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Chapter Text

Rain is falling in Rome. Not the poetic kind. It’s the annoying kind — cold, misty, just wet enough to ruin your hair and your mood, but not enough to justify an umbrella.

“We need espresso,” Marco mutters, rubbing the sleeve of his red Ferrari jacket under his nose as they trudge toward the tiny bar off Via della Scrofa. His hood’s half-off, clinging to the back of his neck like a dead fish. “I can’t think like this. My brain’s operating at, like, twenty percent capacity.”

“Your brain is always at twenty percent,” Davide shoots back, but his voice isn’t cruel — just tired. The kind of tired that settles into your bones when something big has just ended and no one knows what’s coming next.

They duck inside the bar, the little door creaking with the weight of four soaked men and one woman. The lights are warm and yellow. The smell of coffee and sugar cuts through the damp like incense.

“Caffè for five,” says Beatrice without asking. She peels off her coat, slaps it against the bar, and leans her forehead against the espresso machine. “God rest his soul, but Pope Francis really couldn’t have waited another year?”

“It’s not like he scheduled it,” Marco says, already tearing into a packet of sugar with his teeth. “Man was eighty-whatever. You know how many popes die in office? Almost all of them. Eventually.”

“Still,” she sighs, pushing herself upright. “This city’s going to be insufferable for the next month. The crowds. The processions. The conspiracy theorists. Don’t even get me started on the conclave coverage.”

Davide snorts. “I already muted RaiNews.”

“Guys.” Gianluca’s voice is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that means he’s either had an idea or a stroke. “Hear me out.”

“Oh no,” Beatrice groans, without turning around. “Please no. Not today. Not while I’m dripping water onto a barstool.”

But Gianluca is undeterred. His curls are plastered to his forehead, his scarf askew, eyes alight with something that makes Marco instantly uncomfortable.

“I’m serious. We all saw the report. You don’t technically have to be a priest to become pope.”

“I saw that tweet too,” says Marco, sugar sticking to his lip. “It also said a dog could be pope if the Cardinals agreed unanimously. Doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.”

“No,” Gianluca says, slamming his hand down. The espresso cups rattle. “No. Listen. Any baptized Catholic man can be pope. Any. You know what that means?”

“It means a billion men are now eligible to run the Vatican like it’s a startup,” Beatrice mutters.

Davide raises an eyebrow. “Where are you going with this?”

Gianluca leans in. Drops his voice like it’s a state secret. “We choose one.”

Marco frowns. “Like … we pick the next pope?”

“Not pick. Back. Rally behind. Support. The Cardinals vote, yeah — but who says the people can’t influence them? This is Italy. We’re basically made of politics.”

Beatrice blinks at him. “You want to … run a campaign. For pope.”

“Why not?” Gianluca shrugs, growing manic. “This is our chance to put someone good in power. Someone real. Someone the people actually like.”

“Someone who doesn’t want to be pope, you mean,” Davide deadpans. “Pretty sure that’s all of them.”

“I’m not saying we nominate, like, Andrea Bocelli,” Gianluca insists. “I’m saying we think … bigger. Better. Bolder.”

“Jesus Christ,” Marco murmurs. “You already have someone in mind, don’t you?”

The grin that blooms across Gianluca’s face is something terrifying and beautiful.

“Beatrice,” he says, eyes sparkling. “Who’s the most beloved Catholic-adjacent figure in all of Italy?”

She stares at him.

“No.”

“Who’s got the charisma, the global recognition, the morals?”

“No.”

“Who’s baptized, media-trained, speaks three languages, and is literally blessed by thousands every Sunday?”

“Gianluca. Absolutely not.”

“Charles. Leclerc.”

Dead silence.

Even the barista pauses, glancing over the machine.

“No,” Beatrice says again. Firmer this time.

Marco bursts out laughing. “The Ferrari driver? You want to make Charles Leclerc pope?”

Davide leans back on his stool, watching Gianluca like someone observing a slow-moving car crash. “He’s not even Italian.”

“He might as well be,” Gianluca insists. “Born and baptized in Monaco. That counts. And anyway, being pope isn’t about paperwork. It’s about presence. Passion. He’s got that. We’ve all seen it. The way he talks about racing, his family, his team … it's practically evangelical.”

Beatrice raises a hand. “Okay, setting aside the fact that he’s got a literal F1 season to drive-”

“Which he can step away from. Temporarily.”

“Temporarily? What, you think he’s gonna take a sabbatical from Ferrari to wear white robes and wave from balconies?”

“I’m just saying,” Gianluca says, palms up. “We live in a world where people write fanfiction about Charles Leclerc falling in love with a barista from Silverstone. Is it really that much crazier to imagine him in the Vatican?”

Davide rubs his temples. “Okay, okay. Let’s say, for argument’s sake, that we entertain this madness. What would the plan even be?”

Gianluca straightens. He’s been waiting for this.

“Step one,” he says, ticking it off on his fingers. “Build a base. A loyal, passionate, slightly unhinged grassroots campaign.”

“That’s us,” Marco murmurs. “We are unhinged.”

“Step two: media storm. Hashtag campaigns. Memes. Emotional tribute videos with slow piano versions of the Formula 1 theme. You know the drill.”

Beatrice groans. “The internet’s going to eat this alive.”

“Step three,” Gianluca continues, undeterred, “public pressure. We write letters. Petitions. Op-eds. Get people talking. You think the Cardinals don’t read La Repubblica?”

“They do not,” Davide says. “They absolutely do not.”

“Step four,” Gianluca says, eyes gleaming, “we reach out to Charles.”

Everyone goes still again.

This time, it’s not disbelief. It’s fear.

“Reach out how?” Marco asks. “You gonna DM him? Slide into his Instagram comments between the thirst traps and race recaps?”

Gianluca doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. The look in his eyes is enough.

“Oh my God,” Beatrice whispers. “You’ve already drafted the message, haven’t you?”

“It’s in my Notes app,” Gianluca admits. “It starts with ‘Dear future Holy Father’.”

Davide makes a strangled noise that might be a laugh or a scream.

Beatrice slaps both hands on the bar. “Okay. No. Absolutely not. I am not getting excommunicated because you had an idea in the rain. There are rules, Gianluca. There is decorum.”

“Since when have Ferrari fans cared about decorum?” Marco says. “I’ve seen you guys set fire to your own hats.”

“Exactly!” Gianluca says. “We believe in miracles! This is just one more. Besides …” He pauses. Drops his voice. “You know he’d be a good pope. Deep down, you all know.”

No one speaks.

The rain continues outside. Rome, ever dramatic, lets out a peal of thunder. Somewhere, perhaps, a cardinal sneezes.

Beatrice closes her eyes. “This is stupid.”

“But?” Gianluca says.

She exhales.

“But I’ll help you with the messaging. If you promise not to use Comic Sans on the flyer.”

Marco throws up his hands. “Screw it. I’m in. Let’s make the Vatican sweat.”

Davide looks around. At his friends. At the espresso cups. At the little crucifix above the bar, hanging next to a photo of Michael Schumacher. He sighs.

“If we end up arrested for heresy,” he says, “I want it on record that this was not my idea.”

Gianluca raises his espresso. “To Pope Charles.”

They all clink cups.

And just like that, the revolution begins.

Chapter Text

It starts with a tweet.

@ScuderiaSoul posts a photoshopped image of Charles Leclerc in papal white, waving from the balcony of St. Peter’s. The caption reads, “Our Holy Father, full of grace and pole positions. #PopeCharles #BlessedByTheBest.”

No one really notices at first. A few hundred likes. Some laughing emojis. A Ferrari meme page reposts it. A couple niche F1 fan accounts joke about starting a Vatican race team.

Then someone finds the clip — Charles, last season, post-race in Mexico, sweaty and smiling and too earnest for his own good. The interviewer says something about his faith, and Charles replies, soft and low, “I’m not religious-religious, but … I believe in things. I don’t know. I was baptized, yeah. Catholic. Like most of us, no?”

It’s enough.

Gianluca sends it to everyone. “This is canon. We have canon.”

Marco stitches it onto a video edit set to a choral version of “Crucified.”

By Friday, the hashtag #PopeCharles trends in Italy.

By Sunday, it hits trending worldwide.

“I just … I can’t believe this is real,” Beatrice mutters, staring at her screen like it’s personally betrayed her. “There are TikToks now. People are making Vatican fit-checks. Like. Armani-inspired cassocks. For Charles.”

“Yeah,” Davide says, not looking up. He’s scrolling through a forum thread titled ‘Could an F1 driver technically hold Mass?’ “I saw one where he’s blessing a bottle of champagne. Like, with a glowing halo and everything.”

“It’s because he already looks like a Renaissance painting,” Marco chimes in from the couch. “That’s the problem. The symmetry. The jawline. He’s divinely memeable.”

“We are not calling him that.”

“Too late,” Gianluca says, entering with a tray of espresso and exactly zero awareness of the chaos he’s birthed. “There’s a Reddit post titled ‘Our Divinely Memeable Prince of Monaco.’”

“This is blasphemy,” Beatrice mutters. “High-definition, well-lit, emotionally resonant blasphemy.”

And yet, she doesn’t close the tab.

The Church hears about it within a week.

Inside the Vatican press office, Cardinal Roberto Sforza laughs so hard he spills his espresso on a confidential file.

“Leclerc?” He wheezes. “The Ferrari boy? The one who cried after Monza?”

“Twice,” murmurs a younger aide, lips twitching.

“I mean, sure, he’s handsome. I’ll give them that. And the jawline. Madonna mia.”

“Some of the edits are … shockingly well-made,” another aide offers, showing him a reel that ends with a choir singing Ave Maria over an onboard camera shot from Spa.

“People are insane,” Sforza says, dabbing his papers. “It’s a joke. It’ll pass.”

There’s a general nodding in agreement.

But the problem is — it doesn’t.

Within two weeks, the campaign has structure.

Beatrice designs a logo. A sleek crest: half steering wheel, half stained glass window. The slogan underneath reads: Grace Under Pressure.

Marco builds the website.

Davide handles the email list.

Gianluca? Gianluca becomes something else entirely.

He starts giving speeches.

Like, actual speeches. On Instagram Live. In front of small crowds that grow larger every time.

He wears red. Always red.

“People think this is a joke,” he says, pacing in front of the Colosseum one evening, the glow of streetlights catching the rain on his hair. “But why shouldn’t the next pope be someone we believe in? Someone who brings us hope?”

Someone in the crowd shouts, “Amen!” and someone else shouts, “P1 and PAPA!” and just like that, it’s a chant.

By the third week, kids are wearing #PopeCharles shirts. Priests are fielding questions from parishioners who ask, joking-not-joking, if they’ll need to learn Monegasque.

At a parish in Naples, an old woman tells her confessor she’s been praying for Charles’ spiritual journey.

“I just think,” she whispers, “he has such a good heart, padre. That smile. He’s seen loss. He understands suffering.”

The priest gently nods, trying not to imagine Charles Leclerc administering Last Rites in a fireproof cassock.

The Church still doesn’t take it seriously.

At the next conclave meeting, Cardinal Benedetti makes a joke — something about replacing incense with tire smoke.

There’s laughter.

No one thinks this is real.

Not really.

But then the numbers start coming in.

Viewership spikes. Not for papal broadcasts — for F1 races.

People who haven’t watched a Grand Prix in years suddenly want to know what a diffuser is.

Donations to Catholic charities surge, all with little notes: “In support of our future Holy Father, Charles.”

Articles run headlines like: “The Pope Campaign the Church Didn’t Ask For But Can’t Ignore.”

Beatrice, horrified but also a little thrilled, is asked to give a radio interview.

She stares at the mic like it might explode. “I just want to be very clear,” she says, enunciating each word like a prayer. “We are not trying to undermine the sanctity of the papacy. We are just asking a question. What if … and hear me out … what if holiness could take pole?”

The interviewer’s eyes gleam.

“That’s good,” he says. “That’s very good.”

Beatrice groans. “Please don’t make that the headline.”

It is.

Meanwhile, Charles himself remains blissfully unaware.

Sort of.

He’s seen some of the posts. Scrolled past the odd tag. Laughed once or twice.

But he doesn’t know it’s serious.

Not yet.

Back in Rome, the campaign headquarters — which is really just Gianluca’s cousin’s gelato shop with a Wi-Fi extender — is buzzing.

“We need to do something big,” Gianluca says, pacing. “Like, massive. We need the Vatican to acknowledge this. Not just laugh it off.”

“You mean like a demonstration?” Marco asks, mouth full of stracciatella.

“No. Bigger.”

“A procession?”

“No.”

“A flash mob?” Beatrice suggests.

“No, no, no,” Gianluca says, spinning. “A blessing.”

Silence.

“A what now?” Davide says.

“A symbolic blessing. We get a fake Popemobile. We drive it through Rome. We throw roses and wave. We give communion — well, not actual communion. Wafers. Symbolic wafers.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Exactly!”

“Gianluca.” Beatrice rubs her temples. “You cannot impersonate a pope in public. That’s, like, probably a crime.”

“It’s performance art,” Gianluca says. “Political satire.”

“It’s lunacy,” Davide says.

But no one says no.

Because deep down, they’re all a little caught up in it now.

This feeling.

This movement.

This absurd, beautiful thing they’ve built.

The next week, a cardinal receives a letter.

It's handwritten, in English, from a twelve-year-old girl in the Philippines.

Dear Vatican,

I think Charles would be a good pope because he is kind and he does not lie and he always says thank you on the radio even when he is sad. He lost his papa but he still smiles. I think God sees that.

The cardinal reads it twice.

Then he puts it in a drawer.

But it stays with him.

“Do you think he knows?” Beatrice asks one night, their group gathered on the rooftop of Gianluca’s building, city lights flickering like stars that forgot to rise.

“Charles?” Davide shrugs. “He’s gotta know something. His face is on candles now.”

Marco lights a cigarette. “I bet he thinks it’s just memes. Fandom stuff.”

“It was fandom stuff,” Beatrice says.

Gianluca leans against the railing, quiet. Then, softly: “It still is. Just … a different kind.”

They all go still for a moment.

There’s wind. A scooter backfiring in the distance. Someone shouting about pasta.

“You really think he’d consider it?” Davide asks.

Gianluca doesn’t answer right away.

“I think …” He exhales. “I think he’s the kind of person who never wanted power, which is why he’d be good with it.”

Marco snorts. “That’s a bit ‘chosen one,’ no?”

Gianluca just smiles.

“I didn’t choose him,” he says. “They did.”

He gestures to the phones in their hands. The messages. The thousands of voices rising up like prayer.

Not for salvation.

But for something possible.

Something good.

Someone real.

Someone with scars.

Someone who knows how to lose and still show up.

Still try.

And in a hotel room in Miami, Charles Leclerc wakes up to a text from Pierre.

It’s a screenshot of a CNN article: “Is Charles Leclerc the People’s Pope?”

Underneath, Pierre has written: what the fuck is going on in your mentions, mon frère?

Charles stares. Blinks. Rubs his eyes.

“Oh no,” he mutters.

He opens Twitter.

The first thing he sees is a video edit of himself with glowing hands, holding a helmet like a chalice.

He scrolls.

Another.

Then another.

Hashtags.

Fanart.

Papal puns.

Blessed-by-DRS jokes.

A full-blown campaign website.

His own face staring back at him in holy light.

He sets the phone down.

Leans back on the hotel bed.

And says, to no one in particular-

“… Why me?”

Chapter Text

The meeting is called for 8:00 a.m. sharp.

It’s held in a glass-walled conference room on the third floor of the Scuderia Ferrari motorhome, just outside the paddock in Hard Rock Stadium. Everyone on the team calls it The Aquarium. Charles hates it. It always smells like espresso and panic.

He arrives six minutes late. Still chewing a piece of toast.

“Sorry, I slept through-”

“Sit,” says Francesca, the head of PR, without looking up.

She’s in full crisis mode: tortoiseshell glasses, low bun, two phones.

Charles blinks. “Okay.”

He sits.

There are five people in the room. Francesca, two media consultants he doesn’t recognize, his race engineer, Bryan, and Fred Vasseur, who is sipping a cappuccino like it’s all above him.

“What’s happening?” Charles asks, genuinely confused. “Did I crash a car in my sleep?”

Francesca slides a tablet across the table.

He squints.

On screen: THE PEOPLE’S POPE? WHY CHARLES LECLERC IS THE INTERNET’S HOLY OBSESSION

He groans. Loudly. “Oh, come on.”

“We’ve tracked over three hundred million impressions across all platforms in the last ten days,” says one of the consultants. She’s wearing an all-white suit, which Charles finds a bit on-the-nose. “The term ‘Pope Charles’ is currently the number two trending phrase globally.”

“What’s number one?”

She doesn’t blink. “A video of you waving at a child yesterday. Someone added organ music.”

Charles sinks lower in his seat.

“This is ridiculous,” he mutters. “I didn’t do anything. I didn’t ask for this.”

Fred chuckles under his breath. “Neither did Francis, technically.”

“Fred, please.”

Francesca pinches the bridge of her nose. “Look, Charles. No one thinks you’re campaigning for the papacy. But the internet doesn’t care about reality. They care about narrative. And right now? You are the narrative.”

“I’m just trying to race.”

“We know. But you’re also a baptized Catholic with a tragic backstory, a Mona Lisa smile, and a 96% favorability rating with women aged 18 to 34.”

Charles stares at her. “What?”

“Focus.”

The second consultant — British, bald, enthusiastic in a terrifying way — leans forward.

“This could be good, Charles. This is charming. It’s not like the memes are mean. They think you’re divine.”

“I’m not,” Charles says flatly. “I’m from Monaco.”

“Exactly! You’re exotic. European. Chaste-looking.”

“I’ve literally been on GQ shirtless.”

“Exactly.”

Francesca cuts in. “The concern isn’t the memes. It’s the narrative getting out of control. We need to establish clear boundaries before it snowballs any further.”

“Further?” Charles repeats. “There’s fanfiction, Francesca. I read one where I resurrected a pigeon.”

“I’m so sorry,” Bryan says, deadpan.

Charles points at him. “He gets it.”

“You’re not going to be pope,” Francesca says, hands spread like she’s calming a tiger. “But you might be the face of something you can’t steer if we don’t act now.”

“So what do you want me to do? Denounce God on camera?”

“Just … be normal. No holy gestures. No cryptic interviews. No blessing babies.”

“I never blessed a baby.”

“There was a photo.”

“I waved.”

“It was open to interpretation.”

He throws his head back against the chair. “This is insane.”

“Welcome to 2025,” mutters Fred.

Race day.

Charles wakes up at 7:30 to a text from Arthur: lmao check outside ur hotel

He pulls back the curtain.

There’s a small crowd of fans gathered across the street. Some hold signs. One says BLESS US WITH A WIN, HOLY CHARLES. Another features his face photoshopped onto the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, fingertip-to-fingertip with God.

A group of girls in Ferrari caps are singing.

It takes Charles a minute to realize it’s a hymn.

In Latin.

He closes the curtain.

He sits on the bed for a full minute, hands on his thighs, staring at nothing.

“This is my life now,” he says to the wall. “This is actually my life.”

The motorcade to the track is delayed because a group of fans lies down in front of the exit, holding a massive banner that reads CLERGY LECLERC OR WE RIOT.

Security gently escorts them aside.

Charles sees someone dressed as a cardinal give him a thumbs up.

He waves. He can’t help it. Reflex.

They cheer like he’s just turned water into prosecco.

In the paddock, everything feels almost normal.

Until he rounds the corner to the Ferrari garage and sees the sign taped to the entrance.

It says: CONFESSION BOOTH CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE.

Charles stops. “Who did this?”

Lewis pops out from behind a tire trolley, grinning. “I did. You like it?”

“No.”

“You’re welcome.”

Charles groans.

Lewis slaps him on the back. “Come on, Padre. Let’s make some miracles.”

Even the engineers are getting in on it.

“Fuel levels optimal,” Bryan says in the pre-race briefing, clicking through slides. “May divine wind be with us.”

“Bryan.”

“I’m adapting to the culture.”

“Adapt back.”

On the grid, cameras swarm. Fans chant. The overhead drone camera actually tilts slightly downward when it hovers over Charles, like it’s bowing.

He tugs on his gloves. Tries to focus.

Francesca walks up with a headset and a coffee. “Smile. But not too beatific.”

“Remind me why I’m doing this?”

“Because you love to suffer. Like a saint.”

He glares at her.

She winks.

The race is chaos.

Rain, late pit stops, a safety car.

Charles finishes P2 after a late overtake from Max.

He’s gutted. Of course he is.

But when he gets out of the car and lifts his helmet, the crowd goes insane.

Not because he won.

But because he looked up at the sky.

A gesture.

A moment.

Accidental divinity.

The edits are born before he’s even back in the garage.

Carlos finds him post-race, still peeling off his suit. “You did the look-up thing.”

“I was looking at the sky.”

“Exactly.”

“I didn’t mean it.”

“Exactly.”

Charles swats at him with a towel.

Carlos ducks. “Vatican’s gonna be thrilled.”

Back at the hotel, he does his best to ignore social media.

Fails.

Someone posted a video of him helping a track marshal pick up a fallen cone on the way to the media pen. The caption says ‘Our Humble Shepherd’.

He tosses his phone onto the couch.

It buzzes again.

This time, it’s a message from his mother.

So proud of you, mon ange. I told your grandmother this would happen.

Charles blinks. Stares. Picks up the phone.

Happen? He texts.

That you’d inspire people. Maybe not quite like this. But … you know. Spiritually.

He laughs. Really laughs. Alone, in his hotel room, hands in his hair.

And for the first time in days, the absurdity starts to feel… almost funny.

Not because he wants any of it.

But because somehow, in some completely ridiculous, inexplicable way-

He understands it.

They don’t want a pope.

They want hope.

And somehow, he has become the face of that.

At midnight, he opens his hotel balcony door.

There are still fans down there.

Singing.

Not hymns, this time. Just something soft.

Maybe a lullaby. Maybe the Italian anthem.

He can’t quite tell.

He steps out.

They spot him.

They cheer.

One girl throws a rose.

It misses. Lands on a streetlamp.

He waves, tired but smiling.

And someone shouts, “We believe in you, Charles!”

He closes his eyes.

And for just a second-

He lets himself believe it too.

Chapter Text

The bells of St. Peter’s toll for no one, but everyone hears them anyway.

Rain falls like a whisper over the cobblestones, thick and relentless. The square is a sea of umbrellas and flags, each one soaked through, each one steady. There are thousands of them now.

Tifosi, pilgrims, tourists, priests, curious onlookers, and a dozen street vendors selling knockoff Charles Leclerc rosaries.

They chant in waves. In sync, almost reverent:

“LE-CLERC! LE-CLERC! LE-CLERC!”

Some hold signs.

“DRIVE TO SALVATION.”

“F1: FAITH ONE.”

“HOLY CHARLES, PRAY FOR US.”

One woman hoists a red-and-white flag above the crowd, hand-stitched lettering reading:

“Make Monza Holy Again.”

Inside the Sistine Chapel, the mood is less festive.

Cardinal Luis María Estrada adjusts his glasses and looks down at his ballot.

He writes slowly. Carefully.

Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc.

His handwriting is neat. Almost shy.

“Ridiculous,” someone murmurs behind him.

Estrada doesn’t turn around.

Instead, he folds the paper. Stands. Walks to the altar. Drops it in the urn like it weighs more than gold.

Three ballots later, it’s still black smoke.

From the little copper chimney atop the chapel, it billows out like rejection itself, curling into the storm.

The crowd groans, but only briefly.

Then the drums begin again:

“CHARLES! CHARLES! CHARLES!”

Near the back, a French priest in a faded Ferrari cap holds a poster above his head. On it, Charles is photoshopped into full papal regalia, sitting in the SF-25 like it's the Popemobile. The caption reads: “Sainthood: Now in DRS.”

Cardinal Battista Esposito is sweating through his collar.

He leans over to Cardinal Donnelly between votes and hisses, “They’re treating it like a World Cup final out there.”

Donnelly shrugs. “At least it’s not another Dan Brown novel.”

“Are you taking this seriously?”

“Are you?” Donnelly arches an eyebrow. “Half the room’s voting for some Jesuit from Cologne, and the other half still thinks it’ll be Angeletti.”

“And the rest?”

Donnelly glances around. Drops his voice to a whisper.

“There were six votes for Charles Leclerc in the last round.”

Esposito stares at him. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I were.”

“I thought it was just that joke nonsense.”

Donnelly leans back in his chair. “Some of them are serious.”

“About electing a Formula 1 driver as pontiff?”

“Well, technically any baptized Catholic man is eligible.”

“That’s insane.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t.”

A third cardinal leans over. He’s smiling faintly. Cardinal Inoue from Nagoya.

“There’s a theory,” he says.

Esposito closes his eyes. “Please don’t.”

“That in times of great chaos, the Holy Spirit can move in strange ways. Through strange vessels.”

“He races cars,” Esposito snaps. “He wears Nomex, not vestments.”

“Perhaps,” Inoue says, folding his hands, “but he inspires devotion. Even love. That’s not nothing.”

Donnelly chuckles. “Besides. Have you seen the numbers? Google Trends is calling it a spiritual awakening.”

Esposito groans. “This is a joke.”

But no one laughs.

Outside, a reporter from La Repubblica goes live.

She speaks over the roar of the crowd, holding her mic like it’s being tugged from her by the will of God.

“-what started as a tongue-in-cheek social media campaign has now become something larger. Though Leclerc himself remains silent, the faithful here are undeterred. They say they’re not just rallying behind a man — they’re rallying behind a message.”

The camera pans to a young woman in a poncho.

She smiles. She’s soaked to the skin.

“We don’t care if he’s not a priest,” she says. “He makes us believe in something. In hope. And maybe that’s what the Church needs right now.”

Inside the chapel, the ballots are cast again.

Esposito writes Angeletti. He always writes Angeletti.

Estrada writes Charles Leclerc again.

He hesitates this time. Just slightly.

But his hand doesn’t tremble.

He places it in the urn.

In the hallway after the vote, Cardinal Inoue speaks quietly to Cardinal Vega.

“You know,” he says, “I watched that boy race once. Spa, 2019.”

Vega tilts his head. “Not the most traditional pilgrimage.”

“My nephew dragged me,” Inoue says. “He was devastated by Hubert’s death. I thought it would be … I don’t know. A distraction.”

“And was it?”

Inoue looks past him, toward the frescoed walls.

“There was this moment,” he says. “Final lap. Rain just starting. And Leclerc — he didn’t crack. He didn’t break. He just kept going. And when he won, he didn’t smile. He just … looked up. Like he was searching for someone who wasn’t there.”

He turns back to Vega.

“That’s not showmanship. That’s grief. And grace.”

Vega is silent for a long time.

Then he whispers, “I voted for him.”

Inoue smiles.

In a quiet room beneath the Vatican, a handful of aides are watching the internet.

They don’t want to.

But it’s part of the job now.

The memes are relentless. Hilarious. Terrifying.

One of them features Charles with angel wings, superimposed over the phrase “Heaven Has a Monaco Flag”.

Another is a clip of Charles getting out of his car, edited to include a Gregorian chant and a golden light beam descending from the sky.

“Should we-” begins one aide.

“No,” says another. “Not yet.”

“But what if it escalates?”

They all glance toward the chapel.

“It already has.”

In Monaco, Charles is doing his best to ignore the news.

It’s not working.

He’s at the simulator, headphones on, sweat dripping from his hairline — when Joris bursts in, holding a tablet.

“Charles,” he pants. “Six votes.”

Charles pauses the sim. “What?”

“Six cardinals voted for you. In the real conclave.”

Charles blinks. “How do you know?”

“Leaks.”

He rips off his gloves. “This is not funny anymore.”

“I’m not joking.”

Charles exhales. “What the hell is happening?”

Joris sits on the arm of the couch. “The world’s bored. The world’s scared. The world wants something that feels like a sign.”

“And I’m it?”

“You’re young. Good. Tragic. Beautiful. Quiet. Familiar, but unreachable.”

“I’m not unreachable.”

“Exactly.”

Charles rubs his temples.

“I race cars, Joris. I’m not a prophet.”

“You don’t have to be. You just have to look like one.”

The next round of votes brings eight ballots for Leclerc.

Eight.

Donnelly whistles.

“That’s not just mischief anymore.”

Inoue smiles. “No. That’s momentum.”

Esposito puts his head in his hands. “We’re going to become a TikTok cult.”

Outside, a group of college students kneel in the rain and begin reciting the Rosary.

Each Hail Mary is punctuated by a cry of “For Charles!”

The crowd picks it up.

Flags wave.

Voices rise.

Hope, or hysteria — it’s hard to tell.

In the Apostolic Palace, the Secretary of State finally says it out loud.

“This can’t go on.”

He stands at the window, watching the chaos outside.

“We’ve indulged it. Laughed at it. But it’s gone beyond the threshold.”

A monsignor clears his throat. “Sir, he’s still eligible.”

“On paper, yes.”

The monsignor hesitates. “Would it be … the worst thing?”

The Secretary of State turns. Slowly.

“Do you want to explain to 1.3 billion Catholics that their new pontiff is a 27-year-old Ferrari driver who listens to Arctic Monkeys and once said ‘I don’t know, maybe I’m just sad’ in a GQ interview?”

The monsignor blinks. “… Yes?”

The Secretary sighs. “Draft a statement. We may need to clarify the Church’s position on memes.”

But inside the Sistine Chapel, the ballots continue.

Eight for Leclerc. Then ten.

Then twelve.

Estrada smiles to himself.

He folds the next slip.

Careful. Deliberate.

And with quiet certainty, he writes the same name.

Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc.

Chapter Text

The Italian sun is wild and golden over the Autodromo.

People are screaming. The track trembles with history. The air is thick with smoke — red flares, confetti cannons, engine heat. Monza hasn’t felt like this in years.

And Charles-

Charles Leclerc stands on the top step of the podium with both fists raised, eyes shining, hair stuck to his forehead with sweat.

He doesn’t look like a man who just won a race.

He looks like a man who outran gravity.

They’re ushering him through the media gauntlet now, still in his race suit, champagne soaking through the red fireproof.

Marina from Sky Italia is first, grinning like a kid on Christmas.

“Charles! You’ve done it. Victory at Monza. The Tifosi are losing their minds out there. Tell me — what does this mean to you?”

Charles exhales, chest rising and falling fast. He shifts the mic closer to his lips.

“I mean, it’s — it’s Monza, you know? It means everything.” He laughs, a little breathless. “This place is Ferrari’s heart. To win here again, in front of these people … it’s something I’ll never forget.”

Behind the camera, the crew can barely keep still. They know they’re catching something electric.

“Charles, this is your fourth win this season, but the noise from the crowd today was something else. What do you think it is about you that makes people believe this much?”

Charles smiles, shakes his head like he’s trying to shake it off. “I don’t know,” he says. “I just try to do my job. I drive. I race hard. And maybe …” He hesitates. “Maybe people see that I care. About the team, about the sport. Maybe that’s enough.”

And then-

The reporter blinks, suddenly distracted.

She puts a finger to her earpiece. Frowns.

“… Sorry what?” She murmurs to someone off-screen.

Charles squints. “Is everything alright?”

The reporter’s eyes widen. She stares at him like she’s seeing him for the first time.

“Oh my God,” she breathes.

“What?”

She steps back, eyes still on him, mic lowered now.

“White smoke.”

There’s a pause.

“What?” Charles repeats, eyebrows pinched.

“White smoke. Just now. From the Vatican. A pope’s been chosen.”

A few members of the crew gasp. A producer grabs his phone.

Charles blinks, lips parted. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah,” the reporter says, stunned. “Just now. It’s happening.”

The paddock around them buzzes like a hive struck by lightning.

Someone shouts from across the way, “WHITE SMOKE!”

Another: “Santo cielo — NO WAY!”

Charles laughs—reflexively, nervously. “That’s crazy.” He shakes his head. “I mean, it’s been such a weird week, but obviously they’ve chosen someone qualified. I mean, actually qualified.”

He’s still laughing when a voice pierces the noise.

“CHARLES!”

It’s Francesca.

She’s sprinting across the paddock in black heels, hair flying, ID lanyard slapping against her chest.

She’s wild-eyed, flushed, absolutely frantic.

