his other hand to rub his eyes. 

That’s when Charles broke down again, his cheeks flushed. He should have been embarrassed for crying in front of his biggest rival, but what was the point? They were probably never gonna see each other again. He didn’t even care about being seen in his ridiculous, childish pajama. It’s not like Max was any better, with his ratty, gray t-shirt and blue joggers. 

Through his sobs, Charles explained, mixing up French, English, and Italian words that he overheard earlier. Max clumsily held him, patting his back. His blue eyes had a worried look, caring even. 

They didn’t see each other again, in the end. For a while, Charles tried everything he could to attract some sponsors’ attention, and, thanks to Jules and his manager’s help, he succeeded. He could continue karting and competing, even though his brother had to quit. He couldn’t wait to tell Pierre, Estie, George, Alex, and, well, Max.

For the next few years, Max and Charles never crossed paths, competing in different championships. He still heard some news from the other boys, talking about how great Max was, and how he was leading every race. Charles couldn’t help but feel jealous, both for Max’s reputation and for how Max was seemingly doing much better than him. He was currently second in his standings. Every time he heard about Max Verstappen, he was fueled with fire, pushing him to do better and better. 

Because racing Max was different than racing against anyone else, he found out. The next year passed in a blur, his thoughts gushing to Max more often than he liked to. He felt kinda sick at the idea that Max got another rival. 

He didn’t talk about it with Lorenzo and Arthur, knowing he wouldn’t hear the end of it. Instead, he talked to Jules. Said man smiling kindly every time he brought up Max, eyes glinting. 

«Max is very good. I’m sure you’ll see each other again in Formula One». 

He hoped so. He looked forward to the day when he would be in Ferrari with Jules and Max- where? He didn’t know yet, as the Dutchman didn’t seem particularly inclined to one team or another. He just knew that his favorite driver was Michael Schumacher. 

Jules explained to him that it was good to have a healthy rivalry and that it led him to be even more focused, more spirited. He just passed from Formula Renault to Formula Three, meaning that Charles was seeing him less and less. Sometimes, Jules’ family would take them along to see the race. Charles and Lorenzo were cheering the loudest.

Going on with his life, he thought about Max less and less, his fierce eyes relegated to the back of his mind. That was until, in May, when the Monaco Gran Prix was around the corner, they saw each other for the first time in two years. 

Charles was walking around the pier with his mom, when he saw him. He was on the other side of the sidewalk, admiring the city and the sea, chatting with a woman - his mother? - and a girl, seemingly younger than him. Her looks resembled Max's. 

Charles held his breath, stopping abruptly. His mom shot him a questioning look and he followed his gaze. Max must have seen him, too, because he stopped. Their eyes met. He didn’t know why, but his chest was suddenly tight and his palms were sweaty. Max smiled hesitantly and crossed the road. 

He looked… different. He was growing taller than Charles, he noticed in annoyance, but his face was the same. He was way more relaxed, now that his dad wasn’t around. And happy.

«Hello, Max»

«Charles,» he said, «how are you?» 

They exchanged pleasantries before they got to their safe topic. «Are you here for the Grand Prix?» He asked. 

Max nodded, «Yes, and also to see the city».

«How do you like it so far?» He said. 

«Very beautiful. You’re lucky to live here»

Meanwhile, their moms started chatting amicably. 

Charles bit his lips, swallowing a lump in his throat before asking: «Are you participating in the winter cup?»

Max said he would. His heart started beating loudly in his chest. 

After that, Charles’ mom said they needed to get home, as it was getting late. Charles and Max bid their goodbyes, a new glint in his eyes. 

Charles never anticipated a championship so much.

During the winter and as the competition for the Winter Cup began, Max was leading the standings. Charles was right behind him. They were often wheel to wheel, bumping into each other, as their rivalry became fiercer and fiercer. They were no longer nice to each other outside the track, barely stealing a glance. Charles wanted to punch Max’s smug face every time he won a race. 

Charles was getting more and more annoyed by Max’s antics. It’s unfair, how he got to win almost every single race, how the reporters were more interested in him than in anyone else, also because of his connections with Formula One champion Michael Schumacher and his dad, Jos Verstappen. To make matters worse, he didn’t make many friends: all the kids were too focused, too occupied with their own training and strategies to pay any attention to him. He was told by Jules that relaxation was part of the training, and he took that by heart. It didn’t matter what the other kids did, he would never doubt Jules’ words.

