Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Charles doesn’t notice the date at first. The last few weeks have been frantic, between a race every weekend, a frenzy of media duties with Carlos, and constantly improving the car to keep up with Red Bull. Suffice it to say, it’s been a busy month.

Charles has reached a stage of perpetual exhaustion, where no matter how much sleep he gets, it never seems to be enough. He fell into bed so early after qualifiers last night, that he wakes up to a million concerned texts from Pierre.

He fields the messages, apologising profusely for the disappearing act, before peeling himself out of bed and brewing a cup of tea. Sinking into the sofa, clutching his mug tightly in his hand, he unlocks his phone with a deep, weary sigh. He is scrolling mindlessly when the notification appears at the top of his screen.

Father’s Day.

Charles just stares as the words clang around his head. He forgot. His father has been in the grave less than eight weeks, and his presence is already fading. Guilt crashes over him like a tidal wave, and he is swept away in its current.

The phone slips from his grasp, hitting the tiled floor with a smash, but Charles doesn’t hear it over the ringing in his ears. He manages to set his tea down, before falling back against the couch, curling up as small as he can make himself.

The pain is so intense that for a few minutes, he forgets how to breathe. It is only when black spots begin to dance in front of his vision that his lungs contract desperately, and he realises he needs air. He gasps desperately, but the wave is closing in, and he cannot draw breath.

How could he forget? He and his brothers had already made Father’s Day plans, intending on making this one special, as they knew it could be his last. It feels like a karmic slap in the face that his father did not survive to see the plans come to fruition.

Before his health had declined so rapidly in those last few weeks, they had been planning a trip back to their childhood racetrack, all of them together. Just like it was when they were kids, the Leclerc boys against the world.

But now Jules is gone, and his father is dead. Though there should be five men on that trip to the kart track, only three remain.

The sobs erupt from deep within his chest, the pain bursting from him violently as tears roll down his cheeks. He had been doing better, the pain ever-present, but less all-encompassing. He was able to function in his day-to-day life, feeling as though he is missing a limb, but learning to adapt to the loss.

And now he is back to square one.

Charles presses a hand against his mouth tightly, trying his best to suppress the cries threatening to burst from his lips. This just reduces his oxygen intake, and he soon finds himself back to gasping for air.

Charles wraps both arms around his shaking body, clutching his midsection. He holds himself tight, because there is no one left to hug him.

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Somehow, Charles heaves himself from the couch with Herculean effort, stumbling into the shower. He scrubs mercilessly at his skin, trying to disguise the redness of his face, the tear track staining his cheeks.

He doesn’t remember driving to the track, which some sensible part of brain knows is concerning considering he has a race in a few hours. He throws the car carelessly into park and gains entrance to the paddock in a daze, thankfully avoiding both fans and media. He passes Max and George, locked in conversation as he heads toward the Ferrari hospitality. They probably call to him, but he doesn’t hear them. His ears have been ringing relentlessly since he saw that reminder on his phone.

Finally, he makes it to the garage, immediately finding himself faced by a couple of dozen worried faces, as the engineers get a good look at him.

‘Sorry,’ he mumbles, not even sure what he’s apologising for as he heads through the garage, into his driver’s room. He has no idea if he has media obligations, or a briefing, or if the race starts in five minutes. All he knows is if he doesn’t get out of there, away from those concerned frowns, he will lose it.

He is immersed in replaying memories of him, his father and brothers when they were kids. An endless loop of torture, as every memory strikes at his heart, an acute reminder of what he has lost. Charles’ childhood, growing up on the streets of Monaco, racing with his brothers, was one of sheltered contentment. He had no idea how good life was, until Jules died, and then only a handful of years later, his father followed.

He thought that by surviving Jules’ untimely demise, that was somehow the worst thing he would ever have to go through. That watching Jules crash, and knowing it was the end of life as he knew it, would be the worst moment he would ever endure.

But when Jules died, he had his father and his mother to help him make sense of the loss.

Any sense of peace he gained following Jules’ death has been ripped away, leaving a gaping hole in his chest. It festers inside of him, a weeping wound which he does not know how to heal. But he has no time to grieve, there are people relying on him. So, he curls up into a ball, and patches his heart together, covering the gaping cracks with brittle memories of better times.

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Charles makes his way to the media room, painting a smile to his face. He forgot to check who would be in the conference with him, so he is pleasantly surprised when he walks in and sees his favourite person.

