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Chapter Text

Charles Leclerc had always known too much and said too little.

It wasn’t a personality trait so much as a side effect of growing up in Monaco, being raised by the Ferrari PR machine, and accidentally developing the personality of a man with abandonment issues and a god complex. 

From an early age, he had learned to keep secrets—how to smile when he wanted to scream, how to nod politely when someone asked him about strategy like he wasn’t actively trying to astral project into another timeline where Ferrari didn’t run on vibes and sacrificial rituals. He had also learned that knowing things was a weapon. You never told people what you knew until it was useful. Or unless they cried. Or unless they were Max Verstappen and you were both thirteen and Max had just kissed you in a hallway and your brain had short-circuited and you said, “I was reading Drarry,” like that meant anything.

So yes. Charles knew many things. And one of those things, obviously, was that Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri were dating.

He knew because he had eyes.

He knew because Lando looked at Oscar like Oscar held the last functional nerve cell in his otherwise completely ADHD-riddled brain, and Oscar looked at Lando like Lando had been assigned to him by a secret government matchmaking algorithm and now he was stuck loving him for life.

He knew because Lando kept calling Oscar “baby” on the radio and Oscar never denied it, not even once, and that was a crime.

He knew because Oscar—Oscar “Emotionally Contained Like a Sealed Tupperware” Piastri—had smiled when Lando squirted water at him during a press conference, and Charles had never seen Oscar smile at anyone like that except maybe his cat. And maybe Charles once. When Charles lent him a charger.

Anyways. It was obvious.

But no one else seemed to notice.

Carlos didn’t notice. Too busy building birdhouses and dating models who had skincare lines.

Pierre didn’t notice. Too busy looking at Esteban like he was the final boss in a very gay Mario Kart game.

Max didn’t notice. Or pretended not to. Because Max was always pretending he didn’t care, even when he obviously did. 

But Charles?

Charles was a connoisseur of hidden romantic tension. He had been raised by the angst tag. Bred by the slow burn. He had been eleven years old reading Drarry fanfiction on his maman’s borrowed Kindle like it was scripture. He had highlighted passages. Annotated them. Made opinions . He had lived a thousand lives through the eyes of emotionally stunted boys who kissed each other only after one of them almost died in a forest. He knew the signs. He saw them like constellations.

And maybe— maybe —part of the reason he noticed so quickly was because he had lived something like that once.

With Max.

If you could even call it that.

They had met when they were five.

Five.

Back when their helmets were still bigger than their personalities, which honestly wasn’t saying much because Max had the fury of a thousand war gods and Charles cried if someone looked at him too loud.

Their first interaction had been Charles offering Max a strawberry yogurt tube.

Max had sniffed it, looked Charles dead in the eye, and thrown it into a bush.

Then Max took Charles’ toy car.

Then Charles kicked him in the shin.

Then Max shoved sand down Charles’ shirt.

Then Charles bit him.

It was, in hindsight, romantic.

Not at the time. At the time it was war. Full-scale toddler warfare with juice box diplomacy and violent Lego-based negotiations. They were enemies. Pure, uncut enemies. Charles hated Max’s face. Max hated Charles’ laugh. They would scream at each other in paddocks and tattle to their dads in rapid-fire French and Dutch and get grounded for punching each other mid-trophy ceremony.

But then they were eight, and the mud incident happened.

They were in Italy. Karting weekend. Rainstorm. Mud everywhere. Max had dared Charles to jump into a puddle. Charles dared Max to do it harder. They were rolling. They were wrestling. A wasp flew by. They both shrieked. And somehow—through physics or fate or demonic ritual—they ended up kissing. Accidentally. Briefly. Very sloppily.

They both screamed and swore to never tell anyone.

And they didn’t.

Until Charles was thirteen, reading fanfiction behind the trailer during a wet Friday practice in Belgium. It was a particularly emotional Drarry fic, full of forbidden kisses and snarky insults and slow-burn enemies-to-lovers angst. He was sniffling. Not crying. Just, you know, having an emotional reaction.

And Max found him.

“What are you doing?” Max said, like an insult.

Charles tried to hide the Kindle. “Nothing.”

Max yanked it. Scrolled. Blinked. “Are they kissing?”

“No,” Charles lied. “They’re fighting.”

Max tilted the screen. Read the sentence. “‘Draco pressed Harry against the wall, their breaths coming fast.’ That’s not fighting.”

“They’re—training,” Charles said, sweaty, delusional.

“You’re disgusting,” Max said.

And then he kissed Charles.

Right there. In a hallway that smelled like rubber and teen boy sweat. It wasn’t nice. It wasn’t practiced. Max had braces. Charles might have blacked out for four seconds. But he kissed back.

And then they never spoke about it again.

Max threatened to set himself on fire if Charles brought it up. Charles almost wrote a fic about it once under a fake name, but chickened out.

So. No. They weren’t friends.

But they weren’t not-friends, either.

They were… something.

Something strange and fragile and made up of glances and bruises and stupid little emotional stitches that had accumulated over the years. Max was angry. Always angry. Angry like it was his religion. Angry like the world owed him peace and kept giving him grid penalties instead.

But with Charles?

With Charles, he was calm.

Not happy. Never happy. But quieter. Less sharp. Softer, if you squinted and tilted your head and ignored the fact that he once threw a wheel gun during a debrief.

And Charles—poor, exhausted, Ferrari-pilled Charles—was sad. Always sad. Sad like a beautiful wife waiting for a letter from the war. Sad like a boy with too much talent and too many team orders and one too many "we are checking" and "must be the water."

But when he saw Max?

He smiled.

Like Max was the last beautiful thing left in this cursed sport.

And Max would stare at him, jaw tight, shoulders tense, and say, “Don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying,” Charles would sniff.

“You look like you’re about to cry.”

“I always look like this.”

“That’s worse.”

And that was it. That was their whole dynamic.

They were enemies. Childhood rivals. Former something-kissers. Emotional support nightmares.

They had made it through puberty, through Formula 2, through early F1, through heartbreak, through literal Ferrari sabotage, and now here they were.

2025.

And 2025 fucking sucked.

Not in a cute, quirky “we had a rough start but we’ll bounce back” kind of way.

No.

2025 sucked like a Roomba on crack rolling through a glitter factory. It sucked in a biblical sense. Like, if the Bible had written a chapter on Formula 1 seasons, 2025 would be Revelations. The whole thing. Fire, floods, plagues, McLaren winning. All of it.

It wasn’t even halfway through the season and already the chaos was unprecedented.

Max had two podiums. Not wins. Podiums. He finished P2 in Saudi Arabia after he lost a wheel nut and had to manually screw it back on mid-pit stop while Red Bull engineers stood in the garage arguing over whether the tire was spiritually aligned with the car’s aura.

His second podium was in Miami, where he finished third because the Red Bull had spontaneously developed the aerodynamic profile of a toaster. He’d screamed so loudly on the radio that Christian Horner actually went deaf in one ear and had to be wheelchaired out of the paddock.

Charles?

Charles had one podium. One. Uno. Ein. A lonely little third place in Imola where he only made it onto the podium because Lando’s steering wheel turned into a salad spinner on the last lap and Oscar Piastri drove into a pit board trying to wave at him.

Even then, Charles had cried on the cool-down lap because the Ferrari garage forgot to celebrate.

They literally forgot.

The camera cut to the Ferrari pit wall during his podium celebration and they were all just sitting there, eating crackers and looking mildly concerned about tire temperatures.

Charles had smiled. On the podium. While sobbing internally.

He smiled at Max later in the pen room like, “Haha, it’s okay, I’m fine.”

And Max had just looked at him like, You’re not fine, you’re clinically unwell.

And Charles nodded like, Yes. But I am pretty.

Because Ferrari wasn’t just failing—they were innovating new ways to fail.

At one point in a track, Charles had gone into the pits only to be told mid-stop that they didn’t actually bring the tires. The tires. The thing cars need. One mechanic had to run across the paddock like he was in the Olympics while Charles sat there in the car making peace with his ancestors.

In Australia, the team forgot to tell him he was being undercut until four laps too late, at which point Charles calmly asked if he could “drive into the sea.” He was only half joking.

In China, the radio died. Entirely. Charles completed the race using hand signals, honking the horn every time he wanted to box and waving at the engineers like he was in a school play.

Meanwhile, Red Bull—once an unstoppable death machine—had apparently been cursed.

Max had started doing rituals in the garage. Salt circles. Crystals. He asked Yuki Tsunoda if he knew any good shamans. He burned sage around the simulator and claimed the car was possessed by the ghost of Sebastian Vettel’s 2019 DNF.

Nothing helped.

Nothing could stop the fact that McLaren was now winning everything.

Oscar Piastri was driving like a robot possessed by Fernando Alonso’s ambition and Mark Webber’s last remaining nerve. Lando Norris had achieved full anime protagonist arc and was now gliding around tracks like he’d unlocked an eighth chakra.

They were unstoppable. They were terrifying. They were also—disgustingly—in love.

Max could not deal with it.

Charles tried to deal with it. He tried really hard. He patted Oscar’s shoulder once and said “congrats” with a smile so forced it looked like a dental spasm.

Carlos tried to cope by pretending they were just “really good friends.” Max threw a water bottle at a wall. Toto Wolff whispered to God for help.

And somewhere in between Carlos’s tactical denial and Toto’s divine hotline, Charles was sitting on the concrete pathway between the Ferrari and Red Bull motorhomes with his knees drawn up like a sad boy who had just learned Santa wasn’t real and that the elf factory was run by Zak Brown.

Max was beside him, hunched over his phone with a grimace so violent it looked like he was trying to chew glass using only the power of his frown. His phone screen showed telemetry data from FP3 and it was, to use the technical term, an abomination. The kind of data that made engineers cry. The kind of lines that didn't curve, they squiggled. A graph that looked like it had been drawn by a cat walking across a keyboard.

“Heavens,” Charles muttered, peeking sideways at Max’s phone and immediately regretting it. “You’re not even braking. Are you braking? Max, that line is—what is that? A mountain?”

“I locked up, okay?” Max muttered, tapping the screen like maybe he could change the past through sheer rage. “The car won’t rotate. I think the rear is possessed. Again.”

“It’s always possessed.”

“You think this is funny?”

“No. I think it’s tragic. Which is why I’m coping.”

Max blinked. “You’re what?”

“Coping,” Charles repeated solemnly, as if he were about to recite poetry. “With Lestappen fanfiction.”

A long pause.

Max turned his head very slowly . “Charlie.”

“Oui?”

“You are always coping.”

“I know.”

“You’re coping right now? ”

Charles didn’t answer. He just sighed dramatically and leaned his head back against the wall, reached into his hoodie pocket, pulled out his phone like it was a holy relic, unlocked it with a thumb swipe, and immediately clicked into Safari like this was a ritual he’d done a thousand times.

Max narrowed his eyes. “You’re not actually—”

Charles held up a finger, already scrolling. “One second.”

“No, are you seriously—right now?”

“I am reading one,” Charles said, completely serene. “It’s called Fire and Gasoline .”

Max looked alarmed. “That sounds illegal.”

“It's 275k words,” Charles whispered, reverent. He showed Max the fanart on top of the fanfic.

Max leaned closer and squinted. “Is that me with long hair?”

“Yes.”

“And why are you wearing—a veil?”

“Marriage arc.”

“Jesus.”

Charles shrugged. “Ferrari is shit. This is the only coping mechanism that works.”

Max snorted. “Ferrari has been shit for sixteen years. This is not new.”

“I thought 2025 would be my year,” Charles mumbled, thumb scrolling, expression completely blank in that traumatized Ferrari driver way.

“I thought 2025 would be my year,” Max said, glaring at his telemetry again. “I need five World Championships to retire.”

Charles tilted his head. “You’re not retiring until I get five too.”

“You have zero.”

“I know.”

Max blinked. “Then I’m going to be here until 2040.”

“I hope so,” Charles said sweetly, which was the most threatening thing he’d ever said.

“Are you planning on getting these five with Ferrari?” Max asked, pointing vaguely at the red motorhome behind them like it had personally offended him.

Charles nodded earnestly.

Max whistled. “Your dreams are gonna stay dreams, Leclerc.”

Charles pinched him.

“Ow!” Max yelped, flinching so hard his phone almost flew into a bush. “Are you serious?”

“Oui. Don’t insult my team.”

“You insult your team every day.”

“That’s my right. I am the chosen sad prince of Maranello.”

“You’re the chosen disaster.”

Charles looked delighted. “You noticed.”

Max stared at him, eyes half-lidded in disbelief. “Do you listen to yourself speak?”

“Never. It’s too painful,” Charles said with a dramatic sigh, folding himself even further into the corner between the Ferrari and Red Bull motorhomes like a boy in a coming-of-age indie film set in 2025 but somehow still shot on a camcorder from 2006. His knees touched Max’s thigh and neither of them mentioned it, which in their case was more intimate than any declaration of love.

Max was mid-eye-roll when Charles suddenly straightened, eyes narrowing.

“What,” Max started.

“Look,” Charles said in a whisper, eyes tracking across the paddock like he was watching a rare gazelle sprint across the savannah.

And there he was—Lando Norris. The ghost of McLaren's optimism, all fluffy curls and orange-soaked swagger, strutting down the paddock like someone had just told him he was going to live forever. His sunglasses were too big, his water bottle was probably spiked with coconut water or tears of victory, and his McLaren top was two zips too undone for a man not on vacation.

Charles squinted. “He walks like he’s never known disappointment.”

Max’s mouth curled downward. “He walks like he’s the protagonist.”

“Disgusting,” Charles muttered.

Lando didn’t see them. Too enraptured by whatever fictional playlist was playing in his brain. He waved at a group of engineers and laughed at something that probably wasn’t even funny.

Max watched him go and frowned. “He probably doesn’t even know what pain is.”

“That can’t be true,” Charles said, but there was hesitation in his voice.

“Look at him. Too happy. Too in love. Too sunshine-for-breakfast to notice anyone else suffering.”

“You sound jealous,” Charles said.

“I’m not jealous. I’m observant.”

“You sound jealous,” Charles repeated.

Max kicked a tiny rock with his shoe and stared as Lando disappeared around a corner. “I’m not jealous of Lando Norris.”

Charles raised an eyebrow. “You’re jealous of the concept of emotional stability.”

Max turned to him. “You want to do something unhinged?”

Charles didn’t even blink. “Always.”

“I want to take Red Bull down.”

Charles gasped. “What.”

“From the inside.”

“Wait, are you—” Charles leaned in, eyes sparkling like someone had just given him a live grenade and a hug at the same time. “You’re planning a mutiny?”

“Not planning,” Max said, smug. “Manifesting.”

Charles placed a hand over his heart. “Oh my goodness. Max Verstappen. Rain of Milton Keynes. Traitor to the throne?”

Max snorted. “I’m not the Rain of anything.”

“You were bred in Red Bull,” Charles said, grinning like a man high on delusion and espresso. “Constructed in the lab beneath Christian Horner’s house. They gave you wings. They injected you with taurine as a baby. You are the living embodiment of their capitalism.”

Max narrowed his eyes. “I have not sold my soul to Red Bull.”

“You came out of the womb with a contract from Helmut Marko in your tiny baby fist.”

“That’s a myth.”

“Did they give you a car instead of a crib?” Charles pressed, practically bouncing with glee now. “Did they rock you to sleep with engine sounds? Was your first word telemetry?”

Max looked heavenward. “You’re insufferable.”

Charles beamed. “Merci.”

Max shook his head, exasperated, but the smile tugging at his mouth betrayed him. “The Rain of Milton Keynes isn’t as loyal as the Sun of Maranello.”

Charles blinked.

Paused.

His breath caught just slightly.

He blushed. Fully. Like his body remembered it had blood. Like someone had painted the red of his racing suit onto his cheeks.

Max noticed immediately and smirked.

“Don’t—” Charles began, flustered. “Don’t say things like that.”

“What, ‘Sun of Maranello’?” Max asked, biting back laughter.

“I always liked it when the media called me that,” Charles muttered, rubbing the back of his neck and refusing to look at Max. “It made everything feel… I don’t know. More poetic. Like maybe I mattered. Like I was some kind of legacy.”

Max nodded. “It’s pretty. Sounds noble. Regal. Doomed.”

Charles let out a soft laugh. “I knew it wasn’t a compliment when you said it.”

“It wasn’t,” Max said, still smiling. “Only brain-damaged people are loyal to Ferrari.”

Charles flicked his forehead, just hard enough to make Max flinch.

“Ow!”

“Respect the cult,” Charles said proudly.

Max groaned, rubbing his forehead. “You’ve got brain damage and a death wish.”

“And you’ve got issues and a saviour complex.”

“You’re mixing metaphors.”

“You’re mixing delusion with ambition.”

They were both smiling now. Max, with his deep navy hoodie slung carelessly off one shoulder, hair slightly tousled from running his hand through it a thousand times. Charles, in his blood-red Ferrari jacket like he’d stepped out of an oil painting about lost dreams and Mediterranean disasters. Together, they looked like the remnants of rival nations forced into a ceasefire. Red and blue, warm sun and cold rain. Burnt gold and electric steel.

If anyone else had passed by, they might have mistaken them for teammates. Or lifelong friends. Or maybe even exes.

But they were none of those things.

They were something worse.

Cursed with proximity. Blessed with rivalry. Doomed to always orbit each other like twin catastrophes barely held apart by circumstance and poor race strategy.

And still, somehow—undeniably, irrevocably—sat side by side on the concrete, knees pressed together, whispering nonsense and plotting chaos.

It was early afternoon, and the paddock buzzed behind them—tyre trolleys screeching, PR girls power-walking in heels that defied physics, and mechanics shouting over each other in about six different European languages. But their little spot between the Red Bull and Ferrari motorhomes may as well have existed in a separate dimension entirely. The Kingdom of Chaos and Passive-Aggressive Loyalty, population: two.

Max squinted up at the sky like he could see the timeline where things had worked out better.

“Mercedes seems pretty good lately,” he muttered.

Charles hummed, squinting too. “You thinking of moving?”

Max didn’t answer at first. Just let the words dangle in the air between them, thick as engine smoke. Then, after a beat, “Toto would take me.”

“Of course he would,” Charles said, rolling his eyes. “You’re Max Verstappen. He’d hand you the keys to the whole fucking building.”

Max turned his head, eyes locked on Charles. “Would you follow me?”

Charles blinked. “To Mercedes?”

Max didn’t say anything. Just kept staring, like he’d asked about something as casual as the weather.

Charles sat up straighter, brushing imaginary dust off his knee. “I’m the Sun of Maranello,” he said, as if it were a title, as if someone had knighted him in red and handed him a ceremonial espresso.

Max grinned, all teeth and smugness. “You are so fucking delusional.”

“I like the sun metaphor,” Charles shot back, grinning right back. “It’s warm. It’s noble. It has main character energy.”

“It has dying star energy,” Max corrected.

Charles looked briefly offended before giggling, a rare sound, like it had slipped out accidentally. He turned his attention back to his phone, thumb scrolling lazily.

“If I ever change teams,” Charles murmured, “I’d follow you.”

The words were soft. Quiet. Like he didn’t want to admit it out loud, but also wanted Max to know it more than anything.

Max’s smirk vanished.

He let himself sink down onto the warm tarmac, lying flat on his back like he was trying to merge with the asphalt and disappear into the void. He stared up at the sky like it personally insulted him.

“Yeah?” he whispered.

Charles didn’t look at him, still thumbing through his phone. “Yeah. Probably in, like, 2040. After I win my five world championships with Ferrari.”

Max groaned loud enough to make a junior Ferrari engineer glance over in alarm.

“You might as well say never, ” he said.

“Hope is a strategy,” Charles replied, deadly serious.

“It’s not,” Max muttered. “You sound like Lando.”

That shut Charles up.

There was another long pause as Charles resumed scrolling through AO3 like a seasoned archaeologist looking for artifacts buried beneath a thousand layers of angst and slow burn. He sifted through pages like he was brushing away sand with a tiny brush, eyes narrowed in concentration, searching— seeking —for a new hit of emotional damage wrapped in poetic prose and an 80k word count.

And then.

Then it happened.

A mistake. A misstep. The downfall of an empire hidden in the twitch of a thumb.

He accidentally clicked into the Lando Norris/Oscar Piastri tag.

At first, Charles didn’t realise. He was too deep in fic-detective mode, clicking and skimming like a man possessed. But then his eyes registered the unfamiliar tag at the top, the strange names in the summary— Oscar and Lando , together, kissing, probably wearing matching hoodies and drinking iced coffee while solving their emotional repression with snarky dialogue.

His mouth fell open.

“...No,” Charles whispered.

Max, already half-dozing beside him on the tarmac, opened one eye. “What?”

“I—” Charles froze. Blinked. Scrolled a little. “I clicked Lando and Oscar.”

Max sat up immediately, the way one does when their name is called in a class they haven’t paid attention to in thirty minutes. “You what. ”

“I didn’t mean to,” Charles said quickly, defensively, like he’d just admitted to cheating on a final exam. “It was an accident. ”

Max’s gaze sharpened. “That’s disgusting.”

Charles swallowed. “Max. There’s three thousand fics.”

Max went so still that for a moment, he looked like he’d short-circuited.

“THREE. THOUSAND,” Charles repeated, in a tone so serious it could’ve announced war or Ferrari’s next tyre strategy.

“That’s—That’s half of ours ,” Max stammered. “They don’t even—! They haven’t even held hands in public!”

“I know,” Charles whispered, still scrolling, horror blooming in his chest. “They haven’t even been rumoured . But AO3 already has three thousand fics. People are WRITING THE FUTURE.”

Max stared. “They’re going to steal everything.”

Charles nodded grimly. “They’re already threatening WCC and WDC. And now they’re climbing AO3 rankings. Max. We’re being phased out. ”

Max looked like he was going to be sick. “We can’t let this happen.”

“No. We can’t.”

There was a silence heavy with destiny.

And then Charles, voice low and calm like he was offering a noble sacrifice, said, “We should date.”

Max blinked. “Huh?”

“We should date. Publicly. For the good of the ship.”

Max stared at him, mouth slightly open. “Like—actually date?”

Charles rolled his eyes, thumbs still flicking across his screen. “Yes, Max. I meant full commitment, house in Monaco, joint mortgage, rescue dog. No, fake date.”

Max blinked slowly, eyes narrowing with dawning possibility. “That… could work.”

Charles finally looked at him, face illuminated with the light of pure, unfiltered delusion. “Think about it. Ferrari’s in the flop era. Red Bull’s on its redemption arc but nobody believes in it yet. We’re no longer enemies, not really. The rivalry has fizzled. But lovers?” He raised an eyebrow. “ Lovers is eternal.”

Max tilted his head, expression curious, calculating. “Rivalry to lovers… it’s the holy grail.”

“And it’s ours, ” Charles said. “They can’t steal that.”

Max hummed. “The rivalry to lovers arc will hit so hard. ” His eyes lit up. “It’ll be more iconic than Lando and Oscar’s dry friends to lovers plot.”

“They don’t even have a plot,” Charles muttered. “Their trope is ‘mildly awkward coworkers accidentally in love’. Ours is passion . Fire . Vengeance. ”

“ History ,” Max added. “Remember Silverstone ‘21?”

Charles shivered. “How could I forget?”

Max leaned in. “Monaco ‘22?”

Charles’s breath caught. “You broke my front wing.”

Max’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You broke my heart.”

They stared at each other dramatically for a second too long before Charles burst out laughing, wheezing and cackling into Max’s shoulder.

Max grinned, wide and shameless. “See? We’re perfect. ”

Charles nodded. “We’re giving content. ”

“And AO3 loves content.”

“We’ll spike the algorithm,” Charles said. “Boost engagement. Multiply kudos.”

Max grabbed his phone. “I’ll start taking pictures of us looking at each other fondly.”

“I’ll post an Instagram story with a cryptic caption,” Charles added. “Like—‘rivals in public, something else in private’.”

“Too obvious.”

“No. Just enough.”

Max sighed dreamily. “Lestappen will skyrocket .”

Charles was already brainstorming. “We’ll do a press conference together and touch knees . Not even acknowledge it.”

“I’ll look at you like you’re the reason God invented soft lighting.”

Charles nodded solemnly. “I’ll call you mon cœur by accident.”

Max blinked. “What’s that?”

“My heart.”

“Oh.”

Charles smirked. “Are you blushing?”

“No.”

“You so are.”

“Shut up.”

They both dissolved into laughter, limbs tangled on the warm concrete, conspiracy blooming like wildflowers between them.

Then Charles remembered something and went very still.

He looked down at his phone.

“Max.”

“What?”

“Do you realise we’re doing this to beat Lando .”

Max’s smile vanished. “I will not let that papaya menace take our legacy.”

Charles leaned closer. “We do this for AO3.”

“For the fans.”

“For history. ”

They stared at each other with the kind of intensity usually reserved for final lap duels and mid-race screaming matches.

Charles extended his hand.

Max took it.

Their palms pressed together like it meant something more than just a pact of fake-dating warfare.

“Let’s go save our ship,” Max said.

Charles squeezed his hand. “And ruin Lando’s life.”

They grinned in unison, bathed in the soft orange sun of early evening—Ferrari red, Red Bull navy, hearts pounding and heads full of delusions, two stupidly beautiful idiots ready to take on the world, the fanfiction rankings, and whatever dumb feelings they definitely weren’t catching for each other.

Not yet, anyway.

But it was close. Dangerously close. Suspiciously near the cliffside edge of something real. Which was terrifying, obviously. They were just doing this for fanfiction supremacy and historical relevance. Not because Max’s hand was still warm in Charles’ palm. Not because Charles had looked at Max like Max hung constellations across the sky just by blinking.

No. Definitely not that.

Max lay back down with a dramatic sigh, arms flopped out. “My car is so shit,” he groaned. “Your car is also shit. And somehow— somehow —McLaren keeps winning. Winning races, winning interviews, winning aesthetic TikToks . And now they’re winning AO3. ”

Charles flopped back beside him, mirroring the pose, like two exhausted theatre kids who had just overperformed Hamlet. “They haven’t even revealed their relationship,” he whispered, staring at the clouds with horror. “And they’re still winning.”

“THREE THOUSAND FICS,” Max barked, like he was reliving a personal trauma. “People are writing ten-chapter emotional masterpieces over vibes and vibes alone. ”

“It’s not fair,” Charles muttered. “We’ve had wheel-to-wheel fights. We’ve exchanged glances. We’ve screamed at each other in five different countries. Where’s our poetic justice? ”

There was a beat of silence.

And then Charles turned his head toward Max, eyes glittering. “We need to be the first openly gay couple in F1.”

Max blinked.

Charles said it again, with the solemnity of a knight swearing fealty. “We need to beat them to it. We come out first. Boom. AO3 explodes. Lestappen renaissance. We pioneer history.”

Max raised a cautious brow. “You mean we come out as fake boyfriends.”

“Fine, fine,” Charles said, hands raised in surrender. “But think about it. We can’t just exist together and hope people pick up the breadcrumbs. Lando and Oscar have the invisible string trope locked down. We need confirmation. We need canon.”

Max stared up at the sky, silent. Then said, “Should we tell our PR teams?”

Charles nodded. “Yeah. We should probably tell them it’s fake. So they don’t explode or book us on a wedding tour.”

Max turned to him slowly. “No.”

“No?”

Max smirked. “No one needs to know the truth.”

Charles blinked. “You want everyone to think we’re actually dating?”

Max shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “More believable. Less PR mess. Cleaner headlines. Authenticity. ”

Charles looked down at Max with a mixture of horror and awe. “You are an evil genius.”

Max grinned. “I prefer ‘visionary.’”

Charles hummed. “This is going to escalate so fast. We’ll start with holding hands and next thing we know we’re getting invited to award shows. ”

“I’m not going,” Max said flatly.

Charles pouted. “But what if we get invited to, like, GQ’s Power Couples Gala?”

“I’m not going.”

“But I’ll wear a suit with a cape .”

Max tilted his head. “Okay that’s kind of compelling.”

Charles gasped. “And you could wear navy silk and I’ll wear red velvet and we’ll stand next to each other like—like—like a flag of power. ”

Max rolled his eyes. “We’ll slay that dragon when we get there.”

“You mean ‘cross that bridge’—”

“No,” Max said, deadly serious. “We will slay that dragon. And then ride its corpse to the AO3 top pairing rankings.”

Charles cackled. “I love it when you speak battle metaphors.”

“I hate that I know what that means.”

“I hate that you’re better at this than me,” Charles muttered.

Max smirked, smug and satisfied, like a cat that just knocked over an expensive vase. “You should. I’ve been planning our fake relationship arc since Miami 2021.”

“You what? ”

Max gave him a shit-eating grin. “You think I accidentally looked at you like I was contemplating the heat death of the universe during the podium interviews? Charles. Please.”

Charles made a strangled noise. “You menace. ”

“I am a strategic genius .”

“You’re insane. ”

“You love it.”

Charles didn’t reply. Because he was too busy blushing.

The Ferrari sun and Red Bull navy bathed in golden light, faces soft and eyes gleaming, two idiots plotting their faux romance with more passion than most people plan their weddings. AO3 was not ready. The fans were not ready. Lando and Oscar were definitely not ready.

Especially not for what came next.

“So,” Charles said, biting his lip thoughtfully as he scrolled down the Lando/Oscar tag and clicked out of it with aggressive flair, “we should soft launch.”

Max squinted at him. “Like... post matching bracelets and hope no one notices?”

Charles gasped. “That’s actually genius. But no. I meant like... subtweet each other. Maybe a blurry photo of our feet together. Maybe I tweet ‘someone made me pasta tonight 🍝❤️’ and let the girlies spiral.”

Max lay dramatically on the tarmac again. “You’re unhinged.”

“You agreed to fake date me.”

Max waved a hand like he was dismissing reality. “I didn’t agree to Twitter mind games. I was thinking of a more proper hard launch with a paid paparazzi pic that accidentally got leaked or something.”

“This is legacy, Max,” Charles said solemnly. “This is strategy. Do you want AO3 or not?”

Max groaned. “Fine. Fine. Soft launch. But I’m not coming out.”

Charles blinked. “What?”

“I’m not coming out,” Max said again, more firmly this time. “Let the fans speculate. I want the mystery. The intrigue. The Red Bull Enigma™. ”

Charles snorted. “You sound like you’re branding a cologne.”

“Maybe I am,” Max said. “ Max Emilian: The Smell of Unconfirmed Homoeroticism. ”

Charles wheezed. “Okay. Okay, fine. You stay mysterious. I’ll come out as bi.”

Max turned his head, watching him. “You sure?”

Charles gave a small shrug. “Yeah. I mean... it’s not exactly a secret. And if we’re gonna do this fake dating thing right, we might as well add a little rainbow sparkle. ”

Max nodded slowly. “Brave of you.”

Charles grinned. “Thanks. But also, like. People already write fics where I braid your hair and sing you Lana Del Rey songs in the Monaco sunset. This won’t be news. ”

Max opened his mouth, probably to make a sarcastic comment about Charles and dramatic gestures, but Charles beat him to it.

“Should we practice kissing?” he asked sweetly.

Max squinted at him. “You just want to kiss me.”

Charles gasped in mock outrage. “Excuse me! I just want to see if you got better. ”

Max sat up. “We swore we’d never talk about what happened when we were thirteen.”

Charles put a hand to his heart. “You were so bad, Max. It was like kissing a stale baguette.”

“ Shut the fuck up, ” Max said, grabbing a pebble and chucking it at Charles’ shin. “That’s manipulation. You’re manipulating me. Again.”

“I’m just saying,” Charles grinned, stretching his legs out like a smug cat. “Maybe if we do talk about it, it’ll add more drama. More history. More Lestappen Lore. The angst! The betrayal! The childhood kiss we swore to forget— Oscar will CRY. ”

Max stared at him. Stared like Charles had personally dismantled his frontal lobe.

“You are actually possessed,” Max said. “You’re going to convince me to have sex next.”

Charles flushed pink. Immediately.

Max smirked. “Yup. Knew it.”

“That’s not—! I didn’t—!” Charles stammered, hands flailing. “I was just—I meant like—if the story requires it—”

“It won’t.”

“But like if —”

“It won’t, Charles.”

Charles huffed, cheeks bright red as he dropped back onto his elbows. “You’re no fun.”

“I’m being realistic. ”

“You were just talking about dramatic lore five minutes ago!”

“Yes,” Max said. “But having sex isn’t part of the fake dating plan. Even if you pout.”

Charles pouted.

Max pointed at him. “ Exactly. That. Stop that.”

Charles tilted his head innocently and slid a hand onto Max’s thigh.

Max looked down at it. Looked at Charles. “You’re a menace.”

Charles fluttered his lashes. “I am Charles Leclerc.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means everything, ” Charles whispered dramatically. “Rossa corsa runs through me like lava through the earth. My soul is forged in the engine fire of Enzo’s dreams.”

Max just stared at him.

Charles grinned, voice dropping into a cocky purr. “Obviously... I’d top.”

“ NO, ” Max snapped. “That’s literally not true.”

“Wanna see?” Charles said, entirely too pleased with himself.

“You’re being a manipulative bitch again, ” Max said, dragging a hand down his face.

Charles hummed, teeth sinking into his bottom lip like he was holding back laughter. “I like when you get all flustered. It makes your accent worse.”

“Stop psychoanalyzing me.”

“Stop denying your attraction to me.”

“I am attracted to you,” Max said. “In the way a wild animal is attracted to fire. It’s a survival instinct. You confuse me and I need to monitor you to stay alive.”

Charles laughed.

Laughed so hard he actually flopped backwards onto the tarmac like his spine had vanished, like the sheer existential ridiculousness of Max Verstappen’s “you confuse me and I need to monitor you to stay alive” was too much to physically endure. His laughter bubbled up in hiccupy wheezes, each one more breathless than the last, as he rolled onto his side and swatted at Max’s arm like an overwhelmed cat.

“You’re insane, ” he gasped between giggles. “That’s— that’s what you say in your wedding vows when you’re marrying the guy who keeps setting things on fire just to watch them burn—”

“I’d be the one setting things on fire,” Max said flatly. “You’d be crying next to the espresso machine, wondering why I haven’t kissed you yet.”

“That’s insane! ” Charles said again, delighted, legs kicking out behind him like he was five years old and had just gotten away with stealing an extra pain au chocolat. “You’re a menace. A goblin. A goblin menace! ”

“I just told you I was attracted to you and that’s the response I get?” Max asked, fake-offended.

“You compared me to fire, ” Charles wheezed. “And said you needed to monitor me like I’m some sort of radiation leak. ”

“You are radiation. You’ve been poisoning me since 2019.”

That made Charles stop.

The laughter cut off like a needle scratch and for a second the world tilted back into something almost serious. His smile wavered at the edges. He looked at Max, eyes all wide and soft, like they both remembered exactly what had happened in 2019 Austria, and the cold, hollow space they’d left behind.

Then Charles cleared his throat, sat up, brushed imaginary dust off his pants like it wasn’t just regret. “Okay. Maybe we should start with... you know. Something small.”

Max tilted his head. “Like what?”

“Like following each other on Instagram,” Charles said, suddenly very businesslike.

Max blinked. “We don’t?”

Charles gave him a look. A very meaningful, very ‘you little gaslighting bitch’ look. “No, Max. We unfollowed each other after Austria 2019. When you pushed me off track and I called you a reckless little—”

“ You pushed me off first—”

“And then we both spent six months subtweeting each other with cryptic lyrics from aggressive pop ballads,” Charles continued primly. “It was the height of our emotional manipulation era. A golden age of mutual sabotage. A cultural reset.”

Max scowled. “I was being mysterious.”

“You were posting Olivia Rodrigo before Olivia Rodrigo even debuted,” Charles said. “You invented heartbreak pop.”

Max stared at him, deadpan. “I’m blocking you.”

Charles ignored him. “We should follow each other. It’ll be the first breadcrumb for the girlies. Set the stage.”

Max exhaled. “The internet’s going to implode.”

“Perfect,” Charles said, already reaching for his phone. Then— with zero hesitation —he reached for Max’s too.

“Hey—”

“You already let me fake date you. This is not the time to start enforcing boundaries,” Charles said sweetly as he unlocked Max’s phone in one smooth motion. “1-3-3-3. Same as always.”

Max blinked at him. “You know my password?”

Charles didn’t even look up. “Of course I know your password. We’re not friends, Max. We’re worse.”

Max made a noise of mild betrayal. “How long have you known?”

“Since Spa 2020,” Charles replied, swiping open Instagram on both their phones and typing rapidly. “You literally typed it right in front of me like I was blind.”

“That’s messed up.”

“You’re messed up.”

Charles held both phones up with a flourish, eyes glittering with triumph. “Voilà!”

He’d followed Max from his account.

And followed himself from Max’s.

Two clean green checkmarks, glowing like emeralds. A silent declaration of war.

Max looked over at the screens, wide-eyed.

“Oh my goodness,” he whispered. “The AO3 ghosts. They’re gonna start getting possessed. ”

Charles giggled.

Max took the phones and held them up together, slowly rotating them like cursed relics. “They’re gonna start writing on their own. Blood will spill. Someone’s laptop will levitate.”

“We are so powerful,” Charles said with a dreamy sigh. “Just imagine. The girlies will be tweeting screenshots with dramatic Taylor Swift lyrics by midnight. Everyone’s going to act like we posted our wedding registry. ”

“They’re going to analyze the timestamp of when you followed me,” Max muttered. “Some poor intern at F1TWT Headquarters is going to do a spreadsheet. ”

“GOOD,” Charles declared. “We deserve this chaos. This is marketing. We’re gonna win the World Championship of narrative. ”

Max squinted. “We’re not gonna win the real WDC.”

“No,” Charles sighed. “But we’ll win the war that matters. The AO3 one.”

Max nodded, grave. “We’re doing Sappho’s work.”

Charles smiled at him, soft and wild. “And we’re only just getting started.”

The phones lay between them now, screens dimmed but still warm with the weight of digital betrayal and rebirth, two tiny, glowing symbols of doom—Max Verstappen and Charles Leclerc, officially re-following each other on Instagram after five years of emotional bloodshed, strategic eye contact, and Olympic-level denial. Somewhere, a Tumblr server wheezed under the weight of new posts. Somewhere else, a barista in London was composing a ten-thousand-word meta essay titled The Art of Reconciliation: A Lestappen Analysis.

The world would never be the same.

Charles lay back on the tarmac with a dramatic groan, arms flung out like he was posing for a Renaissance painting titled La Tragédie d’un Loyaliste de Ferrari: the man who’s about to become AO3 Royalty.

“Soft launch,” he said to the clouds. “We start with the follow. Then, a photo dump. Something low-stakes. Maybe from the paddock. One with Leo in it. Fans love Leo.”

“You want to use your dog to bait people?” Max asked, incredulous.

“He’s very photogenic, ” Charles argued. “And you like him.”

Max didn’t argue. Leo was, objectively, an angel. Also, Leo had once barked at Lando Norris for thirty-seven consecutive seconds, which made him a national hero.