«What’s worrying you so much, Char?» Said boy asked, an arm sneaking around his shoulders. Charles was sitting on the stairs outside his camper, the Nintendo DS long forgotten on his knees. 

«I’m worried about the Cup. I want to win» 

«I’m sure you will win, Char; you are doing great» Jules hesitated, before he added, «are you doubting yourself because of Max?»

Hit and sunk. Charles bit his lips, nodding. 

«He’s better than me in everything, I don’t know if I can keep up with him» it hurt to admit it. 

«Max is much better than before, I won’t lie to you. Sometimes winning and losing is just a matter of luck» 

He didn’t know if Jules meant to reassure him or warn him, but he smiled anyway. Jules ruffled his hair and he huffed in annoyance. Something was lingering in the air, something he wanted to say, but he didn’t have the courage. 

Jules and he sat down in silence, observing from afar the other kids and their parents. Maybe racing got harder and Max wasn’t his only competition, but that only made him more determined, eager to show his skill, to compete. That year, apart from Max, he didn’t know anyone on track. Esteban stayed in France because of his financial problems, and Pierre was competing in Belgium. He didn’t know about George and Alex, as he hadn’t seen them in a long time. 

Charles wiggled uncomfortably, wrapping his arms around himself. The cold wind wasn’t gentle on him. 

He saw Max, a few meters from him. He was walking around, alone, probably back to his camper, shivering in his coat. Charles caught his gaze. He tried smiling, but his face contorted in a grimace, and Max ignored him, walking away. Rage spiked in his chest as he huffed once again, annoyed. He was trying to be kind and Max walked away, as if he was some stranger. 

Then it hit him. Charles didn’t know anything about Max. He didn’t know his favorite food or his favorite color, if he liked football or any other sport, where he wanted to live when he was older. His knowledge of Max was basic and superficial, the same as the other kids in the camp. He knew his aggressive driving very well, but not much about his family. 

It bugged him more than he wanted to admit. 

That little shit- 

Charles looked up to Max, seeing his usual stoic face. Max had his hands behind his back, as a gentle breeze played with his blond hair. 

He scowled. Once again, they bumped into each other at the start of the race, causing Charles to lose more and more positions, all while Max took the lead. He regained places, but his win was compromised, as he only got a third place. He was fairly satisfied, actually, until he saw the smug look Max had once he finished the race. Today he had a good possibility of winning but, as always, Max took that from him. Dumping into him like a fucking idiot. 

He cut the podium celebration short, storming off to the nearest restroom. He splashed cold water on his face, inhaling deeply. When he looked up to the mirror, then, he saw Max leaning against the wall, arms crossed on his chest. 

«What do you want?»

«What’s the problem with you?»

He winced. «I don’t know what you’re talking about». 

«What, are you upset because you didn’t win? That mustn’t be new to you» Max spat, a grimace taking place on his face. Charles snorted. 

«You know damn well that I would’ve won if you didn’t bump into me in turn one!» He answered, on the verge of screaming. 

«You still wouldn't have won because you were too slow, you sore loser» 

His eyebrows twitched. 

«That’s not true! You cheated»

«I did not! Take it back, Leclerc!»

They were both screaming. Without even thinking about it, he stalked near Max, his hands twitching to grab the collar of his shirt.

«Whoa whoa Calamar, calm down» Their heads snapped in the direction of the new voice, as Pierre made his way into the restroom. 

«He was the one who started it,» he said, glancing at Max. 

«That’s not true» Max retorted. 

As they were about to start bickering again, Pierre grabbed Charles’ wrist, tugging him away. Max’s eyes followed the movement, the sourness in his face deepening. He glanced once again at  Charles and then at Pierre, shaking his head. 

«Let’s go, your parents are looking for you,» Pierre said, wrapping his arm around his shoulder. Charles nodded, the defeat and now the argument still stinging. Thankfully, nobody told his parents about it, or he wouldn’t hear the end of it. 

It was the first time ever he got into a fight with someone after a race. And that someone was Max. He should’ve expected it, yet, he felt a tug at the base of his stomach. 

When he closed his eyes, later that night, he could only see angry blue eyes, staring directly at his soul. 

Chapter Text

Max Verstappen, 2010.

Max has always been sure of everything in his life. He was sure that he would make it far, that he was fast enough, that he was good. He didn’t care much about school - he was going to be a Formula One driver, so what was the point in learning English literature or stupid French art? - so he was content with the bare minimum. He was sure of everything. 