‘Max,’ Charles calls in greeting, as the man hasn’t seen him yet. He looks up from his phone and smiles brightly, immediately dropping his phone and giving Charles his full attention.

‘Charles!’ Max stands and pulls him into a loose hug. This wasn’t a common occurrence until a couple of months ago. But then his father died, and somehow his arch-nemesis became one of his favourite people. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine,’ Charles does his best to smile, but he can tell from the look on Max’s face that he realises how painful today is and does not buy it for a second.

‘I know how hard today must be. I am here, for anything you need,’ he grabs Charles’ hand, and this time, the smile on his face is genuine, if not watery.

‘I know that today can’t be great for you either. Jos is… well.’ Max laughs at Charles’ obvious distaste.

‘Don’t worry, I actually had a great Father’s Day.’ Max’s expression is so achingly soft, that Charles longs to pull him into a hug and beg for every detail of what made him this happy. He does not just want to see these smiles; he wants to be the one to bring them to his lips.

‘Besides, do not deflect, my friend. I have a shitty father, but I do not take for granted that I have a father.’ The words punch a hole in his chest, but Charles manages to avoid breaking down by the skin of his teeth.

Charles is saved from responding by the timely arrival of George, Checo and Daniel, clearly the missing members of their press conference.

‘G’day to you fellas,’ Daniel calls to them, pulling first Max, and then Charles into a tight hug, not noticing the atmosphere between them. Charles allows himself to sink into the familiar embrace for a few seconds, to extract whatever comfort he can from the Australian, before he forces himself to pull away.

George replaces Daniel quickly, and they do a bro-hug-back-slap which brings a smile to Charles’ face.

Checo is the last of the group to approach, and Charles extends a hand for them to fist bump. To his surprise, Checo, who is not known for being a hugger, bypasses the outstretched hand and pulls Charles against him tightly. Being in Checo’s arms feels different to hugging Max, or Daniel. It feels more like hugging his father, and it takes every ounce of self-control Charles possesses to keep from breaking down in tears.

Checo pulls away from Charles, revealing Max, George and Daniel, all giving them a funny look. ‘You never hug me, and I am your teammate!’ Max sounds genuinely offended; their previous conversation forgotten for the moment.

‘You do not want to hug me either, no?’

Max places a hand against his chest, ‘oh the betrayal continues, you don’t want to hug me now?’

George is quick to join in on the teasing, opening his arms and lumbering toward Checo like Godzilla. Checo ducks his hold, and Daniel immediately takes this as a challenge, to get a hug from the reticent man. Checo might be one of the oldest drivers on the grid, but he also has four kids at home, so Daniel finds himself panting for breath desperately as the Mexican skips away from him on light feet.

‘I swear you’re, like, forty,’ he huffs, hands on his knees as Charles, Max and George laugh heartily at the show.

‘I’m thirty-four thank you very much. And I have four kids under six. If you think you’re fit, try hanging out with them every day,’ Checo grins, his eyes sparkling at the thought of his family.

At that moment, the door swings open and they are ushered into the conference, already full of press. They deftly affix their microphones around their heads, sitting down on the couches laid out for them. Getting rid of the desk format of conferences was controversial with some audiences, but the drivers all rather enjoy it. If nothing else, it means they are comfortable while being grilled to within an inch of their lives.

Charles sinks into the plush seating, with Checo on his left and George on his right, who immediately commences a game of thumb wars as they wait for the questions to begin. Charles regrets it quickly, thinking his thumb may dislocate under George’s constant pressure.

‘First question please,’ George lets go, the media mask instantly affixed to his face as Charles cradles his hand in pain. He kicks George’s shin in retribution, getting a grunt in response.

The press conference is delightfully uneventful, and before Charles knows it, the cameras are almost done rolling.

‘One last question please!’ A journalist calls from the very back of the room. ‘Aimed at all drivers. It is unfortunate that the race is happening on Father’s Day. What are everyone’s plans, either with your fathers, or with your kids, Checo?’

Charles’ heart skips a beat, and he thinks that he may have stopped breathing as the question shatters the atmosphere around him. He is horrified to realise that there are tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He did so well, to piece himself back together and put on a mask that says, “I’m fine.”

And now, with one well-meaning question by a reporter, he is right back at square one, feeling like the pain might take him under.

