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2013, Karting World Championship Finale - Varennes-sur-Allier, France
Engines roared beneath the harsh afternoon sun as Charles leaned into the start of the final lap. The track shimmered ahead, heatwaves dancing off the tarmac. He didn’t need his mirrors to know Max was behind him. He could feel the dutch menace, like a shadow at his back, a familiar pressure honed from years of racing against each other.
The crowd, family, friends, team staff, even a few scouts from higher series, watched with bated breath as the two championship rivals tore down the straight.
Charles gripped the steering wheel tighter. Max was going to try something. He always did.
And Charles couldn’t afford to let him. Not now. This was his chance to show that he deserved a shot at a formula racing series, at finally stepping up. His kart buzzed under him, raw and eager every time he hit the throttle. Max was already leading the championship. But that didn’t matter. Charles could still overtake him in points.
The hairpin approached. He braked, hard and precise. Perfect timing. He had the line.
But Max didn’t brake.
He dove wide, tires shrieking as his kart screamed alongside Charles’s. Too fast. Too close. There was barely any room.
No.
Their wheels touched.
Charles’s kart jolted, his trajectory thrown. Please no . He tried to wrestle it back under control, but his momentum betrayed him and the gravel rushed up to meet him. He was off the track, skidding into the runoff, heart slamming in time with every bump.
By the time he clawed his way back onto the track, eight karts had passed and Max was long gone.
Why?
The checkered flag waved. The crowd roared. Max had won.
Charles didn’t care.
When his kart came to a halt, he climbed out and immediately stormed through the crowd that had formed at the finish line. He didn’t hear the cheers as he unzipped the top of his suit and took off his helmet, jaw set like stone.
He found Max at the edge of the paddock, where the press and the team couldn’t see them. The victor still in his suit, sipping from a water bottle like he hadn’t just wrecked Charles’s entire race and shot at the championship.
“You ran me off the track, you absolute asshole!” Charles shoved Max, his voice sharp with rage.
Max stumbled back but caught himself just in time. His jaw tightened. “I left you enough space.”
“You didn’t leave me shit!” Charles’s fists were clenched so tight his knuckles ached. “You don’t care who you screw over as long as you win!”
“Fuck off.” Max stepped forward, face inches from Charles’s. “Just admit it, you’re pissed because I’m better than you.”
“You know damn well that’s not true!”
“Oh, did I hit a nerve? Gonna cry to Mommy and Daddy?” Max’s smirk was razor-sharp.
Charles’s voice cracked like a whip. “At least I’m allowed to show emotions in front of my parents without getting punished for it!”
The smirk vanished. Max’s hand shot out, grabbing Charles by the collar. “Shut up!”
Charles stumbled, then sneered mockingly, “What, did I hit a nerve?”
“I said shut up!”
Max shoved him.
And then, before Charles could say another word, he felt a pair of lips on his own.
Charles froze. And just when he felt Max’s lips moving away he surged back in and suddenly they were kissing. Angry, desperate, teeth clashing, all the fight in them bleeding into something messier.
Max made a low, frustrated noise against his lips, like he hated this, hated himself for it—but still pulled Charles in harder. He slammed Charles against the wall, one hand fisting his race suit, the other gripping the back of his neck. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. It was nothing like one’s first kiss was supposed to be like. It was the kind of kiss that came from months of rage and hatred, from two people who had spent too much time fighting on and off the track. It was war, and they were both on the losing side.
When they finally broke apart, gasping for air, Charles realized, Max was looking at him like he wanted to punch him. And Charles? He was looking at Max like he wanted to do that again. Neither of them said a word.
Then Max licked his lips, jaw tight. “I fucking hate you.”
Charles exhaled. “Yeah.” His voice came out hoarse. “I hate you too.”
And yet—neither of them moved away.
“Charles? Where are you?”
A voice called in the distance. They jolted apart, eyes wide, like kids caught doing something they weren’t supposed to. And wasn’t that ironic?
“This never happened,” Charles said, trying and failing to fix his hair.
“Absolutely,” Max replied.
And just like that, Charles turned and walked away.
2022 Formula 1 Spanish Grand Prix - Barcelona, Spain
The event was chaotic in the way all successful publicity stunts were, two rival teams fighting for the championship, Red Bull and Ferrari, seated together under the same glossy banner, answering fan questions while pretending they didn’t want to tear each other limb from limb on track. The fans loved it. The press loved it even more. And their PR teams? Probably praying to every motorsport god for a civil afternoon.
The fan questions had started off simple. Softballs. Icebreakers.
“I have a question for Carlos. What’s the last song you listened to?”
Carlos chuckled as he answered “Believe me or not, but it was actually ‘Smooth Operator’.”
“No way!” Charles exclaimed as fans laughed in the background.
“I promise I’m not lying! I can show you my spotify later,” Carlos offered.
Charles sighed, “Fine, fine. I’ll believe you for now.”
“This one is for Checo and Max! What’s your favorite red bull flavor?”
“Just the good old classic flavor for me,” Max answered enthusiastically.
“Same for me,” answered Checo
"Charles! Who’s your favorite driver to race against?”
Charles, without missing a beat, tilted the mic toward himself. “Max.”
There was a pause. Max’s brows lifted just slightly. Not a twitch of a smile, but something flickered in his eyes, acknowledgement, maybe.