There was one thing, though. 

From there, everything started to change. 

Max, like any other thirteen-year-old boy, liked to imagine what his future would look like - he could see himself in a Formula One car, stealing positions and breaking records, World Champion and everything, but then- he imagined going around the paddock, hand in hand with a… boy. That was it. 

At night, lying in his bed, he found himself desiring a strong, muscular body beside him, instead of a soft, curvy one. 

He had never experienced love, nor having a crush- but now that he thought about it, he liked Christoffel Anker’s green eyes a bit too much. He associated the embarrassment he felt, changing in front of his friends from karting and school, during P.E., to the fact that he was growing, and staring would be weird. 

The fact that he didn’t think much of girls and, whenever he did, it was only in a friendly matter, didn’t help him. The realization made him weak on his knees. What would his father say, if he ever found out? Would he yell? Would he throw him out of the house? 

And then, would he be the first gay driver? Only the thought of being reduced to just that- just some kind of walking advertisement, made him sick. Or maybe he would be excluded by racing, especially in certain countries, losing forever the only thing he ever wanted, for what? Love? It wasn’t worth it, honestly. 

He couldn’t help but recall all the stupid, sappy movies he watched with Victoria - although he secretly enjoyed them - where the main characters met each other and then just! Boom! Lovestruck. He scoffed. He saw it with his own eyes, love was never like this. Not between his parents, nor his grandparents. 

Or maybe- maybe it was just the Verstappen genes making them unlovable. That was why his parents split, or his grandparents didn’t talk to each other. He hoped the genes didn’t work on Vic, at least. 

But his imagination ran wild, creating scenarios where he wasn’t just a boy who could drive a car, and he had a home to come back to. Someone with him in bed. Someone to share breakfast with, to laugh and watch TV and everything else. 

God, there he was again.

He recalled when he and Victoria watched Romeo and Juliet and Titanic for the first time - again, not his choice. She fell in love instantly with Leonardo DiCaprio, swooning over the screen, starstruck. He didn’t like Leonardo DiCaprio that much, but he was objectively beautiful. He knew he liked brown hair, not blond. Green eyes, too. 

One of the things he liked the most about his mom and Vic’s house in Belgium, was that he could see the stars. It was located in a small, quiet town, in the deep south of the country. Max only stayed a few weeks per year, but it felt more home than his house back in the Netherlands, with his father’s menacing presence. 

It was the first week of spring break. He jumped at the opportunity of running away from his father, catching the first train to Belgium, even in only for a week. Then, he would participate in the WSK European Cup, in KF3. 

Staying away from everything and everyone right before a competition was something Jos never conceded to him. He didn’t actually ask to go to his mother’s, he just… did it. Lately, his internal turmoil had only gotten stronger. He wished he had someone to talk to, like an older brother, or a friend. But he didn’t. He certainly couldn’t talk to Victoria or his mother about his fears for his sexuality. 

«Maxie, can we play?» Victoria said, interrupting his line of thoughts. 

Max nodded mindlessly, letting Victoria drag him upstairs. That's how he found himself talking to a bunch of stuffed animals, sipping water from an obnoxious, ridiculous plastic tea cup, and Victoria giggling happily. She wore a different jeans salopette every day, her long, blond hair tied in two pigtails. 

His mother cooked him tomato soup when he first arrived. He was so, so happy. 

He did end up talking to Jos on the phone, to inform him of his well-being - yes, he was still training, and he was eating well, and he was not getting distracted, thank you very much -, but only because his mom insisted. 

It all had to end, eventually. Although Max wished he could stay some more, he had a competition to win. 

His father waited for him outside, not even turning the engine off, while he grabbed his things and said goodbye to Mum and Victoria. When he sat in the passenger’s seat, Jos said nothing. His sharp eyes focused on the route. They did not talk for a long time, almost a quarter of the seventeen-long travel to South Italy. 

«I hope you didn’t lose your focus. WKS is a serious matter, there will be a lot of reporters» he finally said. His tone didn’t sound nearly as menacing as Max would’ve thought. 

«Of course,» he said. He let his gaze trail to the window, watching as the scenery changed. 

Muro Leccese was a very small town in Southern Italy. He didn’t take much interest in sightseeing, considering he would only be there for three days. The first matches went fairly well, securing him enough points to be leading. 