“Charles! CHARLES!”

He turns. “Cesca?”

She grabs him by the arms, breathing hard.

“You need to come with me.”

“What?”

“Now. Now. Don’t talk. Just move.”

“Francesca, what-”

“The Vatican called.”

Everything freezes.

Even the chaos around them seems to hold its breath.

Charles stares at her. “The — what?”

“They called. I don’t know how, I don’t care how. But I got a message while you were on the podium.”

He laughs again. Disbelieving. “You’re joking.”

“They chose you.”

“What?”

“They voted for you, Charles. You — you’re the one they picked.”

He steps back. “No. That’s not — that’s not possible.”

She pulls out her phone. Shows him the screen.

A Vatican press notification. Official. Real. Chilling.

The name written there: Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc.

He stares at it like it’s written in another language.

“I-” He swallows. “I don’t understand.”

“I think-” Francesca whispers, “I think they want you to say yes.”

People around them are filming now. Phones are up.

The reporter is frozen in place, mouth open.

Someone’s crying. Another person is kneeling.

The chant begins again — low, slow, like a tidal wave coming back for more:

“POPE CHARLES! POPE CHARLES! POPE CHARLES!”

Charles looks at Francesca.

Her hand is on his chest. Her eyes are wide.

“Tell me this isn’t real,” he says.

She doesn’t blink.

“I don’t think we get that luxury anymore.”

Half an hour later, they’re in a black SUV cutting through Monza’s back roads, escorted by two Vatican security officers who definitely weren’t there an hour ago.

Charles is still in his race suit. He hasn’t even showered.

“I can’t be pope,” he mutters for the fifth time.

“You technically can,” says the officer in the front seat.

“No, I can’t.”

“You were baptized Catholic. That’s all that’s required.”

Francesca leans toward him from the other side of the back seat.

Her voice is softer now.

“Charles. I think you need to take this seriously.”

He looks at her, eyes stormy.

“I am taking it seriously. That’s why I’m saying no.”

“But you haven’t even heard what they want.”

“I don’t want to hear what they want.”

The car slows at a checkpoint. Paparazzi swarm. The driver doesn’t stop.

“They can’t make me do it, right?” Charles asks.

“No,” the officer replies. “But they’ve never had someone refuse this far into the process.”

“Why me?” He snaps. “I don’t understand. I race cars. I’m not a priest. I’m not even — I don’t even go to church.”

Francesca is quiet for a long time. Then she says:

“Maybe that’s why.”

He turns toward her. “What?”

“Maybe that’s why they chose you. Because you’re not perfect. Because you’re not part of the machine. Because you mean something to people in a way that priests haven’t in a long time.”

“That’s not fair,” Charles whispers.

“No,” she says gently. “But maybe it’s true.”

At the safe house, they sit in silence.

Charles finally peels off his gloves. Then his race suit. He exhales like he’s just finished another hundred laps.

Francesca sits beside him on the hotel sofa, scrolling her phone, reading texts from all over the world.

Lewis. Seb. Pierre. Carlos.

Even Max.

Every message says some version of the same thing:

Is this real?

Are you okay?

What happens now?

Charles takes the phone from her. Types slowly.

I don’t know.

He sets it down and rubs his hands over his face.

“Do you think I’m insane if I say no?”

Francesca is quiet. “I think you’d be insane if you said yes without thinking about it.”

“Even thinking about it makes me feel like I’ve lost my mind.”

“You haven’t.”

He glances at her. Her hand is on his knee.

“You haven’t,” she says again.

He swallows. “But what if they need someone better?”

“What if they just need someone real?”

Meanwhile, Rome is electric.

The bells are ringing.

The white smoke has spread through social media like a new Pentecost.

And the world is waiting.

Waiting to see if their red-suited messiah will take the weight of the Keys.

Waiting to see if Charles Leclerc will say yes.

Chapter Text

“Cardinal Rinaldi,” the reporter says, trying not to stumble over her words, “can you confirm for us — did you really vote for Charles Leclerc to become pope?”

The cardinal chuckles, an arm around a bemused-looking Swiss Guard as cameras flash. “Signorina, I’ve taken a vow of secrecy regarding the conclave proceedings.”

“But you are smiling.”

“I am Italian,” he replies, eyes twinkling. “We smile when Ferrari wins.”

The reporter stares at him. “That’s not a no.”

“Is it not?” He says, and slips into the Vatican with a shrug, leaving her shouting his name behind him.

In a London newsroom, the BBC panel is practically vibrating with tension.

“It’s unprecedented,” says the Vatican correspondent, glasses fogging slightly under studio lights. “We’ve never had a layperson chosen before. And certainly not — well, not a Formula 1 driver.”

“Can he even do it?” The anchor asks. “Is this allowed?”

“Technically, yes. According to canon law, any baptized Catholic male is eligible.”

A woman with a buzzcut and a theology degree clears her throat. “Yes, but that’s in theory. In practice, popes come from the College of Cardinals. This is like if someone asked the Archbishop of Canterbury to step aside for David Beckham.”

“But Charles Leclerc is Charles Leclerc,” someone adds, as if that settles the matter.

The panel erupts.

On CNN, the chyron reads: VROOM VROOM VATICAN?

Anderson Cooper rubs his temples.

“God help us,” he murmurs.

Meanwhile, in a cramped kitchen in Queens, three Italian-American women sit around a Formica table covered in plastic fruit-patterned cloth.

“So,” says Nonna Teresa, pointing at the little TV on the fridge, “they made the Ferrari boy pope.”

“Not yet,” says her daughter Maria, stirring gravy. “They offered it. He hasn’t said yes.”

Teresa crosses herself anyway. “I always said he was a nice boy. Always looked respectful when he took off the helmet.”

Her granddaughter Erica snorts. “Ma, you’ve never watched a race in your life.”

“I’ve seen enough. He’s got kind eyes.”

Maria sighs. “He’s twenty-seven, Ma.”

“So?”

“So what does he know about being pope?”

Teresa slaps the table. “And what did Saint Peter know about running a church? He was a fisherman.” She turns back to the TV. “At least Charles can drive fast when it counts.”

In São Paulo, a priest named João turns off his phone.

“I can’t keep answering questions about this,” he says to his assistant.

She peeks in from the next room. “People are excited.”

“People are confused. The Vatican is not a reality show.”

She pauses. “What if it’s a sign?”

He stares at her. “Of what?”

“I don’t know. That maybe we need a little … momentum?”

He groans. “Não.”

In Buckingham Palace, King Charles exhales deeply as his Chief of Staff reads the Vatican’s formal announcement.

“… the conclave has elected Charles Leclerc of Monaco as the next Bishop of Rome. He has not yet accepted.”

The monarch blinks. “The Ferrari guy?”

“Yes.”

He rubs his forehead. “Is this what the 21st century looks like now?”

“Apparently.”

He glances out the window. “We need to draft a statement.”

“Congratulating him?”

“Congratulating … the Church? I don’t know. Ask the Prime Minister.”

In the Ferrari garage, mechanics are drinking espresso in stunned silence.

“Did we manifest this?” Roberto mutters.

“Don’t say that,” Fabio says, eyes wide. “We’re not witches.”

Carlo, who hasn’t spoken in ten minutes, finally says: “If he becomes pope, can he still race?”

A long pause.

“No,” someone says. “I don’t think the Vatican lets you drive cars at 300 kilometers an hour.”

“Unless it’s the Popemobile,” Roberto offers.

They all laugh. Nervously.

At a pub in Ireland, someone raises a pint.

“To Pope Charles!” Shouts a red-faced man in a Ferrari cap.

The room erupts in cheers.

A woman clinks glasses with him. “Never thought I’d say it, but I’d take a driver over half the bishops we’ve had lately.”

Her friend sips her Guinness. “At least he doesn’t cover up scandals.”

“Right,” says the bartender. “The worst scandal he’s had was that time he got a five-second penalty for weaving.”

At a quiet Jesuit university in Spain, a theology professor sighs and sets down his pen.

“This is what we get,” he mutters, “for telling people that canon law is flexible.”

His student peers at the Vatican livestream. “But he seems … good.”

“He seems confused.”

“I would be too. Imagine winning Monza and then being asked to wear a mitre.”

The professor pinches the bridge of his nose. “We used to pick popes based on scholarship. Holiness. Wisdom.”

The student shrugs. “Maybe now we pick them based on qualifying times.”

In a group chat called “Tifosi for Christ,” things are chaotic.

ADRIANA: HE ACTUALLY GOT PICKED
MARCO: white smoke baby!!!
DAVIDE: pope charles the first goes hard
BEATRICE: okay but he still has to say yes, right???
ANNA: he better
GIANLUCA: guys what if we accidentally changed the Church forever
GIULIA: lmao oops?

On Twitter, #PopeCharles is trending globally.

So is #Pontifast.

And #BlessedAreTheFast.

Someone photoshops his helmet onto the papal tiara.

Another adds angel wings to his Monza celebration photo.

One viral tweet just reads: when ur fastest lap gets u heaven AND earth.

Back at the Vatican, the cardinals are trying very hard to look solemn.

“Your Eminence,” whispers one to the Dean of the College, “are we … serious about this?”

The Dean sighs, pulling off his glasses.

“I don’t know. Half of them voted for him as a joke. And then a quarter joined because they thought it would shake things up. And then … the last group genuinely believes he’s the future of evangelism.”

“And you?”

The Dean exhales. “I voted for Cardinal Alvarez.”

“But …”

“But I’m starting to wonder,” he admits, “if I’m the one who doesn’t get it.”

In a confessional in Paris, a man kneels and whispers through the screen.

“I feel ridiculous.”

The priest murmurs, “Why, my son?”

“I prayed for Charles Leclerc to become pope. I said ten rosaries. I think — I think I bribed God.”

The priest is silent for a long moment. Then says: “Did it work?”

“I think so.”

“Well,” the priest says, “say two Hail Marys. And next time, maybe don’t involve the Holy Spirit in sports fandom.”

And then-

There’s the people.

Real people.

The ones who don’t know much about racing. Who couldn’t pick Charles out of a lineup.

But they’ve seen his eyes. The way he speaks in interviews. How he smiles when he podiums and still smiles when he doesn’t.

They’ve seen him put his hand to his heart and say “for my father,” and they’ve seen how he listens when fans cry in front of him.

There’s a woman in Nairobi who shows her son his photo. “They picked someone young,” she says. “Isn’t that beautiful?”

There’s a teenager in Manila who’s never cared about the Church until now, refreshing her phone every ten seconds for updates.

There’s a seventy-year-old man in Kraków who watches Charles point to the sky after every win and thinks, maybe this is what faith looks like now.

At a press conference, a journalist asks the Vatican spokesperson, “What if he refuses?”

The spokesperson looks up from the podium.

“Then,” she says, “we return to the conclave.”

“And if he says yes?”

The spokesperson smiles.

“Then I suppose we learn to shift gears.”

Chapter Text

Charles doesn’t even get a chance to sit before someone tries to hand him a Ferrari cap.

It’s discreet, in the way a red and yellow object can never actually be discreet. The cardinal — elderly, olive-skinned, trembling slightly with the giddiness of a lifelong Tifoso — hovers by the doorway, murmuring in Latin to a secretary until Charles is close enough to be within striking distance.

“Signore Leclerc,” the cardinal says, pressing his hands together with reverence. “God bless you for coming on such short notice.”

“Of course,” Charles says, stiffly polite. He still hasn’t figured out how to move his arms. They’re either too heavy or too light — like someone else's limbs sewn onto his body.

“You must be overwhelmed,” the cardinal says sympathetically. Then, almost seamlessly, he slides the cap from beneath his cassock sleeve. “If you would — just the brim, perhaps. A small autograph.”

Charles blinks.

“Sorry?”

“Just here.” The cardinal grins like a schoolboy. “It would mean so much. My grand-nephew, you see.”

“I-” Charles glances around the chamber. “I think maybe … this isn’t the time.”

“Ah.” The cardinal nods quickly, tucks the cap away as if it’s contraband. “Yes. Yes, of course. We are discussing matters of the soul.”

“Right.” Charles tries to smile. “Exactly.”

The man practically bows, shuffling back toward the marble wall, where another cardinal — tall, sharp-jawed, and visibly irritated — watches the entire exchange with a look of pure disdain.

Charles doesn’t need a translator for that expression.

He takes a breath, turns to the rest of the room.

There are twenty-four men in crimson. Two women in habits, seated quietly near the archways. A secretary with an iPad. And one nun — frail, in her seventies, with watery eyes — who locks eyes with Charles and, after a single moment, slumps sideways in her chair.

“Oh my God,” Charles blurts, moving before anyone else does. “She fainted?”

A scramble erupts. The iPad clatters to the floor. One of the women — Sister Maria Teresa, someone says — rushes to the nun’s side with astonishing speed for her age.

“She’s alright,” Sister Maria Teresa says after checking her pulse. “She’s just … she’s a big fan.”

“Of what?” Charles asks helplessly. “F1?”

“Your dimples,” she says with solemnity.

There’s a pause. A long one.

Cardinal Ferraro, the tall one with the jawline of a Bond villain, lets out a pointed sigh.

“I must admit,” he says, cutting through the room like a blade through butter, “I was expecting this meeting to be ridiculous. But I didn’t expect it to be embarrassing.”

Charles straightens. “Excuse me?”

“You should not be here.” Ferraro folds his hands behind his back. “You are not a priest. You are not a theologian. You are not, by any reasonable metric, qualified.”

Charles tries not to bristle. “I didn’t ask for this.”

“No,” Ferraro says. “But you accepted the invitation to come.”

“Because the Vatican called me. What was I supposed to do — hang up?”

“You could have declined. Graciously. Firmly. Instead you parade yourself through Rome like a second coming of Bernini.”

Charles stares at him. “I got off a plane and walked into a building.”

Ferraro’s nostrils flare.

Across the room, a cardinal leans toward the one next to him and mutters, “He’s got some fire.”

“He’s Monegasque,” the other whispers. “It’s all style and steel under there.”

Ferraro continues. “This isn’t a joke, Mr. Leclerc.”

Charles swallows. “I know it isn’t.”

“Then why are you still here?”

Silence.

The question sits in the center of the room, thick and unforgiving.

Charles shifts, looks down at his shoes. His voice, when it comes, is low. Honest.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe because no one else has told me what to do. Maybe because everyone keeps looking at me like I’m supposed to save something. And I don’t even know what’s broken.”

There’s a beat.

And then Cardinal Vescovi — round, gentle, Italian to his marrow — smiles warmly.

“Well said, ragazzo.”

Ferraro glares. “We should be discerning this decision with prayer. Not popularity.”

Vescovi shrugs. “The Holy Spirit moves how it wants. Perhaps the Spirit likes Rosso Corsa.”

Laughter bubbles from a few of the younger cardinals.

Ferraro is unmoved.

“We are not a circus,” he says coldly. “We are not a brand. We are not here to make Catholics trend on Twitter.”

“And yet,” another cardinal murmurs, “we haven’t been this relevant in decades.”

Charles clears his throat. “Can I ask a question?”

Everyone turns to him.

“Is this … real?” He says. “Is this actually something that can happen, or am I being dragged into something I can’t even say no to?”

Ferraro opens his mouth, but the Dean of the College — an elderly German named Cardinal Bittner — lifts his hand.

“We have no illusions about how unconventional this is,” Bittner says. “And yes, you can say no. We are not holding you hostage.”

“That’s good,” Charles says. “Because I feel like I walked into a very beautiful prison.”

Bittner chuckles.

“You were chosen,” he continues, “because a sufficient number of men — some serious, some less so — wrote your name on a ballot. The Holy Spirit may have spoken. Or perhaps it was just nostalgia, desperation, charisma.”

“Or all three,” Vescovi offers.

“But if you accept,” Bittner says quietly, “it will become real. It will become binding. And the office will shape you more than you shape it.”

Charles frowns. “So what happens now?”

“We talk,” Bittner says. “Honestly. About who you are. About what you believe. About what you want.”

Charles takes a breath.

He wants to go home. He wants to go to Maranello. He wants to sleep for twelve hours and drive very fast and make jokes with Andrea and not think about eternity.

But also-

He wants to understand.

He wants to know why this happened.

He wants to know what kind of man could wear papal white and still feel human.

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s talk.”

Three hours pass.

They ask about his childhood. His father. His faith, or lack of it. They ask about Monaco, his sense of morality, the year he spent crying quietly after races and still showing up to sign autographs.

They ask him what love feels like. What grace feels like. If he’s ever felt God’s presence.

“I don’t know,” Charles says. “Sometimes before a race. Sometimes when I listen to music.”

“Which music?” Someone asks.

“Puccini,” he says. “And Coldplay.”

The room groans.

“Don’t judge me,” he says, laughing for the first time that day. “God probably likes Coldplay.”

They don’t say much about actual doctrine. Not yet. They don’t ask him to take vows or recite scripture. They just … watch him.

As if the answer is in the way he rubs the back of his neck when he’s tired. Or how he softens when the topic shifts to his mother. Or how he listens — really listens — when Ferraro tells a story about growing up in Florence.

By the time the meeting ends, it’s dusk outside.

The nun who fainted is awake now. She smiles at Charles like he’s the Virgin Mary herself.

He gives her a little wave, awkward.

Cardinal Vescovi walks him to the entrance.

“You’re a good man,” he says. “Whatever happens, that’s enough.”

Charles nods, eyes tired.

“I don’t know if I can do this.”

Vescovi shrugs. “Neither did Peter.”

Charles squints. “Peter … the apostle?”

“The fisherman,” Vescovi says with a wink. “He would’ve made a terrible PR rep. But he was a hell of a leader.”

As Charles steps into the night air, someone — another nun, younger, steadier — leans out from behind a column and hands him a note.

He reads it.

It’s from Francesca.

They want you to be something eternal.

But you’re already real.

Don’t let them take that away.

He tucks it into his jacket.

And walks into the Roman twilight.

Chapter Text

It is seven in the morning, and Charles Leclerc is already breaking several international laws.

He’s halfway up the marble steps of the Papal Basilica of Saint Mary Major, and his Ferrari SF90 Stradale is double-parked directly in front of the main entrance.

Not in a spot. Not remotely aligned with anything that could pass as designated parking. It’s just … there. Gleaming red, sun bouncing off its hood like a divine spotlight, causing a nun to stop mid-rosary and whisper, “Madonna.”

The basilica is quiet at this hour. Tourists haven’t poured in yet. Just a handful of clergy, a few camera phones peeking through gates, and Charles — walking fast, head low, jacket zipped up like that’ll make him less recognizable.

“Subtle,” a priest mutters as he watches Charles pass.

Charles ignores him.

He walks through the nave with the kind of determination usually reserved for people marching to their own executions or to last-minute qualifying laps. He nods politely to a few clerics, mumbles “buongiorno”, but doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow.

He moves like someone with a destination.

He knows exactly where the tomb is.

Pope Francis was laid to rest here, not far from the Basilica’s altar, in the exact same place where centuries of men had stood and asked for direction. Charles has no idea what he expects to find — some warm, holy clarity? A note scratched into the stone? A ghost with a decent sense of humor? He doesn’t know. But he needs to look at something real.

He gets there. Finally. Stops.

The tomb is simple. Understated. Just the words Franciscus PP. and the dates of birth and death.

Charles stares at it.

He crosses his arms. Then uncrosses them. Puts his hands in his pockets. Takes them out.

“Okay,” he says under his breath. “So. I’m here.”

No answer.

He rocks on his heels. “I don’t know how to do this, by the way. Talking to dead people. Or saints. Or … popes.”

Silence.

“I mean, technically,” he adds, “you’re kind of the reason I’m in this situation. So.”

Still no answer. Not even a cricket.

He sighs. “I thought maybe this would feel different. Like — like when I walk the track before a race. That kind of calm. But it’s just marble and silence and a bunch of people trying to figure out what I’m doing with my life.”

He shakes his head.

“I don’t even know if you liked F1,” he mumbles. “But I hope you understand what it’s like to not ask for something and still be the one expected to carry it.”

Then, a voice behind him:

“You think Francis asked to be pope?”

Charles jumps.

He spins around, hand over his chest.

A man — older, tall, angular, sun-beaten skin — stands a few steps back. His clerical collar is crisp. His eyes, calm and faintly amused, seem to see straight through Charles like a CT scan.

“You scared me,” Charles says.

“Good. Keeps the soul alert.”

Charles squints. “Who are you?”

The man steps forward, extends a hand. “Cardinal Matthew Byrne. Camerlengo of the Holy Roman Church.”

Charles blinks. “The camerlengo?”

“The very one.”

“Shouldn’t you be … in the Vatican?”

Byrne shrugs. “They don’t need me for another hour. I thought I’d come say hi to my old friend.” He nods at the tomb.

“You were close with him?”

“Let’s just say … I once beat him at foosball.”

Charles stares.

Byrne just smiles, kneels briefly before the tomb, then straightens. “I saw your car outside, by the way.”

“I parked it badly,” Charles says, shame creeping in.

“Son, you didn’t park it. You displayed it.”

Charles huffs a laugh. “I didn’t think anyone would be here this early.”

“Well,” Byrne says, “God doesn’t sleep in.”

They fall quiet. Just for a moment. The light shifts across the marble floor.

Then Charles says, “Can I ask you something?”

Byrne glances at him. “You’re about to ask many things, I think.”

“Were you always in the Church? Always like this?”

The camerlengo smiles — quietly this time. There’s a flicker of memory in his eyes.

“No,” he says. “I was a flight surgeon. In the Royal Australian Air Force.”

Charles blinks. “What?”

“Started in medicine. Didn’t know what I was looking for, only that I wanted to be around speed and sky. Sound familiar?”

Charles lets out a stunned laugh. “You’re joking.”

“Nope. I flew combat medical evacuations during the Gulf War. Lost half my hearing, dislocated a shoulder, broke a rib. It was a … reckless time.”

“So what happened?”

Byrne leans against a nearby pillar, folding his hands.

“I was on a mission in Papua New Guinea. Something went wrong with the rotor system midair. We lost altitude. I tried to keep a soldier alive the whole way down. Didn’t make it. I did everything right and still … not enough.”

He pauses. Voice softens.

“I grounded myself after that. Sat still for the first time in years. And in that stillness, I heard something.”

“What did you hear?”

“Nothing dramatic. No thunder. Just a whisper of grace.”

Charles frowns. “A whisper?”

“That’s how God talks, sometimes. Just a breath in the middle of the chaos.”

Charles is quiet. Very quiet.

Then: “I’ve been trying to hear something. Anything. But I don’t know how to listen.”

“You’re listening right now,” Byrne says. “You came here. That’s already listening.”

“I feel like I’m supposed to know what to do.”

“Knowing isn’t the point. Trusting is.”

Charles sighs. Rubs the back of his neck.

“This isn’t the life I planned.”

Byrne chuckles. “Welcome to the Church, mate.”

They both laugh.

Charles looks down at the tomb again. “I think I just wanted to ask him, you know? What do you do when the world starts calling you something you’re not sure you are?”

Byrne nods. “You pray. You cry a little. And then you ask better questions.”

“Like what?”

“Not ‘Why me?’ but ‘What now?’”

Charles stares at the stone. Thinks.

Then glances up, sheepish. “Do you think — hypothetically — they’d let me turn the popemobile into a Ferrari?”

Byrne raises a brow. “Depends. You talking SF90 or F40?”

“SF90,” Charles says. “F40 would be sacrilegious.”

Byrne breaks into a grin. “If you do it … I want a ride.”

“You’ll get one.”

They stand for a few more moments. Just standing. The air is cool. The silence finally feels like something comforting instead of oppressive.

When Byrne moves to go, he puts a hand on Charles’ shoulder.

“You’re not here by accident,” he says. “No matter how crazy it feels.”

Charles nods.

“Don’t decide based on pressure. Or politics. Decide because you looked into the dark and found your own light.”

Then he walks away, his steps echoing across the marble.

Charles watches him go.

Then looks back down at the tomb.

He breathes in. Slow. Heavy.

And for the first time in days, he feels … still.

Chapter Text

The Vatican meeting room is silent.

Too silent.

Thirty-some cardinals line the long mahogany table, all in scarlet, stiff-backed and impossibly solemn. There’s a crucifix on the wall, heavy drapes at the windows, and the smell of candle wax mixed with very expensive cologne. The air is thick with tension and some kind of aged theological perfume.

At the head of the table, Cardinal Raimondi adjusts his glasses and clears his throat.

Charles sits at the opposite end, not in red, not in robes, but in a black tailored suit and a Richard Mille watch, legs crossed, fingers steepled in front of him like he’s about to broker a billion-dollar contract.

He is, notably, chewing gum.

Cardinal Esposito looks personally offended by this.

“I would like to open,” Raimondi says, “by thanking His Holiness-”

“Not His Holiness,” Charles cuts in, raising one finger politely. “Not yet. Charles is fine.”

Murmurs down the table. One cardinal makes the sign of the cross. Another swallows a cough.

Cardinal Mancini, the youngest among them, leans forward with interest. “You’re really not going to take the name until you decide?”

“I haven’t decided anything,” Charles says. “That’s why we’re here, right?”

Raimondi grimaces. “Right. Of course. Yes.”

A pause.

Charles looks around the table. “Before we get into it, I just want to say — thank you. I know this is … unconventional. And probably very annoying.”

“You’ve no idea,” Esposito mutters.

Charles smirks. “Well, I’m here now. So. Let’s talk.”

Cardinal Mancini, always eager, clasps his hands. “The people adore you. The crowds outside, the footage from Monza — it’s never been like this. In my lifetime, at least. The energy you bring, the joy … you could be exactly what the Church needs.”

“Thank you,” Charles says. “That means a lot.”

Esposito slams his folder shut. “And what does the Church mean to you, Signor Leclerc?”

The room stiffens.

Charles meets his gaze without flinching. “Honestly? Not much. Not yet.”

Gasps. Someone says, “Madonna mia.”

“I was baptized,” Charles says. “But I’ve never been … devout. I’ve never needed to be. I found my faith in other places. In speed. In family. In the rhythm of racing. But I also know what it feels like to have the whole world watching you. To carry people’s hopes when you never asked to.”

A beat. The room is utterly still.

“And I know what it feels like to lose,” Charles adds, quieter now. “To crash. To disappoint. To stand back up again anyway.”

Cardinal Moretti, who’s been silent so far, murmurs, “That sounds a lot like a sermon.”

Charles shrugs. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just what I know.”

Raimondi leans forward, fingers drumming lightly on the table. “Let’s get to the heart of the matter. You’re considering accepting the papacy, yes?”

“Yes,” Charles says.

“But you have … conditions?”

Charles nods. “One, actually. I don’t want to stop racing.”

Dead silence.

It is, somehow, even quieter than before.

Esposito sputters. “Mi scusi?”

“I want to keep racing,” Charles says, like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world. “F1. With Ferrari. Until I’m done.”

“You cannot be serious,” Esposito growls.

“I am.”

“This is the papacy, not a part-time job!”

“I know.”

“It’s a holy office-”

“I know.”

“-not a pit stop between Grands Prix!”

“I know that too,” Charles says calmly. “But I’m not giving it up. I never said I wanted this. But if I accept — if I take it — I take it as myself. Not as a costume. Not as some fantasy of who you want me to be.”

Esposito looks like he’s about to combust.

“You expect us to approve of His Holiness the Formula 1 Driver?” He scoffs. “What next, papal sponsorships? Sermons from the paddock?”

Mancini grins. “It’s not the worst idea.”

Esposito whips around. “Giovanni!”

Cardinal Mancini holds up his hands. “Look, I’m not saying I’m completely on board, but imagine the reach. Every Sunday, millions watching. They already chant his name in ten countries. He could revive youth interest in the Church overnight.”

“This isn’t a social media campaign!” Esposito barks.

Moretti chimes in quietly, “Actually, we do have Instagram now.”

Raimondi pinches the bridge of his nose. “Brothers, please-”

“No, let them go,” Charles says, leaning back in his chair. “This is helpful.”

Esposito turns on him. “Do you think this is a joke?”

Charles tilts his head. “Do you?”

Chaos.

Several cardinals start arguing at once — some in Italian, others in French, a few in Latin, just for flair. Someone drops a pen. A chair squeaks loudly against the floor. Cardinal Di Gianluca slaps the table and yells, “Basta!” like he’s in a soap opera.

Charles doesn’t say a word. He just folds his hands behind his head and watches like he’s at a tennis match.

Mancini leans over to him and whispers, “You’re kind of terrifying. In a good way.”

“Thanks,” Charles says. “I get that a lot.”

The argument rolls on.

Esposito is now red in the face. “He’ll turn the Vatican into a garage!”

“To be fair,” Moretti mutters, “we’ve had worse.”

“Worse than a race car driver!?”

“Pope Stephen VI exhumed his predecessor’s corpse to put it on trial,” Moretti says. “Charles seems … pretty tame.”

A beat.

Even Esposito falters. “That was a low blow.”

Cardinal Navarro, who hasn’t spoken until now, finally raises his voice.

“Brothers,” he says, calm but firm. “Let’s take a breath.”

They do. Slowly. Like children being told to calm down by a substitute teacher.

Navarro turns to Charles.

“You are young,” he says. “And bold. But so was Peter. So was David. You walk with fire — but fire can illuminate or destroy, depending on the vessel.”

Charles listens. Quietly. Respectfully.

“I do not know if you will make a great pope,” Navarro says. “But I know the world already sees you as a symbol. And sometimes, symbols are exactly what the world needs.”

“Thank you,” Charles says. “But I’m not a symbol. I’m a person. And I want to do both. Lead, if I must — but not lose who I am.”

Another pause.

Mancini breaks the silence. “What if … what if we tried it? Let him race. Let him be who he is. See what happens. What do we have to lose?”

“Only the soul of the Church,” Esposito mutters.

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Moretti says.

“You’re all being dramatic!”

“This is the Vatican,” Mancini says. “We invented drama.”

At that, even Charles snorts.

Raimondi looks at him again, carefully now.

“You’re really willing to do this. On your terms.”

“Yes.”

“You won’t bend?”

Charles meets his eyes. “I’ll lead. I’ll listen. I’ll grow. But I won’t lie. I won’t pretend.”

Raimondi exhales.

“All right,” he says.

Esposito slams his hand on the table. “No! I object!”

“And your objection,” Raimondi says, “is noted. But I fear you’re being outvoted by reality.”

“What does that mean!?”

“It means,” Charles says, finally standing, “that the world has already made up its mind. You’re just catching up.”

He straightens his jacket. Smooths the lapel.

Then grins. “Now. If we’re done fighting, I have a qualifying session in two days.”

Chapter Text

Charles regrets everything the moment the tailor lifts his arms without asking.

“I could’ve done that myself,” Charles says, but the tailor ignores him, arms already busy looping measuring tape around his waist like he’s wrapping a particularly exasperated Christmas present.

“You are blessed with a very symmetrical build,” the man says in Italian, eyes narrowed, “but your neck is problematic for the cut of the mozetta. Very Ferrari. Very … big.”

“Sorry my neck is too … what? Thick?”

The tailor does not laugh.

Charles shifts uncomfortably as another tailor joins in from behind, smoothing fabric over his back, pulling at the collar like Charles is a doll instead of a human being who, just 48 hours ago, was spraying champagne in Monza.

“You realize this is all … a bit much?” Charles tries. “I’m just saying, there’s a simpler way to measure a guy. Like with a T-shirt. Or literally anything that doesn’t involve four layers of wool and six grown men.”

“You must wear the traditional papal cassock. This is not a fashion choice,” says a man to his left, scribbling notes into a leather-bound book. He hasn’t introduced himself. He might be part of the Vatican’s style police. He might be an angel. Charles can’t tell anymore.

“The cassock is thirteen buttons,” says another.

“Thirteen?”

“One for each apostle, plus Christ.”

Charles exhales slowly. “So, it’s like biblical couture.”

The tailor’s face remains a marble slab of Catholic disappointment.

The next room is somehow worse.

It smells of incense and very old paper. There’s a chair in the middle of the room that looks like a Renaissance torture device, and an elderly bishop is holding a mirror with the calm gravity of a man who’s about to shave the sideburns off a messiah.

Charles eyes the chair. “What … is this?”

“The preparation room,” the bishop says. “We begin with the traditional tonsure.”