“What else?” Max said, propping himself up on one elbow.

“We need matching outfits,” Charles murmured, still staring at the sky like it held all the answers. “Or like, complementary outfits. Colour-coded. A story of contrast and tension. Like red and blue. Like Ferrari and Red Bull.”

Max blinked. “So… our literal team colours?”

“ Exactly! ” Charles grinned like a madman. “It’s poetic! The symbolism will eat. The essays will write themselves. Imagine the TikToks.”

“I feel like I’m being drafted into a cult,” Max said.

“You are. It’s called Performance Art Queer Marketing™.”

Max hummed. Then, after a long pause, “Are you actually going to come out?”

Charles went quiet. The light softened around him. His lashes were long where they caught the sun.

“Yeah,” he said eventually, voice low. “I think I am. I mean, I’ve been dancing around it for years. Dropping hints like confetti. This would be a good moment.”

Max nodded once. “Cool.”

Charles turned to look at him, curious. “And you?”

Max blinked at him, lips twitching. “No.”

Charles raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“No,” Max repeated. “I’m gonna keep everyone guessing. Let the mystery do the heavy lifting.”

Charles scoffed. “You’re such a menace.”

“I’m an enigma,” Max corrected smugly. “A tragic, emotionally repressed enigma.”

“You’re a little rat boy with commitment issues.”

Max stared. “You are insufferable.”

“You love me.”

“Statistically improbable.”

“Still true.”

They fell into a comfortable silence then, one padded by years of animosity, tenderness, and unspoken declarations. The sun sank lower on the horizon, casting their faces in gold, like a final act curtain call. Somewhere in the world, a fan hit refresh on AO3 and gasped.

The soft launch had begun.

And neither of them were ready.

Max was screaming.

Not like a normal person—because Max Verstappen, Formula 1 driver, World Champion, Dutch Menace, was not a normal person. No, Max was screaming in that distinct tone that suggested he had just been wronged on a molecular level. That his very soul had been rear-ended at Copse by a fourteen-year-old sim driver from Lisbon. That every one of his ancestors had risen from their graves and simultaneously booed him. That someone— Diogo —had just ruined not only his lap but also his lineage.

"ARE YOU STUPID OR DO YOU JUST PRETEND TO BE?" Max roared into the mic, hair sticking out in half-crazed tufts, headset askew like a war helmet. "DIOGO. DIOGO, I'M GOING TO SEND A CARRIER PIGEON TO YOUR HOUSE. I’M GOING TO TEACH IT TO SHIT ONLY ON YOU."

On the second monitor, Crane—voice smooth and unbothered—snorted. "He brake-checked you once, Max. Calm down."

"He RUINED me," Max spat. "He just reversed evolution. He reset my chromosomes. I had an apex and now I have trauma. "

Meanwhile, Diogo's tinny voice came through, trying very hard not to laugh. "Sorry, sorry, I thought you were going to the inside line."

"You thought I was going to the inside line?" Max repeated, mock incredulous. "Do I LOOK like someone who goes inside for no reason? Do I look like a charity case?!"

"Sometimes," Crane said helpfully.

“CRANE,” Max barked, “I am LITERALLY going to ban you.”

Off-camera, just barely within the edge of the main frame, something moved.

The chat—already a twitchy soup of Red Bull fans, sim racing nerds, and people thirst-following Max purely for his shirtless karting photos—exploded.

 WHOA WHO WAS THAT??
ok did anyone else just see a LEG
did max get a housekeeper??
why are those thighs so expensive looking
omg that looked like CHARLES
NO STOP U CAN’T JUST GUESS CHARLES FROM A THIGH
i ’d know those thighs anywhere
maybe it’s his friend??
maybe it’s Lando??
wait is Lando there?
NO YOU IDIOTS LANDO'S IN MONACO
what if it's landoscar THREEWAY
can someone compare the thigh freckles PLEASE

Max did not look up once.

He was too busy driving a digital LMP car like it had personally insulted his mother.

Meanwhile, Charles Leclerc, the thigh in question, had already made his silent approach through the kitchen in the background like a ghost in a Chanel ad. He moved slowly—deliberately—like a soft breeze brushing the edge of Max's personal brand.

He didn’t look at the camera. He didn’t wave. He didn’t speak.

He just floated through in tan linen shorts that cut mid-thigh (on purpose), a white oversized hoodie that looked like it had been stolen from Max’s closet (because it had), and an expression of deliberate neutrality so profound it could be taught in acting schools.

He made it to the couch facing the sea—Max’s massive glass window view of the coast glittering behind him—and sat down slowly. One leg crossed over the other. Phone in hand. Sunglasses on indoors. Pure soft-launch sex appeal.

The camera caught just enough.

Just enough of the slope of a thigh. A toe tapping against a marble floor. The way his arm draped across the back of the couch with the lazy dominance of a man who owned his surroundings—and maybe the person currently racing in the next room.

The chat became full-blown feral.

 i swear that’s CHARLES
wait. MAX. BLINK TWICE IF CHARLES IS IN YOUR HOUSE
no way…
not the hoodie…
THOSE THIGHS HAVE BEEN TO MONZA
the soft launch is soft LAUNCHING
they are playing with us
this is psychologically targeted
I AM NOT STRONG ENOUGH FOR THIS
ITS CHARLES. THOSE THIGHS ARE MAPPED BY NASA
wait is this a canon lestappen reveal
HE’S RIGHT BEHIND YOU MAX

Max glanced at the chat once.

Just once.

He read: THOSE THIGHS HAVE BEEN TO MONZA , and visibly flinched. Then he looked back at the game like it owed him rent.

“Ignore the chat,” he muttered to Crane and Diogo.

Meanwhile, Charles, entirely unbothered, was scrolling through the AO3 analytics page he’d manually constructed on Google Sheets like a spreadsheet sorcerer. Every day. Every new fic. Every tag. Every ship. He was tracking it all.

“Seven thousand three hundred and eight,” he whispered to himself, tapping the screen. “Lestappen is at 7.3k now.”

He scrolled down.

“Lando and Oscar still stuck at three thousand six hundred and twelve. Ha. ”

He smirked to himself, sunglasses sliding slightly down his nose. He gave the sea a smug look, as if the Atlantic Ocean was also rooting for Lestappen supremacy.

He refreshed the comments.

 why isn’t max reading the chat
he’s pretending it’s not happening
that IS charles
no wait it’s definitely charles
THIGH CAM CONFIRMED
if max says “ignore the chat” one more time i’m going to scream
it’s 2019 austria all over again
he’s already wearing charles’ hoodie

Charles grinned.

He shifted slightly on the couch, letting his knee fall a little further open.

More leg.

More mystery.

The ultimate soft launch wasn’t an announcement. It wasn’t a selfie. It wasn’t a joint statement or a PR piece or even a casual paddock photo with their arms slung around each other like friendly, competitive Europeans.

No.

It was this.

A thigh. A hoodie. A ghost in the frame.

And Max Verstappen, eyes locked on his sim screen, pretending absolutely nothing was happening, pretending he didn’t have a fake boyfriend twenty feet away orchestrating an internet breakdown with his kneecaps.

This was art.

This was warfare.

This was the beginning of Lestappen: Phase Two.

And Charles Leclerc?

Charles Leclerc was already planning the next step.

He opened Notes on his phone and started typing:

Next Week – Soft Launch Plan Continued

• Shared dog walk pic w/ Leo
  
  
• Tag each other in unrelated stories
  
  
• One (1) accidental mirror selfie
  
  
• Maybe start a Spotify playlist??
  
  
• Lightly flirt in post-race interview
  
  
• Release dramatic unseen Vegas photo (if Max agrees)
  
  
• Crash a wedding??
  
  

Charles bit his lip. Then added:

- Practice kissing again? for research??

He didn’t look up when Max yelled, “DIOGO YOU RUINED EVERYTHING I’M GOING TO PUT A CURSE ON YOUR DESCENDANTS,” but he did smile.

It was a very quiet smile. The kind of smile that came with checkmate and sin. The kind of smile Charles Leclerc had only ever worn twice in his life before: once when he’d overtaken Max on Lap 51 of Silverstone 2019 and once when he’d eaten the last spoon of tiramisu in front of Kimi Räikkönen and lied about it with complete serenity.

He was at peace.

He was serenity incarnate.

He was the thigh in the background of a Dutch man’s livestream and the internet was eating itself alive.

Charles adjusted the sunglasses on his face like he was about to order a mafia hit and then continued scrolling. The chat had gone from a functioning communication channel to full-blown prophecy.

 i’ve been on stan twitter since 2013 and i know a soft launch when i see one
THE THIGH LAUNCH
he’s in MAX’S hoodie. that’s not a coincidence
who the fuck else lounges like that??
is this real life??
oh my goodness. do you think they’re together. like TOGETHER together
guys remember the pic of their helmets on the same shelf last week
omg this explains SO MUCH
okay but if that’s NOT charles… who has the power to lounge like that in max’s house??

Charles delicately crossed his legs the other way. One smooth, effortless motion. The shorts hitched just a little higher up his thighs. Max’s hoodie slipped slightly off one shoulder, exposing a patch of tanned collarbone and the golden edge of a chain.

More chaos. More flames. The comments came in like a flood.

 COLLARBONE. WE HAVE COLLARBONE
I REPEAT
COLLARBONE SPOTTED
A NECK WAS SEEN
IS THAT A CHAIN. IS HE WEARING A CHAIN
THE HOLY TRINITY: THIGH, COLLARBONE, CHAIN
we are through the looking glass
i’m going to scream into a field

From the gaming headset, Crane was saying calmly, “Okay, so we need new tires. Diogo you pit first. Max—are you alive? Do you need water? Do you need holy water?”

Max growled, low and feral. “I need him to get a license in being smart, that’s what I need.”

“You’re still mad.”

“I’m not mad, I’m betrayed. There’s a difference.”

“I think that’s the same thing.”

“CRANE I SWEAR—”

Meanwhile, Charles— the betrayal incarnate —was now leaned back, fully lounging, the pose of a man who had nothing to prove and everything to suggest. The way the light filtered through the glass gave him a soft glow. It was painterly. Cinematic. Worthy of a fucking Renaissance fresco or an Oscar-nominated biopic titled “The Thigh in the Background” narrated by Timothée Chalamet.

He tapped his phone again and refreshed AO3.

7,311 fics.

Seven thousand three hundred and eleven unhinged, chaotic, emotionally ruinous Lestappen fanfictions. Some of them multiple chapters. Some of them 100k+ word monstrosities. Some of them filled with smut so specific it required seven tags and a trigger warning for “psychic handcuffs.”

He switched tabs and checked Tumblr.

Lestappen was trending.

So was “IS THAT CHARLES” , “MAX’S HOODIE” , and inexplicably, “thigh supremacy.”

He gave a low little hum.

Success tasted like sea breeze and Max Verstappen’s hoodie.

Then a pause.

Because across the room, Max made a sound—a guttural, frustrated grunt—and ripped his headset off, standing so suddenly that his chair nearly toppled behind him.

“I need a break,” Max growled. “Diogo’s going to give me a fucking ulcer.”

Charles blinked slowly. Unmoved. Unbothered. Glorious.

“Did you win?” he asked, finally speaking, voice low and lazy, syllables dipped in Sunday morning sleepiness and expensive European boredom.

Max pointed at him. “You. You’re doing this on purpose. ”

“Doing what?” Charles blinked innocently, slipping his sunglasses to the top of his curls and tilting his head. He looked exactly like the ghost of a Chanel campaign. “I’m sitting.”

“You’re sitting like you’re auditioning for an AO3 cover photo.”

Charles smiled wider. “Is it working?”

Max opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“You’re so—” he gestured vaguely, like trying to pluck an adjective from the sky. “— strategic. ”

“You sound threatened.”

“I am threatened!”

“Good,” Charles said.

Max growled and dropped down on the couch opposite him, rubbing his face with both hands, like praying to every known god of patience. Then—

Then he peeked out from between his fingers.

The sunglasses. The hoodie. The crossed legs. The satisfied smirk.

“Charles.”

“Yes?”

“You know they’re going to start analyzing your thigh pores now, right?”

“I hope they make a moodboard.”

“They’re going to figure it out.”

“They already have,” Charles said with a smile, flipping his phone around to show Max the trending hashtags. “#ThighGate. #VerLeclerc2025. #SoftLaunchFinalBoss.”

Max stared. “You’re trending.”

“We are trending.”

“No.” Max shook his head violently. “No. I am being dragged into this. You are the puppet master. I am the puppet.”

Charles reached out and placed a single, long finger on Max’s bare knee.

“You’re the thigh content,” he said softly. “They love you.”

Max went silent.

And for a moment, the only sounds were the waves against the glass and Crane yelling, “MAX ARE YOU COMING BACK OR DO I HAVE TO REPLACE YOU WITH NICKI MINAJ,” somewhere in the headset, far, far away, as if it were coming from a different dimension—one where Max Verstappen wasn’t being slowly seduced into a soft launch conspiracy by Charles Leclerc’s thighs and morally ambiguous intentions.

The Team Redline Discord could burn.

Max didn’t move.

He just sat there—muted, cam still rolling, headset askew on the table like a crown forged from war crimes and terrible decisions. Charles watched him from the other couch, legs crossed, sunglasses still on, phone glowing softly in his lap like it was his Excalibur.

“You’re ignoring Crane,” Charles said mildly, like Max hadn’t just lost three races in a row and he’d been too busy side-eyeing the soft curve of Charles’ collarbone.

“I’m letting them suffer,” Max replied, eyes narrowed toward the invisible battlefield on his monitor. “I strategically muted myself. They’ll see I’m talking to someone. Mystery. Drama. Narrative.”

Charles tilted his head. “You’re learning.”

“I’m evolving. Into a thigh influencer. ”

Charles smirked, gaze flicking lazily from Max’s face to the warm light bouncing off the ocean behind them.

“Should we kiss?” he asked suddenly, like he was inquiring about a grocery run. Casual. Dangerous. Velvety. A weaponized shrug in question form.

Max didn’t even look surprised. He just rolled his eyes and exhaled, long-suffering, as if Charles had asked him to take out the recycling rather than devastate the internet with a single clandestine press of lips.

“No face reveal yet,” Max said, shifting slightly on the couch. “We’re holding that card for when we get bored.”

“We don’t need to show my face,” Charles said. His voice was all suggestion, no pressure, like jazz playing in a candlelit bar in hell.

Max arched his brow. “How’s the chat gonna know we kissed then?”

“They won’t.”

Charles looked utterly delighted with himself.

And goodness—Max smiled. It wasn’t a grin or a smirk or one of those scowls he usually wore like armor. It was small and disarmed, fond in a way that made Charles’ stomach flip and his fingers twitch slightly against the edge of the couch.

“That was smooth,” Max muttered, eyes fixed somewhere around Charles’ cheekbone.

“I try,” Charles replied softly.

There was a moment, weightless and golden, like the sun had paused outside just to watch them commit brand-friendly treason. The air smelled like salt and electronics, and the city behind the glass looked like it was holding its breath.

Then Max reached across the distance and placed a hand on Charles’ thigh.

It was quiet.

Intentional.

A gesture so small, so casual, that it would be nothing— nothing —to the untrained eye, just a touch between bros, a shift of comfort, the silent code of men who wore fireproof suits for a living and crashed at 200mph for fun.

But Charles felt it in the soles of his feet.

Max’s fingers weren’t squeezing, weren’t pushing. Just resting. Like he belonged there. Like he’d always belonged there. Like touching Charles was as easy as breathing now, as natural as blinking, as inevitable as the fact that this would break the internet.

Charles nodded, a smile curling slow and feral at the corners of his lips.

“That’ll do,” he said.

He leaned back again, fully reclined in the sprawling way that only the truly devious could pull off, and opened the Twitch app on his phone to check the chat.

And oh.

Oh, they were in feral mode.

It was worse than before. Apocalyptic, even. Like someone had thrown meat into a pit of starving tigers and then covered it in glitter.

 WHO IS HE TALKING TO
WHO IS THE THIGH
WHY IS HE SMILING LIKE THAT
HE JUST LOOKED TO THE SIDE AND SMILED. HE NEVER SMILES. EVER
THIS IS A NEW MAX. MAX 2.0. MAX IN LOVE
I THINK I JUST SAW A HAND
WAS THAT A THIGH TOUCH
WAS THAT A THIGH TOUCH
I REPEAT
THIGH. TOUCH.
max is never gonna survive the AO3 rewrite of this moment
the fic is writing itself
the TAGS are going to be so unhinged

Charles exhaled slowly through his nose.

This was it.

This was the high. The peak. The true power of a shadowed soft launch with facial ambiguity and emotionally manipulative undercurrents. This was the kind of drama that restructured fanfiction infrastructure and caused realignment in stan Twitter factions. This was pure gold, liquid chaos, uncut serotonin laced with slow burn, enemies to lovers, mutual destruction, and undeniable sexual tension wrapped in the packaging of “bros just chilling on a couch.”

He turned his phone around for Max to see and whispered, “They’re quoting Pride and Prejudice in the chat.”

Max blinked. “Why?”

“Because one of them said you looked at me like you were about to say ‘you must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.’”

Max choked on air.

“I will never stream again.”

Charles smiled wider.

“You’ll stream again tomorrow. ”

Max scowled and squeezed his thigh. “You’re insufferable.”

“You’re in love.”

“Shut up.”

Charles didn’t shut up. Of course not.

He leaned forward just slightly, the glow of the sunset sliding down his cheek like gold-dusted temptation, and whispered:

“Imagine how they’ll react when we actually kiss.”

Max swallowed.

The headset was still beeping. Crane was still yelling. Diogo was definitely crying. The ocean shimmered. Charles’ thighs glowed like the eighth wonder of the world.

And Max—despite himself, because of himself, because of Charles—smiled again.

This was war.

And they were winning.

Max stood up in one fluid, mildly rage-fueled motion, like a lion finally tired of pretending it was a housecat. The chair groaned, the headset cable nearly tried to strangle him, and somewhere deep in the headset, Crane was still ranting about losing to a “literal child in Roblox physics.” Max tuned it all out.

Charles didn’t move.

He remained a spectral force of chaos and calm on the couch, still basked in gold, still unreadable in the stream cam's limited frame. A perfectly crafted enigma in a hoodie two sizes too large, legs elegantly crossed, the sunset painting brushstrokes down his jaw, and the only thing visible to Max now— the only thing that mattered —was the hand tucked in the sleeve of that hoodie, resting against his knee.

Max reached for it.

He didn’t say anything. Just curled his fingers around the fabric-covered wrist, lifted it slowly, like it was fragile, breakable, sacred. Charles didn’t resist. He tilted his head slightly, curious and smug in equal measure, like he already knew what Max was about to do.

And then Max leaned down and pressed a single kiss—soft, deliberate—right onto the hoodie-covered wrist.

Through the fabric. Hidden. Quiet. Private. But not.

Because the camera could see the back of Max’s head.

The fans would see the gesture.

Not the lips. Not the full body. Not the face. But the moment.

They’d see the crown of Max’s curls dip forward, the way his hand cradled the other like something precious, but not the way Charles stilled as if struck by lightning and revelation, and how his lips curled slowly into something positively villainous.

Charles grinned, teeth just barely showing.

“This is bordering on hard launch,” he said with absolutely no remorse.

Max straightened with a dramatic sigh, already walking back toward the sim rig, arms in the air like the victim of a high-level PR assassination.

“It really isn’t,” he muttered. “There’s plausible deniability.”

“You kissed my wrist on a live stream, Max.”

“It was through a hoodie. No proof. No evidence. Gaslight, gatekeep, grand prix.”

He plopped into the sim seat again with the grace of a man who’d just chosen denial as a lifestyle. The headset went back on. The monitor blinked. His hands returned to the wheel like they hadn’t just committed Twitch war crimes.

“I’m back,” Max announced flatly. “From rage quitting.”

Crane screeched something unintelligible in his ear. Max adjusted his headset. The Logitech setup groaned ominously as he rejoined the race like an ancient warrior returning to battle after a philosophical interlude with forbidden love.

Charles stayed on the couch.

He picked up his phone again, thumb scrolling with surgical precision, and opened the chat log.

 WTF JUST HAPPENED
did he just…
was that a HAND KISS??
THAT WAS A HAND KISS
I SAW A WRIST I SAW A WRIST I SAW A WRIST
THIS IS TOO INTIMATE
he left and came back like nothing happened
was that charles??? was that charles’ wrist???
I NEED AO3 TO WAKE UP IMMEDIATELY
I’M WRITING THE FIC RN GIVE ME 3 HOURS

Charles grinned wider, teeth sinking into his bottom lip to stop the actual laughter that threatened to break out.

Then he toggled open Tumblr.

He searched #Lestappen.

The top post was already a gif of the exact moment Max had kissed the wrist. There were sparkles edited in. Someone had overlaid it with text in a fancy cursive font:

“And in that moment, the world fell quiet.”

Beneath it:

5,720 notes
tags: #lestappen, #charles my beloved, #MAX YOU CAN’T JUST DO THAT, #their love is so european, #who needs therapy when i have this, #yes i kissed my screen don’t judge me

Charles exhaled like he’d just tasted ambrosia.

This was it.

This was the perfect midpoint between chaos and intimacy. Between myth and confession. Between the ancient art of miscommunication and the new religion of soft launches wrapped in denial.

He could feel it in his bones—the Lestappen Renaissance had begun.

The fans would write poems. The fic tags would fill with blood, betrayal, thigh touches, and metaphors about oceans and stars and race strategy. Someone would probably write a 70k enemies-to-lovers saga by dawn. There would be edits. Compilations. Anons screaming into the void.

He was the void.

He leaned back into the couch and sighed, content, eyes flicking to Max—who was now swearing violently at a McLaren AI bot that had divebombed him into Turn 1.

The sea shimmered outside. The sun dipped low, setting the whole flat ablaze in honey and gold. Max’s curls glowed like fire, his jaw set in focus, his whole body leaned into the race like the previous moment had never happened.

But Charles knew it had.

And soon, the entire internet would too.

Charles barely had time to sip his water—Max’s water, actually, because Charles had quietly stolen the Red Bull branded bottle like the petty war criminal he was—before the chaos bled over from Twitch to Tumblr to Twitter like a dam had burst straight into clownery.

He refreshed the Lestappen hashtag.

And nearly choked.

The discourse was deranged.

The top trending topic: MAX’S MYSTERY WRIST KISS
Second trending: #LestappenSoftLaunch
Third trending: is charles leclerc okay

He grinned and scrolled, thumb gliding with the precision of a man clinically addicted to chaos and espresso.

First tweet, 62K likes:

@obsessedwithgp
okay but that’s not charles leclerc. charles leclerc is feral. charles leclerc says “i am unbiased president of the world” while banning the netherlands. charles leclerc doesn’t do soft launches. that was someone’s cus.

He snorted. Scroll.

@gptea_gods
max: “i value my privacy”
also max: lets his camera stream an anonymous thigh and kisses a wrist like he’s starring in a French indie movie called “je brûle pour toi”
stand up max. pls.

@f1_thirstposters
the wrist kiss?? the casual thigh?? the hoodie hand?? THIS IS EUROPEAN COURTSHIP THIS IS A 17TH CENTURY DUEL IN A MODERN DATING FORMAT.

@gayforleclerc
charles leclerc WOULD NEVER do a soft launch. he would do a HARD LAUNCH with a 42-slide powerpoint presentation, musical transitions, and an ao3 link.

Charles clicked “like” on that one. It was slander. But it was good slander.

Then came the threads. Full-blown digital dissertations, written like someone was submitting them to the UN.

@telemetrytwink
okay y’all LISTEN. we need to discuss the Lestappen Timeline™️:
– 2019: unfollow each other after austria fight. max calls charles “dangerous.” charles calls max “who?”
– 2023: podium hugs longer than necessary. max stops punching air.
– last week: THEY FOLLOWED EACH OTHER AGAIN.
– tonight: WRIST KISS. in. live. stream.
conclusion? we are entering the soft era . get your helmets on.

Charles smiled. That one had graphs. Pie charts. A line graph with “Sexual Tension per Grand Prix.” His ego was fed.

@kneecapdetective
this image has been sharpened 67 times. the shadows confirm a 5.3° inward knee lean. that’s charles. only charles sits like that when he’s feeling smug. we’ve studied the tapes. we know.

@norstappen2death
y’all need to stop forcing charles into everything. that could EASILY be lando. lando has legs too.

@chaoticgoodcharles [replying]:
no offense but lando’s legs look like confused spaghetti. charles’ thighs are sculpted by petty vengeance and catholic guilt. grow up.

@verstappensf1wife
nah bcz if it was charles leclerc then the sim chair would’ve been on fire and max would be shirtless and jazz music would be playing

He scrolled again.

@lando_4lyf
it’s not charles. it’s lando. lando has thighs. don’t erase lando’s thighs. #Norstappen supremacy

His eyes narrowed.

Excuse you?

EXCUSE.

YOU?

He clicked report.
☑️ Harassment.
☑️ Hate speech.
☑️ Inaccurate thigh representation.

He kept going. Any tweet that used #Norstappen got flagged. Petty? Yes. Justified? Absolutely. This was war. This was thigh-territory slander. He had rights.

@vestiairechaos
max: kisses a wrist in a hoodie
charles: doesn’t show his face
the fans:
[attached: image of a detective with a conspiracy board screaming “ENHANCE” at a grainy screenshot of a thigh]

Charles Leclerc was crying . Not literally. That would imply vulnerability and he was above such mortal failings. But spiritually, emotionally, and in the entirely metaphysical sense of being attacked by the internet he helped raise like a damn feral child —he was crying .

He refreshed Twitter again (because self-harm was legal if you disguised it as “media monitoring”) and let the chaos seep into his bloodstream.

The top tweet now had 230k likes and was unhinged in the most analytical way possible:

@phdsinposture
okay i measured. i LITERALLY measured. the angle of that leg-cross is 47.3 degrees which EXACTLY matches Charles Leclerc’s post-race slouch in Monza 2022. also, the tendon flex visible through the hoodie? CHARLES. PERIOD.

Charles choked on air. Someone had put his thigh in an autopsy . What were they even using? ThighGPT?

@kneesovertoes
THREAD: How to recognize Charles Leclerc by THIGH STRUCTURE

1.Quadricep prominence under soft fabric

2.Subtle arch of ankle roll = signature Ferrari foot fatigue

3.That soft bitch posture of a man who simps silently

He liked it. Out of pure spite. And then snorted when—

@obsessedwgp2
y’all acting like Max Verstappen would EVER launch. that man is emotionally sealed like a Tupperware from 2003. you think HE pressed “Go Live” to show a WRIST KISS?? be serious.

@conspiracyf1
charles wouldn’t soft launch. max wouldn’t launch at ALL. they are both so allergic to public affection this has to be a hostage situation. blink twice if you’re okay.

Charles blinked. Just once. Dramatically. In private.

@norstappenNATION
that was lando’s thigh. y’all need to admit #norstappen is the future.

Charles reported .

Then he opened the replies to that tweet.

@letthelionscook
norstappen nation please log off. the man kissed a WRIST not set off a fire alarm. lando gets no such softness. he gets bullied on discord.

Charles was wheezing.

Then he saw it. His own name trending in tweets again.

@lesbians4leclerc
CHARLES LECLERC IS LIKING TWEETS. THE MAN IS CHRONICALLY ONLINE. HE’S LURKING. HE’S WATCHING US. THE SOFT LAUNCH WAS PLANNED.

@feralferrarifangirl
i made a joke tweet about the wrist kiss being the prequel to a honeymoon and CHARLES LECLERC LIKED IT?? sir do u want my fanfic too??

Charles rolled his eyes. But also, yeah. Send the link. 

He swapped apps.

Tumblr was on fire too.

He opened the Lestappen tag—because he was weak and addicted—and saw it.

A fanart.

Already.

They had drawn him curled sideways on the couch, hoodie sleeves too long, soft light hitting his cheekbones, and Max—red-faced, headset askew—leaning in to kiss his wrist like it was a royal relic. The caption read:

“And the world tilted. Quietly. As it always does, for love.”

Charles stared.

“It’s beautiful,” he whispered. Like a man meeting angels.
Then: “Oh my goodness, my thighs have never looked so good.”

He saved the post. For scientific purposes. For ego management. For sending to Lando at 3am with no explanation.

The notifications kept coming.

@charlesworshipper
this soft launch is so deranged it’s iconic. the hoodie. the couch. the UNNAMED HAND. my bisexuality is going FERAL.

@catgirlverstappen
if this was norstappen it’d be max and lando screaming at each other over how to cook pasta. this is a vibe . this is a relationship . this is FOREPLAY IN HD.

@gp_moments
that thigh… that casual recline… that posture of a man who knows the ao3 tag is at 7.4k… it’s HIM.

@badopinionsdaily
max is too private for this. charles is too dramatic for this. this is either the best-planned PR stunt in history or they’re just in love and very stupid. there is no in-between.

@dan_yelled_at_me
me: i’m gonna sleep
lestappen: [posts one cryptic wrist]
me:
[attached: pic of someone slapping a Red Bull energy drink and opening 23 tabs]

Then came the really cursed ones.

@drivesfastdiesyoung
charles: crosses legs like a slut in the background
me:
[attached: gif of a man being wheeled out of a hospital with “sexually overwhelmed” written on the chart]

@catboyverstappen
max kissing a wrist with the dedication of a medieval knight swearing fealty to his liege. charles literally radiating villain energy offscreen. and y’all think it’s LANDO???
get a grip. that was a European bisexual oath of engagement.

@leoknowsall
the thigh in question:
[zoomed-in screenshot with scientific measurements]
see the way it’s crossed? that’s Monegasque posture. Max is in LOVE.

@gojo4wheelsexual
i’m sorry but that man in max’s stream CANNOT be charles leclerc. charles leclerc doesn’t do soft launches. charles would enter the room on a swan wearing ferrari red and announce “WE FUCK.”

Charles nearly wheezed. He clicked like on that one too. Leo would agree.

Then—

@softfor44
someone said this is “norstappen” energy. be serious. max would never kiss lando’s wrist. he’d smack it. that man lives to emotionally confuse one (1) monegasque.

He double reported that one. For libel. For treason. For making him laugh out loud.

@thighologist
okay i’ve spent 20 minutes on this. that is NOT lando’s thigh. lando’s left femur-to-patella ratio is 3.1:1. this one is 2.87:1 . guess who matches that ratio?? charles “closet exhibitionist” leclerc. case closed.

@ao3warcrimes
“max verstappen would NEVER allow this level of public intimacy” girl he kissed a WRIST on STREAM and left the camera running. that was an emotional proposal. y’all just don’t speak fluent repression.

@maxncharles_irl
there’s something so deeply romantic about two men who unfollowed each other in 2019 because of pure hate now accidentally hard launching their secret entanglement via a THIGH. a WRIST. a silent SIM SESSION. cinema.

The internet was, quite literally, frothing at the mouth. And Charles—hoodie up, one leg folded over the other like the smug specter of thirst he was—sat in Max Verstappen’s apartment, watching it burn from the inside out like a 2007 Tumblr user with admin privileges.

He refreshed Twitter again. No. He slammed the refresh like he was refreshing telemetry data in Q3 with two seconds to go. The timeline was an unfiltered circus.

Twitter, Tumblr, Twitch, and TikTok had all joined hands and decided something was happening. They just couldn’t agree what. Some swore it was Lando. Some said it was Max’s friend. Some believed it was Charles Leclerc, and that he had been reborn into a softer, subtler, thirstier version of himself.

None of them were right.

Because they all underestimated just how strategic Charles could be when he was allowed to control the narrative.

He refreshed AO3.

7,521 fics.

He smiled.

This was only the beginning.

They had their hoods up like two teenagers skipping school to smoke cigarettes behind the boulangerie, except instead of cigarettes it was trauma, and instead of teenagers it was twenty-something professional athletes with joint pain and public reputations to ruin.

Monaco glittered behind them like a rich man’s fever dream, all champagne sunlight and yachts so big they required their own zip codes. But the harbor wall they sat on was concrete and damp and smelled faintly of salt and cheap bait, which made it perfect.

Charles’ hoodie was yanked over his curls like a child hiding from the sun. His face was tucked halfway into the collar.

“I’m going to cry,” he mumbled.

Max leaned his elbows back against the edge of the wall, legs stretched out, hoodie drawn so tight around his face he looked like a sentient raisin. “Don’t cry.”

“I’m going to cry,” Charles insisted.

“You’re not. You’re going to sulk for two hours and then spend the entire flight analyzing Oscar’s telemetry to see where you failed.”

Charles snorted. “You make me sound so emotionally stable.”

“I’ve never once said you were emotionally stable.”

Charles tried to be mad about it. He really did. But Max was sunlit and sea-salted and casually devastating in his calmness, like a therapist who didn’t charge by the hour and also didn’t take your bullshit.

They sat in silence for a moment. Around them, the world moved in expensive, sparkly layers—fans still clamoring outside barricades, the yacht parties growing louder with every bottle of overpriced rosé uncorked, somewhere in the distance Lando’s voice shouting, “YES BABYYYYYY” in the most British screech known to man.

Max kicked a rock into the water with his boot. It splashed. “These cars are shit,” he said, plainly.

Charles didn’t even flinch. “Yes.”

“They don’t turn. They don’t stop. They snap in low-speed corners like a toddler with rabies.”

“I know.”

“Every engineer is lying to us. Every time they say ‘the numbers look good,’ they mean ‘we’ve made it worse and you will die today.’”

“Yes.”

Max sighed and tipped his head toward Charles without turning fully. “You guys were even worse than us, though.”

Charles cracked a deadpan smile beneath his hood. “Thanks, Max. I didn’t know that. Thank you for the technical insight. ”

“You’re welcome.”

“I think Ferrari is actually money laundering.”

“Finally,” Max said, relieved. “Someone said it.”

“There’s no other explanation,” Charles went on, gesturing with one hand like a preacher on a TED Talk stage. “We win in WEC. We win in endurance. We have the fastest pit stops in GT. But in F1? We’re building jet-powered wheelbarrows.”

“Why are you still there?” Max asked, mostly genuinely.

Charles blinked at the sea, then leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Because I have this dream. That if I win five World Championships, I’ll be cured.”

“Of what?”

“Everything. Insecurity. Catholic guilt. The urge to make cursed food combinations.”

Max hummed like he was considering it. “And you think Ferrari’s going to help with that?”

Charles didn’t even dignify that with a response. He curled further into his hoodie, still not crying, but only because he had transcended emotions and entered a state of quiet existential mockery.

“You’re still P3 in the Championship,” Charles said after a while, voice soft and hoarse with sweat and despair.

Max shrugged. “Yeah.”

“You could still win.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m P7.”

“You’re better than your car.”

“You always say that.”

“It’s always true.”

Charles let his foot dangle off the edge of the sea wall. His race boot tapped the concrete in rhythm. “Maybe I should switch to WEC.”

Max looked at him fully now, eyes narrowed under the shadow of his hood. “You said you need five titles.”

“Yes, but in a fantasy version of my life. In the real one, I’m just trying not to snap a steering wheel in half before Spa.”

“You’d be good at WEC,” Max said.

“I know.”

“You’d swear a lot.”

“I already do.”

“I’d join.”

Charles blinked. “You would?”

“Sure,” Max said, like it wasn’t a revolutionary statement. “We could be teammates. Less chance of killing each other that way.”

“You’d want to drive with me?”

“You already live in my head rent-free. Might as well split a cockpit too.”

Charles smiled without meaning to. “You’d have to give up sim racing.”

“No I wouldn’t.”

“You would.”

“No.”

“Max. You can’t sim race and also do twenty-four hour Le Mans.”

“I’ll take naps in the pitlane.”

Charles snorted. “You’re a menace.”

“And you’re chronically overcooked.”

“Correct.”

They fell into silence again. The kind that wasn’t uncomfortable—just full of all the things they didn’t need to say out loud anymore. The harbor lapped below. A seagull screamed in the distance. Max shifted slightly so their elbows touched.

After a moment, Charles asked, “Do you think Oscar’s going to win the Championship?”

Max didn’t answer right away. He tilted his head to the sky like he was checking for clouds, or maybe divine intervention. Then: “Yeah.”

Charles let that sink in. “You’re okay with that?”

Max didn’t answer right away.

He turned his face toward the water, the soft blue-gray of the late Monaco sky painting lines down the curve of his nose. His hood was still up, casting shadows under his cheekbones, the fringe of his hair sticking out in tiny, defiant tufts like a sunflower giving you the finger.

He looked disgustingly poetic for someone who’d just called the Red Bull a "dumpster in disguise" twenty minutes ago.

Then he shrugged.

“Yeah.”

Just like that. No agony, no bitter sarcasm. Just yeah, like it wasn’t his entire legacy slipping between his fingers like champagne foam.

Charles blinked at him. “ Seriously? ”

Max scratched at his chin under the hoodie cuff. “Oscar’s good. Really fucking good.”

“Yeah, he’s good,” Charles said, squinting. “So are we.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Max said, kicking another rock off the seawall. “The McLaren is better. It’s like driving a gaming mouse with traction control. My car’s like driving a wet IKEA shelf.”

Charles frowned. “They’re both orange, so that makes sense.”

“I hate that you’re right.”

“Do you think he’s faster than us?”

Max rolled his head to the side to look at Charles fully. “No one’s faster than me. ”

Charles smirked. “Okay.”

“But he’s more patient than you,” Max added.

“Rude.”

“And less prone to emotional spirals.”

“Excuse me—”

“And he doesn’t spiral on Twitter.”

“I’ve deleted like four tweets this week, thank you very much.”

Max gave him a flat look. “You quote-tweeted ‘Oscar is just Australian Charles with better luck’ and said ‘block me before I say something illegal.’ ”

“I said it in a joking tone. ”

“There’s no tone on Twitter.”

Charles opened his mouth and then closed it. “Maybe I need to get off Twitter.”

“I’ve been telling you this for three years.”

“Well, I’d listen if you didn’t have the digital presence of a cave painting.”

“That’s by choice.”

“You’re not enigmatic, Max, you’re just—” Charles waved his hand, frustrated. “—an antisocial lizard man.”

Max just grinned.

Charles groaned and tipped backward on the wall dramatically, arms flopping beside him. “This is so unfair. Oscar’s going to win a World Championship before me. Do you know what that means? I’ll have to say ‘congrats’ to him with tears in my eyes while plotting McLaren espionage in my mind.”

“You’ll still be hot.”

“I’ll be hot and a loser.”

“You’re still better looking than Oscar.”

“That’s not enough anymore, Max!” Charles moaned, hands thrown to the heavens. “I want stats. I want to be the reason people cry in team debriefs. I want Netflix to have to blur my data because it’s too damn sacred.”

Max was laughing now. Not a full laugh, just that silent, wheezing, shoulders-bouncing thing he did when he thought you were being insane in a way that delighted him.