Walking around the camp, he saw a few familiar faces: Alexander Albon, who came to greet him amicably, Pierre Gasly, pretty much ignoring him, and Charles. 

Charles didn’t do well. He didn’t do well in Lonato, Zuera, Genk, and Sarno, either. He seemed bugged, and unfocused, as if his mind was somewhere else. Max snorted, his father would’ve eaten him up if he did this bad. He wasn’t even in the Top Ten. 

He didn’t know why he was so pissed at the fact that Charles Leclerc, aka Crybaby Charles, aka His Biggest Rival, didn’t actually get the chance to fight wheel-to-wheel with him. He shouldn’t feel this way. He should be glad to have even fewer competitors for the cup. However… there was something, he couldn’t quite grasp, in Charles’ eyes. He noticed his father and his usual friend weren’t with him— wait, he didn’t come to Italy all alone, right?

Max froze in place. He didn’t, right? Where will he sleep? Will he be able to be on his own? How did he even arrive here? It was Charles himself that interrupted the flow of thoughts, appearing from Pierre’s motorhome. Oh, he was staying there. With Pierre. Again, he had never seen drivers share a camper, but, whatever. It’s not like Max’s business anyway. Why Pierre, tough? He suddenly didn’t like Pierre Gasly very much. He looked too much like Leonardo DiCaprio, and he didn’t like Leonardo DiCaprio, either. Sure, he enjoyed his movies, but nothing else out of it, like he didn’t enjoy Pierre’s company outside the track. Charles, however, seemed to find him funny and smart. Alex, too. The only one who didn’t seem charmed by Pierre Gasly was George Russell, who kept his distance from the boy (he didn’t). 

His heart hammered inside his chest. Maybe he was overreacting (again, to what?). He and Charles hadn’t seen each other for years. It was not to blame for being surprised seeing him there, with his stupid Justin Bieber haircut.

Without his agreement, his hand wrapped around Charles’ wrist, tugging him behind the line of campers parked there. Charles wiggled. 

«What the fuck, Max?» He freed himself from his grasp, «what do you want?»

«What the fuck are you doing, mate?» He asked, gesturing exasperatedly. 

Charles’ eyebrows quirked up. «What am I doing? I should be asking you this, you’re the one who—»

«Not this, you moron» he interrupted, still moving his hands wildly, «but this».

He pointed at Charles. He was still in his race suit. 

Charles stared at him, silent. One way or another, he seemed to understand. 

«I have some… family issues» he finally answered. Max’s breath hitched: the last time Charles said something like that, he risked quitting karting. The sport, Max’s whole world, would not be the same without Charles. 

«What kind of issues?»

Charles winced. «Why do you even care?» His voice was barely a whisper. He looked like he was about to cry. 

«Because I do» he replied easily. The other boy seated on the grass with a defeated huff, crossing his arms on his chest. 

«My dad—» he gulped, «my dad is ill». 

Max whimpered, «I’m so sorry Charles, I had no idea».

Charles shrugged his shoulders. 

«It’s okay,» he said, «he’ll get better. Right now, I’m staying with Pierre and his family, for the Cup».

No matter how much he tried to hide it. Charles didn’t sound so confident. He nodded anyway, offering a gentle smile.

«Why do you care, Max?» He asked again. 

Max sat down next to him. 

«Racing with you is different. It’s better» he answered again, honestly. 

Charles smiled. «I feel the same». He felt his cheeks warm up.

They sat down a bit more, watching as the red-tinted sky made space to thousands and thousands of stars. His green eyes reflected the moon and the sky fairly, better than any artist had ever done. 

Eventually, they decided to go to sleep. He wasn’t in the mood to face his father’s anger and fit of questions, and Charles wasn’t with his family, so he better go back. 

As Max turned his back to him, Charles whispered: «Sometimes, I feel like I’m not good enough. You know— you and Pierre are having these great wins and are doing well. Alex, too. Jules is now in GP2, so I don’t see him as often».

«You are good enough, Charles, you know that»

Charles smiled bitterly. 

«My baby brother had to quit karting because of me. I’m here while my family received the worst news ever, and- fuck, I’m causing so much trouble to Pierre. And I’m just being awful» he said, shaking his head. His voice was trembling.

