Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It started with a stream.

A chill one, by Max’s standards. No crashes, no raging internet lag, no one calling Lando a slug in Dutch. Just a Redline guest night with a few junior drivers hopping in and out of the call, bantering about tire wear and worst karting memories.

Then someone, maybe James, maybe Barry, asked Max what he thought about the current F2 grid. And Max, without thinking too hard, said:

"Honestly? They’re incredible. But most of the best kids will never make it because they can’t afford to keep showing up."

It was quiet for a beat. Max didn’t notice.

"It’s all pay drivers now, and the FIA pretends they care, but they don’t fund shit. They smile for the press and act like a ten-second karting feature on race weekend is enough. Meanwhile, kids are getting priced out before they hit fifteen."

He said it simply. Flatly. No drama, just facts. It wasn’t even the worst thing he’d ever said on camera.

But of course, by morning, the quote had a million views on TikTok and was circulating under headlines like: “Verstappen Slams FIA on Accessibility Failures.”

Which, sure. Maybe a little dramatic — but not wrong.

Max wasn’t sorry.

But Red Bull’s Communications team was.

The next day, he got summoned to a "quick sync" with three PR reps and a brand manager who looked like he was one facial twitch away from a full breakdown. They used a lot of words like “partnership optics” and “reputational balance” and “softening the tone.” Max nodded through all of it, drank an energy drink out of spite, and said nothing.

Then, two days later, an email arrived.

SUBJECT: Monaco Youth Karting Day – Confirmed

BODY: Your attendance has been approved.

Details to follow. Please be on time.

Dress casual, but Red Bull-branded.

No one said it out loud, but he knew what this was.

Smile for a few photos. Shake some hands. Appear “invested in the future of motorsport.” Do the work they thought he didn’t understand.

Three days later, Max was standing under a sun-shredded tent in Monaco, wondering if it was possible to sweat through denim.

The karting track was small but chaotic, with plastic barricades, bright cones, and folding tables covered in juice boxes and papers. As if it were a summer camp with a motorsport theme, volunteers buzzed around in matching T-shirts, calling names and tracking down helmets.

A voice, dry and unimpressed, rang out behind Max as he was regretting everything.

"You're running late."

He turned. The man in front of him was sharp-featured, incredibly green eyed, soft curls plastered to the temples from the heat, clipboard in one hand and a walkie-talkie in the other.

Max recognized him instantly. Not by name, but by vibe. He was clearly in charge. And clearly not a fan.

“Yeah, sorry. Traffic,” Max said.

The man looked at him for a long, flat second.

“We’re in Monaco.”

Max nodded. “And yet, somehow, traffic.”

The man didn’t look amused. "You’re assigned to helmet distribution and basic kart safety. The children are...” He squints. “How can I say it tactfully… Feral. Try not to lose one.”

“Noted,” Max said, blinking. “You’re Charles?”

“Yes.” He looked over his clipboard. “And you’re Verstappen, I assume.”

“In the flesh.”

Charles didn’t respond. Just nodded and pointed him toward a table full of tangled straps, chipped helmets, and a faded instruction sheet that no one was reading.

Max was halfway through untangling two helmets when he noticed the small boy sitting on the curb, arms wrapped around his knees, watching him every few seconds and squirming when Max catched his eyes.

He looked six, maybe seven. Too skinny. Hair sticking out in soft caramel curls. Dirt and what possibly could be motor oil on his cheeks. A juice pouch half-drunk beside him.

Max raised an eyebrow. “I can’t tell if you want to help or are just judging me.”

The boy blinked, like he’s been caught. Then looked away, red cheeked.

Charles appeared beside him, crouching low. "Luca, mon cœur, you're alright?"

The boy, Luca, nodded almost imperceptibly. And leaned to whisper something to Charles.

Charles looked up at Max. "Don't mind him. He's a little shy and quiet when he meets people."

Max nodded. “That’s fine. I’m quiet around everyone.”

Charles snorted, surprised. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Max opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. Luca was still watching him, shy but curious.

Max reached for the helmet and dropped to a crouch. "You ever seen one up close?" Luca's eyes flashed, just barely. “They’re lighter than you think,” Max said, turning it in his hands. “But strong. You can drop it, and it won’t crack. Want to try?”

Luca hesitated. Then reached out slowly, like he was waiting to be told no.

Max handed it over.

Luca studied it slowly. "This is a Snell SA2020."

Max blinked. "It is, yes."

Charles's eyebrow raised. "He memorizes catalogues," he said, half-apologetically. "It's like a game to him."

Max sat cross-legged on the ground, picking up another helmet. "Alright, genius. What's wrong with this one?"

Luca inspected the padding, then with shaky fingers, pointed. “I think… cracked inside foam.”

“Nice, so smart.” Max said. “That’s why you always check the liner.”

Luca grinned, shy, beaming, as if the sun had at last reached his face right.

Charles stood behind them, hands on hips, watching.

Max tilted his head. "Do you want to sort through these with me?"

Luca glanced at Charles, biting his lip in thought, then nodded. "Okay."

They worked quietly, side by side. Max showed him how to spot worn straps, how to test visors for scratches. Luca corrected Max on a manufacturing date code (“That’s not a 3, that’s a 5.”) and Max just laughed.

“You’re hired,” Max said.

Luca looked at him funny. “I have school. I’m not allowed to work.”

“Tell that to my mechanics.”

Max checked the row of helmets they’d sorted, then looked over at Luca, who had taken a stick and was now quietly sketching something else into the gravel; a loose, lopsided outline of a kart.

“Is that supposed to be a Red Bull?” Max asked, crouching beside him.

Luca shrugged. “Not really. Just one I’d like.”

Max tilted his head. The back wing was drawn low and wide, the nose curved. Messy, but surprisingly accurate.

“Have you ever sit in one?” Max asked.

Luca shook his head, now drawing what could be a dinosaur, if you put enough effort and imagination into it. “Papa says maybe next year.”

“How tall are you?”

Luca stood, then flattened his palm on top of his head like it would help measure. “Almost one-thirty.”

Max gave a mock squint. “Hmm. Technically, you’re tall enough for a beginner kart.”

Luca’s eyes lit up. “Really?”

“Want to try?” Max nodded toward the row of practice karts lined up in the shade. “Just to sit. No driving. I promised not to get fired.”

Luca hesitated. Then nodded, slowly, like he didn’t quite trust the idea but wanted to.

They walked over together. Max reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded microfiber cloth, wiping down the steering wheel before gesturing for Luca to climb in.

“Left foot on the brake. Right on the throttle, just don’t press either too hard. Back’s straight. Hands here.” Max tapped the wheel. “Nine and three, just like a clock. Like this your arms won’t get tired as quickly, and keeps your arms in a safe position if you need to react quickly.”

Luca followed every instruction with careful precision, small hands wrapping around the worn grips. The helmet he’d chosen earlier rested beside him on the tire wall.

Max watched him quietly for a moment. “You’ve done this before?”

Luca shook his head, but then added, a little too fast, “I’ve seen it. On videos.”

Max smiled. “What kind of videos?”

Luca bit his lip. “Just… old races. Of... someone I really like.”

Luca didn’t explicitly say it, but Max didn’t need to hear it to understand. Luca’s ears went pink, and Max caught the tiny, embarrassed shuffle before the boy looked down again, pretending to study the pedals.

“Well,” Max said gently, “if you watched any race you must know you don’t bang on the pedals. Don’t do what I did when I was little and frustrated.”

Luca glanced up, startled into a laugh. “You messed up?”

“Everyone does. The trick is pretending it was part of the plan.”

Luca smiled, wide and real now, like the shyness had thinned just a bit.

“Now,” Max said, tapping the side of the kart. “Tell me what you’d change about this one if it were yours.”