Charles sat back up and crossed his arms. “Don’t look at me like I’m feral. This is valid emotional devastation. I had won by this time last year and now I’m out here liking depressing reels. I got overtaken by a fucking Williams, Max. Williams! ”

“They had better straight line speed.”

“ I live here! I can smell the track from my balcony! I hear the barriers breathing at night! I should have territorial advantage! ”

“You know that’s not how racing works.”

Charles looked at him, deeply serious. “Do you think if I pissed on turn eight, I’d have better luck next year?”

“Don’t answer that,” Max said immediately.

Charles didn’t blink. “Say it.”

“No.”

“Say it.”

“I’m not encouraging your superstitions.”

“I’m not superstitious,” Charles said, insulted. “I just believe the asphalt has an emotional memory.”

Max stared at him. “I’m going to push you into the water.”

“I’ll haunt you.”

“You already do.”

They both paused at that. The wind picked up a little, sending the faint scent of sea salt and engine oil across the harbor.

Then Charles turned his head toward Max again. His voice dropped, quieter this time, sincere.

“Do you really think he’ll win?”

Max nodded. “Yeah. He’s consistent. Lando keeps the pressure off him. He doesn’t care about the media. And he’s not obsessed with the math.”

Charles tilted his head. “You say that like it’s a good thing.”

Max shrugged. “It is. He’s not thinking about legacy. He’s just racing.”

Charles hummed low in his throat.

Max gave him a long look. “You’re thinking too much about being legendary, Charles.”

“I want to be remembered.”

“You already are.”

Charles flushed slightly, looking away. “I want to be remembered for winning. ”

Max didn’t answer right away. His hand came up, quiet and slow, and he nudged Charles' knee with his knuckles. A gentle tap. Just once. But it landed with more weight than a thousand podiums.

“You will be.”

Charles swallowed.

A pause.

Then he smirked. “You’re being weirdly supportive today. Did you hit your head on the pit wall?”

“I’ve always been supportive.”

“You told me in 2023 that I brake like a scared mother duck.”

“You did.”

“And that I corner like I’m trying to impress my therapist.”

“That one still holds.”

Charles threw his head back and cackled. “Fuck’s sake.”

Max smiled.

They sat again in silence. Their shoulders pressed, their legs swinging slightly off the ledge. The Monaco lights shimmered across the water. Somewhere nearby, a yacht exploded in party music.

Charles let out a breath and bumped Max’s arm with his own. “If Oscar wins, do we have to clap?”

“No,” Max said. “We just have to nod.”

“Respectfully?”

“No. Just enough to not get fined.”

Charles grinned.

Max added, “And then we go back to the motorhome and plot.”

“Sabotage?”

“Collaboration.”

Charles narrowed his eyes. “You mean sabotage.”

Max smirked. “We’re due for a partnership arc.”

Charles smiled at the sea. “I’d like that.”

Max exhaled slowly beside him, then muttered, “At least we’re winning on AO3.”

Charles barked a laugh so sudden it startled a seagull nearby into a frantic wing-flap escape.

“That’s true,” Charles grinned, bumping his shoulder against Max’s. “A hundred thousand words of slow burn enemies-to-lovers can’t be wrong.”

Max gave him a side-eye smirk. “And the 30k smut tag count.”

“That too,” Charles said, stretching his legs out dramatically. “It’s something. But not enough.”

“Not as fulfilling as an actual WDC,” Max agreed solemnly.

Charles groaned and flopped back onto the concrete like a dying French poet. “I want a championship so badly, Max. It’s physically painful. I can feel it in my pancreas.”

“I think that’s just your post-race protein shake.”

“I think it’s my existential despair.”

They both stared at the water for a while. Lights from the yachts danced like they were taunting them. Somewhere in the distance, Lando’s victory yacht was probably full of LED lights and flaming cocktails and Oscar being handed bouquets of honorary McLaren roses.

Max squinted. “Maybe we could just… beg Zak for the McLarens.”

Charles snapped upright. “ Beg? I would rather eat gravel.”

“Valid.”

“I would rather date a Monaco real estate agent with a podcast and commitment issues.”

“Harsh.”

“I would rather publicly admit to liking Spotify Wrapped.”

Max winced. “Okay, you’ve made your point.”

Charles folded his arms, defiant. “We’re not going to McLaren. One of us needs to win the 2025 WDC. That’s the only solution.”

Max tilted his head, the hood of his sweater drooping like the world's least aerodynamic balaclava. “It’s possible.”

Charles blinked. “It is?”

Max nodded slowly. “But very improbable.”

Charles chewed the inside of his cheek. “Okay. But we have Ferrari’s delulu and Red Bull’s lion on our side.”

Max visibly flinched. “Please don’t call me that.”

“What, lion?”

“Yes.”

Charles turned to look at him, eyes gleaming. “Why not?”

“It’s weird.”

“It’s literally your branding. Besides, it’s fitting. You’re blond and angry.”

Max narrowed his eyes. “People call you phoenix. You don’t get to decide what is and isn’t fitting.”

“That makes sense, ” Charles said, clearly offended. “I crash and burn and resurrect dramatically. That’s branding. ”

“Well,” Max grumbled, “being called a lion arouses me.”

“You must be always aroused then,” Charles didn’t skip a beat. “Besides, I could help with that.”

Max turned slowly, like he couldn’t believe his ears. His expression looked like someone had just told him DRS was being permanently disabled and also that Charles had just proposed marriage.

“Charles. ”

Charles batted his eyelashes. “Yes, mon petit lion? ”

“Don’t— don’t call me that. ”

“Why not, mon petit lion d’amour? ”

“I will push you into this harbor.”

“Then we’ll be wet together. ”

Max pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re actually evil.”

“Say it in Dutch.”

Max looked at him. His expression was unreadable for a moment, then softened into something slightly mischievous. Then—

“Ik hou van je, zelfs wanneer je mijn grootste ergernis bent.”

Charles blinked. “What?”

Max’s grin widened. “It means you’re the worst person in the world.”

Charles squinted harder. “You made it sounded romantic.”

“It wasn’t.”

Charles crossed his arms. “Say something else then.”

Max leaned closer, enough that Charles could smell the faint scent of adrenaline and post-race hoodie fabric softener.

Then softly, Max murmured, “Als ik naar je kijk, vergeet ik waarom ik ooit alleen wilde zijn.”

Charles blinked, very slowly.

“…Okay,” he said, heart skipping several beats like a Ferrari pitstop. “Now that definitely means something romantic.”

Max shrugged innocently. “Or maybe I said you smell like wildly burnt toast.”

“I hate you.”

“You’re blushing.”

Charles wasn’t. He was.

He cleared his throat. “We need to sabotage McLaren.”

Max leaned back like he was snapping out of a trance. “Right. Espionage.”

Charles sat up straighter, adopting the pose of a general in a war movie about to deliver a battle speech. “First, we steal Oscar’s data.”

“Impossible,” Max said. “He keeps it on a USB drive shaped like a wombat.”

“I can seduce it out of him.”

“Not if Lando’s there. He gets jealous if you look at Oscar for more than three seconds.”

“Then I’ll distract Lando.”

Max paused. “How?”

Charles looked at him, serious. “With a mirror and compliments.”

Max nodded thoughtfully. “That might work.”

Charles started counting on his fingers. “Next: infiltrate McLaren HQ.”

“I can pretend to be a disgruntled ex-employee,” Max offered.

“You’ll need a disguise.”

“I’ll grow a full beard.”

“You’ll look like a wizard.”

“I’ll be a data wizard. ”

“Okay, Gandalf.”

Max ignored him. “What’s your role?”

Charles smirked. “Seduction. And drama. ”

Max sighed, but fondly. “Of course.”

Charles tapped his fingers against his knees. “Then we leak a fake regulation change.”

“Something about wheel covers?”

“No. Something scarier. ”

Max’s eyes sparkled. “Mandatory social media day.”

Charles gasped. “You’re diabolical. ”

They were quiet for a moment, just breathing, plans buzzing around them like gossip at the paddock buffet.

Then Charles murmured, “If we do this right, Oscar loses, McLaren panics, and we somehow pull ahead in the championship.”

Max nodded. “And if we lose?”

“We’ll win in fanfiction.”

Max smiled softly. “Better than nothing.”

Charles smiled back. “Not everything, but almost.”

They bumped shoulders again. The harbor light glinted off the water like fairy dust sprinkled over future plans. Somewhere in the distance, Oscar was probably getting kissed on both cheeks by Lando while Zak drew graphs.

Charles sighed happily.

Austin at night felt like the inside of a soft drink can—fizzy, too warm, and a little suspicious. There was humidity in the air, thick enough to slap across your cheeks like an overfamiliar aunt, and the kind of late-hour buzz that belonged to raccoons, drunk college students, and Formula 1 drivers who couldn't sleep because of fandom statistics.

Charles was knocking with deep urgency, as if the world were ending and the last safehouse in Texas was Room 617 of the hotel.

He held his phone up like it was proof. His thumb hovered accusingly over the F1 tag on AO3.

4500.

Landoscar was at 4500 fics.

He knocked again, louder this time.

The door swung open with the kind of creak that belonged in a movie. Max stood in the frame, bleary-eyed, hair flattened at a rude angle, wearing only a pair of black boxer briefs and the righteous fury of a man who had already brushed his teeth and set five alarms.

“…What,” Max said, voice gravelly with sleep and something distinctly Dutch.

Charles pushed past him immediately, still brandishing his phone like it was a cursed scroll.

“It’s getting out of hand,” Charles said. “They’re going to hit five thousand. Do you understand what that means? Do you understand the cultural implications? They’re getting fanart for every podium. Every. Single. Podium.”

Max sighed and closed the door behind him with a tired thud. “Charles, it’s midnight.”

“Midnight is when fandoms strike! ” Charles kicked off his sneakers and stepped around a pile of Max’s discarded jeans with the grace of a seasoned intruder. “And we— we are stagnant. Eight thousand fics and no movement. No increase. No energy. No drama. ”

“I had drama today,” Max mumbled, walking back toward the bed like a man returning to his one true love. “My brake balance was off by like thirty percent.”

Charles ignored him entirely, flopping down on the mattress without ceremony. Max had barely pulled the duvet halfway over himself before Charles was already sideways on the bed, one arm thrown dramatically across the nearest pillow like a man reenacting the French Revolution.

“Do you know what I saw? I saw a fic called ‘Oscar's Secret Pregnancy Pact.’ Pregnancy pact , Max.”

Max blinked at him, dead-eyed. “Okay.”

“And another one where Lando’s a werewolf and a dom.”

“Charles.”

“We used to be powerful, Max. Enemies to lovers. Two world champions, tortured by fate. You used to be referred to as his enemy with ocean eyes.”

Max groaned and pulled a pillow over his face.

“We used to trend , Max.”

“Charles, I did FP1 and FP2 today. It was shit. I need sleep.”

“We used to own Tumblr. ”

Max let out a noise that was somewhere between a moan and a death rattle.

Charles turned toward him, now comfortably horizontal and entirely oblivious to the sanctity of sleep. “Maybe I should do a photo dump with a mysterious caption. You know. Revive the tag.”

Max peeked at him from beneath the pillow. “You’ve done that. Three times.”

Charles blinked. “True. Okay. What about matching outfits? Like, matching paddock shirts.”

Max sighed. “You’re forgetting a very important detail.”

“What?”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“ Sometimes I do. ”

Charles rolled over, now cheek squished against the pillow beside Max’s. “You wouldn’t let me in your room if you hated me.”

“You broke in like a raccoon.”

“A fashionable raccoon.”

Max closed his eyes. “Please be quiet.”

Charles paused for approximately two seconds.

Then: “They had art, Max. Watercolor art. With the little Oscar freckles. Lando in a McLaren orange robe. They looked so domestic. They were cooking together. There was a cat. ”

“Maybe we should straight up kiss in front of people.”

“But that takes away the authenticity. The drama. The soft pining and yearning and the vibes .”

Max mumbled something under his breath.

Charles squinted at him. “Was that Dutch?”

Max, still facedown in the pillow, muttered something else in the same sleepy, thick accent. It sounded like it came from the depths of an exhausted soul.

“Okay,” Charles said slowly, lying back and staring at the ceiling. “You’re either cursing me, or describing a cookie recipe.”

Another tired string of consonants emerged from the pillow.

“I’m going to assume that means ‘Charles, you’re right, we do need to revive the Lestappen fandom with some bold, vaguely homoerotic content which is very classy but also beige.’”

Max didn’t respond.

He was probably asleep.

Or pretending.

Or actively plotting Charles’ demise in Dutch.

Charles let his limbs go slack beside him and smiled softly into the dark.

It smelled like hotel sheets and aftershave and tired Max Verstappen.

Nice, really.

Cozy, in the worst way.

He closed his eyes.

“Four thousand five hundred,” he whispered.

Max groaned violently into the pillow.

Charles beamed.

Best sleepover ever.

Charles shifted closer, breath warm from laughing, limbs still buzzing with chaotic, sleep-deprived energy. The air conditioning buzzed low in the background, humming against the Austin heat that had failed to settle even after midnight. Max had gone quiet, buried halfway under his pillows like a disgruntled hermit, but Charles knew the difference between real sleep and strategic ignoring. He’d perfected it himself back when he shared hotel rooms with Arthur and used to pretend to be asleep every time his little brother wanted to talk about Pokémon evolutions at 3 a.m.

This was that.

A very grumpy , very shirtless, very boxer-clad Max Verstappen pretending he wasn’t aware that Charles Leclerc was fully invading his personal space like a golden retriever-shaped blanket with boundary issues.

“You’re very warm,” Charles said, unbothered, sliding an arm across Max’s stomach.

Max made a strangled noise into the pillow.

Charles grinned and pressed closer anyway, cheek against Max’s bare shoulder, knee nudging up into Max’s thigh with the casual insistence of a sleepy barnacle.

“Good night,” Charles murmured, eyes fluttering shut as he breathed in the scent of Max’s skin—sun and sweat and something citrusy like expensive European detergent. He pressed a gentle kiss to the space just under Max’s collarbone. “Mon petit lion.”

Max groaned but didn’t push him away. Didn’t even flinch.

Instead, with his face still buried in cotton, Max mumbled, almost unintelligibly, “Good night, schatje.”

Charles' eyes cracked open. “Rude.”

Max let out a hoarse, exhausted laugh. “Means sweetheart.”

Charles narrowed his eyes in the dark. “It doesn’t. You said it means asshole.”

“Okay, asshole,” Max corrected mildly, and then rolled over to trap Charles under his arm, half sprawled on top of him like a heat-seeking panther with a personal grudge against sleeping separately.

Charles huffed, adjusting just enough so that his head was tucked neatly into the crook of Max’s neck, one arm around Max’s waist.

They stayed like that.

Still.

Warm.

Stupidly comfortable for two men who allegedly hated soft launches and affection and sleeping in the same bed when one of them was almost definitely nude.

The hotel room fell silent, the chaos of the day finally fading into the cool darkness. And within minutes, Charles slipped into sleep like falling into water.

He dreamed of victory. As usual.

He always did.

In his dreams, the world was red and white and gold. Victory laps and champagne. The Tifosi’s roar vibrating through his bones. Max waiting for him on the podium with that crooked grin and a Ferrari jacket he wore just to make Charles laugh. And Charles laughing until his cheeks hurt, because of course Max would look like that in red.

Charles dreamed of papaya-shaped cars in his mirrors and phoenix decals on his helmet.

He dreamed of Max’s fingers brushing his gloves on the grid. Of press conferences where their knees knocked under the table. Of trophy rooms with two names carved side by side: Leclerc and Verstappen .

He dreamed of Brazil and Abu Dhabi and a world where Ferrari didn’t make structural disasters for fun.

He dreamed and dreamed and dreamed—

Dreamed of his hands on the steering wheel, checkered flags, the roar of engines, the weight of a title in his arms.

Dreamed of Max looking at him like he was already the winner, even when he wasn’t.

Dreamed of WDCs, champagne, Max’s hoodie pulled over his hair.

Dreamed and dreamed and dreamed until the morning crept in slowly over Austin.

The light came in like a secret, like it was trying not to wake them—slipping in through the half-closed blackout curtains, brushing over the chaos of discarded race boots by the desk, the open Red Bull cap on the table, the faint, flickering blue light from the TV that had died sometime around 2 a.m. The room still smelled faintly of hotel soap, rubber, and Max.

And Charles—Charles woke up warm.

Too warm.

The kind of warm that could only be explained by—

Oh.

Max.

Max was spooning him.

Max Verstappen, naked save for his boxers, with one arm hooked low and heavy around Charles' waist like he was holding onto a stuffed animal and not a grown man with Ferrari trauma and a very dangerous heart rate. Max’s chest was pressed to Charles’ back, steady and slow with every breath, and his knee had snuck between Charles’ thighs at some point during the night like it had paid rent there.

Charles blinked.

The sun hadn’t fully risen. The sky was pale and blue-grey, washed out like a watercolor, just barely beginning to paint itself across the window. Charles lay still, like moving would break it, like the room and the world and Max would all evaporate if he breathed too loud.

Except.

There was also something.

Something solid.

Something unmissable.

Something Max-shaped and morning-specific pressed against his lower back.

Charles blinked again.

He could. He could make fun of it.

He could very softly, very smugly whisper “interesting development, Maxime,” into the crook of Max’s neck and flee the bed like a demon sent by the gods of strategic humiliation. He could twist around and raise his eyebrow and do that awful eyebrow waggle that made Max threaten him with physical violence on three separate continents.

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

Because—because when he twisted just a little, just enough to shift in Max’s hold, just enough to roll onto his back and see—

Max.

Max’s face.

Charles stopped.

Breathing. Thinking. Everything. Just—stopped.

His heart might have done something catastrophic. Like combust.

Because—because what the fuck.

What the fuck.

What the fuck .

Why had no one warned him that Max Verstappen, grumpy, brutal, savage on-track Max , Red Bull’s demon engine in human form , his best friend and worst rival , the personification of his childhood fury and future fantasies —

—looked like this.

Like this.

Sleeping.

Head tilted just enough that his curls had flopped forward, soft and messy, catching the morning light like a halo. Eyelashes unfairly long, curling against the top of his cheeks like they were painted on. His mouth—heavens—his mouth was parted in the faintest of sleepy breaths, lips soft and pink and chapped at the bottom where he always bit them during debriefs.

And his face.

His face .

The sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbones softened by the haze of sleep, the stubble along his jawline visible now, just faint enough to feel like a secret. A small constellation of freckles scattered over his nose and cheeks, faint but real, hidden most of the time by the chaos of their lives but unmistakable up close like this, in the hush of a hotel bed at the edge of dawn.

Charles stared.

He didn't mean to.

But he stared.

For too long.

For so long.

Spiraling like a man falling down a hill made of regrets and realisations.

Because what the fuck.

What the actual fuck .

Max was beautiful .

Not just pretty. Not just handsome. Not just the kind of face that looked photogenic on podiums and terrifying in the mirrors during qualifying.

Beautiful.

Soft and warm and stupidly gorgeous in a way Charles had somehow never let himself see, not really, not like this. And now he couldn’t unsee it.

His brain was short-circuiting.

His thoughts were going something like:

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He was always this beautiful?? Like—this??? With his freckles and his stupid hair and his snoring and his arm on my waist like he belongs there— what the actual fuck, Leclerc. ”

He kept staring. Like a fool. Like an idiot . Like he hadn’t spent years side-eyeing Max on podiums and punching him on the shoulder after fights and never once let his gaze linger long enough to catch this—

The Max that only existed in mornings like these.

The Max no one else got to see.

And then.

And then—Max shifted.

Not much. Just enough to bury his face into Charles' shoulder like a sleepy cat claiming a sunlit spot. His hold tightened, pulled Charles just a little closer until their chests were nearly touching. A low, sleepy sound escaped him—somewhere between a sigh and a groan—and he mumbled something incoherent in Dutch, his voice raspy and low with sleep.

Charles froze.

Again.

Because—fuck.

Max wasn’t awake.

Wasn’t aware .

But he was holding Charles like he wanted to. Like he had all night. Like he meant it.

Charles let his eyes drift down. Watched the faint rise and fall of Max’s chest. Let his gaze trace the soft curve of Max’s neck, the shape of his collarbone, the way the stubble shadowed under his jaw and faded into the gentle curve of his throat.

He stared at his freckles.

At the tiny scar under his eyebrow from that time Max crashed into the barrier at Monaco and claimed it was Charles’ psychic sabotage.

At the little indent on his cheek that only showed up when he smiled—genuine, rare, not-for-media smiles.

The kind of smile Max gave in the motorhome after a win, not because he won, but because Charles had finished on the podium with him and they’d exchanged that look—that utterly unrepeatable look of “we survived again, you asshole” followed by a shoulder bump and a Red Bull flung at his face.

The kind of smile Max wore when they were bantering in the back of the paddock shuttle at 2 a.m., adrenaline and exhaustion humming between them, Max pretending he hated Charles’ Spotify playlists while Charles tried not to admit he’d made them for Max.

The kind of smile Max gave Leo once—just once—when Leo jumped into his lap in Monaco and Charles wasn’t looking.

Not the one for press conferences.

Not the sharp-edged grin meant to intimidate, to slice and pierce and spit fury down the radio.

But the one Max never gave anyone unless they earned it.

Unless it was safe.

Unless it was Charles.

And Charles, now blinking slowly under the creeping light of a Texas dawn, stared at that little indent and thought, fuck.
Just that.

Over and over again.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Because it was all right there. It was right there. In the freckles and the stubble and the way Max’s lips were slightly parted, breath warm against Charles’ neck, like he belonged here, like he’d always belonged here.

Why the fuck had Charles never seen it?

Was he blind? Stupid? Chronically emotionally constipated?

Was it because he’d been too busy building Max up as the dragon he had to slay? The impossible rival? The finish line he’d never reach?

Or was it because Charles had always, always known, somewhere in the rusting depths of his chest, that if he really looked at Max— really looked—

He’d fall.

Headfirst. No helmet. No crash structure. Just—obliteration.

And apparently it was already too late.

Because he’d never noticed that Max had a line just above his right eyebrow when he was truly relaxed. That his lashes curled slightly at the tips, just enough to cast shadows. That his lips looked far too kissable for someone who spoke in war declarations. That his hair, fluffy and ridiculous and more chaotic than the Red Bull pit wall on a Sunday, was curling at the edges from sleep.

Charles blinked.

Max mumbled again, low and Dutch and rumbling against his skin.

His arm curved fully around Charles’ middle now, hand splayed against his lower back like it belonged there. His nose brushed Charles’ cheek. And then he moved again.

His breath was warm.

Charles inhaled.

The scent was Max. Sleep and sweat and a hint of Red Bull soap. The kind of smell that would be on Charles’ shirt later if he didn’t escape soon. Not that he wanted to escape. Just. Logistical considerations. Important ones. Like not getting attached. Not having a breakdown at 7 a.m. because Max’s freckles were real.

He stared at Max’s cheek again. At that stupid little indent.

His voice came out in a whisper.

“Tu es trop beau. C’est ridicule,” Charles murmured. “C’est—je suis foutu.”

Max didn’t stir.

Which made it worse.

Which made it so much worse because now Charles was whispering sweet nothings to an unconscious Dutchman whose hard-on was still— still —pressed against his hip, and yet his own heart was racing like he was the one exposed.

He watched Max’s face again. Watched the sunlight shift and settle and wrap itself around the edge of Max’s jaw.

Studied his nose. His lashes. The way his brow furrowed just faintly when Charles moved, like he could sense it in his sleep.

Charles’ fingers itched.

He wanted to trace it. The scar at the corner of his eye. The stupid little line above his brow. The curve of his jaw. The freckles on his cheekbone.

He didn’t.

But heavens , he wanted to.

He wanted to bury his face into Max’s chest and stay there. He wanted to kiss the bridge of his nose. He wanted to laugh against his collarbone and run his hand down Max’s back and say mon petit lion like he meant it.

Like he really, really meant it.

And then Max moved again.

Not much.

Just enough to shift against Charles, snuggle closer, his cheek against Charles’ neck now, the stubble grazing just enough to make Charles feel like he might die. One of his legs tangled further between Charles’. His breath hitched and settled again.

And then—

Still half-asleep, barely conscious, voice low and rough and cracked with morning—

“…Schatje…”

Charles choked on air.

His whole chest imploded.

It wasn’t even that Max said it.

It was the way he said it. Soft. Affectionate. Unconscious . Like it was normal .

Charles lay there, paralyzed with tenderness and the desperate need to combust, and whispered into the tangle of Max’s curls:

“…rude.”

Max made no reply. Just nestled deeper into Charles’ neck like he hadn’t just whispered the Dutch equivalent of asshole in his sleep.

Charles blinked rapidly at the ceiling.

He could not survive this weekend.

But.

But.

Max was still breathing slowly.

Max was still wrapped around him like an extra limb.

The sun was still climbing.

And Charles—stupid, hopeless, spiraling Charles—was still staring at his rival and best friend and maybe the person who could one day be everything.

He closed his eyes.

Held him a little tighter.

Let himself dream again.

And then, without meaning to, without even noticing when it happened, Charles drifted.

Not quite asleep. Not quite awake. Just… suspended.

Wrapped in warmth. Max’s warmth. That heavy kind of heat that settled across his skin like a blanket after a long day—sun-drenched and soft, like the feeling of falling asleep in the backseat of a car with the windows cracked and the sky bleeding orange.

He didn’t move. Didn’t dare. Max’s hand was still against his waist, fingers curled like they’d forgotten how to be fists. Like they had only ever known how to hold Charles.

And then, quietly, like a whisper breaking across still water, there was movement. A breath. A shift.

A stirring.

Charles opened his eyes slowly, not even sure what he was expecting, and—

Max was looking at him.

Already awake.

Already there.

Already smiling that gentle, hazy, post-dream kind of smile that made Charles feel like he’d been kicked in the throat by a unicorn.

Soft-eyed Max Verstappen was a concept Charles was not equipped to handle at 7:38 a.m.

“Good morning,” Max said, voice still gruff and low, the sound of it sliding across Charles’ skin like it had weight.

Charles blinked. “Good morning.”

Max’s smile turned ever so slightly smug. “Are you ready to absolutely wreck qualifying today in the worst way possible?”

Charles snorted, body jostling with laughter. “That’s optimistic of you.”

Max just shrugged—still not pulling his hand away from Charles’ waist. Still staring at him with eyes so startlingly clear that Charles had to remind himself not to drown.

And that’s when the thought hit him.

Like a tiny bomb going off behind his ribs.

Was that it? Was that why he loved baby blue so much?

He’d always said it was the sea. The sky. Monaco and memories and childhood crayons.

But no .

He was lying to himself.

He was lying to himself because Max Verstappen’s eyes were baby blue and maybe—maybe Charles had been in love with that shade for far longer than he’d realized.

Fuck.

Max yawned.

It was a wide, lazy, jaw-stretching kind of yawn. Like a cat. Like something sinfully pretty in its indifference.

Charles stared.

At his mouth.

Which was—

Which should not be that distracting.

Max blinked when he noticed. Didn’t say anything. Just moved back a little, giving Charles space, but kept his hand right where it was. Anchored on his waist. Casual. Familiar. Like touching Charles was a normal part of waking up now.

“You’re not chatty,” Max observed, voice quiet.

“I just woke up,” Charles said, like it explained everything.

It didn’t. But Max just nodded, smiling to himself.

“I can make coffee,” he offered. “For both of us.”

Charles nodded.

And then did not stop nodding.

Because Max sat up.

And stretched.

Which meant that the blanket slipped off.

And Max Verstappen was shirtless. Still very naked. Hair sticking up in every direction. A whole galaxy of freckles across his shoulders. Lean, scarred, real.

And very clearly—very obviously —still hard.

Charles blinked rapidly.

“You were excited to sleep next to me?” he asked, going for casual and landing somewhere around cursed flirting with a death wish.

Max yawned again, somehow graceful in his contempt, and flipped Charles off with a middle finger mid-stretch.

But he was grinning as he walked away.

And Charles, still wrapped in the covers, still warm from Max’s body, watched the sway of his back all the way to the bathroom door.

And thought:

Yeah. I’m so fucking doomed. 

Chapter Text

He didn’t even take his helmet off.

Charles sat there. In the car. In the pit box. Silent. Breathing heavily through the comms while the garage around him fizzled into quiet, defeated murmurs and half-hearted data screens. His gloves felt glued to his fingers. His visor was fogged with mild rage and a near-psychotic cocktail of heartbreak and resignation.

P1 and P2: McLaren. Again.
Like the orange team had made a pact with the devil and said, "We’ll give up every other driver until 2023 if you let us become the new Red Bull for vibes."

It was working.

The moment he got out of the car, Charles stomped into the back of the Ferrari motorhome like a man entering an exorcism. Leo was there — because Leo always travelled — and Leo immediately jumped off the couch and tried to eat his race boots. Charles let him. He was in no condition to parent right now.

His phone buzzed once.
Twice.
Seventeen times.

He should have ignored it. He didn’t.

Group Chat: 'besties+max'
(Members: George, Alex, Lando, Oscar, Charles, Max, Pierre, Carlos, Esteban, Daniel)

George: WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK

Lando: PAPAYA SUPREMACY LESSS GOOOO

Oscar: 🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡

Pierre: i just saw lando bite oscar’s shoulder before parc fermé. are they ok? are we ok?

Alex: they’re in love. we’re in shambles.

Carlos: I THOUGHT YOU COULDN’T BITE DURING FIA EVENTS

Oscar: it was gentle 😌

Lando: i’m marking my property 😤

Charles: I’M GOING TO BE SICK

Oscar: 🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡

Esteban: you’re just mad because you and max didn’t lock out the front row

Charles: I DONT WANNA TALK ABT IT

Pierre: bingo square: “charles screams into the void”

Esteban: bingo square: “mclaren front row. everyone cries”

Daniel: wait so you and max aren’t front row married this weekend?

Alex: danny. they’re spiritually married but physically in different zip codes this quali

George: bingo square: “mclaren locks out front row, someone cries”

Oscar: 🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡

Daniel: i just woke up in a hammock in brazil and all i see is orange. is this hell?

Lando: no it’s paradise 😌

Pierre: someone kick him

Oscar: we’re just vibing 🧡

Charles: VIBING?? YOU GUYS ARE RACING WITH DAMN TELEPATHY

He rolled his eyes and turned off the phone. And then stood up. And then sat back down. And then walked outside in hopes of getting run over by Lewis' scooter.

Qualifying ended with a whimper.

Well. For Charles, anyway.

P4 wasn’t awful. Could’ve been worse. Had been worse.

But still.

P4.

Again.

Just shy of the podium. Just out of reach. Just… always the bridesmaid, never the cowboy.

And Max.

Fucking Max.

P3.

One place ahead. Not even particularly trying, not with that yawn he did halfway through Sector 2 like he was already bored with existence.

And then there was McLaren.

Lando, with a pole position that looked effortless. And Oscar, fucking Oscar, right behind him with P2 and not even smug about it because Oscar had the emotional range of a teaspoon and a god complex.

Charles tried not to look.

At Max.

At the way he was laughing with GP now, head tilted back, curls flopping into his eyes, his body language loose and open like he hadn’t spent FP1 through FP3 declaring the car a trash can on wheels.

He tried not to look.

Which meant, of course, that he looked.

A lot.

Too much.

Max’s eyes crinkled when he laughed. He was doing that now, one hand curled around a Red Bull bottle, the other on his hip, posture smug as hell.

Mon petit lion , Charles thought helplessly. Please shut up. Please stop laughing. I am going to cry in front of heaven and Ferrari and the guy selling churros by the paddock gate.

“CHARLES. You are NOT listening.”

Charles blinked and found Ollie.

Specifically, Ollie Bearman vibrating next to him like a caffeinated jackrabbit in full cowboy cosplay. His boots were real leather—Charles had checked. His hat was crooked. There was a cactus-shaped earring dangling from one ear and a bottle of peach Snapple in one hand and Charles’ full attention being ruthlessly commandeered by the other.

“I’m listening now,” Charles said dutifully, turning his entire body so he wasn’t even facing Max anymore.

“Okay,” Ollie said dramatically, dragging him toward the Ferrari hospitality building like they had somewhere urgent to be (they didn’t). “So we went to this taco place, right? And it was like one of those ‘order-at-the-window-sit-on-the-curb’ kind of places and Kimi paid, like, he didn’t even let me offer, just threw his card and said, ‘You’ll get the next one’ like there’s gonna BE a next one, and then he ordered me the strawberry horchata like he knew I was gonna pick that, and then—get this—he bought me a hat.”

“A hat?”

“A HAT, Charles. A ten-gallon, absurd, felt monstrosity that says ‘Bearman Ranch’ on the side. And I wore it. I wore it. I looked like a cartoon. He said it suited me. He smiled.”

Charles, walking slightly slower so he could sneak another look at Max, hummed politely. “Sounds like a date.”

“It’s not a date.”

“Sounds like a date,” Charles repeated, with the forced serenity of someone whose own love life was currently shaped like a tragic rom-com with bad lighting and no conclusion.

“It FELT like a date,” Ollie groaned. “But I can’t ask if it was a date because what if it wasn’t a date? What if he was just being polite? What if he thinks I’m a dumb kid who can’t eat tacos without spilling on myself?”

“Did you spill?”

“Emotionally.”

Charles laughed, real and sudden and bright. “You should ask him.”

“NO.”

“Ollie—”

“No. You don’t understand, okay? He’s… he’s all quiet and gorgeous and Mercedes-coded and perfect. He said my eyes looked like sunburnt pinecones, Charles. SUNBURNT PINECONES. What does that mean? Is it flirty? Is it an insult?”

“I think it means he likes you,” Charles said gently, prying the Snapple bottle out of Ollie’s hand before it could spill on his race suit. “Or he’s severely dehydrated.”

Ollie moaned into his hands.

“I’m so doomed.”

“You’re not,” Charles said, patting his shoulder. “You’re young. You’re cute. You have a hat with your name on it. That’s basically commitment.”

Ollie sniffed. “You always give the best dating advice. Even though yours is going terribly.”

Charles blinked. “...Merci?”

“No, I mean, not like badly badly. Just, like, your mystery guy situation is... ambiguous. But you always know what to say. Which is why I’m asking—how’s the mystery man doing, anyway? The one you posted about on Insta last week? With the black hoodie and the espresso? Are we soft-launching him or what?”

Charles froze mid-step.

Right there on the second stair up to hospitality. One foot on a step, the other dangling in the air like a cartoon character walking off a cliff.

Ollie blinked at him, big brown eyes full of innocent chaos.

Charles turned—too fast—and caught sight of Max again.

Grinning. At GP. Like he didn’t have a single care in the world.

Mystery man.

Soft-launching.

A black hoodie.

Espresso.

Hotel beds.

Spooning.

Baby blue eyes.

“I—he’s doing great,” Charles said, voice half an octave higher than usual.

Ollie beamed.

“YAY. I knew he was a good one. Did he like the risotto you made last week?”

“He… devoured it,” Charles said truthfully.

“Was that a euphemism?” Ollie asked cheerfully.

“No,” Charles said. “But it can be.”

Ollie snorted with laughter, loud and delighted, dragging Charles into the building and straight toward the snack table like they were on a mission. Charles let himself be pulled, half-listening as Ollie launched into a full dramatized reenactment of his night out with Kimi featuring dramatic hat placement and a near-death experience with a squirrel in the parking lot.

And all the while, Charles kept sneaking glances over his shoulder.

Back toward the paddock.

Back toward Max.

Who looked up just once, eyes catching his.

Grinning.

Beautiful.

Unbothered.

Still his mystery man. But also not his . Not yet.

Charles turned quickly back toward the snack table, cheeks flushed, ears pink.

His hands were shaking just a little when he picked up a grape.

Ollie didn’t notice.

He was too busy explaining the emotional symbolism of cowboy boots and wondering if Kimi would like strawberry milk.

Charles popped the grape into his mouth.

It was sweet. Juicy. A little cold from the fridge. It burst between his teeth like a revelation he didn’t ask for, sticky with meaning. Probably symbolic. Probably stupid. Probably Max-coded, because everything was lately.

Max-coded grapes.

Max-coded fucking fruit.

“—and then he looked at me like this , Charles—like he was about to tell me I’d broken parc fermé protocol by existing too hard in his presence, but also like he was lowkey impressed that I lapped him in the sim,” Ollie was saying, wildly gesturing with one hand and clutching a mini Twix in the other. “Like, tell me that’s not platonic tension. Tell me it’s not. I DARE you.”

Charles blinked back into the present. “You lapped Esteban in the sim?”

“Yes,” Ollie said proudly. “Twice. He rage quit.”

“I would too.”

Ollie gasped. “Charles!”

“Well, you’re very annoying.”

“I’m delightful. Ask Kimi.”

Charles made a little hmm noise that was legally noncommittal and chewed another grape. His gaze, entirely disloyal to the conversation at hand, wandered again.

Past Ollie’s flailing arms.

Past the table of sad American cheese cubes.

Past the tight cluster of Haas engineers in cowboy hats trying to pretend they weren’t miserable about P13 and P15.

To the Red Bull motorhome.

Max stood just outside it, the Texas sun golding his curls, talking to a trackside engineer with one hand shoved deep into his pocket and the other twirling a pair of sunglasses lazily between his fingers.

Charles stared.

He’d been doing that a lot lately.

It wasn’t even intentional anymore, it was just automatic. Inhale, exhale, blink, stare at Max. Sun rises in the east, sets in the west, and somewhere in between Charles Leclerc loses his entire brain looking at a man he’s known for more than two decades and is only just beginning to comprehend.

He looked—

Radiant.

Like the kind of stupidly beautiful that felt like a trap. Like a warning label. Like a caution sign you ignored right before walking off a cliff with a dazed, dreamy smile.

It was almost unfair.

The way his shirt clung to his back in the heat, the curve of his neck exposed with his head tilted back to laugh, the little lines by his mouth that were only there when he was genuinely amused. The color of his eyes—which Charles knew were baby blue, but in this light looked like a summer pool, the kind with sunlight on the tiles and chlorine that stung and made you feel clean in a way nothing else did.

Max turned a little toward the motorhome and Charles caught sight of his profile.

His jawline. His nose. His expression, relaxed and easy.

If I were a painter, Charles thought helplessly, I would forget landscapes. I would forget light. I would forget history and technique and the whole of the Renaissance. I would paint only this man’s face until my hands fell off.

“…and so obviously now I’m in a situationship with Kimi but also I think Ocon might have a platonical crush on me, which is very stressful because I am shit with people,” Ollie yapped at his side, crunching into a mini pretzel rod and barely chewing. “I’m trying to be professional about it but he keeps offering to drive me to dinner and yesterday he brought me a cappuccino with my name spelled right.”

Charles made a vague noise that might’ve been terrifying.

“Which is wild,” Ollie continued, completely undeterred, “because you know no one ever gets it right. It’s always ‘Oli’ or ‘Olly’ or ‘Ollé’ with an accent, which like, thank you, I’m not French , but Esteban just showed up at my debrief with a sticky note that said ‘Ollie Bear💥’ on the lid. Like. What am I supposed to DO with that, Charles?”