«Exactly, don’t let all of… this, bring you down, Leclerc. You’re still my biggest rival. Go back inside your fucking kart and give the next race all you’ve got, try and try again until you pay your family back for their sacrifices. Other than that, I don’t think your father or your brother or anyone really, wants you to quit» Max replied. It was weird talking to him like that, since they barely knew each other. But, at the same time, they have known each other for most of their lives; they were the same, similar yet different, but no one could ever understand them like they did with each other. 

Charles exhaled shakily. Luckily for Max, he didn’t cry: instead, he wrapped him in a one-arm hug that, in the bat of an eyelid, was gone. He smiled once more, before bidding his goodbye. 

The next day, Charles had gotten significantly better. A warm, fuzzy feeling made its way to his heart at the thought that he was the reason. 

Chapter Text

Max Verstappen, 2012. 

Sarno’s never been Max’s favorite place. The small town was situated in South Italy, a good day of travel from the Netherlands. The weather was always extremely warm, which made his hair stick to his forehead. At night, it was even worse: the camping area was in the middle of nowhere, the campers hot, his skin attacked by stupid, horrible mosquitos. God, he hates mosquitos. Other than that, he couldn’t utter a word of Italian, so making friends was nearly impossible. Not that it was easy anyway, under normal circumstances. In his angsty, fourteen-year-old self, he honestly couldn’t care less about what people thought of him. 

It was easy to say that something in the camp changed. There were no longer barbecues and chats at night, nor boys sneaking out to play past curfew. Everyone was focused solely on themselves, as the sport was not a silly game anymore. It seemed that his father’s tough treatment was meant to prepare him for the future, after all. 

Max scoffed, watching slowly as everyone packed their stuff up and left, their campers leaving only dust in a big, green patch of grass. Few families would remain for the night, the ones living further. He and his father would go away soon, too, anyway. 

He saw Charles Leclerc. His mind went blank, a ferocious anger slipping inside his chest, blurring his mind. He lost any coherent thoughts. It wasn’t exactly Charles’ fault, as Max didn’t have any hope to win, that day. The crash was his fault. He would never admit it, tough. Starting from the back, he managed to obtain some positions, and then he crashed with a boy who didn’t even look serious, he’d never even seen him around. It was his worst result so far in the season, heck, maybe in years. And there was Charles Leclerc, on the podium, surrounded by his friends and family - Pierre Gasly and Antonio Fuoco were in Italy with them. Jos was livid when he got out the kart, but he didn’t even scold him. He saw deep disappointment in his eyes, much worse than the fierce anger he usually faced. He had been gone for half an hour now, collecting the last few things they needed for the long ride back to the Netherlands. Cold and rainy, opposite to Italy. Of course, he didn’t get a chance to visit - he barely even knew where he was, honestly - as he was there to win win win, and he needed to focus focus focus. And yet, he didn’t manage to do any of that. 

He heard the camper’s door click, and his father’s loud footsteps followed. Max repressed a shiver. Real men don’t cry. 

«We are leaving» he said, «I don’t want to hear you utter a word». 

Max nodded, glancing at Charles one last time, still laughing with the others. 

The ride was silent. He was quiet for an hour or so before he felt his eyes water. He couldn’t bear his father’s disappointed glare. He rested his head on his seat, looking outside the window. 

«Dad, it was not my fault, I-»

«I said no talking»

«But-» he interrupted himself when he saw his father pull off at a fuel station. The small shop was closed, illuminated only by a few, dim streetlights. 

«Get out»

He turned his head, looking straight into his dad’s eyes. His icy, blue eyes that resembled his own stared at him blankly. Max knew that he was serious, but… what was he gonna do? He didn’t even know if he charged his phone, there was no hope of calling anyone…

Before he could panic further, his father stopped the engine and looked at him expectantly. 

«I’m sorry-»

«Did you not hear me? I told you to get out. Get used to places like these, this is all you’re gonna achieve anyway. Now get out before I make you» he spat furiously. 

Max clenched his jaw, mind blurring with anger. Well then, if that’s what he wanted! He hastily took his backpack and slammed the door. His dad immediately left. 

All alone, in a dark, quiet fuel station, he sat on the sidewalk. He hoped that his dad would just go over the highway and then come back. 

Hours later, not a single car passed by. He was forcing himself not to fall asleep against the cool pillar, resting his back and his head on it. The stars still shone lightly, fighting the darkness of the night. When the sun rose, some cars finally stopped by for self-service fuel, but they straight up ignored his presence or didn’t see him. 