But then there is a subtle presence surrounding him, as Checo stretches his arm over the back of the couch, placing his hand on the back of Charles’ shoulder, where the cameras cannot see. George knocks his knee into Charles’ at the same time, as Daniel swoops in to answer the question. Charles cannot hear the response over the renewed ringing in his ears, but he realises that Max has made a joke, pulling Daniel further into the conversation.

They are all helping him, he realises. Checho and George pulling him back from the edge of the cavernous black hole of grief in his chest. Daniel and Max buying him time to recover his emotions and plaster his mask back on.

‘Look, it’s not my fault that you love my family, okay,’ Daniel continues his argument with Max. ‘We both know that my mother misses you.’

‘Well, I miss her,’ Max chuckles.

‘You miss her baking,’ Daniel retorts, not missing a beat.

‘Don’t say that’ Max hisses, looking around like someone will jump out at him. ‘My trainer will hear you!’ This causes a smattering of appreciative sniggering from the crowd of press. Charles glances at Checo, sending him a small but honest smile. He gets a wider one in return, and Checo taps his shoulder in acknowledgement.

‘I celebrated with my dad during the week, before we flew out of here,’ George intercedes, breaking up the feigned argument now he can see Charles isn’t about to lose his shit. ‘Very English celebration, a spot of whiskey, game of football and we’re set.’ There is more laughter, most if it from the English reporters clustered at the front.

‘My brothers and I planned to take our father back to our childhood racetrack,’ Charles has no idea where he finds the composure to speak up, but suddenly he knows he has to talk about it, to honour his father’s memory. ‘He had been ill for a while, so I don’t know if he would have been able to race. But just being there, with his three boys. I know that would have been the greatest day he could have asked for.’ Charles rubs his eyes gently, wiping away the tears growing in the corners. ‘I guess I want to say I know how hard this day is, for the other kids out there without dads. That I hope they find comfort with the people who love them, because really, I think Father’s Day is just about appreciating the people who love you.’

Respectful silence has fallen over the room as Charles delivers his message, heartfelt, if not eloquent. The quiet continues for too long, and Charles begins to regret speaking up.

‘Personally, I am glad Father’s Day is on a race day,’ Checo intercedes, saving Charles from the echoing silence. ‘I miss my children every day, and even more than usual on days like today,’ Charles can read the sincerity on his face, and he knows how much the older man struggles with spending so much time away from his family. ‘But I like being here. My children know that they are loved every second of every day. So, I appreciate the opportunity to be here for the Grid Kids who may not have their own fathers around, on days like today.’

Charles’ eyes are watering again at the passionate words, but this time he does not bother to try and hide it. He has never considered Checo to be one of the drivers he is close to, and yet today, which is proving to be more hellish for him then he ever could have anticipated, the man has come through for him in every conceivable way.

The press conference ends swiftly after Checo’s fervent words, and all five drivers remove their mics as the press begin to prepare for the next group of drivers. Charles and the others exit rapidly, making their way outside.

Charles is the last to step out, briefly blinded by the sun after the artificial lighting of the press conference. This is why he doesn’t immediately spot the small group of drivers waiting outside.

Seb, Lewis, Checo and Valtteri are all lingering outside the press room, their expressions brightening when Charles finally spots them there.

‘Are you the next press conference?’ Charles asks, confused. ‘I don’t think that they’re ready for you yet.’

‘We’re here for you, kid,’ Seb throws an arm around him, and Charles sinks into his mentor’s embrace.

‘What do you mean?’ He doesn’t pull away, allowing Seb to lead him into an abandoned rec room, the other drivers following closely.

‘We know how hard today must be for you,’ Seb leads him to take a couch, squashing up next to him, as the other three drivers cram in beside them. Charles considers pretending not to know what they’re talking about, but he can feel the wave of pain growing again.

‘I didn’t realise how much today would hurt,’ he whispers, feeling the mask he has done his best to keep tightly affixed all day finally drop entirely.

Lewis throws his arm around his shoulders, allowing Charles to be ensconced on all sides by warmth and comfort. ‘We saw what you said in the press conference kid, and we’re so fucking proud of you. I would give anything for your father to be here Charles, I think we all would.’

He gives a watery smile, ‘even your driver’s championship?’

Lewis snorts, ‘I would give up every driver’s championship if you could have your dad, kid. But even that won’t bring him back.’ A lone tear rolls down Charles’s cheek, which Seb wipes away gently with his thumb.

