Chapter Text
The Prince’s Palace was everything Charles Leclerc had come to expect from Monaco: golden walls, perfectly polished floors, and a whole lot of people pretending they had a purpose. He stood in the corner, nursing his drink, trying to look like someone who could endure this gala without a complete mental breakdown.
From the far side of the room, he saw the doors open, and, naturally, there he was.
Max Verstappen.
Max entered like he was on a diplomatic mission, greeting the crowd with a wave and a smile so polished it could’ve been branded. The kind of smile that made everyone feel special and like they were being personally chosen to witness something extraordinary. Everyone was buying it.
He was the Prime Minister’s son, after all.
Charles, on the other hand, was more than familiar with the Max Verstappen brand of politeness. It was the kind of politeness that made people think Max was a model citizen, and, oh, how much Charles hated it.
“You look like you’re preparing for an escape,” Pierre said from behind him, a faint grin tugging at his lips.
“Can you blame me?” Charles muttered. “I’m about to watch a grown man convince an entire ballroom that he’s both charming and diplomatic.”
“He is diplomatic,” Pierre said, barely containing his amusement. “Can’t you see? Max is the future of Belgian politics.”
Charles shot him a deadpan look. “He’s the future of annoying me, that’s for sure.”
Pierre chuckled and shook his head, clearly enjoying this more than he should have. “He’s coming over, you know.”
“Great. Perfect.” Charles took a long sip of his drink, resigned to the inevitable.
Max spotted him and, with the grace of someone who had been trained by generations of diplomats, walked straight over. Not a hair out of place, his posture impeccable.
“Your Highness,” Max greeted, his tone so smooth it might as well have been buttered. “What a pleasure to have been invited to your palace. It's an honor to spend time with you.”
Charles resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Likewise, Max.”
The politeness radiated off Max like an aura. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t move too fast, didn't even look like he’d just walked into a room with a few potential international scandals brewing. He was perfect.
Too perfect.
“I trust the evening is going well for you so far?” Max asked, eyes twinkling with that innocent curiosity.
Charles considered his response carefully. “If by going well, you mean ‘I’m being forced to smile politely while everyone stares at my existence,’ then yes, it’s going perfectly.”
Max’s smile didn’t waver. “I can only imagine,” he said, with such a serene tone, as if he'd heard that same complaint a thousand times before. “But you’re handling it very well. Quite the ambassador for Monaco.”
“Right,” Charles muttered. “You should try it sometime.”
“Oh, I plan to,” Max said smoothly, leaning in ever so slightly. “But for tonight, I’m just here in place of The Prime Minister. Mother dearest sends her best, of course.” He turned back toward the room, smiling at various guests with effortless charm. “She couldn’t make it tonight - political duties in Brussels - but I’ve been instructed to make her proud.”
Charles didn’t miss the subtle undertone of that statement: I’m here because I’m a very important political asset, and you should be lucky I’m here at all.
Max turned back to Charles, keeping his voice low enough that it wouldn’t interrupt the surrounding conversations, but with just enough volume to make sure Charles couldn’t escape.
“I have to say, I admire your ability to navigate these... diplomatic events with such grace.”
“Oh, I’m graceful,” Charles said dryly, the sarcasm practically dripping off his words. “I’ve spent years honing the art of pretending I’m not about to lose my damn mind.”
Max laughed, not at all phased. “Well, if anyone can teach me how to truly enjoy these events, it would be you, I’m sure.”
“I’m sure I could give you a masterclass,” Charles muttered. “Right after I teach you how to be... less perfect.”
Max didn’t even flinch. “I’ll take notes.”
Pierre, who had been watching the exchange from a distance, stepped in, clearly too entertained to keep his distance. “Well, well, well. Max Verstappen, the man we all were waiting for.” He raised his glass to Max. “Careful, Charles, he might convince you to run for office at this rate.”
“I’d rather eat the royal cutlery than run for office,” Charles said under his breath, not really caring if Max heard.