Luca took a little time before he pointed at the tires. “Too worn.”

“Good eye.” Max nodded.

He pointed at the seat. “Too big.”

“Guess you need your own custom one.”

Then Luca paused, thoughtful. “And I’d want it red.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Red, huh? Like Ferrari”

“Not Ferrari red. Just… red.” He looked up at Max, a little bashful. “Papa says colors don’t make the kart go faster.”

“They don’t,” Max agreed. “But they do make you feel cooler. Which counts.”

Luca ducked his head, but Max caught the smile tugging at his mouth.

He sat on the tire wall beside him. There was something still and quiet about the moment, like it didn’t belong in a world with press briefings or strategy meetings. Just soft sunlight, the scuff of shoes against gravel, and a kid who looked like he’d waited a long time to be here.

Charles returned ten minutes later with water bottles and found them mid-explanation. Max drawing tire treads in the dirt with a stick, Luca kneeling beside him, hanging on his words like they were holy writ.

"Softs don't last," Max said. "They're fast, but you have to be gentle with them. Push too hard and they're done in six laps."

Luca frowned. “Then why do you use them?”

Max looked at him, then smiled. “Because sometimes, six laps is all you need.”

Luca nodded, thoughtful.

Charles leaned on the post, sipping his water. “What’s next? Pit stop strategies?”

Max glared at him, expression amused. "He asked."

Charles shook his head, but his mouth was twitching.

By the end of the afternoon, Luca was trotting after Max like a silent shadow.

When Charles told him it was time to go home, Luca clung to Max’s hand for a second longer than necessary before letting go.

Max didn’t say anything. He just watched them walk away, Charles with one hand on his son’s shoulder, Luca looking back only once to give him a wave, quick and small.

It didn’t hit Max until later, back in the quiet of his apartment, the city muted outside his window and his shirt still faintly smelling like kart tires and sun-warmed gravel.

How strange it had felt.

How right it had felt, to have someone listen to him like that. Not just tolerate him. Not just nod and wait their turn to talk. But listen. Like what he knew wasn’t noise. Like it meant something.

And maybe it shouldn’t have stayed with him. Maybe it was just a nice moment. But as he lay back against the pillows, Max thought about the way Luca had looked at him, curious, wide-eyed, open, and something in his chest twisted.

He’d been Luca’s age once.

Too serious. Too fast.

He remembered learning how to take a turn at high speed before learning times tables.

He remembered how his father used to bark at him through the fencing, his voice sharper than the engine noise. He remembered the stomach aches before races. The silence afterward, even when he won.

And then today, a kid who just wanted to ask about tires. Who listened without fear or pressure. Who looked at him like maybe Max was someone worth learning from.

He’d never thought about having kids. He didn’t think he’d be good at it.

But something in him, quiet and buried, whispered that maybe, just maybe, he could do better than what he’d been given.

And for the first time in a long time, Max let the thought stay.

Chapter Text

Charles wasn’t sure what woke him first, the sound of pitter-patting in the kitchen, or the strange and foreign sense of silence. Luca wasn’t humming a song. Wasn’t narrating an imaginary race in the hallway. He was quiet.

That alone was enough to make Charles get up.

He found him already dressed, socks mismatched, shirt inside out, standing on a stool and jamming an apple into his backpack with a furrowed brow.

He blinked. “Bonjour, mon petit bébé... C’est samedi.”

“Bonjour, papa.” Luca said without looking up, struggling to zip the bag closed. “I packed snacks so we don’t get hungry. I put two waters too.”

Charles glanced at the bag. It was suspiciously neat. Waters, juice, an apple, a half-full pack of cookies, and, was that one of Charles’ energy bars?

“You hate those.” He pointed with a twitching mouth.

Luca shrugged. “But grown ups love them.”

He bit the inside of his cheek. “That’s… very organized. And kind of you.”

“Merci, papa. But I think we’ll be very late if we keep talking. We have hours of driving.”

“It’s still very early, bébé.” Charles ran his fingers through Luca’s soft curls, watching him close his eyes and hum like a little kitten. “And at most we have 25 minutes of driving. I’ll let you choose the songs this morning, just because you’re so sweet.”

Luca opened his eyes, excited. “Can we listen to that song about the haunted house and the mad dad and the pirates?”

“Of course, baby. Whatever you want.”

They left twenty minutes early, with Luca practically skipping toward the car.

It was already hot by the time they reached the karting tent. The air smelled of sunscreen, engine grease, and cheap plastic, and the track buzzed with kids half-jogging from one end to the other.

Luca immediately ran to join a few others who were arguing over who had the fastest kart, but he kept glancing toward the entrance every few moments, a little crease forming between his brows.

Charles sighed and leaned against a metal post, arms crossed.

“Morning,” came a voice, too casual to be casual.

Max Verstappen strolled up, hands deep in the pockets of his jeans, cap low over his eyes, like he hadn’t just wandered into a youth karting event completely uninvited.

Charles blinked. “Hi. You’re not scheduled today.”

Max shrugged. “I was in the neighborhood.”

“Just in the neighborhood?” Charles asked, raising an eyebrow.

Max smirked. “A coincidence.”

Charles squinted. “Did PR send you again?”

“No,” Max said, glancing toward the track. “This one’s just me.”

Before Charles could reply, a blur of curls barreled past him.

“Hi Max!” Luca called out, running straight toward Max.

Max’s whole face shifted. It was subtle, but noticeable. His mouth softened. His shoulders eased.

“Hey, Luca.” he said, crouching slightly. “Are you ready to help me save the world from poorly maintained helmets again?”

Luca grinned. “I have an even better idea! Andrea said the kart with the yellow sticker won’t start. Can we fix it?”

Max looked up at Charles, questioning. Charles shrugged. “As long as you don’t blow it up.”

“No promises,” Max said, already walking off beside Luca, heads tilted together in quiet conversation.

Charles watched them go. Something about the scene, the smallness of Luca beside Max, the bounce in his step. The way Max matched his pace, didn’t rush him, pulled at something low in his chest.

Thirty minutes later, after helping organize gloves and worn out safety elements, Charles spotted them again.

Luca was crouched beside the kart with a wrench twice the size of his forearm, while Max leaned in over the side panel, elbow-deep in something oily.

“Give it a little twist. No, other way.”

“I am.” Tongue sticking out in concentration.

“You’re not. You're just thinking about twisting.”

Luca huffed. “Thinking is part of it.”

“Not if the bolt is still stuck, it’s not.”

Charles walked over slowly, arms crossed. “Please tell me that’s not an actual engine repair happening unsupervised.”

Max looked up, grease on his cheek. “Define ‘repair.’”

“Define ‘lawsuit,’” Charles shot back, but he was already crouching beside them, scanning the kart.

“She flooded the engine when it stalled,” Max explained. “I told him how to clear it. He did everything himself.”

Luca puffed out his chest slightly. “I remembered the fuel thingy this time.” Max whispered ‘Fuel valve’. Luca nodded. “Yes, the fuel valve.”

Charles blinked. “This time?”

“Don’t worry,” Max said, completely deadpan. “He only inhaled minimal fumes.”

Luca laughed. Charles did not.

“I swear to god,” he muttered, mostly for show, and sat in a folding chair near them. And watched.

They worked together, grease smudging their fingers, Max guiding him with questions and letting Luca try every step first. It wasn’t showy. He didn’t dumb things down or turn it into a lesson. He just… shared, like the two of them were speaking the same language. One Charles wasn’t fluent enough to follow.

It would’ve made Charles wary, if it had felt like a performance.

But it didn’t.

Max didn’t do the thing adults sometimes did, the loud, overfriendly kind of praise that made Luca shrink into himself. He just listened. Corrected when needed. Encouraged gently. Let Luca be serious and focused, the way he always got when he felt safe.