“Why?” the fan shouted.
Charles leaned back in his chair with a grin. “Because beating him feels the best.”
Max let out a dry laugh, mic still held loosely in his hand. “Flattering, coming from someone who rarely does.”
More laughter. Charles rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth tugged upward despite himself.
“Okay, um this is for all drivers-” said a young fan near the front, holding the mic nervously. “What… um, what was your first kiss like?”
A groan rippled through the stage. Charles blinked. Max shifted. Every PR rep backstage likely broke out into a collective sweat.
Max looked down at the bottle in his hands. Charles blinked at the ceiling like maybe it held a better answer. For a second, no one said anything.
Then Charles spoke. “Messy,” he said simply.
Max coughed. Hard. Like he wasn’t expecting him to actually answer it.
The crowd laughed, expecting a joke, but Charles’s voice had dipped into something quieter. Realer.
He added, still with a lopsided smile, “We kind of… hated each other. At the time. As far as first kisses go it could’ve been worse.”
Max's jaw tensed. He didn't say anything, but everyone could feel it, like the stage itself had leaned closer.
“Mine was. Unexpected,” Max finally said, voice low. “A bit stupid.” He glanced at Charles without turning his head fully. “It shouldn’t have happened.”
And- ouch. Sure Charles knew Max wasn’t interested in him but… he couldn’t deny that those words stung.
Someone on stage coughed deliberately to shift the moment. Carlos, bless him, quipped, “Damn, your first kisses were that dramatic? Mine was behind a cinema with braces involved.”
The crowd laughed again. The tension broke.
But Charles and Max?
They didn’t laugh. Not really.
Because the memory was still there, sharp and unhealed at the edges. A kiss thrown between insults and fists. Sweat on their faces. Rage in their mouths. And a part of them still caught in that sunburnt afternoon, years ago.
Later, when the event wrapped and the drivers filtered offstage, Max stopped just behind the curtain. Charles was right beside him.
“Why’d you answer like that?” Max asked quietly.
Charles looked at him. Really looked.
Then shrugged. “Because it was the truth.”
Max hesitated, then replied, “Oh.”
And wasn’t that an answer in and of itself? Gosh why did Charles always have to embarrass himself in front of Max.
They didn’t say anything else. Just stood there, two boys in men’s suits, in the quiet pause between questions and hope, with an old secret still humming in the air like tire smoke on hot tarmac.
Charles looked down, trying to ignore the stinging in his eyes, pulling at the Velcro strap on his suit collar like it had suddenly become suffocating.
“Are you okay?” Max asked, and it wasn’t sarcastic, wasn’t teasing. Just low. Careful.
Charles sighed. “Since when do you ask me that?”
Max shrugged. “Since that got brought up. In front of half of Spain.”
Charles glanced sideways. “You said it was stupid. That it shouldn’t have happened. And I’m sorry but I can’t just pretend that it didn’t happen anymore.”
“It didn’t matter, Charles. It was a long time ago.”
Charles turned around slowly. “Is that why neither of us have ever talked about it?”
Max didn’t answer. Not with words. Just stared, lips parted, unreadable.
“You kissed me,” Charles said, quieter now. “You shoved me, then kissed me, then told me you hated me. You don’t just forget something like that.”
Max's jaw clenched. “You kissed me back.”
Charles took a step closer. “Of course I did. I wanted to. I still-”
He stopped himself.
Max blinked, heart thudding just behind his ribs.
“I still think about it,” Charles admitted. “Which is ridiculous, I know. We were what? Fifteen? Angry, stupid kids trying to beat each other at everything.”
Max looked down. His hands curled slightly into fists. “Yeah. Stupid.”
“But,” Charles said, “it wasn’t just anger. You know that, don’t you?”
Max finally met his eyes. “What if it was?” His voice cracked just a little. “What if that’s all I know how to do with you? Fight. Push. Win.”
Charles reached for the zipper at the front of his suit, slowly tugging it down a few inches, trying to breathe easier. “Then maybe it’s time we stopped pretending this doesn't mean anything.”
There was silence again, one of those dense, heavy pauses full of almosts.
“I don’t hate you,” Max said finally. “Not anymore.”
Charles smiled, small and honest. “Took you long enough.”
Max laughed under his breath, tension finally bleeding out of his shoulders. “You’re still a pain in the ass.”
“Likewise.”
Another beat passed.
Then Charles leaned in. Not like before, no yelling, no shoving, no gravel burns or adrenaline high. Just a soft, uncertain lean-in, slow enough to back out of.
Max didn’t.
Their lips met again for the first time in almost a decade, still hidden away without an audience but this time without any rage and without anything to prove. Just the weight of history between them and the knowledge that maybe… this had always been coming.
When they pulled apart, Max didn’t say anything at first.
Then: “We’re never telling the PR team.”
Charles grinned. “Agreed.”
From around the corner, someone shouted, “Max? Charles?! Time for post-event photos!”
Max stepped back, adjusting the collar of his suit and biting down a smile. “Come on, Leclerc. Try to look like you didn’t just make out with your favorite rival.”
Charles rolled his eyes, but the flush in his cheeks betrayed him.
As they walked back toward the flashing cameras, their hands brushed once. Just once.
Neither of them pulled away.