“Destroy him,” Charles murmured automatically, biting into another grape like it offended him personally.

“Right?!” Ollie flopped dramatically into one of the plastic chairs. “But also… validation. Not that I want it, but like, I’m a Taurus, so. You know.”

Charles didn’t know. Charles was a Libra, and his entire soul was currently being tugged toward the man in the Red Bull paddock like gravity wasn’t even pretending anymore.

Max leaned over slightly to say something to one of the Red Bull interns, and his shirt rode up just enough to show the tiniest sliver of skin above his waistband.

Charles nearly dropped his entire fruit cup.

Like, genuinely—his fingers fumbled, reflexes dulled by the sudden white-hot flash of Max turning his head just enough to flash Charles a crooked, knowing smile that somehow said everything and nothing at once. The kind of smile that probably came with a warning label. The kind of smile that short-circuited every functioning neuron in Charles' brain.

He stared. Rigid. Eyes fixed. Forgot how to chew.

Ollie, of course, did not notice.

Ollie had the awareness of a golden retriever in a butterfly field, and the volume control of a lawnmower in peak summer.

“I like Kimi, obviously,” Ollie was saying, wriggling in his chair with barely restrained chaos. “Like, I’ve always liked Kimi, he’s short and weird and emotionally confusing and he has excellent hair even though he pretends he doesn’t own conditioner—but like— Estie —is Estie —”

Charles blinked, still very much not recovered from the incident of Max Verstappen’s Smile 2025™. “Estie as in Esteban?”

“Yes,” Ollie groaned, tossing a cherry tomato into his mouth like it had personally wronged him. “He’s just. He’s like. There. Always. Offering me oat milk and calling me mon petit ours and letting me win in board games when I’m obviously losing. It’s very manipulative. Like emotionally supportive but with malice. I think I’m being courted. Platonically.”

Charles blinked slowly, trying to make sense of that sentence. He failed.

Ollie steamrolled on.

“Also he doesn’t gel his hair anymore. It’s sooo fluffy now. Like dangerously soft. I think he’s doing it on purpose .”

“Maybe it’s just… summer humidity,” Charles said weakly.

“Charles. I literally touched it once and blacked out. I woke up half an hour later eating his pain au chocolat. I think he’s enchanting me.”

Charles made a vaguely distressed noise and tried to focus on his fruit again.

Did not succeed.

Because Max had finished talking to the engineer and was now stretching—arms over his head, shirt riding up, tan skin glowing, looking like every single distraction Charles didn’t need today, or ever.

His fingers tightened around the fruit cup.

“Okay but like,” Ollie added thoughtfully, elbow on the table, chin in hand, voice pitching into maximum boyish chaos, “I think Estie is more like. Platonic crush territory. Maybe. You know? Like he makes me feel safe and also threatened, which is what I imagine having a stern older cousin is like. But Kimi—oh my goodness, Kimi—Kimi is Kimi. ”

Charles glanced sideways, suspicious. “That’s not a description.”

“Yes it is,” Ollie said, deeply affronted. “It’s a state of being. A sensation. A lifestyle. He says like five words and I’d die for him. He accidentally brushed my shoulder in the paddock tunnel yesterday and I felt my soul leave my body . If he ever told me to rob a bank, I wouldn’t even ask which bank. I’d just show up with a duffel bag and say yes sir. ”

Charles tried very hard not to smile. Failed. “You sound like a very stable person.”

“Oh no, I’m unwell. Like, medically. I committed tax fraud with him, Charles.”

That got his attention.

Charles slowly turned toward him, eyes narrowed. “You did what. ”

“Allegedly,” Ollie added quickly, holding both hands up. “It was for a meme. Maybe. It wasn’t intentional. Kimi was doing a bit, and then we might’ve accidentally created a shell company for a racing-themed skincare brand and maybe transferred a few thousand euros to a very shady crypto wallet, but it was all in the name of performance art.”

There was a pause.

A long one.

Charles set down his fork with the delicacy of a man trying not to trigger an international incident. “Olivier.”

“Yes, Dad.”

“Tell me you’re lying.”

“I wish I was.”

“What the fuck, Ollie.”

“To be fair,” Ollie said brightly, “he came up with the name. ‘Pit Stop Polish.’ You know. Like exfoliating cleanser but with—”

“Stop talking,” Charles said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re banned.”

“From what?”

“From talking to Kimi Antonelli ever again in your life. ”

Ollie’s eyes bulged. “You can’t do that.”

“I just did.”

“That’s— illegal , Charles!” Ollie shouted, with the audacity of a teenager who’d just been told he couldn’t bring his emotional support war criminal to dinner.

“You committing tax fraud with your not-boyfriend is also illegal , Oliver!” Charles hissed back, in that desperate, throaty French-tinged whisper that only came out when he was halfway between spiraling and parenthood. “You cannot just go into financial crimes for fun . This is not a group project at school!”

“It was fun!” Ollie flailed, flopping back against the bench like he was personally under siege. “Kimi said I had the face of someone who could do white-collar crime. It was a compliment! ”

“That is not a compliment!” Charles whispered-screamed, nearly knocking over the little bowl of pineapple between them. “That is how you end up on a Netflix documentary with sad piano music and a criminal defense lawyer who calls you ‘a charismatic yet misguided youth!’ ”

“Technically,” Ollie said, voice too calm for a boy who’d just confessed to federal-level misdeeds, “Kimi said I had the bone structure for a courtroom sketch. So that’s basically foreshadowing.”

Charles rubbed his temples like they were trying to escape his skull. “I need you to be normal. Please. I need one normal child. That’s all I ask. One. ”

“I’m not your child! I’m an adult .”

“You act like one!”

“I’m twenty! I’m acting like a twenty year old!”

“Then act like it and don’t start businesses with Italian boys who definitely have ties to at least three shell corporations in Monaco by the sound of it!”

“Oh my goodness , you sound like Max—”

Charles’ spine locked. His fingers froze, curled around the water bottle halfway to his lips.

The name hit like a tuning fork between his ribs.

Because right. Max.

The whole reason his brain was soup and his emotions were leaking and he was currently yelling about accounting practices with his fake-son.

Charles whipped his head toward the Red Bull motorhome again like a man possessed.

Max was gone.

No Red Bull uniform. No stupid tan arms. No stupid smug mouth that made Charles want to scream and kiss him in equal measure. No Max.

Just… nothing.

He blinked.

Swallowed.

Didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until it left him in one slow, deflating puff.

Charles finally looked at Ollie.

His face was too earnest. His eyes too round. His jaw stuffed with cantaloupe. His entire energy: chaos on a leash made of spaghetti.

Charles exhaled and dropped his head into his hands. “Ollie.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re never talking to Kimi Antonelli again.”

“ Charles! ”

“I mean it!”

“You can’t stop me! This is Romeo and Juliet! This is—this is tragic and dramatic and beautiful and he gave me half of his protein bar yesterday even though it had almonds and he knows I’m allergic!”

“You’re what?! ”

“ Mildly! It was a gesture!”

“ You’re allergic to almonds?! ”

“It’s not about the almonds! It’s about the vibe! ”

Charles groaned so hard he saw stars.

“Okay. Okay.” He clapped his hands like a kindergarten teacher trying not to cry. “Here is what you’re going to do.”

Ollie blinked.

“You’re going to march to your team’s motorhome. You’re going to sit. You’re going to breathe. You’re going to not text your emotionally unavailable future felon. And you’re going to stay out of international finance and romantic entanglements until you have a proper support system in place! ”

Ollie stared at him, mouth full of kiwi.

Then, dramatically: “You’re trying to stifle my growth.”

“I’m trying to keep you out of prison! ”

Ollie gasped like Charles had just ripped his favorite Squishmallow in half.

“You think Kimi Antonelli is going to get me arrested?!”

“I think—” Charles pointed a Very Serious finger right into the middle of Ollie’s forehead “—if anyone is capable of accidentally getting involved in a shell company scandal involving the export of suspiciously unregulated alpacas from a country neither of you can point to on a map, it’s you and Kimi. ”

Ollie looked like he was about to argue. Then he paused. Then he blinked. Then he tilted his head and mumbled, “Okay, well, hypothetically, what if we didn’t know the alpacas weren’t legal?”

“YOU’RE NEVER TALKING TO HIM AGAIN!”

Ollie let out a sound so tragic and anguished. “You can’t ban me from seeing Kimi! That’s abuse of power!”

Charles, halfway through a dramatic sigh, barely got the air into his lungs before Ollie exploded .

“I’m serious, Charles! You can’t! That’s like, Geneva Convention violation levels of cruel! It’s emotionally damaging! It’s like—like ripping the last Mentos out of a child’s hand and throwing it into a volcano! It’s the collapse of every single K-drama I’ve ever invested in emotionally! You are tearing apart the foundational joy in my soul and Kimi's very cute nose!”

Charles dragged his palm down his face like he could scrape the chaos off his skin. “Ollie, please—”

“No! You can’t tell me Kimi Antonelli and I don’t have the most doomed, poetic, slowburn romance in the entire paddock! We’re like enemies-to-lovers meets sunshine-and-sunshine’s-criminal-lawyer meets forbidden-alpaca-importers! Charles, we make eye contact across the paddock and it’s like the world stops. It’s like slow motion. My helmet goes all foggy. My knees go funny. I swear I start hearing Taylor Swift—”

Charles’ phone buzzed.

Charles instinctively yanked his phone away and turned the screen toward himself, annoyed—and then—

He froze.

It was a message from Max.

Just two words.

Need to talk.

Okay, three words.

There wasn’t a time. There wasn’t a location. But somehow Charles’ heart stuttered like it had hit a pothole in the middle of a Monaco chicane. It lurched. It fluttered. It did something so foreign and strange and dangerous in his chest that he actually looked down at it, like his ribcage was trying to escape with all his sanity.

And it wasn’t just that Max texted him.

It was that the words were urgent. Like a breath between confessions. Like the start of something.

Need to talk.

And Charles—idiotically, catastrophically—let his brain go .

What if— what if —they were in a real secret relationship?

The kind that burned under skin and crept behind paddock curtains. The kind where Max would look at him across press conferences and mouth things only Charles would understand. Where fingers would brush behind parc fermé and Max would lean in too close in the cooldown room just to whisper, you looked hot out there.

What if this message meant Max wanted to see him? Like— really see him. What if Max was waiting somewhere already, pacing like he was nervous, like maybe he’d rehearsed something romantic in that stiff Dutch way of his, and couldn’t hold it in anymore?

What if Max wanted to sneak away behind the hospitality units and kiss him like he was starving?

What if Max backed him against the side of the Red Bull motorhome, muttering, I’ve been thinking about you all day between kisses that left Charles breathless, trembling, melting from the inside out?

What if Max wanted to pull him into his room, into his lap, into his life—

“ Charles. ”

Charles flinched so hard he nearly threw his phone into the melon cubes.

He blinked. Hard.

Ollie was staring at him, concerned. “Your face went really red and then kind of dreamy. Are you having a heatstroke? Did someone spike the fruit cup with MDMA? Is your blood sugar crashing?”

Charles dragged his eyes away from the screen and focused on Ollie’s stupid little baby face. It was very effective in murdering every single horny neuron in his brain. Like dunking his soul into an ice bucket.

“Sorry. I—uh.” Charles cleared his throat. “I need to go.”

Ollie gasped. “What? No! We haven’t even talked about how Estie accidentally locked himself inside the Haas motorhome because the door handle was weird and then tried to crawl out the second-floor window and fell into a bush!”

Charles was already grabbing his phone and standing up. “I really have to.”

“Where?!”

“Ferrari meeting,” Charles lied smoothly, already internally planning the fastest route between this table and Max Verstappen’s entire existence .

Ollie pouted like he’d just been personally abandoned by a Eurovision host. “You’re ditching me for the prancing horse again?! Can I come too??”

“You’re literally contracted to Haas,” Charles said, trying to stuff his water bottle into his bag one-handed while texting Max back with the other. Where are you?

“Yeah but emotionally I’m still a Ferrari boy,” Ollie mumbled. “Ferrari is like a first love. It makes no sense. It breaks your heart. But you keep coming back for some reason and Charles you didn’t even finish your fruit—”

Charles paused. Looked back at Ollie.

And softened, because Ollie was really just a large Labrador puppy disguised as a junior F1 driver with questionable decision-making and an open crush on Kimi Antonelli.

He leaned back down and gently nudged the fruit cup toward him. “Eat the rest of it. You need vitamins. And you definitely need to go back to your own motorhome.”

Ollie blinked. “What? No. That place is cursed. I opened the fridge and there was just one cucumber and an unpaid invoice. I’m staying with you.”

Charles shook his head. “You’re going back to Haas.”

“But—”

“I’m not above carrying you,” Charles warned, already stepping away. “And I will. ”

Ollie scowled. “Fascist.”

Charles turned. Grinning a little, cheeks still too warm. “I’ll make it up to you later. We’ll talk about your illegal schemes and your criminal boyfriend, okay?”

Ollie perked up immediately. “Yay!”

Charles was already walking off. Already opening Max’s reply.

I’m in the sim room. Come now.

And Charles—heart stuttering all over again—picked up speed like he was chasing the most important moment of his life.

Because maybe he was.

Charles could barely feel his legs moving. The paddock had quieted, humming only with the low vibrations of teams shutting down equipment and drivers slipping into media pens or debriefs. But the Ferrari motorhome was already behind him, a blur of red in the corner of his eye, and all he could think about was him.

Max.

He walked up to the Red Bull unit like he belonged there, which he absolutely did not, but he smiled anyway. Smiled at the poor staff member holding a clipboard who tripped on her own feet, smiled at the driver sim tech who blinked at him with wide eyes, and especially smiled at Christian Horner, who was halfway into a sigh before Charles even opened his mouth.

“He’s in the sim room,” Christian muttered, tired.

Charles grinned, in that too-innocent, stupidly good-looking way that made people tolerate him in places he had no jurisdiction being.

“Merci,” Charles said sweetly, even though he already knew exactly where Max ws.

Christian rubbed his temples and waved him away like a mosquito.

Charles walked down the hallway, past the door with the stupid little Red Bull logo and Max’s name printed below it in neat font. He didn’t even hesitate.

One knock. One breath. One second.

He opened the door.

Max was sitting on the floor of the sim room.

Not on the racing sim. Not on a beanbag or chair or literal anything built for human comfort. The floor. Back against the wall, legs stretched out, head bent, staring at his phone like it had either betrayed him or summoned demons.

Charles closed the door behind him with a soft click.

“Hey,” he said gently, voice barely above a whisper.

Max looked up.

His eyes were a little tired. A little sharp. A little wide.

“Hey,” Max replied, like it was more than a word. Like it was an admission.

Charles’s heart did that thing again. The stupid fluttery thing. The thing that made it hard to breathe. The thing that made him think.

Think that maybe this was it.

Maybe this was the moment Max would say, I’ve been thinking, and Charles would melt into the floor. Maybe he would say, let’s make the fake thing real, and Charles would stop pretending his entire bloodstream wasn’t permanently carbonated with affection and hunger.

Maybe Max would lean over and kiss him.

Maybe they’d stop pretending.

Maybe—

“I checked AO3,” Max said.

Charles blinked.

Max did not kiss him.

Charles stared. “What?”

“The Lando and Oscar tag. It’s at 5,900 fics now.” Max’s tone was flat but there was something feral underneath it. Something dark. “In 24 hours it went up by six hundred. I checked yesterday. I checked this morning. Now look.”

He shoved his phone screen toward Charles like it was a murder weapon.

Sure enough:
“Lando Norris/Oscar Piastri (F1 RPF)” — 5,900 works.

Charles’s jaw dropped. “No…”

Max nodded grimly. “Yes.”

Charles swore, “Putain de merde ,” under his breath, backing into the wall like he’d just been stabbed.

Max leaned his head back, stared at the ceiling, and whispered, “If they come out publicly, it’s going to hit 7K by the next day. This is just from Oscar putting his stupid hand on Lando’s knee in the McLaren post-qualifying behind-the-scenes reel.”

Charles’s soul briefly left his body.

“They didn’t even kiss, ” he hissed.

“I know! ” Max shouted, like this was a conspiracy against them.

There was a long moment where they just sat there. Max on the floor, Charles half-sitting in horror with his back sliding down the wall.

Max turned his head, eyes flickering over to Charles. “Lestappen’s still stuck at 8,500s. Hasn’t moved in weeks. Not even after I wore your necklace in the photoshoot.”

“That was such a good soft launch,” Charles muttered, flabbergasted.

“We were being subtle .”

“ Artistically romantic. ”

Max threw up his hands. “They don’t care! They just want McLaren coded chaos! ”

Charles dropped to the floor beside him with a tragic sigh. “Maybe we should give up on the soft launch. Just do a hard launch. A feral one.”

Max blinked slowly. “How feral?”

Charles looked at him with a kind of desperation usually reserved for mid-race strategy switches. “Like. Show up in front of Crofty holding hands and maybe wearing matching Crocs.”

Max’s eye twitched. “We were going to post that silhouette photo of you on my balcony.”

Charles snorted. “No. That’s dead. Soft launching is dead. No one wants romance anymore. They want chaos. We’re going to have to drop everything. ”

Max was quiet for a moment. His arm was pressed next to Charles’s, their knees almost touching. “We’re just gonna walk out of the garage hand-in-hand for the media?”

Charles nodded. “With eye contact. With matching water bottles. With coordinated hats. We’ll do a couples’ quiz. I’ll call you babe during the press conference.”

Max looked vaguely horrified but also aroused. “You’ll say babe on live broadcast?”

Charles was already grinning, evil and smug and dumbly in love, leaned too close, shoulders brushing like he wanted to pass out from the proximity. “Oui, babe, ” he said, deliberately breathy, making the b pop like a gunshot in a church.

Max actually flinched. “You can’t say it like that.”

Charles, deadpan: “I will say it worse.”

Max buried his face in his hands and groaned like the press officer had just given him a 90-minute team-building Zoom call with Lando. “You’re going to kill me.”

“That’s the idea,” Charles said softly, practically preening, like this was all a performance and he was the star and the audience and the critic rolled into one dizzy, lovesick Monegasque boy with bad coping mechanisms.

They were quiet for a second, a small breath in the chaos. Just floor. Just walls. Just the artificial buzz of Red Bull’s overpriced sim rig in the corner and Charles staring at Max like he wanted to hand him his entire world, neatly wrapped with a red bow.

Max’s voice cut through the air. Softer now. Almost boyish. “I slept well today.”

And Charles did know. He knew because he was there. He was the reason. He was the one who had quietly swiped his Ferrari pass against Max’s hotel suite at nearly midnight, practically collapsing into the room like a soggy ghost after FP2 had ruined his life and his mood and his left front suspension.

He had come in with the intention to yap about Lestappen.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Not really.

He hadn’t meant to curl up next to Max like a sleep-deprived little sea otter, fists clutching Max’s hoodie like it would anchor him to earth. But Max had let him. More than let him. 

And Charles had slept. Deep and full and safe. The first decent sleep he’d had all weekend.

But it wasn’t until morning, when Charles had opened his eyes and found Max still dozing—hair an unholy mess, face relaxed and honest in a way that made Charles’s entire chest collapse inward like a dying star—that Charles had realised something very, very dangerous.

He was in love.

Not just in love like haha, we fake-dated too well and now I have feelings. Not even in love like I want to kiss him until my lungs give out.

In love like, I would learn Dutch just to understand the endearments he mutters under his breath when he’s annoyed at me.

In love like, If Max asked me to move to a cave in the Alps and raise goats with him, I’d ask how many goats and when we’re leaving.

And now here he was, sitting beside Max again, sim room cold and quiet, Max looking soft around the edges like that same boy Charles woke up to.

Charles smiled, trying very hard not to combust into cartoon hearts. “You slept well ‘cause I was there?”

Max raised an eyebrow. But he smiled. He smiled. “Yeah.”

Charles nodded, grinning like a menace. “Obviously. I’m very good at being warm and also adorable. Scientifically proven.”

Max rolled his eyes but there was a small, traitorous smile tugging at his lips. “You stole all of the blanket. I woke up freezing.”

“I took the blanket because you kept elbowing me,” Charles shot back. “You were starfishing. On top of me. Like a very violent starfish.”

“I sleep beautifully,” Max said, affronted. “I was told by multiple sources.”

“Which sources?” Charles scoffed. “Jimmy and Sassy? I doubt your cats are unbiased.”

Max tilted his head, smug. “They are extremely loyal and trustworthy.”

“I’ll sleep with you again just to disprove this slander,” Charles said, very breezy, very casual, like it didn’t make his ears turn pink to say it. “Any time you want.”

Max turned to look at him. Not startled, just—quiet. Like the words had landed and stayed.

“Yeah?” Max said, low and teasing. “Any time I want?”

His voice was lazy, warm like sun-drenched honey, and just a little cocky in the way that made Charles want to roll him up like a crêpe and smother him with whipped cream and then maybe kiss him so hard they had to invent a new FIA regulation about it.

Charles grinned too fast. “Obviously. I am a very generous person. Ask anyone.”

Max looked at him, all side-eye and suspicion. “No one says that.”

“Well, I say it,” Charles sniffed. “And I’m very trustworthy.”

“You literally photoshopped Fred’s head onto a crab last week.”

“Okay, that was because he told me my DRS stats were not sexy,” Charles said with righteous fury. “That was a declaration of war. It doesn’t count.”

Max laughed, short and bright, the sound curling at the edges like warmth creeping under Charles’ ribs.

And that was the moment—again, maybe the tenth time today, which was starting to feel like a pattern—when Charles felt it.

That soft thump in his chest. The one that didn’t feel like adrenaline or a caffeine overdose or even the sheer joy of finishing ahead of Max in a sector. It felt like Max . Just Max. Max.

Charles blinked at Max’s face, at the slight crinkle at the corner of his eyes, the way he tilted his head when he was smiling for real. Not for the media. Not for the fans. Not even for Lestappen.

Just him.

And Charles thought, Fuck.

Because he’d already known, hadn’t he? It was just—

Max looked so peaceful. So real . Hair a mess, breathing slowly, sheets riding down slightly to reveal a strip of pale chest like a gift to all that is unholy. And Charles had laid there thinking, I am so in love with you, it’s actually medically inadvisable.

In love in the worst possible way.

In love like a late-night movie scene where the best friend realises he’s been in love with the other guy the whole time and promptly has a bisexual meltdown in a supermarket aisle next to the frozen peas.

In love in the horny way, too. Like yes, Max was his rival and fake boyfriend and occasional nemesis, but he was also unfairly hot, smart, and occasionally made Charles soup when he was sick, which frankly should be illegal.

Charles was spiraling. And Max was sitting right there, knees almost brushing his, sipping from a Red Bull water bottle like he hadn’t just detonated Charles’ entire emotional structure with one teasing question.

So Charles thought— Okay. New plan.

The WDC might slip away. The Constructors’ might go to McLaren. The Lando x Oscar tag might finally crack 6k. But Charles Leclerc would win something this year.

And it would be Max fucking Verstappen.

Operation: Make Max Fall in Love for Real. Stage one.

“Okay,” Charles said casually, inching a little closer, trying not to combust when Max’s thigh bumped against his. “But, like—if you want me to sleep over again, I’ll bring snacks next time.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “You’re bringing snacks to my bed?”

“Yes, I’m romantic like that.”

“What snacks?”

“I don’t know. Popcorn? Gummy bears? Emotional intimacy?”

Max snorted. “One of those is not like the others.”

“You can’t prove that.”

Max rolled his eyes, but his smile was doing things again. Soft things. Dangerous things. And Charles had to stare very hard at the opposite wall to keep from launching himself into Max’s lap like a man possessed.

“You’re weird,” Max said finally.

“I’m in love,” Charles muttered under his breath.

“What?”

“ With popcorn, ” Charles said quickly, way too brightly. “Anyways.”

Max narrowed his eyes. “You’re being strange.”

“I’m always strange.”

“Yeah, but this is suspiciously charming strange.”

Charles blinked. “So you admit I’m charming.”

Max hesitated. Not long. Barely a breath. But enough that the silence felt thick, suspended like a droplet of rain that hadn’t decided where to fall.

“Yeah,” Max said finally, soft and grudging and weirdly sincere. “You are.”

And that— that was something.

Charles tried not to smile, but it was impossible. His whole face went warm, blooming from the inside out, like someone had lit a candle behind his eyes and set fire to his cheeks.

“Wow,” he said, exaggeratedly shocked. “Max Verstappen thinks I’m charming. What’s next? Marriage? Joint bank account? Matching tattoos?”

Max gave him the most exhausted look a human being had ever directed at another. “I take it back.”

“You can’t. It’s legally binding.”

“I’ll call a lawyer.”

“You’ll call a wedding planner.”

Max opened his mouth. Closed it again. Rubbed at the corner of his eyebrow like Charles’ presence physically pained him, but there was a flush blooming along the line of his cheek, betraying him in real time.

They fell into a pause—comfortable, warm. Charles leaned back on his hands, stretching his legs out in front of him until their ankles bumped. Max didn’t move away.

It was quiet for a moment, the kind of silence that felt earned. The sim room was dim, half-lit by the dull glow of the screen in front of them and the ever-present hum of Red Bull-branded machinery. Somewhere in the distance, someone was yelling in Dutch. Probably about tire temps or bananas.

Charles turned to Max again. “We need to talk about the launch.”

Max tilted his head. “Of the car? Charles, we did that four months ago.”

“No, our launch.”

“Our—” Max caught up. Blinked. “Oh. That launch.”

Charles nodded seriously. “The hard one.”

Max gave him a deadpan look. “Why do you say it like that.”

“Because it’s a hard launch, Max,” Charles said, eyes wide and tragic. “It’s serious. It has meaning. It has impact. We can’t mess it up.”

Max made a face. “You just said you wanted to yell babe on live TV and hold my hand in front of Crofty like we’re doing a victory parade.”

“I stand by that.”

Max shifted, leaning his head back against the wall, exhaling through his nose. “You don’t think we’re pushing it too far? What if it’s too obvious? Too fast?”

Charles shrugged. “I think Lando and Oscar are going to drop their relationship to the public any second now and when that happens—”

“—the AO3 tag war will be lost,” Max finished grimly.

“They’re already at 6k, Max. Six thousand. Do you know how fast their tag grew? They’re TikTok-core. They’re matching earrings and thirst traps and weird fan edits where they’re played by animated cats.”

“We had the top tag for three years.”

“We were legends , Max.”

Max tilted his head toward him, something soft flickering in his expression. “You still want to win this?”

Charles stared at him, all too aware of how close they were sitting now, knees pressed together like fate had made a terrible mistake and forgot they were supposed to hate each other.

“I want to win you, ” Charles said.

Max blinked. “Sorry?”

“I said—I want to win with you.”

“Mm-hm.”

Charles coughed, because his brain had decided to melt into caramel, and his body was short-circuiting just looking at the way Max was half-smiling at him like Charles had just declared himself the town idiot. Which, fair.

“But yes,” Charles said. “I want to win the tag. We put in the work. We did the fake interviews. The tension. The hate-to-love. The soft smiles in press conferences. The Monaco balcony photo. I had to ask Fred for clearance for that. And yet the fic count still won’t rise.”

Max sighed. “So we do it?”

Charles nodded. “We do it.”

“Hard launch.”

“Hardest.”

Max snorted. “What does that even mean?”

Charles grinned, wild and bright. “It means we go nuclear. No silhouette photos. No sly captions. No ‘mysterious figure in sunglasses’ bullshit. We walk straight out into the paddock holding hands like it’s the opening scene of a romantic comedy. We stare into each other’s eyes like we’ve just discovered heaven lives in the shape of our cheekbones.”

Max was clearly trying not to laugh. “Cheekbones?”

“Your cheekbones are divine, shut up.”

“I’m not even wearing highlighter.”

“Divine favouritism.”

Max finally laughed. “You’re so fucking weird.”

“I’m your weird now.”

Max raised a brow. “Weird enough to do a matching interview on the F1 YouTube channel, then?”

Charles grinned. “Only if you agree to accidentally call me mon amour halfway through.”

“I will call you schatje.”

“If I wanted to be called asshole, I would just launch a hard friends-to-rivals speedrun.” He wrinkled his nose but his smile was showing. “Call me mon amour. Say it.”

Max leaned in, and for a second, Charles thought he might kiss him. He didn’t. But he was close . Close enough that Charles could see the flecks of green in his eyes, the slight curve of his lips, the amused crinkle at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re really into this, mon amour.” Max murmured.

Charles’ heart skipped. Or maybe tripped. Or maybe threw itself down a staircase just for drama.

He nodded. “It’s important to me.”

Max studied him, unreadable for a moment. Then he said, “Okay. Let’s win this stupid fanfiction war.”

Charles beamed.

But in his chest, something else pulsed.

Because he wasn’t just going to win the tag.

He was going to win Max.

One soft smile, one hand-hold, one staged kiss at a time.

And maybe, if he did it right—if he was clever and patient and just a little stupid—Max wouldn’t even realise it was happening until it was too late.

Until Charles had already become his favourite fic trope.

The boy next door. The rival. The enemy. The friend.

The one who stayed.

By the time the calendar hit July and the paddock collectively started fantasising about beach chairs and Aperol Spritzes on a balcony in Capri, the 2025 F1 season had gone to hell in a colour-coordinated, social-media-savvy, AO3-drenched handbasket.

Ferrari and Red Bull were fighting for fifth and sixth in the Constructors’ standings. Fifth and sixth. The sort of territory previously reserved for plucky upstarts and wet-race miracles. McLaren had ascended to royalty. Mercedes were rebranded as Merciless. The grid had gone feral. Everyone was hot, tired, and chronically online. And amidst the flames and chaos and FP3 red flags, there was one thing that stood shining, glimmering, burning like a supernova in the hearts of the fanbase:

The Lestappen tag was rising.

Not just rising. Soaring.

In a timeline where Charles was not winning races, where Ferrari strategists were taking acid and pitting him onto hards during a two-lap sprint, and where Lewis Hamilton had mysteriously started a dog treat company that was taking off faster than Charles’ race starts—at least Lestappen was thriving.

It had started slowly. Max soft-launched a photo of a hand holding a spoon across a table. The table had red stitching. The spoon had Charles’ fingers. One sharp-eyed fan noticed the bracelet. The tag hit 9000.

Then Charles had gone and retweeted a clip of Max laughing at one of Charles’ podium interviews—where Charles had not, notably, been on the podium. The caption was just three emojis: 🫣❤️👀.

That one cracked 10k.

By Austria, they were casually seen sharing an umbrella during a downpour, with Charles’ hand on Max’s waist —a move so domestic it made Twitter collectively spiral and one Finnish commentator pass out on live radio.

“ We’re just pretending, ” Charles had whispered to himself in the mirror that night, brushing his teeth while Max lay in bed behind him, scrolling TikTok with his feet under the covers, very much not pretending to be Charles’ boyfriend and very much accidentally humming the song Charles had played in the car earlier.

Except it didn’t feel like pretending.

Not anymore.

It felt like Charles had taken a left turn out of the pit lane and driven straight into a romcom with horrible race pace but stunning cinematography. Because somewhere between pretending to not be in love and pretending to flirt and pretending to be caught on fan cams while staring longingly at Max’s face, Charles had made the biggest mistake of all:

He had fallen in love with Max Verstappen.

And Max didn’t even know it.

Well. Probably. Maybe. Hopefully not.

Definitely not.

Not when Max kept saying things like “We should do a spa weekend for PR” and “If we hold hands at Silverstone the crowd will go feral.” Not when he said “People like it when I smile at you on the cool down lap.” Not when he looked at Charles like Charles was a particularly well-cooked steak and then immediately pivoted to ask what Charles thought of Lando’s new helmet design.

It was unbearable. Beautiful. The most frustrating time of Charles’ life.

Especially because Fred was onto him.

“You’re seeing him,” Fred had said, eyes narrowed in the Ferrari motorhome one muggy Friday after qualifying. “I know you are.”

Charles had stared at him, drenched in sweat, still in his race suit, chewing a protein bar like it might deflect the interrogation. “See him? I see many people. I have two eyes, Fred. I’m not blind.”

Fred had looked like he wanted to throttle him. “You had dinner with him in Budapest.”

“We talked strategy.”

“He drives for Red Bull.”

“We talked life strategy.”

“Charles.”

Charles widened his eyes, blinked once, tilted his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Fred. I’m very single. Very focused on racing. Very invested in this team’s success. Please focus on figuring out why our car keeps spontaneously turning into a microwave when I downshift.”

Fred had sighed so deeply, so tiredly , that Charles had actually felt a little guilty.

But not guilty enough to cancel his dinner plans with Max.

Because that night, they did go out again. Not in disguise. Not with hats and sunglasses and nervous glances. Just Charles in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and Max in a navy blue polo, walking into a little restaurant in the old part of the city like they were a couple of guys doing absolutely nothing suspicious at all.

They ate pasta. They drank wine. Max made a joke about Lando’s skincare routine and Charles had to excuse himself to the bathroom to avoid grinning so hard his jaw locked. Max said “I like being around you” in the most casual, throwaway tone imaginable and Charles genuinely considered proposing right there beside the carbonara.

He didn’t.

But he did take Max’s wrist gently when they crossed the street and kept holding it just a little longer than necessary.

“It’s safer,” Charles had said.

Max had smiled. “You always think about safety.”

Charles wanted to die.

But in a good way.

It became a ritual. Dinner after races. Charles would call it PR and Max would shrug and go along with it. Sometimes they ended up on five-star rooftops in Singapore, sometimes it was just ramen at a hole in the wall near the hotel in Zandvoort. Charles never knew what to wear. His hands would shake when he buttoned his shirt. He started wearing Max’s favourite cologne. He once googled how to make your fake boyfriend fall in love with you for real and then cleared his search history twice for good measure.

And still— still —nothing. No confessions. No kisses. No dramatic rooftop declarations. Max just smiled. Laughed. Sat too close. Sometimes fell asleep on Charles’ shoulder during media days. Once grabbed Charles’ hand under the table at a driver briefing and didn’t let go for three minutes straight.

Charles was losing his mind.

He started journaling. Half in French. Half in English. All of it terrible. Page after page of today he looked at me like I was the last croissant on earth and I think I would give up pole position for him and that’s saying something.

He told no one.

Except Ollie.

Ollie found out because he was nosy and fast and because Charles was incapable of locking his phone. Also because he walked into the Ferrari hospitality mid-weekend and found Charles whispering to himself while looking at a blurry photo of Max adjusting his fireproofs.

“Are you writing poetry about him again?” Ollie had said, exasperated, as if Charles was an unruly teen composing sonnets in algebra class.

“No,” Charles had said, tucking his phone under his leg like a child hiding cookies. “I’m writing notes.”

“Notes about what.”

“His... posture.”

“Okay.”

“You wouldn’t get it.”

“I really wouldn’t.”

Then Ollie went on a twenty-minute tangent about how Kimi Antonelli was wearing cowboy boots again and maybe it meant something, and Charles had been momentarily distracted by Ollie’s relentless need for chaos. But even that hadn’t erased the ache in his chest that kept blooming every time Max laughed at one of his jokes or said his name in that slow, fond voice that made it sound like he was holding it in his mouth.

It didn’t help that Max had started inviting him to things. Like brunch. Or golf. Or spontaneous late-night walks where they got ice cream and talked about childhood trauma like they were in a Wes Anderson movie.

“Are we dating?” Charles had once asked, half-asleep on a bench in Canada while Max wiped chocolate off his chin.

Max had blinked. “Fake dating.”

“Oh. Right.”

“But like... professionally.”

“Sure.”

That night, Charles had laid in bed with his phone in his hands, staring at the screen until his eyes blurred, and thought: I am going to win this man.

He didn’t know how. But he was going to do it.

Because the World Championship was out of reach. Ferrari was building their car with duct tape and fervent prayer. Red Bull had developed a new front wing that somehow made them slower. Everyone had stopped asking about Constructors’ titles and started asking who was dating who. And Charles?

Charles had decided.

If he couldn’t win on the track—

If he couldn’t beat Mercedes or McLaren—

If AO3 was the only scoreboard that mattered anymore—

Then his 2025 Championship trophy was going to be Max.

He was going to win Max Verstappen.

The long way. The soft way. The stupid way.

With pasta dinners and hand-holding and the world’s slowest emotional striptease.

And one day, hopefully, Max would wake up next to him and say “Wait, I think I love you.”

And Charles would smile.

And say, “ Enfin. ”

Charles imagined it often. Usually when he was brushing his teeth. Or shampooing his hair. Or watching Max lick sauce off his thumb during dinner like that was a normal, friendly thing to do in front of someone who was barely holding his soul inside his ribs.

He imagined it when Max knocked on his hotel door at midnight with no reason except “Your bed is bigger than mine.”

He imagined it when Max pressed his thigh against Charles’ under the table during meetings, just for warmth.

He imagined it when Max messaged him unprompted with things like “I saw a dog that looks like you” and “If we win Best Ship on that Tumblr poll you have to marry me haha.”

Haha.

Charles had never hated those four letters more. Haha. What did it mean? Was it real laughter? Was it flirting? Was Max in love? Was Max just Dutch?

He didn’t know. And it was killing him.

Because Charles was in it now.

So far in it that he’d started whispering “Enfin” to himself during cooldown laps. So far in it that he’d started highlighting his own interviews to analyse if he sounded like a man in love (he did). So far in it that he’d willingly started watching Red Bull debrief videos just to hear Max’s voice saying “sector three” in that gravelly, post-race tone that made Charles feel like someone had lit a candle inside his chest.

He didn’t think it was that obvious. He thought he was playing it cool. Smooth. Subtle.

Max smiled at him every time he breathed, but Charles chalked that up to the PR campaign.

“People love when we look obsessed with each other,” Max had said once, his cheek squished into Charles’ shoulder on the floor of a hotel room they’d both decided was more comfortable than the couch.

Max had not moved for twenty-three minutes. Max had also told Charles he smelled nice.

And Charles—heavens help him—had responded, “Thanks, it’s soap.”

Soap.

That was the level he was operating on. That was the game plan.

Let it be said: Charles Leclerc could do 250 km/h while strategizing a switchback in the rain, but ask him to interpret even one (1) mildly romantic cue from Max Verstappen and his brain folded like a beach chair in hurricane season. Because Max did it for show and Charles did not.

Max would touch his lower back. Charles would assume Max was correcting his posture.

Max would make heart-eyes across the driver parade bus. Charles would assume Max was staring at someone behind him.

Max would buy him an espresso machine for his birthday and Charles would go, “Wow, PR is getting expensive.”

And yet: Charles couldn’t stop.

He had officially declared 2025 to be the Year of Winning Max Verstappen. Not with speed. Not with strategy. Not even with pole positions. But with a slow burn so molasses-thick it made AO3 writers cry in frustration.

He was going to win Max the way you win a particularly fussy cat: with patience, snacks, and the occasional forehead kiss.