‘Just because your dad can’t be here for you today, it doesn’t mean that no one is.’ Checo grabs his free hand, squeezing it comfortingly. Valtteri just observes the interaction, his gaze is soft.

‘Have you spoken to your family?’ Seb’s question shatters through him.

‘No,’ Charles shakes his head, already exhausted by the argument which is to come.

‘Your brothers care about you; your mother loves you. You need to talk to them,’ Lewis chides gently.

Charles shakes his head emphatically, burying his head in Seb’s warm shoulder.

‘Kid, they worry about you. Lorenzo called today, asking me to make sure that you are alright.’ Seb pokes him on the top of the head, and Charles raises his face.

‘I can’t burden them with my pain today. But I can’t pretend to be fine either.’

‘You don’t need to hide from them or pretend to be fine. They want to help. They want to carry this burden with you,’ Lewis squeezes his hand.

‘No, you don’t get it,’ Charles sighs deeply. ‘Lorenzo has had so much thrown on his shoulders. He needs to support my mother and be there for Arthur.’

‘I think you’re doing a lot to support Arthur too, are you not?’ Seb interrupts. ‘And I know that you’ve been calling your mother every day to make sure she’s okay. Not to mention that you’ve been letting Lorenzo cry on your shoulder, because you know that he won’t burden Arthur or your mother.’

‘Exactly! He is relying on me because I’m the only person he can grieve with. And Arthur is so young, he needs dad so much.’

‘He’s three years younger than you Charles. You need your dad just as much as he does,’ Lewis intercedes this time.

‘And my mother,’ Charles continues his tirade. ‘She lost her husband of over twenty years; I can’t ask her to carry my pain as well as her own!’

‘She’s your mother,’ Valtteri speaks up for the first time. ‘As a father, if my children hid their pain from me, that would hurt me worse than anything else.’

‘Your hurt and your grief, Charles, are just as important, just as worthy, as everyone else’s.’ Seb points Charles’ face toward his own, manipulating his chin gently. ‘And if you really feel like you’re burdening your family, if you really don’t want to go to them for support. Your grid dads are here for you.’

Something in Charles’ chest shatters at that word. Dad. He never thought that word would be his to use ever again. After two months of holding it together, employing every tactic he knows to hold his patchwork heart in one piece, he finally shatters into a million pieces.

Seb and Lewis hold him tightly as he crumbles, the sobs tearing from him so hard and fast he can barely catch his breath. He curls up tight, trying to hold himself together, as though the smaller he makes himself, the less likely he is to fall apart entirely. Every second of the last seven years, since his father first got diagnosed, seems to be running through his mind at top speed, and he can barely breathe for sobbing. He has been on the verge of a panic attack for the last two months, so it shouldn’t be a surprise that this is the last straw.

He doesn’t realise he isn’t breathing until Seb begins to call his name frantically, pulling him against his slim form so Charles can feel his chest rising and falling. There are black dots dancing in front of his vision as he tries to draw air into his failing lungs. Just like his father, in those last days.

With that morbid thought, the blackness takes over.

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Charles has no idea how much time has passed, but it can’t have been long, as he is still cradled against Seb’s chest when he wakes.

‘You with us, kid?’ Lewis asks, as he blinks his eyes open. Not trusting his voice, Charles just nods, trembling finely. Valtteri drapes his jacket over himself and Seb, before retaking his seat.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Charles whispers, his voice breaking despite the low volume. ‘I didn’t realise it was going to be quite that… explosive.’

‘That’s what you get for bottling everything up,’ Seb chides from behind him, and Charles unconsciously snuggles further into him, comforted by the vibrations from his chest.

‘I think this is a sign that you need to prioritise yourself for a while, Charles,’ Lewis says gently.

‘How can I? Ferrari, my family, they all need me,’ he protests weakly.

‘You’re right, they do need you. But they need you whole. Not in immeasurable amounts of unreconciled agony.’ Seb cards a hand through his hair, calming him before he has even has the chance to get worked up. ‘You give, and give, and give, Charles. It’s okay to need something in return.’

Charles gulps, the words resonating with him more than he cares to admit.

‘If you can’t prioritise yourself, then we will,’ Checo speaks up. ‘We all care for you, Charles. More than I think you can possibly imagine. I know you think you are a burden, but you aren’t. Never to us.’