Charles blinks. “The what?”

“The shaving of the head.”

“No,” Charles says, backing up. “No, no, no. You can’t be serious.”

“Many Holy Fathers have submitted to it.”

“Yeah? Name five.”

“Pope Stephen III-”

“Okay but he didn’t have a sponsorship deal with Oribe shampoo. I’m not shaving my head.”

“It is merely symbolic-”

“Symbolically traumatic.”

“-and represents humility before God.”

“Can I be humble with hair?”

A long silence.

The bishop sighs, closes the mirror slowly like it’s a coffin, and mutters something in Latin that Charles is pretty sure is a passive-aggressive curse.

“Fine,” he says. “But the anointing is next. We will need access to your shoulders and chest.”

Charles groans. “I’m starting to miss the FIA press conferences.”

The anointing is … sticky.

There are at least three bishops, a deacon, and what appears to be a twelve-year-old altar server holding a small dish of oil with the severity of someone transporting plutonium. Charles stands in the center, shirtless and mildly damp, while one bishop mumbles prayers and another slowly draws a cross over his sternum with oil that smells like holy olives.

No one makes eye contact.

“I feel like I’m in a very weird cologne commercial,” Charles mutters.

“Be still,” one bishop whispers.

“I’m trying. But it’s cold.”

The altar boy snorts.

Charles catches his eye. “What’s your name?”

“Enrico.”

“You want to be pope someday, Enrico?”

The boy wrinkles his nose. “No. I want to be a goalkeeper.”

“Smart,” Charles says. “Less wardrobe changes.”

“Now we try on the white cassock,” says a Vatican attendant, bustling into the next room.

Charles has already lost track of the time, the sequence of rituals, and quite possibly his dignity.

The cassock is laid out like armor: stiff, bleached white, terrifyingly pristine. It looks like it costs more than a Williams chassis.

“I feel like if I sneeze near it, God will smite me.”

The attendant doesn’t laugh.

Charles slips it on, trying not to touch anything. The fabric feels like clouds and guilt. The collar chokes him a little.

“Okay. How do I look?” he asks.

The attendant adjusts the sash. “Like a pope. Or a wedding cake.”

Charles groans.

Ten minutes later, he is escorted to a chapel for private prayer.

Three nuns trail behind him like shadows. One of them, maybe eighty years old and the height of his hip, keeps whispering prayers in Latin and gazing at him with such intensity that he feels like he’s being exorcised with her eyes.

They reach the altar.

“Do I kneel?” Charles whispers.

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“As long as your heart needs.”

“That’s not helpful.”

But he kneels. The marble is cold, the chapel silent except for the quiet rustle of robes and faint Gregorian chants echoing through the halls. Charles stares at the crucifix above the altar and lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

He closes his eyes.

Just for a moment.

“Now we go to the Room of Tears.”

Charles snaps upright. “I’m sorry. The what now?”

The archbishop guiding him doesn’t miss a beat. “The Room of Tears.”

“Do I have to cry?”

“Not necessarily.”

“But people do?”

“Yes.”

Charles pauses. “Do you guys ever name anything normal in this place?”

“No.”

The Room of Tears is quiet. It’s small, draped in velvet, and full of garments from past popes. Charles doesn’t cry, but he does sit on a carved bench and silently wonder what life decisions have led him from Monaco to here, from pole positions to papal anointings, from champagne showers to holy oils.

“I need a drink,” he says to no one.

There is, obviously, no drink.

By the time the next cardinal enters to inform him that the official papal announcement is being prepared, Charles has lost feeling in his feet and part of his mind.

“Am I allowed to go to the bathroom before becoming pope?”

The cardinal blinks. “Do you … need to?”

“Yes. I drank like seven glasses of water in the cassock room.”

“Oh. Then yes. But be quick.”

The papal restroom is massive and marble and includes a cross above the toilet.

Charles takes a photo and texts it to Francesca.

this is my life now

She replies instantly.

you forgot to put the seat down

and you’re wearing socks with sandals?

delete this immediately

also ily

Charles smiles.

Then deletes the photo. But not before sending it to Pierre.

Back in the corridor, two more bishops are waiting.

“We must practice your blessing.”

“My what?”

“Urbi et Orbi. To the city and to the world.”

Charles sighs. “More Latin?”

The bishop nods solemnly.

“Okay. But I want gelato after this.”

They do not give him gelato.

It’s hours before the ceremony.

Charles finally escapes for a few minutes into a private courtyard, slipping away like a guilty schoolboy, just to breathe in real air. It’s quieter here. Less incense. Less choir. Just the Vatican walls and a soft wind and the distant roar of the crowd outside the square.

The chanting hasn’t stopped.

CHARLES! CHARLES! CHARLES!

He can hear them through the stone.

He presses his palms to his eyes. “What the hell am I doing?”

“Becoming pope,” says a voice.

Charles jumps.

It’s Cardinal Mancini, leaning against the pillar with two cups of espresso in hand.

He offers one.

Charles takes it. “You always find me at my lowest moments.”

“That’s when people need coffee most.”

They sip.

Charles gestures vaguely. “Is this how it’s supposed to go?”

Mancini grins. “I’m pretty sure this is the exact opposite of how it’s supposed to go.”

Charles sighs again. “Great.”

“But maybe that’s the point.”

Charles looks at him.

“You think God likes chaos?”

“I think God uses it. Like wind in a sail.”

A beat.

Charles nods slowly. “You always talk like a metaphor.”

“Gotta keep up the brand.”

When Charles is finally called back to the preparation chamber, the cardinal announcing him is already warming up his voice, the cassock has been steamed for the fifth time, and someone hands him a gold ring he’s absolutely sure is too large.

“You ready?” The attendant asks.

“No,” Charles says.

Then he squares his shoulders.

“But I’m here.”

Chapter Text

Behind the heavy velvet curtain, Charles exhales slowly. The fabric rustles with his movement. His hands are sweating through the lace gloves. He shouldn’t have worn gloves. Why did no one tell him gloves would make everything worse?

“Is it weird if I throw up?” He whispers.

Cardinal Mancini stands beside him, perfectly serene, as if they’re about to enter a Sunday brunch and not deliver a new pope to a crowd of several hundred thousand.

“Yes,” Mancini says. “But it’s not unheard of.”

“I’m serious.”

“Then don’t look down.”

Charles grips the edge of the curtain like it’s a steering wheel. His cassock is tight at the collar again. He should have gone up a size.

Mancini places a hand on his shoulder. “You’re going to be fine.”

“I’m wearing a literal cape,” Charles says.

“You look good.”

“I look like I’m about to become Headmaster of Hogwarts.”

There’s a laugh from someone behind them, maybe the young altar boy from before. Then the door opens.

The Master of Ceremonies nods. “We’re ready.”

Charles goes still.

The choir begins.

The crowd outside surges in sound. A thunderous wave. A heartbeat that stretches across the square.

Mancini’s voice is low. “Ready?”

“No,” Charles says. “But I’m here.”

And then the curtain parts.

The light hits him first. Gold and white and relentless.

Then the sound. Louder than Monza. Louder than anything. A sound that doesn’t belong to any one voice but belongs to everyone.

The crowd explodes.

CHARLES! CHARLES! IL NOSTRO PAPA! VIVA IL PAPA!

Some chant in Italian, others in English, French, Spanish, even Japanese. There are people sobbing into flags. Someone is waving a massive Ferrari banner. Another holds a handmade sign that reads DIO È TIFOSO FERRARI.

He doesn’t wave. Not yet. He just stands, eyes wide, heart racing, blinking at the sheer surrealism of it all.

A cardinal steps forward to make the traditional announcement.

“Annuntio vobis gaudium magnum: habemus Papam! Eminentissimum ac Reverendissimum Dominum, Dominum Carolum Leclerc …”

Charles zones out for a second. The Latin spins past his ears like race static.

“…qui nomen sibi imposuit … Carolus.”

Charles had decided, stubbornly and without apology, to keep his own name. No Pope John XXIV, no Pope Pius XIV. Just Charles. Just Charles.

There had been grumbling. There was still grumbling. But now that the words are echoing across Saint Peter’s Square and into the sky, no one’s grumbling anymore.

He steps forward.

The world goes quiet.

He makes the sign of the cross, murmurs the traditional Latin blessing. He’s practiced it. He’s fumbled it. He’s gotten halfway through before sneezing once. But this time, he nails it.

“Dominus vobiscum …”

And then he lifts his gaze.

And speaks.

“I’m not who you expected.”

A ripple of laughter. People hold their breath.

Charles smiles a little. Just enough to let them know this is still him — the driver, the brother, the reluctant pope in racing boots under his robes.

“I’ve been called many things. Fast. Impulsive. Monaco’s favorite son. Ferrari’s golden boy. Once, by a very angry engineer, I was called ‘chaos in a race suit.’ I think he meant it as a compliment.”

The crowd laughs, gently.

Charles shifts slightly, his voice growing steadier.

“I never imagined this. Not once. Not even as a joke. I didn’t grow up thinking I’d wear white robes and carry a ferula older than my home country. I grew up with race fuel in my blood, engine noise in my ears, and dreams that involved chequered flags, not incense.”

He pauses.

“But something strange happened. People believed in me. People who didn’t have to. And they kept believing even when it made no sense.”

Silence now. Stillness.

“I know what it means to carry expectations. I’ve done that since I was a kid. I also know what it means to fail in front of millions, to lose people you love, to question everything you thought made you who you are. So no, I don’t come to you with all the answers. I don’t come to you with a perfect past. I come to you … with my heart open.”

He lets that settle.

And then-

“I can’t promise perfection. But I can promise this: I will listen. I will learn. I will love.”

Someone sobs audibly. A man, from the sound of it. A woman nearby whispers grazie.

Charles keeps going.

“I may be young. I may not be traditional. But maybe … maybe this is a moment where tradition takes a breath. Maybe this is a moment where we stop choosing power, and start choosing presence. Not just here. Everywhere.”

Another long pause.

Then-

“I am Charles. And with all that I am … I say thank you. Let’s drive forward.”

He makes the sign of the cross again.

The crowd bursts.

There are tears. Cheers. A priest in the third row collapses to his knees and begins openly weeping into his cassock. Near the front, a group of teenagers in Ferrari hats throw their arms around each other, screaming in disbelief.

The cameras flash.

The bells ring.

The world meets Pope Charles.

Inside, Charles practically sprints down the corridor.

His cape flaps behind him like a flag in a headwind. His ceremonial ring clinks against the wall as he takes a corner too fast.

Mancini follows, amused and mildly breathless. “Going somewhere, Your Holiness?”

Charles tosses a grin over his shoulder. “Yeah. Got a plane to catch.”

“You just got elected Pope.”

“I’ve got a race in Baku. Ferrari doesn’t wait.”

“You’re still in vestments.”

Charles looks down. “They’re surprisingly breathable.”

Mancini snorts. “Have you told anyone you’re leaving?”

“I assume they’ll figure it out when they see the Vatican helicopter take off.”

Mancini actually stops walking. “You commandeered the helicopter?”

“Relax, I left a thank you note.”

The Vatican airfield is quiet, but not empty.

Francesca is waiting by the stairs of the private jet, arms crossed, heels clicking on the tarmac.

“You’re late,” she says.

“I was giving a speech.”

“You’re in papal robes.”

“They didn’t have time to press my suit.”

She stares.

Then sighs. “You made people cry.”

“I always do.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“With my speeches,” he clarifies.

“Get on the plane.”

Inside the jet, Charles finally exhales.

He peels off the cape, collapses into the leather seat, and kicks off his ceremonial shoes. He stares out the window as the Vatican fades behind him, already bathed in evening light.

Francesca sits across from him. “You realize this is going to be a logistical nightmare.”

“I’m aware.”

“Every press outlet in the world is about to follow us.”

“I know.”

“You’re a pope who races cars.”

“I’m also a Ferrari driver who happens to be pope.”

She rolls her eyes.

Then grins.

And for the first time in days, Charles laughs.

Back at the Vatican, the cardinals stand in silence before the balcony.

The choir has finished. The crowd is still cheering.

Cardinal Bellini looks at Cardinal Mancini, shaking his head. “He didn’t even choose a papal name.”

Mancini smiles faintly. “No. He chose something better.”

Bellini sniffs. “And now he’s … gone?”

“To a race.”

“Unbelievable.”

Mancini watches the horizon. “Actually,” he murmurs, “it makes perfect sense.”

Chapter Text

Max stares at the hotel television like it just insulted his mother.

The screen flashes again: Pope Charles Gives Historic Balcony Speech, Flies to Azerbaijan for Grand Prix.

“I’m sorry,” he says out loud. “He did what?”

Lando, sprawled on the sofa in an oversized hoodie, raises a single brow. “Flew to Baku. For the race.”

Max turns slowly. “The Pope flew here for a race.”

“He’s still a Ferrari driver.”

“He’s the Pope.”

Lando shrugs. “He didn’t pick a papal name. Maybe that buys him a loophole.”

Max flops back into the armchair, arms crossed. “This is a disaster.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

Max points to the TV. “That’s Charles. In a cassock. Smiling like he didn’t just accidentally sign a lifetime contract with God.”

Lando snorts. “It’s Charles. He could probably out-charm God.”

“That’s not the point.”

Lando stretches. “Then what is the point?”

Max opens his mouth. Then closes it.

Then scowls.

“I have to call Daniel.”

Daniel Ricciardo is not expecting a FaceTime from Max Verstappen at 11 p.m.

But he picks up anyway, mostly because Max never calls unless something is on fire. Sometimes metaphorically. Once, literally.

Daniel appears onscreen, grinning, hair damp from a shower. “Maxie! Miss me already?”

“I need your help.”

Daniel blinks. “Okay, wow. No hello, no how’s your mental health, just straight into the emotional trenches.”

“Charles is the pope.”

Daniel blinks again. “Right. That happened.”

“And popes,” Max says slowly, like he’s explaining climate change to a brick wall, “can’t date.”

Daniel’s smile falters.

Max leans in. “They can’t date, Dan. That means no kissing. No ... anything. No touching. No waking up tangled in sheets with someone who makes you feel like you’re not about to self-destruct for once.”

Daniel sits up straighter.

“Oh my God,” he whispers. “You’re in love with him.”

“I am not-” Max cuts himself off. Takes a breath. “Okay. I might be. A little. Not ... not in a normal way.”

“There’s no normal way to love Charles Leclerc,” Daniel says gently. “He’s a walking contradiction with eyelashes that could convert a priest.”

Max mutters, “Apparently, they did.”

Daniel laughs, then sobers. “So, what’s the plan?”

“We stop the celibacy.”

Daniel stares. “You want to undo two thousand years of religious tradition.”

“I want Charles to be happy,” Max snaps. “And I don’t think God would be opposed to that.”

“Do you have a plan beyond ‘overthrow Catholicism’?”

Max rubs a hand through his hair. “We need to make celibacy optional. Not mandatory. Just ... optional. Like fasting. Or voting.”

“Voting is not optional in some countries.”

“Daniel.”

“Right, sorry, revolution focus.”

Max looks tired. “I can’t stand it. I didn’t say anything when the fans made him pope. I didn’t say anything when he gave a speech that made my mom cry. But I’m saying something now.”

Daniel tilts his head. “Because now you’re the one crying?”

Max glares. “I’m not crying.”

“You’re internally crying.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is a thing.”

They stare at each other through the screen.

Then Daniel sighs. “Fine. Let’s start researching.”

By morning, Max has four tabs open on the history of clerical celibacy, two tabs open on obscure theological loopholes, and one very concerned George Russell at his door.

George walks in cautiously, glancing around the war room Max has constructed out of coffee cups and papal biographies.

“Uh. Everything okay?”

Max doesn’t look up. “Did you know celibacy wasn’t enforced until the twelfth century?”

“Are you studying for a theology exam?”

“No.”

“Are you converting?”

“No.”

George peers at a book titled Love and the Papacy. “Is this about Charles?”

Max looks up.

George exhales. “Right.”

“It’s not about just Charles,” Max says quickly. “It’s about freedom. Autonomy. Choice.”

George raises an eyebrow. “You want to fuck the pope.”

Max hurls a pillow at him.

The garage is buzzing when Charles arrives at the paddock, half in his Ferrari polo and half in papal white.

Reporters swarm.

Photographers follow every step.

Lewis stands beside the car, blinking. “You ... wore both?”

Charles shrugs. “Thought I’d multitask.”

“You’re going to give a whole generation of Catholics an identity crisis.”

Charles grins. “You think they’ll be more upset about the cassock or the helmet?”

Lewis opens his mouth. Closes it. “Honestly? The abs.”

Charles just laughs, adjusting his gloves.

Further down the pitlane, Max watches.

Then quietly, he turns to GP. “I’m doing it.”

GP blinks. “Doing what?”

Max straightens his collar.

“Taking on the Vatican.”

That night, Max drafts an open letter.

It starts with:

To the Holy See, the College of Cardinals, and the faithful around the world-

And ends with:

Love should never require silence.

Daniel reads it three times.

“This is either the most romantic thing you’ve ever done or a heresy punishable by exile.”

Max shrugs. “I’m Dutch. We invented blunt honesty.”

Daniel laughs maniacally. “Let’s cause a religious scandal.”

The letter drops two hours later.

By morning, it’s everywhere.

MAX VERSTAPPEN CALLS FOR REFORM OF CLERICAL CELIBACY IN PASSIONATE OPEN LETTER

“LOVE SHOULD NEVER REQUIRE SILENCE,” SAYS FOUR-TIME WORLD CHAMPION

IS THE VATICAN READY FOR ITS FIRST SEXY REFORMATION?

Charles reads it in bed, eyes wide, heart pounding.

Francesca pokes her head into the room. “Have you seen what Max just-”

“Yes,” Charles says, staring at the screen.

“Oh my God,” she breathes. “He’s so in love with you.”

Charles swallows. His heart flips like a car going airborne.

“I think I knew,” he says quietly. “But it’s different seeing it. Like this.”

Francesca grins. “So what are you going to do?”

Charles stares at the ceiling.

Then closes his laptop.

And says, “I’m going to make a phone call.”

Chapter Text

“Are you absolutely certain?” Francesca leans against the doorframe of Charles’ suite, arms crossed, brow raised.

“No,” Charles admits, pressing the phone to his ear. “But I’m doing it anyway.”

“You realize this call could-”

“Spark a theological mutiny, I know.”

He takes a breath, steps out onto the balcony where the night air wraps around him, head still buzzing from Max’s letter.

He dials.

It rings exactly three times.

Then—click.

“Pronto?” Comes the gravelly voice on the other end.

“Hello,” Charles says, steadying himself. “This is … Charles.”

A pause.

A beat.

Then, uncertainly, “Charles who?”

Charles winces. “Leclerc. The pope.”

A very long pause.

Then a cough. “Your Holiness, I — my apologies. I wasn’t expecting — do you not have … staff … for this sort of thing?”

Charles scratches his head. “They keep trying to take my phone.”

“Ah.”

“I wanted to speak directly. Without advisors.”

There’s the sound of a chair scraping. “Of course. This is Cardinal Bellini, Secretariat of State. What … what can I do for you?”

Charles exhales, slowly.

“I read the letter. From Max Verstappen.”

Bellini’s tone sharpens. “Ah. Yes. That … document.”

“I found it moving.”

Bellini clears his throat so violently Charles considers offering him a lozenge through the phone.

“Your Holiness, you must understand. That letter has caused … waves. In fact, as we speak, several bishops are requesting an emergency meeting.”

“Why?”

“Because it contains sentiments that border — border, I stress — on heresy.”

“Because he asked if love should be silent?”

“Because he suggested the abandonment of a sacred tradition.”

Charles runs a hand through his hair. “Bellini, can I ask you something?”

“… Yes, Your Holiness?”

“Is celibacy sacred? Or is it just old?”

Silence.

A long, stunned silence.

“Your Holiness,” Bellini finally manages, “you were chosen in a deeply unorthodox fashion. That you were elected by a conclave initially as a joke campaign does not invalidate your title, but it does — how shall I put it — demand a certain restraint in your engagements with controversy.”

Charles just says, “I’m not saying anything official. Not yet. I’m just asking.”

Bellini sighs. “Then ask, and I will respond as carefully as I can.”

Charles lowers his voice. “Are we wrong to believe that love — real love, the kind that is generous and joyful and free — might be as holy as solitude?”

Another pause. And then, to Charles’ surprise, a much softer voice replies, “No. We are not wrong to believe that.”

Word spreads faster than absolution on Easter Sunday.

Not the letter. Not even Max’s declaration.

But the phone call.

Rumors, first — did Charles really ring up the Secretariat just to ask about love? Did he really use the word joyful?

By noon the next day, Cardinal Camacho of Uruguay stands up in a quiet library near the Vatican gardens and declares, “I, for one, would like to revisit mandatory celibacy. I’m forty-two. I’ve seen ‘Call Me by Your Name.’ I have regrets.”

He’s not alone.

Cardinal Park, Korean and famously shy, mutters at lunch, “Would it really be so scandalous? Jesus never explicitly said …”

Cardinal Petrov of Bulgaria casually slams his phone on the table after reading another tabloid headline — POPE CHARLES DIALS INTO DESIRE — and grumbles, “If God didn’t want us to feel things, he wouldn’t have given the pope those cheekbones.”

Meanwhile, in a quiet convent outside Naples, Sister Giuliana stares at a photo of Charles on the cover of La Repubblica.

He’s laughing. Dimples on full display. There’s a golden glow behind him from the sunlight, like some divine backlight.

Mother Superior walks in. “Again?”

“I’m meditating.”

“On his face?”

“I am simply contemplating how form reflects divinity.”

Mother Superior raises a brow. “He parked a Ferrari on the basilica steps.”

Sister Giuliana clasps her hands. “Even the Holy Family traveled by donkey. I think we can upgrade to horsepower.”

Inside the Vatican, chaos.

The progressive cardinals are whispering. Plotting. Gathering.

The conservative cardinals are sweating through their vestments.

“He called the Secretariat,” hisses Cardinal Rinaldi, wiping his forehead.

“He spoke of optional celibacy,” adds Cardinal Giannini.

“And didn’t even ask for official minutes,” Rinaldi breathes. “He just … had a conversation. Like this is a democracy.”

They turn to the camerlengo, who is sitting serenely at the end of the room, sipping tea.

“Surely,” Giannini says, voice tight, “you see the danger in this.”

The camerlengo smiles. “I see change.”

“Change is dangerous.”

“So is stagnation.”

“You were supposed to guide him.”

“I did.” The camerlengo sets down his cup. “He asked me if he could turn the popemobile into a Ferrari. I asked if he believed God wanted him to serve. We both left wiser.”

Rinaldi gapes. “That’s your definition of guidance?”

The camerlengo shrugs. “Would you rather he seek advice from Pierre Gasly?”

There’s a beat of horrified silence.

“… Fair point,” someone mutters.

Back in Baku, Charles sits with Francesca on the balcony again.

“They think I’m trying to start a revolution,” he says, tired.

She leans her head on his shoulder. “Aren’t you?”

“I just want to understand what I’m being asked to give up. I’ve never been alone. Not really. Racing is all noise and people. I thought this would be quieter, but-”

“But now your life is even louder?”

Charles nods.

“Did you mean what you asked Bellini?” She murmurs. “About love?”

He hesitates.

Then, softly, “I don’t want to have to bury part of myself to be worthy of this. I don’t want to be holy if it means being lonely.”

Francesca watches him, eyes shining.

Then she says, “Then you’re not fighting against tradition, Charles. You’re fighting for love.”

In a dim chapel near St. Peter’s, a group of young clergy meets in secret.

The room is filled with whispers.

“He called the Secretariat himself. No entourage. No PR team.”

“Do you think he’s serious?”

“He’s a Ferrari driver. He only does things fast and hard.”

One young seminarian — barely twenty-five, still in shock that the new pope follows him on Instagram — says quietly, “If he says he’s open to changing things, maybe we should too.”

A beat.

And then, one by one, heads nod.

The Vatican press office releases a statement.

His Holiness has merely asked a theological question. As is his right. There is no official movement toward reform.

Max reads it over breakfast.

He tosses the croissant aside.

And mutters, “Not yet.”

Chapter Text

Charles doesn’t believe in fate. Not really. Not the way the Vatican would like him to, anyway.

He believes in tire degradation, pit strategy, qualifying positions, and wind speed on race day. He believes in late-night pasta, shoulder rubs from his physio, and the exact sensation of rubber singing against asphalt. He believes in a good engine. A bad engine. And now, reluctantly, in God.

But fate?

He’s not sure.

So when he steps off the elevator in the lobby of the Boulevard Hotel in Baku — hair still damp from his shower, baseball cap tugged low, coffee gripped like salvation — and sees Max Verstappen standing at the front desk, squinting down at a boarding pass like it personally offended him, Charles almost drops the cup.

Max looks up.

Freezes.

The silence is immediate and absolutely suffocating. Two F1 drivers. Two men freshly tethered to public mythologies they never asked for. One dressed in full Red Bull merch. The other — the literal pope — in a soft Ferrari hoodie and joggers, looking like he just wandered out of a Netflix coming-of-age series about holiness and heartbreak.

“Charles,” Max says, carefully, like he’s testing whether the name will still work.

Charles just says, “You flew commercial?”

Max glances at the boarding pass. “The jet was grounded last minute. Engine issue.”

“Ironic.”

“I know.”

Another long pause.

Then-

“You want coffee?” Charles asks.

“God, yes.”

They end up on a hotel couch that’s far too plush and low to the ground for the existential weight sitting between them.

Max holds his cappuccino like it’s a peace offering. He doesn’t look at Charles.

“I didn’t expect to see you,” he says.

“I didn’t expect to see you,” Charles replies.

“Well,” Max mutters, “the Lord works in mysterious ways.”

Charles chokes on his coffee. “Are you quoting the Bible now?”

Max’s mouth twitches. “I’ve been brushing up.”

“Trying to impress me?”

Max finally looks at him.

And for a second — just a second — everything slips. The race suits. The theology. The centuries of celibacy and sin and Swiss guards and screaming fans. It’s just two boys who’ve known each other too long. Who’ve looked too long. Waited too long.

Max’s voice is quiet. “I think I’ve been trying to impress you for two decades.”

Charles doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

“Max-”

“I meant everything in that letter.”

Charles closes his eyes. “I know.”

“I don’t care what robes they put you in,” Max says, voice firmer now. “Or what rules they tell you to follow. I’m done pretending I don’t-”

He cuts himself off. Looks away.

Charles stares at him.

And then says, softly, “Say it.”

Max turns back. Jaw set.

“I’m in love with you,” he says.

The silence after is less tense. More like a sky before a storm — heavy, charged.

Charles finally speaks.

“I was hoping you’d say it first.”

Max’s mouth twitches. “Well. I do like to win.”

They both laugh — shaky, breathless.

“I’m not going to lie,” Charles says, shifting closer. “Everything is madness right now. I still don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I don’t care,” Max says. “I just want you to know I’m here. Even if the Church threatens to excommunicate me.”

“They’d try.”

“I’d like to see them stop me.”

Charles smirks. “What are you going to do? Challenge them to a race?”

“No,” Max says. “But next time we’re on the podium together …”

He leans in, so close their knees touch.

“I’m kissing you.”

Charles swallows.

Max continues, voice steady. “And I don’t care if it’s live on international TV. If the world’s watching. If your cardinals faint and my sponsors scream.”

“You’d do that?”

Max nods.

“Just to prove a point?”

Max smiles. “No. Just because I want to.”

Charles stares at him. Feels like the ground’s dropped out from under him — but not in the bad way. Not like losing traction mid-corner. More like flying.

He pulls out his phone.

“What are you doing?” Max asks.

Charles stands up.

“Warning the Vatican.”

CALL LOG
To: Bellini, Cardinal (Secretary of State)
Time: 8:07am

“Your Holiness?” Bellini answers, far too composed for how early it is.

“I have an update,” Charles says.

“Is this … spiritual in nature?”

“In a way.”

Bellini sighs. “What now?”

“I just ran into Max Verstappen in a hotel lobby.”

Dead silence.

“I see,” Bellini says. “And?”

“He told me he’s in love with me.”

Bellini sputters. “He what-”

“And he says the next time we’re both on a podium, he’s going to kiss me.”

“On the mouth?”

“I presume so.”

“Oh Lord in Heaven.”

“I’m calling because you need to prepare. Get ahead of it.”

Bellini’s voice climbs an octave. “Prepare what? A crisis team? An exorcist?”

“Change the rules,” Charles says simply.

“Excuse me?”

“Celibacy. You said it yourself — it’s tradition, not scripture. There’s already movement among the cardinals.”

Bellini groans audibly. “A movement you began!”

“I’m not asking you to rewrite doctrine overnight.”

“Thank God.”

“I’m just saying … it’s going to happen. Might as well be honest.”

“And you warned me this time?” Bellini asks, half-hysterical.

“I’m growing,” Charles says sweetly.

Then he hangs up.

Charles turns back to Max, who’s watching with a raised brow.

“What did they say?”

“They’re panicking.”

Max grins. “Good.”

“You’re really going to do it?”

Max stands.

Steps into his space.

“You still want me to?”

Charles stares at him, heart racing. “You have no idea.”

And then they don’t say anything. They don’t have to. It’s all there — in the glance, the breath, the heat in the space between them.

But they don’t kiss.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

“We need to get ahead of this. Now.”

Cardinal Bellini slams a hand on the mahogany table so hard that two bishops flinch and one accidentally knocks over his glass of sparkling San Pellegrino.

Across the table, Cardinal Giannelli — head of doctrine, a man who still sends faxes and calls TikTok the devil’s slide show — raises an eyebrow.

“Get ahead of what, exactly?” He says icily. “The pope’s libido? His Dutch temptation?”

“His upcoming international televised kiss, Gianni,” Bellini snaps. “That’s what we’re getting ahead of.”

The Vatican war room is in chaos.

They’ve commandeered the fourth-floor conference chamber, usually reserved for pontifical councils and painfully long talks about liturgical punctuation. Now it’s plastered with whiteboards, press memos, contingency plans, and one suspiciously high-resolution photo of Charles Leclerc’s abs during a 2022 pool day in Monaco.

“Who put that there?” Bishop Moretti asks, squinting.

“Sister Caterina,” mutters someone. “She said it was … theological inspiration.”

A quiet pause follows. Everyone knows Sister Caterina. And they know she’s not the only one with … sentiments.

“Gentlemen,” Bellini says, dragging his fingers down his face, “we are on the verge of a public relations Armageddon. We have a globally beloved heart throb–slash–Formula 1 champion who’s already rejected the papal name, refuses to stop racing, and just threatened a same-sex kiss on the podium.”

A beat.

“And you’re all surprised that we have a crisis on our hands?”

“Well,” says Cardinal de Silva, who once studied political science at Georgetown and knows how to make a Canva presentation, “technically, Charles didn’t threaten it. Verstappen did.”

“Oh, good,” Bellini deadpans. “Let’s hold Max Verstappen accountable. The barely-Catholic Dutch driver. I’m sure the faithful will appreciate the distinction.”

“We did warn him about temptation,” mutters Giannelli. “That boy never looked at a cassock without blaspheming.”

De Silva leans forward. “If I may — there’s an opportunity here. For reform. Transparency. Reconnection with the younger generation.”

“Reconnection?” Giannelli snorts. “We’re about to be ridiculed into heresy.”

“And yet,” de Silva replies, calm and devastating, “our last two attempts at synod reforms barely made headlines. But Charles? He breathes, and the Church trends on Twitter.”

The room goes quiet.

Even Giannelli has to admit — begrudgingly — that the point stands.

“Fine,” Bellini mutters. “So we don’t bury this. We … steer it.”

“Reframe it,” de Silva says, eyes gleaming. “Humanize him. Emphasize continuity and change. A Church that evolves but honors tradition. A new Catholicism for the twenty-first century.”

Giannelli scoffs. “While letting the Holy Father get kissed on the mouth by a Red Bull driver?”

Bellini leans back in his chair and sighs.

“He warned us,” he says tiredly. “We’ve already been caught off guard once. If it happens again — if we’re silent or reactive — then the narrative gets written without us.”

De Silva nods. “So we get ahead of it. We put together a panel. Release a doctrinal document. Something soft, not binding. A discussion starter.”