Not that he’d kissed Max on the forehead yet. That would be weird. That would be too much. Even for them.

But he’d thought about it.

A lot.

Especially when Max leaned on him during flights. Or when Max fell asleep mid-Netflix and Charles took forty-seven photos of his face while pretending to check the brightness settings.

Sometimes Charles wondered if he was sick.

Like medically.

Because no normal man should feel this much from hearing Max say “you’re the only person who understands me when I say the car feels like warm soup.”

Or “you looked good in that new suit.”

Or “do you want the last fry?”

The answer, obviously, was yes. Yes, Charles wanted the last fry. Yes, Charles wanted to be understood like soup. Yes, Charles wanted to marry him.

Instead, he smiled politely. Said things like, “Merci, Max,” and “You're nice to me,” and once, most humiliatingly of all, “I hope your cat loves you as much as I do.”

To be fair, that last one had slipped out during a particularly emotional post-race FaceTime, where Charles had seen Jimmy step into Max’s lap and immediately teared up.

Max had blinked. “You mean as much as you love Jimmy? ”

Charles had paused. “No. Yes. I mean—you know. Like— you love yourself. Or something.”

Max had laughed. “You’re so weird.”

Charles had wanted to melt into the earth.

He didn’t.

Instead, he made a spreadsheet.

It had tabs.

Dates. Compliments. High-quality selfies. A running log of things Max liked (Charles. Racing. Cats. Winning. Charles). A column for “Potential Confession Dates” and “Possible Max Reactions (Ranked from ‘OMG YES’ to ‘Please never contact me again.’)”

He colour-coded it. He used conditional formatting. He used password protection.

Then accidentally sent it to Ollie.

Ollie’s reply was a screenshot of the spreadsheet with fifty-seven red arrows pointing to the line that read: If I kiss him and he kisses me back I will pass out and die but in a good way.

Then a voice note that just said: “I’m telling Fred.”

But Ollie didn’t.

Mostly because Ollie was too busy writing his own manifesto about Kimi Antonelli’s thighs.

Which left Charles completely alone in his one-man campaign to seduce Max Verstappen through a combination of emotionally devastating eye contact and dinner dates that weren’t dates but felt like dates but weren’t technically dates because nobody had said the word “date.”

Still. They kept going.

Dinner after races. “For optics.” A walk through the paddock hand-in-hand “for content.” Sitting together on a beanbag during media day “for engagement.” Max resting his head on Charles’ lap while watching race replays “for comfort.”

It was all for show.

Definitely.

Even when Max called him chou .

Charles had choked on his water the first time it happened. Not because chou itself was anything unusual—Kimi called Ollie chou chou all the time while trying to spoon-feed him cough syrup—but because it came out of Max’s mouth, in Max’s voice, sounding devastatingly natural for someone who once claimed French gave him hives.

“You never speak French,” Charles had whispered that first time, blinking, stunned.

Max had blinked right back, face blank like a golden retriever who’d just knocked over a glass and pretended not to see it. “I’m evolving.”

“Evolving?” Charles had repeated, eyes narrowing.

“Yeah. Pokémon style.”

Max. Verstappen. Pokémon style.

It wasn’t even the dumbest thing he’d said that week. That honour went to “If you die before me, can I keep Leo?” followed by “I’ll walk him. I’m responsible.”

But still.

French.

The man who once said baguette culture is a scam had not only started calling Charles chou, but had—over the course of several increasingly reality-bending weeks—somehow managed to deploy a full arsenal of French vocabulary with the fluency of someone who had actually studied .

At first it was small things.

“You’re being légèrement dramatique ,” Max had muttered when Charles wailed in the Ferrari garage after a bad quali.

“La mer n’est pas à boire,” Max had mumbled when Charles stress-ate three entire banana muffins and claimed his life was over.

“Je suis pas d’accord,” Max had said—over coffee, no less—when Charles tried to explain why their latest hard launch moment (Max lifting Charles clean off the ground in parc fermé) wasn’t going to be convincing enough for Tumblr.

And then it escalated.

Because of course it did.

“You’re doing this on purpose and it’s getting a little out of hand,” Charles had hissed one day, eyes wide with suspicion.

They were in a simulator room. Max was sitting in the chair, visor up, suit halfway undone, and Charles had made the mistake of standing too close to him while sipping a Red Bull Max had “accidentally” bought for him.

Max smirked. “Doing what?”

“The French. It’s a little too much.”

Max leaned back in the sim chair, arms folded behind his head, the picture of casual menace. “Moi? Jamais .”

Charles’ brain fizzed like someone had poured Mentos into his bloodstream. He turned and walked directly into a wall.

That was one of many incidents.

There was also the time Max whispered “Mon cœur” under his breath when Charles showed him his new fireproofs (which, fine, maybe hugged the thighs a little), and the time Max sang an entire snippet of Stromae in Charles’ ear during a post-race party, off-key and tipsy and grinning like he hadn’t just melted Charles’ spine.

And the time—perhaps most damning of all—that Max had said “Tu me rends fou” after Charles dropped a muffin and pouted about it like the world had ended.

That one had made Charles go still. Dead still.

Because that was not just French. That was dangerously intimate French. That was inscription on a wedding ring French. That was I might throw up from yearning French.

And Max had said it like it was nothing.

Like it was normal.

Like he hadn’t just set Charles’ entire sense of reality on fire and then offered him a napkin.

“You’re really overdoing it,” Charles had said later, pacing in his hotel room like a feral academic decoding love notes.

Max, lounging on the bed and flicking through TikTok, had hummed innocently. “Doing what?”

“Flirting.”

Max had raised an eyebrow. “That’s subjective.”

Charles had nearly launched his phone across the room.

He’d started dreaming in French. Dreaming about Max. Max and his stupid lazy smile. Max brushing Charles’ hair off his forehead after races. Max sitting beside him in the debrief room and mouthing stupid jokes. Max whispering “bébé” as a bit. (Was it a bit? Charles didn’t know anymore.)

Charles was losing.

Losing the plot. Losing the game. Losing the mental stability he’d so carefully nurtured after their seventh enemies-to-friends-to-besties-to-rivals-to-platonic soulmates-to-rivals-to-friends cycle that happened back in 2023.

And the worst part?

Max was winning.

At everything.

Because while Charles was out here having emotional crises over the language of love , Max was living his best AO3 fanfic life, seemingly unaware that Charles was two comments away from writing a fic titled “The Red Bull Driver Who Stole My Soul (And Then Called Me Baby in French)” under a burner account named FerrariHimbo69.

It was getting so out of hand that even Fred started asking questions.

“I saw you and Max,” Fred had said once, cornering Charles outside the motorhome.

Charles blinked. “We are often visible.”

Fred squinted. “You were feeding him a spoonful of gelato. From your spoon.”

Charles stared back, completely deadpan. “He said his hands were tired.”

Fred pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is why people think you’re dating.”

Charles gave a noncommittal shrug. “Let them think. It’s good for engagement.”

Fred leaned in. “Are you?”

Charles exhaled slowly. “Engaged?”

“Dating.”

“No.”

Fred sighed. “Are you in love with him? ”

Charles did not blink. Did not smile. Did not breathe. “No comment.”

Fred just walked away muttering, “Jesus Christ,” under his breath.

And that night, Charles took Max to dinner again.

Not a date. No. Of course not.

Just two human beings. Two besties. One former nemesis who may or may not own every inch of Charles’ heart.

Max wore cologne. Cologne. He never wore cologne.

Charles nearly passed out at the door.

The hostess smiled like she knew. The waiter gave them the wine list with a wink. 

And Max?

Max just smiled. Reached across the table. Took Charles’ hand in his own.

“You looked beautiful in quali,” he said, thumb stroking across Charles’ knuckles.

Charles, calmly and rationally, swallowed his tongue.

“It was a terrible quali,” he managed to say.

His voice wasn’t steady. Not quite. Not when Max was looking at him like that, soft and amused and just… fond. Not when Max’s fingers were still curled around his knuckles like they belonged there. Like it wasn’t fake. Like it wasn’t a game. Like it was real.

Max shrugged again, but it was slower this time. He tilted his head slightly, the faintest slant to his smile, and said, “You were still the most beautiful thing on track.”

Charles inhaled like he’d been punched.

He laughed. A little too high, a little too late. “You’re being ridiculous,” he muttered, but his face felt like it was on fire.

Max’s thumb kept moving in slow, mindless strokes against the side of Charles’ hand. “I’m always ridiculous with you.”

Charles tried to look away. Really, he did. But his eyes betrayed him, flicking up, catching on Max’s. Blue, steady, unblinking.

Goodness.

He wanted to believe it. Wanted to believe every line, every look, every gentle graze of a touch. Wanted to believe Max meant it, felt it, saw him in that same feral sunburst way that Charles saw him.

But this was still a project, wasn’t it?

Soft launch Lestappen. Win AO3. Break Tumblr.

They had rules. A mission. A strategy. They had been so careful.

And yet—here they were.

Max in cologne, looking like sin and smiling like heaven.

Charles in a shirt too tight around the chest, blinking against fantasies he’d been too scared to admit weren’t fake anymore.

This wasn’t pretend. Not for Charles. Not for weeks now.

He thought about the way Max had looked at him in the sim room. How he’d whispered French against his ear like it was nothing. How he’d called him chou and bébé and mon cœur without a single smirk or nudge.

He thought about waking up that morning after their last fake date night, pressed against Max’s back, arms slung around his waist, like they’d done it a thousand times before. He’d held his breath, scared to move, scared to ruin it, watching Max sleep with a peacefulness Charles had never seen in twenty-three years of knowing him.

He remembered thinking, in that golden hour silence, I’m in love with you. I really am. Not pretend. Not the project. Just… love.

But he hadn’t said it.

Of course not.

Charles Leclerc, brave on track, terrified off of it.

So now he sat in a restaurant, heart racing and mind spiraling, letting Max brush their knuckles together while acting like it meant nothing.

“Are you thinking again?” Max asked softly, teasing.

Charles blinked out of it. “I—no,” he lied.

Max leaned forward. “Do you want dessert?”

“I—I don’t know.”

Max grinned. “We’ll get two.”

Charles nodded dumbly. “Okay.”

They stayed longer than they meant to. They always did. The restaurant cleared out. The waiter gave them a bottle of wine on the house. Max tipped too generously. Charles picked at a slice of lemon tart while Max licked chocolate off his fork with the kind of focus that should be illegal in a public space.

When they walked outside, the air was cooler. Softer.

Charles hesitated under the streetlamp. Max looked at him. Always looking at him.

“We should go,” Charles said.

Max tilted his head. “Yeah.”

But he didn’t move.

Neither did Charles.

And in the hush of night, with moths flitting near the light and shadows dancing at their feet, Max reached out and brushed a curl from Charles’ forehead.

Charles froze.

“You’ve got gel in your hair again,” Max murmured.

“You like it,” Charles whispered.

Max smiled. “I do.”

They stood there. Close. So close.

Charles didn’t kiss him.

He wanted to. Heavens, he ached to.

But not yet.

He needed Max to fall first. Fall hard. Fall hopelessly.

He needed to win him.

Because WDC was a lost cause. WCC was a punchline. The AO3 war was raging, and Lando and Oscar were definitely planning something feral before summer break.

But Max?

Max could still be his.

Max would be his.

Charles would make sure of it.

Even if he had to lose every race, every point, every championship dream he’d ever had.

He’d still walk away with something golden.

He’d walk away with Max.

He looked up at him, soft and warm and impossibly dear.

“Bonne nuit,” Charles whispered.

Max smiled back, eyes like oceans.

“Bonne nuit, chou.”

And Charles thought, as his heart cracked open like thunder—

This is the only podium I want now.

Chapter Text

Charles blinked blearily. Fumbled for the phone. Opened Instagram.

And screamed.

A real one.

Not a tiny, “oh mon dieu” little gasp. Not a dramatic gasp with a hand over his heart. No. This was a guttural, visceral, chest-echoing scream , the kind of noise usually reserved for mechanical failures at the final chicane or discovering mold in a baguette.

The post was simple. Way too simple.

Just a square, slightly grainy photo of Oscar and Lando on a beach somewhere untagged. Lando, grinning like the bastard he was, sunglasses perched on his nose and salt-drenched curls flopping rebelliously, held a half-melted popsicle in one hand. Oscar stood behind him, arms wrapped lazily around Lando’s waist, chin on his shoulder. Matching friendship bracelets on both wrists. Caption: “Soft launch over. We’re just annoying now 💕.”

Charles stared at it.

Then he stared at it more.

Then he screamed again, louder.

Leo snorted, sat up, looked at Charles like he was personally responsible for disturbing his dreams, then curled back down with a huff of disdain.

Charles was already up. Already scrambling. He slammed open his wardrobe with the force of a man betrayed. Socks flew. Hoodies were ripped from hangers. His phone buzzed again, a stream of notifications flooding in — tagged posts, group chats blowing up, a voice note from Carlos that just said “???” followed by several key smash emojis.

“HOW COULD THEY,” Charles howled, flinging a Ferrari polo across the room. “I FED OSCAR. I LET HIM CHOOSE THE NETFLIX EPISODE. I ASKED LANDO IF HE WANTED MATCHA OR COFFEE AND I BROUGHT BOTH. ”

Leo let out a single bark, which Charles chose to interpret as emotional support.

He knew it. He knew they’d been suspiciously glowy in the paddock. He knew Oscar wasn’t just smiling that much because of McLaren upgrades. He knew Lando was up to something ever since that one interview where he said “Oscar’s my favorite Aussie. Sorry Daniel.” That wasn’t banter. That was a confession in disguise.

Charles kicked his suitcase open and started chucking things into it. His black jeans, the boat shirt Max liked, that ridiculous pair of pink swim trunks with little croissants on them. Was it Max’s house? Yes. Was Max going to judge him for his neurotic packing style? Also yes. Did Charles care?

Absolutely not.

Because this wasn’t about Max. Not yet. This was about the war.

Lando and Oscar had hard-launched. They had ruined everything. The Lestappen AO3 battle plan was in shambles. How could they compete with a beach post? With bracelets? With vague tropical couple energy ? Charles didn’t even own matching bracelets. Max hated the beach. Charles had been relying solely on slow-burn soft launches, suggestive post-race glances, and Max's barely restrained homoerotic radio messages.

He threw in his cologne. Max liked that one. Then paused. Then threw in the older one too. Just in case.

Outside, the summer sun mocked him.

Charles stalked around the apartment with the righteous fury of a man who had lost a war he didn’t even know had started. He grabbed Leo’s leash, the travel dog bowl, and the tiny life jacket he’d bought for Max’s pool even though Leo absolutely refused to swim. He packed three pairs of sunglasses. Seven pastel shirts. Four tubs of pistachio gelato.

He paused at the front door, breathing heavily. Stared back at his little apartment — the couch where Oscar had once curled up post-GP like a smug ferret, the old espresso machine that had survived two breakups and three constructors' titles, the tiny balcony with fairy lights Max had drunkenly installed during a rainstorm last summer while claiming it was for “ambiance.”

Charles sighed. Bent down to scoop Leo into his arms — who made a noise like finally, idiot — and said to no one in particular, “If I’m going to suffer, I’m doing it in Max Verstappen’s house.”

Charles locked the door behind him with a dramatic finality. He pulled Leo closer to his chest, clutching the dachshund like a living emotional support pillow. The building was quiet except for the faint hum of the lift coming up from the lobby. Charles exhaled through his nose like a man who had just witnessed a high-speed, slow-motion emotional car crash—which, to be fair, was exactly what Lando and Oscar’s Instagram post had felt like.

His phone buzzed.

Carlos Sainz had finally joined the conversation.

In the “GPDA-ish-but-goofy” group chat, tastefully titled ‘Tyre Fire 🔥’, a message popped up with all the tragic innocence of a man who had no clue he was about to be eaten alive by the wolves.

Carlos: wait sorry lando and oscar are actually DATING??

Charles stopped in front of the elevator and blinked.

Blink. Blink.

The doors opened. He stepped in.

Typed like his thumbs were possessed by rage demons.

Charles: ARE YOU BLIND???

Charles: THEY’VE BEEN PUBLICLY EYE-FUCKING SINCE 2022.

Pierre: Updating the bingo card LETS FUCKING GO BOYS!!
Pierre: ✅ Carlos says something dumb.

Esteban: ✅ Carlos lives in a mind palace where nothing is real and feelings are theoretical physics.
Esteban: im winning this week

Pierre: Not on my watch.

George: Wait so Carlos didn’t know??

Carlos: NO?! I THOUGHT THEY WERE JUST CLOSE??

Alex: Bro they literally shared a toothbrush once during the triple header. And gave us the deets. It was disgusting.

Carlos: I THOUGHT THAT WAS A TEAM COST-CUTTING MEASURE???

Pierre: ✅ Carlos says something dumb... TWICE.

Daniel: Pierre that’s an illegal move.

Pierre: ✅Frank Hermann strikes again.

Charles: THEY BROUGHT MATCHING SUITCASES TO SPA.

Oscar: Wait why is everyone yelling 😟

Charles: OSCAR. I LOVE YOU. BUT SHUT UP.

Lando: i’m not even fully awake yet what the fuck

George: Oscar why are you confused, you posted the damn picture

Oscar: Yeah but I didn’t expect Charles to go rabid.

Charles: I AM NOT RABID I AM JUST PASSIONATE ABOUT STRATEGY.
Charles: ALSO ABT CARLOS BEING DUMB.
Charles: ALSO ABT LOSING EVERYTHING INCLUDING MY WILL TO LIVE AND ITS ALL THANKS TO MCLAREN AND THE MCTWINKS.

Alex: Charlie.
Alex: Breathe.

Esteban: ✅ Charles loses his shit on main.

Charles: IM BREATHING. I AM BREATHING SO WELL.

Carlos: but like who was gonna tell me my best friend is dating his teammate???

Lando: we literally made out in front of your trailer in Monaco

Carlos: I THOUGHT YOU WERE CHOKING

Oscar: …on what

Pierre: 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

George: I have to sit down

Alex: you are sitting down

George: I have to sit down more

Oscar: It still doesn’t explain why Charles is so angry tho

Lando: Isn’t he always angy?

Daniel: This one seems premeditated.

Esteban: More like premedicated
Esteban: Get it?

Pierre: Oh look the man’s got jokes

Esteban: You can fuck off.

Pierre: After you!

Charles: EveryONE SHUT THE FUCK UP I HAVE GOT THINGS TO SAY

Alex: Dont’ you always?

Max: (seen)

The lift shuddered softly as it descended, giving Charles a moment to calm down. He did not calm down.

He was still fuming over the fact that Lando and Oscar had dropped a post that obliterated the internet like a nuclear gay bomb. He'd barely had time to recover from the shock before AO3 started flooding with tags . Already, he'd seen three new Landoscar enemies-to-lovers werewolf AU fics and one deeply upsetting farmer AU where Oscar was allergic to goats.

He hit the reply button again like a man possessed.

Charles: DO YOU UNDERSTAND.
Charles: YOU TWO.
Charles: OSCAR.
Charles: LANDO.

Oscar: Yeah?

Lando: Yes daddy

Pierre: ✅ Lando says something cursed.

Oscar: 😟

Charles: YOU TWO ARE GOING TO WIN THE WDC. THE WCC. AND THE AO3 RANKINGS.

Oscar: what is AO3

There was a moment of silence in the group chat.

A sacred, heavy silence.

Charles: WHAT DO YOU MEAN WHAT IS AO3.

Pierre: omg

Esteban: he’s a baby

Alex: he’s a danger to society.
Alex: must protect.

Lando: Chat does this count as ✅ Oscar says something cursed

Oscar: AO3 is cursed??

Charles: YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT AO3 IS AND YET YOU’RE GOING TO DOMINATE IT WITH LANDO LIKE IT’S THE FUCKING CONSTRUCTORS’ STANDINGS

Lando: someone explain it to him while I brush my teeth

Oscar: you’re literally still in bed

Lando: brushing metaphorically

Max: (seen)

Charles stepped out into the underground parking garage, seething. Leo was wagging his tail happily, completely oblivious to the war his dad was waging in the group chat. Charles adjusted his sunglasses even though they were completely unnecessary in the dim garage and opened the trunk of his Ferrari with a violent little beep.

George: OKAY I NEED TO KNOW. Carlos. Did you at least know I’m dating Alex.

Carlos: YOU’RE DATING ALEX?????

Alex: Bro. 

Esteban: NO. FUCKING. WAY.

Daniel: Someone check Carlos for brain damage.

Pierre: If I knew Carlos would say this many dumb stuff this week I would have made my bingo card JUST HIM.

Carlos: You guys are trolling me.
Carlos: RIGHT???

George: Please tell me you are trolling us, Carlos
George: Because there’s no other explanation for this.

Lando: Muppet be so deep in the mind palce he dosnt even nkow wht the fuck is gng on arnd him no more.

George: Lando, please learn how to spell. And Carlos, please tell me this is an elaborate plan to help Pierre win Bingo this week.

Pierre: I don’t need his help to win bingo. I won bingo last week. Independently. 

Esteban: Yeah. Becoz we fake married to help you tick a box off.

Carlos: WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCKKKKK

Oscar: I think we broke him.

Carlos: WHO IS DATING WHO
Carlos: WHAT IS GOING ON
Carlos: WHY AM I THE LAST TO KNOW

Daniel: This is beautiful. I need this printed on a t-shirt.

Carlos: Daniel pls tell me you are not dating anyone. plss.

Daniel: Oh sweetheart
Daniel: didnt u hear?

Carlos: I DONT WANNA HEAR
Carlos: just
Carlos: GEORGE
Carlos: HOW LONG

Alex: Ten years. We were childhood sweethearts. We held hands during karting podiums.

Carlos: I thought you were... JUST REALLY COMPETITIVE.

Pierre: ✅ Carlos says something dumb — BONUS ROUND.

Charles: Carlos I love you but you are the human embodiment of a confused cat

Esteban: the one that walks into the same glass door six times

George: okay but can we bring back the bingo card scores. I’m losing track.

Pierre posted a screenshot of the current ‘Tyre Fire Chaos Bingo’, an actual digital bingo board maintained weekly by the grid’s most emotionally unstable. The squares read:

• Charles breakdown
  
  
• Max leaves us on read
  
  
• Carlos says something dumb
  
  
• George posts a shirtless thirst trap
  
  
• Someone says something cursed/feral/unhinged
  
  
• Lando slaps Oscar’s ass on live TV with zero context
  
  
• Charles tweets in Italian when he's mad
  
  
• Estie Bestie paragraph swear
  
  
• Max v/s George catfight
  
  
• Lestappen accidentally marry in Vegas
  
  

Charles: Wait who added the last one

Pierre: Max.

Charles: MAX???

Max: (seen)

George: No okay let’s focus;  someone HAS to win bingo this week

Esteban: I’m one square away. I just need Daniel to say something vaguely feral in an interview.

Daniel: Already scheduled. I'm doing press with GQ tomorrow. Planning on calling my left nipple "the fussy one."

Pierre: ✅ Daniel says something vaguely feral

Pierre: BINGO

Esteban: OH FUCK YOU

Pierre: You were too slow. bitch.

Charles tossed Leo’s travel carrier into the passenger seat, threw his bag into the back, and slammed the trunk. He got into the car, flopped into the driver’s seat, and dropped his head against the wheel dramatically.

Charles: You are all missing the POINT. LANDO AND OSCAR HAVE RUINED THE AO3 RATIO.

Pierre: Charles it’s not that deep

Charles: IT IS THAT DEEP. I’VE BEEN TRYING TO PUSH THE LESTAPPEN AGENDA AND FOR WHAT. FOR WHAT.

George: wait. so it IS REAL??

Alex: Does this mean the Lestappen Vegas marriage isn’t too far off from reality?

Lando: HOL UP IS THAT WHY MAX ‘I HATE EVERYONE ON THE GRP CHAT’ VERSTOPPING ADDED THAT BINGO CARD???

Daniel: Mah boys Franz and French are all grown ups now.
Daniel: Making mama proud

Charles: First of all, NOT FRENCH THANK YOU VERY MUCH.
Charles: SECOND OF ALL. FUCK YOU ALL. WE ARE NOT DATING.

Oscar: I’m so so lost rn.

Lando: I will give u the tea babes

Carlos: I’m also lost.
Carlos: Are max and charles dating or nah?

Max: (seen)

Carlos: I’m still lost.

Lando: OHHHHH SO THE DATE AT THE ITALIAN RESTAURANT
Lando: WAS ACTUALLY A DATE
Lando: O
Lando: M
Lando: G
Lando: THIS IS JUICYYY

Alex: EXCUSE ME THEY WENT ON A DATE??

George: I thought Charles and Max still hated each other.

Charles: Don’t tell me you got the spacial awareness issue from Carlos

Esteban: Must be contagious.

Lando: IM CONNECTING SO MANY DOTS RN

Charles: YOU ARE NOT CONNECTING SHIT SHUT THE FUCK UP

George: So you guys ARE dating or NOT DATING or JUST DONT WANNA TELL US YOU GUYS ARE DATING.

Charles: no.

Pierre: Reaching for a double bingo with this one
Pierre: ✅ Charles denies and confirms relationship status at the same time

Esteban: That’s not even on the bingo card

Pierre: And I asked for your opinion.. when?

Esteban: Espèce de sale connard de Normandie, abruti à la mèche trop bien coiffée, j’espère que tu te réveilles demain avec une grippe carabinée et un pigeon qui chie sur ta voiture, en plein milieu d’un brunch sponsorisé par l'enfer. Tu crois que t’es irrésistible avec ta gueule de mannequin raté et ta voix de mec qui lit des horoscopes à voix haute ? T’es qu’un cafard narcissique dans une veste en lin, une erreur cosmique avec une superlicence. Même ton rire me donne envie de casser ma propre télé. Si je dois t’entendre dire “frérot” encore une fois, je te jure sur tous les virages de Monaco que je vais t’étrangler avec un câble USB. Tu me fatigues, Pierre. Tu es une punition divine. Un PowerPoint fait par l’Univers sur comment ruiner la paix intérieure d’un homme qui voulait juste faire ses courses tranquillement. Va faire un tour dans une tempête et perds ton AirPod, espèce de catastrophe à visage humain.

Lando: ✅ Estie bestie paragraph swear
Lando: BINGOOO

Daniel: Pierre already won

Lando: oh fuck you all

Oscar: can someone tell me what AO3 is I’m scared to Google it

Alex: do NOT Google it
Alex: stay innocent
Alex: do better

Carlos: wait so Charles and Max ARE dating??

George: carlos go back to your mind palace

Esteban: do not pass go. do not collect 200 dollars.

Pierre: ✅ Carlos is 12 steps behind the plot again

Charles threw his phone into the cup holder and turned the ignition.

He wasn’t just driving to Max’s. He was driving into a new era.

An era of vengeance. Of soft launches turned hard. Of fake dating turned possibly real turned “wait is that a ring.” Of outposting the gays and reclaiming Lestappen's crown as AO3 Supreme.

Lando and Oscar might’ve won this week.

But Charles Leclerc was coming. And he was bringing Leo.

But Charles Leclerc was coming.

In a car that smelled like vanilla air freshener and impending vengeance, blasting French music so aggressively upbeat it felt like his ancestors were encouraging him to stage a revolution. The kind with baguettes in one hand and emotional repression in the other. Charles merged onto the road like he was merging into his villain era — sunglasses on, windows down, Leo panting happily in the passenger seat like an oblivious accomplice to crime.

The radio was playing something obnoxiously fast, possibly about love and dancing and heartbreak in the Paris rain — Charles didn't know, he only caught the words amour and mortel and cha-cha-cha before the bass dropped like a guillotine. Which felt right.

It was the musical equivalent of smashing champagne bottles against a yacht while crying. The perfect vibe for a man who had just watched his chance at AO3 supremacy evaporate because Oscar Piastri of all people had dropped a photo of Lando kissing him on the neck next to a fucking croissant.

Charles banged the heel of his palm against the wheel to the beat.

“I don’t care,” he told Leo, who looked unimpressed. “I’m not angry. I’m just... driven. I’m passionate. I’m going to win Max over. I’m going to make him fall in love with me for real. You’ll see. That will be my World Championship. That’s my Constructors’ title. That’s my fanfic trope victory.”

Leo yawned and sneezed.

The music changed. Another French song. Even more unhinged than the last. This one had accordions and screaming . Possibly a love song. Possibly a threat. Charles turned it louder.

He drove fast, heart hammering a little more with each kilometer, the familiar weight of his overnight bag in the trunk and the absolutely unfamiliar weight of desperate yearning wedged between his ribs. It was fine. It was casual. It was normal to feel like your entire chest was a champagne bottle about to explode whenever you thought about Max Verstappen barefoot in the kitchen, muttering Dutch insults at a microwave and saying “chou” like it wasn’t the end of Charles’ sanity.

Max was expecting him.

Charles hadn’t asked.

He had simply texted:
I’m moving in for two weeks. Life is shit. I’ll bring Leo.

Max replied with:
ok. bring espresso capsules.

Charles had. He’d packed twelve. He’d also packed his favorite hoodie that Max once called “tragically beige” but kept stealing whenever he “accidentally” stayed over. Charles packed it anyway. For psychological warfare. Or cuddling. Whichever came first.

He made a hard left with the same energy as someone dodging intrusive thoughts.

It was summer break. It was time for healing. It was time for tactical emotional seduction.

He had exactly fourteen days to make Max Verstappen fall in love with him for real. And if not—well. At least Leo would have a big backyard to pee in.

“Right, Leo?” he said aloud, glancing over.

Leo sneezed again and stuck his head out the window.

Charles nodded solemnly.
“Yeah. Me too.”

The car rolled into the guest parking like a defeated knight returning from battle. The sun was sinking low on the horizon, casting an obnoxiously romantic golden glow across the sleek apartment complex where Max lived — the kind of golden hour lighting that would’ve made Charles feel giddy if he wasn’t busy carrying thirty pounds of emotional repression in a weekend bag slung over one shoulder and trying to balance Leo’s leash in the other hand.

Leo, being the chaotic miniature gremlin he was, leapt out the second Charles opened the passenger door. He sniffed the air like a seasoned general surveying the battlefield.

“Yes, this is it,” Charles muttered, kicking the trunk shut with his knee. “This is where we build our empire.”

Leo barked once and immediately tried to eat a dead leaf.

The walk to the entrance was short and dramatic. Or maybe it was just Charles making it dramatic by walking with the solemnity of a man approaching the gates of destiny. Bag on shoulder. Hoodie half zipped. Hair fluffed to the gods. Eyes full of yearning and murder. Leo dragged him like a sled dog on crack.

The elevator arrived with a ding. Charles stepped in, pressed the button for Max’s floor, and leaned against the mirrored wall, trying to look composed while battling the crushing weight of gay panic.

He opened his phone.

The group chat was still active. Exploding, more like.

Carlos Sainz had finally recovered from the whiplash of discovering his best friend had been in a committed relationship with Oscar Piastri for three years without him noticing. And now that the hysteria around that had cooled down to a light simmer of trolling, the wolves had turned to their next victim:

Max Verstappen.

Which would’ve been fine — if Max ever replied.

Charles scrolled up. The last time Max had said anything in the chat was three months ago when Esteban posted a selfie captioned:
“Feeling cute. Might do donuts in the paddock. 😘”
To which Max had replied:
👎

That was it.

Just a thumbs down.

Since then? Radio silence.

Which, to Charles’ absolute horror, only made the chat worse .

George: max. baby. sweetheart. little guy. little meow meow. blink twice if ur dating charles.

Pierre: 💀💀💀💀💀💀

Carlos: guys leave him alone maybe he’s just asleep

George: carlos it’s almost noon

Alex: and in MONACO TIME. you think he’s asleep or you think he’s staring at charles’ ass while pretending to scroll on his phone

Daniel: my money’s on the ass

Pierre: he never even replies to this chat anymore. it’s just thumbs down or nothing

George: literally. i could say “i’m dying” and all i’d get is 👎

Oscar: guys should i be concerned that’s also how he responded to me asking if i could borrow his sim rig once

Lando: no. that just means he likes you

Oscar: ???????????

George: anyways back to the topic. CHARLES. ARE. YOU. DATING. MAX.

Charles: no.

George:

George:

George: i’m sorry is that no as in no comment or no u won’t say or no because ur already married in ur hearts ???

Pierre: or “no” like that one time Charles said “no” to drinking and then showed up to my flat at 3am crying about Max’s shoulder muscles and ate my entire fridge

Charles: IT WAS A HARD WEEK AND I WAS DRUNK AND DRUNK ME IS A LIAR

Daniel: name one week at Ferrari that isn’t hard

Alex: Pierre I was there that night. He also cried about Max’s hair. He said “it’s so fluffy for someone so evil”

Pierre: OH MY GOODNESS YESSS

Charles: can we not

Carlos: wait so you’re NOT dating??

George: CARLOS

Pierre: bingo card again someone mark “carlos being twelve business days behind everyone else emotionally”

Daniel: ✅✅✅✅✅

George: listen. i’ve had a powerpoint prepared for MONTHS. if you two hard launch i can finally drop this in the group and go to war on ao3

Oscar: i still don’t know what that is

Charles: DONT

Alex: ok baby boy it’s time you learn

Pierre: AO3 is Archive of Our Own. It’s a fanfiction site. You know. Stories. Fictionalised. Of us.

Oscar: …like real stories or… fake?

George: both. depends on how much trauma you want.

Daniel: once i read one where i got kidnapped by my evil twin and lando had to fight him in a tesco car park

Lando: he lost btw.

Oscar: is that legal

Alex: no one knows

George: listen. AO3 is sacred. If Charles and Max confirm they’re dating? The Lestappen tag will go FERAL. We’re talking 100k fics by next Tuesday. They’re already soft-launching harder than Lando and Oscar ever did

Lando: no way. me slapping oscar’s ass on the pit wall counts as a full launch.

Oscar: you did it for THIS???

Lando: 😘

Charles: im going to SCREAM

Daniel: oscar if you want to learn about ao3 i have a curated list

Oscar: curated?

Pierre: oh it’s worse than it sounds

Alex: better. depending on your vibe.

Oscar: is this why lando keeps smirking when i say the word “fic”

Lando: 😏😏😏

Charles: STOP. STOP STOP STOP.

George: anyway. back to MAX. he hasn’t spoken in here in three months.

Pierre: last message was the thumbs down when Esteban said “feeling cute” and threatened donuts in the paddock

Esteban: it was a good selfie 🥺

Pierre: No it wasn’t

George: so now we’re gonna cyberbully max until he CONFESSES

Daniel: this is truly the only way

Alex: Charles. blink twice if you’re sleeping in his bed

Charles: 

Carlos: is he???

Pierre: i would bet my life savings that he is

Lando: same. also. remember the stream

Oscar: OH MY GOODNESS. THE THIGH.

George: WAIT YES THE THIGH. THE FUCKING THIGH IN THE MAX STREAM

Oscar: it was smooth. and tanned. and in branded ferrari shorts.

Pierre: you know who else has smooth thighs and no shame?

Charles: 😐
Charles: i’m blocking all of you.

Oscar: i feel like i’m in a cult.

Lando: it’s not a cult it’s a COMMUNITY.

Pierre: a LESTAPPEN SUPPORT GROUP

George: more like a Lestappen INVESTIGATION TASK FORCE.

Alex: we need a spreadsheet.

George: already have one, babe. tabs include:

• suspicious instagram likes
  
  
• interviews where max stares at charles like he’s an angel of ferrari
  
  
• photos of max smiling like a freak when charles exists near him
  
  
• slow-mo videos where charles looks at max like he’s going to marry him in three languages
  
  

Esteban: is one of the tabs titled “thigh evidence” because i swear that was charles

Lando: not you calling it thigh evidence 💀💀💀

Esteban: it’s LITERALLY JUST. THIGH.

George: and you can see the hem of the ferrari shorts. we did frame-by-frame analysis. ENHANCED. ENHANCED AGAIN. CSI-STYLE.

Pierre: “who’s the thigh?” is our group’s version of “who killed laura palmer”

Carlos: what is happening

Daniel: nothing buddy. go back to your sudoku ❤️

George: okay but remember when Max said “Charles and I get along well off-track” and the entire paddock stopped breathing for three minutes

Alex: yeah because that was the most emotion he’s shown since birth

Pierre: he said it while SMILING. like full teeth.

Oscar: that’s scary

Charles: THAT’S ENOUGH.

Lando: ok but are you denying the thigh

Charles: there was NO thigh

Alex: bro it had a MOLE ON IT I’VE SEEN THAT MOLE IN FERRARI MEDIA DAY PHOTOS

George: WE ZOOMED

Pierre: we enhanced. we compared. we matched skin tone under three lighting setups.

Alex: i did a forensic thigh report. the data does not lie.

Daniel: no one tell the FIA or we’re all banned.

Oscar: i’m scared of all of you

George: you’re just scared because Max sniffed Charles’ helmet once

Oscar: I don’t even want to know.

Carlos: OKAY I THOUGHT THAT WAS A HALLUCINATION

Pierre: he picked it up. SNIFFED IT. then smiled.

Oscar: why would someone smell another man’s helmet

Lando: 😏💦

Daniel: SIR THIS IS A FAMILY CHAT

George: no it’s not. this is a chat full of trauma and denial and a love story we’ve all been forced to watch unfold through crumbs like it’s the fucking da vinci code

Pierre: you know how many clues i’ve collected. you know how many times Max has said “we understand each other without words” and then looked at Charles like he was a warm baguette on a rainy day

Oscar: that was so specific

Lando: i liked it. very french.

Charles: i will crash my car into all of you

George: please. you already crashed your heart into Max’s dms

Alex: i saw the helmet cam footage from last week. the moment Max overtook you, you WAVED

Oscar: you did 😭 i thought it was a glitch

George: it wasn’t. it was LUST

Charles: it was racing 😡

Daniel: racing into his arms maybe

George: racing into a shared Netflix account

Pierre: racing into domestic bliss

Alex: racing into AO3 with the tag: “slow burn enemies to soulmates to lovers with grid angst and secret touches”

Oscar: i’m afraid to ask but like. what does “tag” mean. like hashtag?

George: ohhhhohohohoooo

Lando: OH BOY

Pierre: you sweet summer child

Alex: okay imagine if your trauma had its own filing cabinet. that’s a tag.

Oscar: why would you file trauma??

Daniel: so you can read about it again when you feel nothing and need to sob

Oscar: is this a kink thing

George: it CAN BE

Pierre: AO3 is a place where someone once wrote Max giving birth to Charles’ child after a cursed Red Bull experiment

Oscar: I’M SORRY???

Charles: STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP

Lando: i bookmarked it

Daniel: I NEED TO BLEACH MY SOUL

Oscar: why would Max give birth??

Pierre: because AO3 is feral and the Lestappen shippers are committed to the bit

Lando: Did i mention the child was you?

Oscar: ‘you’ as in me???

Daniel: si

Oscar: I don’t even know what to do with that information.