They got the kart to cough to life half an hour later. Luca cheered so loudly he scared two pigeons off a railing.

Charles offered them both water and a towel. “You’ve just bonded over engine oil. What’s next, tattoos?”

Luca looked interested.

Max laughed. “Matching ones?”

Charles rolled his eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“Or charming.”

Luca nodded, serious. “I think a little charming.”

Later, Max leaned against the wall near the shade tent, sipping from a dented water bottle and talking to one of the older volunteers like they were old friends. Charles watched him from the table, pretending he wasn’t watching.

Max laughed at something, head tilted back, and Charles was startled by how normal he looked.

Relaxed. Comfortable. Not the hard edged figure from a thousand post-race interviews. Just… a guy. A guy who showed up to help.

A guy Luca clearly liked.

Charles let himself watch for a moment too long before snapping out of it and returning to organize paperwork.

They talked again near the end of the day. Max was walking back from the bathroom with a grease stain still on his forearm. Charles intercepted him by the canteen, pretending he’d just happened to be passing by.

“You know you weren’t obligated to come back today,” Charles said.

Max shrugged. “I had fun yesterday.” He rounded one of the tables where a volunteer was giving spare change to one of the kids. He pulled a bill from his pocket and handed it over. “Hi. Three popsicles, please.”

Charles lifted an eyebrow. “You… had fun?” He watched Max accept the popsicles and thank the volunteer, telling her to keep the change.

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“It’s just. You don’t strike me as the ‘volunteer with children’ type.”

Max’s mouth quirked. “I’m not. I’m the ‘fix broken karts and talk about tires’ type. They happen to be children.” He offered one popsicle to Charles. “You look like you haven’t eaten since the helmet distribution war.”

Charles blinked at it. It wasn’t much, but… it was also not nothing. He took it. “Thanks.”

Max looked smug. Just a little.

There was a pause. Then Charles added, quieter, “Luca was really happy to see you.”

Max looked down, fidgeting with the wrapper. “He’s a smart kid.”

“He is,” Charles agreed. Then, like it slipped out without permission: “He asks to watch old karting videos sometimes. Of you, I think. He doesn’t say it out loud, but I’ve caught the tabs.”

Max blinked, clearly taken aback.

Charles shrugged. “You made an impression.”

There was something in Max’s eyes, not pride exactly, but something gentler. A kind of disbelief, maybe. As if the idea of someone looking up to him was still a surprise.

“Tell him I’ll bring my old helmet next time,” Max said.

Charles tilted his head. “There’s a next time?”

Max didn’t answer. Just gave a small, secret smile and walked off toward the paddock, tracking down a mess of caramel curls and green eyes.

That night, after a warm bath and the ritual of clean pajamas and brushing teeth while humming a song about sprinkler splashes and friendship bracelets, Charles stood in the doorway while Luca climbed into bed.

He was already under the blanket when he spoke again, voice small and careful.

“Papa?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think Max will come back tomorrow?”

Charles paused. “I’m not sure. He wasn’t even supposed to be here today.”

Luca nodded solemnly. Then, after a beat: “I hope he does.”

Charles stepped into the room, adjusted the edge of the blanket. “Do you like him?”

“Yeah. He talks to me like I’m big,” Luca said. “But not too big.”

Charles felt something twist in his chest. “He’s good at that.”

A pause.

“I think I want to be his forever friend,” Luca whispered. “But I’m worried he might not want to be mine.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Charles murmured, brushing his hair back gently. “I’m sure he’d love to be you friend. Maybe you should ask him.”

“I made him something,” Luca said suddenly, reaching under his pillow. He held up a small, folded sheet of paper, a cartoon Max in a kart, number 1 scribbled on the front, red helmet on his head. In the corner, three stick figures. One had long legs and two blue dots for eyes. Two had curly hair and green eyes.

“Can I give it to him next time?”

Charles nodded, his throat tight. “Yeah, mon cœur. I think he’d really like that.”

"Thanks papa, I love you" Luca snuggled into his pillow. 

"And I love you more."

And as he turned off the light and closed the door, Charles thought of Max again, laughing in the sun, grease on his hands, blue popsicle melting in his grip, and wondered if maybe, just maybe, he wanted him to come back too.

Chapter Text

Charles should’ve told him.

He should’ve said something that morning. Sat Luca down at the breakfast table, just them, orange juice and toast and the hum of the old kitchen fan, and gently explained that this would be the last karting day. That the program only ran for two weeks in July. That Max probably wouldn’t be there again.

That it wasn’t even goodbye, not really, because they hadn’t even said hello.

He should’ve.

But then Luca came out of his room already dressed, hair combed, snack bag packed, holding his little water bottle like it was an invitation. He looked up at Charles and asked, “Bonjour papa! Do we have time to get there a little early today?”

And that was that.

Charles couldn’t do it.

Let him have one more day. Let him believe.

Let him be six.

So now, Charles is standing in the freezer aisle of the supermarket, squinting at a discount banner taped to a tower of juice pouches. Next to them, glowing in obnoxious blue and silver, is a Red Bull multipack.

He hesitates.

Then grabs it and tosses it in the cart.

Just in case.

He tells himself it’s for the volunteers. Or for himself, if he gets tired. Or Max, if... no. No, Max probably won’t be there. There’s no reason he would be.

Still. Just in case.

(Next week is Luca’s birthday. Charles came to the store for snacks and candles. Somehow, Max has crept in between the string lights and the plastic plates.)

By the time they arrive, the paddock is already buzzing. The volunteers are stacking folding chairs near the entrance. One of the coordinators is yelling about water balloons and cleanup shifts.

It has the feel of a summer camp winding down, laughter a little too loud, nerves a little too loose, like everyone’s trying to stretch it out a little longer.

Max isn’t there yet.

Luca scans the lot twice before sitting down on the edge of a tire wall, expression unreadable. He doesn’t pout. He doesn’t ask. But his foot bounces.

Charles tries not to sigh. “He might come. He might not.”

“I know,” Luca says. He says it bravely. Charles can see the effort.

Then, “I brought the drawing. Just in case.”

Charles gives a quiet hum and reaches for his water bottle. “Good, bébé. Just in case.”

He’s not sure what he’s preparing for: Luca’s disappointment or his own.

But then Max arrives.

Baseball cap low. Sleeves rolled to his elbows. Hands in his pockets like he hadn’t spent the whole morning deciding whether or not to come.

Luca doesn’t run to him this time. He walks. Fast, but still, holding something behind his back.

Charles watches the whole thing from a polite distance. Watches Luca hold out the folded drawing like it’s treasure. Watches Max kneel immediately, that same impossible softness spreading over his face, and when he opens the paper and sees what’s inside...

Something shifts. Folds. Quiet and deep.

Max doesn’t say anything dramatic. Doesn’t make it a moment. But Charles sees it in his shoulders, the way he folds the paper with care, nodding solemnly, like he’s been handed something sacred.

Luca’s whole face lights up.

And Charles, well. He’s not sure what to do with the way his chest aches.

Later, while Luca is at the tire pressure station with the other kids, Max wanders toward the canteen where Charles is sitting under the shade with a notepad and a bag of tiny juice pouches.

He raises a hand in a kind of wave. Casual, but more deliberate than yesterday.

“Hey.”

Charles looks up. “Hey.”

Max hesitates, then takes the seat beside him, letting their knees knock just slightly.

“Luca said this is the last day?”

Charles nods, peeling the label from a juice pouch. “Yeah. Program ends today. Back to real life tomorrow.”

“Real life,” Max echoes. “Sounds awful.”

Charles huffs a laugh. “It usually is.”

They sit in silence for a beat. Not awkward, just quiet. Honest.

Then Max glances sideways. “Do you work weekends?”