Max’s eyes flicked to Charles, a hint of mischief finally breaking through his polite exterior. “I’m sure that wouldn’t be a terrible option,” he said with a wink, his tone still smooth, but the joke unmistakable.
“Max,” Charles said, rubbing his temples, “how are you this... normal with everyone else? How do they not realize you’re just chaos in a suit?”
Max’s eyes glinted with something close to amusement and leaned in close to Charles that he could feel the former’s breath on his ear.
“What if I say it’s just for you, Charles?”
Before Charles had the time to even take in the weight of what he had just heard, Max continued nonchalantly, “Besides, chaos is best served subtle, isn’t it?”
“You’ve been spending too much time with diplomats,” Charles grumbled.
Max only smiled wider. “If it is of any help, Your Highness, I’ll keep the chaos to a minimum tonight.” He paused. “For the sake of your sanity, of course.”
Charles glanced at him, his patience starting to wear thin. “I don’t know if I believe you, but at least you’re good at this game.”
“Not a game,” Max replied smoothly. “Just politics.”
And just like that, Max was swept away by the next group of guests, continuing to be the perfect picture of diplomatic decorum. He was so good at it that Charles almost believed he was genuine.
Except, of course, for the fact that Charles knew Max loved seeing him squirm. Every polite smile, every carefully measured sentence was just another step in a dance Max had perfected. The more composed Max was in public, the more unhinged his antics became in private. And Charles? He was just the unwitting target of all that chaos.
Pierre looked over at Charles, grinning. “You realize he’s perfectly aware that you find him insufferable, right?”
Charles groaned. “I can’t tell if I want to throttle him or buy him a drink.”
“Why not both?” Pierre suggested with a laugh.
***
The dinner had taken a turn into uncomfortable territory. Charles, whose idea of a good evening didn’t involve discussing the finer points of economic stability, found himself zoning out as the Italian ambassador detailed the future of trade agreements.
The man was talking in circles, using words like bilateral relations and economic integration as though they meant anything to Charles beyond the immediate headache they were giving him.
Max, however, was all in. If anyone had told Charles that Max Verstappen - Max Verstappen - was actually into this stuff, he would’ve laughed. But here he was, the son of the Belgian Prime Minister, leaning forward, asking insightful questions, nodding along as though he actually cared about international trade.
"Tell me," Max was asking the ambassador, his voice steady and focused, "how does the fluctuating euro affect the cross-border investments in the Mediterranean region? I imagine there’s a distinct impact on long-term sustainability?"
The ambassador paused, clearly impressed by Max’s knowledge. "Well, yes, of course, the euro’s effect -"
Charles nearly choked on his wine. Sustainability?
Max noticed, but didn’t comment, giving Charles a polite, almost amused look as he continued the conversation with the ambassador like he wasn’t sitting at the same dinner table as a guy who preferred to talk about literally anything else.
Lando Norris, meanwhile, had just arrived, as usual, making an entrance – Lando style. His tie was crooked, his hair slightly askew, and he had a look on his face that suggested he’d been in a scuffle with a waiter and won.
“Apologies for my tardiness!”
Lando’s voice rang out like a bell, but he was already waving it off. “You can thank the wine list for that. Trust me, it’s not as simple as it looks.” He sat down next to Pierre, grinning. “You know, I almost thought I was at a business conference there for a second. People take wine very seriously, don’t they?”
Carlos, sitting opposite Lando, was half-smiling, half-sighing. “Yes, Lando. Everything is a business conference to you.”
Lando shrugged, unbothered. “Someone’s gotta bring the fun, right?”
Carlos didn’t argue. Instead, he picked up his glass with a small, knowing smirk. “You’re good at that.”
Lando winked at him. “I know.”
Charles barely managed to hold back a snort.
Of course, it was Lando who would be the first to break the monotony. If the evening didn’t already feel like a poorly-scripted play, now it did. But, as usual, Lando was grinning like he was in on the joke no one else seemed to get.