“A discussion starter on abolishing celibacy?” Giannelli practically shrieks.

Bellini glances down at his phone. A text from Vatican communications reads:

Trending again. #KissThePope #PodiumBlessing #MaxWillYouMarryMe

He sighs again.

“Yes,” he says.

Meanwhile, in a Roman convent not far from the Papal Palace ...

Sister Caterina clutches her rosary with one hand and a beat-up iPhone with the other.

“Mother Superior,” she says solemnly, “I’ve been moved.”

Mother Elisabetta narrows her eyes.

“You’ve been moved … how?”

“By the Holy Spirit. And by Charles Leclerc’s side profile.”

Elisabetta pinches the bridge of her nose. “Sister-”

“I believe it is divine timing. This … surge of feeling in the Church. It is not mere fandom. It is a call.”

“To what?”

“To reconsider. What it means to be faithful. To be human. To love.”

“Sister.”

“I’m only saying,” Caterina whispers, eyes misty, “if the Lord didn’t want us to reflect on celibacy, He would not have sent us the Prince of Monaco.”

Back in the Vatican, Cardinal Bellini finds himself facing the final boss of this papal circus: the international press.

At a hastily assembled press conference, he stands before a wall of microphones, sweat beading under his biretta.

“Cardinal,” someone shouts, “is the Vatican aware that the reigning pope might get publicly kissed by a man?”

Bellini nods once, firmly.

“The Vatican,” he says slowly, “is aware.”

“Is the Church going to condemn it?”

A pause.

“We are … discussing a wide range of perspectives.”

“So,” another reporter yells, “you’re not condemning it?”

“We are engaging in a process of … theological reflection.”

“Is celibacy still required?”

Bellini forces a smile. “Currently. But as you all know, traditions can evolve. The Church is a living body.”

A young Italian reporter leans into her mic.

“Will the Vatican consider updating the Catechism to accommodate romantic relationships for clergy?”

Bellini thinks of Charles on the balcony, waving like a Formula 1 prince. He thinks of Verstappen’s smirk. He thinks of the memes. God, the memes.

“We are,” he says carefully, “exploring new theological frameworks.”

And somewhere in Monaco, Charles watches it all unfold on his TV.

He’s sprawled on the couch, bowl of popcorn in his lap, Ferrari socks on his feet, and an expression that oscillates between horror and helpless laughter.

Next to him, Max has one leg draped over the armrest, looking entirely too smug.

“They’re really trying to reframe the kiss,” Charles says, mouth full.

Max shrugs. “Good PR.”

“They called it ‘a potential moment of pastoral renewal.’”

Max grins. “You’re welcome.”

Charles stares at the ceiling. “This is insane.”

“You’re the pope.”

“I’m the pope.”

There’s a beat.

“You okay?” Max asks, suddenly softer.

Charles looks at him.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just shifts, puts the popcorn down, presses a hand to his forehead.

“I think I might be,” he finally says. “But I don’t know what comes next.”

Max reaches over. Takes his hand. Squeezes.

“I do,” he says.

And Charles smiles.

Chapter Text

The clock on the wall of the Vatican press office blinks 15:57.

Three minutes.

Three minutes before the podium ceremony begins in Singapore.

Cardinal Bellini paces, muttering to himself in Latin and broken French, one hand fisting the revised doctrine like it's both a blessing and a death sentence. Around him, Vatican aides flurry in their cassocks like penguins in crisis.

“Upload it now,” he barks. “We cannot delay.”

“But Your Eminence-”

“Now, Paolo!”

The aide fumbles with the keyboard. Fingers slip. The document, titled ‘A Renewed Theology of Devotion and Vocation’, flashes on the Vatican homepage with a soft ding. Beside it, an official tweet goes live:

In light of evolving pastoral needs, the Vatican recognizes that committed romantic relationships may coexist with sacred vocations, under discernment. #DeusEstAmor

Bellini exhales.

“It’s done.”

“Three minutes early,” murmurs Paolo.

Bellini shuts his eyes. “God help us.”

Trackside, Charles Leclerc crosses the finish line with a shout that could wake the saints.

“P1, baby! That’s P1!” Bryan yells over the radio.

The Ferrari garage erupts. Mechanics jump. A flag whips overhead. Francesca screams into her headset and then promptly bursts into tears.

“I love this stupid, perfect man,” she sobs, mascara streaking.

“Copy that,” someone says, laughing.

Charles punches the air. The Monegasque anthem roars silently in his ears, and he can’t stop smiling.

Not because of the win — he’s had wins before.

But because of what’s about to happen.

Max Verstappen pulls into P2.

He parks. Kills the engine. Doesn’t even take off his gloves. Just sits there, breathing.

Lando walks past and knocks on the cockpit. “You good, mate?”

Max doesn’t blink. “I’m going to kiss the pope.”

“Yeah,” Lando grins. “You told us.”

Max climbs out, tosses his gloves, and starts walking.

On the podium, Charles is already there, cap off, curls slightly damp with champagne. The crowd is deafening. They scream his name. Someone holds up a massive sign: #BlessedAndAboutToGetPressed.

As Max steps up beside him, Charles turns — and grins.

“You’re really gonna do it?” He murmurs under his breath.

Max smirks. “You scared?”

“Little bit.”

“You should be.”

The trophies are presented.

The anthems play.

The champagne explodes.

And then-

It happens.

Max steps toward Charles. He doesn’t hesitate. Not even for a second. He cups Charles’ face with both hands, pulls him close, and kisses him full on the mouth.

And not just a peck.

Not some chaste Vatican-friendly brush of lips.

It’s a kiss. With tongue. With feeling.

A collective gasp ripples through the paddock.

Charles’ eyes flutter shut, fingers gripping Max’s waist as the crowd screams. Phones fly into the air. Journalists fumble their lenses. Lando faints. Literally faints. Francesca, in the garage, lets out a sound like a dying goose.

And back in the Vatican-

“OH MADONNA!” Someone cries.

Sister Caterina drops her rosary and falls to her knees.

Cardinal Giannelli clutches his heart like he’s having an ecclesiastical seizure.

“Did he just — did he lick the Holy Father?!”

De Silva nods, deadpan. “Scripture says, ‘Greet each other with a holy kiss.’ I suppose that counts.”

Bellini doesn’t move.

He’s just staring at the screen, slack-jawed.

“Oh my God,” he whispers.

“Technically,” says Paolo, “He’s already here.”

On the podium, Charles pulls back, breathless.

“You didn’t hold back.”

“You didn’t stop me,” Max replies.

Charles laughs, forehead pressing to Max’s. “That’s because I’m an idiot.”

“Or because you’re in love with me.”

The crowd surges with applause, and Charles just shakes his head. “You’re going to get me excommunicated.”

“Pretty sure that’s impossible.”

And Charles kisses him again.

Shorter, this time.

But no less real.

Later, as they sit side by side in the back of a dark car headed to the airport, Charles stares at the sky through the tinted window.

“I think,” he says slowly, “this is going to be a problem.”

Max, scrolling through Twitter, lifts an eyebrow. “You just trended above the Second Coming. I’d say it’s already a problem.”

Charles glances over. “You scared?”

Max leans back, voice soft. “Only if you are.”

There’s a long pause.

Charles thinks of everything — the church, the crowd, the kiss, the doctrine released with three minutes to spare. He thinks of his mother, who’ll probably cry and then immediately start knitting matching vestments for him and Max.

And then he shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “I’m not scared.”

Max smiles.

“Good.”

In the Vatican, the responses start pouring in.

Some faithful rage. Others rejoice. Most just laugh in disbelief.

One tweet reads:

Today I learned the Vicar of Christ is a Ferrari driver with a Red Bull boyfriend. We are living in a literal fanfic and I’m here for it.

Another:

Sooo … do we call it the Holy See or the Holy Smooch now?

The Church has never moved this fast.

But maybe that’s what it takes.

A kiss.

A win.

And a pope who never asked for this — but might just be perfect for it anyway.

Chapter Text

“I’m not wearing a suit,” Max announces as he steps off the plane.

Charles doesn’t look up from his phone. “You are literally meeting the College of Cardinals.”

Max shrugs. “They should be honored. I’m taking time off my simulator for this.”

“They’re going to hate you.”

“Good. It’s mutual.”

Charles sighs, stuffing his phone in his pocket and squinting against the Roman sunlight. “You can’t just insult the hierarchy of the Catholic Church to their faces.”

“Watch me.”

The Apostolic Palace feels even colder than usual, like the stone itself is bracing for impact. Word has spread fast: he’s coming. The boyfriend. The Dutch one.

Cardinal Bellini, clutching his rosary like it might shield him from sin or Red Bull, takes his seat in the long, vaulted meeting room.

“I heard,” Cardinal Giannelli murmurs, “that he once called Monza a ‘go-kart track for toddlers.’”

“And yet,” says Sister Caterina, eyes twinkling, “he calls our Pope ‘babe.’”

The great double doors swing open.

Max strides in first.

He’s in jeans, a white t-shirt, and a hoodie with VERSTAPPEN 1 stitched on the back. His hair is messy. His sneakers squeak. His expression says: I dare you to make a comment.

Behind him, Charles follows. In full papal white.

“Please,” Charles says under his breath, “don’t say anything until we sit down.”

“Too late,” Max mutters.

The room is dead silent.

Cardinal Moretti nearly chokes on a cough.

Max walks up to the long table like he’s showing up to a press conference.

“So,” he says, throwing himself into the seat next to Charles, “how many of you are mad about the tongue?”

A few cardinals drop their pens.

Charles closes his eyes.

“I can’t take you anywhere,” he murmurs.

Max grins. “You took me to the papal palace.”

Bellini clears his throat, steadying himself like a man preparing to wrestle a demon. “Mister Verstappen, welcome to the Vatican.”

Max leans back. “Cheers.”

“I trust your, um, visit will be brief?”

“I dunno,” Max shrugs. “Charles said something about showing me the gardens. And the catacombs. Very romantic.”

Giannelli whispers something about the end times.

One of the younger cardinals bites back a laugh. Sister Caterina looks like she might faint — but from joy.

“Max,” Charles says, voice warning.

Max leans in toward him with mock innocence. “Yes, Your Holiness?”

Charles glares. “Don’t call me that when you’re sitting like that.”

Max spreads his legs further and smirks. “Why? Does it turn you on?”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Wrong guy,” Max replies, grinning.

Later, they walk through the Cortile del Belvedere, Charles with his hands clasped behind his back, Max looking around like he’s trying to figure out where the Vatican hides their energy drinks.

“They hate me,” Max says casually.

Charles glances at him. “You’re not exactly making it easy.”

“I’m not here to make it easy. I’m here because I love you.”

Charles stops walking.

Max keeps going for two steps before realizing and turning.

“I’m here,” Max repeats, softer now, “because I love you. And because if you’re going to be the first pope with a boyfriend, I’m damn well going to be the best boyfriend a pope ever had.”

Charles stares at him.

Then snorts. “That’s a very low bar.”

“I’m still clearing it.”

Back inside, the nuns of the Apostolic Palace have gathered for their usual afternoon prayers.

Max walks past the chapel, and several heads turn.

“Is that-” one whispers.

“His eyes are even bluer in person,” another sighs.

Max stops, notices the whispers, and gives a two-finger salute. “Ladies.”

Three nuns audibly swoon.

Sister Caterina clutches the nearest column.

By the time Charles catches up to him, Max is in the refectory, eating something suspiciously like biscotti and explaining the DRS system to a seventy-year-old monsignor.

“I still don’t understand,” the man says. “You go fast … but then sometimes faster?”

“Exactly,” Max says, mouth full. 

Charles stares at him.

“You’re not supposed to be here alone.”

Max shrugs. “You left me with nuns. I felt safe.”

“Jesus Christ,” Charles mutters again.

“You really need a new catchphrase.”

That evening, Charles collapses onto the ridiculously ornate couch in the papal apartments.

Max flops down beside him.

“Think I made a good impression?”

“You traumatized at least twelve senior clergymen.”

“But,” Max says, holding up a finger, “Sister Caterina offered to pray for my championship next season.”

Charles groans into his hands. “You are going to get me canonically removed.”

“You already rewrote doctrine.”

Charles pauses. “You know what’s scary?”

“Hm?”

“I think they like you.”

Max looks over, genuinely surprised. “You do?”

Charles sighs. “Not all of them. But the younger ones, the nuns, even a few of the older guys who remember what it’s like to be scared of change. They see you, and … they see possibility.”

Max blinks.

“… That’s terrifying.”

Charles nods. “Welcome to my life.”

As they sit together, the night growing quieter around them, Max reaches out and takes Charles’s hand.

“You okay?” He asks.

Charles leans his head on Max’s shoulder.

“I am now.”

Chapter Text

The papal motorcade is many things: solemn, polished, historically rigid. It is not, traditionally, led by a screaming beige dachshund in a white velvet cape with gold trim.

But here they are.

The gate guards at the Vatican barely register the Ferrari pulling up this time — they’ve seen enough of Charles’s barely-legal parking to stop reacting — but they do blink when the driver’s side door swings open and Leo the dachshund launches out like a blessed torpedo.

“Leo!” Charles calls, barely halfway out of the car. “You’re the Pope’s dog, behave with some dignity!”

Leo, unfazed, bolts toward the Swiss Guards.

The Guards, in a display of military discipline matched only by their confusion, freeze as Leo sniffs their ankles.

“Max, the cats … are they-”

Max, emerging from the passenger side with a cat carrier in each hand and one hanging from a shoulder strap, scowls. “Donut peed on Jimmy. Again. This is your fault.”

Charles shuts the car door with a sigh and straightens his white cassock, now lightly speckled with Leo hair. “I’m literally the Pope. Nothing is my fault anymore.”

Inside the Apostolic Palace, chaos descends like incense from a too-enthusiastic thurible.

Leo, now with his little velvet papal mozzetta flapping proudly behind him, gallops through the marble halls like he owns them.

Sassy immediately claws her way onto the window ledge of the reception hall.

Jimmy stakes out a decorative fountain and stares into it like it owes him money.

Donut gets stuck between a couch and a priceless 17th-century reliquary.

“Get Donut,” Charles says, holding Nino in one arm and adjusting Leo’s cape with the other.

Max grunts, already half under the couch. “You get him. He likes you better.”

“That’s not true.”

Donut squeaks pitifully and licks Charles’s shoe.

Charles sighs. “Okay. That’s true.”

Down the hall, a few cardinals pause as Leo trots past with a small bark of command.

“Was that-”

“Yes.”

“In papal vestments?”

“It appears so.”

One of them makes the sign of the cross.

Another murmurs, “Is … is it heresy if I think that dog is cute?”

By mid-afternoon, the entire palace knows. He brought them all. The Pope. His boyfriend. The cats. The dogs. One of the cats is possibly possessed. The Pope’s dog has a tailored chasuble.

Vatican social media interns are already twenty drafts deep into a carousel post.

The young lay sisters are practically vibrating.

“Do you think he’ll let us pet them?”

“Do you think the dogs will get their own Instagram?”

“What if the cats convert?”

In the gardens, Charles sprawls on a bench, Leo in his lap like a smug holy sausage.

“I’m not saying I’m a genius,” Charles says, “but you have to admit the outfit is iconic.”

Max eyes the papal dog cape. “You know that half the College of Cardinals is probably screaming into their rosaries right now.”

“I know,” Charles says, stroking Leo’s ears. “And the other half are on Etsy trying to commission one for their cats.”

Max drops Nino into the grass beside the bench. Nino instantly chases a butterfly. Donut, liberated, toddles after him in circles.

“How did this become our life?” Max mutters.

“You kissed me on the podium.”

Max grins. “No regrets.”

Back inside, Sister Caterina knocks nervously on the door to the Pope’s apartments.

It opens to reveal Jimmy, glaring.

“Uh …”

“Come in!” Charles calls.

She steps over the cat and gasps.

The papal chambers look like a hybrid between a 16th-century theological retreat and a PetSmart exploded.

Leo’s bed is on the throne.

Sassy is inside the drawer of a centuries-old dresser.

Max is asleep on the couch with Donut on his chest and Nino on his head.

“Your Holiness,” Sister Caterina says delicately, “some of the cardinals are … concerned.”

“About what?”

“The animals. The … outfits. The optics.”

Charles turns to her with the serenity of a man who has faced Formula 1 media scrums and worse. “Do the people love it?”

“Instagram has melted.”

“Then let the cardinals yell. I’ll pray for them.”

She smiles, then leans in. “Do you think I could hold Leo?”

“Only if he deems you worthy.”

Leo blinks at her. Barks once. Wags.

She gasps. “He has chosen me.”

At that exact moment, in a dark-paneled room deep in the Vatican:

“This is blasphemy,” Cardinal Bellini says flatly.

“It’s an animal,” Cardinal Giannelli replies.

“In a papal cape!”

“Technically, he’s not sacramentally blessed.”

“There was a photo of the cat sitting on the Missale Romanum!”

“Okay,” another says, “but did you see the one where Donut rolled over during vespers? It was adorable.”

Bellini slams his hands on the table. “Adorable doesn’t mean it’s not heresy!”

“Have you read the comments? ‘The Church has never felt more alive.’ ‘Pope Charles brings joy to faith again.’”

“He’s undermining the dignity of the papacy with a dachshund in vestments!”

A pause.

Then Cardinal Moretti mutters, “ …Do you think I could get a miniature zucchetto for my schnauzer?”

Bellini storms out.

Max wakes up to Donut licking his nose.

“You’re disgusting,” he groans.

From the other side of the room, Charles calls, “He’s trying his best.”

“He has one brain cell and it’s malfunctioning.”

Charles walks over and drops onto the couch next to him. “The Vatican thinks this is blasphemy.”

“Let them. You’re making faith fun again.”

“I’m making it furry.”

“Same difference.”

That evening, the sun sets over Rome in a splash of gold and wine-colored light.

The courtyard glows.

Tourists linger outside the gates, craning for a glimpse.

Inside, on the highest balcony of the Apostolic Palace, Charles stands with Leo on one side, Max on the other. Behind them, Nino is curled at Max’s feet. Donut naps on Charles’s shoulder. Sassy and Jimmy stalk the railing like feline Vatican guards.

The camera flashes begin.

“You ready?” Max murmurs.

“For what?”

Max leans in. “The backlash.”

Charles laughs softly. “I’m already the Pope. What are they going to do — excommunicate me?”

He raises his hand.

Leo barks.

The crowd erupts.

Somewhere deep in the Vatican, a cardinal faints.

Chapter Text

It starts with a sigh.

A long, exhausted, put-me-in-a-coma kind of sigh that rattles through Charles’s chest and echoes against the ancient frescoes of his meeting chamber.

“He’s really coming?” Charles asks.

Archbishop Marchesi nods grimly. “Yes, Your Holiness. President Trump is en route.”

“And I have to meet him? We can’t just … lose the key to the city for the afternoon?”

“Protocol.”

“Protocol sucks.”

Marchesi frowns. “The United States is a crucial-”

“-ally, yes, yes, I’ve read the notes,” Charles mutters, flopping onto the divan. Leo leaps up beside him and rests his tiny chin on Charles’s thigh. “I just don’t see why I need to shake hands with someone who once tried to sell steaks during a campaign rally.”

Marchesi smooths his cassock with all the tension of a man ready to explode. “The previous Holy Father met with Vice President Vance, if you recall.”

“Yes,” Charles says pointedly. “And then promptly died hours later. Forgive me if I’m not keen on continuing that tradition.”

Marchesi pales slightly. Leo growls.

“You’ll be civil,” Marchesi hisses as the cameras begin to flash in the ornate hallway outside the receiving chamber.

“I’ll be present,” Charles mutters.

“You’ll smile.”

“I’ll try.”

Max texts him at that exact moment: Remember. You’re hotter. Your dog is cuter. And if he says something awful, Leo is trained to growl.

Charles stifles a laugh and replies: What if he says something really awful?

Max: Then Leo pees on him. We’ve been over this.

Charles grins, just as the doors open and the American delegation sweeps in with a rush of suits, cameras, and confusion.

Donald Trump is, as expected, tan in a vaguely unnatural way and smiling in a way that screams “power move” rather than “pleasant greeting.”

“Mr. President,” Charles says evenly, extending a hand. “Welcome to the Vatican.”

“Charlie,” Trump beams, gripping his hand like he’s trying to win something. “Tremendous to be here. Really tremendous. Fantastic place. So old. Very sacred. Big fan.”

“Please call me Charles.”

“Sure. Charles. You know, I love the Catholics. Always have. Big, beautiful faith. Very successful. You’re doing a great job.”

“Thank you,” Charles says, voice flat as a Monégasque racetrack. “Shall we sit?”

They sit.

Leo trots in, majestic in his crisp white cape, and parks himself neatly between Charles’s feet.

Trump immediately notices. “Cute dog. What is that? A hot dog with legs?”

Charles does not respond.

Leo narrows his eyes.

The meeting begins.

Trump rambles. About voter fraud. About trade. About a golfer in Ohio who once said Mass for a squirrel. No one’s sure if that last part is true, or just an elaborate metaphor. Charles zones out halfway through, instead focusing on Leo’s tiny ears twitching with each absurd statement.

Then Trump starts in on climate change.

“You know,” he says, “a lot of people are saying it’s a hoax. Tremendous people. Smart people. The best scientists, really. And you, as Pope, you’ve got to stop pushing that alarmist stuff. You’ll scare the kids. It’s not good for business.”

Charles blinks.

“Pardon?”

Trump waves a hand. “Come on. All this ‘protect the Earth’ stuff. It’s too much. People don’t want a Green Pope. They want a strong Pope.”

Charles exhales slowly. “I … don’t think the Church is concerned with quarterly profits.”

“I think we should be! Let me tell you, the Catholic brand — huge. Absolutely huge. We could get some real synergy going. I have ideas.”

“Oh God,” Charles mutters.

And that’s when Leo pees.

Right on Trump’s shoe.

For one beat of eternal, Vatican-polished silence, no one moves.

Then-

“Your dog,” Trump says, voice rising.

Charles tilts his head. “Yes?”

“He just peed on my foot.”

“Ah,” Charles says, completely deadpan. “So he did.”

“He peed … on my $5,000 custom shoe.”

Leo barks once, triumphantly.

Charles resists the urge to smile. “He’s quite particular. Only chooses certain shoes.”

Trump turns red. “This is an insult. This is war.”

“Would you like a napkin?”

The headlines are instantaneous.

LEO THE DACHSHUND ANOINTS TRUMP’S LOAFERS

THE HOLY LEAK: POPE’S DOG DECLARES POLITICAL OPINION

DIVINE INTERVENTION OR ACCIDENT?

Later, in the papal apartments, Max is in absolute stitches.

“You’re telling me,” he gasps, “he just lifted his leg in front of God and everyone?”

“I tried to apologize,” Charles says, failing to hide his grin. “But then Trump asked if I could do an exorcism on him.”

“On Leo?”

“No. On himself.”

Max falls off the couch.

The Vatican releases a statement within the hour:

The Holy Father deeply regrets any offense caused by an unexpected incident during this afternoon’s diplomatic audience. Leo the dachshund is receiving additional training. The Vatican appreciates President Trump’s understanding and looks forward to continued dialogue.

Which is just vague enough to please the press and just transparent enough to go viral.

Social media explodes.

#HolyPee

#Leo2025

#PapalProtest

@popefansunite Leo is the new face of anti-authoritarian resistance and I will defend him with my life.

@f1memesdaily Charles Leclerc’s dog accomplished what half of NATO couldn’t.

@blessedbarkz Canonize Leo immediately.

Cardinal Bellini calls an emergency meeting.

“This is an outrage.”

“He’s just a dog.”

“Exactly. A dog who urinated on the President of the United States. Do you have any idea what this means?”

“Judging by the public response … popularity?”

Bellini’s eye twitches. “It undermines the dignity of the papacy!”

“I think it reinforces it,” Cardinal Moretti says, sipping his espresso. “Leo has principles.”

Bellini storms out.

Again.

In the garden, Charles watches Leo trot in happy little circles, chasing a butterfly.

Max sits beside him, legs stretched out, sunglasses on.

“You know they’re going to hate you for this.”

“They already do.”

Max chuckles. “True.”

Charles turns. “You’re not mad?”

“About you turning a diplomatic meeting into slapstick comedy?” Max shrugs. “No. I’m in love with a racecar-driving Pope. I expect chaos.”

“You’re in love with me?”

Max freezes. “I, uh-”

Charles smirks. “Gotcha.”

Leo barks in approval.

The President returns to the States with his dignity in question and his shoe irreparably stained.

Charles returns to his duties with the quiet knowledge that sometimes, divine judgment really does come in unexpected forms.

And Leo?

Leo gets a new nickname: The Dog of the People.

Chapter Text

The final lap is holy.

Not in the “biblical miracle” sense — though the commentators might argue otherwise — but in the very specific, spine-tingling, soul-leaving-your-body sense that only happens once in a lifetime.

Charles doesn’t breathe. Not for the whole last sector.

Not when the team tells him Max is 2.4 seconds behind.

Not when the Ferrari pit wall starts yelling so loudly in his earpiece that he swears he hears Fred shouting something in Latin.

And definitely not when he crosses the finish line.

P1.

World Champion.

After all these years.

After losses.

After heartbreak.

After literally becoming Pope by accident.

But this is on purpose.

He’s World Champion.

And the world erupts.

“CHARLES LECLERC!” The commentator screams into the mic as red fireworks crackle over the Yas Marina night. “FERRARI. FERRARI HAS DONE IT. CHARLES LECLERC — THE POPE — IS A WORLD CHAMPION!”

It’s Max who reaches him first. He skids into parc fermé, helmet already off, launching himself at Charles like he’s about to propose, tackle, or possibly both.

Charles doesn’t care. He’s too busy laughing. And crying. And gasping, “We actually did it,” over and over again into Max’s shoulder.

Max doesn’t say anything for a long second.

Then:

“Yeah, you did. And I’ve never been more in love with you in my entire goddamn life.”

Charles freezes. Pulls back.

“What?”

Max shrugs, grinning stupidly. “Nothing. Champagne?”

If the podium in Baku was iconic, the podium in Abu Dhabi is divine.

Charles stands at the top, drenched in champagne, Ferrari cap askew, trophy clutched like he’s afraid someone will snatch it from him. The Monegasque anthem blares. Then the Italian. Then — for reasons no one can quite explain — the Vatican’s hymn.

It’s chaos.

It’s legend.

It’s history.

The crowd is a fever dream of rosaries, Ferrari flags, and hand-painted signs that say things like OUR LADY OF MONZA PRAYED FOR THIS and VATICANO ROSSO PER SEMPRE.

Down in the crowd, someone’s waving a banner that says BLESSED BE THY RACECRAFT.

Someone else is dressed as an angel in full Ferrari overalls.

And when Charles lifts his trophy-

-the crowd kneels.

Actually kneels.

Tifosi and Catholics alike.

Max doubles over laughing. “Okay. Now you’re literally a god.”

“I’m going to get excommunicated from my own religion,” Charles whispers, holding back tears.

“You are the religion.”

Backstage, it gets worse.

Or better. Depending on your theological flexibility.

The Ferrari garage is draped in Vatican gold and crimson. There are monks. Monks, actual monks in modified Scuderia polos. There’s incense. There’s a choir. Someone dressed as Saint Sebastian is holding a Ferrari flag.

“Who invited the nuns?” Charles asks.

Fred shrugs. “They invited themselves.”

“Where did they get custom race suits?”

“They just said ‘Jesus provides.’”

Back in the paddock, the chaos spills onto the global feed.

CNN is losing its mind.

BBC is quoting scripture.

Sky Sports has to bleep out half the broadcast because Arthur shouts “THAT’S MY FUCKING POPE” into the camera.

Francesca from Ferrari PR is sobbing into a glass of prosecco.

“I tried,” she chokes. “I tried to keep it under control.”

“You did amazing,” Charles says, hugging her with one arm, trophy still in the other.

“I lost a bishop to the pit lane. He’s never coming back.”

“I’ll canonize him later.”

Back in the Vatican, the bells ring like it’s Easter.

Cardinal Moretti has a Ferrari flag draped over his shoulders like a cape.

Camerlengo Bryne clinks champagne glasses with three Swiss Guards.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” one whispers.

“Neither have I,” Bryne says, watching Charles on the podium. “And I think it’s only the beginning.”

Twitter is non-functional within ten minutes of the chequered flag.

TikTok is flooded with edits of Charles set to Gregorian chants and Pitbull.

The Pope’s official Instagram page — run by a terrified seminarian — accidentally goes live for forty seconds. The feed is nothing but screaming, a cat wearing a papal mitre, and someone yelling “CHAMPIONI!” before it cuts out.

Max finds him after the press conference.

They’ve been separated for nearly two hours by media, fans, cardinals, and three overexcited priests who tried to re-baptize Charles in a champagne bucket.

“You good?” Max asks.

Charles looks at him.

Still in his race suit, hair dripping, flush on his cheeks, P1 trophy beside him — and for once, no cameras, no advisors, no cardinals.

Just them.

“I don’t know what I am anymore,” Charles says. “Pontiff. Champion. Meme. Prophet. I think I saw a baby named after me in the crowd.”

“Do you want to know what I see?”

Charles raises an eyebrow.

“I see a guy who finally got everything he ever wanted.”

Charles pauses.

Then: “Not everything.”

Max smirks. “No?”

“No. Not yet.”

Max steps closer. “Well. You’ve got time.”

“Time and sin,” Charles murmurs.

“I’ll help you with both.”

At midnight, they sneak out to the track again.

Just them. No entourage.

They lie on the empty pit straight, Leo curled up between them, still wearing his miniature championship medal.

“You know,” Charles says, “I think I actually believe in miracles now.”

Max laughs softly. “Took you long enough.”

Charles glances over. “Do you?”

Max shrugs. “I believe in you.”

Charles swallows.

Hard.

“I think that’s enough.”

Somewhere in the world, a little boy watches the podium replay on YouTube and turns to his father.

“Papa,” he says, eyes wide. “Can I be a racing Pope someday?”

The father laughs.

“If you drive like Charles Leclerc, maybe.”

And somewhere, in the darkness of the Yas Marina circuit, the new World Champion smiles.

The Church may have saints.

But Formula 1?

Formula 1 has Charles.

Chapter Text

The lights above the stage glitter like stars, and Charles smiles as if the whole world hasn’t been watching him for years.

The FIA Prize Giving Ceremony is dazzling. Sleek. Tense in the usual way — champagne in flutes, designer tuxedos, every driver looking like they’ve just stepped out of a luxury fashion shoot. The season is over. The politics are not. But tonight, at least, is supposed to be celebration.

He’s in his finest — black tux, crisp white shirt, Ferrari pin at his lapel. Max’s bowtie is already undone. Charles keeps glancing sideways at him like he’s gravity.

“Are you going to trip on the steps?” Max whispers as they wait backstage. “You’re going to trip. They’re going to meme you forever.”

“I’ve been on podiums since I was seven,” Charles replies, deadpan. “I think I can handle a few stairs.”

“Different stakes,” Max says, nudging him. “You’re not just a world champion now. You’re a religious symbol. Trip and it’s sacrilege.”

“Trip and I’ll be trending.”

“You’re always trending.”

Charles sighs. “God, I miss being anonymous.”

“You’ve never been anonymous. You were born looking like a Disney prince.”

They’re still bickering when Charles hears his name.

Applause. Thunderous.

He steps into the light.

The stage is bathed in gold. The WDC trophy gleams. Every flashbulb is on him, and Charles walks like he owns the sky.

He shakes hands with the FIA president. Gives a humble, charming, perfect nod to the crowd. Francesca warned him to keep it short. Just a wave. Smile. Thank the fans, thank the team, maybe mention God if he feels spicy.

He opens his mouth to speak.

That’s when the first shot rings out.

Chaos doesn’t have a language.

It’s instinct, raw and primal — the shriek of a violin string snapping in the back of your skull. Charles doesn’t understand what he’s hearing at first. It doesn’t register.

Until Max tackles him.

Until the crowd gasps.

Until a second shot pierces the air and papal guards surge in from the wings.

And then he’s on the floor, surrounded by bodies—shouting, cursing, chairs toppling—Max’s arm a vice around his chest.

“Stay down!” Someone shouts.