Charles nods, then shakes his head. “I work from home, mostly. I’m a graphic designer, freelance stuff. So I don’t have real ‘workdays.’ Depends on the project load.”

Max tilts his head, face catching rays of sun. “And this? Just volunteer work?”

Charles hums, then shrugs. “A bit more than that. My brother used to run it before he moved. Now it’s kind of… half mine, I guess.”

Max looks thoughtful. “It’s good. What you do here. You’re good at it.”

Charles blinks, caught off guard. “Thanks.”

Max gives a tiny nod. Then, after a beat: “You’re a good dad, too.”

It’s not a compliment Charles gets often. It lands with weight.

“I try,” he says quietly, blushing. “A lot.”

“You don’t just try,” Max replies. “He knows you’re there.”

Charles looks down at the juice pouch in his hands. “Not always. But I hope it’s enough.”

There’s something in Max’s expression, a kind of understanding that isn’t pity. Just… familiarity.

“Can I ask you something?” Charles says suddenly.

Max raises a brow. “Sure.”

“Why’d you come back?”

Max is quiet for a moment. Then looks away, toward the edge of the track where Luca is crouched over a stack of tires, nodding seriously at someone’s explanation.

“I liked being here,” Max says simply. “With him. With you.”

It’s so honest, so bare, that Charles doesn’t know what to say.

So Max adds, like a soft exit: “Anyway. I was thinking… if you’re free next weekend, there’s a junior F1 showcase in Marseille. Smaller crowd, but the kids can get up close. Might be fun.”

Charles blinks. “Are you inviting us?”

Max’s smile is crooked. “Only if you promise to stop packing those awful protein bars.”

Charles laughs. The tension breaks like a wave. “I’ll consider it.”

“Consider it hard,” Max says, rising. “I’ll text you the details.”

Charles frowns. “You don’t have my number.”

Max turns, walking backward now. “Then you’ll have to give it to me, won’t you?” He winks. 

Winks.

The water balloon war breaks out an hour later.

It starts innocently enough, someone misses a trash bin, someone else retaliates, and then Luca is shrieking with laughter, darting between cones with a balloon in each hand.

Max doesn’t hesitate. Chases him through the chaos, shirt stuck to his back.

Charles watches from under the tent, arms crossed, wondering how it all got so easy. So dangerous. So much like something he could miss.

He tries to keep his distance, but Luca finds him anyway, all green sparkling eyes, wicked in strategy, sharp with aim, and ten minutes later, Charles is soaked, breathless, and crouched behind a stack of tires next to Max, trying not to laugh.

“I blame you for this,” Charles gasps.

Max, dripping and unbothered, hands him a balloon. “I don’t hear you complaining.”

“You ambushed me.”

“I prefer tactically neutralized.”

“I’m filing a protest.”

Max leans in just slightly, water running down his jaw. “File it with race control.”

And maybe it’s the heat. Or the adrenaline. Or the way Max is looking at him in that second, amused, open, but something in Charles’ chest shifts.

He doesn’t say anything. Just hands Max the balloon, smirks, and stands to attack.

They dry off under the shade tent, towels passed around like currency.

Charles tries not to stare at Max’s forearms as he wrings out his shirt. He fails.

He hands him a spare towel without a word.

“Thanks,” Max says.

“Don’t mention it.”

They stand shoulder to shoulder, watching Luca climb into the back of a volunteer’s truck to help collect scattered bottles.

Max’s voice comes low. “He’s really something.”

“He is,” Charles says, smiling. 

“He drew me with such long legs.” Max whispered, both amazed and bewildered.

Charles laughs. “You do have long legs.”

Max smiles, soft. “He called me his forever friend.”

Something in Charles cracks, quietly. “He told me he was scared you wouldn’t want to be his.”

Max blinks, stunned. Looks back toward Luca, heart suddenly lodged in his throat.

“I do,” he says.

And maybe that’s enough.

That night, Max sits alone in his apartment, the drawing propped on his kitchen counter. He traces the edge with his thumb.

He’s not used to this.

Being wanted without needing to earn it with results, with victories, with perfection.

He thinks of the way Charles looks at him now, not impressed, not wide eyed. Just… seeing him. Like a person.

He opens his phone and drafts a message:

 

Hey.
Marseille next weekend. Got your names on the list.
I’ll bring the good snacks.

He hovers for a second. Then hits send.

Then looks back at the drawing. And smiles.

Just in case.

Chapter Text

The Marseille paddock was louder than anything Luca had ever walked into.

Engines rumbled behind thin barriers, people shouted into radios, and the loudspeakers crackled overhead with announcements that didn’t seem to stop. Even Max’s name echoed through the air at one point, and Luca had turned toward the voice like it was magic.

Charles stayed close.

This wasn’t like the local karting tent. This was fast-paced, stacked with people in matching shirts and laminated passes. Kids clutched mini flags. Volunteers darted back and forth. Everything looked official.

And Max... well, Max looked like someone else entirely.

Still Max, still him, but different.

Focused. Sharp. Eyes alert, expression serious. The way people moved when they were used to being followed. He greeted people with short nods, gave quick instructions, stood still for a few pictures when asked.

He was working.

Charles thought he might feel out of place. That Max would become distant here, a stranger in a branded jacket.

But instead, Max spotted them across the paddock and smiled.

A real one.

“Hey,” he said, cutting away from a tight conversation with a junior team coordinator and heading straight for them. “You made it.”

“We promised,” Charles replied.

Luca beamed, bouncing slightly. “There are so many cars.”

Max crouched to his height. “Wanna sit in one?”

Luca gasped.

It happened faster than Charles could keep track of. Max pulled a few strings (casual but effective) and soon they were inside a quieter section of the junior showcase. An old simulator rig stood off to one side, a repurposed F1 show car nearby, with a volunteer explaining how the steering wheel worked.

Luca looked like he might vibrate out of his shoes.

But then the noise swelled, a small crowd gathered for a live karting demo and Charles saw Luca’s shoulders rise, body tensing slightly.

Too many people. Too much sound.

Charles crouched beside him. “We can leave, bébé, it’s okay”

“Hey,” Max said softly, kneeling on the other side. “Want to come with me for a second? I know a quiet spot. Just between races.”

Luca blinked up at him. Then nodded.

Max took his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Charles followed a few paces behind as Max led them to a spot behind one of the garages, away from the crowd, shaded by a thin awning and the edge of a catering truck. It was nothing special. But it was quiet.

Luca stood between them, taking slow breaths. Charles crouched to rub his back.

Max said nothing. Just sat beside them and waited.

Eventually, Luca exhaled. “Okay now.”

Max bumped his shoulder gently. “That’s good.”

Charles didn’t say anything, just watched Max with something thick in his throat.

Later, Luca climbed into the old F1 show car, oversized helmet nearly swallowing his head, and pretended to shift gears like he knew what he was doing. His curls stuck out from beneath the padding. His little fingers gripped the wheel like it mattered.

Charles and Max stood side by side, watching.

“He’s a natural,” Max said softly.

“He’s pretending it's a spaceship,” Charles replied.

Max smiled. “Still counts.”

They were quiet a while.

Then Charles said, “He really wanted to come today.”

“I’m glad you let him.”

“I almost didn’t.”

Max turned toward him, brows raised.

Charles looked down at the track. “I was worried. That this would feel too far from our world. That it’d be… too real.”

Max was quiet. Then he said, “It is real. But it doesn’t have to be far.”

And Charles didn’t know what to say to that.

So they just stood there, shoulders barely brushing, eyes on Luca.

And it was enough.

The apartment was quiet when he got home.

He tossed his keys on the counter, dropped his jacket on the back of a chair, and stood for a long moment looking at the drawing propped up against a jar of instant coffee.

Three stick figures. One tall, long legs. One small. One with curls.