Max was honestly starting to feel sick. During the night, he rummaged through his backpack, finding, luckily, his phone, but the battery was dead. He also rescued a half-empty bottle of water, that he was saving for later, and some crackers, that only made his mouth even more dry. This was bad. The back of his t-shirt was starting to stick on his back, as the day grew hot and humid. It was still around five a.m. 

Looking down, he played with the hem of his shirt, counting the cars that passed by. Only seven in an hour, which did not surprise him. From the little knowledge he had about Southern Italy, he recalled that the tourists concentrate along the coast, not in the middle of nowhere. He scoffed: of course, this would happen to him. He was just this unlucky. 

Suddenly, a camper stopped by. He recognized it immediately, as it was the same one as many other children. Maybe, he could ask them for a phone and call his mother, and then find a way to go back to Belgium. Maybe they would even give him a lift! Still better than hitchhiking. 

His face dropped when all of the family got out. Three boys, a man and a woman. Charles Leclerc and his family. And of course, they were coming his way. He swallowed up a thick chunk of saliva, the only bits remaining in his dry throat, as his parents and Charles himself approached first, speaking rapidly in French between themselves. He got up and brushed away the sand clinging to his clothes, blinking rapidly. His head spun.

«Max? Are you okay?» A soft, feminine voice spoke, «Charles, va chercher une bouteille d’eau». (Charles, go grab a bottle of water)

He didn’t hear his response, however, black dots surrounded his vision. He stumbled, only getting caught by a pair of strong arms, steadying him. The heat and the lack of water must’ve affected him, after all. Charles returned with a bottle of icy cold water, handing it to Max, who gladly accepted and drank half of it in a gulp. 

«Easy there, boy, you don’t want to get a stomachache» a heavy, yet gentle voice intervened this time. 

Max took a couple of deep breaths, looking up to the scene in front of him: Charles, with an undeniable expression on his face, was eyeing him up and down, scrutinizing. Then, a man and a woman - probably his parents - had worried written all over their faces. 

«Mom, can we take him with us?» Charles finally said, talking as if Max was an abandoned puppy they found on their way home. It should infuriate him, yet it doesn’t. It might be because of the sleepless night, the intense relief of being found by someone trustworthy, or the gratitude for the life-saving water they gave him. 

«Oui, Charles» the woman answered. 

«Hello Max, I don’t think we’ve ever met: my name is Pascale, I’m Charles’ mother» she introduced herself, «and this is my husband, Hervé». Said man smiled kindly. 

«I’m- I’m Max Verstappen, nice to meet you» he murmured, slightly bowing. God, he was so awkward. Fortunately, the three of them laughed lightly. 

«We’ll leave you guys alone for a while,» Hervé said. 

A wall of silence fell between them. 

«Your parents are very nice» Max finally said, looking in their direction. Charles’ brothers were looking at him from afar, curious, while his parents were talking animatedly, probably discussing what to do with him. He just hoped they wouldn’t call the police, there was no way that he could communicate with them. 

«Thank you,» he answered, «Max… where is your father?»

Max hesitated. He could lie to Charles, make up some story of where his father has gone, and how he would come back very soon. He internally scoffed. Then, seeing the worried look in Charles' big, green eyes, he didn’t find the strength to lie. 

«He left me here. He was angry about the race» he explained, playing with the hem of his shirt again. 

Charles let out an outraged gasp: «Max, you can’t be serious! You didn’t even do anything bad!, it was not your fault. Oh my God»

He didn’t get why Charles was getting so worked up. They were still rivals, the competition between them fiercer than ever. They exchanged dirty looks and disgruntled faces, they did not, however, help each other out. 

Another pregnant silence stretched between them. 

«Do you have anyone to call?»

Max nodded, biting his lip. He was lucky he learned his mom’s phone number by heart. Charles made a sign for him to follow, heading back to his camper. Max stayed outside, not wanting to intrude. 

Charles handed him a phone, already unlocked. He dialed the number and pressed the device to his ear, gazing at Charles again. 

«Mum?» He asked tentatively. 

«Maxie! Maxie!» His sister’s high-pitched voice filled his ear. He was so, so glad to hear her. 

«Vic, can you pass the phone to mum? Please?» 

«Max?» His mom's familiar tune almost made him tear up. It’s going to be okay, he thought, mum’s going to pick him up. 

To say that Sophie was angry was an understatement. She was furious. As soon as she learned what had Jos done, she barely calmed herself down. After reassuring Max, she asked to talk to Charles’ parents. He handed the phone to Pascale, silently. 