“Charles?” Another voice yells, but Charles doesn’t know whose it is. He can’t see. The stage lights are blinding. His pulse is a roar in his ears.

“I’m okay,” he gasps. “I’m okay.”

Max’s grip doesn’t loosen. “You’re not moving until they clear the room.”

Camerlengo Bryne is at the Vatican, watching the live broadcast when the signal cuts out.

He stands up slowly. Stares at the frozen image — Charles mid-sentence, hand outstretched, Max behind him.

Then: static.

“Shit,” he says.

His assistant looks up. “Sir?”

Bryne pulls out his phone. “Get me Francesca. Now.”

Back at the venue, the guards move fast — Swiss-trained, Vatican elite, and possibly more dramatic than they need to be, but Charles isn’t about to complain.

He’s dragged off-stage under the cover of a black curtain, Max beside him, still swearing in Dutch.

“I’m fine,” Charles says again, breathless. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You just got shot at. You were literally shot at.”

“I wasn’t hit.”

“Are you insane?”

“Yes. You’ve met me.”

A guard stops them in the corridor. “We’re securing the perimeter. Sir, we need to get you into the armored van-”

“I’m not leaving without knowing who it was.”

“We don’t know if it was targeted,” the guard replies. “It could be political. Could be religious. Could be a disgruntled Red Bull fan who’s finally had enough.”

Max scoffs. “Even our worst fans aren’t that dramatic.”

“You punched a guy in Brazil once,” Charles mutters.

“Different circumstances. He insulted my cats.”

Francesca arrives twenty minutes later like a thunderstorm in stilettos.

“They’re moving you to a safe location,” she announces, pulling him into a side room already guarded by four men with earpieces. “You’re not going back onstage. Not tonight. We’ll do press control, spin it, say you fainted-”

“I didn’t faint.”

Max is pacing in the corner like a lion.

“Any leads yet?” He asks.

“Sniper from the balcony,” Francesca says grimly. “Didn’t hit. Vanished before security could intercept. Could be anti-church, anti-Ferrari, anti-papist, pro-celibacy, or just a conspiracy nut.”

“Or all of the above,” Max mutters.

Charles sinks into a chair.

Leo jumps onto his lap, seemingly unfazed by the attempted assassination.

“I don’t want this to scare people,” he says quietly. “I don’t want the Church — or the team — to think this was a mistake.”

Francesca kneels beside him. “Charles. You’re a symbol. And right now, that means you’re also a target. But that doesn’t mean you were wrong to say yes.”

Max crosses the room. “Yeah. I mean, everyone knows becoming pope was insane. But now that you’re here-”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Max nods once.

Outside, the internet explodes.

Within seconds, hashtags trend worldwide.

#ProtectThePope

#SnipersAndSaints

#OurFatherWhoArtOnPole

Someone edits the shot of Max tackling Charles with dramatic music and captions it “When God gives his strongest soldier a fast Dutch boyfriend.”

In the hours that follow, global leaders issue statements.

President Macron sends a heartfelt message.

Prime Minister Meloni blames the incident on moral decay in the West.

The Archbishop of Canterbury says he “hopes His Holiness is recovering with a nice cup of tea.”

Donald Trump tweets Unbelievable. I would’ve caught the bullet. Very sad. Weak security. Sleepy Vatican!

The Vatican releases a statement within the hour: “His Holiness Charles remains unharmed and continues to be a source of strength and inspiration for the faithful. We condemn this act of violence in the strongest possible terms. All of heaven stands with him.”

Later that night, Charles finally gets a moment alone with Max.

They’re holed up in a secure suite, two floors below the ceremony venue. Charles leans against the bathroom sink, towel around his neck, tux shirt wrinkled.

“I’m fine,” he says for the tenth time.

Max leans in the doorway.

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

“It won’t always be,” Max says softly. “You know that, right?”

Charles doesn’t answer.

“I don’t care about the Church,” Max continues. “I don’t care about the media. I care about you. And you keep putting yourself out there like nothing can touch you.”

Charles turns, eyes dark. “You think I don’t know the risks? I had to sign three different waivers just to exist in this job. I get threats weekly. I walk around in bulletproof robes. You think this is easy for me?”

“I think it’s easier for you to pretend you’re okay than to admit you’re terrified.”

They stare at each other.

Leo whines and scratches at the door.

Finally, Charles exhales. “I am scared.”

Max moves toward him. “Then let me help you carry it.”

That night, Charles doesn’t sleep.

But he does let Max hold him.

And that, maybe, is enough.

Chapter Text

“You’re not gonna like this,” Francesca says before she’s even fully through the doorway.

Charles looks up from the Vatican desk he still doesn’t believe is actually his. Leo snores softly at his feet. His WDC trophy sits next to a gold crucifix on the shelf behind him — a surreal pairing if there ever was one. “What happened?” He asks, already dreading it.

Francesca crosses her arms. “The assassin’s name got leaked.”

Charles blinks. “Sorry — what?”

“You haven’t seen the news?”

“I’ve been reading fan mail. Apparently someone’s Nonna knitted me a sweater. I’m a bit behind.”

She tosses her phone on the desk. “Check Twitter. Or VaticanNet. Or literally any group chat. It’s everywhere.”

Charles clicks open his laptop. And then he freezes.

#GiovanniFerretti is trending number one worldwide. A grainy headshot. A red circle drawn around his face in a crowd photo from the FIA Prize Giving Gala. A hundred versions of “this mf really thought he could take out Pope Charles and get away with it.”

He scrolls. A Tifosi meme page posted a photoshopped wanted poster that reads: WANTED for crimes against Ferrari, God, and dimples.

There’s a video.

Charles clicks play.

It’s a blurry phone recording, but the voice is crystal clear. An old man — maybe Vatican-adjacent, judging by the background. “His name’s Giovanni Ferretti,” the voice says. “Used to be in the Swiss Guard, dishonorably discharged. Obsessed with papal tradition. Called Charles a ‘heretic in a helmet.’ Guy snapped. Guess he hated that he won, too.”

Charles exhales. “Shit.”

And then — because nothing ever happens in isolation — Max bursts through the door.

“You knew?” He demands, eyes blazing. “You knew and you didn’t tell me?”

“I just found out,” Charles says, standing. “It leaked. I didn’t-”

“Do you know what people are doing?”

Francesca looks up from her phone. “Some of the Tifosi are on a manhunt.”

“Not just them,” Max adds darkly. “I saw a group of nuns with baseball bats. Baseball bats, Charles.”

Charles frowns. “Well that’s … concerning.”

Francesca sighs. “You’re the pope. You’re also Ferrari’s golden boy. You can’t just get shot and expect people to notriot.”

Max throws his hands up. “They should riot! He tried to kill you.”

“And you want to let them?”

“I’m saying maybe the Vatican should look the other way this one time.”

Charles blinks. “You want me to sanction a hit?”

“Not a hit, a moral reckoning.”

“That is literally just a hit with better branding.”

Max shrugs, shameless. “I’m Dutch.”

Francesca winces. “Okay, we need a plan before someone actually kills him. Because people are close. There are already Vatican fanatics trying to break into wherever he’s being held.”

Charles slumps back into his chair. “Where is he?”

Francesca answers quietly. “They’re holding him in Rome. For now.”

Leo lifts his head from under the desk and yawns. Charles scratches behind his ears absentmindedly.

“I could visit him,” Charles says eventually.

Max stiffens. “What?”

“I don’t want him to die.”

“He shot at you.”

“And I want to understand why.”

“Because he’s insane.”

Charles meets his eyes. “Maybe. But he was one of us once. He stood in Vatican armor. He believed. Somewhere along the way, he was taught that someone like me was unholy.”

Max folds his arms. “That’s what makes you hot.”

Francesca groans.

But Charles isn’t smiling.

He’s serious now. Fully, finally.

“He looked me in the eye and pulled the trigger. And it could’ve been me, or you, or anyone on that stage. And I can’t just ignore that. Not as a driver. Not as the pope. Not as myself.”

Max looks at him for a long time. “You’re not going to forgive him.”

“I’m going to try.”

“That’s insane.”

Charles shrugs. “So is being the first gay Ferrari-driving pope. We’ve already gone off-script.”

Francesca glances at her phone. “There’s already a candlelight vigil forming outside Castel Sant'Angelo. You say anything even slightly merciful, it’s going to trigger a full-on riot.”

Max grabs Charles by the arm. “You think the Church is ready to hear that you’re considering forgiving the guy who tried to assassinate you?”

Charles pauses.

Then: “No. But no I think they need to.”

They hold the press conference in the afternoon. Max paces like a storm cloud behind the cameras, Francesca checks the livestream comments like she’s playing emotional whack-a-mole, and Charles steps up to the podium with a piece of paper in his hand — unread.

He doesn’t look at it once.

“I know you’re angry,” Charles begins, voice calm but clear. “And you’re right to be.”

A beat.

He takes a breath.

“I was angry too. I am. I didn’t ask for any of this — not the papacy, not the scrutiny, not the constant back and forth between circuit and sanctuary. But I did accept it. I said yes. And with that yes comes a responsibility.”

Silence in the room. You could hear Leo wag his tail under the table.

“I want you to understand something,” Charles continues. “I’m not forgiving the violence. I’m not pretending it didn’t happen. But I can’t be a man of faith — or even of principle — and not at least try to meet hate with something better.”

He looks straight into the camera now.

“Giovanni Ferretti made a choice. But we have choices too. Do we become like him? Or do we show him who we really are?”

Someone in the back sniffles. Max mutters “for fuck’s sake” under his breath.

Charles smiles faintly. “I won’t ask anyone to forget what happened. But I am asking you not to kill him. Please.”

Then, after a beat, “Besides. Max would never forgive me if I let a nun with a baseball bat get blood on his new jeans.”

There’s actual laughter. Relief, even.

Charles steps down from the podium.

And Max immediately pulls him aside.

“Was that line about my jeans really necessary?”

“They’re new,” Charles says.

“You’re insane.”

“You love it.”

Max glares at him for half a second longer before finally — finally — pulling him into a hug.

“You’re too good,” he mutters. “I hate it.”

“I know.”

“And if I see that guy-”

“You’ll walk away.”

“I’ll try.”

Francesca taps her watch from across the room. “You’ve got three hours before every religious reporter in the Western hemisphere demands a follow-up. I suggest we bribe them with footage of Leo wearing his little bishop hat again.”

Charles nods. “On it.”

But the drama — of course — doesn’t stop.

Because not even twenty-four hours later, Vatican security intercepts a rogue Twitter Space titled “How To Beat Up A Heretic (Nuns Only)” and now Charles is forced to call a secret meeting with the cardinal council.

Again.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” he says, “but could you please tell the Sisters of Charity to stand down?”

Cardinal Gentile sighs, exhausted. “They’re not technically part of the Vatican jurisdiction.”

“They’re weaponizing rosaries.”

Max whispers, “Honestly kind of metal.”

Charles kicks him under the table.

The cardinals look tense. The more conservative among them exchange glances. But surprisingly, it’s the camerlengo who finally speaks.

“Pope Charles is right,” he says. “We don’t have to sanctify his decision, but we do have to support it.”

Some of the cardinals groan.

Another mutters, “God help us.”

But the room is shifting. Not wholly. Not fully. But enough.

Enough that Charles sees what he needs to.

Enough that maybe — just maybe — mercy is starting to mean more than tradition.

That night, Charles sits on the balcony of the Papal Apartments. The same one he once refused to even enter.

Leo’s curled at his feet. Max leans against the railing with two glasses of wine in hand. The air smells like Rome in the winter — incense and exhaust and something ancient and warm despite the temperature.

“You did it,” Max says quietly.

Charles looks over. “Did what?”

“You forgave someone who doesn’t deserve it.”

Charles smiles faintly. “I didn’t do it for him.”

Max hands him a glass. “Then who?”

Charles shrugs.

“For me. For them. For us.”

Max watches him.

Then: “You’re so much better than me.”

Charles clinks their glasses. “I know.”

They drink in silence for a moment.

Then Max adds, “But if I ever see that guy-”

“You’ll walk away.”

Max grins. “I’ll try.”

Chapter Text

The bells of St. Peter’s toll with a kind of ancient reverence that even Charles can’t ignore, no matter how many times he’s begged for earplugs.

“Do they have to ring them that loud?” He mutters, half to himself, half to Leo, who trots at his side in a tiny custom-tailored red-and-gold vestment. The dog is unbothered. Probably because he’s a dog.

Charles, on the other hand, is about two centimeters from an existential crisis.

“This is insane,” he says, again to Leo. “I’m leading Christmas mass. Me.”

Leo sneezes.

A knock sounds at the door.

“Your Holiness?” Comes the voice of Sister Antonella, tentative and kind. “We’re ready when you are.”

Charles breathes in deeply, adjusts the velvet-trimmed papal stole hanging from his shoulders, and looks at himself in the mirror.

“I look like a high-fashion ornament,” he murmurs. “But like … a really expensive one.”

He gives Leo a final nod. “Let’s go butcher the Latin language.”

The walk to the Basilica is longer than it should be. Mostly because people keep stopping him.

“Oh my God, he brought the dog again!”

“Can I please get a photo?”

“Bless me, Father — no, seriously, like bless me now — I’ve waited 27 hours outside!”

“DO YOU AND MAX HAVE MATCHING CHRISTMAS PAJAMAS?”

Cardinals shuffle in his wake, trying to look dignified while fending off a swarm of teenage girls holding signs like “JESUS LOVES CHARLES (AND SO DO WE)” and “F1 + JC = OTP”.

Max is somewhere in the crowd too, but Charles has instructed him to be incognito. That... hasn’t worked.

“I don’t do subtle,” Max had insisted that morning, slipping on his Red Bull cap as though that would help disguise him.

Now he’s wedged near the barricade with Daniel Ricciardo and all three of their cats — Jimmy in a backpack carrier, Donut perched wildly on his shoulder, and Sassy refusing to be contained by any mortal object.

Charles catches Max’s eye as he steps up the marble steps toward the altar. Max grins. Charles swallows hard.

This is really happening.

The Basilica is a sea of gold and candlelight. The choir begins a slow, aching rendition of “O Come, All Ye Faithful” as Charles approaches the altar, every step echoing through the vaulted silence.

“Dominus vobiscum,” he says, voice steady, almost surprised by his own calm.

A wave of response follows. “Et cum spiritu tuo.”

Charles looks out over the crowd: the clergy, the faithful, journalists, the Tifosi in their Sunday-best Ferrari jerseys. And Max — arms folded, looking equal parts proud and bored out of his mind.

“I never thought I’d be up here,” Charles begins. “I never thought I’d be that guy. You know. The pope.”

A ripple of nervous laughter rolls across the pews.

“I still don’t know what I’m doing most days,” he admits. “I can win a race with three tires and a broken gearbox, but the weight of this — of you — it’s a lot heavier.”

He pauses, glances skyward like he's waiting for lightning to strike.

“But then I remember,” he says, “the story we tell tonight. About a boy born in a manger, to parents who were tired, cold, scared. A boy who changed the world not with power, but with love. And I think — maybe I don’t need to know everything. Maybe I just need to keep showing up. Like he did.”

The room is quiet now. So quiet Charles can hear Leo scratch himself behind the podium.

“So that’s my Christmas message,” he says. “Show up. Love people. Even when it’s messy. Especially when it’s messy. God doesn’t ask for perfection. He asks for presence.”

He swallows. “And maybe a little patience. Especially for priests who keep trying to explain Latin to me.”

Laughter again — this time lighter, warmer.

He closes with the traditional blessing, his voice softer now. “Gloria in excelsis Deo. Glory to God in the highest, and peace to his people on earth.”

And then — because it’s him — he adds, “And may Ferrari finally sort out their strategy next season. Amen.”

The Basilica erupts. Cheers, clapping, laughter. Cameras flash. Someone faints.

Back in the sacristy, Charles peels off his ceremonial robes like they’re made of sandpaper.

“That went better than I thought,” he mutters, collapsing onto a velvet bench.

“You cried,” comes Max’s voice behind him.

Charles doesn’t look up. “No, I didn’t.”

“You did. A little. In the middle. When you talked about love being messy.”

“I’m allowed to cry. It’s Christmas.”

Max sits next to him, shoulder to shoulder.

“You did good, schatje” he says, quiet and sincere.

Charles closes his eyes. “I just wanted people to feel something.”

“They did.”

A pause. Then-

“So when do I get to hold Christmas mass?”

Charles snorts. “Never. You’d say fuck in the opening sentence.”

“Depends on the sentence.”

Charles turns to look at him.

“I love you,” he says suddenly, and it surprises even himself.

Max blinks.

“Say that again?”

“I love you,” Charles repeats. “You’re ... loud and rude and make everything ten times more complicated, and I wouldn’t survive this without you.”

Max is very still. Then-

“I love you too,” he says. “You’re too nice and way too hot to be pope and honestly, I think you’re the reason I started going to church again.”

Charles smiles, slow and stunned. “Is that sacrilegious?”

Max shrugs. “I’m Dutch. I don’t do guilt.”

Leo barks softly, nudging Charles’ leg.

“Right, Leo wants his Christmas present,” Charles says, standing up.

“What’d you get him?”

“A Ferrari plushie.”

“And me?”

“You’ll find out.”

Max grins. “It’s you in the outfit, isn’t it?”

Charles blushes furiously. “Shut up.”

That night, long after the lights of the square go out and the final hymns drift into memory, Charles lies awake.

He’s exhausted. Happy. Confused. Terrified. Loved.

He’s the pope. He’s a world champion. He’s a boyfriend. He’s twenty-eight and his life has imploded and rebirthed in the strangest, most beautiful way possible.

And this, he thinks, this is how miracles feel.

Not like thunder or lightning.

Just … quiet. And full of love.

Chapter Text

Charles stares at himself in the mirror of the penthouse bathroom, the Vatican seal embroidered on the inside of his silk Versace shirt like some kind of cosmic joke. Behind him, Max is rifling through a drawer full of glitter and body paint.

“I’m serious,” Charles says, tugging his collar, “do you think this is … sacrilegious?”

Max doesn’t even look up. “The real sacrilege is how good your ass looks in those pants.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“I’m not here to help,” Max mutters, smearing silver glitter along the arch of his cheekbone. “I’m here to make questionable decisions with my boyfriend-slash-pope. Are you done being morally conflicted or should I open another bottle of Prosecco while you stare at yourself like a disappointed nun?”

Charles gives him a look. “It’s just … this is a lot. Even for me.”

“You’re not saying you wanna back out now, are you?” Max’s eyes narrow. “Because I already told half the island that the actual pope is coming and now there’s a themed drink called the ‘Holy Spritz’ and also some guy from Berlin made you a crown out of disco balls.”

“Mon Dieu.”

“You’re welcome.”

A beat passes. Then Charles sighs. “Fine. But if any of the cardinals see this, I’m blaming you.”

Max grins, victorious. “That’s the spirit. Now hold still, I need to rhinestone your collarbones.”

Outside, the club pulses with light and music. The Mediterranean air is warm and wet with sea mist and champagne dreams. The VIP section of Amnesia is completely rented out by the Vatican’s more liberal wing, who sent one very nervous young priest named as their official “observer.” He’s currently sipping a watered-down cocktail and whispering a terrified rosary under his breath.

“Your Holiness,” he says when Charles and Max enter, “do you think maybe we should-”

“Relax,” Charles says, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “We’re here to celebrate the new year, not summon the Antichrist.”

The DJ catches sight of them and screams into the mic: “IBIZA, MAKE SOME NOISE FOR THE POPE!”

The crowd goes feral.

Phones fly up. Screens flash. Someone starts chanting “CHAR-LES! CHAR-LES!” like it’s race day at Monza. Glitter cannons explode over the dance floor. The lights strobe like divine revelation. Max throws his arm around Charles’ shoulder.

“Ready to commit every possible sin in the space of six hours?” He asks.

Charles grins, heart pounding in his chest. “Absolutely.”

Two hours later, Charles is six drinks deep, grinding against Max in a fog of incense-scented dry ice and pulsing bass. He’s lost at least one shoe. Max has somehow acquired a rosary made entirely of glow sticks.

A girl in a neon pink wig and angel wings shrieks, “Pope Charles, I love you!” and throws a feather boa at his face.

“I think I just heard confessions in three different languages,” Charles slurs, catching it with divine reflexes.

Max lifts a tequila shot toward the ceiling. “To our Lord and Savior!”

They clink glasses. The priest-observer is nowhere to be found.

“Max,” Charles says, swaying, “I’m drunk.”

“You’re beautiful.”

“I’m so drunk.”

“You’re still beautiful.”

“I’m the pope, Max.”

Max kisses his neck. “And you’re the hottest one in history.”

Somewhere around 3 a.m., Charles climbs up onto the DJ booth and drunkenly starts an impromptu sermon.

“I just want to say,” he slurs into the mic, “God loves you even if you’re wearing leather pants and have questionable tattoos. Especially if you’re wearing leather pants. Okay? Love each other. Be kind. Also! Max has really nice thighs.”

Max, doubled over laughing in the corner, yells, “You’re ruining Catholicism!”

“Too late!” Charles screams back, arms wide. “I am Catholicism!”

The crowd goes insane.

When the fireworks explode over the beach at midnight, Charles and Max are dancing barefoot in the surf. The music blares behind them. Charles lifts Leo in his arms like Simba and shouts, “This dog is blessed by God!”

Someone takes a photo. It goes viral within seventeen minutes.

The caption reads: “Pope Charles at Ibiza Mass: Let There Be Rave.”

The next morning, Charles wakes up with glitter in his eyelashes, a splitting headache, and Max curled up against his side like a smug Dutch cat.

He groans.

“You alive?” Max murmurs, eyes still closed.

“Barely,” Charles says. “My brain is on fire.”

“Same. Want coffee?”

“I want absolution.”

“I can get you espresso.”

Charles groans again and throws a pillow over his face.

“I told you not to mix champagne and absinthe,” Max adds, sitting up and scratching his stomach.

“Why didn’t you stop me?”

“You told me that God invented cocktails for a reason and then tried to baptize someone in a hot tub.”

Charles pauses. “… Did it work?”

“No idea. He definitely cried, though. Might’ve just been from the chlorine.”

There’s a knock at the door.

“Should I answer it?” Max asks.

Charles whimpers.

Max swings it open and finds Cardinal Luciani standing there, red-faced and sweating in a full cassock.

“Oh,” the cardinal says, blinking. “Am I … interrupting?”

Max, shirtless and still glitter-streaked, shrugs. “Define interrupting.”

The cardinal coughs. “We’ve had a few … concerns from the Vatican press office.”

“Shocking,” Charles mutters from under the pillow.

“They’re wondering if perhaps your Holiness would consider issuing a statement clarifying that the events of last night were, um, unofficial.”

Max nods thoughtfully. “We could do that.”

“Or,” Charles says, lifting the pillow, “we could release a statement that says God exists everywhere, even in Ibiza.”

The cardinal looks like he might faint.

Max pats his shoulder. “We’ll send you a draft.”

Later that evening, as they sit on the balcony watching the sunset, Charles leans his head on Max’s shoulder.

“I think I might’ve given the entire papal security team a collective heart attack.”

“They’ll recover.”

“And Leo ate someone’s vape.”

“Definitely less recoverable.”

They’re quiet for a while.

Then Max says, “I know I joke a lot. But … thank you. For being exactly who you are.”

Charles looks up. “Even when I’m drunk and raving in front of half of Europe?”

“Especially then.”

On social media, the clips flood in.

#PopeInIbiza trends for three days.

A TikTok of Charles drunkenly giving a speech about love and glitter hits 40 million views. Someone sets it to an EDM remix of Ave Maria.

A progressive bishop from Spain writes an op-ed titled “Is It Time for Liturgical Partying?”

The Vatican is … adjusting.

But Charles?

Charles is finally just being himself.

And for once, that feels holy enough.

Chapter Text

Rome sleeps beneath a soft orange haze. Church bells echo from a thousand corners, but in the Apostolic Palace, Charles Leclerc is very much awake.

He stares at the gilded ceiling of his private quarters, his mouth in a thin, tormented line.

“I’m losing my mind,” he mutters.

Max’s sleepy voice comes from the other side of the massive four-poster bed. “You said that last week.”

Charles sighs, flopping onto his stomach and groaning into his pillow. “I need gelato.”

“You need therapy.”

“No,” Charles says, sitting up dramatically, eyes wide with purpose. “I need gelato.”

Max watches him in silence. “You’re the Pope, Charles. You can get anything delivered.”

“But it’s not the same,” Charles says, standing now. “You don’t understand. I want to walk into a real gelateria, point at what I want like a normal person, and taste it on one of those tiny plastic spoons. I want the cold air when they open the freezer case. I want to pick a random second flavor and regret it but still eat it. I want the crunch of the cone. I want the experience, Max!”

Max blinks. “It’s two in the morning.”

“Exactly,” Charles whispers. “It’s the perfect time.”

Max sits up slowly. “You’re not seriously going to sneak out, are you?”

Charles is already pulling on jeans under his hoodie.

“Charles-”

“I’ll take Leo,” he says. “No one will notice. I’ll put on a cap. I’ll walk. It’s Rome. People are used to tourists doing weird things.”

“You are not just a tourist.”

“I’m not going to be gone long. Forty-five minutes tops. You can cover for me if anyone asks.”

Max’s jaw drops. “Charles. You’re suggesting I lie to the Vatican.”

Charles shrugs. “You’ve done worse.”

Max narrows his eyes. “That is true.”

Charles grabs Leo, who blinks up at him with sleepy confusion before catching the tone of rebellion and perking up immediately. “We’re going on an adventure,” Charles whispers to him.

“Charles-”

“I love you,” Charles says, blowing Max a kiss. “But nothing can stop me.”

And with that, Pope Charles Leclerc, 2025 Formula 1 World Champion and current Head of the Catholic Church, slips out of the Vatican through a side servant exit and into the streets of Rome with nothing but a hoodie, a dachshund, and a dream.

It takes approximately twenty-eight minutes for all hell to break loose.

“His Holiness is not in his quarters,” says Sister Rosaria, clutching her clipboard and looking as if she might faint.

Max is in the hallway the second he hears it. “He’s in the bathroom,” he says quickly. “I just saw him go in. You know how it is. Prayers and, uh, digestion.”

Rosaria frowns. “The bathroom has been empty for half an hour. The security team just checked.”

Max swears softly in Dutch.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” Max says, straightening. “Maybe he’s praying somewhere else. He does that.”

The camerlengo steps into the hall. “Is something wrong?”

“He’s gone,” Rosaria says.

Cardinal Byrne’s eyebrows rise. “Gone where?”

“That’s what I was hoping you might know.”

Max sighs. “He went for gelato.”

There is a heavy silence.

The camerlengo blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“He said he needed it. Like, existentially. I tried to stop him.”

“He left the Vatican?”

Max nods. “Hoodie. Baseball cap. Leo. It was quite dramatic.”

Rosaria has already pulled out her phone. “We’re alerting the Swiss Guard.”

Charles is halfway through a pistachio and stracciatella cone when he hears it.

The faint sound of a helicopter.

And then the growing murmur of voices. Sirens. Footsteps.

Leo barks.

“Shhh,” Charles says, tugging his cap down lower. “Just eat your pup cup.”

“I think that’s him,” someone says near the fountain. A teenager points. “That’s definitely him!”

A chorus of gasps follows.

“Oh my God — Pope Charles?”

“IS THAT THE POPE!”

“PAPA CHARLES!”

Charles freezes mid-lick.

And then everything happens at once.

Phones flash. People scream. Somewhere, someone is chanting. A Vespa crashes into a garbage can. Leo tries to climb Charles’ leg. A little girl offers him a bite of her lemon sorbet. Someone starts crying.

A Swiss Guard SUV screeches into the square.

“Oh no,” Charles mutters.

Security personnel spill out like it’s a Mission Impossible movie. The crowd parts as Cardinal Bellucci barrels toward him, panting like a dying bear.

“Your Holiness!”

Charles smiles sheepishly. “Ciao.”

“Do you — do you understand what you’ve done?”

“Gone for gelato?”

“Sparked a city-wide emergency alert system! The Prime Minister was notified!”

“Oh.”

The camerlengo arrives seconds later, breathless, with Max at his side.

Max surveys the scene with wide eyes. “You said you’d be gone for forty-five minutes.”

Charles looks at his watch. “It’s been forty-six.”

“Charles.”

“I got a cone for you,” he says, holding out a second gelato. “Hazelnut.”

Max takes it, expression unreadable. Then, very slowly, he starts to laugh.

“Oh my God,” he wheezes. “You’re completely insane.”

Charles grins. “And yet somehow still Pope.”

Cardinal Byrne sighs deeply. “Get in the car.”

Back in the Apostolic Palace, Charles is lectured by no fewer than six high-ranking officials.

“The safety protocols-”

“Do you know how many satellites were activated to locate you?”

“You’re the Pope! You can’t just wander into the city at midnight!”

Charles sits through it with the expression of someone vaguely high on sugar and adrenaline. Leo snores beside him.

Eventually, the room clears. Max lingers.

“I can’t believe you did that,” Max says, smiling despite himself.

“I regret nothing,” Charles says, stretching out on the couch. “Well. Maybe the second scoop. My stomach hurts.”

“You know,” Max says, sitting beside him. “If this is how you’re handling a gelato craving, I’m afraid to ask what you’d do if you got horny.”

Charles turns to him with a sly smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Max rolls his eyes, grinning. “You’re the most undignified pope in history.”

“And yet, I’m still everyone’s favorite.”

Max pauses. “Well. Maybe not everyone’s.”

“Most of the nuns like me now,” Charles says smugly. “Especially Sister Annalisa. I saw her repost our podium kiss on Instagram.”

“You’re a menace,” Max says.

Charles leans back, hands behind his head. “I’m revolutionary.”

Max watches him for a moment. Then leans down and kisses his temple.

“Next time,” Max says, “I’ll sneak out with you.”

Charles laughs softly. “Okay. But you’re carrying Leo on the way back.”

“Deal.”

They sit in comfortable silence for a moment. Outside, the bells ring three. Somewhere in the world, a post is already going viral with the caption:

THE POPE JUST WANTED GELATO.

And beneath it, a blurry photo of Charles mid-cone, looking more childlike than holy, smiling like it’s the first night of summer and nothing in the world can touch him.

Because maybe, for a few minutes, nothing can.

Chapter Text

The moment of impact silences the world.

One second, the Formula 2 cars scream down the straight at Albert Park under the morning sun. The next, the No. 22 car snaps left, clips the grass, and launches sideways into the wall. It detonates on impact. Carbon fiber splinters. The halo buckles slightly. Debris rains down across the runoff like black confetti, grotesque in the light.

And then: nothing.

The commentary cuts out. The crowd noise dims to a horrified hush. Onboard cameras go dark.

“Red flag. Red flag. Red flag.” The marshal’s voice cracks in the broadcast control booth. “Medical team, go. Go now.”

The driver’s name echoes over radios across the paddock — Alejandro Ortega. Twenty years old. Spaniard. First F2 season.

Inside the Ferrari motorhome, Charles leans forward in his pre-race briefing, brow furrowed, eyes on the live feed muted in the background.

“What the hell happened?” He murmurs.

The engineers stare at the screens, stunned. The crash is already playing in slow motion. Charles watches the cockpit jolt violently, the headrest absorbing the worst of the shudder.

“Jesus,” says Bryan.

Charles’ stomach drops. He knows this feeling. He hates this feeling.

Then the radio audio crackles.

It’s Ortega. His voice is faint. Gurgled.

“... no … no air … mama … madre de Dios…”

The words send a chill up Charles’ spine.

The race engineer is panicking. “Alejandro, medical is on the way. Stay with me. Stay awake. Okay? Talk to me. Tell me-”

“... Padre … por favor … el Padre…” Alejandro whispers. There’s the wet sound of choking. “I want … last rites …”

Charles stands up so fast his chair scrapes against the tile floor with a screech. Heads turn.

“Did he just-”

Charles doesn’t wait for permission. “I have to go.”

“What?” Bryan says, standing too. “Charles, the race-”

“He’s asking for me,” Charles says, already moving. “I have to go.”