George: okay okay okay but LISTEN

George: If Charles and Max confirm they’re dating I PROMISE you the Lestappen tag will hit 20k fics overnight. We’ll have entire timelines rewritten. Max will be reborn as a tortured vampire. Charles will be a Parisian florist with a dark past. There will be fics where they’re rivals in a baking competition. Or stuck in a cabin with one bed and emotional trauma.

Oscar: do people write that much??

Pierre: bro. I once found a 300k fic of me and Yuki trapped in a haunted store trying to survive by building furniture and sharing secrets.

Daniel: that was a good one actually

Alex: the writing was better than most Netflix shows

Oscar: this is too much. i need a nap.

George: NO. YOU NEED A LECTURE. CHARLES. MUTE THE CHAT IF YOU MUST BUT MAX. MAX BABY. IF YOU SEE THIS.

George: 🧍‍♂️👉💍👬💘📢

Pierre: he’s proposing with emojis

Carlos: why is there a lone man. is that charles?

George: yes. he’s lonely. unless Max accepts the proposal.

Daniel: symbolic. poetic. i’m tearing up.

Alex: Charles do you love him or not

Charles: 😐

Pierre: that’s a yes. that’s his “fuck you i’m in love but i’m too french adj to say it” face

Lando: HE SAID NOTHING WHICH MEANS EVERYTHING

George: heavens i love repression. it’s like watching a nature documentary about two pandas who refuse to mate but keep touching paws when they think no one’s looking

Oscar: this is the most unhinged thing i’ve ever been part of

Pierre: welcome to the grid sweetie 💋

George: anyway. Charles if you see Max tell him we love him. also tell him to post something. even just a thumbs up.

Alex: or a picture of Charles’ thigh again

Lando: or a soft launch pic of the two wine glasses on the balcony like last time

Oscar: YOU SAW THAT TOO??

Pierre: we ALL saw it. you don’t soft launch Charles Leclerc and think no one will notice.

George: That was iconic tho. It’s a wonder no one realised it’s Charles.

Esteban: Well, It’s still not confirmed so we never know

George: Do you see him denying rn?

Esteban: …
Esteban: Point taken

Daniel: if the world ends before they admit it, i’m haunting both of them.

George: I’m going to write it into my will.

Alex: let’s all agree: we keep harassing them until one of them cracks.

Pierre: operation LESTAPPEN ENDGAME is a go.

Oscar: omg if they come out do we get merch

Lando: already designing shirts

Pierre: i want a mug that says “charles’ thigh started it all”

Daniel: i want death

Carlos: i just wanted to know if we’re still playing golf this week

Pierre: carlos.

George: carlos sweetie.

Alex: read the room.

Carlos: you guys are talking about thighs and fic websites idk what’s happening

Oscar: okay but back to the real issue: was Max obsessed with Charles even back in F2???

Pierre: YES. DUH.

Lando: YES LMAO HE HATED HIM

George: famously. rage-watched every race.

Daniel: he once told me Charles was “too smooth” and it made him angry

Oscar: what the fuck does that even mean

Pierre: it means he was IN LOVE

Charles: he was not in love he was just mad i drove like a beast with a car that barely had a working clutch 😡

Lando: bro you were eighteen and dramatic and spoke like you were avenging your ancestors every time you won pole

Oscar: did Max ever admit it???

George: NO. he did that thing where he was like “i don’t think about him” and then proceeded to watch all of his races with binoculars

Alex: there’s actual video of Max in the F1 paddock watching Charles in F2 on the monitors with his arms crossed like he was planning a heist

Pierre: and i was THERE during the karting days and let me tell you they were MENACES

Lando: Charles would finish a race and pretend Max didn’t exist

Pierre: Max would then go and beat everyone by six seconds the next day in pure revenge

Daniel: you’re telling me the romance started in KARTING

George: that’s how all tragic love stories begin. with helmets, rage, and repressed feelings on asphalt.

Oscar: i love that you all have lore

Charles: we do NOT have lore

Pierre: bro you once shoved him into the grass on turn 4 in Genk because he called you a drama queen

Lando: wasn’t that the same day Charles got disqualified for flipping him off under yellow

Alex: LOVE STORY.

George: ENEMIES TO LOVERS TO DENIERS TO AO3 KINGS

Oscar: wait what about the first time they raced in F1???

Pierre: oh. the Bahrain moment.

Daniel: Max saying “i don’t know him” in the interview and then pouting the whole cooldown room like he’d just been dumped

Lando: and Charles winning that belgium race with that deadpan “bonjour” on the radio. the DRAMA. the ICONIQUE.

Oscar: i feel like you all have been waiting YEARS to talk about this

Pierre: we have. this is our Avengers Endgame

Daniel: The roman empire, if u will.

George: it’s been building up. we’ve collected quotes, moments, split-second glances. we’ve mapped it all.

Carlos: and not one of you told me they were in love

Alex: YOU WERE THERE FOR HALF OF IT.

Pierre: YOU SAW MAX THROW A WATER BOTTLE BECAUSE CHARLES BEAT HIM IN QUALI AND STILL SAID “he’s probably just tired”

George: i swear you live in a wind tunnel

Oscar: was Max always this. y’know. feral about Charles?

Pierre: bro. he was foaming at the mouth anytime Charles overtook him cleanly

Lando: which was often 💅

George: my favourite was Monaco 2022 when Max looked like he wanted to launch himself into the sea because Charles beat him by two tenths in quali

Daniel: and then Charles DNF’d and Max looked SAD. SAD!!!

Pierre: imagine your enemy crashes and you’re SAD about it. that’s not hate. that’s emotional damage.

Charles: i was just driving the car.

George: no you were driving MAX CRAZY 😌

Oscar: has anyone actually asked Max about it??

Alex: yes. once.

Pierre: 2019. preseason. someone asked if he watched Charles in F2 and he said “i’ve seen some races. he’s decent.”

George: which in Max language means “i was in love but he didn’t know i existed.”

Daniel: then he crashed into him twice that year. romantic.

Oscar: i’m so unprepared for this world

Pierre: welcome to the Max & Charles Show.

George: two men. one championship. a thousand unresolved feelings.

Lando: and one mysterious thigh

Charles: I’M DELETING THE CHAT

Carlos: wait so. golf is cancelled?

George: CARLOS.

Daniel: YOU’RE LITERALLY NEXT TO LANDO AT MONACO THIS WEEK JUST ASK HIM

Carlos: oh yeah

George: carlos you’re the human equivalent of forgetting your own birthday

Oscar: guys is it weird if i start a shared drive for all the Lestappen Evidence

Pierre: you’re one of us now

Alex: you’ve been initiated

Daniel: by thighfire we are reborn

Charles: what does that mean

George: it means you can’t hide anymore

Carlos: maybe max isn’t hiding maybe he’s just scared of losing something that finally feels safe to him

The elevator dinged . Charles didn’t move.

He just stared at the screen like it had personally written a love letter and slapped him with it.

Pierre: wHAT

George: WHAT THE HELL

Alex: wait wait wait

Lando: WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH CARLOS SAINZ

Oscar: what did i just witness.

Daniel: okay, this is some tumblr-core poetic heartbreak theory and it’s coming from CARLOS??

Pierre: someone check if he got possessed.

George: someone give him a book deal.

Carlos: ??? it was just a thought

Alex: just a thought.

Pierre: a THOUGHT??? bro you wrote the third act of the romcom where the love interest runs through the airport in the rain

Lando: i cried a little ngl

Charles: …

Daniel: charles u okay buddy

Charles: yeah

Charles: yeah i just

Charles: i might be staying at Max’s for the next two weeks

The group chat promptly exploded like someone had thrown a live grenade into it and then added confetti.

George: OH.

Pierre: OH OH.

Lando: WE HAVE A CONFIRMATION PEOPLE

Oscar: does this mean i can stop decoding thigh pics and hoodie data

Alex: NO IT MEANS YOU DOUBLE DOWN

Daniel: wait wait wait WAIT. are we talking cohabitation. ROOMMATES. “just two bros in a 3 bedroom apartment”???

George: do you have toothbrush space

Lando: i don’t even bring my dog to my boyfriend’s house unless we’re being serious

Oscar: we live together

Lando: exactly

Pierre: but but but are there drawers involved

Lando: are you doing laundry together

Oscar: is Leo allowed on the bed. this is important. is Leo in bed with you both

Charles (out loud, alone in the hallway): what the fuck

He typed furiously.

Charles: i’m just staying with him because life is a mess and Ferrari is a disaster and Lando and Oscar are in love and winning and i’m spiralling ok

Daniel: BABE THAT’S EVEN MORE ROMANTIC

George: “i sought refuge in the arms of the man who once broke me on track but held me together off it”

Oscar: …what

Alex: ignore him he’s on his third espresso

Lando: okay but imagine. soft domestic lestappen. max making eggs while charles wears the big hoodie. charles screaming at French radio. leo barking.

Alex: max buying croissants and pretending it’s not because he knows charles is sad

Oscar: charles crying over a bad quali and max silently handing him a cookie shaped like monaco

Daniel: guys i can’t handle this emotional whiplash

George: do we think max has a secret drawer with all of charles’ F2 merch

Esteban: he does and it’s next to the one with leo’s outfits don’t ask me how i know

Carlos: i think it’s sweet. to be safe somewhere. even if it’s with someone who used to be your enemy. maybe that makes it safer

George: ok are we SURE this is carlos

Oscar: i feel like i’m in a therapy session and i didn’t pay the copay

Daniel: i’m crying into my cereal

Charles: i’m literally just staying on his couch

Pierre: do NOT lie to me. i know max. his couch hasn’t been sat on since 2018. you’re in the bed. you are in the KING BED.

George: i bet he fluffed the pillows.

Alex: and set the AC to your preferred temperature.

Lando: and made a Spotify playlist called “french sad but upbeat”

Oscar: and queued “La Vie En Rose” 7 times

Charles: I’M GOING TO BLOCK YOU ALL

George: too late you’re in love and it’s public now

Pierre: YOU SAID YOU WERE STAYING THERE THAT COUNTS

Daniel: THE INTERNET WILL KNOW

Alex: AO3 IS FROTHING

Oscar: btw i found the tag i get it now 😳

George: oh no

Pierre: what did you read

Oscar: there was a fic where max was a dragon and charles was a forbidden knight and they—

Lando: NOPE. STOP. ENOUGH.

Daniel: i just bled from my nose

George: that was fast

Alex: welcome to the fandom oscar

Oscar: i think i need bleach

Charles: WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT HERE

Esteban: i have to update my bingo card hold on

George: SAME

Lando: i just got “Carlos says something profound” and “Charles confirms cohabitation” and “Oscar reads dragonfic” in one go

Oscar: dragonfic was NOT on the card

Pierre: it is now

George: okay okay but now we need to push max. if charles won’t admit it, and max won’t deny it, then one of them will break

Oscar: psychological warfare

Lando: emotional blitzkrieg

George: Why do you even know that word?

Pierre: welcome to F1 off-season baby

Daniel: it’s like karting. but with more emotions and better hair

Charles: i swear if any of you message max i’ll replace your shampoo with olive oil

Esteban: my curls would THRIVE

Oscar: kinda curious actually

Pierre: i’d do it for the drama

Carlos: i love you guys

The group chat died for approximately 0.3 seconds.

Then—

Pierre: did u get hit by a car

George: blink twice if you’re being held hostage

Alex: this is like watching a dog say “I pay taxes”

Daniel: ARE YOU OKAY KING. DID YOU FALL IN THE BATH AGAIN

Lando: i swear if someone taught carlos how to use chatGPT i’m out

Oscar: is this a prank. is he doing a prank

Carlos: 😐 it’s not a prank

Carlos: I just wanted to say I love you guys because you’re all weird and chaotic and I like having you in my life

Charles: STOP IT THIS IS WORSE THAN LOSING MONACO

George: he’s sincere . he’s being sincere ???

Alex: call the Vatican. we need confirmation. is this a miracle.

Pierre: i literally don’t know how to process this. this is like if a deer walked up to me and started speaking Latin

Daniel: like a little Spanish Bambi saying “te quiero mucho” in the middle of a highway

Esteban: this is actually terrifying

Oscar: it’s kinda sweet tho 🥺

Carlos: thank you Oscar. you’re a good egg

Pierre: OH NOW HE’S BEING WHOLESOME AGAINST OSCAR TOO

George: no one look directly at him. he might ascend

Carlos: i’m serious. i’ve been thinking about how lucky we are

Lando: what the hell did you EAT

Carlos: nothing!! i’ve just been reflecting. like… when i first met you all, we were like… kids, you know?

Esteban: i feel like this is the part of the anime where Carlos turns into light and becomes a star in the sky

Pierre: he’s going transcendental. he's too pure. he’s too good

George: how are you real

Carlos: and like. i know i’m not always good with words. or like. obvious affection. sometimes i just slap someone on the helmet and say “eh you are fast today”. but i mean it

Daniel: 🥺🥺🥺🥺

Carlos: you’re my friends. and i’m really glad we all have each other

Charles: i’m going to cry in the stairwell

Oscar: i’m already crying

Pierre: is it weird if i knit him a scarf

George: knit us ALL scarves

Pierre: carlos what the hell man. you’re supposed to be our braincell-deficient golden retriever

Carlos: i can be that AND emotionally aware

Charles: no. you can’t. pick a lane.

Carlos: 🙁

Daniel: don’t 🙁 me after making me FEEL THINGS

Carlos: also

Carlos: i just think it’s funny how charles has always been obsessed with max

Silence.

Like actual, deathly, bone-rattling silence.

Charles: excuse me

Lando: EXCUSE ME

Oscar: 👀👀👀

Pierre: oh. OH.

George: run that back real quick

Alex: no no no go slower carlos. what did you say

Carlos: i just think it's funny. because like. even in karting you would go weird when he was around

Charles: I WENT “WEIRD”????

Carlos: yeah like you’d brush your hair down extra and suddenly start like. sipping water slower. all broody. like a sad romcom prince

Lando: 😭😭😭😭

Pierre: slow sipping water is CRAZY behaviour

Daniel: sipping water like he’s about to confess to the camera in The Bachelor

Oscar: i thought he hated max in karting?

Carlos: oh he did. he hated him sooooo much. but also he stared A LOT. like max would walk past and charles would get this weird Look™

Charles: WHAT LOOK

Carlos: the “i want to punch you in the face and also possibly kiss your mouth” look

George: i am levitating. i am BEYOND THE CLOUDS

Pierre: i am SCREAMING. i'm on the FLOOR

Oscar: i would read a fanfic about that

Alex: i have read a fanfic about that

Carlos: All that i am saying is, charles has always been obsessed with max.

And then.

Max: ❤️

The chat exploded.

Lando: HEEEEE DIDDDDD ITTTTT

Pierre: HOLY FUCKING SHIT

Daniel: MAX POSTED SOMETHING????

George: BRO BRO BRO EVERYONE STAY CALM

Oscar: THAT WAS A HEART. A FULL HEART. EMOJI. LOVE HEART. FROM MAX VERSTAPPEN

Alex: screenshotting this for posterity

Lando: I NEED TO UNSEE THAT

Pierre: TOO LATE. IT’S IN MY CAMERA ROLL. I’M PRINTING IT

Lando: not max dropping a full love reaction like we’re not gonna rip him to shreds

Daniel: I THOUGHT HE WAS DEAD

Carlos: see!!! i told you!!! he’s in love!!!

The group chat detonated like someone had shoved a stick of TNT into a clown car. Fireworks. Carnage. A mariachi band starting up in someone’s soul.

George: CARLOS. STOP TEASING US. TELL US WHAT YOU KNOW. WE KNOW YOU KNOW. YOU’VE BEEN TEAMMATES WITH BOTH OF THEM.

Pierre: HE’S SEEN THE BEGINNING. THE MIDDLE. THE FLOP ERA. THE GLOW UP. HE’S THE LESTAPPEN ORACLE

Esteban: we need to extract everything. gently. surgically .

Carlos: 😯

Alex: you good buddy?

Carlos: i just… didn’t realise i held so much power

George: YOU DO. YOU’VE BEEN WITH MAX SINCE THE STRAWBERRY RED TORO ROSSO DAYS. YOU SURVIVED CHARLES DURING THE EMO RED YEARS

Carlos: 🥺 i did survive those years

Oscar: what are the emo red years

Pierre: oh buddy

Lando: that’s a three-part Netflix documentary. season one is called “Monaco 2021: the break failure heard ‘round the world”

George: Carlos. We’re ready. Tell us everything.

Carlos: 🧍🏻‍♂️ ok

Carlos: so back when i was teammates with max. he was a little baby man with the emotional availability of a brick wall and the energy of a rabid blender

Oscar: sounds right

Carlos: but sometimes. like. weirdly. he would get quiet when people mentioned charles

George: like a secret crush quiet or a plotting a murder quiet

Carlos: both?? maybe??

Lando: classic max

Carlos: and then when i was with charles. it was like. oh my goodness. everything was “max this” and “max that” and “he brake tested me in karting once and i will never forgive him” but also he would like. check the race timings JUST to see where max was. even if he was out of the race.

George: CHARLES YOU HAD A MAX LIVE TIMING OBSESSION??

Charles: 😐

Oscar: that is so romantic

Alex: and so mentally unstable

Pierre: love is just stalking but with mutual trauma

Carlos: and they kept doing that thing where they’d argue. but also like. gently. like one time max was yelling and charles just handed him a water bottle. and max TOOK IT. while YELLING. and then stopped yelling.

George: I NEED A MINUTE

Lando: carlos you’re the best witness we’ve ever had

Daniel: someone get this man on the stand. raise your right hand. do you swear to tell the truth the whole truth and nothing but the tea

Carlos: oh and also one time i walked in on max calling charles “schatje” and i was like. huh

Charles: OKAY. that proves NOTHING. schatje means asshole

Oscar: i know just enough dutch to confidently say that it means sweetheart

Lando: i’ve read enough fanfiction to confidently say that it’s a term of endearment

Charles: oh.

Charles stared down at his phone. Then at Leo, who was sitting patiently by his feet, leash dangling from his little dachshund harness like the world’s smallest traitor. The apartment key weighed heavy in his hand. The key Max had given him. For emergencies , Max had said.

Like an emergency nap , apparently.

The apartment complex’s welcome mat, beige with Welkom! printed in cursive and lightly frayed at the edges, looked suddenly very appealing. Charles contemplated just. Sitting. Right there.

Not even dramatically. Not even to make a point.

Just.

To process.

Max had called him schatje ?

And it didn’t mean asshole ?

Pierre: CHARLES U OK

Charles: i might lie down on this welcome mat for a bit

Oscar: honestly mood

George: please take a photo if you do

Carlos: oh and ALSO. one time max asked me in complete seriousness what kind of chocolate charles likes. because he saw him buy a snickers once but wasn’t sure if it was like. a regular craving or a special occasion craving. and then he made a list of charles’ favourite things and kept it in his NOTES APP.

Pierre: HE HAS A NOTES APP LIST ?????

Lando: OH MY GOODNESS

Daniel: i just went into cardiac arrest

Charles: OKAY NO. I’M LYING DOWN

And with zero ceremony, Charles plonked himself down on Max Verstappen’s welcome mat, legs stretched out, Leo sitting neatly beside him like the world’s tiniest moral support animal. His duffel bag tipped over with a plunk against the door. 

The group chat was still buzzing like a swarm of particularly nosy bees, Pierre sending encouraging memes, George screaming in all caps about emotional repression, and Carlos trying to attach screenshots of Max’s notes app that he swore he once saw over Max’s shoulder. Charles was ignoring it all. Or pretending to. He stared blankly at the wall across the hallway. Leo gave a soft, encouraging boof beside him.

He had, in the past twenty minutes, spiraled from “I will spend a normal weekend with my maybe-boyfriend and maybe force him to love me” to “I am maybe in love with a man who has a love language that includes private pet names and memorizing my chocolate preferences and also might have loved me back since the jurassic era.”

The mat was surprisingly comfortable. Possibly more comfortable than any of the hotel beds Ferrari had ever booked for him.

And then—

The door creaked open.

Charles blinked.

From his angle—flat on his back, slightly off-center like a melting popsicle—he saw a pair of socks. Plain white. With one tiny ketchup stain near the ankle. He slowly tilted his head back, craning up—

Max Verstappen stood in the doorway. Shirt slightly wrinkled. Hair damp from a shower. Eyes flat with unimpressed judgment.

“Have you,” Max said, voice dry as the Abu Dhabi desert, “been sitting out here for the last twenty minutes?”

Charles blinked up at him. “Maybe.”

Max stared.

Charles stared back.

Max glanced at Leo, who was wagging his tail with joyful violence. “You had the key.”

Charles nodded slowly.

“I texted you. Twice.”

Charles nodded again. “I was busy replying to the group chat.”

“I noticed.”

Charles opened his mouth.

Leo made the executive decision that this was his cue, and zoomed into the apartment at the speed of light, leash trailing like a ribbon in his wake.

Inside, there was a flurry of movement. A bark. A yowl. A crash.

Charles winced. “Did… did he just—?”

“I think he found Jimmy,” Max said flatly. “And possibly Sassy.”

Another bark. A very loud hiss.

“Leo,” Charles whispered with despair.

Max leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed, staring down at his doormat boyfriend with the fond exhaustion of a man who had done this too many times to be surprised.

“Charles,” Max said, “get up.”

“I’m thinking.”

“On the welcome mat?”

“It’s welcoming,” Charles said defensively.

There was a long pause. Then Charles sat up slightly, resting his arms on his bent knees, gaze tilted up at Max’s face like he was calculating some delicate math.

“What does schatje mean?”

“I thought you asked the group chat already.”

“I want to—” he closed his eyes “— I want to hear it from your mouth.”

Charles opened his eyes again. Slowly. Slowly. Slowly.

Max’s expression didn’t shift, but his ears went slightly pink. “Sweetheart.”

Charles gaped. “You—”

Max blinked.

“Every time you said it,” Charles said, slow, cautious, like the truth might bite him, “it was off-camera. Like. Quiet. Or when no one was around.”

Max nodded once. “Yeah.”

Charles’s voice dropped, something small and raw in it. “So it wasn’t just fake?”

Max gave a tiny exhale, and then knelt down slightly, just enough so they were level. “Charles. It hasn’t been fake in a very long time.”

The hallway suddenly felt too full. Too intimate. Charles’ heart was kicking against his ribs like it wanted to climb out and sprint laps around the apartment complex.

“You think it ever was?” Max asked, quieter now. 

Charles’ breath caught.

He hadn’t expected this. Not now, not here, not like this — sitting cross-legged on the floor like kids outside detention, Leo rampaging inside the flat, the smell of Max’s shampoo still lingering in the humid hallway air. He should have said something clever. Something like Of course not , or You wish , or even No, but I hoped you’d never find out how bad I wanted it to be real.

But his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. His throat was made of chalk. His heart was doing the Alpine descent from Eau Rouge in his chest.

Max shifted beside him, slowly lowering himself to the floor until they were sitting shoulder to shoulder in front of the open apartment door, Max’s back against the frame. His hair was still damp — curling slightly at the edges now, soft and golden and sticking to his forehead in little swoops. The hallway light caught in the wet strands like a spotlight on something divine. His face looked softer up close — not that usual public mask of mild indifference and low-level disdain — but open, real, and a little afraid.

The way Max always looked when he meant something.

Charles didn’t know whether to breathe or cry.

“You’ve been…” Max exhaled, slow and careful, like it took effort to find the words. “You’ve been driving yourself mad trying to make me love you back.”

Charles blinked.

Max tilted his head, those glacier blue eyes pinning him in place, voice low and honest. “But I already did.”

He didn’t say it with drama. There were no fireworks, no score swelling in the background. He just said it like it was gravity. Like it was fact.

Like it had always been true.

Charles swallowed, staring, chest burning. He tried to remember how to use his words. “Since… when?”

Max gave a tiny smile, one side of his mouth tipping up like he knew exactly what kind of bomb he was about to drop. “Since we were five.”

Charles gawked .

Max chuckled softly, leaning his head back against the doorframe, eyes toward the ceiling. “I don’t remember a time I didn’t.”

Charles sputtered . “You hated me when we were kids!”

“I annoyed you,” Max corrected, his smile turning mischievous. “There’s a difference. That’s just how boys flirt, right? We were in karting, Charles. I wasn’t going to hand you a flower and ask you to go steady with me.”

Charles stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “You called me a little shit and nearly pushed me into a drainage ditch in Kerpen.”

“Which you deserved,” Max said evenly. “And also, I didn’t nearly push you. I caught you.”

“That’s because I had your arm in a death grip.”

“And still,” Max smiled, leaning slightly toward him, “I caught you.”

Charles couldn’t breathe.

His heart was fluttering like Leo’s tail when he smelled Max’s fridge door open.

Max was still speaking, voice softer now, distant like a memory. “I always liked annoying you. But now… now I like loving you more.”

And Charles — twenty-seven, Monaco-born, Leclerc by name, Ferrari’s golden flame and master of quiet yearning — felt his soul leave his body.

He opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

Then croaked, “Then… the kiss. When we were thirteen. In that tent at Spa. Why did you say we shouldn’t talk about it again?”

Max looked at him, a flicker of something old and vulnerable crossing his face. “Because I thought I’d ruined everything.”

Charles frowned, confused. “What do you mean?”

“I didn’t think…” Max rubbed the back of his neck, blinking down at the floor. “I thought you’d panic. Hate me. Tell someone. You were my first crush, Charles. Still are. That kiss felt like the best and worst moment of my life. And I didn’t think I could survive losing you if you didn’t feel the same.”

Charles’ breath hitched.

Max looked up again, eyes raw and bare, no guardrails. “So I pretended it didn’t happen. Like an idiot.”

Charles wanted to die .

He wanted to go back in time and punch every version of himself that thought Max Verstappen didn’t love him, didn’t want him, didn’t ache for him the same way Charles had, alone in his Ferrari motorhome, writing texts he never sent.

“And the fights,” Charles asked hoarsely. “In our teens. Every time I had a girlfriend—”

Max flushed. Instantly.

“…wasn’t a coincidence, was it?”

Max cleared his throat. “Not technically .”

Charles blinked. “You were jealous .”

“Maybe a little,” Max mumbled.

Charles stared.

Max stared harder at the floor.

“You threatened to punch George once because he said my girlfriend was pretty.”

“He was being a creep!”

“He was complimenting her shoes!”

“…I didn’t see the shoes,” Max muttered.

Charles barked a laugh. Too loud, too stunned, too completely overwhelmed.

“You are insane ,” Charles whispered. “You’re insane , Max. You’ve always been—”

“Yours,” Max said simply, and Charles stopped .

The hallway tilted.

The air thickened.

Charles stared at him, words catching in his throat.

“I’ve always been yours,” Max repeated, quieter this time. “And I think you’ve always been mine. You just took a little while longer to realise.”

They sat there, knees pressed together, the warmth of their bodies so close, and Charles felt it all click. All the unsaid things, all the stares, the quiet hands on the smalls of backs, the way Max always waited for him, even when he claimed he didn’t, even when Charles didn’t ask.

He exhaled.

“Max,” he said.

Max looked over.

And Charles smiled.

He reached forward, slowly, fingers brushing Max’s jaw, pushing a damp strand of hair behind his ear.

“You’re such a dickhead,” Charles said fondly.

Max grinned. “Still yours.”

And he meant it. Every syllable a vow, every word soft with the kind of tenderness Charles had always pretended Max didn’t possess. But he did. Of course he did. Max had been loving him in the way Charles never allowed himself to fully hope was real — in glares from behind dark visors, in post-race shoulder bumps that lingered a little too long, in quiet messages at midnight that only ever said, Drive safe tomorrow.

Charles laughed under his breath, the kind that caught in his throat and shook his shoulders before it could make it out fully. And when Max reached for his hand — with no dramatics, no urgency, just a warm, certain slide of fingers against his own — Charles took it like he’d been waiting his entire life.

And maybe he had.

Their palms met, fingers weaving like they'd practiced this a thousand times in dreams. Max’s thumb brushed over his knuckles, absent and tender, and Charles tilted his head just a little, drinking in the sight of him. Hair still damp and curling over his forehead like Max had run through rain. That serious set to his mouth, like even now, even in this exact softness, he was still concentrating. Still making sure Charles was okay.

And his eyes.

Oh, his eyes.

Charles stared into them longer than necessary. Baby blue — like the sky on the days Charles missed home the most. Like the summer roofs of Nice. Like the ocean outside Max’s Monte Carlo apartment that Charles always said was too cold but swam in anyway just to prove Max wrong. That shade. That Max shade.

“I think…” Charles began, then trailed off, squeezing Max’s hand instead. “I think I’ve always loved you. But I didn’t know it until this year.”

Max gave a tiny, surprised breath of laughter, his expression shifting from careful affection to soft joy.

“I kept trying to name it,” Charles continued. “Was it hate? Was it rivalry? Obsession? Some weird trauma bond from karting? I called it everything except what it actually was.”

Max leaned in slightly, not enough to kiss, just enough to share air.

“And what was it?” he asked, voice low.

Charles grinned. “Love.”

A pause.

Then Charles chuckled. “We’re literally the most embarrassing version of he fell first, but he fell harder .”

Max laughed.

And Heavens, Charles thought, what a laugh. He wanted to keep that sound in a jar. Uncork it when the world felt heavy. Wrap himself in it like a scarf in December.

Their joined hands remained resting on Max’s knee, the heat of it comforting, grounding. Charles brought his other hand over too, rubbing his thumb along Max’s fingers.

“It’s insane,” Charles murmured. “That it was this easy.”

Max tilted his head. “Falling in love?”

Charles shook his head. “No. Letting it happen. Letting this happen.”

Max smiled. “Loving you is pretty easy.”

Charles groaned immediately. “No. Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That,” Charles said, scrunching his nose, pointing with his free hand. “The romantic thing. That’s horrifying. I expected you to confess with, like, a grunt. Or by throwing a Red Bull at my head.”

Max looked smug. “I’ve always been romantic.”

“ Max .”

“I have . You just didn’t notice.”

Charles narrowed his eyes. “Give me one example.”

Max shrugged, deceptively casual. “I’d go to Ferrari if it meant keeping you happy.”

Charles gaped.

“Actually?” he whispered.

Max nodded. “Yeah.”

And for a second, everything around them disappeared — the hallway, the apartment, Leo barking inside while Jimmy and Sassy yowled in outrage — none of it mattered.

Only Max, with his wet curls and his eyes the colour of every safe place Charles had ever imagined.

Only Charles, who’d waited for years to be loved like this, and found out Max had been doing it all along.

Charles leaned into him, bumping shoulders.

“I think,” Charles said softly, “even if Red Bull and Ferrari both lose the WCC and WDC…”

Max raised an eyebrow.

“…and even if Lestappen loses AO3…”

Max chuckled. “Important metric.”

“Very important,” Charles agreed solemnly. “ Even if we fall into irrelevance and have to join the F4 grid in matching helmets—at least I have you.”

Max was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, “Lestappen won’t lose AO3 if we publicise this.”

Charles barked a laugh, pulling back to look at him. “That’s what we’ve been doing this whole time! We’ve had fake dating rumours for three years. We had an enemies to lovers arc without the lovers . We posted those Budapest photos! The number still doesn’t go up the way it does for Lando and Oscar.”

Max looked mildly offended. “Maybe our PR team is just bad.”

“No,” Charles said, poking him in the chest. “Lando and Oscar have the drama. They have the vampire AU traction. We only have your grumpy press conferences and my tragic pining face.”

Max shrugged.

Then reached out and gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind Charles’ ear.

The touch was featherlight, almost reverent. His fingertips lingered just a beat longer against Charles’ cheek before he let them fall again.

Charles went completely still.

“…That’s cheating,” he mumbled.

“What is?”

“Doing that. While I’m already emotional. You’re literally weaponising the soft Max aesthetic.”

Max grinned. “You like it though.”

He said it so casually, so devastatingly confidently, that Charles genuinely considered flopping backwards onto Max’s doormat and declaring defeat — not from love, not from romance, but from the sheer, unbearable weight of Max being… like this . Romantic. Flirtatious. Smug. Warm . Like the hallway light was reflecting every glint of emotion off his cheekbones and making Charles see entire galaxies in him.

Charles did like it , actually. Far too much. To the point it made his chest ache in some soft, poetic way he didn’t yet have the words for — something like this is what all those French songs were about . Something like I’ll never recover from the shape his smile makes.

He swallowed, blinking a little too fast.

“You’re dangerous when you’re romantic,” Charles muttered, dragging his thumb along Max’s knuckles again, like they hadn’t already been holding hands for ages. “You should come with a warning label.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Maybe you’re just weak.”

“Maybe I’m not used to you saying things like that,” Charles argued, trying very hard not to sound breathless. Failing. “I thought you only showed affection by brake-testing people or staring judgmentally across debrief rooms.”

“I do that too.”

“And now you’re tucking my hair behind my ear like a Jane Austen heroine.”

Max shrugged, that little lopsided thing that somehow always seemed ten times more intimate than it had any right to be.

Charles, still annoyingly starstruck by it all, tilted his head and asked, “Since when did you know?”

“Know what?”

“That I liked you.”

Max’s expression didn’t change much, but his eyes sparkled, baby-blue and stupidly bright, like someone had installed a dimmer switch in his irises and Charles had just turned it all the way up.

Max shrugged with one shoulder, too casual. “I had an idea.”

“ An idea ,” Charles repeated, deadpan.

“But… what sealed it was everything that happened after Austin.”

Charles blinked. “Austin?”

“Yeah.”

“You mean this Austin?” Charles asked, pointing vaguely at the air like the Grand Prix was hovering in the hallway. “This season?”

Max nodded.

Charles thought about it. Post-race media duties. The sprint. The fact he crashed out of P3 and then almost cried into Max’s neck during the cooldown room and pretended it was from helmet dehydration. And then proceeded to give Max his hoodie. Which Max hadn’t even asked for.

“Oh,” Charles mumbled. “Was it the… the staring?”

Max let out a low laugh. “No.”

“Then—” Charles frowned, narrowing his eyes. “Then what happened after Austin?”

Max leaned back against the doorframe, one arm still tangled in Charles’ like it belonged there. “You.”

“What about me?”

“You were an absolute disaster,” Max said, voice flat but amused.

Charles made a strangled noise of protest. “I was not! ”

“You so were,” Max replied. “You kept tripping over your own words around me. You invited me to get coffee and then panicked when I showed up. You invited me to that rooftop bar and spent twenty minutes talking about the way the lights hit the buildings instead of telling me I had something in my teeth.”

“I liked the lights!” Charles insisted. “And also I was nervous, okay? I thought— I thought I had to… court you.”

Max blinked. “Court me?”

Charles blushed. “Yes.”

Max was smiling again, wide and horrified and stupidly in love.

“Like— like in a Bridgerton episode?”

“Shut up,” Charles muttered, hiding behind a hand. “I just— I needed to do something before the end of the season. I didn’t have any trophies. I didn’t have wins. I needed something. Someone. ”

Max went quiet.

Not because he didn’t know what to say. But because he knew exactly what to say and wanted to make Charles wait for it.

“You were trying to win me like a championship?” he asked finally, something warm flickering at the edges of his voice.

Charles peeked at him from between his fingers. “Maybe.”

Max leaned forward, the proximity suddenly soft and dizzying, like heat from a fire.

“I’d let you win every time,” Max said, voice so low and so gentle Charles thought the hallway might cave in.

Charles made a small, helpless sound and dropped his hand from his face, cheeks fully pink now.

“This is so unfair,” he mumbled.

Max looked curious. “What is?”

“You being this romantic,” Charles said, waving vaguely at Max’s whole face like it was a crime scene. “ This wasn’t part of the plan. I was supposed to confess, you were supposed to grunt, we’d kiss behind a garage, and then we’d go back to making sarcastic comments on each other’s stories.”

Max smirked. “We can still do that.”

Charles glared, but he was smiling now too, the kind of smile that filled his whole face. The kind of smile that belonged in scrapbooks and postcards. The kind of smile Max hadn’t seen on him since maybe 2019.

And that made Charles remember.

“The staring,” he said suddenly.

Max blinked. “What?”

“You said everything changed after Austin,” Charles repeated. “But then you said it wasn’t because of the staring.”

Max gave a dramatic shrug. “You always stared.”

Charles gasped, scandalised. “That’s not true!”

“It is true,” Max said smugly. “You stared at me in karting. You stared at me in F2. You glared in 2019. You gazed in 2022. So ‘staring’ doesn’t really describe shit.”

Charles’s brain flatlined a little at the use of gazed .

“That’s illegal,” he said.

“What is?”

“You saying the word gazed . It implies longing. It implies poetry .”

Max didn’t even flinch. “It was poetry. You looked like you wanted to kiss me and kill me at the same time.”

Charles groaned. “And you liked that?”

“Maybe I did.”

They were still sitting on the welcome mat, side by side, close enough their knees touched every now and then when they shifted. Close enough to feel each other's breaths, to share the stillness in between words. Max’s fingers twitched slightly in his grip, brushing the inside of Charles’ wrist.

Charles swallowed.

“What changed after Austin then?” he asked, quieter this time. “What made you sure ?”

Max didn’t hesitate.

“You started… taking me places ,” he said. “But you didn’t call them dates. You just showed up in my garage and said ‘wear something casual’ and drove us into the mountains or by the sea or wherever you thought I needed to be.”

Charles blinked.

“You took me to the Monaco cliffs and sat there for an hour in silence. Then you gave me a sandwich and said ‘you looked tired, I thought this might help.’ That’s not just friendship, Charles. That’s—you know.”

Charles felt warm all the way down to his toes. His face was on fire.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Maybe I’m a romantic too.”

Max smiled. “Yeah. You’re just bad at it.”

Charles nudged him with his shoulder, and Max nudged back, the kind of familiar jostling they used to do in paddock hallways when no one was watching. But this time it was different. This time it was real.

They heard something crash inside the apartment — a loud, unmistakable shatter , like a vase or a spirit or a very expensive limited-edition Red Bull-branded espresso cup meeting its tragic, high-speed demise against the kitchen tile.

Max sighed, the kind of long-suffering exhale that came from years of knowing exactly which small mammals lived inside his flat and how prone they were to chaos when unsupervised.

“That’s either Jimmy getting into the cupboards again,” Max muttered, “or Leo discovering his passion for destructive performance art.”

Charles blinked. “That sounded big , Max.”

“Yeah,” Max said, completely unmoved. “Probably the coffee table.”

“We should probably go in.”

Max turned, gaze flicking sideways, lips quirking like a punchline was already waiting on the tip of his tongue.

“We could,” he said. “Or we could stay out here a little longer. You know. Until the crime scene is cleared.”

Charles narrowed his eyes.

Max leaned in a little, dropping his voice like a conspirator. “Or until you’re done giving me your confessionals of the heart , Mr Leclerc.”

Charles blushed so hard he nearly combusted on the spot.

“Don’t call them that,” he mumbled, looking absolutely scandalised. “That makes it sound like I was reading from a diary.”

