Chapter Text
It was hot, and the sun made the tarmac shimmer like it was pretending to be water. Charles had taken off his helmet and was squinting up at the results board, biting the inside of his cheek.
Ninth.
He sniffed. Not what he wanted. Not what Papa would have wanted, probably. But before he could start feeling too bad, his maman crouched beside him and handed him a juice box and a folded napkin.
“C’est pas grave,” she said gently, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear. “It’s just one race. You’ll do better next time.”
Papa nodded, arms crossed but not angry. “Tu as bien conduit. You were brave.”
Charles sat down on a crate nearby and peeled open the napkin. Inside was a soft piece of bread with chocolate. His favorite. His shoulders relaxed, just a little.
And then he saw him.
A kid around his age, maybe a little younger, sitting by the fence near the bins. His suit was scuffed, helmet beside him, and he was staring furiously at his shoelaces — which were a complete mess. His lips were pressed together, but his eyes were shiny. Every few seconds, he’d sniff, like he didn’t want anyone to hear.
Charles frowned. He didn’t like seeing people cry. It made something in his stomach feel wrong.
He looked down at his sandwich, then at the boy.
“Maman,” he whispered. “Can I go give… like… half?”
She looked over, saw the boy, and gave a soft smile. “Bien sûr, mon chéri.”
Charles took the napkin and walked carefully over, stopping a little awkwardly a few steps away.
“Hi,” he said.
The boy looked up fast, eyes wide and red. He didn’t say anything.
Charles held out half the sandwich, still in the napkin. “It’s chocolate. I don’t mind sharing.”
The boy blinked. “I— I didn’t win,” he mumbled, voice thick. “I was P14.”
Charles shrugged. “I was P9.” Then added, “But Maman said it don’t matter.”
The boy hesitated, then took the sandwich. “Dank je…” he muttered. “Uhm. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Charles plopped down beside him. “Your shoes are… very tangled.”
The boy sniffed. “I know. I don’t like them. They’re stupid.”
“I can try?” Charles offered. “I do mine every morning.”
“…Okay,” the boy said quietly, pushing his foot toward him.
They sat in silence for a bit while Charles fiddled with the knot, his little fingers careful and clumsy at the same time. The boy watched him like he didn’t know if he was dreaming.
“I’m Charles,” Charles said when he was done.
“Max.”
Charles smiled. “You’re fast. I saw.”
Max looked down. “…Not fast enough.”
Charles tilted his head. “Maybe next time.”
Max looked at him. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Charles said firmly, and handed him the juice box. “But we share this too.”
And when Charles stood up again and ran back to his parents, laughing as his maman ruffled his hair, Max stayed sitting on the curb. His cheeks sticky with chocolate and salt. His lion mark — hidden beneath his race suit — twitched. Just once.