He thought about the way Charles had looked at him today, not from a distance, not like a fan, but like someone trying to understand him. Someone who’d seen something real.

Max had let him.

That thought alone made him sit down on the edge of the couch and exhale like he hadn’t in days.

He wasn’t used to this.

To being seen outside the paddock. To wanting to be seen.

To texting someone first.

He picked up his phone. Opened his camera roll. Scrolled to the picture he’d taken, Luca in the simulator, grinning wide.Then swiped, one of him and Charles talking and smiling to eachother, taken from a very low angle.

Saved both of them to favorites.

He didn’t sleep well.

Luca had gone to bed still talking about the cars. The simulator. Max.

'My forever friend', he’d said again.

'Are you marrying him, papa?', he also said.

Charles had blushed, stuttered, turned autopilot on and tucked him in. 

But later, alone in the kitchen, he’d stared at his phone too long. At the number in his texts. The name next to it.

He wasn’t sure what any of it meant.

Only that it felt like something beginning.

And he was terrified of what would happen if it ended.

The living room was full of balloons and chaos.

Luca’s seventh birthday was in full swing. It was small, just like every year, a few friends from school and community karting, some cousins, a borrowed folding table on the balcony, store bought cake with too much frosting. Paper plates. Sticky fingers.

Luca bounced from place to place, wearing a crown made out of colored paper.

Charles had almost forgotten how much noise seven-year-olds could make.

He was balancing juice boxes when his mother leaned in from the kitchen doorway.

“There’s someone at the door.”

Charles frowned. “More kids?”

“Not unless one of Luca’s friends is six feet tall and Dutch.”

He left the juice boxes on the counter and walked to the front door, heart inexplicably in his throat.

When he opened it, Max stood there, arms full, slightly breathless, holding a gift bag, a store bag, and a blue balloon shaped like a helmet.

“Hey,” he said, a little sheepish. “Hope I’m not late.”

Charles blinked. Then, inevitably, smiled. “You… came?”

Max lifted the balloon, then the bags like a white flag. “I brought snacks.”

Luca appeared behind Charles like a shot, eyes wide. “Maxie, you came!”

Max crouched instantly, letting himself get hugged so hard the balloon nearly popped. “Of course I came, buddy. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Charles stepped back and let them in.

Max stayed for the whole party.

He helped cut the cake. He complimented Luca’s decorations. He let himself be bossed around by six small children playing some version of tag that made no structural sense.

At one point, Charles walked into the living room to find Luca dragging Max toward the kitchen.

“You have to meet Mamie! She made the cookies and the cupcakes! Papa is saying he made them, but don’t believe him, he’s lying. Mamie said his nose is going to grow so much he won’t fit in the house. Do you think that's possible? ”

Max looked bewildered, but charmed.

Later, Charles caught his aunt whispering to his mother, eyes wide. “Is that Max Verstappen?”

His mother squinted. “Isn’t that the boy from the karting tent?”

Charles didn’t correct her.

When most of the guests had gone, and Luca was in the corner assembling his new Lego set, Max reached for the bag he’d brought and pulled something wrapped in brown paper.

“I’ve been meaning to give him this.” Max fidgeted. “I really hope he likes it.”

Charles tilted his head. “What is it?”

Max unwrapped it carefully, revealing an old, slightly scuffed junior helmet, the kind they don’t make anymore. The colors were faded, but still visible: navy blue with a stripe of orange down the middle. The visor still attached.

“He won’t be able to wear it for racing, obviously. But I thought… maybe it could sit on his shelf. Remind him he’s got time. And that dreams do come true.”

Charles stared at it, throat tight.

When Luca opened it, his entire face lit up.

He thanked Max a million times, then ran to his room immediately to clear space on his desk. Talking about how he can’t wait to tell everyone in his class about the best gift he’s ever gotten. That, and the interactive dinosaur book his papa gave him.

Charles watched Max watch him, like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d done.

The sun was dipping. A breeze moved through the trees outside.

Charles leaned against the porch railing, a glass of lukewarm lemonade in hand.

Max joined him a moment later, arms crossed.

“This was nice,” he said.

“It was chaos,” Charles replied, squinting at the sun. He couldn’t help the smile. “But yeah. It was nice.”

They stood in silence.

Then Max said, “My birthdays were never like this.”

Charles looked at him. Waiting. Thinking.

“They were loud too, in their way,” he said, voice low. “But not like this. Not with this... joy, I guess.” He swallowed. “Living with my dad… all I wanted was to see my mom and sister. That was the gift I asked for every year.”

He looked at Charles, something raw in his eyes. “The parties we had… they felt like performance. There were no messy rounds of musical chairs for me. No sticky, homemade cookies. Just, more expectation.”

Charles let that settle. Let it hurt a bit so the pain could be shared.

“You were just a kid,” he said gently. “I’m sorry.”

Max shook his head. “I’m not.”

Charles turned to him, confused.

“Because now I know what it’s supposed to feel like. And I know what I don’t want to do, and how I don’t want to be, when I have the chance.”

Something shifted then, soft and quiet and undeniable.

Their eyes held. Max’s fingers brushed his on the railing. Charles didn’t move away.

“I don’t always know what I’m doing,” Charles said quietly. “With Luca. With… this.”

Max tilted his head. “You’re doing fine.”

Charles looked at him, smiled. “You don’t even know me.”

“I’m trying to.”

And Charles… let him.

Not all the way. Not yet.

But enough. Just enough.

That night, when Max got home, he found the Lego instructions Luca had accidentally left tucked inside the gift bag.

He didn’t throw them away.

He folded them neatly. Tucked them into a drawer.

Just in case.

Chapter Text

It was only supposed to be three weeks.

Max had told himself that when he left. Three weeks of travel, two races, one test session, and a handful of meetings. He’d be too busy to miss anyone. It would go fast.

But somewhere between Japan and Italy, it stopped feeling fast. It started feeling like a countdown.

He tried not to make a thing out of it. But his camera roll was suddenly full of dumb things: a dinosaur shaped vending machine he saw in an airport. A Red Bull minifridge shaped like a race car. A real duck wearing sunglasses outside a hotel. Every time he saw something like that, he thought, Luca would love this. Or worse: Charles would laugh at this.

He didn’t send everything. But he sent enough.

Charles

[Answering the sunglasses duck photo]
Luca says thank you for this emotionally significant experience.

Max

Life changing duck.
Tell him I’m glad he’s keeping his standards high.

He didn’t even try to stop texting Charles anymore. It wasn’t constant. But it was easy.

Some days they talked about Luca. Some days about work. Some days about nothing. Some days it’s mostly Charles talking, and Max just listening. He doesn’t mind.

Charles

Luca said you’re going to think this is hilarious.
[Image attached.]

Max taps to open it.

It’s a blurry shot of Luca in pajamas, arms raised like a tiny gladiator, Max’s old junior helmet perched crookedly on his head. He’s standing on the couch with a whisk in one hand and the remote in the other, apparently conducting an orchestra or leading an army, unclear which.

Max laughs. Out loud.

Then types:

He’s right. I’m crying. I’d follow that general into battle.

Charles replies a few minutes later:

He says that’s a very good decision. Your army has snacks.

Max stares at the screen too long, smiling into his pillow.

Three days later, early on race day, he gets another picture.

This time it’s Luca sitting in front of the TV, eyes wide, watching Max’s qualy from Japan. He’s wearing the helmet again, of course, and has drawn a tiny paper Red Bull logo taped to the side.

Charles

He screamed “THAT’S MY FRIEND” when you overtook P2. I think the neighbors think I’m hiding a banshee.

Max stares at the screen, something warm catching behind his ribs. He types:

He’s not wrong. That’s his friend.

Then hesitates, then adds the next line.

That’s my friend too.

He saves the photo. Folders it next to the drawing and Luca in the simulator.