“Weren’t you?” Max asked, grinning. “It felt very scripted.”

“I hate you.”

Max beamed. “No you don’t.”

Charles groaned and buried his face in his hands for a second. “You’ve become so dangerous now that I know you love me back. It’s actually terrifying.”

“I’ve always been dangerous,” Max replied smugly. “You just had a good defense system. Like glaring. And dating women.”

“You are the worst ,” Charles mumbled, trying not to smile.

Max stood first, brushing nonexistent dust off his hands and reaching down like they were already married and seventy-five and helping each other off benches in Nice. His fingers wrapped around Charles’s wrist gently, and then their palms met, and Charles was upright, pressed far too close, heart still playing hopscotch somewhere in his throat.

“Merci,” Charles said breathlessly.

“De rien,” Max replied, infuriatingly calm.

They were still holding hands.

Max reached down and grabbed Charles’s suitcase handle with his free hand, the motion so casual, so domestic , that Charles had to physically stop himself from saying something stupid like I think I could marry you .

Instead, he went with, “You don’t have to carry that.”

Max rolled his eyes. “You carried me through the media pen after Silverstone when I had heatstroke.”

“That was different.”

“That was sweaty and gross and also thank you.”

Charles blinked.

“You remember that?”

Max glanced over, face unreadable except for the way his mouth tilted upward at the corner. “I remember everything you do for me.”

Charles physically stopped walking. Just stood there . Like his brain had blue-screened and his lungs were trying to reboot.

Max turned to look at him, still holding the luggage, still smiling like he knew he’d just nuked Charles’s heart into stardust.

“Don’t say things like that,” Charles said quietly, but he wasn’t really mad. He was just pink in the face and a little wobbly on the inside.

“Why not?”

“Because you were supposed to be a logical Dutch robot,” Charles muttered. “Not someone who remembers heatstroke rescue missions and hair-tucking.”

Max tilted his head. “You like it though.”

Charles groaned. Again. Loudly.

They made it to the front door, still holding hands, still pretending they weren’t actively dying from how soft it all felt. Inside, something else crashed — this time definitely a ceramic bowl — followed by a loud meow and the sound of dog nails skittering on the floor like a Looney Tunes episode was in full swing.

Charles blinked.

Max sighed. “I just cleaned yesterday.”

“Maybe the cats are trying to communicate.”

“Yeah,” Max muttered, pushing the door open. “Their message is fuck you, Dad .”

Charles snorted.

Inside, Leo was standing on the couch, barking furiously at Jimmy, who had leapt onto the kitchen counter and knocked over a full fruit bowl in what appeared to be a failed attempt to access the treat drawer.

Sassy was sitting in the middle of the carnage like a queen surveying her destroyed kingdom.

Charles walked in, suitcase still being pulled by Max, hand still tangled in Max’s like it had grown there.

It was ridiculous.

It was chaos.

It was home .

Jimmy, the chaos gremlin in expensive fur, was mid-leap again, paws skidding across the counter as he tried to ricochet off the cupboard door in a bid for immortality, a cat treat, or both. Leo barked louder from the couch like he was auditioning for the role of Security System Who Can’t Open Doors But Tries His Best Anyway.

Max sighed like a man who had fought this war many times and had only ever known defeat.

“I swear,” he muttered, stepping over a half-smashed banana and a very dramatically-rolled apple. “I just restocked that fruit bowl.”

“Do you think Jimmy’s trying to become vegan?” Charles asked, still hovering near the doorway and watching the madness like he was in a very niche National Geographic documentary narrated by Max’s growing exasperation.

“He’s trying to become feral ,” Max snapped as he walked into the kitchen, stepping delicately over a piece of pear and an empty Nespresso pod that had no business being there. “That’s not even food— Jimmy, get down— ”

Jimmy, naturally, did not get down.

Jimmy made eye contact with Max and meowed — meowed , as if to say you’re not the boss of me, bitch , and then headbutted the treat drawer like he was reenacting a scene from Fast & Furious: Feline Drift.

“I think you’re being outsmarted by your cat,” Charles commented helpfully.

Max turned to him slowly, face blank, voice flat. “He knows how to open the bathroom cabinet. I haven’t had floss in three weeks.”

“Did he eat it?”

“No, he just likes to unravel it and then drape it like party decorations across the mirror.”

Leo had now taken the high ground on the arm of the couch and was doing tiny warning growls. Sassy — quiet, elegant, a bastion of evil wrapped in stripes — was sitting inside the fruit bowl. The fruit bowl that had no fruit anymore. She blinked at them, slow and indifferent, as if to say I didn’t do shit, but I’d do it again.

Leo suddenly launched himself from the couch, nails scrabbling, and darted toward Sassy in a heroic attempt to reestablish law and order.

Sassy leapt straight up , landed on the edge of the sink, and glared murderously.

Leo froze, tongue out, tail wagging.

Jimmy hissed for dramatic effect.

Charles laughed so hard he nearly doubled over.

“Max,” he said breathlessly, “you’re not living in an apartment. You’re living in a zoo .”

Max tossed the tea towel over his shoulder and walked back toward him, looking tired but fond in a way that made Charles’s stomach fold in on itself like warm laundry.

“You still want to stay?” Max asked, raising an eyebrow as he stepped over Leo, who had now plopped himself belly-up in front of the fridge.

Charles bent down and picked Leo up, the little dachshund wriggling happily in his arms like he’d just saved the city. Charles kissed his furry head, then smiled at Max with the kind of look that made time feel like molasses.

“I didn’t come for the cats,” Charles said, walking closer. “Or the fruit bowl.”

Max’s eyes flicked down to the duffel bag he was still holding. Then back to Charles. He shifted Leo gently from Charles’s arms and dropped a soft kiss on the top of his head, right between the ears, which made Leo squeak and wag so hard he thwacked Max in the chin.

“I came for you,” Charles added, quieter now, almost shy, the words catching somewhere between his throat and heart like they were meant to be whispered across pillowcases and not between hissing cats and crushed bananas.

Max’s gaze flickered — slow and bright, baby blue and devastating — and then his mouth curled in that particular, wolfish way it did whenever he was about to say something that would make Charles regret learning English.

“Bet you did,” Max said smoothly, lips twitching.

Charles slapped a hand against his chest with a loud smack , scandalised. “ Max! ”

Max caught the hand mid-swat and did not let it go.

Instead — instead — he turned Charles’ wrist gently, like it was something fragile and precious, like he was reading the lines there for constellations. Then he bowed his head and pressed a kiss to the inside of it — soft, reverent, warm — and lingered there for just a second too long.

Charles stared at him, mouth falling open, completely derailed. “That— I— that was not fair—”

Max looked up with a look so smug it might’ve been illegal in several countries. “What?”

“I was trying to be romantic!” Charles cried. “And then you— you out-romanticised me?! With a wrist kiss ?!”

Max shrugged, still holding his hand. “This doesn’t need to be a competition.”

Charles gasped. “It absolutely does.”

Max grinned. “Yeah, I figured.”

He laced their fingers together with infuriating gentleness, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Charles squeezed once — he couldn’t help it — and Max’s smile turned impossibly soft.

“That’s exactly why I’ve planned our vacation,” Max added breezily.

Charles straightened, face lighting up with the full beam of surprise-turned-delight, like someone had just handed him the Monaco GP trophy and told him it came with free tiramisu for life. His mouth parted, hopeful. “ Really?! ”

Max blinked at him once, then deadpanned, “No. But it sounded romantic, didn’t it?”

Charles made a strangled sound—half scandalised gasp, half betrayed whimper—and smacked him in the arm again, dramatically this time, with the flair of a man wronged at sea.

“ Maxime! ” he accused, eyes wide, curls bouncing indignantly. “I was picturing Greek sunsets and little donkeys and you in linen shirts!”

Max snorted. “I hate linen.”

“You could’ve worn it for the aesthetic,” Charles grumbled, crossing his arms in a pout that was immediately betrayed by the way he was still holding Max’s hand. “You don’t even want to be hot and romantic with me on a beach?”

“I am being hot and romantic,” Max said, then leaned in and kissed Charles’ nose, completely derailing Charles’ entire life.

“Oh my goodness , you’re actually doing it again—” Charles flailed. “You’re winning the romance game again— stop it! ”

“You’re very competitive for someone who cries during Disney movies,” Max murmured, tugging him closer by their joined hands.

Charles narrowed his eyes. “ That is not relevant to this discussion. ”

Max tilted his head thoughtfully, like he was considering it. “Maybe. But it’s cute. Just like you.”

“ Stop saying these things! ” Charles whisper-yelled, shaking his hand like a maraca. “I came here to be the dramatic romantic lead! I was going to sweep you off your feet! And now you’re doing things to my wrist and kissing my nose and you didn’t even plan a vacation, Max!”

Max, completely unbothered and possibly gloating, leaned forward until their noses brushed. “I did plan for you to stay here for the whole break, though.”

Charles blinked. “Wait. Really?”

Max nodded. “Yeah. I moved your favourite mug next to mine. Cleared half the closet. Put your weird French cereal in the pantry. Told Jimmy not to kill Leo.”

At that, Charles looked over at the couch where Leo had fallen asleep with one ear twitching and Jimmy was curled dramatically on the backrest like a tiger queen surveying her kingdom. Sassy had taken over the coffee table and was licking a banana with aggressive judgment.

“You… really did all that?” Charles asked, voice low.

Max just looked at him with that terrible, heart-wrenching softness again. “I’ve been waiting for you to come home.”

And that— that —was the moment Charles’ brain short-circuited, just slightly. His fingers twitched in Max’s, the grip tightening instinctively like he might float away otherwise. He stared at Max, at the wet mess of hair curling slightly at the temples, at the quiet affection in the lines around his eyes, at the smile that was ruining everything good and holy.

“You’re— you’re literally terrifying,” Charles breathed, stunned.

Max raised an eyebrow. “Because I said I moved your cereal?”

“Because I didn’t know you could be this romantic! ” Charles hissed, eyes wide with panic. “You’ve outdone me like six times in the last twenty minutes and I’m losing my mind, Max. I’m usually the one making people cry with my speeches and— you just said you’ve been waiting for me to come home like you’re in a French indie film! ”

Max’s lips twitched. “I told you. I’ve always been romantic.”

“No, you haven’t!” Charles pointed at him. “You were a little shit who called me names in karting and glared at me for three years!”

Max shrugged. “Boys pull girls’ pigtails. I crashed you off the track.”

“That’s not the same thing! ”

“It is when you’re twelve and emotionally repressed,” Max replied calmly. “And now I’m older and still emotionally repressed.

Max didn’t even pause after the words left his mouth. He just smirked, that familiar lopsided grin that somehow held years of history in its curve, and pulled Charles even closer by the waist, hands sliding up with casual familiarity until his thumbs rested just under the hem of Charles’ shirt like he belonged there. Like this was his home.

Charles, entirely powerless in the face of that expression, didn’t resist. He just blinked slowly, like he was adjusting to the new atmosphere in the room — one that buzzed with the static of all the things left unsaid until now, now, now, where it all clicked into place. Their knees bumped. Their foreheads brushed. The breath between them was warm and sweet and close enough to count heartbeats.

Then, with infuriating gentleness, Max leaned forward and kissed Charles’ nose again.

Another one.

Like it was just something he did now. Like he had the right.

Charles physically froze. His brain shorted out like someone had thrown a wrench into the internal machinery of his soul. His entire face flared up like a warning system. “Max—stop— that’s illegal —you’re not allowed to keep kissing me on the nose like that—”

Max just raised an eyebrow, completely unaffected. “Why not?”

“Because I might die, ” Charles muttered. “Because you’re cheating at everything.”

“You make everything a competition,” Max said simply. “So obviously I have to win.”

He was still holding Charles around the waist like it was the most natural thing in the world, thumbs still brushing slow, reverent circles into his sides. Like Charles wasn’t short-circuiting at every single touch. Like Max knew exactly how to handle him. Like he had always known.

Max tilted his head, gaze softening as he looked at him, as if he could see every moment behind Charles’ eyes—every fight, every podium, every stupid thing left unsaid. Then he said, quietly, “Je ben mijn favoriete chaos.”

Charles blinked.

Blink-blinked.

Narrowed his eyes. “Okay. Okay wait. What did you just say. What was that.”

Max’s lips twitched again. “It’s Dutch.”

“I know it’s Dutch, Max. I’m not stupid.”

“Didn’t say you were.”

“Then tell me what it means!”

Max shrugged, pulling a face so suspiciously innocent Charles knew in his bones it was a trap. “It means ‘You smell like cheese.’”

Charles slapped a hand to his shoulder immediately. “ Liar! That’s not what it means!!”

Max burst into laughter, warm and rich and horribly pleased with himself, like he’d been waiting a decade for this exact scenario. Charles shoved him again, but it was completely ineffective given Max was still holding him like a possessive octopus of affection.

“I swear— why are you like this—” Charles grumbled, half mortified, half delighted.

Max ducked in, still laughing, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Because you make it too easy.”

Charles was about to reply when Max softened again — not just in face, but in posture, like something invisible and heavy had melted right off his shoulders. And then, quieter, he added:

“It means... you’re my favourite chaos.”

Charles stared.

Stared-stared.

“ That’s— ” he began, and then stopped, breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “That’s disgustingly romantic.”

“I know,” Max said, completely shameless.

Charles looked at him like he had never seen him before. “When did you get like this? ”

Max leaned forward until their foreheads touched again. “Around the same time I realised I didn’t want to go a day without hearing your voice.”

Charles groaned and buried his face in Max’s shoulder like a teenager. “You’re disgusting, Verstappen. Actually disgusting. Filthy. Vile.”

Max grinned against his temple. “You like it.”

“I love it,” Charles muttered. “Goodness, I hate how much I love it.”

“Good,” Max murmured, nose brushing along his cheek. “Because I’m not stopping anytime soon.”

Max didn’t say anything else after that.

Not with words, at least.

Instead, he moved like a quiet storm—inevitable, steady, gentle—tilting his head just enough to find Charles’ cheek again, and placed a kiss there. Soft. Like a whisper. Like reverence. Like apology and promise and something so much deeper that it almost made Charles tip sideways.

Max didn’t stop. Not for breath, not for modesty, not for the fact that Jimmy was currently gnawing on what looked like a formerly expensive shoe in the corner. He just tilted Charles’ chin gently upward with one hand, like he was handling glass—delicate, treasured, his —and leaned in to press a kiss just beneath Charles’ left eye.

And then, as if that kiss had unlocked some ancient ritual, Max just… kept going.

A kiss to his cheekbone.
A kiss to the other.
A barely-there one to the bridge of his nose.
One at the corner of his mouth that made Charles freeze like the motherboard of his brain had just exploded.

“Max—” he tried, uselessly.

“Mijn hemel,” Max murmured against his skin.
My heaven.

Charles made a noise, an honest-to-heaven sound from deep in his chest, equal parts agony and delight, like he didn’t know whether to melt or punch a wall.

“That’s illegal,” Charles muttered, voice cracking under the weight of it. “You can’t just say— that —like it’s normal—”

Max ignored him. Or, rather, he heard him but chose instead to continue his violent, unprovoked romantic assault with another soft kiss, this one at Charles’ jaw, then the curve just below his ear.

“ Licht van mijn leven, ” he whispered.

Charles trembled.

“Max—” he tried again.

Light of my life.

Max finally leaned back enough to look at him, and it was devastating.

Devastating —because Max’s eyes weren’t sharp or calculating or teasing anymore, but soft. So, so soft, like early spring air and dew on morning grass, that baby blue turned golden by the light in the hallway. His lashes were long and wet and curved down in the corners like he was the one swooning, like he didn’t know what to do with how badly he loved Charles back.

And Charles?

Charles was unraveling.

Not in a loud way. Not like fireworks or fanfare. But in the quiet, terrifying way that trees fall—silent and total and inevitable.

His heart was going to claw its way out of his ribs. His bones felt like they were vibrating. Every single kiss Max had left on his face still burned like little glowing stars under his skin.

Max tilted his head again and murmured “Mooiste dat ik ooit heb gezien.”

Charles whimpered.

“ WHAT does that mean,” he demanded, half-swooning, half-betrayed.

Max’s lips twitched. “It means... you have something in your teeth.”

Charles hit him.

Or, more accurately, slapped a hand over Max’s chest with all the force of a disgruntled kitten. “MAX—you’re evil—"

Max laughed, delighted, and caught the hand before Charles could yank it away again. He turned it over, held it delicately by the wrist, and—without any warning at all—pressed a kiss right to the soft inside of it.

Charles gaped.

“ Lieverd, ” Max whispered.

Charles sucked in a breath, sharp and small and fast, eyelashes fluttering like he was fighting to stay conscious through sheer force of will. He blinked at Max, eyes wide, pink flushing up his cheeks. “What… what does that mean?”

Max didn’t even pretend to look innocent this time. He just moved to the other cheek and kissed that too. “It means ‘driver of the day.’”

“ No it doesn’t, ” Charles whispered, a half-laugh shaking through him.

Another kiss to the tip of his nose. “ Mijn zonnetje. ”

Charles blinked rapidly. “Okay, that one definitely doesn’t mean—”

“It means ‘safety car procedure,’” Max said, voice infuriatingly soft and smug.

“ Max, ” Charles wheezed, barely able to stand upright at this point. “You’re— you’re insane. ”

But Max was barely listening. He was chasing the pink spreading across Charles’ skin with kisses, catching the corners of his mouth, the tip of his chin, his jawline. Like he was memorising him. Like he had already memorised him and just needed to double-check the facts. His other hand slid to the small of Charles’ back, warm and solid and possessive in a way that made Charles’ knees weak.

“ Mijn hart, ” Max murmured again, almost reverent now, brushing their noses together as his hand fanned across Charles’ lower back. “My heart.”

Charles stopped breathing.

Literally, just forgot how.

Max kept going, because of course he did. “ Mijn thuis. ”

“Wha—what—”

“My home,” Max whispered, pressing a kiss to his temple this time. “You’re my home.”

Charles genuinely had to grip Max’s shirt to stay upright, because what the fuck. The world was warm and soft and smelled like Max’s shampoo and Leo was barking in the background but Charles couldn’t even hear it properly because Max’s mouth was on him and Max’s voice was in his ear and Max was saying things that made Charles want to sob and laugh and punch him all at once.

“I hate you,” Charles whispered, voice cracking.

Max just chuckled, lips ghosting over the line of Charles’ jaw. “You’re such a bad liar.”

Charles huffed, and that huff turned into a sigh when Max tilted his head and brushed a kiss just below his earlobe.

“ Mijn alles, ” Max whispered.

Charles gripped the back of Max’s neck, forehead dropping onto his shoulder, utterly lost. “Okay—okay what’s that one.”

Max didn’t answer at first. He just pressed another kiss behind Charles’ ear and murmured, “What do you think it means?”

Charles, barely holding on, let out a strangled, emotional sound. “If it means anything less than 'entire world,' I swear I’m throwing you in the bin.”

Max laughed into his skin, low and warm and so damn fond, and then finally—finally—he said, “It means my everything.”

Charles’ heart didn’t skip—it detonated. Went full engine mode. High revs. Red flags in every internal system. He had never blushed this hard in his life. Not once. Not even when he walked into a glass door in Monaco in front of Seb, Toto, and a camera crew.

“You can’t say things like that,” Charles said into Max’s shirt, voice muffled and small and deeply scandalised.

Max’s hand slid under his shirt and curled into his spine, anchoring him there, warm and real and safe. “Why not?”

“Because I’ll explode. I’ll combust. I’ll— fall in love with you, Max—”

“You already did,” Max said easily, brushing another kiss into Charles’ hair like it was a casual Tuesday thing to do. “I just caught up.”

Charles made a noise that wasn’t human. He pulled back, just enough to see Max’s face, and—heavens.

His hair was still wet, sticking to his forehead in lazy curls. His cheeks were pink from laughter, and his eyes were that impossible, endless baby blue that always made Charles feel like he was falling upward. There were smile lines at the corners of his mouth, soft and beautiful, and Charles wanted to kiss every single one of them and maybe cry about it too.

Max pulled back just enough to look at him.

Not all the way—just enough that Charles could see the shape of him up close: the flush on his cheeks, the way the tips of his ears were slightly pink from the warmth between them, the way his baby-blue eyes had softened into something so entirely human it made Charles feel like he was standing at the edge of something divine. Like if he leaned in too far, he’d tumble straight into the sun and call it paradise.

“Stop staring at me like that,” Charles whispered, breathless. “You’re going to ruin me.”

Max tilted his head, expression infuriatingly innocent. “I’m literally standing here kissing you. You’re already ruined.”

Before Charles could formulate a rebuttal—or throw himself dramatically off the balcony for emphasis—Max leaned forward and pressed the lightest, most deliberate kiss to the corner of his mouth.

The kiss to the corner of his mouth was deliberate.

Not casual. Not teasing. Not another brush of affection hidden beneath their usual chaos.

It was intentional —the kind of kiss that lingered , left weight behind, filled the space between them with something unspeakably warm. Max didn’t pull back right away, didn’t even blink, just let his lips hover there at the corner of Charles’ mouth like a promise pressed into paper. Like an unfinished sentence. Like a breath before the drop.

Charles forgot how to exist.

He forgot the hallway, the apartment, the still-clanging sound of Jimmy trying to pry open the treat drawer with his toe beans. He forgot his name. He forgot Monaco. He forgot Ferrari and Red Bull and the year and how walking worked. All he knew was Max’s hand curling around his jaw, fingers sliding up to his cheek, firm and grounding and present, and those eyes —that baby blue, sea-glass-slick in the hallway light, locked onto his like there was nothing else in the world worth seeing.

And then Max spoke.

In French.

“Je t’ai aimé toute ma vie, même quand je ne savais pas ce qu’était l’amour. Même quand tout ce que je savais faire, c’était de te provoquer jusqu’au moment où tu criais mon nom. Même quand je faisais tout pour rester loin de toi, je n’ai jamais pu rester très loin. J’ai toujours été tiré vers toi comme la mer appelle la lune.”

Charles shattered.

Max’s voice was low and smooth, reverent like a cathedral’s hush, like he wasn’t just saying it, he was confessing it. Every syllable curled around Charles like smoke, like a spell, like a chord that vibrated against his ribs.

He barely breathed. “What—what does it mean?”

Max grins. Max is beautiful and his and his and his . “You already know French, mon amour.”

“I wanna hear it anyway.”

Max didn’t look away. His thumb was tracing a slow, maddening line across Charles’ cheekbone. “ I’ve loved you my whole life, ” he translated, quieter now, still close enough that Charles could taste the last word on his tongue. “ Even before I knew what love was. Even when all I could do was annoy you until you screamed my name. Even when I tried to stay away, I never could stay far away. You’ve always pulled me in. Like the sea calls for the moon. ”

Charles’s mouth fell open like he was going to say something—

—only for no sound to come out except a whimper.

Max smiled. Slow and smug and filthy with affection. “Nice, right?”

Charles made another sound. It might’ve been a sob.

“Who—” he whispered. “ Who taught you that? ”

Max shrugged, casual. “I already knew French.”

Charles’s brain skidded violently. “You what?”

“I already knew it,” Max repeated like it was obvious. “I just hate the language. By principle.”

Charles reeled. “ It’s literally the language of romance, ”

Max grinned, one hand still firm around Charles’s jaw, the other sliding slowly— possessively —down to his waist, fingers curling just enough to make Charles shudder. His face was so close now Charles could feel the smile through his skin, not just on it.

“Oh please,” Max said, voice lower now, laced with wicked amusement. “I could make you hard with Dutch just fine.”

Charles gasped. Audibly.

His whole soul tried to exit his body through the soles of his feet.

And Max—Max just leaned in and whispered, in Dutch, “Je ruikt naar thuis en ik wil je nooit meer laten gaan.”

Charles made a noise like he was physically combusting. His hand clutched at Max’s hoodie like that might save him. Like anything could save him now.

Max just smiled against his jaw, devastatingly smug. “Guess what that means.”

“I—” Charles swallowed, mouth dry, blinking far too fast. “I—don’t want to know.”

Max chuckled. “It means, You smell like home, and I never want to let you go. ”

Charles short-circuited.

He licked his lips— nervously, like a man trying to keep from spontaneously combusting —and Max followed the movement with his eyes. Unblinking. Hungry. Affectionate.

There was so much eye contact.

So much honesty.

Max still had his hand on Charles’s jaw like it belonged there. Like Charles was something to be held, to be studied. To be memorised.

“You’re insane,” Charles whispered, wild-eyed. “You’re— insane, Max. You just—you just— you can’t— ”

Max leaned in again. Another kiss. This one softer. Slower. Like punctuation.

“ You love me, ” Max murmured against his skin, eyes still open. Still watching.

“I do, ” Charles whispered, furious and delighted and wrecked all at once.

“ I love you more. ”

“You don’t. ”

“I do. ”

Charles gripped his shirt with both fists like that might stop him from floating into the ceiling. “I’m going to throw myself out the window.”

Max kissed his nose again. “I’ll catch you.”

Charles whimpered.

Max’s hand was still on his face.

Fingers splayed warm against Charles’ cheekbone, thumb brushing the soft place just beneath his eye. His gaze had dropped—to Charles’ lips, to the line of his jaw, back again like he couldn’t quite decide what part of him to fall in love with first. He looked dazed. Reverent. Like something ancient inside him was being quieted, slowly, finally, after years of noise.

And then, quietly—almost shyly—Max asked,
“Mag ik je kussen?”

Charles blinked, breath catching softly at the shape of the Dutch on Max’s tongue, the way it lilted and curled and seemed to wrap around him. It was almost unfair how tender it sounded in Max’s voice—like a request carved from longing.

“What does that mean?” he asked, even though he already had an idea.

Max’s mouth curved. “ Can I kiss you? ”

A beat passed.

Then Charles nodded. Wordless. Breathless. Maybe even a little dizzy.

“Max,” he whispered, voice thin as silk, “you’ve kissed me before.”

Max’s eyes softened further, impossibly, blue with so much history they almost shimmered. “Once,” he said. “When I was thirteen. And I ran away after.”

Charles huffed a broken laugh.

Max’s smile was sheepish now, small and self-deprecating. “I might be just as bad now. I’ve only ever kissed you.”

Charles’s heart did a thing. Something devastatingly warm.

He swallowed, shifted closer, so close their knees brushed, his hand curling slowly around the back of Max’s neck. “Then I guess,” he murmured, “I’ll have to teach you.”

Max’s mouth twitched.

But then the joke died. The smile faded. Because Charles was looking at him like he was sunlight and oceans and every childhood dream sewn into one jawline. Max breathed in like the moment was too big for his lungs.

And Charles leaned forward and kissed him.

It was soft.

It was so soft .

Not a fire. But a tide coming in, slow and certain, curling around ankles and knees and ribs and hearts. Charles kissed Max like he meant it. Like there was no more performance, no more games, no more trying to win. Just lips meeting lips in a rhythm older than time. Just the hush of breath. The quiet of skin.

Max melted into it.

Mouth tilting open like instinct. Hands finding their way to Charles’s waist, his hip, the small of his back—anywhere, everywhere , just to keep him close. Like if he let go, the dream would dissolve into salt air and regret.

Charles tilted his head, deepened it slightly, gently— teaching, just like he promised. And Max followed, eager and breathless and new, but entirely his. Their mouths moved together like they'd done this a thousand times in dreams, and were only now remembering how.

Charles hummed softly into it, one hand sliding into Max’s hair, the other still curled at his neck, holding him like something precious. And Max—Max made a noise, one that sounded a lot like wonder, like please, like finally.

And then—

BANG.

Something clattered in the kitchen.

Both boys jerked.

Charles pulled away with a dazed gasp, blinking hard as Max leaned forward like he might chase the kiss back onto Charles’ mouth if physics would just allow it.

Then they turned.

Jimmy was standing proudly atop the now-open treat drawer, a smugly victorious gleam in his eyes. Beside him, Sassy batted a packet of freeze-dried tuna onto the floor while Leo barked hysterically like someone had just declared war on all dogkind.

Max stared.

Charles blinked again.

“I—” Charles said slowly, “—might hate your cats.”

“You love my cats,” Max replied, eyes still glazed, lips kiss-pink and trembling with laughter.

“I love you,” Charles corrected, dazedly. “The cats are just collateral.”

Max kissed him again. Brief. Sweet.

Then groaned. “We have to stop them before they eat all of it.”

Charles sighed. “Fine. But then we’re going back to kissing.”

“Absolutely.”

They stood. Leo tried to climb Charles like a ladder. Jimmy opened a second drawer. Sassy had already run off with an entire bag of Dreamies clenched between her teeth.

And Max—Max just reached for Charles’s hand in the middle of the chaos and didn’t let go.

For a while there, it really felt like life was a dream with gold trim.

Half the season behind them, and somehow— somehow —Ferrari and Red Bull were the two dragons eating the sun. Between Charles and Max, the championship was a duet of perfection. Every qualifying session ended with the two of them dragging the limit across a thousandth of a second. Every Sunday was a war—bloodless, but fierce, thrilling, coiled like rubber burnt into asphalt and words pressed behind smiles. Race wins passed back and forth between them like love notes hidden in exhaust trails.

Charles had six. Max had five.

He’d taken Hungary with a divebomb on Lap 44 that had Christian Horner scowling into his headset and Fred practically weeping with joy. Max took Spa by the throat like it owed him something—rain be damned, slipstream who?—and Charles had kissed him on the podium because he could.

(A cheek kiss. Still televised. Still scandalous. Still AO3 top ten tag-surfing by that evening.)

McLaren had spontaneously combusted sometime after Austria. Oscar, who had been steadily keeping pace in the first half, now looked like a man wondering if it was too late to reapply to uni. Lando, Charles assumed, was too busy writing 3000-word Tumblr posts about character arcs and lost potential to answer his race engineer. Mercedes wasn’t even in the conversation anymore—Kimi was doing his best but had started building LEGO castles in the paddock between sessions as emotional therapy. George had been seen muttering into his helmet about the “terrible injustice” of Max and Charles being happy.

Which they were. They were so happy.

Race by race, kiss by kiss, rivalry by rivalry, it felt like the world had tilted into place. Between the sea-blue of Max’s eyes and the cherry red of Charles’ car, there was a perfect, ferocious kind of harmony. The kind that made headlines melt. The kind that made everything feel as sharp and bright as the first day of summer after months of storm.

Charles had never felt this alive.

He had never felt this loved.

And the best part?

They were winning.

The races, the media, the secret shared smiles during Thursday press, the domestic fluff posted on fan accounts, the Lestappen fanfic tags—everything.

Even Max, somehow, had become beloved by the internet. The same Max Verstappen who once growled at the concept of emotions now had a viral compilation titled “Top 10 Times Max Verstappen Was a Soft Boyfriend™” with five million views. There was a fancam of him gently fixing Charles’ fireproofs before the Austria GP set to Taylor Swift’s Lover. It had the emotional impact of a solar eclipse.

Max pretended to hate it. He absolutely did not.

Even the haters had no leg to stand on. They’d tried. Oh, they’d tried. But you can’t compete with a world where Max smiled when Charles was on pole, and Charles grinned like his heart had grown wings when Max overtook him clean into Turn 1 and then waited post-race with a bottle of water and a kiss pressed to his damn forehead.

Charles woke up every day and thought, This can’t be real.

Which, unfortunately, made it all the more jarring when he did wake up one morning and remembered exactly where they were.

Because it wasn’t Zandvoort. Or Budapest. Or Silverstone with the world at their feet and the championship in their hands.

It was Monaco.

It was the summer break.

And they were still losing. Super. Freaking. Hard.

Charles blinked awake slowly.

There was a warm arm draped around his waist. A steady breath at the back of his neck. A knee shoved between his thighs, like Max had been trying to win an imaginary karting duel in his sleep and used Charles’ legs as the chicane.

The room was hazy with morning light, sea-breeze soft and slow. The curtains swayed lazily in the open window, letting the distant hum of the Mediterranean creep into the quiet.

Max was still asleep.

Mouth slightly parted. Brows relaxed for once. His hair a soft golden tangle against the pillow, sticking to his forehead in stubborn strands like it was still damp from last night’s swim. His hand curled just beneath Charles’ ribs, fingers twitching now and then like he was dreaming about overtaking someone on slicks.

Charles watched him for a second.

And then he groaned.

Not because of Max.

Because of reality.

Because in this reality, they were still in the middle of the longest championship drought Ferrari had ever seen. In this reality, they were twelve points down from McLaren in the Constructors, despite the fact that Lando hadn’t finished a race without screaming in five rounds. In this reality, Max had DNFed twice because of birds , and Charles had crashed in Spain after sneezing violently mid-corner.

In this reality, they were losing. And hard.

And yet—

And yet.

Charles turned his head slightly and pressed his nose into the crown of Max’s head.

Smelled like shampoo. Sea salt. And something warmer. Something Max.

Life was so, so, so fucking lovely.

Even with the bad races. Even with the heartbreak. Even with the way Fred had started wearing two watches because he didn’t trust time anymore. Even with Red Bull's pit crew becoming so smug they tried to do tyre changes blindfolded once and had to be forcibly stopped.

It didn’t matter.

Because Charles was here.

In bed.

With Max.

They had the second half of the season to fight. The world was still ahead. There was still time to turn everything into fire and magic and podium champagne.

And Charles—

Charles had Max.

And Max, apparently, had just woken up.

“Mmm,” he murmured against the back of Charles’ neck, voice all honey and gravel, morning-thick and golden. “You’re doing it again.”

Charles blinked. “Doing what?”

“Staring.”

“No, I’m not.”

Max groaned softly, nuzzling into his curls. “Staring at me like I’m a dessert in a Paris bakery window. So hungry. So intense. So barbarian-esque.”

Charles let out a breath of a laugh, cheeks already pink. “You’re imagining things.”

“No,” Max said, yawning into his shoulder, “I’m Dutch. We don’t imagine. We invade. ”

Charles snorted. “Max—”

“It’s historical fact,” Max said solemnly, despite the smirk tugging at his lips. “We come by boat. We bring cheese. We steal hearts. And gold. Mostly hearts now, if we are looking at relevancy.”

“Max—”

“Next stop,” Max whispered dramatically into his ear, “the principality of Leclerc. ”

Charles made a strangled sound somewhere between a choke and a laugh, and flung an arm backward to smack him. Max caught the wrist mid-air, twisted it gently, and pressed a kiss to his knuckles like he was some period villain with an excellent PR team.

“Heavens,” Charles muttered, hiding his face in the pillow.

Max said cheerfully. “Just a very smooth Dutchman with a soft spot for shirtless Monegasques who make whimper noises in their sleep.”

“I don’t! ” Charles yelped, peeking at him through a wild tuft of curls.

Max just grinned and tightened the arm around his waist. “You do. One last night sounded like you were having a dream about losing pole. But then you whispered my middle name and I got very confused.”

Charles buried himself further. His voice came out muffled. “Shut up.”

“No,” Max said, kissing the back of his neck. “I will never shut up. Especially not when I’ve got you all flustered and pink like a strawberry gelato left out in the sun.”

“I hate you,” Charles muttered.

“No, you don’t, ” Max said, smug as hell.

And then— Dutch.

Something smooth. Something lilting. Something deep and velvet and too soft for a man who once threw a helmet across a garage after missing P1 by a hundredth. It spilled from his lips like dark chocolate, his nose in Charles’ hair, his hand trailing up Charles’ side slowly, lazily, deliberately.

Charles short-circuited.

“ Urjkfvihfh— ”

“I agree,” Max said, grinning wider. “It is a very sexy language. You know what, let’s add that to the words of wisdom. Urjkfvihfh, you say?”

Charles let out a helpless, incoherent noise and stuffed his face so deep into the pillow it was a miracle he didn’t suffocate. “You’re the worst, ” he groaned, voice tragically high.

Max laughed, hand wandering again—innocent, not-so-innocent, tracing invisible circles just above Charles’ waistband. “I’m the best, actually. Top tier. Five-star boyfriend experience. Comes with bonus breakfast and moderate emotional repression.”

“You are such an ass. ”

“Flattering,” Max said. “But I prefer devastatingly handsome national treasure. ”

Charles turned, arm flopping across Max’s chest, fingers digging into his ribs. “You’re insufferable.”

Max smirked, reaching up to brush a piece of hair from Charles’ forehead. “And yet you beg me to stay in your bed every night.”

“Because you sleep like a cat on a radiator,” Charles said, yawning mid-sentence and blinking like a baby owl. “And because your pillow smells like you.”

“My pillow smells like me?”

Charles shrugged, eyes already fluttering shut again. “You know. Soap. Engine grease. That shampoo that smells like pine and arson.”

Max cackled. “You’re obsessed with me.”

“Maybe,” Charles mumbled, then yawned again, jaw cracking slightly.

“You look like a sleepy sea otter,” Max said fondly. “All curls and yawns and judgment.”

Charles giggled— actually giggled, hand slapping weakly at Max’s hip.

They lay there for a moment, soft and tangled and ridiculous. Sunlight crept higher on the wall. Leo barked somewhere in the apartment. Monaco’s morning had arrived with the soft hush of luxury boats docking and espresso machines beginning their symphony.

Max exhaled deeply. “What movie are we watching today?”

“ The Notebook, ” Charles said immediately, eyes still closed.

Max groaned like someone had asked him to run ten laps in full fireproofs. “Again?! Charles, I swear, I have seen that movie more times than I’ve seen my own birth. ”

“So statistically more than zero times.”

“Yes, and that’s too many!”

“It’s romantic.”

“It’s a hostage situation. I cry every time.”

“That’s because you have feelings,” Charles said sweetly.

“I have regrets,” Max corrected, rolling his eyes. “And chronic pain from emotionally manipulative scripting.”

“You love it,” Charles whispered, smirking against his chest.

Max huffed. “You love emotionally destroying me. I should’ve known. All Monegasques are secretly agents of chaos.”

“You’re the one who invaded,” Charles reminded him, poking him in the stomach.

“Don’t make me kiss you again,” Max warned.

“I dare you.”

And Max didn’t.

Not on the mouth.

Instead—he grinned wickedly, fingers finding the hem of Charles’ t-shirt and lifting it slowly, teasingly, until the cotton was bunched beneath his chest and the soft slope of his ribs were bare to the air.

And there, just under the ribcage, half-faded and bruised a deep purple, was a lovebite.

Max leaned in.

Pressed a slow, perfect kiss to it.

Like a signature. Like a secret.

Charles gasped— just a little—and grabbed a fistful of Max’s hair.

“You’re not playing fair,” he whispered.

Max smiled against his skin. “Baby,” he murmured, “I’m your boyfriend. I never play fair.”

It was a quiet Monday.

The type of quiet that usually came before Charles did something stupid, George launched another unsolicited selfie into the void, or Carlos accidentally FaceTimed the entire grid while trying to open Spotify.

The calm did not last.

Charles added Oliver Bearman to the group.

Charles added Kimi Antonelli to the group.

Charles added Sebastian Vettel to the group.