He heard them speak quietly for a while and, in the end, it was set: Max would go back to Monte Carlo with Charles’ family, and Sophie would meet them there. As he entered the camper, he was greeted with a warm feeling: the space was overused, full of objects, not very tidy, all the opposite compared to Max’s ordinated, clinical space. This one looked lived. Max liked this a lot better.

Before he could dive deeper into his thoughts, they were back on the road. Charles and Lorenzo were taking turns to play the music on the old-looking stereo. They even asked Max if he wanted to choose something, but he didn’t know any of the CDs the pair brought. He wasn’t allowed to listen to music or to watch TV when he was at his father’s. At his mom’s, however, Max had the opportunity to watch TV shows and movies and everything, and his sister would instruct him on the best bands of the world - like One Direction, in her opinion. And Justin Bieber. She loved Justin Bieber so much, it was excruciating. 

The journey home passed in a blur. He must’ve fallen asleep, against the thin but soft mattress of Arthur’s bad, who slept in the matrimonial bed with his mother. They stopped again for a few hours, so that Hervé could get some sleep, too, and he woke up. They were in a quiet camping area, and, from outside his window, Max could see the stars, shining bright. 

«Max,», a voice whispered in the dark, «Max, are you awake?».

«Yes, Charles» he answered. He shook his shoulder, wiggling under the covers. 

«I need to pee»

Max arched an eyebrow. «So?»

«Can you come with me?»

«Why? Are you scared of the dark?» Max teased.

Charles huffed. «I’ll go alone then». 

A pang of guild rose in his chest. 

«No, no, wait!» He shouted-whispered, «I’ll come with you».

A moment later, Charles pointed his electric torch right into his face, blinding him. Max brought a hand to his eyes. He followed Charles out the camper and into the bathroom stalls, with white tiles and ceramic sinks lined up a wall, resembling very much the space where they almost fist-fought each other, many years ago. 

«Charles» Max called out, while the other boy was in a stall, «thank you». 

Charles was quiet for a moment, and then: «Anytime».

Afterward, they stayed quiet. Max’s usual bluntness was shadowed by profound tiredness and, deep down, sadness: for the first time ever, he got to see what a united family looked like. He couldn’t help but feel jealous of Charles, of the way everyone seemed to care for each other. Pascale reminded him of his mother, in certain ways, while Hervé… he’s never seen anyone like him. If he ever has children, he wants to be a father like Hervé. His cheeks burn at the thought of that. Charles would be a wonderful dad, too. 

As they got back to the camper, Max insisted to stop once again. They sat in front of the vehicle, enjoying the breeze, their arms touching, sending shivers over Max’s spine. He looked at the stars, and then at Charles. He pointed a trembling finger to the brightest of them. 

«One day, I wanna learn everything about the stars» he stated. 

«I can see why» Charles answered and smiled at him. Max blushed - thank god it was dark outside. 

As they watched the stars, he could feel his eyelids grow heavier and heavier, and Charles leaned his head over his shoulder. Perceiving his hot breath on his collarbone and listening to the quiet snoring from the other boy, Max finally closed his eyes, falling into a deep slump. 

«Max, Charles?» He heard a familiar voice, «Wake up boys, we need to go». 

Charles’ grown in his ear woke him up. He blinked, once, twice, trying to scope his surroundings. He remembered falling asleep gazing at the stars, Charles next to him. Said boy opened his bright green eyes and furrowing his brows, sleepy and confused. He snuggled to his side. Max felt his cheeks warm up once again. 

«Come on Charles, you can go back to sleep inside» Hervé urged, «if your mom wakes up and finds out you slept outside all night, we’ll never hear the end of it».

Charles frowned once again, and they both hastily got up. He smiled at him as he rubbed his eyes. Max smiled, too, showing his perfectly straight teeth. The group got back inside quietly to not wake the rest of the family and, in particular, Pascale. 

He found himself warm, hiding under the covers, suddenly missing the warmth of Charles’ body by his side. He forced himself to think about something else. His mind wandered, to the day when both he and Charles would be to Formula One, driving on the same tracks. How he could beat him. How they would celebrate together with real champagne, Max on the highest step of the podium. 

He thought of kissing Charles under the stars, after his first World Championship. 

Darkness engulfed him once again, his fingers brushing lightly his lips, and he drifted off to sleep.