After the race, when he's finally in his hotel room, he gets another picture attached to a message: 

Charles:

[Image attached of Luca reacreating Max's pose on the couch like Max did on the chassis, a small finger up and smiling big]

We can't believe you did that!!! We're so happy for you!

Max just answers with a smiley and sweaty selfie, holding the thropy.

He also saves the photo on his special folder.

That last message sat with Max for days. Like something warm and sharp all at once. He kept rereading it when he was jet lagged or waiting in hotel lobbies or trying to remember why everything felt weirdly flat lately.

It's Charles. And Luca, too. He misses them.

So when he found himself with two days off and a direct flight to France, he booked it without thinking. No cameras, no press. Just a hoodie, sunglasses, and a duffel bag.

Just… him.

It was just after six. The apartment smelled like tomato sauce and melting cheese, and Luca was on the couch surrounded by markers and glue. Charles was still wearing old sweatpants, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, phone tucked between his ear and shoulder as he talked to his brother about birthday gifts and overdue visits.

Then came the knock.

Luca looked up. “Can I answer the door?”

“No, it's late and we are not expecting anyone.” Charles said, frowning. He put the phone down and crossed the room.

When he opened the door, Max was there.

Tired. Windblown. Grinning.

“Hi,” Max says, sheepish.

Charles blinks again. “Hi? You... flew here? Just like that?”

“If that’s okay,” Max says. “I had two days off. I figured I’d come back before he outgrew me.”

“It’s...” Charles blinked, smiled. “It’s more than okay. Come in.”

Max stepped inside just as Luca came running.

“MAXIE?!”

Max dropped his bag and crouched just in time to catch him. “Hey, buddy!”

Luca beamed. “You came back!”

Max ruffled his curls. “Told you I would.”

That night was not eventful.

Not in the dramatic way, anyway.

But it was everything else.

Max helped stir the sauce. Charles handed him a beer from the fridge and tried not to stare when Max leaned against the counter, sleeves pushed up, like he belonged there. Like this was just what they did.

Luca told him everything that had happened in school since the last time they saw him, including a full breakdown of his class’s dinosaur diorama project.

Charles nearly burned the garlic bread. Max offered to fix it and ended up making it worse. Luca laughed so hard he hiccupped.

After dinner, Max helped Luca with his reading assignment. They sat on the couch, Max’s voice low and steady, Luca curled up next to him under a blanket.

Charles watched them from the kitchen, unsure if he was witnessing something or if he was in it.

And later, much later, when the dishes were drying and the night had fallen soft and quiet over the apartment, Luca insists Max help with bedtime.

“Papa does the voice wrong,” he says, pointing at the picture book.

“I do not!” Charles says, offended.

Max just takes the book, sits beside Luca, and begins reading. Five minutes later, Charles is watching from the doorframe as both of them do the silly voices.

Ten minutes after that, Luca is tucked in tightly, helmet on the bedside table, arms wrapped around the stuffed dinosaur.

Max closes the door gently behind them.

They end up on the porch. Again.

Lemonade in mismatched cups. Crickets. The distant hum of city life. Max leans against the railing. Charles stays seated.

“You didn’t have to come,” Charles says after a while. "I mean. Not that I’m not glad you did. It’s just… you didn’t have to.

Max glances over. “I know, I wanted to.”

Charles looks down at his cup, thumbs the rim. “That’s hard to believe, sometimes.”

“Why?”

Charles exhales through his nose. “Because people don’t usually show up just to show up. Or choose to stay.”

Max is quiet. Waiting.

So Charles speaks.

“Luca’s mom left when he was one and a half,” he says. “She said it wasn’t what she wanted. Motherhood, the mess of it. She didn’t say it in those exact words, but… I think she was being honest.”

Max doesn’t interrupt.

“I wasn’t angry. Not really. Just… scared. Suddenly everything was mine to figure out. The diapers, the bills, the nightmares. And work—” he laughs, sharp and tired. “Freelance isn’t stable. Some months we’re fine. Other months I pretend I’m not hungry so he doesn’t notice there's less in the fridge."

Max’s face tightens.

“I try so hard to make sure he doesn’t feel it. The stress. The gaps. I want him to grow up soft, loved. But sometimes I lie awake wondering if I’m doing any of it right. If he’s going to grow up and remember all the wrong things.”

Max moves closer. Slowly.

“You’re doing better than right,” he says quietly.

Charles looks up. Their eyes meet.

“You know,” Max begins, “people think being a public figure means you get everything. But sometimes it just means everyone wants something from you, all the time.”

Charles watches him. Silent.

“They don’t want you, really. They want the version of you that wins. The piece they can put in a picture. The brand. I go home and realize I haven’t heard my own voice outside interviews in weeks. I see my nephews twice a year and every time they look older. My mom sends photos from Sunday dinners, and I sit there trying to guess what I missed just by the background. It’s like time’s passing and I’m not even in it.”

The air shifts. Gentle. Sad.

Max looks down. “And then I came here, and you two just… looked at me. Like a person.”

Charles’s voice is very quiet. “Because you are.”

“I forget, sometimes,” Max says.

Charles places his cup down.

Max does the same.

They’re standing inches apart now, eyes locked. Something fragile balances between them.

Max lifts a hand, just slightly, but doesn’t touch.

“I don’t always know what this is,” he says.

Charles breathes in. “Me neither.”

Max leans in. So does Charles.

And then the bedroom door creaks open.

“Papa?” Luca’s voice.

They step back like magnets repelled. Max turns, steadying himself. Charles clears his throat.

“In here, bébé,” he calls, voice rough.

Luca pads in sleepily, curls mussed, rubbing his eyes. “Papa? I can’t sleep.”

Charles stood immediately. “I’ll come tuck you in again.”

But Luca blinked at Max. “Will you come too?”

Max smiled. “Of course.”

Charles looked at him. And Max, Max just nodded.

The moment passed. But it didn’t vanish. It just tucked itself away, waiting

—

Later that night, after Luca was asleep again and the apartment was dim, Max stood by the door, bag over his shoulder.

“I should go,” he said, but didn’t move.

Charles hesitated. “You could stay.”

Max blinked. “On the couch?”

“Yeah. I mean. If you want to.”

Max looked at him, really looked, and then nodded. “Okay.”

—

He didn’t sleep much.

Neither did Charles.

They weren’t in the same room. But something about knowing he was there, in the next space over, under the same roof, just breathing quietly, made something in Charles settle.

And something else stir.

—

In the morning, Charles walked in to find Max half asleep in the kitchen, hair a mess, one sock missing, making pancakes with Luca, flour everywhere.

Max looks over his shoulder and grins. “Hi! We’re not following the recipe.”

Luca adds, wisely. “We’re making the friendship version.”

Charles leans against the doorframe, and smiles like it’s the only thing he can do.

—

Max stayed until just after lunch. His flight was at five.

Charles walked him to the door. Luca gave him a long, sticky goodbye hug.

“You’ll come back?” Luca asked.

“Yeah, of course.” Max said, softly caressing his cheek. “As soon as I can.”

Then Max looked at Charles.

There was a moment. Not the kind you force. The kind that feels like a doorway.

Max opened his mouth, then closed it. Charles did the same.

Finally, Max just said, “Text me when you get the dinosaur diorama finished. I want to see the final model.”

Charles smiled. “You’ll be the first to know.”

After the door closed, Charles stood there for a long time.

Luca was hugging Charles, snifling silently.

Charles leaned back against the doorframe, letting Luca cling to him like a tree. Head tipped back. Heart somewhere between his ribs and the ceiling.

He didn’t know what any of this was yet.

But it was something.

That night, a text:

Hey. I left something in your fridge. Bottom shelf. Don’t let Luca eat it all.

Charles opens it. It’s Max’s favorite chocolate, and a note taped to the top.

