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Those boys had it in them.
The charm of adolescence and the spark of something greater.
Every time their eyes met—at the finish line, on the podium, or backstage—it was like they could see their future written in the other’s gaze. It was as if they knew what was coming.
Max was different. Everyone saw it, even Esteban. There was an edge in him that could cut through everything in his path. He was destined for greatness. But Esteban… he was steady, determined. Quiet, but just as driven. The world didn’t see him the way they saw Max, but Max did. And that was enough.
They never needed to say much. They understood each other, perhaps better than anyone else could.
Sunday, March 13, 2011.
The sun has long dipped below the horizon in Sarno, Italy. Kids who raced that day run around the track, playing, laughing, and shouting until their fathers call them in for the night.
But the podium seaters, Max and Esteban, sit in silence on a bench overlooking the track with warm popcorn resting on their laps; their eyes fixed on the empty Circuito Internazionale Napoli ahead.
They had a good race for the WSK Euro Series weekend, and it was their first podium together, with Esteban standing on the top step. But it was only the first weekend, and both knew how unpredictable racing, especially karting, could be.
Esteban’s fingers toy absentmindedly with a piece of popcorn, his gaze unfocused. The question that had been gnawing at him for years finds its way to his lips.
“Do you think we’ll make it?” His voice is soft, almost unsure, like the weight of the question is too heavy for someone his age.
Max doesn’t turn to look at him. His eyes remain forward, but his answer comes without hesitation. “Make it where? F1?”
Esteban nods slowly, still fiddling with his food. “Yeah. You think we’ll both make it?”
There is a pause, brief but palpable, before Max speaks again. His voice carries an easy confidence, as if the future is something he has already mapped out.
“I’m sure we will.”
Esteban smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
The weight of doubt clings to him in ways Max never seems to feel. He wasn’t just asking if they’d make it. He was asking if there was room for both of them at the top.
“Very kind of you to include me in your narrative, no?” Esteban says, his voice carrying a hint of self-deprecation.
Max finally turns to him, his expression softening in the dim light. An expression beyond rivalry, beyond competition.
“I would always include you” Max says, his voice quiet but certain. It’s intriguing how Max’s certainty feels so effortless, like he was born to it, that it’s almost convincing.
Sunday, October 12, 2014.
Three years later, the sun still shines bright over Italy. But the stakes are different now. Imola is buzzing with the energy of futures being written.
Max’s F1 seat for 2015 with Toro Rosso was announced two months ago, and Esteban…well, his future is still uncertain, but at least his F1 test with Lotus was about to be officially revealed two days later.
Max and Esteban don’t know it yet, but this is their last podium together before F1 and the triumph that Monaco 2023— almost ten years later—would bring.
Beneath the surface, a familiar knot tightens in Esteban's chest. He is the one leading the championship, and yet, Max is the one with the F1 seat. Fair? It didn’t feel that way. Not now. Maybe not ever.
But in the middle of the ceremony, the champagne, and the cheers, Esteban is not thinking about it. Not yet.
Right now, Esteban is celebrating. Third place today is enough for him to secure an early title in the 2014 FIA Formula 3 European Championship.
And who wouldn’t be happy to win a championship against all those talented kids, against all those future legends of motorsports, against Max Verstappen?
Between the rookie podium and the main podium, they have one minute to themselves. Adrenaline still courses through their veins, and Esteban decides it’s the right moment to speak.
“Do you think we’ll win?” Esteban asks and there’s more hope than doubt in his tone.
Max grins, the weight of the future still far off in his mind. “An F1 race? Yeah, we’ll win.”
Esteban chuckles, shaking his head slightly. “Very kind of you to include me in your narrative, no?”
Max shrugs, and his grin softens into a kind of sincerity that catches Esteban off guard, even after all these years.
“I would always include you” he says.
For the first time, Esteban almost believes it.
Sunday, September 4, 2016.
The afternoon breeze is sweet in fair Monza, where we lay our scene—because, of course, it would be in Italy with those two.