‘The next time you’re lonely, or sad, or missing your father, we will all be here for you. And when you get your next podium, or play your latest composition, or just want to share a funny joke, we will be here for that too,’ Lewis cups Charles’ cheek with his hand, pressing their foreheads together.

‘We want to be part of your life when it is easy and full of joy. We also want to be there when it is dark and painful. Your feelings are never too much, and they are never a burden.’

With these men holding him together, Charles finds that he doesn’t need to hug himself anymore. Because he has found someone to do it for him.

For the first time in longer than Charles can remember, he doesn’t think that this gaping, shadowed chasm in his soul will swallow him whole. Because there are people around him now to heave him out.

He thinks this would be a gift his father would have loved.

Chapter Text

Max is wrenched from a deep sleep as his ringtone shatters the silence of his hotel room. He groans deeply, burying his head beneath his pillow until the cacophony finally ceases. Sleep comes up to claim him once again, but before he can drift off, the racket begins anew. He rolls over, rubbing his eyes as he grabs his phone, examining the caller ID on his screen.

Jos Verstappen is disturbing his Sunday morning, pre-race peace. It is then that Max spots the calendar reminder at the bottom of his screen. Father’s Day.

He groans emphatically into his pillow, before summoning every ounce of his strength, and accepting the call. ‘Hey, dad,’ he pinches the bridge of his nose hard, praying for the side of his dad who seems to love him.

‘You don’t sound happy to hear from me,’ his father retorts coldly. Not the good side, then. Normally Jos would be here, looming over Max’s shoulder as he does everything he can to please the man. Luckily, the race is in Canada, which is one of the tracks his father is least fond of. As a result, his sister had done him a massive favour, and promised to deal with Father’s Day, allowing him a break.

‘Sorry dad,’ Max sighs deeply. ‘It’s still early here, I was asleep.’

‘Do I need to remind you it’s race day, Max? You should be training, not lounging in bed.’

‘Yes, dad, I know. But it’s,’ Max looks at the time and groans loudly. ‘It’s six in the morning here.’

‘We used to start working out at five am sharp,’ Jos snaps.

‘I remember dad,’ Max presses his fingers deeply into his eyes. ‘What did Victoria do for Father’s Day?’

‘I don’t want to talk about your sister, I want to talk about your career!’

‘Well, I don’t want to talk about my career, okay?’ Max yells into the phone.

‘You ungrateful…’ Max hangs up before his father can continue, falling back into bed with a moan. That was not how he wanted to start the day.

Try as he might to fall back to sleep, he cannot get his brain to rest, thoughts racing faster than a Red Bull car through his head. He jumps into the shower, before commencing his usual pre-race routine, starting with a coffee. Less than an hour later, he is jumping into the car. He knows he will be at the track early, but he decides to go anyway. There is someone he needs to see.

Max pulls into the track with very little fanfare, much to his relief. If there is one thing that he hates about his job, it’s the constant attention. If he could race without the notoriety that comes with it, he would be a happy, happy man.

He makes the short walk to the Red Bull hospitality (perks of winning the constructor’s championship), before knocking on the door of the one person he knows will already he there.

‘Come in,’ a British voice calls loudly, and Max swings open the door. ‘Max, good morning! You’re here early!’

‘I woke up early this morning, couldn’t get back to sleep,’ Max tries to wave it off, but Christian picks up on the tension beneath the words. He powers his laptop down, leaning back in the office chair to give Max his full attention.

‘Your father called you, didn’t he?’ Max just nodded wordlessly, and Christian smiled sympathetically. ‘How bad was it?’

‘I hung up on him, so today it was fine. But as soon as I get home, well, I guess it’ll be pretty grim.’ He tries to shrug it off, but Christian sees through the façade.

‘We’ll deal with it together, son. I promise, I’ll come back with you, and we’ll sort this out.’ Max nods, some of the nervous anticipation in his stomach settling at the thought of facing his father with Christian by his side.

‘What are you doing for Father’s Day?’

Christian sighs deeply, ‘Geri normally brings the kids to whatever race we have going on, or I can travel back. But Monty was ill, so they couldn’t get a flight, and it’s too far for me to go home to them,’ he smiles ruefully. ‘Looks like you’re my only kid here this weekend.’

Max knows it is a joke, but he breaks into a cold sweat at the implication. He rubs his hands on his knees, trying to get rid of the clammy feeling. ‘About that…’ He can’t find the courage to carry on.