For the days that feel sad heavy. You’re not alone anymore ◡̈

Charles doesn’t cry.

But he holds the note for a long time.

Chapter Text

The first few days after Max left were the easiest.

Routine picked up like it always did, breakfasts before school, grocery runs, fights about the benefits of a diverse diet and not uncrustables every day, Charles falling asleep on the couch half watching some cartoon movie with Luca curled beside him like a cat. Everything exactly as it had been before Max showed up.

And then, exactly not.

Evenings felt quieter. The apartment, a little more hollow. Charles caught himself pausing before setting the table for dinner (two plates, not three) and telling himself it wasn’t that deep. And also caught himself wanting to tell Max immediately when Lorenzo told him he's going to be an uncle and how exiting and crazy is that Max is also going to be an uncle again, at the same time!

But the thing was, Max hadn’t disappeared.

He texted. A lot.

Sometimes about racing (Charles watched the Bahrain Grand Prix half out of obligation, half out of hope of seeing just maybe more than 10 seconds of blue eyes and thick lashes and maybe even that small beauty mark on the upper li— enough) but mostly about small things. A photo of his hotel breakfast (“why is this melon glowing”), or a blurry shot of a little toy dinosaur he saw at a convenience store. “Tell Luca I’m on fossil watch.”

Luca lit up every time a message came through.

Max had FacedTime'd them after the race, in between getting off the podium and going to his hotel room, grinning, hair still wet with champagne, saying, “Did you see that overtake? I only made it because I knew you were watching.”

Luca had squealed, immediately debriefing with Max about the race and how downright embarrassing were Colapinto's pit-stops and something about tyre degradation and also how much they missed each other and how if Luca could, he would hug Max over the phone. Charles had smiled and said nothing.

Later that night, when the apartment was still and Luca was asleep, Charles opened his messages to send Max a photo of Luca wearing his Red Bull cap sideways and building a “wind tunnel” with toilet paper rolls and an old desk fan. He wrote:

Future aerodynamicist

He had to google that.

Max replied a minute later.

Or future race engineer. You’re raising a genius.

Charles stared at the screen for a while. A warmth bloomed in his chest. It felt unreasonably good to read. Then:

Congrats on you podium, again. And thank you for always including us. You’re sweet with him.

And Max’s answer came quickly, like he didn’t have to think about it.

Thank you Charlie. And i’s not hard. You both make it easy.

Max's schedule keeps shifting. First he’s meant to come midweek, then there’s a test session in Saudi Arabia, a meeting in London, a last-minute sponsor dinner in Monaco. Every time Charles glances at his phone, there’s another message. Nothing demanding, always soft, always Max.

This made me think of you.

Tell Luca I found a tiny dinosaur with his name on it.

What’s your weather like today?

And then, after one particularly long silence between them:

I'm sorry i’m not there. I wish I could be.

Charles doesn’t know how to answer that, so he just sends back a photo of Luca curled up in bed, holding a terrific pillow of Max he insisted on buying a few days ago in a local shop.

Max doesn’t reply in words. Just:

Melted❤️

Luca’s been invited to a pajama party.

It’s the first time Charles has let him go to a sleepover that isn’t with family, and Luca is so giddy with excitement that he checked his bag four times,  and triple-checked the dinosaur pajamas. Charles spends ten whole minutes in the car parked outside his friend’s building, waiting to see if he’ll be called back, but Luca just waves from the window, happy.

And then Charles is alone.

For the first time in weeks, there’s no school pickup. No sandwich crusts. No bedtime stories.

He debates going home and watching a film. Maybe cleaning the kitchen.

Max had texted earlier in the day.

How’s it going without your shadow?

And Charles, on a whim, had sent back:

 Quiet. Come drive me somewhere?”

It had been a joke. Max was in another country.

But two hours later, when Charles is watching a show, he gets a message:

You serious?

And then another:

I land in Nice at 5.

They drive forty minutes down the coast.

They don’t talk much at first. The silence isn’t awkward; it never really has been with Max. Charles just drives, and Max rests his arm along the open window, occasionally turning to look at him like he’s trying to memorize something.

Eventually, Charles asked, “You didn’t sleep, did you?”

Max shrugged. “Caught a few hours on the plane.”

Charles glanced at him. “You didn’t have to come.”

“I wanted to.”

Simple. Quiet. Like it wasn’t even a question.

They found a little gelateria with lights strung above the patio and a view of the water. Charles got lemon and raspberry. Max ordered pistachio and immediately declared it life-changing.

They ate slowly, sitting on a low stone wall watching the sun melt toward the sea.People mill about in loose linen and open smiles.

“You always bring your dates here?” Max asks, licking his spoon.

Charles snorts. “What dates?”

Max just smiles, slow and knowing. “Their loss.”

It’s still warm out. Not summer anymore, not quite fall, and the wind smells like salt and jasmine. The kind of evening that stretches wide and makes everything feel easy. The kind that invites honesty.

Charles licks at his gelato, a thoughtful crease forming between his brows. “I feel like I’m cheating on my kid,” He said, laughing softly.

Max looked over, curious.

“He always asks for gelato when we’re out. Feels wrong without him.”

Max smiled faintly. “I get that.”

They lapsed into silence, comfortable and slow. Boats clinked in the harbor below.

Then Charles said, “I think I forgot what this feels like. Just… sitting. Being.”

Max nodded. “Yeah.”

Charles swirled the last bit of his cone. “I used to come here with my brothers. And my mum. After Papa passed away, we were sort of... stuck together. It made us close, though. Sometimes I worry Luca won’t have that. Not just the closeness. The family, you know?”

“You give him that,” Max said.

Charles nodded, a bit sadly. “I try. I wanted him to have a sibling. But—” He exhaled. “Even thinking about doing it alone again… It’s a lot.”

Max didn’t answer right away. He licked a drip from his thumb.

Then, gently: “I think about that kind of stuff more lately.”

“What stuff?”

Max shrugged. “Family. Home. Life. What comes next. If I’m doing what I want or just what I’ve always done.”

Charles watches him closely.

“I love racing, I always will." Max says. “My dad made a lot of decisions for me. Racing. Karting. Junior series. Even F1, to some extent. I said yes to all of i, of course. But I didn’t choose it. Not really. And I’m tired. Of airports and obligations. And schedules and calendars." A breath. A pause.

Max goes on “I’m thirty. And I feel like I’ve lived ten lives. I missed birthdays. Weddings. Watching my niece learn to talk. Seeing my sister become a mother. Watching my mum grow older. I miss my mom’s cooking. I don’t want to miss more.”

Charles says nothing, but something in him folds. “You could stop,” He said, gently.

“I’ve been talking to Victoria,” Max adds after a beat. “About retiring. Not now. Maybe next year. Maybe after. I just... I don’t want to burn out and hate the thing I love. And I don’t want to keep running toward something that doesn’t feel like home anymore.”

Charles hums, understanding. After a momen he asks “And do what?”

“I don’t know. I want to stay in motorsport. I always will. But I also want a life. One that’s mine... Maybe coach? Or even go into business with some crazy guy who wants to design affordable electric karts? " He sighs, almost dreamily. "Be around people who give a shit about the right things, that's for sure.”

A long silence settled between them.

Then Max said, without looking over, “Coming here... being with you and Luca, it feels more real than a lot of things I’ve done this year.”

Charles felt something tight in his chest give way. Like he’d been waiting for someone to say that out loud, just so he’d know he wasn’t imagining it.

“I’m glad you came back,” Charles said, voice low.

“I didn’t want to wait,” Max replied. “Even if it’s just for the night.”

Later, in the small rented flat above a closed bookstore, Charles pulled out spare sheets for the couch, but Max stopped him.

“Let me just lie here for a second,” Max said, dropping down beside him.