As if to prove his point, Lando turned toward Max, suddenly interested. “So, what’s this about Mediterranean trade? You talking about pasta futures, or -?”
Max glanced at him, still wearing the same serious expression. “It’s about investment in agricultural exports,” he said without missing a beat, as though he wasn’t about to start giggling at Lando’s ridiculousness. “The Mediterranean region has a lot of potential for growth in organic products.”
Charles fought back a grin. He could almost hear Lando’s brain processing that.
“Right,” Lando said, dragging the word out. “So, let me get this straight. You’re telling me the key to global wealth is pasta?”
Max didn’t even flinch. “No, it’s about the supply chain management of organic grains.” He said it with such a straight face; it was almost impossible to tell whether he was joking or genuinely passionate about the topic. “The fluctuations in crop yields can have a huge impact on regional economies.”
Charles, sitting next to Max, was dying. The whole thing was absurd - yet Max was so engrossed, so enthusiastic, that it was hard not to admire his ability to make something so dull sound... almost exciting.
“Max, mate,” Lando chimed in, “are you sure you’re not secretly plotting to take over the world economy? Because, honestly, this sounds like a plan.”
Max’s lips quirked at the corners, but he didn’t let go of the conversation. “If I ever do take over the world economy, it’s going to be built on sustainable agriculture and data-driven solutions, Lando.”
Lando stared at him for a moment, blinking as if trying to process the sentence. “You’re an absolute nightmare,” he said, half-smiling, then turning to Pierre. “Am I the only one who finds this completely bizarre?”
Pierre shrugged, not looking up from his food. “It’s Max. If he’s not talking about grains, he’s reading about them. Honestly, I’m just glad he’s entertained.”
“I’m not entertained,” Max replied, his voice cool. “I’m engaged.”
“You know,” Lando said, leaning back in his chair, “I’m starting to think you should just take over Belgium’s economy. You’ve got this, mate.”
Max didn’t miss a beat. “I’ll leave that to my mom. I’m more interested in the data. You’d be amazed at how much you can predict just from crop trends.”
Carlos and Pierre exchanged a look across the table that said: What a nerd. But it was... kind of endearing in a way. Not that they were about to admit that out loud.
Charles rolled his eyes dramatically, but before he could comment further, the door opened, and a fresh wave of people entered, shifting the mood of the room slightly. Among them was George Russell.
He entered quietly, but with a presence that instantly made the room feel like it had shifted. It wasn’t an entrance in the dramatic Lando sense - George was far more measured, more subdued.
Charles gave him a curt nod, but the exchange was more than just polite. They knew each other well, too well, and it was clear that this dinner wasn’t exactly what either of them had signed up for.
Max, ever the diplomat, smiled warmly. “George, glad you could make it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” George replied, his tone casual but sharp.
“George,” Charles greeted with a touch of formality. “You’re late.”
George gave him a half-smile, a little too tight around the edges. “Only fashionably so, I hope.”
Charles just shrugged; his smile thin.
His eyes flicked to Charles. “How’s the dinner been, Charles? Everything as glorious as it looks from the outside?”
Charles gave him a flat look. “Oh, absolutely. You should be alongside me more than burying your nose in spreadsheets all day. It’s as entertaining as watching paint dry.”
“Sounds lovely,” George said with a faint grin.
Meanwhile, Alex Albon - Max’s childhood friend and the only person who seemed to have the skill to interrupt a conversation involving Max without Max blinking - made his way over to the table. He leaned over, clapping George on the back with a grin that could’ve melted glaciers.
“Alright, alright,” Alex said, addressing the room as though he was already on a first-name basis with everyone, “am I missing the really interesting bit, or have I just arrived at a completely normal dinner?”
George, seemingly pleased to have a new target, shot him a sideways glance. “You’re just in time for the chaos, Alexander.”
Alex raised an eyebrow. “Chaos is my specialty.”