It was Esteban’s second F1 race with Manor Racing. For Max, it was just another (sadly, mediocre) race during his second F1 season. A season full of surprises: a team change, a race win, a record for the books.
This time they don’t find each other on the podium, but in their hotel’s lobby. It feels natural how they end up in the same elevator, continuing their racing-related conversation.
Max’s smirk tugs at his lips as the elevator doors close behind them. “Come up to the balcony,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“We’ll drink our sorrows away, and I promise I won’t drop you off the balcony,” he teases, eyes bright with mischief.
Esteban laughs, shaking his head, but the offer hangs between them, more of a suggestion than a joke. When the elevator stops at Max’s floor, Esteban follows.
They make their way to Max’s balcony, the air cooler against their skin now that the race weekend’s intensity has faded. Max pours two drinks, handing one to Esteban before leaning against the balcony railing.
For a moment, they sit in silence—the kind that’s comfortable between them. There’s no need to fill it with words.
Max swirls the glass in his hand, gaze fixed on the horizon. “You were good today,” he says finally, breaking the quiet. “Better than qualifying.”
Esteban chuckles, taking a sip of his drink. “When you start last, there’s only one way to go.”
“Still,” Max replies, a little softer. “You’re getting there.”
There’s no arrogance in the statement, no pity either. Just truth. And it hits Esteban harder than any compliment ever could.
For a moment, he just looks at Max, at the way he says it so easily, like he’s always known this to be true. Like he’s always seen something in Esteban that maybe even Esteban hasn’t seen in himself.
The warmth in Max’s voice wraps around him, and for the first time all night, Esteban feels seen.
He smiles, but it’s smaller this time.
“Thanks,” Esteban murmurs, his eyes tracing Max’s profile. “You weren’t so bad yourself. It wasn’t your best race, Mister Race Winner,” he smirks, “but you fought.”
Max shrugs, downing the rest of his drink with that familiar confidence. “I’ve got more in me.”
Esteban turns to face him fully, feeling the weight of the conversation shift, becoming heavier and more important than themselves.
“Do you think we’ll win one?” His voice is quiet, almost careful, as if testing the water.
Max falters, just for a second. “What? An F1 championship?”
Esteban laughs, though there’s a wistful edge to it. “Yeah.”
Esteban feels like he can see the thought process inside Max’s mind, and somehow, that makes it worse.
Max meets his eyes, the answer already there in the way he stands, the way he’s always carried himself. “I will.”
It’s not a boast. It’s just fact. And yet, the truth of it hits Esteban harder than any result, any race. He nods slowly, processing the certainty in Max’s words, feeling it settle over him like a blanket of inevitability.
“I thought you said you’d always include me in your narrative,no?” Esteban says, his voice softer now, playful. His eyes search Max’s, waiting for an answer that truly matters.
Max turns back to him, and for the first time, that cocky grin becomes softer. A real smile just for Esteban.
“I do,” Max murmurs, voice low, barely above a whisper. “I always do.”
They both know what’s coming. Maybe they always did.
Max will go on to win more than just races—he will take championships, break records, and make history.
And Esteban? He’ll fight hard for every moment, every victory, carving his own path, even if the world sees him differently.
But in the quiet spaces between their victories and losses, their love for each other will never waver.
So instead of answering, Max steps closer, closing the gap between them. His hand brushes against Esteban’s, a subtle touch that lingers just long enough to make his intentions clear.
Then, without hesitation, Max leans in, capturing Esteban’s lips in a kiss—slow, deep, and full of the passion he’s kept buried.
It’s not rushed, not frantic, but deliberate, like a question that’s finally been answered after all these years.
His lips are soft but firm, tasting of whiskey and secrets kept too long.
Esteban melts into it, his hand finding its way to the back of Max’s neck, pulling him closer, letting the world around them fall away. It’s just them, tangled together in a way that feels both inevitable and terrifyingly right.
And in the silence of that balcony, everything they’ve never said finally finds its voice.