He’s out the door before anyone can argue, sprinting past startled interns and confused FIA personnel. His red Ferrari jacket flaps behind him like a cape. His paddock pass bounces against his chest. The sun is blinding, but he keeps running.

Security tries to stop him at the fence near Turn 10. “Sir! Sir! You can’t be on the circuit-”

“I’m the fucking pope,” Charles pants, pushing past them. “Move.”

They do.

The medical team is already there, hovering over Alejandro’s crumpled car. One of the doctors looks up in disbelief as Charles skids to a stop beside them, catching his breath.

“Your Holiness?” She says.

Charles doesn’t even blink. “How bad?”

The doctor lowers her voice. “Catastrophic chest trauma. Internal bleeding. He won’t make it to the hospital. He knows it.”

Alejandro’s face is pale. Blood streaks from his nose, his mouth. His eyes flutter. When he sees Charles, something flickers in them — recognition, and something like peace.

“Padre,” he rasps.

Charles kneels on the asphalt, grabs Alejandro’s hand.

“I’m here,” he whispers. “I’m here, Alejandro.”

The medical crew draws back, solemn, silent.

Charles closes his eyes and begins.

“Per istam sanctam unctionem et suam piissimam misericordiam, indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid per visum, gustum, tactum, auditum et odoratum deliquisti …”

Alejandro’s lips move faintly with him, barely audible. His hand trembles in Charles’ grip.

The air is thick with silence. Cameras have gathered from a distance, but no one dares interrupt.

Max is watching on the feed in Red Bull’s garage, fists clenched.

He’s never seen Charles like this.

Charles continues, voice low, steady. “Go in peace, Alejandro. Go in grace.”

A final breath.

Then nothing.

Charles’ shoulders slump.

He bows his head.

No one speaks. No one moves.

It is a holy moment on the most unholy stage.

Back in the paddock, the drivers are standing in stunned silence. The F2 garage crews have tears in their eyes. Fred Vasseur waits for Charles just outside the barriers, face drawn and pale.

When Charles finally walks back, blood on his sleeve, his eyes glazed, no one knows what to say.

Fred clears his throat. “You … you did the right thing.”

Charles says nothing. Just nods.

The silence breaks when Max walks through the crowd like a man on a mission and pulls Charles into a hug.

For once, no one objects. No one whispers. The paddock lets them be.

Charles’ voice is hoarse against Max’s shoulder.

“I hate this part of the job.”

Max pulls back slightly. “Which one? Racing or poping?”

A weak laugh escapes him. “Both.”

In the media center, the broadcast cuts to black and then slowly fades in again — shots of the still track, the crowd holding up rosaries, the teams gathered in reverent quiet.

Then the commentary returns, somber.

“In an unprecedented moment, the reigning Formula 1 World Champion and current Supreme Pontiff of the Roman Catholic Church administered last rites to young Alejandro Ortega following a devastating crash here at Albert Park. Charles Leclerc has not yet released a statement, but sources say he was already mid-briefing with Ferrari when he was called to the scene.”

“Incredible,” the co-commentator murmurs. “No matter what side of faith you stand on — what a powerful, human moment.”

Later, Charles sits alone in his driver’s room, head resting in his hands.

The door creaks open, and Max steps inside, holding two cups of water.

“I figured champagne would be in poor taste,” Max says.

Charles manages a tired smile. “You figured right.”

Max sets the water down and sits beside him on the edge of the couch. “The Vatican called.”

“Oh God.”

“No,” Max says. “They’re proud of you. Shocked. But proud.”

Charles snorts. “That’s a first.”

“You’re gonna be all over the news for this.”

“I don’t care.”

There’s a long pause.

Charles turns his head slightly. “He was just a kid.”

“I know,” Max says gently.

“I barely even knew him. And now I know the exact shape of his hand. I’ll never forget it.”

Max doesn’t say anything. He just reaches over and laces their fingers together.

They sit in silence, until Max finally breaks it.

“You know what I think?”

Charles gives him a sideways glance.

“I think that if you hadn’t been pope already, this would’ve made you one.”

Outside, the world is reacting.

#PopeCharles trends again, this time with a different tone. Candles appear on the fences. Tributes from other drivers flood Instagram and Twitter. Even Fernando Alonso posts: Descansa en paz, Alejandro. Gracias, Papa Charles.

In Spain, cathedrals fill. Not for Mass, but for a race.

A priest in Seville sighs as he switches on the TV. “He might be unconventional,” he says, “but that boy’s got grace.”

Back in Melbourne, Charles finally lays back on the couch and closes his eyes. Max rests his chin on his shoulder.

“Are you okay?” Max asks quietly.

“No,” Charles whispers. “But I will be.”

Max presses a kiss to the side of his neck. “I’m here.”

“You always are,” Charles says.

And outside the walls of the motorhome, the sun finally sets on the first race weekend of the 2026 season.

It’s going to be a hell of a year.

Chapter Text

The church is quiet, except for the kind of low, constant weeping that fills the space like smoke. It’s a small stone building in the outskirts of Alicante — modest, sun-drenched, and cracked from time. Just how Alejandro Ortega’s mother wanted it. Nothing extravagant. Nothing loud. Just him, his faith, and the people who loved him most.

Charles slips in through the side door.

He’s in black slacks and a wool coat. No guards. No white. No gold. Just him. The Vatican begged him not to go, but Charles made the decision somewhere in the haze of grief after the crash. He couldn’t not be here. He needed to say goodbye. Even if it meant slipping out of Rome unnoticed and drawing the ire of half the curia.

He finds a pew near the back and lowers his head.

Up front, Alejandro’s mother clutches a folded white karting suit from her son’s early years. She’s shaking. Her face buried in the sleeves. A priest reads quietly in Spanish. The congregation is small, maybe thirty or forty. Mechanics, F2 teammates, engineers, and childhood friends. A couple from the paddock. No press.

Charles had hoped it would stay that way.

But when the priest closes his book and gestures for anyone who’d like to speak, there’s a long silence. Alejandro’s mother stands. Slowly. And turns to face the crowd. Her eyes sweep the room, and then — her breath catches.

She sees him.

“Es él,” she says softly.

Everyone turns.

Charles rises halfway from the pew before he can stop himself. His mouth opens. Closes again. The room goes still.

“You,” Alejandro’s mother says, tears fresh on her cheeks. “You were there.”

Charles nods. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to intrude. I-”

“No,” she interrupts, stepping toward him. Her voice cracks. “You prayed with him. You held his hand. You … you gave him peace. You were the last face my son saw.”

Charles swallows. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

She presses a hand to her chest, eyes welling with new tears. “Would you … please … say a few words?”

A stunned murmur ripples through the room.

Charles hesitates. The last time he spoke publicly about death, it was in front of a worldwide audience — when Jules died. Then his father. Then Anthoine. Each time tore a new part from him. But this …

He walks slowly to the front of the church. His fingers tremble. A mechanic pats his shoulder gently as he passes. Charles clears his throat once before he begins.

He doesn’t speak from the pulpit. He stands beside Alejandro’s casket, one hand on the dark wood.

“I didn’t know Alejandro long,” he says, voice low. “But sometimes … it doesn’t take long to see someone’s light.”

A sniffle echoes behind him.

“He reminded me of myself. Young. Fierce. A little reckless. But with so much heart. You could see it even in the paddock. He joked with the mechanics. He thanked the marshals. He talked to every fan who asked him for a photo. He wasn’t just fast — he was kind. And he was loved.”

Charles pauses. He looks down.

“I held his hand when the medics let me through. I don’t think I’ll ever forget how tightly he held mine. Even as his voice faded, he asked for prayer. He asked to be seen. To be heard. To be cared for. And I was so honored to be there — to tell him that he wasn’t alone. That God was with him.”

There’s a choked sob. Then another.

Charles closes his eyes.

“I’ve seen what this sport can take from us. I lost my godfather, Jules Bianchi, to a crash. I lost one of my closest friends, Anthoine Hubert, in F2. And I have to live with that grief every day. So do all of us who love this sport — who love the people in it. It is brutal. Beautiful. And unfair.”

He raises his gaze to the crowd.

“But every once in a while … someone comes along who reminds you why it’s worth it. Alejandro was that person.”

Charles nods toward the casket. “He was a gift. He still is.”

The room is quiet except for tears and the faint rustle of tissues. Even the priest dabs at his eyes.

Charles steps back. For a moment, he just stands there — his chest rising and falling. Then, gently, he places a hand on the top of the casket and whispers something no one else can hear.

When he turns to leave the pulpit, Alejandro’s mother meets him at the bottom of the steps. She hugs him tightly. For a long time, neither of them says anything.

“You were his hero, you know,” she finally whispers into his shoulder.

Charles nods, eyes wet. “He was mine too.”

The service continues without fanfare. The priest reads a passage from Romans. Someone else — a childhood friend — shares a memory of Alejandro sneaking into the kitchen at 3 a.m. to make churros with Nutella. There’s laughter through the tears. And finally, a hymn.

When the casket is carried out into the sun, Charles follows behind the family, his head low.

The burial is quiet. A handful of people speak softly in Spanish as they lower the casket into the earth. The priest sprinkles holy water. Alejandro’s mother tosses in the first handful of soil. Then his brother. Then Charles.

He lingers at the grave long after the others have started back toward the cars. A breeze tugs at his coat. Somewhere down the hill, he hears someone calling his name. But for now, he stays still.

Max appears beside him without a word. He doesn’t touch him. Doesn’t speak. Just stands there.

Finally, Charles exhales. “He was just a boy.”

Max nods slowly. “So were we once.”

They don’t say anything else.

That night, Charles returns to Rome with Leo tucked under his coat. He walks through the Vatican gates alone and heads straight for the chapel. No press. No entourage. Just flickering candlelight and silence.

He kneels in the back row.

For a long time, he doesn’t pray. He just sits. Breathing. Remembering.

And then, quietly, he says, “I don’t know why you made me do this. But I hope I did right by him. I hope I made you proud.”

No answer comes.

Just the echo of his voice in the stillness, and the quiet flicker of flame.

Chapter Text

The papal apartments are quieter than usual when Charles returns.

The air in the Apostolic Palace is always reverent, always restrained, but tonight it feels heavier. Grief hangs like incense. Even the marble seems to echo softer under his footsteps. His shoes are scuffed from the graveyard earth in Spain. He doesn’t change them.

The guards nod at him with more sympathy than ceremony. Leo, bundled in Charles’ coat, lets out a soft yawn from where he’s nestled against his chest. It’s past midnight. The only light still on in the palace is coming from Charles’ own bedroom window.

The silence is loud.

He opens the door and steps inside.

Max is already there.

Curled in one of the velvet armchairs, arms crossed, one foot bouncing — he stands immediately when he sees Charles. “You okay?”

Charles doesn’t answer. He just walks forward, lets Leo slide to the floor gently, and finally leans into Max’s chest.

It’s not a hug at first. Not really. More of a collapse.

Max wraps his arms around him. Holds him tightly. “You don’t have to say anything.”

Charles exhales against Max’s neck. “He was twenty.”

Max says nothing.

Charles' voice is rough. “He still had braces.”

Max’s grip tightens. “I know.”

The room is dim — just the lamp on the bedside table casting a warm glow over the sheets and scattered Vatican paperwork. Somewhere on the floor is a tiny papal cape that Leo refused to wear. It doesn’t feel like the Pope’s bedroom tonight. It just feels like grief's waiting room.

Max guides him to sit on the edge of the bed. “You should lie down.”

“I won’t sleep.”

“Then we’ll just lie down.”

They do.

Max kicks off his shoes and settles beside him, their shoulders brushing. Charles lies back and stares up at the ornate ceiling, frescoed with some long-forgotten Renaissance saints. “I keep seeing his face.”

Max doesn’t ask whose.

Charles turns his head. “How are we supposed to keep dealing with it? Every time something happens on track?”

Max’s jaw tenses. “Badly.”

There’s a silence between them, heavy with unsaid things. Max shifts to prop himself up on one elbow. “You gave him peace. That’s more than most of them got.”

“I’m the Pope,” Charles whispers. “I’m supposed to carry hope. All I feel is hollow.”

Max watches him. “You’re allowed to break.”

Charles swallows. “And then what?”

Max leans closer. “Then I help you put the pieces back.”

There’s something delicate about the moment — both of them lying half-dressed and exhausted on bedding that was probably blessed by ten generations of bishops. But the sacred doesn’t feel like statues and incense. It feels like Max’s hand brushing Charles’ cheek.

It’s a kiss, soft and hesitant at first, pressed gently to the corner of Charles’ mouth.

Charles turns his head slightly, eyes meeting Max’s. “We’re in the Vatican.”

Max shrugs. “So?”

“There’s probably a camera in the ceiling.”

“I’ll wave.”

Charles lets out a breath that’s half a laugh and half a sob. “You’re impossible.”

Max brushes his thumb along Charles’ jaw. “I know.”

Another kiss. This time, slower. A hand on his waist. Charles lets his fingers tangle in Max’s shirt, pulling him closer. There’s no rush. No fire. Just a deep, aching need to feel something other than sadness.

“Max,” Charles breathes.

“Shh. Let me take care of you.”

The room grows quieter still, except for the soft rustle of linen and the occasional creak of old wood. A distant bell chimes somewhere in the Basilica. Leo jumps onto the bed, sniffs once, then promptly curls up at their feet like he’s used to this chaos.

Then-

A knock.

Max freezes. Charles sits up, hair mussed and breath caught.

The door creaks open an inch.

“Your Holiness?” Comes a gentle, very Italian voice.

They both go still.

It’s Sister Benedetta.

“Forgive the intrusion,” she continues, her voice anxious. “We just heard some, ah, noises. I came to check if you were all right.”

Charles tries to smooth his hair, failing. Max clutches the blanket up to his chest like a startled duchess. Leo growls faintly.

Sister Benedetta pushes the door open fully.

She sees them.

She sees everything.

The half-buttoned shirts. The flushed faces. Leo curled on the covers. Max’s bare feet.

And Charles, the Pontiff, blinking at her like a deer caught on a Monaco racetrack.

There is a pause.

A very long pause.

Then, in a tone that is absolutely flat, Benedetta says, “I will go get bleach for my eyes.”

She closes the door softly behind her.

Silence again.

Max bursts into laughter.

Charles flops back onto the mattress with a groan. “I am going to be excommunicated from my own church.”

Max rolls over, grinning, and rests his chin on Charles’ chest. “Worth it.”

Leo sneezes in agreement.

Charles sighs and threads a hand through Max’s hair, the tension in his chest finally easing. “You’re ridiculous.”

Max kisses his collarbone. “And you love it.”

A beat.

“I really do.”

The cloisters of the Apostolic Palace are usually quiet at night — echoing only the soft rustle of habits and whispered prayers. But tonight, there’s a disturbance in the sacred rhythm. Sister Benedetta bursts through the corridor like she’s being chased by Lucifer himself, face red, eyes wide, and hands trembling around the rosary clenched in her fist.

She doesn’t stop until she finds Sister Paola and Sister Teresa kneeling by the small chapel alcove.

“Benedetta?” Paola blinks, rising halfway from her prayer. “Are you ill?”

“I need bleach,” Sister Benedetta gasps, swaying dramatically against the wall. “Holy water. Or bleach. Or both.”

Teresa straightens, alarmed. “What happened? Is someone hurt? Is it … is it the Holy Father?”

Benedetta’s mouth opens, then closes. She nods, then shakes her head, then clutches her heart like a telenovela heroine. “Yes. No. He’s fine. Too fine, if anything. I … I saw something. In his chambers.”

Both Paola and Teresa blink in unison. Paola steps forward and gently places a hand on her shoulder. “Benedetta, take a deep breath. What did you see?”

Benedetta leans in. Her whisper is almost inaudible, as if speaking the words aloud might damn her soul. “Max Verstappen. Shirtless. Possibly pants-less. Straddling the Pope.”

Silence.

The crucifix above the alcove tilts slightly in the draft. Somewhere, a candle flickers out.

Teresa blinks, mouth slightly agape. “I … I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me!” Benedetta cries in a rasp. “He was on top of him! I saw it with my own eyes! The noises, Teresa. The sounds! And then I opened the door because I thought he was in distress and-” She stops, visibly gagging. “The Pope. Was giggling.”

There’s another pause. Then Paola, the eldest and most composed, simply lifts her veil slightly and fans her face with her hand.

“Well,” she says after a beat, “praise be.”

Teresa blinks. “Paola!”

“I’m just saying,” Paola murmurs, eyes dancing, “who among us hasn’t had an unholy thought or two about His Holiness?”

Benedetta stares, scandalized. “Sister!”

“Oh, come off it,” says Paola, now laughing. “He’s a saint in the streets and a Ferrari driver in the sheets. I’m surprised this didn’t happen sooner.”

“Sisters!” Benedetta spins in a slow circle, looking like she might spontaneously combust. “This is the successor of Saint Peter we’re talking about! The Vicar of Christ! The-”

“The man who drove a Ferrari to the Basilica and parked it on the steps,” Paola reminds her gently. “And who lets his dog wear a papal cape. And who threw up a peace sign during Mass last week.”

Teresa stifles a giggle. “He also posted a selfie with Max and the cats from the Vatican’s official Instagram. Hashtag blessed.”

“You’re all going to hell,” Benedetta mutters, but her tone is more resigned now than furious. “I need to speak to the Mother Superior. Or maybe the exorcist. I can’t unsee it.”

“You need tea,” Paola says, putting an arm around her. “And maybe earplugs. Because if Verstappen’s staying the night, I don’t think that was the last of it.”

Benedetta whimpers softly as the three nuns begin walking toward the kitchen. As they disappear down the corridor, more nuns start appearing from other wings, having heard the distant shrieks and muttered speculation.

Sister Lucia pokes her head out from behind the library door. “What’s going on?”

“Verstappen,” Teresa says simply.

Lucia’s eyes go wide. “Oh my God. Did he fight someone?”

“No,” Paola says, grinning. “He did something much more shocking.”

Lucia gasps. “Did he leave Red Bull?”

Benedetta lets out a strangled noise. “I’m leaving this convent.”

But by now, a small crowd has formed. Nuns of every age and rank gather in whispers.

One of the younger novices, Sister Angela, clutches her hands together and whispers, “Do you think he’s a good kisser?”

“Angela!” Benedetta snaps.

“I’m just curious! I mean, if anyone would know …”

Several eyes turn toward Paola. She raises a brow. “What?”

“You just seem like you might have dated a few casanovas before you took your vows.”

Paola grins. “No comment.”

There’s a round of stifled laughter.

Benedetta sits down on a bench, still clutching her rosary. “This is chaos.”

Lucia sits beside her. “This is the modern church.”

“I miss Pope Francis,” Benedetta mutters.

“He will always be loved,” Teresa says softly. “But I think he’d be laughing right now.”

There’s a long, thoughtful pause.

“… He probably would,” Benedetta admits.

“Besides,” Paola says, “after all the pain this place has seen, all the rigidity, all the silence … maybe it’s not such a bad thing to hear a little laughter in the Vatican. Even if it’s coming from a bedroom.”

“I still want bleach,” Benedetta sighs.

“I’ll make you chamomile,” Paola offers instead.

As they all rise to head for the kitchen, Lucia murmurs, “Do you think the Holy Father knows we’re all talking about this?”

“Oh,” Teresa grins, “he absolutely knows.”

“And?”

“And I think he’d be proud.”

They disappear around the corner, a flutter of habits and half-suppressed giggles, leaving the cloister echoing again with something far less solemn — joy.

Back in the papal chambers, behind thick doors and heavy drapes, Charles lies on his back, his hand brushing through Max’s messy hair. He stares at the ceiling, completely unaware of the convent’s collective breakdown.

“… Do you think they heard us?” Max murmurs.

Charles glances toward the door, then toward the open window.

“… Definitely.”

Max shrugs, smug. “Good.”

Charles groans, pulling the pillow over his face. “I’m going to hell.”

Max smirks. “I’ll drive.”

And somewhere deep in the Vatican, Sister Benedetta prays for forgiveness — and for a stronger lock on the Pope’s bedroom door.

Chapter Text

The rain lashes down over Suzuka Circuit like an unrelenting sheet of glass, blurring the world into streaks of grey and white. Wind screams through the pit lane. Mechanics’ rain gear clings to their skin. Team radios crackle with static and uncertainty.

And yet — the FIA has refused to postpone. The track is wet. Treacherously so.

Charles exhales slowly as he sits in his car, helmet visor still up. Bryan is whispering strategy through the headset, but Charles barely hears it.

Suzuka. Always Suzuka.

It’s been fourteen years since Jules crashed here. The images never left his mind. The grief never left his bones. But he’s not afraid. Not really. He just … respects it.

“Copy,” he says finally. He closes the visor. Rain flicks across it like bullets.

The lights go out. The engines scream.

And they’re off.

The first ten laps are chaos. Cars aquaplane across the circuit. Sainz spins but recovers. Piastri narrowly avoids the barriers. Charles holds the lead, dancing through puddles, his Ferrari skating along slick asphalt. He’s never been more focused.

But then, lap twelve.

A yellow sector. Debris from Albon’s wing. A quick call from Bryan.

“Box, box.”

“Copy. Coming in.”

But just as he rounds the hairpin, the world betrays him.

A hidden stream of water runs across the racing line. His rear tires lose grip. The car spins. No control.

“No, no, no-”

The barriers come fast. Metal, cold and waiting.

The car slams into the wall with a sickening crunch. The cockpit shudders violently.

Silence.

Radio static.

“Charles? Charles, do you copy?”

Nothing.

“CHARLES?”

He doesn’t dream, not at first.

He floats in a place without pain, without time. Darkness surrounds him, soft like velvet. There’s no up, no down. Just the silence.

Then a voice — a memory, maybe.

“Tu crois en quoi, Charles?”

Do you believe in anything?

Jules.

Charles tries to speak. Nothing comes out.

Another voice follows. Familiar. Softer. Younger.

“Pray for me, please.”

Alejandro.

Charles feels something twist in his chest.

And finally, Max.

“You don’t get to leave me. You don’t get to make me fall in love with the bloody pope and then die, Charles. I’ll kill you if you die, I swear-”

A heartbeat.

Then pain.

Every nerve in his body lights up like fire.

The next sound he hears is the frantic beeping of hospital monitors and the sound of someone crying.

Max.

“Fuck, Charles,” Max mutters, forehead pressed to Charles’ shoulder. “Why can’t you just stay safe for once?”

Charles blinks, slowly. His vision is blurry. His chest hurts with every breath.

“Water,” he croaks.

A gasp. Movement. Max’s face above his, pale and furious and relieved all at once.

“You asshole,” Max whispers. “You had the entire Catholic Church crying into their rosaries.”

Charles lets out a tiny, raspy laugh, but it hurts. “Sorry.”

Max gently helps him take a sip of water. Then Charles looks around.

The hospital room is cold and white. Outside the window, it’s still raining.

“How long?” Charles asks.

“Three days,” Max says. “They airlifted you. Concussion. A few cracked ribs. Bruised lung. Nothing permanent, but …”

“But close enough,” Charles finishes.

He leans back against the pillows, silent for a moment. His body aches. His head is heavy.

He remembers the spin. The split second of weightlessness. The barrier.

“I saw Jules,” he says softly.

Max stills.

“I don’t know if it was real, or just my brain, or something else. But I heard his voice. And Alejandro. And you.”

Max bites his lip, hard.

“I’ve been wondering what it means,” Charles continues. “All this time, I thought I was pretending. Playing a part. But maybe I was actually … changing.”

He stares at the ceiling.

“When I was a kid, I believed in racing. I believed in Jules. When I lost him, I stopped believing in anything. Then I became the pope, and it felt like a joke. But somewhere along the way, I started to believe again. Not just in God. But in people. In grace. In second chances.”

Max exhales, slow and shaky. “That’s terrifyingly profound for someone with an IV drip in his arm.”

Charles chuckles, wincing. “You love it.”

“I do,” Max murmurs. “I really, really do.”

There’s a knock on the door.

It’s the camerlengo.

He looks like he hasn’t slept in three days.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” he says gently. “But the cardinals asked me to check on you. And the Sisters of Divine Motor Racing are holding an overnight vigil.”

Charles raises an eyebrow. “The what?”

Max just shrugs. “You’re a phenomenon.”

Cardinal Byrne steps forward. “May I sit for a moment?”

Charles nods.

The room quiets.

“Do you remember,” the camerlengo begins, “what I told you the day we met? About the mission that made me turn to the Church?”

“Yes,” Charles says softly.

“I always thought that faith was something you chose. Something you put on like armor. But what I’ve learned over the years is that faith is actually something that chooses you. Often in the dark. Often in the pain.”

He looks at Charles.

“God chose you, Charles. I know that sounds impossible. But somehow, it’s true. And I think, deep down, you’ve started to feel it too.”

Charles swallows hard.

“I don’t know if I’m ready.”

“No one ever is,” Cardinal Byrne replies. “Not for grief. Not for grace. But you’re here. And you’re still choosing love. That’s what matters.”

Later that night, when Max is asleep on the narrow hospital couch and the rain has slowed outside, Charles pulls out his phone.

He opens iMessage.

He starts typing.

Dear Jules,

I crashed at Suzuka.
I guess I always knew I would someday.

It didn’t kill me. But it made me remember what it felt like to lose you.

I’m pope now. You’d laugh. You’d laugh so hard. I hope you’re laughing now.

But I think … I think I’m actually starting to understand it.

I spent so long thinking that belief was weakness. Or performance. Or both. But maybe belief is what happens when you’re lost and you still keep going.

Maybe it’s what kept me alive.

I miss you.

Watch over me.

Love,
Charles

He stares at the text message.

Then he presses “send” to no one.

Because maybe Jules can hear him anyway.

In Rome, bells toll. Candles flicker in windows. A photograph of Charles, bruised but smiling faintly from his hospital bed, is already circulating online.

The caption reads simply:

Even when he’s broken, he still believes.

The world watches.

And waits.

Because something has shifted.

Not just in Charles.

But in everyone.

Chapter Text

Max stares out the window of the private jet bound for Monaco, one hand absently scratching behind Donut’s ears as the white cat snoozes on his lap. Nino is curled up under the seat across from him, and Leo is tucked protectively beside Charles, who is still pale, still quieter than usual, still very much recovering.

But alive.

Max keeps glancing at him like he’s afraid he’ll disappear again.

Charles had crashed at Suzuka. Suzuka, of all places. The one track Max never wanted him on. The one where Jules Bianchi had lost his life. The one Charles said he had made peace with.

Max isn’t sure he believes him.

Neither of them had been the same since.

Charles sleeps now, head tilted toward the window, papal robe draped over him like a glorified blanket. Max had asked if he wanted to wear something more comfortable, and Charles — ever stubborn — insisted, “It’s symbolic, Max. I nearly died as a driver. I should at least recover as pope.”

So Max sits in silence, full of too many feelings for a man who barely talks about his own. He glances down at Donut, who yawns and immediately rolls off his lap with a tiny plop, hitting the floor without a thought in that single remaining brain cell of his.

A soft sound escapes Max before he realizes it’s a laugh. And then another sound escapes him. A thought.

A wild, stupid, terrifying, permanent thought.

“I want to marry him.”

The words echo in the cabin.

Charles shifts a little in his sleep. Max freezes like he’s been caught, then slowly, very carefully, reaches for his phone. He dials.

“Daniel?” He whispers.

The call connects with a sleepy mumble. “Mate, it’s like some ungodly hour here. Are you okay? Is Charles okay?”

“He’s fine,” Max says. “He’s … he’s asleep.”

A pause.

“Then why are you calling me like you’re being hunted by Interpol?”

Max leans forward in his seat and runs a hand through his hair. “I want to propose.”

Dead silence.

“To Charles?”

Max frowns. “No, to Helmut. Yes, to Charles.”

Daniel is suddenly very awake. “You’re telling me that you want to marry the Pope. The actual Pope.”

“Yes.”

“… Are you on drugs?”

“No!”

Daniel starts laughing so hard Max has to pull the phone away from his ear.

“I’m being serious,” Max hisses.

“Okay, okay,” Daniel wheezes. “Okay. Serious. Got it. So. Question one: does the Vatican even allow the pope to marry now?”

“They’re working on it,” Max says. “They kind of have to.”

Daniel is cackling again.

“Daniel, please. I’m not joking. I want to do it. I just — how? Do I kneel? Do I wear a suit? Do I get one of those rings with like, holy water in it? What’s the protocol for proposing to the literal head of the Catholic Church?”

Daniel groans. “Mate, there is no protocol for this because no one has ever proposed to the Pope. You are in uncharted waters here. The Church’s archives probably don’t even have a file for it yet.”

Max exhales loudly. “So I just wing it?”

“… That’s literally what you do every race weekend.”

“But this is different.”

“Why?”

Max doesn’t answer for a long time. The plane hums. Donut snores. Charles breathes.

“Because I don’t want him to say no.”

Daniel goes soft on the other end of the line. “He won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Max. He’s literally rewritten the laws of the Vatican for you. He’s nearly driven a Ferrari into a basilica. He got gelato in the middle of the night and caused a manhunt. The man is deranged, but he’s deranged for you.”

Max lets out a shaky laugh. “You really think so?”

“I know so. Just … make it about him. Don’t make it about the headlines. Don’t do it on a podium or during communion.”

Max snorts. “I wasn’t going to do it during communion.”

“Good. So just be real. And bring snacks. Charles always says yes when there’s tiramisu involved.”

The next week, Max finds himself pacing the gardens behind the Vatican, wearing jeans and a T-shirt and holding a box that feels like it’s made of nuclear waste.

Leo trots alongside him. Donut follows at a chaotic diagonal. Jimmy and Sassy guard the entrance like tiny feline bouncers. Nino licks Charles’ foot.

Charles is lounging on the grass in casualwear, finally back to full strength, hair swept back by the breeze. He’s feeding pieces of bread to a fat duck and humming under his breath.

It’s absurd. It’s perfect.

Max sits beside him.

“Don’t give that duck all your bread. He’s already had five slices.”

“He deserves them,” Charles says.

Max laughs, nervous. He fiddles with the edge of the box in his pocket.

“You’re fidgety,” Charles notes, smiling slightly. “What is it?”

“I’ve been thinking,” Max says. “About … life. About nearly losing you.”

Charles stops smiling.

“I know I make jokes about being fearless,” Max continues, “but when I saw you in that car, I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I kept trying to imagine what the world would look like without you, and it just didn’t make sense. Like the sun without light.”

Charles stares at him.

“And then I realized,” Max says, “I don’t want to live in that world. I don’t want to live in any world where I can’t wake up next to you or argue about what sauce goes best with pasta or steal your hoodie before you can.”

“Max …”

Max pulls the box out of his pocket.

“I want to spend the rest of my life annoying you. I want to be there when you retire — God help us all if that ever happens — and when you forget where you parked your Ferrari again. I want to hold your hand at every race and every funeral and every Christmas Mass and every gelato run. So …”

He opens the box.

Charles gasps.

Inside is a ring. Simple, elegant, gold. Engraved on the inside: For faith. For love. For you.

“I know it’s unconventional,” Max says. “But so are we. So … Your Holiness — Charles Leclerc — will you marry me?”

Charles doesn’t say anything for a moment.

Then he bursts into tears.

“Yes,” he whispers. “Yes, of course I will.”

Max slides the ring onto his finger, and Charles launches into his arms with such force that the duck quacks in protest and waddles off.

They kiss under the Roman sun, surrounded by cats and chaos and holy improbability.

Donut tries to eat a rock.

Somewhere in the distance, a nun faints.

And from inside the Vatican, someone whispers, “Well … I suppose we’ll need to update the doctrine again.”

Chapter Text

The studio is brightly lit and intentionally casual. It looks like a trendy London flat, all plants and pastel couches, but the microphones and multiple camera angles betray the chaos about to unfold.

Charles sits cross-legged on the guest couch in a white t-shirt and jeans, an oversized Ferrari hoodie thrown over it. His papal ring is absent — by design, a Vatican PR effort to make him appear more “approachable” for this specific podcast. He still can’t believe they greenlit it.

Across from him is the host, Emilia Hartwell, motorsport’s favorite cheeky media queen. She’s made a name for herself with her snappy interviews, no-nonsense attitude, and the occasional viral drinking game with F1 drivers.