Charles added Lewis Hamilton to the group.

Charles added Fernando Alonso to the group.

George: charles what the hell is happening
George: couldn’t you just use the official group for this
George: whatever this is???

Esteban: bro added an entire generational timeline

Fernando: I’m here for the drama

Daniel: How are you so sure there’s drama?

Fernando: It’s called intuition chico
Fernando: look it up

Pierre: i had “ollie gets dragged into charles’ emotional spiral” on my chaos bingo card
Pierre: bingo square unlocked

Oscar: wait
Oscar: okay i need to ask
Oscar: why are the oldies here

Lando: oscar 😭😭😭
Lando: OMG DON’T SAY THAT
Lando: THEY’RE GONNA KILL US

Seb: Oldies????
Seb: I retired and suddenly I’m Methuselah??

Lewis: You’re one bad meme away from exile, Piastri.

Oscar: IM SORRY
Oscar: I DIDN’T MEAN IT LIKE THAT

Pierre: He meant it EXACTLY like that

Oscar: I will sell your dirt on the grp

Pierre: You don’t have any dirt on me

Oscar: That’s what you think.
Oscar: Anyways
Oscar: Why are they here charles?

Esteban: why are the senior citizens here?

Lewis: EXCUSE ME?

Lando: See, now THAT’S disrespectful

Oscar: Ah i see it now

Seb: Do I have to pull out the paddock photos from 2010 to remind you I was hot before your bones even finished developing?

Lewis: Speak for yourself
Lewis: I’m still hot

Seb: …
Seb: Okay valid

Lando: you’re both so unserious
Lando: literally fighting over who’s the hottest old man

Daniel: i’m taking bets
Daniel: ten bucks says lewis wins but seb gets the nostalgia vote

Carlos: why are we betting on this

Alex: because it’s how we cope

George: i have popcorn
George: this is incredible

Carlos: can someone explain what’s going on
Carlos: i opened my phone and suddenly the past, present and future of formula one are all fighting

Oscar: i just meant like
Oscar: chronologically…

Fernando: guys.
Fernando: guys.
Fernando: i am literally here and i’m not offended
Fernando: i embrace my elderly wizard energy
Fernando: be like me guys

Pierre: you literally said “i’m here for the drama” five minutes ago

Fernando: exactly
Fernando: i’m at peace
Fernando: i’m just gonna vibe and let the children burn the house down

Lewis: me when i lie

Lando: oK WHO THE FUCK THOUGHT DEM MEMES??

George: *taught

Alex: George did

Oscar: This is so cursed on so many levels.

Seb: wait
Seb: charles
Seb: why did you even add us again

Charles: i felt like it

Oscar: we’re literally in a timeline where mr charles leclerc added vettel and alonso and sir hamilton to a meme group chat and then just said “felt like it”

Lando: chaotic neutral king

Carlos: what
Carlos: is
Carlos: going
Carlos: on

Oliver: hi i guess

Kimi: hello 🧍🏻

Lewis: …am I hallucinating or is this a group chat with THREE different generations of F1?

Seb: why is Fernando here. I thought this was a support group for men Charles emotionally exhausted.

Fernando: i’m here for the drama

Lewis: When are you not?

Fernando: wanna throw hands, old man?

Lewis: I AM LITERALLY YOUNGER THAN YOU

Fernando: And yet I am the rookie

Seb: no you are not
Seb: theres several rookies this season. dont take away their rights like that

Fernando: Ask the rookies.

Oliver: no no he’s telling the truth

Kimi: Yeah, Alonso is a rookie.
Kimi: THE rookie, even.

Lewis: I’m so confused.

Fernando: It comes with the ageing. 

Oscar: Can we add the oldies bickering into the bingo card.

Pierre: thumbs up

Lando: You dont need to type it out.

Pierre: I was too lazy to search for the emoji

Oscar: Or hey here’s a wild thought
Oscar: just type okay!

Pierre: Okay
Pierre: thumbs up

Oscar: Just add the oldies one.

Lewis: Piastri FOR THE LAST TIME WE ARE NOT THAT OLD

Fernando: Guys, chill.

Seb: Wait, do you people have bingo cards here?
Seb: Why?

Alex: Because life sucks and Mclaren keeps winning.

Daniel: Because I’m retired and this is my muse.

Pierre: And yet you lose.

Esteban: That rhymes.

George: charles explain
George: or i’m muting
George: and you KNOW i never mute anything

Oliver: i just joined and i’m already confused

Charles: felt like adding people
Charles: this is the curated list
Charles: handpicked by vibes

Lando: this is not curated
Lando: this is chaos
Lando: you just added an entire board of directors

Esteban: I don’t like being judged by old men when I am trying to post memes.

Lewis: I thought that was your thing.

Esteban: EXCUSEZ MOI

Fernando: You are confusing him with Lance.
Fernando: Speaking of Lance
Fernando: Charles, add him to the grp too

Charles: Lancelot blocked me.

George: Ah, the radio incident.
George: I’m familiar.

Oscar: Incidents, you mean.

Lando: Inchidents

Alex: The ghost of lestappen lives on.

Daniel: Back to the essential question
Daniel: Why are we destroying the sacrecy of this grp chat by adding the past and future generations?

Seb: You are a part of the past generation too, Danny.

Daniel:No i am not

Oscar: what is the agenda here
Oscar: are we voting on something
Oscar: did someone die

Pierre: don’t say that i literally had a dream last night that max faked his death for tax purposes

Lando: sounds real enough.
Lando: PUT IT ON THE CARD.

Carlos: what’s happening
Carlos: why are there so many people here
Carlos: did i miss a memo

Alex: you always miss the memo

George: why are the veterans here
George: is this a therapy intervention

Seb: do we need one?

Lewis: well. yes.

Oliver: am i allowed to talk or do i need a permission slip

Kimi: is this the secret meme chat that Yuki told us about?

Alex: Ok who tf snitched to Yuki

Oscar: Pierre

Lando: Pierre

George: Pierre

Daniel: PierrE GASLAYYY

Pierre: Ok, first of all
Pierre: SLANDER
Pierre: second of all, ok yeah i did that.

Arthur Leclerc was added to the group.

Arthur: WHY DID YOU ADD ME
Arthur: I DON’T WANT TO BE HERE
Arthur: OH WAIT HIII SEB

Seb: hey kid

Charles: family support

Oscar: arthur being here means something terrible is going to happen

Pierre: i added a new column to the spreadsheet
Pierre: “suspicious activity indicators”
Pierre: this is a tier 3 crisis

George: “tier 3 crisis”
George: what was tier 2 again?

Pierre: max sending an emoji unprompted

Lando: tier 1?

Pierre: charles going offline for longer than 3 hours without a “brb 🐢” message

Alex: wait where is charles

Charles: i’m literally here

Lando: Still at Maxie’s

Seb: Wait, Charles is staying with Max?

Charles: Just over the break.

Lewis: I feel like I have missed a whole chapter

Daniel: You have missed more than just a chapter, Lulu.

Carlos: can someone please tell me
Carlos: what is going on
Carlos: i am so confused
Carlos: i was watering my plants

Fernando: why do i feel like this is the beginning of a cult

Seb: you’re not wrong

George: so we’re all just pretending this is normal huh
George: that’s the move??

Oscar: bold of you to assume we’ve ever been normal

Arthur: charles i swear if this is about a dog again

Oliver: i was just trying to play f1 manager now i’m in a group with fernando alonso

Pierre: this is now officially more cursed than the sock photoshoot group chat

Kimi:THE WHAT NOW

Oliver: WHY ARE THERE SOCKS INVOLVED

George: i’m scared
George: charles what are you planning
George: what are you cooking
George: why is lewis here

Lewis: you make it sound like I’m a boss fight

Oliver: you kind of are

Oscar: i’m making tea

Pierre: i’m making popcorn

Alex: i’m making a will

Lando: i’m making a playlist

George: this is all going on the bingo board
George: square 17: “charles assembles avengers-level team for unknown reason”

Carlos: did someone die
Carlos: was it me
Carlos: am i dead

Charles: relax
Charles: just wanted to assemble a few key people

Pierre: THIS IS TOO MANY PEOPLE

George: just use the official driver group omg
George: that’s what it’s for

Charles: too many snitches in that one

Oscar: correct

Fernando: agreed

Lewis: yeah ngl that one’s full of narcs

Seb: arthur’s in both though

Arthur: WHY AM I BEING TARGETED

Lando: because you were born into drama

George: because you exist in charles’ vicinity and that makes you guilty by association

Seb: it’s true. proximity to Charles is a public liability

Arthur: i’m not even the chaotic one in the family

Esteban: oh he admitted to hearing voices again

Arthur:I THOUGHT WE WILL NEVER TALK ABT IT AGAIN

Kimi:Ok ok I have officially lost the plot.

Arthur:No one tell him ANYTHING

Oliver: Wait are we talking abt that haunting incident where you ran out of Charles’ apartment stark naked coz you thought you saw a ghost but it was just Max?

Kimi: …
Kimi: I have so many questions.

Oliver: dm

Arthur: I’m gonna HAUNT YOU, YOU BITCH

Pierre: is this another haunting in le leclerc apartment?

Charles: my apartment is clean 😇
Charles: thank you very much

George: he means spiritually
George: not like vacuum clean

Alex: does he own a vacuum

Oscar: leo is the vacuum

Charles: leo is my son and deserves respect

Carlos: he tried to eat my sock in monaco

Lewis: you deserved it

Carlos: ???

Seb: as much as i love this chaos, can someone tell me why exactly we are all here

George: i’ve been asking for an hour

Lando: i have a theory

Oscar: do we want to hear it

Pierre: no

Oscar: i’m voting yes anyway becoz i love my baby

Lando: AND I LOVE YOU MOREEEE

Esteban: This makes me sick

Oscar: Homophobia

Daniel: Spill the theory, Landito.

Lando: my theory is that
Lando: charles is about to drop a bomb
Lando: and wanted to surround himself with every person who’s ever babysat him emotionally
Lando: like emotional airbags

Arthur: ok i buy that

Carlos: does that mean i’m an airbag

George: no you're a decorative seatbelt at best

Carlos: 😐

Charles: can you all calm down
Charles: i just wanted to make sure you were here before i say the thing

Pierre: BEFORE WHAT. SPIT IT OUT

Oscar: did he get another dog

George: did he get arrested

Alex: did he shave his head again

Fernando: i hope it’s all three

Oscar: i volunteer to arrest him for crimes against our sanity

Arthur: i volunteer to shave his head
Arthur: again

Seb: and i will adopt the dog for sharl

George: GUYS
George: GUYS
George: we literally have an official driver groupchat for this kind of nonsense
George: with channels. and folders. and no haunted brothers
George: @arthurleclair we still need that story tho

Arthur: This is a hate crime.
Arthur: I’m being targetted and hated on.

Charles: yeah but the official chat has admins
Charles: and i can’t mute them
Charles: and Toto is there

Carlos: he’s afraid of Toto

Charles: Toto is terrifying ok

George: he is not terrifying
George: he just breathes loudly

Pierre: and types like he’s been possessed by LinkedIn

Lando: also if this isn’t serious why did you add SEB, LEWIS, AND FERNANDO

George: new bingo square: Charles creates new GC for no reason with weird assortment of people

Seb: it’s ok. he just missed us

Lewis: wait is this that “tell everyone at once so you don’t have to repeat it” tactic

Fernando: classic Charles efficiency

Oscar: i still think he got arrested

Pierre: or impregnated

Arthur: SIR I’M IN THE CHAT

Charles: CAN EVERYONE CALM DOWN
Charles: i’m not in jail
Charles: i’m not bald
Charles: i didn’t get a dog
Charles: and i am NOT pregnant

Alex: noted. but suspicious

Carlos: so why are we here

And then—

The typing icon appeared.

That cursed, sacred, mythical “Max is typing…” bubble blinked once.

Then twice.

And stayed.

George: OH MY GOODNESS
George: EVERYBODY STOP BREATHING
George: HE’S TYPING
George: HE’S ACTUALLY TYPING

Lando: NOOOOOOOO
Lando: SOMEONE SCREENSHOT IT
Lando: IMMEDIATELY

Daniel: DECLARE GLOBAL EMERGENCY
Daniel: COZ WHAT THE FUCKKK

Oscar: IM SWEATING
Oscarn: MY PHONE IS HOT

Pierre: MY EYES
Pierre: ARE WATERING
Pierre: MY HEART IS PALPITATING

Alex:EVERYONE STAY CALM
Alex: STAY FERAL BUT CALM

Seb: ok? and?

Lewis: why is that news?

Fernando: isn’t he allowed to text? like a human?

Arthur: you guys are acting like hes gonna say he just opened an OF or something

Oscar: He wouldnt

Daniel: OHHHH HE WOULD

Oliver: is this like the time we thought Esteban was a vampire

Kimi: Yeah, I think so.

Esteban: I have so many questions

Oliver: dm

Seb: But why are we all freaking out?
Seb: He never texts on any group chats.

Lewis: True

George: YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND
George: HE NEVER TEXTS THIS GROUPCHAT
George: NEVER

Lando: ALL HE DOES IS EMOJIS AND HALF OF THEM ARE CRYPTIC

Esteban: One time was because Lando sent a gif of a cat spinning

Pierre: and before that it was 2020
Pierre: when he left the chat because someone said they liked Monza

Daniel: it was ME
Daniel: i SAID MONZA WAS FUN
Daniel: AND HE LEFT
Daniel: FOR A WEEK

Oliver: you guys are acting like he’s a cryptid

George: HE IS A CRYPTID
George: HE’S THE GROUPCHAT GOBLIN KING
George: THE ELUSIVE MYSTICAL BEAST

Lewis: ok now i’m invested
Lewis: why is he typing

Seb: did he break up with Charles

George: He’s dATING CHARLES???
George: DO WE CONFIRMATION??
George: IS THIS CONFIRMATION?

Seb: Oh
Seb: I thought everyone knew.

Lando: nOT FOR SUREEE

Arthur: i will die on the asphalt if he did

Oscar: If he dated Charles or broke up with Charles?

Arthur: both
Arthur: i just wanna die on the asphalt.

Carlos: wait wait WAIT
Carlos: is this the big thing
Carlos: IS THIS WHY WE’RE HERE
Carlos: ARE THEY CONFIRMING THEIR RELATIONSHIP??

Fernando: Makes sense.

Lando: GEORGE
Lando: START RECORDING

George: ALREADY DOING IT
George: I’M IN 4K
George: 1080p
George: CINEMATIC MODE

Oscar: he’s STILL typing
Oscar: what is he writing
Oscar: a dissertation??

Pierre: the wedding vows???

Alex: a poem??
Alex: a haiku???

Fernando: a cease and desist

Kimi: a grocery list

George: THE POINT IS
George: MAX VERSTAPPEN IS TYPING IN THIS CHAT
George: AND WE ARE WITNESSING HISTORY

Daniel: if he sends an emoji i’m framing it

Oscar: if he sends a selfie i’m leaving this planet

Carlos: if he sends a voice note i’m proposing to Charles myself

Lando: Max would kill you

Arthur: ok now i’m nervous
Arthur: WHY IS HE STILL TYPING

Oliver: i feel like the apocalypse is about to start
Oliver: should i get snacks

Kimi: I could help!!

Esteban: yes
Esteban: but only crunchy ones so Charles has to suffer

George: DO NOT DISTRACT FROM THE MOMENT
George: DO YOU SEE THAT ICON??
George: HE’S STILL TYPING
George: HE’S
George: STILL
George: TYPING

Oscar: someone sedate George

Lando: we are gathered here today
Lando: in this cursed digital space
Lando: to witness a miracle

Pierre: amen

Arthur: someone tell me when it’s over i’m hyperventilating into my hoodie

Lewis: so none of you know what he’s about to say?

George: NO
George: AND THAT’S WHY IT’S TERRIFYING

Kimi: i hope it’s a fart joke

Seb: he’s not Daniel

Daniel: ???
Daniel: unprompted???

Carlos: ok but what if it’s about Charles
Carlos: WHAT IF IT’S ABOUT CHARLES

Lando: obviously it’s about Charles
Lando: everything is about Charles
Lando: charles could sneeze and Max would send a lawyer to sue the wind

Charles: slander

George: KING TELL US THE TRUTH

Charles: i don’t know what you are talking abt.

Pierre: i have tears in my eyes

George: HE’S
George: STILL
George: TYPING

Oscar: MY PHONE IS GLOWING.
Oscar: ANDROID CANT TAKE THIS ANYMORE.

Esteban: I’M PRAYING TO THE GROUPCHAT GODS
Esteban: HE NEVER TEXTS
Esteben: HE ALWAYS EMOJISSS

Fernando: if he doesn’t text in the next ten seconds i’m revoking his license

Esteban: HE CAN’T BE ALLOWED TO TEASE LIKE THIS

Arthur: it’s going to be one emoji isn’t it
Arthur: just one
Arthur: and i’m going to implode

Alex: bet it’s a paragraph
Alex: bet it’s UNHINGED

Kimi: I still think it’s just a grocery list.

George: IM NOT READY

Lando: NONE OF US ARE READY

Charles: 😐

And then—

The typing bubble vanished.

Gone. Just like that. Without a trace. Like a raccoon startled in the night. Like a last brain cell right before an exam. Like Max Verstappen’s patience for Monza.

George: NOOOOOOOOOOOO
George: WHAT DID YOU DO CHARLES
George: YOU BROKE HIM

Lando: BRING BACK THE BUBBLE
Lando: I WAS SO INVESTED
Lando: I WAS READY TO SELL MY OSC FOR THIS INFO

Oscar: LITERALLY

Daniel: Charles you broke him
Daniel: Charles apologise

Oscar: you sedated him with that emoji energy

Pierre: YOU EMOJI'D HIM INTO OBLIVION

Carlos: apologise rn
Carlos:  RIGHT NOW
Carlos: IN FIVE LANGUAGES

Arthur: MAX WAS WRITING A MASTERPIECE
Arthur: AND YOU GAVE HIM DOT EYES

Alex: MAX IF YOU’RE READING THIS
Alex: I NEVER STOPPED BELIEVING
Alex: I ALWAYS SUPPORTED YOU
Alex: EVEN WHEN YOU LEFT AFTER THE MONZA INCIDENT

Seb: i don’t get the emoji thing. it’s just a face.

Fernando: That emoji has the emotional weight of a war crime in this context

Lewis: he sent it with the emotional tone of a tax audit

George: CHARLES.
George: IS THIS ABOUT YOU AND MAX
George: ARE YOU DATING
George: IS THIS THE REVEAL
George: IS THIS HOW IT ENDS
George: WITH A. DOT. EYE. EMOJI.

Charles: 🤭

George: I’M GOING TO VOMIT IN SLOW MOTION
George: THIS IS TORTURE
George: GENEVA CONVENTION WHAT THE HELL

Lando: EXCUSE ME
Lando: EXCUSE MEEEEEE
Lando: WHAT DOES THAT MEAN
Lando: WHY ARE YOU GIGGLING
Lando: WHY ARE YOU A GIGGLING EMOJI

Pierre: OH MY GOODNESS
Pierre: HE'S ACTUALLY EVIL
Pierre: THE REAL VILLAIN OF THIS STORY

Oscar: he’s using emojis as emotional warfare and i respect it.
Oscar: i hate it but i respect the grind.

Alex: MAX IF YOU CAN HEAR US
Alex: COME BACK
Alex: SAY SOMETHING
Alex: I DON’T CARE IF IT’S IN DUTCH
Alex: I’LL GOOGLE TRANSLATE

And then, like divine punishment, or perhaps divine reward—

Max is typing…

It came back. The icon. The bubble.
Like the return of a prophecy.
The revival of hope.
The rekindling of a collective braincell that had been flickering in the wind like a dying campfire.

And then—
The message appeared.
Instant delivery.
No delay.
Just—

Image attached.

A photograph.
Blurry but crisp. Intimate but staged. Taken at sunset on some lush green hill where the light kissed everything like a rom-com climax and Charles was grinning like a drunk golden retriever with his curls caught in the wind, a ring on his hand.
Max beside him. Also wearing a ring. Looking smug. Very smug.
The caption?

Max: engaged 👍

Silence.

True, raw, unfiltered silence.

The kind of silence that cracked universes.
The kind of silence that made galaxies blink twice.
The kind of silence where every group chat participant could hear the tick tick tick of their own stunned, broken internal monologue short-circuiting and rebooting like an old Windows computer trying to process what the hell just happened.

The digital equivalent of a collective stroke.

No one.
Absolutely no one.
The entire chat:
[Read 1 minute ago]

Not a single soul typed.
Not one reaction.
Not a single gif.
Not even Lando.
The men who regularly responded to breakfast updates with unsolicited Shrek gifs were now stone cold silent.

If they held their phones up to their ear, they could hear the static hum of the groupchat imploding.

In Max’s apartment, Charles blinked at the screen and sipped his sparkling water like a man who had just dropped a match into a vat of gasoline and was now watching the fire rise.

And still—
No one said anything.
Not even Daniel.
Not even Lando.
Not even—

George is typing…
Oh no.

It began like the incoming shockwave of an emotional earthquake. A tremor in the chat. A seismic scream in the form of:

George: YOU’RE WHAT.
George: YOU’RE ENGAGED???????
George: YOU TWO
George: YOU
George: THE
George: THE
George: THE THIGH IN THE TWITCH STREAM
George: THE MONACO HELMET SWAP
George: THE RED BULL MOTORHOME PHOTO
George: THE SOFT LAUGHS
George: THE 73.5 MATCHING CAPS YOU BOTH ACCIDENTALLY “FOUND” IN EACH OTHER’S CLOSETS
George: THE VAGUE INSTAGRAM CAPTIONS

Lando: WE WERE CLOWNING
Lando: WE WERE MAKING BINGO CARDS
Lando: WE WERE DRAWING FANART
Lando: AND YOU WERE IN LOVE

George: SO THE SOFT LAUNCHING WAS REAL???
George: WTF 

Still, the chat remained mostly silent. Shook. Shattered. Dismantled.

Until:

Kimi: i’m being the flower boy

Oliver: me too
Oliver: we’re a duo. like chaos and more chaos
Oliver: like jelly and mental illness

Kimi: like mental illness and peanut butter

Oliver: like mental illness and mental illness.

Esteban: Someone get the children out of this group chat coz I AM GONNA SCREAM

Lewis: Seb, you alright?

Seb: I don’t wanna talk about it.

Lewis: Your pseudosons are all grown up.

Seb: I said I don’t wanna talk about it.

Fernando: Let’s talk about it.

George: YOU CAN’T JUST SAY “ENGAGED 👍” AND VANISH
George: YOU HAVE TO GIVE US A POWERPOINT
George: YOU HAVE TO DO A WHOLE SLIDESHOW
George: YOU HAVE TO EXPLAIN THE TIMELINE
George: THE ARC
George: THE CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT
George: THE FORESHADOWING

Lando: RUHGTIFJKVDNTGHVFDIJK

Carlos: I don’t
Carlos: I thought
Carlos: No this actually makes sense

Esteban: I’m gonna cry

Alex: George pls come home i think i just died.

Lando: i’m shaking
Lando: i’m physically shaking
Lando: up until LAST WEEK
Lando: WE WERE TROLLING U TWO
Lando: I MADE A MEME OF MAX STARING LONGINGLY AT CHARLES’ POSTED RAVIOLI
Lando: CHARLES YOU WERE DENYING EVERYTHING
Lando: YOU SAID “SCHATJE MEANS ASSHOLE”

Daniel: FINALLY
Daniel: ITS AFFECTING MY BRAINCELLS IN A VERY NEGATIVE WAY
Daniel: BUT FINALLYY

Alex: I WAS IN THE MIDDLE OF PLANNING A FAKE REVEAL JUST TO GET YOU TWO TO KISS
Alex: AND INSTEAD U DID AN ENGAGEMENT

Oscar: wait
Oscar: wait wait wait
Oscar: since when have you two been dating
Oscar: bc if you say “a few years” I am walking into the sea with my socks on

Charles: beginning of summer break 🧍🏻‍♂️

Daniel: CHARLES
Daniel: CHARLES
Daniel: THIS SUMMER BREAK?
Daniel: AS IN
Daniel: 2025 SUMMER BREAK??
Daniel: PLS SAY NO

Charles: oui

Lando: SUMMER BREAK STARTED LAST WEEK
Lando: WHAT DO YOU MEAN "BEGINNING"
Lando: DID YOU GET TOGETHER MONDAY AND THEN BUY RINGS ON TUESDAY???

Daniel: THIS IS NOT A FERNANDO ALONSO STRATEGY
Daniel: YOU CAN’T JUST PIT ON LAP ONE OF A RELATIONSHIP

Fernando: For the record, you two have my blessings.

Alex: is this why max was so smiley during that zoom interview???
Alex: is this why he said “I’m very relaxed” and everyone thought he was high on waffles or some shit?

Pierre: i feel like the fandom is going to die
Pierre: not even meltdown. just die
Pierre: fold like a lawn chair
Pierre: they’ll implode like stars

Carlos: are we sure this isn’t a prank
Carlos: maybe charles is just pranking max with a ring
Carlos: maybe max is pranking charles with the ring
Carlos: like how he pranked us with the engagement
Carlos: or the dating
Carlos: or the denial of the dating

Pierre: guys we need to update the bingo card
Pierre: “lestappen is real”
Pierre: “max types in chat”
Pierre: “oscar traumatised again”

George: PIERRE
George: NOW IS NOT THE FUCKING TIME
George: THEY’RE ENGAGED
George: AFTER ONE WEEK
George: ONE WEEK
George: THEY’RE SPEEDRUNNING THE RELATIONSHIP
George: THEY’RE DOING A 100% RUN WITH ALL TROPHIES
George: CHARLES WENT FROM “i don’t even like him” TO “let’s buy matching rings and ruin george’s life”

Esteban: THIS IS FUCKING PERSONAL

Lando: AND WHERE ARE THEY NOW
Lando: HUH
Lando: WHERE ARE THE HAPPY COUPLE
Lando: THE ONES WHO DROPPED THE NEWS AND THEN DIED LIKE MY DIGNITY
Lando: WHY ARE THEY NOT SAYING ANYTHING

Charles:❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Lando: FUCK OFF
Lando: I MEANT WORDS
Lando: USE YOUR STUPID MOUTH
Lando: NOT YOUR STUPID HEART EMOJIS
Lando: YOU JUST SHATTERED THE INTERNET
Lando: YOU OWE US A PARAGRAPH

Kimi: as a flower boy i have demands
Kimi: i want to throw real petals
Kimi: but also glitter
Kimi: but also flower-shaped confetti
Kimi: but also mini croissants

Oliver: yes. we support that.
Oliver: chaos. carbs. carnations.
Oliver: wedding aesthetic: pain and pastries
Oliver: kimi and i have vision

Kimi: we deserve justice
Kimi: we deserve a throne

Fernando: you deserve therapy

Lewis: why are the kids planning a wedding?

Kimi: Becoz none of you oldies are taking up responsiblities.
Kimi: I would officiate if i could but that would be illegal.

Oscar: Legalities never stopped you.

Oliver: Kimi is scared of Charles.

Oscar: Valid.

Sebastian: i need to know how max proposed
Sebastian: like. exactly.
Sebastian: was there a speech.
Sebastian: was there a powerpoint.
Sebastian: was there bloodshed

Charles: i proposed actually 😌
Charles: we were on a hill
Charles: i brought a ring
Charles: i got down on one knee
Charles: i cried

Pierre: you WHAT
Pierre: YOU CRIED???
Pierre: WHAT HAPPENED TO EMOTIONALLY REPRESSED BABY???

Charles: he said no :)

George: WHAAAAT

Arthur: CHARLES WHAT

Oscar: YOU PROPOSED
Oscar: AND HE SAID NO???

Carlos: omg is this a revenge engagement

Charles: he said “no” because he wanted to ask me instead
Charles: then he pulled out a ring
Charles: and said “i’m asking you”
Charles: and i said yes
Charles: and we both cried
Charles: and now we’re engaged

Oliver: that’s so romantic i just teared up on my cereal

Kimi: yeah i’m gonna cry
Kimi: you guys are weird but like in a cute way
Kimi: flower boy forever 🫡🌼

Seb: i feel like i should be planning this wedding
Seb: charles is like my child
Seb: and max is like the child i tried to punch a few times but then adopted emotionally

Charles renamed the group chat: “WEDDING PLANNING”

Lando: are you getting married tomorrow
Lando: what is the timeline
Lando: do i have time to emotionally recover
Lando: do i have time to lie down

Charles: vegas night ❤️

Oscar: VEGAS
Oscar: VEGAS??????
Oscar: THIS YEAR VEGAS?
Oscar: CHARLIE WTF

Charles: Love changes people ❤️

Oscar: YOU’RE DOING A VEGAS WEDDING
Oscar: IS THIS A F1 RACE OR A HANGOVER SEQUEL
Oscar: CHARLES WHAT DO YOU MEAN "VEGAS NIGHT"???
Oscar: THAT’S IN TWO MONTHS

Lando: FUCK OFFFFF
Lando: NO
Lando: YOU’RE NOT SERIOUS
Lando: MAX VERSTAPPEN AND CHARLES LECLERC ARE GETTING MARRIED IN VEGAS
Lando: THIS IS THE END
Lando: OF EARTH
Lando: OF LOVE
Lando: OF GEORGE’S SANITY
Lando: OF MY BINGO CARD

George: i hate everyone
George: i’m going to bed
George: wake me up when they get divorced or post a wedding album or kiss on podium idk whatever comes first

Esteban: this is so hot
Esteban: i’m bringing popcorn
Esteban: and a tux
Esteban: and an emotional support llama

Sebastian: can i wear my full Red Bull race suit for the wedding
Sebastian: asking for a memory

Oscar: no coz genuinely
Oscar: how does time move for you two
Oscar: is it normal
Oscar: do you have clocks
Oscar: do you understand the concept of chronology

Daniel: it’s not about the time
Daniel: it’s about the moment

Lando: shut up daniel
Lando: you said the same thing when you married that vending machine in tokyo

Daniel: AND I MEANT IT

Fernando: i will wear red
Fernando: and i will wait
Fernando: for drama
Fernando: because it’s vegas
Fernando: and something will happen

Oliver: That’s very cryptid

Fernando: I could teach you how to be like me

Oliver: dm

Kimi: are there going to be cats
Kimi: can i be flower boy and cat wrangler

Oscar: there are too many flower boys
Oscar: i need a spreadsheet
Oscar: i need air
Oscar: i need to call my mum

Charles: so are we sorted

Lando: WTF DO YOU MEAN SORTED???

Pierre: NO
Pierre: NO WE ARE NOT
Pierre: WE WILL NEVER BE
Pierre: YOU GOT ENGAGED IN UNDER SEVEN BUSINESS DAYS
Pierre: YOU DIDN’T EVEN SOFT LAUNCH PROPERLY
Pierre: YOU JUST DROPPED A BOMB
Pierre: AND RENAMED THE CHAT

Lando: do we get to plan the bachelor party or what
Lando: i have ideas
Lando: one of them involves a life-sized cardboard cutout of carlos
Lando: and another involves neon jumpsuits and emotional karaoke

Carlos: I just
Carlos: I am losing the plot

Pierre:✅ Carlos loses the plot

Arthur: i’m bringing the glitter cannon
Arthur: no one can stop me

Carlos: wait is this real
Carlos: are we
Carlos: actually
Carlos: doing this

Charles: vegas night ❤️

George: i’m deleting the app
George: goodbye

Charles: okay wait before you all leave to go cry into sequins
Charles: i’m giving oscar full rights to the wedding
Charles: everything
Charles: aesthetic
Charles: flowers
Charles: cake
Charles: chairs
Charles: lighting
Charles: all of it

Oscar: WAIT WHAT
Oscar: WHAT DO YOU MEAN “FULL RIGHTS”
Oscar: I’M 23 AND I EAT COLD TOAST BY CHOICE
Oscar: I DONT EVEN WASH MY DISHES
Oscar: I AM NOT EQUIPPED FOR THIS RESPONSIBILITY

Charles: i trust you ❤️
Charles: also i’m too lazy
Charles: you have vision

Oscar: MY VISION IS VAGUE AND PANICKED
Oscar: WHAT IS THE THEME???
Oscar: WHAT AESTHETIC ARE YOU GOING FOR???
Oscar: I NEED A MOODBOARD
Oscar: I NEED ADJECTIVES
Oscar: YOU CANNOT JUST SAY “OSCAR’S AESTHETIC”
Oscar: WHAT IS THAT??
Oscar: I’M WEARING TWO DIFFERENT SOCKS

Charles: it’ll be fine 🥰

Oscar: NO IT FUCKING WONT BE
Oscar: THIS IS SABOTAGE
Oscar: YOU ARE TRYING TO SHIFT MY CONCENTRATION FROM THE CHAMPIONSHIP

Lando: But we are still doing the wedding planning, ryt?

Oscar: YES
Oscar: OBVIOUSLY

George: this is going to end in tears
George: and not the emotional kind
George: the public PR kind

Charles: you do bachelor’s party

George: No

Charles:…

George: fine. i’ll handle the bachelor party
George: but i’m only doing this if there’s a PowerPoint
George: and no strippers
George: unless it’s daniel

Daniel:😏
Daniel: i will accept that
Daniel: also i’m doing the reception
Daniel: i wont be taking a no, charlie

Charles:🥰

Daniel: i want fireworks
Daniel: and a chocolate fountain
Daniel: and a bouncy castle
Daniel: don’t try to stop me

Sebastian: i’ll officiate the wedding

Lewis: no.
Lewis: i’m officiating.
Lewis: you can do a speech or something but this is mine.
Lewis: i’ve been preparing.
Lewis: i’ve got vows printed on hemp paper.

Sebastian: i was literally Charles’ mentor first
Sebastian: he cried in my arms in 2019
Sebastian: you weren’t even in Ferrari yet

Lewis: i have been a father figure to this boy
Lewis: i invited him to vegan brunch
Lewis: we drink oolong together
Lewis: he calls me ‘papa sometimes’

Sebastian: i call him son
Sebastian: that’s stronger

Fernando: you’re both insufferable
Fernando: i vote for Jimmy to officiate

Lando: JIMMY
Lando: THE CAT???

Oscar: No, Jimmy the bar
Oscar: YES JIMMY THE CAT

Pierre: oh i’m back sorry my app crashed after the revelation
Pierre: i also crashed
Pierre: what did i miss
Pierre: oh wait nevermind
Pierre: lewis and seb are fighting over who gets to say “you may now kiss the pain in the ass”
Pierre: love to see that

Arthur: ok well i think i should be charles’ best man
Arthur: i’m literally his brother
Arthur: i shared a womb with him
Arthur: that’s powerful

Pierre: you shared a womb???
Pierre: do you even understand how biology works
Pierre: also no
Pierre: i’ve been emotionally best-man-ing charles since 2017
Pierre: i’ve been there
Pierre: through the flirting
Pierre: the crying
Pierre: the fake interviews
Pierre: the eye contact

Arthur: charles literally forgot your birthday once

Pierre: charles also forgot yours
Pierre: which is WILD coz u two have close birthdays

Charles: okay i’ll make this simple
Charles: whoever is less drunk on the day gets the job
Charles: best man battle royale
Charles: last sober man standing

Arthur: you just unleashed chaos

Pierre: i’m buying three hydration tablets right now
Pierre: arthur you’re going down

Oscar: BACK TO THE AESTHETIC
Oscar: can we just clarify
Oscar: is this “classic romance”
Oscar: is it “chaotic elvis-themed elopement”
Oscar: is it “monaco casino night”
Oscar: i need themes
Oscar: i need colours
Oscar: i need to know if i’m ordering peonies or glow sticks

Charles: oscar.
Charles: you do you.
Charles: i believe in your vibe

Oscar: I HAVE NO VIBE
Oscar: I’M JUST A MAN
Oscar: WITH A FLORAL SUBSCRIPTION
Oscar: AND EMOTIONAL DAMAGE

George: okay this is what we know:
            – charles is useless
– max is offline
– oscar is spiralling
– daniel is planning a reception that might kill someone
– lewis and seb are about to duel
– arthur and pierre are going to get arrested

Lando: it’s a wedding of champions 😍

Oliver: can i walk Leo down the aisle
Oliver: leo should wear a little tux

Kimi: leo should be ring bearer
Kimi: this is my professional opinion as flower boy and cat whisperer

Seb: i second that
Seb: leo in a tux is the aesthetic

Oscar: GREAT
Oscar: WE’RE LOCKING THAT IN
Oscar: TUXEDO DOG
Oscar: FLORAL CHAOS
Oscar: POWERPOINT BACHELOR NIGHT
Oscar: AND A BOUNCY CASTLE

George: this is either going to be the most beautiful night of our lives
George: or the exact moment the FIA bans all weddings between drivers

Charles: both options are fine by me ❤️

Lando: you guys know this wedding is gonna be live-tweeted by the whole grid right

George: there’s no containing this
George: there’s gonna be custom memes
George: f1 reddit’s gonna implode
George: we need a PR statement

Alex: wait do you think we could do a press conference themed bachelor party
Alex: like with microphones and branded backdrops
Alex: and questions like “so when did you realise he was the one?”

Daniel: YES
Daniel: YES
Daniel: AND I’LL HOST IT
Daniel: i’ll wear a suit
Daniel: and bring a laser pointer

Oscar: can we get custom merch for the wedding
Oscar: like shirts that say “lestappen speedrun 2025”
Oscar: or “i survived the week long dating arc”

Pierre: “i saw the soft launch and all i got was this dumb ring pop”

Arthur: “i didn’t believe it and now i’m the best man against my will”

Pierre: No you are not

Arthur: I have high alcohol tolerance I AM WINNING

George: “i made a bingo card and now i have to cry on the aisle”

Charles: you guys are so dramatic
Charles: i just love max 😌

Lando: OK THAT WAS A JUMPSCARE
Lando: NEVER DO THAT AGAIN

Charles:❤️

Lando: FREAK

Charles: tag yourselves
Charles: i’m the groom with emotional trauma and very good hair
Charles: max is the other groom with rage issues and secret poetry skills
Charles: george is head of spreadsheets
Charles: oscar is head of chaos
Charles: daniel is bringing bouncy castles
Charles: seb and lewis are officiating and judging
Charles: arthur and pierre will duel for best man
Charles: ollie and kimi are flower boys
Charles: everyone else:
  don’t mess up

Fernando: i want to be in charge of cake testing
Fernando: but like
Fernando: only the testing
Fernando: not the choosing
Fernando: just the eating

Carlos: can i be the ring security
Carlos: like i’ll guard them
Carlos: i’ll wear sunglasses and earpiece and walkie-talkie and everything

Charles: you may

George: i hate how everything is falling into place
George: and also how much i love it here

Charles: welcome to the wedding of the century 💋

Charles held Max’s hand tighter.

“You good?” Max whispered.

Charles nodded. He leaned into him, the world buzzing, heart too full, friends too insane, but it was all real.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Finally.”

Enfin.