‘Whatever it is, son, I’m here for you, you know that.’

‘The thing is,’ Max wrings his hands together. ‘Well, you’ve always been more of a dad to me than my father. I joined Red Bull when I was seventeen, and I was so young, and you kind of made me feel like one of your own.’ He fidgets uncertainly, unused to bearing himself emotionally naked in this way.

‘You feel like one of my own,’ Christian answers easily, as though it is the simplest thing in the world. As though this isn’t the most meaningful relationship in Max’s life.

‘I just… my own father doesn’t love me enough to care about anything more than my career. But you’re my boss, and you treat me like a son.’ To his horror, Max finds that there are tears in his eyes. ‘I don’t think I can ever express what everything you have done for me has meant.’ He laughs wetly, ‘I would have some serious daddy issues if you hadn’t stepped up.’

Christian laughs too, and Max realises that his eyes are glassy, tears gleaming in the corners. ‘Max, I can’t tell you how easy it has been, to love you like you are my own. You are perfect, and you always have been. Your father is the one who is broken, okay son?’

A single tear trails down Max’s cheek, as he hears the words that he always prayed his father would say, but he knows never will. It gives him the courage to finally put the box on the table, pushing it toward Christian. His heart hammers in his chest, as Christian’s eyes widen at the implication. What if he thinks it’s too much, or that it’s weird?

‘Max, is this…?’ Christian doesn’t finish his sentence, as Max gestures for him to open the box. It takes every ounce of his mettle not to snatch it away and flee the room.

Without another word, the older man pulls the lid from the box, revealing a card, with something hidden underneath. He opens the envelope first, pulling out a baby blue card with dad emblazoned on the front. He reads it silently, taking in the message written within. Max feels his fear spike as Christian’s eyes begin to glisten once again. Without a word, he turns back to the box, removing a wing mirror from the box.

‘I know it’s weird,’ Max blurts, panic taking over and beginning to ramble desperately. ‘When I first came to Red Bull, I was so convinced I would be kicked out at any time. I was just waiting for the other shoe to drop, and then I wrecked the car for the first time. I was waiting for you to be so angry, and to send me back to Torro Rosso. My dad would have screamed at me, he did scream at me, for being careless and for wasting money. But you just made sure I was okay, and you stayed with me at the medical centre, and you told me how proud you were of me.’ Max takes a breath, his monologue barely letting up. ‘It was the first time you made me realise that my father isn’t always right. That maybe the problems were his, and not mine. I managed to snatch this from the wreck, to remind myself of how you treated me that day.’ He hesitates for a moment. ‘I think that was the first time that I wished you were my dad instead.’

Christian doesn’t say a word, just pushes his chair backward and rounds the desk to throw his arms around Max tightly. He has the wingmirror clutched in one hand, and Max is shocked to realise that there are tears soaking into his shoulder.

‘You,’ Christian pulls away, keeping his hands on Max’s shoulders. ‘You are the best thing that this job has ever given me. The trophies, the success? Those are nothing compared to you, son. You are the best reward any man could ask for, and I see that, even if Jos doesn’t.’

A small sob slips from his mouth, as Max feels himself warm from the inside out, his every negative emotion slipping away. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t think that this would end in so many tears.’

Christian hugs him again, ‘there’s nothing wrong with tears, son. Don’t tell my kids, but this is the best present I’ve ever had for Father’s Day.’

Max laughs, genuinely this time. ‘Bored of the shower gel?’

Christina groans deeply, just encouraging Max to laugh harder. ‘Honestly mate, how many scents can one man own? Every Father’s Day, Christmas, Birthday.’ The two men chuckle, shaking off the last of their tears. Christian returns to the other side of the desk, displaying the Father’s Day card beside his computer with pride.

‘Now, off with you kid. I might care about your happiness more than your success, but it doesn’t mean we need to give it to Ferrari lying down.’ Max grins wickedly, leaving the room.

He goes on to a win later that day, and for the first time in his career, he feels as though the trophy is entirely his. Like his father doesn’t have his dirty fingerprints smeared all over his success.

When they return to Milton Keynes in the off season, and Max goes to Christian’s office, he doesn’t suppress his joy when he spots a new display case on one of Christian’s shelves, sitting dead centre among all of his awards. A display case containing that dented, chipped, cracked wing mirror.