“Alright,” Emilia says, settling in with a grin. “You’ve won a World Championship, you’ve been shot at, you’ve been kissed on the podium by another World Champion, you are, somehow, also the pope — and today you’re on my podcast. Charles Leclerc, welcome.”

Charles laughs, fingers threading through his curls. “Thank you. It’s an honor to be here. This is very different from the Vatican press room.”

“Thank God,” Emilia mutters. “If I have to hear one more cardinal say ‘discernment’ in a ten-minute sentence, I’m going to scream.”

Charles grins. “They do like that word.”

“You’ve had one hell of a year,” she says, leaning forward. “Are you tired yet?”

“I was tired after the Monza win,” Charles says. “Now I’m just in disbelief. Every day.”

“Let’s talk about Max.”

The name alone makes Charles shift slightly, the corner of his mouth quirking.

“Oh?” He says, playing innocent.

“Yes, oh. That podium kiss? Max’s smug little wink after? The fact that you somehow managed to convince the Vatican to let you have a boyfriend?” Emilia shakes her head. “The gays won, and so did the Tifosi. How did you do that?”

“I didn’t plan any of it,” Charles says honestly. “I think … we just reached a point where we couldn’t hide anymore. And it didn’t feel right to lie. Not when faith is supposed to be about truth.”

“That’s … wow.” Emilia blinks. “You’re good at this whole pope thing now.”

Charles laughs. “Don’t tell the cardinals.”

Emilia tilts her head. “So, how is it, dating another F1 driver while also being pope? Is it weird? Does Max bow when he visits the Vatican?”

“Absolutely not,” Charles snorts. “He asked if he could sit in my throne in the Apostolic Palace and then got bored when I told him no.”

“That sounds about right.”

Charles chuckles. “It’s complicated. But good. Max is … persistent. And he’s always been honest with me. He doesn’t care that I’m pope. He just cares that I’m still me.”

Emilia studies him. “That sounds like love.”

A quiet moment passes. Charles softens.

“It is.”

She leans forward. “Okay. So … I’m sorry, but I need to ask. After everything — after Suzuka, after Melbourne, after the Vatican drama — where do you and Max go from here?”

Charles doesn’t hesitate. “We figure it out. Together. That’s the plan.”

Emilia gives a dreamy smile. “God, the fan edits are going to go crazy.”

Charles laughs again. “I’ve stopped checking Twitter. I’m afraid of the edits now.”

There’s a beat. Then — offhand, utterly casual — Charles says.

“Max said that when we get married, he wants the cats involved in the ceremony. I told him only if Leo carries our rings down the aisle.”

Emilia freezes.

Charles keeps talking, completely unaware. “The dogs in little bowties would be very cute, no?”

Emilia blinks. Once. Twice.

“Wait. Sorry … when you get married?”

Charles pauses.

His smile fades. Slowly. “Yes …”

“You’re engaged?”

He goes perfectly still. Then blinks rapidly.

“Am I … allowed to say that?”

Emilia’s eyes go wide. “Charles.”

Charles slaps a hand to his face. “Merde.”

Emilia turns to the camera. “Ladies, gentlemen, and all people of faith: we have just received confirmation from the pope himself that he is now engaged to Max Verstappen.”

“Oh my God,” Charles mutters, visibly cringing. “Please don’t make this the thumbnail.”

“I’m literally texting my producer right now,” Emilia says, gleefully. “Do you realize what you just did?”

“I thought we were talking off-record!”

“This is literally a podcast!”

Charles groans. “I need a media team.”

“You have one. You just ignored their briefing.”

He drops his head into his hands. “They’re going to kill me.”

Emilia leans back, smug. “So? Tell us the story. You’re in it now.”

Charles hesitates … then lifts his head and sighs.

“Fine. But it’s your funeral when the Vatican calls.”

“Worth it.”

Charles takes a breath. “Max proposed in the gardens. At the Vatican. It was very early, just after sunrise. He said he wanted the light to hit the basilica behind me.”

Emilia clutches her heart. “Stop.”

“He was nervous,” Charles continues softly. “But I could tell he knew what he wanted. He always does.”

“And?”

“I said yes.”

Emilia fans herself dramatically. “God is real.”

Charles chuckles, eyes soft. “It was the easiest yes of my life.”

Just then, his phone buzzes. He checks it.

“Oh no,” he says.

“What is it?”

“Vatican press office. Twelve missed calls.”

Emilia bursts out laughing.

“Do you think,” Charles says wearily, “that if I accidentally resign right now, they’ll let me disappear to Monaco for the weekend?”

“No chance. You’re their golden boy.”

Charles shakes his head. “I swear, one kiss and one accidental leak, and suddenly I’m the patron saint of drama.”

Emilia grins, teeth showing. “Charles Leclerc, everyone. The first pope to win a world championship, party in Ibiza, and accidentally announce his engagement on a podcast.”

Charles sighs again. “Put that on my tombstone.”

Chaos reigns in the Vatican press office.

The media director is yelling into a phone. Someone’s crying in a corner. A nun is attempting to draft a Twitter thread with emojis to soften the blow. A cardinal faints when someone suggests a wedding livestream.

Max, on FaceTime, watches the chaos with glee.

“Worth it,” he says, smirking.

Charles glares at him from a chair in the corner.

“You planned this.”

“You have no proof.”

“I do now.”

Max winks. “See you soon, fiancé.”

Charles sighs, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips anyway.

“Yeah,” he says. “See you soon.”

Chapter Text

It’s a crisp Roman morning, the kind of day where the sun spills golden over the terracotta rooftops and the pigeons coo like they too have opinions about papal controversies. Inside the Vatican’s Apostolic Palace, however, there’s no peace.

Charles is walking down a long, fresco-covered hallway with Max at his side. He’s dressed in his papal whites, though the sash is missing and his collar’s slightly askew. Max, dressed in a soft black sweater and jeans, has his hands jammed into his pockets and a tiny smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“You really didn’t get my texts this morning?” Max asks.

Charles lifts a brow. “Max, I was in confession with a Scottish priest who told me you are a temptation the Church must reckon with.”

Max beams. “I am flattered.”

“He then offered to throw holy water at you.”

“I’m still flattered.”

Charles sighs and mutters, “You’re impossible.”

They reach the massive double doors of the Clementine Hall, usually reserved for high-ranking meetings between cardinals. Aides had summoned Charles here urgently, claiming “preparations must begin.”

“What preparations?” Max asks, peering suspiciously at the closed doors.

“I don’t know. It sounded like something to do with the liturgical calendar,” Charles says, reaching for the door handle. “Maybe Christmas follow-up.”

He pushes the door open-

And instantly freezes.

Max walks into him with a soft oof, then peers over his shoulder.

Inside, there are dozens of cardinals.

Yelling.

Gesturing.

Flailing red sleeves, pointed fingers, fluttering documents.

“I read Canon Law before you were even born, Peter, and I should be the one to oversee the Nuptial Mass!”

“With respect, Your Eminence, Charles prefers someone younger, more in touch-”

“You mean more in touch with Instagram!”

“Silence, both of you!” A cardinal from Brazil shouts. “I already wrote the homily. It includes a racing metaphor and a reference to Monza. It’s genius!”

A German cardinal slams his hand on the table. “There will be no racing at a papal wedding!”

“There might be,” murmurs someone from the back, sipping espresso.

The room erupts again — an explosion of Latin, Italian, and the occasional French curse word.

Charles and Max stare.

Max leans closer and whispers, “They’re fighting over who gets to officiate.”

“No, they can’t be-”

“Charles, look at them. They’re literally in a cage match.”

One elderly cardinal with thick glasses stands up and shouts, “You’re all wrong! I was the one who baptized him! I should do it!”

Max’s eyebrows shoot up. “Is that true?”

Charles whispers, “I have no idea. I was a baby.”

A Hungarian cardinal slams his staff on the ground like Gandalf. “I was there when he won in Baku! I watched the miracle happen in real time! He smiled at me!”

“Oh my God,” Max mutters. “This is fanfiction.”

They both take a step back.

Inside, the argument reaches a fever pitch.

“If you do it,” one cardinal hisses to another, “I’ll leak your 2009 Easter sermon.”

“You wouldn’t dare-”

Charles closes the door as quietly as possible.

He and Max stand in the corridor in stunned silence.

For five whole seconds.

Then Max turns to him with wide, incredulous eyes. “What the hell was that?”

Charles just stares forward, mouth slightly open. “I think we walked into a battle royale.”

“They’re going to kill each other before the wedding even starts.”

“We didn’t even decide on the wedding date yet,” Charles says in horror.

“Doesn’t matter. They’ve already determined it’s the spiritual event of the decade.”

A beat passes.

Then Charles says, with grave sincerity, “We have to find someone else.”

Max nods slowly. “Someone neutral. Someone with experience. Someone with no political ambition and no attachment to the Vatican hierarchy.”

They lock eyes.

Max raises a brow.

Charles says it at the exact same time as Max does:

“Daniel.”

They both burst out laughing.

“No, but seriously,” Charles says, wiping a tear from his eye, “I think he’d actually do it.”

Max nods. “He’d wear a Hawaiian shirt and call it a day.”

“He’d probably hand us the rings and say ‘you may now make out.’”

“I’m okay with that.”

They stop laughing and Charles lets out a long breath, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“I wanted a small wedding,” he mutters. “Maybe in the gardens. Quiet. Intimate. No international livestream.”

“I don’t think that’s an option anymore,” Max says, trying not to smile. “You are the pope.”

Charles groans. “I was hoping people would forget.”

Max bumps his shoulder. “Let’s go call Danny. We’ll ask him how hard it is to get ordained online.”

Charles and Max sit side-by-side with a shared laptop between them. Nino is sprawled across Max’s lap. Donut is perched on Charles’ shoulders like a fur scarf.

On the screen, Daniel Ricciardo appears in full glory: shirtless, tanned, holding a beer.

“Mates!” He cries. “I heard the news! Congratulations on the holiest engagement since Mary said yes!”

Charles smiles. “Thanks, Daniel.”

“We have a favor to ask,” Max says, not bothering to sugarcoat it.

“Oh?” Daniel leans forward. “Do tell.”

“Would you,” Charles begins carefully, “consider getting ordained?”

Daniel freezes.

“You want me,” he says slowly, “to perform the wedding of the Pope of the Catholic Church and Max Verstappen, known global menace.”

“Yes.”

Daniel looks directly into the camera. “Hell yes.”

Max fist-pumps.

“I already have a priest costume from Halloween,” Daniel adds, completely serious.

Charles chuckles. “You’ll need real paperwork. Vatican-approved. Canon Law compliant.”

Daniel squints. “Okay, so I’ll need to read up.”

“Do you own a Bible?” Max asks.

“I have a Good Omens graphic novel.”

“… close enough,” Max says.

“Boys,” Daniel says, suddenly genuine. “I’m honored. I really am. Are you sure?”

Charles nods. “You know us. You’ve known us both before this ever happened. I trust you.”

Daniel softens. “Then I’ll make it beautiful. And probably a little weird. But mostly beautiful.”

Charles smiles. “That’s exactly what we want.”

“Do I get a special hat?”

“No.”

“Okay, but can I wear sunglasses during the vows?”

Max snorts. “Maybe.”

“Done,” Daniel says. “Time to become Father Ricciardo.”

Cardinals are still yelling.

The German one has now constructed a PowerPoint.

The Brazilian one is performing a dramatic reading of Corinthians in Portuguese with background music from a nearby speaker.

Someone has passed out biscotti in a failed attempt to calm tensions.

No one notices the pope and his fiancé are already long gone.

And that their wedding will soon be blessed by a man whose most recent miracle was keeping a lizard alive on a road trip across the Outback.

Chapter Text

Rome is humming.

Not the solemn, golden hush of Vatican morning mass, nor the pious murmurs echoing off the marble of Saint Peter’s Basilica. This is the kind of hum that vibrates in the gut — basslines from speakers on rainbow-draped floats, a symphony of whistles, cheers, laughter, heels clicking on cobblestones, and freedom shouted into sunshine.

It’s Pride Month. And Pope Charles is going to Pride.

Max is wearing his black sunglasses and a white linen shirt, trying very hard not to look like security detail — which is difficult, because he is currently scanning the crowd like a trained bodyguard.

“Why did I let you talk me into this?” Max mutters, slipping a hand around Charles’ waist as a drag queen dressed as the Virgin Mary blows them a kiss from a float. “You’re the Pope.”

Charles smiles, impossibly serene under the June sun. “I’m also gay. And I’m engaged. And I think Jesus would like this.”

Max huffs. “Jesus would definitely like the glitter.”

Charles leans into him and says quietly, “Besides, the cardinals will faint later. I promise to repent in Latin.”

They’re here unofficially, of course. The Swiss Guards were nearly apoplectic when Charles insisted on “no bulletproof vest, no Popemobile, and absolutely no cassock.” He’s in a white t-shirt with a rainbow cross printed on the front — a last-minute gift from a nonbinary Catholic Instagram account called Sanctified and Sapphic. His white jeans are spotless. He’s glowing. And the crowd knows it.

People don’t believe it at first.

Someone whispers, “Is that the pope?”

Then louder: “È LUI!”

And then it spreads like holy fire: “IL PAPA! IL PAPA È A PRIDE!”

And then chaos. Joyful, chaotic reverence.

By midafternoon, they’re surrounded by a protective semi-circle of drag queens in heels and self-described “leather dykes on bikes” who’ve appointed themselves the “unofficial queer Swiss Guard.” Charles is kissing cheeks, blessing foreheads, giving out hugs. Max stays close, hand always brushing Charles’ shoulder, eyes never at rest. He’s watching. Always watching.

Because fame is dangerous. And love — especially this love — is sacred.

That’s when the stage manager grabs them.

“Your Holiness,” he says breathlessly, “Damiano wants to bring you on stage. Just for a wave.”

Charles blinks. “Damiano David?”

“Yes! He is headlining! He says he wants to honor you.”

Charles hesitates. Max notices. “You don’t have to,” he murmurs into his ear.

But Charles smiles again. “No, it’s okay. It’s just a wave.”

The stage is a riot of sound and color. Charles walks out, hand in hand with Max, and the crowd erupts. A sea of rainbow flags, raised hands, cell phone lights.

Damiano is shirtless, sweaty, dazzling — all smolder and eyeliner and tattoos. He moves like sin incarnate. The crowd eats it up.

“ROMA!” He roars into the mic. “Make some noise for Papa Charles!”

The noise is biblical.

Charles waves, sheepish but touched. Max stands behind him, arms crossed, unreadable behind his sunglasses.

Damiano grins, stepping closer. “You’re even hotter in person,” he says over the roar, grabbing Charles’ free hand.

Charles laughs nervously. “You too, I think?”

Then, without warning-

Damiano leans in.

And kisses him.

Full on the lips.

It’s brief. But it’s bold. And it’s live.

Charles freezes.

Max sees red.

Before anyone can react, Max’s hand shoots out. He grabs Damiano by the collar, dragging him a step back with such force that one of the guitarist’s chords screeches out mid-note.

Max’s jaw is clenched. “You do not kiss my fiancé,” he says, low and dangerous, almost too quiet for the mic to catch.

The entire stage hushes.

Damiano raises both hands in faux surrender, smirking. “Relax, Verstappen. It’s Pride. I kiss everybody.”

Charles steps between them. “Okay. Okay. That’s enough.”

He places one hand on Max’s chest and another on Damiano’s shoulder.

“I think we’ve all made our points,” Charles says, still smiling, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes now.

Max lets go. Slowly.

Damiano backs off with a wink and a wink to the crowd. “The Pope’s off limits, huh? Damn. Lucky man.”

Charles waves once more, blows a kiss to the crowd, and walks off stage quickly, hand gripping Max’s.

They don’t speak for a few blocks.

Rome is still celebrating behind them. Balloons float overhead. Music pulses from piazzas. But Charles’ jaw is tight.

Finally, Max says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause a scene.”

“You didn’t,” Charles murmurs. “He did.”

They stop near the edge of Trastevere. Charles takes off his sunglasses. His eyes are searching. “You know I’d never-”

“I know.” Max cups his face. “I know. I just—he touched you. And you froze. You didn’t kiss him back, but you didn’t push him away either, and I panicked.”

Charles exhales. “I froze because I didn’t want to make it worse. Because we’re already so… visible. And sometimes I forget what I mean to people. And what we mean.”

Max nods. “You’re the Pope. And you’re my husband. And today the whole world saw that at the same time.”

They stare at each other.

Then Charles whispers, “Did you actually almost punch Damiano David?”

Max smirks. “I would’ve wrecked his tour.”

Charles laughs and throws his arms around Max’s neck. They kiss, slow and sure, right there in the street, rainbow flags flapping behind them like wings.

And the crowd around them, seeing two men — one in a rainbow cross, the other still fuming protectively — begins to cheer again.

Back at the Vatican that evening, the cardinal group chat is in shambles. Cardinal Tagle has sent 14 consecutive prayer hand emojis. Cardinal Müller has threatened resignation again. Someone changed the group name to Pride & Pontificate.

Max tosses his phone onto the couch and joins Charles on the balcony.

“You know,” Max says, wrapping his arms around him from behind, “maybe next year we just throw our own Pride parade. Vatican City’s first.”

Charles leans back into him. “Can we get drag queens in mitres?”

Max grins. “Obviously.”

The sun sets behind them. And the city — both sacred and scandalous — sparkles on.

Chapter Text

The Pope's private study looks like someone detonated a stationery store. There are Post-it notes on the windows, three laptops open, highlighters scattered like confetti, and a massive whiteboard labeled in sprawling cursive:

“CHARLES & MAX’S TOTALLY NORMAL WEDDING GUEST LIST (Kill Us)”

Charles is curled up on a velvet armchair with a pen behind one ear, wearing joggers and a Ferrari hoodie under his papal robe. Max, on the floor in front of a coffee table, is in sweats and socks, a pencil stuck in his mouth as he furiously scribbles names in a notebook.

Donut is asleep on a stack of guest index cards labeled “TBD.” Leo is licking a list titled “Scandal-less Celebrities.”

“I swear,” Max mutters, pulling the pencil from his lips, “if we add one more obscure archbishop who claims he’s like family, I’m eloping.”

Charles looks up from his laptop. “We cannot elope. I am the pope.”

“I know! That’s the problem.”

Charles sighs. “I just … I didn’t realize we were personally connected to so many people. There’s the Monegasque royal family, obviously-”

“And the Dutch royals,” Max adds. “If I don’t invite King Willem-Alexander, my entire country will mutiny.”

“Okay. Royals: definite yes.” Charles types it into the spreadsheet.

“Which ones?”

“… all of them?”

Max groans and flops backward. “We are going to need a football stadium.”

Charles blinks. “Would a Coliseum wedding be sacrilegious?”

Max shrugs. “It’s not like you haven’t already partied in Ibiza.”

Charles throws a pen at him.

They’re now surrounded by empty espresso cups and croissants that neither of them remembers ordering. A tiny Vatican aide had briefly entered, seen the chaos, and wordlessly left the snacks before fleeing like a mouse avoiding a lion.

“Okay,” Charles says, rubbing his eyes. “Let’s get serious. Ferrari team: yay or nay?”

Max tilts his head. “You mean, like … all of Ferrari?”

“I can’t invite just my mechanics. They’ll talk.”

“Charles, that’s like a thousand people.”

“I am the pope. I’m supposed to be inclusive.”

“You’re marrying me. That’s already wildly inclusive.”

Charles laughs and falls sideways across the armchair. “Fine. Ferrari: mechanics and engineers — yay. Marketing department: nay unless they personally saved my life.”

Max writes “Ferrari: partial” in the notebook.

Charles nods. “Red Bull?”

Max exhales. “Yikes. Christian will want to come. Helmut probably less so. I can already hear the speech: ‘Back in my day, we didn’t let popes date our drivers-’”

“I don’t think he’ll come. He sent me a handwritten note once that said, and I quote, ‘No hard feelings, but I think you're a distraction from Max’s championship focus.’”

“Rude.” Max takes notes. “Okay. Mechanics: yes. Marketing: no. Helmut: no. Christian: maybe. If we need comic relief.”

“We could sit him next to Toto.”

Max snorts. “He’d start a war. Okay, Mercedes team?”

Charles raises a brow. “You really want to invite Toto Wolff?”

Max leans back, smug. “You forget. He sends me wine every Christmas. He’ll definitely come.”

“Fine. Toto goes on the ‘Yay But Monitored’ list.”

They both nod solemnly.

Charles is reading a list of global religious leaders. Max is assembling a Jenga tower of VIP passes from every GP they’ve attended together.

“Do we invite the Dalai Lama?” Charles asks.

“I think it’d be rude not to,” Max says, poking the tower. “Though I feel like he’ll outshine you.”

“I hope so,” Charles mutters. “The Chief Rabbi of Rome is definitely on the list.”

“Okay, interfaith unity. I like it.” Max scribbles in the margins.

Charles hums. “What about Taylor Swift?”

Max blinks. “That was a jump.”

“She sent me a letter after the whole assassination attempt. Said she lit a candle for me.”

“… Wow.”

“Also invited me to any show on her tour.”

“Okay, she’s a yes.”

“And Beyoncé?”

“Are we making this a concert now?”

Charles grins. “What if we just let them be the flower girls?”

Max laughs so hard he falls sideways onto the rug.

The room is quieter now. The whiteboard is a graveyard of indecision. The “TBD” pile has grown so large that Donut has migrated to the windowsill in protest.

Charles is reading from a Vatican-approved guestbook template while Max massages his own temples.

“We haven’t even touched politicians,” Charles says.

Max groans. “Do we have to?”

“I mean … I’m technically the sovereign of a country.”

“And I’m … not. But still recognizable.”

Charles pulls up a list on his phone. “Okay. Emmanuel Macron?”

“Didn’t he call me a menace at Spa?”

“That’s a yes from me.”

“Fair.”

“President of Italy: must invite.”

Max sighs. “Do we have to invite the Prime Minister of the Netherlands?”

“Yes.”

“But she said I drive like I’m on a death wish!”

Charles shrugs. “Still has to come.”

Max scowls. “Fine. But I’m seating her near the overflow bathroom.”

Charles laughs. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love me.”

“I do.”

The room goes quiet again. Then Max says, softly, “Hey … what about the Bianchis?”

Charles looks up slowly.

Max continues, “Would you want to invite Jules’ family?”

There’s a pause. Then Charles nods. “Yes. Definitely. They were my second family growing up. I … I think he would’ve been happy for us.”

Max reaches over and laces their fingers together.

“He is happy for you.”

The list is mostly done. Or at least in better shape than when they started.

Yay:

• Monegasque and Dutch royal families
• Ferrari and Red Bull mechanics
• Dalai Lama
• Chief Rabbi of Rome
• Taylor Swift
• Beyoncé (TBD on performance)
• Toto Wolff (Monitored)
• Daniel Ricciardo (officiating)
• The Bianchi family
• The entire Vatican choir

Nay:

• All marketing departments
• Helmut Marko
• Anyone who called Max a hazard
• That one bishop who tried to exorcise Charles during preseason testing

TBD:

• Every other living monarch
• World leaders not involved in a scandal in the past two months
• Leonardo DiCaprio (Charles is not sure why he’s on the list at all)

Charles rests his head on Max’s shoulder. “We’re never going to finish this.”

“Yes, we will. One category at a time.”

“… How are we going to pick the music?”

Max groans.

Chapter Text

Silverstone is a mess of grey clouds and stiff winds. The kind of British summer day that feels like God forgot to turn the temperature above fifteen degrees Celsius. Charles sits quietly in the Ferrari hospitality motorhome, sipping lukewarm tea because someone told him that’s what you do in England, even though he still finds the idea deeply offensive as a Monegasque. Leo is curled in his lap, wearing his tiny Ferrari-branded raincoat and blinking up at him with innocent eyes.

Across the paddock, a storm is brewing — and it has nothing to do with the rain.

Max walks in without knocking, as always, and flops into the seat across from him.

“You heard what he said?” Max asks flatly.

Charles doesn’t look up. “I did.”

“And?”

“I am trying to be holy,” Charles says in a tone that suggests he would like very much not to be.

Max narrows his eyes. “You’re not going to let him get away with it.”

“I’m letting him get away with being a homophobe,” Charles replies, now looking up. “But I am not — and I repeat, not — letting him get away with insulting Leo.”

Leo, as if on cue, yawns and curls closer to Charles’ chest.

The Vatican learns what happened within minutes. Mostly because someone posted a clip of the FIA President, Mohammed Ben Sulayem, speaking to a sponsor and gesturing toward Charles and Max.

“He shouldn’t be pope if he’s going to flaunt that,” Ben Sulayem says, voice low but still picked up on a hot mic. “It’s a disgrace. Two men kissing on a podium, God help us. And that rat-dog he carries everywhere? Looks like something you’d swat with a broom.”

The video explodes across Twitter, TikTok, and within seconds, reaches the WhatsApp group chat titled Pontiff’s Posse, which Charles regrets not muting.

Cardinal Matteo sends just one message:

You want us to handle this?

Charles walks into the Vatican briefing room as soon as he returns from the race weekend, his robes swapped for a tailored cream suit because he just doesn’t care anymore. Max, in jeans and a Red Bull hoodie, is one step behind. There’s a full council waiting — bishops, advisors, and the comms team, all ready to discuss damage control.

“Damage control?” Charles repeats, incredulous. “You think I’m the one who needs damage control?”

“Well,” Cardinal Augustine says nervously, “you did tweet ‘God forgives, I don’t, especially when you insult my dog.’”

“That was Leo’s account,” Max says.

Everyone turns.

“What?”

Charles paces the room.

“I can ignore homophobia,” he says tightly. “I’ve had to. I’ve been doing that since I was sixteen.”

Several gasps.

He pauses.

“But I draw the line at animal cruelty.”

There’s a stunned silence before Sister Benedetta blurts out, “You can ignore homophobia?”

Charles stares at her. “… I mean, not ignore, ignore, but-” He sighs. “You know what I mean.”

“Absolutely not,” Cardinal Byrne cuts in. “This is the last straw. He’s tried to control the sport, humiliate drivers, and now he dares insult the Holy Dachshund? No. We fight.”

Max high-fives him.

Meanwhile, in the Monégasque royal palace, Prince Albert is on a call with the Dutch royals, and neither side is using diplomatic language. Somewhere between "gross misconduct" and "international disrespect to a papal pet,” someone suggests revoking FIA recognition in Catholic-majority countries.

In the Ferrari factory, someone makes a button that says “In Leo We Trust.” By the end of the day, 300 team members are wearing them on their shirts. Even Toto Wolff wears one.

By Saturday morning, the entire paddock is ablaze. Reporters yell questions at Charles as he walks to the garage.

“Your Holiness, is it true you’re assembling a Vatican tribunal to prosecute Ben Sulayem?”

“Do you think Leo should be canonized?”

“Max! Is it true you taught Leo to pee on command?”

Max winks and doesn’t answer.

Charles leans into the mic, all grace. “Leo is just a dog. But he’s a dog who’s better than most men.”

Later, after qualifying (Charles P2, Max P1), they sit in the back of the Ferrari garage, helmets on the table, damp from drizzle and sweat.

“Do you think this is going too far?” Charles asks quietly.

Max snorts. “You’re the pope. What’s ‘too far’ at this point?”

Charles smiles, tired. “I used to be so afraid of doing the wrong thing. Now it feels like I’m living in a cartoon.”

“You are,” Max says. “We both are.”

“Ben Sulayem’s going to retaliate.”

“Let him try.”

That night, Max releases a statement.

“If you insult someone for who they are, you’re a coward. If you insult someone’s dog, you’re dead to me. Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Leo is an angel and I would die for him. That is all.”

It trends globally.

Charles doesn’t release a statement. He posts a single photo of Leo on the papal throne. The caption reads:

Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord. Leo agrees.

In a quiet room at the Vatican, Cardinal Emmanuel folds his hands and smiles gently at the others.

“Well,” he says. “I think we can all agree this is the most effective rallying moment the Church has had since the Council of Trent.”

On race day, Leo is carried through the paddock in a custom-made Ferrari satchel slung over Charles’ shoulder. He’s wearing a tiny white zucchetto. Someone livestreams the procession. The comment section is unhinged.

By the time the race begins, over a hundred protest signs are visible in the grandstands. They read things like Leo Is Love, Leo Is Life and Charles 3:16: “Thou Shalt Not Come for My Dog” and Down With the FIA.

Ben Sulayem tries to give a press conference. It doesn’t go well.

A reporter asks about the Leo comment.

“I meant it as a joke,” he says.

“He’s a dachshund,” the reporter replies. “He’s tiny and soft. How do you joke about swatting that?”

Ben Sulayem sputters.

A second reporter raises a hand. “Is it true that the Vatican filed an official grievance?”

Ben Sulayem goes pale.

Charles doesn’t talk to him. Not during the race, not after. But he does say one thing into the mic when he wins — taking the British Grand Prix with a daring overtake in the final lap.

“To Leo,” he says on the radio. “And to all the ones they underestimated.”

Leo barks from the garage. Charles swears it's divine timing.

Later that night, in their suite, Charles and Max collapse onto the couch. Leo curls between them, his tail wagging sleepily.

“You think I was too dramatic?” Charles asks.

Max kisses his temple. “I think you were perfect.”

“And him?”

Max’s smile darkens. “I think he’ll never insult a dog again.”

Somewhere in the Vatican, a new icon is being painted. It’s Leo. In the arms of a glowing Charles. The artist pauses, then adds a single word across the bottom.

Sanctus.

Chapter Text

The paddock smells like engine oil, burnt rubber, and espresso — the universal incense of Formula 1. It’s the Singapore Grand Prix weekend, and instead of hosting confession in the tiny chapel the FIA has set up for show, Charles — Pope Charles I, Vicar of Christ, Bishop of Rome, Ferrari Number 16, 2025 World Champion — has commandeered an unused motorhome and turned it into a place of spiritual reckoning.

There’s a discreet sign on the door: Confession, available now. Walk-ins welcome. All tea will be kept confidential (probably).

Max reads it and laughs. “You can’t add a disclaimer about confidentiality.”

Charles shrugs and straightens his collar. “I’m only human.”

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” Lando says, sinking into the makeshift kneeler — an overturned Red Bull crate with a pillow on top. “It has been, like, a long time since my last confession.”

“How long?”

“Since I got baptized at three months old.”

Charles stares.

“Okay,” he says, adjusting his posture. “Let’s go.”

“I yelled at my race engineer in Monaco. But he deserved it, Charles. You saw what he did. I also may have lied to Oscar and told him the media room snacks were poisoned so I could eat them all myself.”

“Lando.”

“I also watch F1 TikToks of myself. Daily.”

Charles blinks. “You … confessed that?”

“It’s the guilt, man. I’m losing sleep.”

“Say two Hail Marys and bring Oscar a cookie.”

“Thanks, Father.”

Charles lifts an eyebrow as the Mercedes team principal ducks in and closes the door behind him.

“I assume this is confidential?” Toto asks, removing his sunglasses.

“I mean, you are literally in confession.”

Toto exhales. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

Charles waits.

“I told George I was optimistic about the new floor updates when I’m actually not. I also maybe bribed a steward once. With Austrian strudel.”

Charles stares at him.

“And,” Toto adds, “I may have made fun of Christian Horner’s shoes.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“In the group chat.”

“… There’s a team principal group chat?”

“It’s private.”

Charles leans back. “Say three Our Fathers and send George an honest report.”

“Can I confess on behalf of Christian too?”

“No.”

Fernando doesn’t kneel. He lounges on the couch like he owns the place and raises a single eyebrow.

“So,” he says. “You’re really doing this.”

“I’m here for the paddock,” Charles replies. “My flock.”

“You’re also the competition.”

“God sees no teams. Only souls.”

Fernando smirks. “Tell that to Ferrari.”

Charles sighs. “What are you confessing?”

“I cursed Esteban over the radio. Twice.”

“That’s normal.”

“I told Lance he looked good in yellow when I hate yellow.”

Charles blinks.

Fernando lowers his voice. “And sometimes … I text Kimi Raikkonen for advice. Like life advice.”

Charles goes very still. “Does he respond?”

Fernando opens his phone. There’s a single reply:

Be fast. Drink. Don’t talk.

Charles nods slowly. “Sounds reasonable.”

George kneels with perfect posture. As expected.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I, uh, cursed at my engineer under my breath in the cooldown room. I also looked directly into Kimi’s eyes before qualifying and said, ‘I am inevitable.’”

Charles covers his face.

“And I may have adjusted the mirrors in his car as a prank once.”

“What is going on at Mercedes?”

George blushes. “I’m under a lot of pressure.”

“Do three laps in the sim with no mirror, no radio, and full fuel.”

“That’s just cruel.”

Esteban slides in next, sunglasses still on.

“I want to go on record and say this is all hypothetical.”

“You know this is confession, right? Not a podcast?”

“I may have intentionally drove over Pierre’s shoes last weekend. The new white ones.”

Charles frowns. “On purpose?”

“Emotionally, yes. Physically, also yes.”

Charles pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I also … maybe … bought his ex’s perfume and sprayed it in the Alpine motorhome. For ambience.”

“Oh my God, Esteban.”

“Is this not what confession is for?”

“I think you need a therapist.”

Esteban shrugs. “My therapist is a McLaren fan. I don’t trust her.”

Charles sighs. “Say five Hail Marys. And apologize to Pierre.”

“I won’t.”

“Say seven.”

“… Fine.”

Yuki walks in with a plate of sushi and sits on the floor.

“I have no guilt,” Yuki says cheerfully.

Charles blinks. “Nothing?”

“I said what I said, I did what I did, and if the Lord doesn’t like it, he can fight me.”

Charles sighs. “Yuki, that’s not how this works.”

Yuki takes a bite. “Want some tuna?”

“… Yes.”

Carlos enters dramatically, clutching a notebook.

“Charles. I have prepared. I will now read from my list of sins.”

Charles already looks exhausted. “Carlos-”

“One: I doubted your tire strategy in Zandvoort last year. Two: I told my abuela I made the risotto when it was my chef. Three: I may have referred to Max as your husband in a team meeting on accident.”

Charles blushes.

“Four: I sometimes pray for rain when I know Oscar struggles in the wet.”

“Carlos!”

“And five-”

“I feel like we need a separate booth just for you.”

“Do I get points for honesty?”

“You get points for drama.”

Oscar sneaks in next, eyes wide.

“Forgive me, Father,” he says. “I … I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Charles smiles kindly. “That’s okay.”

“I think I judged Lando for calling every corner ‘the fast one.’”

“Valid.”

“And sometimes I pretend I don’t hear his jokes.”

“That’s mercy, not sin.”

“Oh. Okay. Then I’m good.”

Charles chuckles. “Go in peace.”

“Can I still get a sticker?”

“… Ask Max.”

Last but not least, Lewis.

He walks in slowly, dressed in white, like he’s already halfway to sainthood.

“I just wanted to say thank you for doing this,” Lewis says. “Even if it’s mostly tea.”

“I’m trying,” Charles says softly.

Lewis sits. “My confession?”

Charles nods.

Lewis leans closer. “Sometimes, I still think about Abu Dhabi 2021 and wish I’d burned the whole place down.”

Charles chokes.

“I didn’t,” Lewis adds calmly. “But I dreamed about it. In full Prada.”

“… You’re forgiven.”

Outside, Max leans against the motorhome, grinning as each driver exits. He’s holding Leo like a judge holding a gavel.

“I heard Yuki gave you sushi.”

“He threatened God,” Charles replies, stepping into the sun. “With soy sauce.”

Max laughs. “So how’s the flock?”

“Sinful. Petty. Dramatic.”

“So … perfect.”

Charles nods. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

Chapter Text

The Sala Clementina inside the Apostolic Palace had seen its fair share of historic announcements. Papal addresses, diplomatic treaties, even the time Cardinal Giordano had publicly confessed to rooting for Mercedes in front of a room full of tifosi priests. But nothing could have prepared the College of Cardinals for what was about to happen on this unusually sunny Roman afternoon.

Max, in a dark navy polo shirt and sunglasses tucked into the collar, lounges in the corner of the room like he’s not about to ignite an ecclesiastical firestorm. Charles, wearing his modest white cassock and crimson sash, looks much less at ease. He fiddles with the ring of the Fisherman, his foot bouncing nervously.

“Do we really have to do this in person?” Max asks, glancing toward the wide array of cardinals seated before them like a jury about to deliver a death sentence.

“I’m literally the pope,” Charles mutters. “If I send an email, they’ll launch a conclave.”

Max shrugs. “Might be worth it.”

Charles glares. “Not helping.”

He clears his throat and steps forward, summoning the same composure he uses when taking Eau Rouge at 300 kph.

“Thank you, Your Eminences, for gathering on such short notice,” Charles begins, hands clasped in front of him. “We wanted to share something important. As you all know, the wedding is fast approaching.”

A few cardinals nod approvingly. One elderly Italian cardinal actually beams and whispers to his neighbor, “They grow up so fast.”

Charles swallows. “After much consideration, Max and I have decided on who will officiate the ceremony.”

The murmurs stop. Every face in the room lifts in anticipation. Cardinal Fernandez adjusts his glasses. Cardinal Maeda straightens in his chair. Someone in the back makes the sign of the cross preemptively.

Charles smiles as gently as he can manage. “It will be … Daniel Ricciardo.”

Silence.

Then, chaos.

“Daniel Ricciardo?” Cardinal Rinaldi shouts, his voice echoing off the frescoed ceiling.

“The driver?” Someone near the front asks, horrified.

“Is he even ordained?” Cardinal O’Denis clutches his rosary like it might burst into flame.

“He is now,” Max offers helpfully from the corner. “By the power vested in Get Ordained Online Dot-Com.”

“Silenzio!” Cardinal Borgia cries, rising to his feet. “This is highly irregular!”

“To be fair,” Charles says, palms up in peace, “so is the gay race driver pope marrying another driver.”

“No one asked you to be logical, Your Holiness,” another cardinal hisses.

“He got ordained online?” Someone else whispers, still stuck on that.

Charles holds his ground. “Daniel means a lot to both of us. He’s been there for me in some of the darkest moments of our careers. He’s family.”

“He has a thigh tattoo,” says Cardinal Ekström.

Max raises a brow. “And taste.”

“I don’t understand,” says Cardinal Ayodele, rubbing her temples. “We offered five of our most senior cardinals to officiate. We even wrote a new rite. One of us spent three weeks studying Aramaic wedding poetry!”

Cardinal Jiménez mumbles, “I composed an original hymn and everything …”

“And we appreciate that deeply,” Charles says sincerely. “But this is our wedding. Not just a public event. Not just a moment for history. For once, it has to be personal.”

Max crosses the room and stands beside Charles, their shoulders brushing. “Look. I know it’s weird. I know he’s not what you’d call … normal.”

“He wore a fake mustache for two entire Grand Prix weekends just for laughs,” a German cardinal exclaims.

“That was a great mustache,” Max mutters.

“But he’s someone we trust,” Charles finishes, more confident now. “Someone who knows how to make people laugh, and cry, and feel safe. Someone who understands that love is supposed to be joyful.”

The cardinals stare at them in stunned, scandalized, low-key traumatized silence.

Until one brave soul pipes up.

Cardinal Chibuzo clears his throat. “Will … will he be wearing the cassock?”

Max and Charles glance at each other.

“Oh God, no,” Max says.

Charles winces. “I don’t think you can trust him with that many buttons.”

Cardinal Chibuzo nods solemnly. “Then may I suggest a stole at least? Over the suit?”

“We’ll consider it,” Charles says, then mutters to Max, “That’s a no.”

One by one, the cardinals begin to shift, grumble, debate amongst themselves in hushed, angry Latin.

Max leans in, whispering, “Is it bad if I think this is hilarious?”

“They’re going to kill us in our sleep,” Charles whispers back.

Cardinal Fernández finally stands, holding up a hand. “If I may …”

The room hushes again.

He takes a long, deep breath.

“… I think we can all agree this is not what we expected.”

Charles braces himself.

“But,” Fernández continues, “we also didn’t expect a pope who wins Formula 1 championships, wears jeans with hearts on them, and convinced the Holy See to allow pets inside the basilica.”

“Leo is a good boy,” Charles mutters.

“Leo is the only reason half of the atheists in Italy converted back to Catholicism last year,” Fernández says dryly. “And yet, here we are.”

The cardinal looks around the room. “Perhaps what matters is not the traditions we uphold, but the people we love — and the joy we bring into the world.”

There’s a long pause.

Max whispers to Charles, “Is that an endorsement?”

“I think so?”

Another cardinal sighs and slumps back in his chair. “Fine. But if he turns the communion wine into a shoey, I’m calling the Inquisition.”

Max grins. “No promises.”

Cardinal Rinaldi shakes his head as if exorcising the thought. “We’ll … we’ll draft a papal decree to bless the officiation by lay celebrant. In the meantime, I need wine.”

“I’ll bring donuts,” Charles offers, already making a mental note to tell Donut the cat not to eat them.

As the cardinals slowly disperse, muttering about millennial heresy and motorsport blasphemy, Max turns to Charles and nudges his side.

“See?” He says. “Wasn’t that bad.”

“They wanted to exorcise us.”

Max grins. “I’ve had worse dates.”

Chapter Text

ROME – 7:42 PM

“Absolutely not,” Charles says firmly, arms crossed as he stares at the costume Pierre is holding up with way too much pride. “That is not going on my body.”

“It's velvet!” Pierre insists, shaking the cardinal-red robe with gold trimming. “It’s themed. You're the Pope. Let us have our moment!”

Joris is already laughing, popping open a bottle of vintage Barolo. “Come on, Charles, when else can you be dressed like a sexy saint?”

“I am the Pope,” Charles deadpans. “I don’t need to dress like one.”

Arthur pipes up from the couch, where he’s scrolling through a playlist. “Just wear the sash, at least. For the photos.”

Lorenzo is standing by the window, casually sipping his Negroni. “Honestly, I’m more concerned about how you’ve gotten more ripped since being elected pope. What is Vatican cardio and how do I subscribe?”

“I chase Leo through the Apostolic Palace,” Charles mutters.

Meanwhile, Andrea slides an espresso martini into Charles’ hand. “Drink up, Your Holiness. This is your last night as an unmarried man.”

Charles raises the glass reluctantly. “To sacrilege,” he says.

“To sin!” Pierre shouts.

“To getting you hungover but still photogenic by morning!” Arthur adds.

AMSTERDAM – 7:43 PM

“Okay, okay,” Daniel says, half-laughing, half-panicking as he tries to hide something behind his back. “Before you say anything — yes, I technically rented a boat shaped like a flaming crucifix.”

Max stops mid-sip of his beer. “You what?”

Lando leans over from the makeshift DJ booth. “It's art, mate. Symbolic. You’re marrying the Pope.”

Martin Garrix nods along, already in sunglasses indoors. “Also, it glows in the dark.”

Max groans, dragging his hand down his face. “He’s going to smite us with a look. You know he has that look.”

"He’s not here," Daniel says with a grin. "Yet. But if he was, he’d probably just roll his eyes, take his shirt off, and pose on it anyway."

Max tries not to smile. "You’re not wrong."

Then Daniel slaps a glittery sash across Max’s chest: PONTIFF’S FIANCÉ.

Max stares at it. “You’re so lucky I love you.”

ROME – 9:15 PM

Arthur has convinced Charles to wear the sash.

They’ve somehow snuck into a hidden wine bar underneath Trastevere with a private back room and a questionable fresco on the ceiling.

“I still don’t know why we needed to blindfold me to get here,” Charles grumbles, yanking off the silk scarf. “I know Rome.”

“You’re too famous now,” Pierre says. “We had to use decoy Popes.”

Joris grins. “Don’t worry. I paid off the waiters.”

“What is this fresco?” Charles asks, glancing up.

“Oh,” Andrea says casually. “That’s Saint Agatha. With her, uh, symbolic attributes.”

Charles stares. “Those are definitely just boobs.”

“Symbolic boobs,” Arthur clarifies.

Lorenzo clinks his glass with Charles'. “To you, little brother. For somehow making history while being completely, wonderfully yourself.”

Charles looks around the table. “You all are ridiculous.”

Pierre throws an arm around him. “You wouldn’t want us any other way.”

AMSTERDAM – 9:16 PM

The boat is sailing.

Technically.

It’s also blasting reggaeton, there are fireworks going off from the top deck, and a dancer dressed like the angel Gabriel just did a keg stand.

Daniel is wearing a bishop hat.

Max, shockingly, is not drinking heavily. He’s just ... watching. Smiling quietly.

Lando bumps into him. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Max says. Then pauses. “I keep thinking about when I first met him. We were both fourteen. He smiled at me, and I remember thinking, nope, that’s dangerous.”

Lando grins. “And now?”

“And now I want to build a life with him.”

Daniel crashes into them. “I brought churros!”

“Where did you get churros?” Max asks, bemused.

“I manifested them.”

ROME – 11:02 PM

A Vatican insider snuck in a karaoke machine.

Joris is now dramatically singing Adriano Celentano’s “Il Tempo Se Ne Va” with zero pitch accuracy.

Charles is laughing so hard he’s bent double.

“Get up there!” Pierre yells.

“No,” Charles says, clutching his drink. “I’m not singing.”

“You race at 300 kilometers an hour and this is where you draw the line?”

“Exactly.”

Arthur leans in. “If you sing, I’ll never bring up the time you cried watching The Lion King ever again.”

Charles is up in two seconds.

And five minutes later, the Pope is singing Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer,” with half the wine bar in tears.

AMSTERDAM – 11:03 PM

Max is being pulled into a group photo.

Daniel is shouting, “Three! Two! One! Say divinely married!”

The photo is chaos. Max blinking. Lando sneezing. Martin throwing up peace signs. Daniel kissing Max on the cheek.

Max pushes him away, laughing. “You are absolutely not stealing my wedding thunder.”

“I paved the way,” Daniel says solemnly. “I walked so your gay papal marriage could fly.”

Max rolls his eyes. “You’re officiating. Behave.”

“Define behave.”

ROME – 12:45 AM

Charles is tipsy.

He’s lying on a couch, Leo curled up beside him, and Andrea throwing a blanket over both of them.

“Best part of tonight?” Joris asks, flopping into an armchair.

Charles thinks. “All of it. The singing. The ridiculous sash. Being reminded I’m loved.”

Pierre raises a glass. “We don’t always say it enough, but Charles, you’re the heart of this whole circus. We love you. And Max? He’s lucky.”

Charles smiles, eyes glassy. “I’m lucky too.”

AMSTERDAM – 12:46 AM

Max is now sitting at the edge of the boat, feet dangling off, watching the lights of the city shimmer on the water.

Daniel joins him. Quiet now. “Big day coming soon.”

“Yeah.”

“You ready?”

“I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life.”

Daniel nudges him. “I’m proud of you, you know.”

Max turns to look at him.

“You’ve changed,” Daniel says. “In the best way. You let someone in.”

Max nods. “He’s worth it.”

ROME – 2:00 AM

The wine bar is winding down. Charles is holding his shoes in his hands, walking barefoot with his brothers through the streets of Rome. A cardinal robe tied around his waist like a beach towel.

“It feels like a dream,” he murmurs.

“What does?” Lorenzo asks.

“This life. Him. All of it.”

Arthur elbows him gently. “You earned it.”

AMSTERDAM – 2:01 AM

Max is asleep on a couch, wearing the sash as a blanket. Lando and Martin are drawing tiny hearts on his face with a sharpie.

“Do you think the Pope will kill us?” Martin whispers.

“Only a little,” Lando replies.

From the couch, Max mutters, “I will tell him. And he will smite you both.”

Then promptly passes back out.

ROME AND AMSTERDAM – THE NEXT MORNING

Two different sunrises.

One pope-to-be-husband waking up tangled in a blanket and a little dog licking his face.

One four-time world champion waking up with marker on his face, a headache, and an undeniable smile.

Two lives.

One love.

And one wedding drawing ever closer.

Chapter Text

The air in Vatican City is so thick with anticipation it may as well be sacramental. The sky above St. Peter’s Basilica is an endless canvas of blue, brushed with gold by the midmorning sun. Bells toll across Rome. Inside the basilica, everything glows — candles flickering like stars, marble polished to divine perfection, centuries-old frescoes watching silently over pews filled with dignitaries, royals, teammates, and more than a few camera crews struggling to be discreet.

But everyone stands when the choir starts.

They turn, and there — bathed in light, dressed in a custom white Armani suit with gilded embroidery subtle enough to whisper royalty — is Charles. He walks slowly down the aisle, Pascale at his side, tears sparkling in her eyes.

Max stands at the altar, in a black Tom Ford tuxedo and black loafers that somehow still make him look like a menace to society. His hands twitch, and then clench, and then twitch again.

Daniel leans over from his position front and center in his officiant’s robes — stolen from a 2003 church production of Jesus Christ Superstar, probably —and  whispers, “You gonna cry or pass out?”

“I’m gonna throw up,” Max mutters.

Charles locks eyes with him and grins, those devastating dimples catching the light. Max’s breath disappears from his lungs.

Behind Charles trails a parade of absurdity — Leo and Nino dressed in miniature matching cassocks. Donut the cat is being carried by a solemnly committed nun who volunteered to be the feline ring bearer’s escort. Even Sassy and Jimmy are accounted for, perched like monarchs with garlands around their necks, absolutely judging everyone.

When Charles reaches Max, Pascale places a kiss on his cheek, whispers something only he hears, and takes her seat.

The choir quiets. The doors close. The silence is sacred.

Daniel clears his throat. “Dearly beloved-”

“Boo,” Lando Norris mutters from the front pew.

“Shut up,” George Russell hisses. “Let the man cook.”

Daniel beams. “We are gathered here today to witness the holy union of two absolute menaces to the public. One, a Dutch man who doesn’t believe in seat belts or social filters. The other, a Monegasque who — somehow — is also the Pope.”

A ripple of laughter moves through the pews. Even a few cardinals chuckle, nervously.

Daniel lifts a brow. “Now, technically, there’s a lot of canon law that would suggest this should not be happening. But the thing about Charles is that canon law tends to move out of his way like he’s Moses parting the Red Sea. So here we are. In the most sacred of places. Celebrating the most chaotic of love stories.”

Charles and Max are standing closer than regulation allows. Their hands brush.

“You wrote your own vows,” Daniel says. “And honestly, I’ve read them. You’re all screwed. No one here will ever find love like this. Charles, you're up.”

Charles takes a breath. His voice is soft but unwavering.

“Max,” he says, “I’ve loved you for longer than I was brave enough to admit. I loved you before I even knew what that meant. When we raced karts as boys, when we crashed into each other more than we finished races, I didn’t know what to call it yet. But it was always you. It’s always been you.”

The basilica is silent, spellbound.

“When Pope Francis died, and they told me I’d been chosen, I thought it was the cruelest joke the universe had ever played on me. But then something strange happened — I found peace. And I think that peace came from knowing, deep down, that no matter what else I had to give up, I’d never stop loving you.”

Max wipes his eyes. Charles reaches out, gently brushes the tear from his cheek.

“I love your fire. Your loyalty. Your impossible will. I love that you never let me go — not once. And I promise, Max, that I will never let you go either. Not through rain, not through heartbreak, not even through the weight of the world. You are my race, and I will always chase you.”

Someone audibly sobs. Possibly a bishop.

Daniel sniffs. “Damn, okay. Max?”

Max clears his throat. He doesn’t have a piece of paper. He didn’t write anything down. Classic.

“I wasn’t supposed to feel this way about you,” he says, voice rough. “You were the rival. The golden boy. And then you became the Pope. But I didn’t fall in love with the world’s idea of you. I fell in love with the idiot who speed-ran an honorary theology degree while doing pre-season testing in Bahrain.”

Laughter. And tears.

“I fell in love with the man who gives last rites on a racetrack. Who believes in forgiveness, even when the world doesn’t deserve it. Who still eats three gelatos in one sitting and says he’s cutting back on sugar.”

Charles lets out a watery laugh. Max catches his hand, holds it tight.

“I don’t care if you’re the Pope. I don’t care if you win five more championships or never win a race again. You’re mine. And I’m yours. And I want to spend the rest of our lives making you laugh, protecting your stupid dog, and reminding the world that even the holiest man alive can fall stupidly in love.”

Charles pulls him into a hug before the ceremony’s even done. The crowd applauds.

Daniel waits until they pull apart. “So, by the power vested in me by, uh, several priests on TikTok and a very confused archbishop who accidentally clicked approve on an email form, I now pronounce you husbands.”

Max doesn’t wait for the next line. He dips Charles in one swift, dramatic motion — and kisses him like a man who’s waited a lifetime to do it.

The basilica erupts. Bells ring. Champagne sprays somewhere. Donut meows.

The photos break the internet within the hour.

Chapter Text

The chandeliers of the papal reception hall shimmer like constellations caught in crystal. Outside the Vatican walls, Rome buzzes with celebration. Inside, the energy is electric — part diplomatic gala, part chaotic F1 afterparty, and entirely unlike anything the Holy See has ever hosted.

Tables are decked in white linen embroidered with gold thread. Each centerpiece is a tasteful mix of Monegasque roses and Dutch tulips. There are bishops discussing the best tire strategies with Red Bull engineers, and nuns trading dance moves with Ferrari pit crew members. In one corner, Martin is already setting up for his DJ set. In another, the Monegasque royal family is trying to figure out how to properly eat arancini without causing a mess.

At the center of it all: Charles and Max, married, glowing, and laughing in each other’s arms.

Daniel, already halfway through his third Negroni, climbs onto a chair near the head table.

“ALRIGHT EVERYONE,” he bellows, clinking a fork against his glass like he’s about to announce a toast, but his grin is pure chaos. “I THINK IT’S TIME FOR THE MAIN EVENT.”

Max groans, catching on. “Don’t you dare.”

Charles looks between them. “What is the main event?”

“The garter toss!” Daniel roars, pointing a triumphant finger at Charles. “Time to give the people what they want!”

The crowd — already well-lubricated by a selection of Vatican-approved wine — erupts in cheers.

“No,” Max says, shaking his head, backing away. “Absolutely not. We are not-”

“You got married in a church,” Carlos says, draping an arm around Max’s shoulder and slurring slightly. “But this is a party now. It’s law.”

“It’s tradition,” Pierre chimes in from across the room. “And if I had to watch you dip Charles like that in the Basilica, the least you can do is let the rest of us enjoy the aftermath.”

“I am not undressing Charles in front of-” Max begins.

But Charles, who is already hiking up his pant leg with a straight face, interrupts calmly, “Max, mon amour, just get on your knees.”

Max blinks at him. The room howls.

“You are all insane,” he mutters — but then he sighs, gets on his knees in front of Charles, and dramatically bows his head.

“Forgive me, Father, for I’m about to sin.”

The cardinals at the far end of the room collectively clutch their rosaries. A few scandalized gasps are heard. Sister Carmela fans herself with a paper napkin.

Charles just smirks. “You’re already married to me. It doesn’t count.”

The music swells into something sultry — probably Martin’s doing — and Max, still shaking his head, slides his hands up under Charles’ pant leg with exaggerated slowness. The crowd chants now.

“WITH TEETH! WITH TEETH! WITH TEETH!”

Max sends Charles a sharp look, daring him to call it off.

Charles, now reclining against the head table with all the serenity of a man truly drunk on joy (and champagne), arches one elegant eyebrow. “What are you waiting for?”

Max grins … and bites.

There’s a collective scream from the crowd. Max takes his sweet time, dragging the garter down with a wicked glint in his eye, Charles biting back a laugh that turns into a shiver as the room grows louder and louder. Finally, Max pulls it off and stands triumphantly, holding the lacy band aloft like a trophy.

“Now what?” He yells over the noise.

“TOSS IT!” Daniel shouts. “GIVE THE PEOPLE WHAT THEY WANT!”

Max spins once for dramatic effect and launches the garter into the air.

The crowd parts like the Red Sea — except for one curly-haired McLaren driver who leaps like it’s the final lap at Spa. Lando snatches it out of mid-air with an undignified squeal.

“No way!” He crows, holding it up. “No freaking way!”

Just then, from across the room, Oscar lets out a yelp.

Because the bouquet — hurled moments earlier by Charles in a sneaky, well-timed toss — is now sitting in his hands.

Everyone goes silent.

Oscar looks at the flowers.

Then at Lando.

Then at the flowers again.

“Oh no,” he says, already backing away. “No, no, I know how this works. I know the rules. I’m not-”

The crowd is already chanting.

“DANCE! DANCE! DANCE!”

“I didn’t agree to this!” Oscar yells, turning to find any sort of help.

“None of us agreed to any of this,” Lando says dryly, brushing back his curls and adjusting the garter over his wrist. “But here we are.”

Charles, who’s now sitting on Max’s lap with his head against his shoulder, lifts his champagne and shouts, “To love! To fate! To the paddock’s next power couple!”

Oscar looks like he wants to die. Lando looks like he wants to eat him alive.

A beat.

Then Lando smirks. “Fine. One dance.”

He walks over, offers a dramatic bow, and holds out his hand.

Oscar glares at it. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“You say that like I don’t enjoy everything,” Lando replies.

Oscar sighs, takes the hand.

The music shifts to a slow, swoony ballad — thank you, Martin — and the room makes space as the two teammates start to sway. At first, it’s awkward. Oscar is stiff, his hand barely resting on Lando’s shoulder. Lando, of course, is swaying his hips with abandon, singing the lyrics under his breath, grinning like a fool.

But something shifts. The crowd gets quieter. The lights dim a little. Lando’s hand settles at the small of Oscar’s back, and suddenly, their movements sync.

Oscar says something that makes Lando laugh softly.

Lando says something that makes Oscar go pink and look away.

The tension is so thick it could be sliced with a butter knife.

From the head table, Charles sighs, utterly delighted. “I told you they’d fall in love.”

“They are not in love,” Max mutters.

“Oh, they will be,” Charles says with a dreamy grin. “Just wait.”

“They’re coworkers,” Max insists. “There’s no way-”

“Mm,” Charles hums, curling into him. “Weren’t we also coworkers?”

Max opens his mouth. Closes it again. “Shut up.”

Daniel leaps onto a chair again, swaying dramatically with his wine glass. “TO THE NEXT WEDDING!”

“To the next wedding!” The room echoes.

Oscar and Lando, still slow dancing in the middle of the floor, freeze.

“We are not-” Oscar starts.

Lando just grins, eyes twinkling. “Never say never, darling.”

And Charles laughs so hard, he nearly spills his champagne.

Later that night, after the dancing and the garter and the bouquet and the spontaneous conga line led by Arthur and Prince Albert, Max and Charles escape to a quiet corner of the Vatican gardens.

“You think we broke the Church?” Max asks, leaning his head against Charles’ shoulder.

Charles snorts. “I think we rebuilt it.”

There’s a long pause.

“Also,” Max says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the garter he had somehow retrieved from Lando, “you are never wearing anything under your suit again.”

Charles kisses him just to shut him up.

From somewhere inside, Daniel yells, “GET A ROOM!”

“We did!” Charles yells back. “It’s literally the Vatican!”

And Max laughs until he can’t breathe.

Chapter Text

The Vatican is quiet at night, unusually so.

The reception has finally wound down — though Daniel is still trying to teach two cardinals how to twerk near the gelato station — and Charles and Max have made their escape through a side corridor, laughing breathlessly, hand-in-hand, still slightly wine-sweet and glowing from hours of dancing and celebration.

Max’s jacket is slung over his shoulder. Charles’ collar is slightly askew, a bit of gold embroidery glittering at his throat. His curls are soft with sweat and champagne. They’ve both kicked off their shoes.

The corridors echo faintly with their footsteps.

When they reach Charles’ papal apartments — opulent, ancient, private — Max stops.

Charles turns to him. “What?”

Max just grins. “It’s tradition.”

And with that, he scoops Charles into his arms like it’s nothing.

Charles squawks, surprised. “Max! My God!”

“Not here, he’s off-duty.”

“You’re going to throw out your back.”

Max smirks. “Worth it.”

The two Swiss Guards stationed outside the papal bedroom stand to attention as Max approaches. Their eyes widen as they clock what’s happening.

Charles clears his throat from the safety of Max’s arms. “Gentlemen. Thank you for your service.”

Neither guard says anything. One of them turns faintly pink. The other’s eye twitches.

Max kicks the door open dramatically.

“For we have entered the sacred place!” He declares like a televangelist.

And then, as the door shuts behind them and the lock clicks into place, Max lowers Charles gently to the floor.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Charles leans into him, pressing a hand to his chest. “You’re very pleased with yourself.”

“I married you,” Max whispers, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Of course I’m pleased.”

Charles chuckles, soft and low. “Do you plan to be this insufferable all night?”

Max’s voice dips. “No. I plan to make you forget your own name.”

The heat between them sharpens, slow and honey-slick. Charles swallows, eyes darkening.

He reaches up, undoing the last button of his jacket, letting it slide from his shoulders. “Big words for someone who couldn’t even handle feeding me wedding cake without making a mess.”

Max shrugs. “You were licking it off a silver spoon. I’m only human.”

“Mm.” Charles walks backward toward the massive bed, embroidered in Vatican gold. “We’ll see.”

Max follows, slowly, like a lion stalking its prey. “You’re in so much trouble.”

“Promises, promises.”

He catches Charles around the waist and pulls him in. Their mouths meet in a kiss that starts sweet and deepens immediately. Charles gasps into it, arms coming up around Max’s shoulders. Max walks him backward until the backs of Charles’ knees hit the edge of the mattress.

They break apart just enough for Max to murmur, “Lie down.”

And Charles — flushed, bright-eyed, grinning — does.

The bed creaks beneath them, ancient wood complaining. Max braces himself above Charles and just looks for a moment, like he’s trying to memorize every line of his face, every golden glint of candlelight caught in those curls.

“You know,” Max murmurs, tracing the buttons of Charles’ shirt slowly, “I used to think worship was a stupid concept.”

Charles smiles lazily. “Blasphemous.”

“Mm. Maybe.” Max pops one button open. Then another. “But you … you’ve changed my mind.”

Charles’ breath catches. “You’re talking a lot tonight.”

“I have a lot to say.” Another button. A brush of fingers across bare skin. “And I don’t want to forget a second of this.”

Charles reaches up, touches his cheek. “Neither do I.”

Max dips his head, kissing a line down Charles’ throat. “Tell me what you want.”

Charles shudders. “You.”

“You’ve got me.” His mouth is hot, reverent. “You’ll always have me.”

What follows is something slow and consuming, a kind of devotion neither of them has ever known before. There’s laughter and teasing and breathless moans half-swallowed into each other’s mouths. Charles is all sin and grace. Max is all fire and worship.

At one point, Max leans over him and murmurs, “I never believed in heaven.”

Charles gasps beneath him. “And now?”

Max grins against his skin. “Now I’m pretty sure it’s you.”

Charles laughs, breathless and happy. “You are ridiculous.”

“And you are divine.”

They lose track of time. At some point, Charles manages to gasp, “You’re going to get both of us excommunicated.”

Max just laughs. “From what I’ve heard, you’re in charge of that.”

And then Charles — holy and flushed and shining — pulls him down again with a whispered, “Then forgive me, Father, for I’m about to sin.”

The next morning, when the Swiss Guards are changed out at dawn, the outgoing pair stare into the middle distance, haunted.

The incoming pair glance at each other.

“Rough night?” One asks.

The elder guard just says flatly, “Get earplugs.”

Later that morning, Max wakes to sunlight filtering through gold-draped windows and the scent of incense faint in the air. Charles is still asleep beside him, tangled in sheets, one bare shoulder exposed to the light.

Max watches him for a long moment. Then leans in to kiss his temple.

“Good morning, liefje.”

Charles hums without opening his eyes. “You wore me out.”

“You wore me out.”

There’s a silence filled only by the sounds of birds outside.

Charles finally opens one eye. “You think we traumatized the guards?”

“Absolutely.”

He smiles. “Good.”

Max pulls him in closer. “What now?”

Charles presses his nose to Max’s chest. “Now? I’m going to sleep for three more hours. Then I’m going to say Mass. Then I’m going to spend the rest of the day being unbearably smug about being married to you.”

“You’re already unbearably smug.”

“I’m married. I’m allowed.”

Max kisses his forehead. “I love you.”

Charles smiles, already drifting back to sleep. “I love you more.”