They sat, shoulder to shoulder, backs against the wall. The fan buzzed above them. Outside, the world kept moving.

Neither moved to say goodnight. Neither wanted to.

Eventually, Max turned his head slightly, voice like gravel and starlight. “You don’t have to say anything. But I want you to know… I think about it. Us. This. A lot.”

Charles’s throat tightened.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Me too.”

And they didn’t kiss. But it felt like something had been spoken that couldn’t be spoken.

The next morning, sunlight spilled into the apartment. The fan hummed softly above. Charles woke to the scent of coffee and the low murmur of Max’s voice, a soft rumble that was a surprisingly good substitute for a blanket. Max was sitting at the small kitchen table, hair a mess, a mug cupped in his hands, scrolling on his phone. He looked up and gave Charles a sleepy, crooked smile.

“Morning. I was starting to think I’d have to carry you to the car, but this works,” Max teased, gesturing with the mug. “Coffee?”

“My neck is now a permanent fixture on this couch, but I’ll take it,” Charles groaned, stretching. “You're still here.”

“I’d tell you my brand manager isn't happy about it, but I’m too tired to care,” Max admitted, a small, genuine laugh escaping him. “My flight is the day after tomorrow."

Luca came back in the afternoon, bouncing out of the car with a glittery party bag and sleep-deprived joy.

He looked like he could believe his eyes when he saw Max. He was home, finally. Max had bought him a gelato too.

“Did you miss me?” Luca asked, eyes big and green and so damn cute, just like his father.

“Of course,” Max said, brushing his curls lovingly. “I even brought a gelato so you know you're my best forever friend.”

Luca grinned and hugged him, sticky and warm. “Next time I’ll buy you one with my savings. Are you staying here?” he asked, a hopeful edge to his voice.

“For a little while,” Max said, and looked over at Charles. “Just for a little while.”

Those next two days were a blur of the mundane and the magical.

They went grocery shopping, Max looking utterly bewildered by the aisles of unfamiliar french products. He held up a baguette like it was an alien object. “Is this even bread? It’s so long. What do you do with it?” Charles just laughed, taking it from him, their fingers brushing for a fleeting, electric second. “You eat it, you know, with cheese and stuff. It’s very French. Very good.”

Later, they tackled Luca’s toy collection, a task Charles had been dreading for months. Max was both ruthless and gentle, helping Luca decide which toys to keep and which to donate. “This one, Luca, is a classic,” he’d say, holding up a chipped toy car. “But this one,” and he’d hold up a broken space robot, “is taking up space for a better one, no? We must make room for new adventures.” They managed to fill three donation bags.

The day before his flight, Max helped Luca pick out a birthday gift for his “second best friend.” Max knelt down at the toy store, seriously considering the merits of a princess doll versus an interactive dinosaur, his brow furrowed with the same kind of focus he usually reserved for his race engineer. They settled on a watercolor set and a reading book about friendship. “It’s a good choice,” he told Luca seriously. “It shows you’re a thoughtful friend.”

That evening, after Luca was asleep, Charles pulled a flat-packed bookshelf out from a corner of the living room. It was a new storage unit for Luca's ever-growing collection of books and toys, and Charles had been putting off assembling it for weeks. Max, seeing the pile of wood, screws, and an instruction manual with confusing diagrams, immediately came over.

"This looks like a challenge," Max said, a determined glint in his eye. "A puzzle. My specialty."

Charles laughed, tossing him a tiny wrench. "Sure. Just a small, Swedish-designed, impossible puzzle."

Max, in his element, laid out all the pieces, counting them and consulting the diagram with intense focus. Charles, meanwhile, tried to interpret a particularly cryptic picture showing a stick figure holding a hammer. They worked in comfortable silence for a while, until Max held up a tiny screw.

"This is wrong," he declared. "This piece does not fit here. It's an engineering flaw."

"Max, it's a bookshelf," Charles said, amused. "It's not an F1 car."

"It's about precision, Charles!" Max insisted, holding the screw up to the light. "Every piece has a purpose. This one is clearly not for this hole." He sighed dramatically, running a hand through his already messy hair. "The instructions are a lie."

Charles just smiled, taking the screw from him and effortlessly fitting it into a different hole he had found. Max's jaw dropped in mock disbelief.

"You cheated," he accused, but his eyes were full of warmth and a small, adoring smile. "You're a miracle worker."

They finished the shelf together, leaning against the now-sturdy structure. The air was quiet, and Max's knee was pressed lightly against Charles's. They were close, breathing in the same space.

"He's going to love it," Charles said softly, looking at the shelf.

Max hummed, not looking at the shelf, but at Charles instead. "I know. He deserves the best."

Finally, the inevitable goodbye came. Luca clung to him for a long, quiet moment at the door.

“You’ll come back?” he asked, a small sniffle.

“Yeah, buddy. I will,” Max said, softly caressing his cheek. “As soon as I can.”

Max looked at Charles, and the air between them thickened.

“Thank you,” Charles said, the words feeling too small for everything he wanted to convey.

“Thank you,” Max replied, his thumb brushing Charles’s cheek, a small, intimate gesture that spoke volumes. “It was good to be here.”

He smiled, a gentle, vulnerable look, then turned and walked away.

After the door closed, Charles stood there for a long time, the silence of the apartment feeling both heavy and full. He looked down at his phone, but there was no new message. Just the photo of Luca, still on his home screen, and a feeling in his chest that, for the first time in a very long time, felt a little less alone.

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The tilted feeling was gone.

It had been replaced by the quiet, steady hum of life as it should be.

The sound of a pen scratching on paper, the low murmur of Max’s voice, the hum of the refrigerator. All of it was music to Charles.

It had only been a couple of months since they’d returned from Sardinia, but it felt like a lifetime had passed. Max hadn’t just returned to his own life; he had seamlessly integrated himself into theirs. He was a constant presence in the apartment, with a toothbrush in their bathroom and an impossibly comfortable spot on the couch he’d claimed as his own.

On this particular Thursday, Charles worked later than he’d intended. The traffic on the way home was a relentless grind, each car a little obstacle in his path. The city felt loud and demanding, and by the time he pulled into his parking spot, he was exhausted, his shoulders tight with the day’s stress.

But as he opened the apartment door, the weight of the day began to lift.

From inside, he heard it: Luca’s laughter, high and clear, echoing through the hall. He stopped, his hand still on the doorknob, and watched the scene unfold, unseen.In the living room, Max was kneeling on the floor, a mess of Lego bricks between them. Luca was perched on his shoulders, his small hands gripping Max’s messy hair as they tried to build a tower taller than the bookshelf. The structure, made of a precarious assortment of colors and shapes, swayed with every one of Luca’s delighted wiggles.

Max’s brow was furrowed in concentration, but a wide, unguarded smile played on his lips.“Careful, mon petit ingénieur,” Max said, his voice a low rumble, steadying Luca with both hands on his legs. “We can't have you injured. You’re the engineer. I’m just the assistant.”

“You’re a good assistant,” Luca replied decisively, reaching for another brick from the colorful pile. “Better than Papa. But don't tell him that."

Max chuckled, tilting his head back enough that Charles caught the expression on his face: open, unguarded, impossibly tender.

“I’d do anything you asked, Luca,” he said softly, his words a secret just for the boy on his shoulders. “Anything.”

Charles had to turn away, press his hand against the wall until his chest loosened enough to breathe. The familiar ache in his heart was not one of pain, but of overwhelming gratitude. He had spent so long building a life for himself and for Luca, and he had never imagined it could feel so… full. He thought of all the quiet nights, the lonely bedtime stories, the fierce, protective walls he had built around their small world.

 "Anything? Like having a pool inside your boat? " Luca asked, a little suspicious. Then almost shaking with excitement, "No! Better, Maxie! An ice cream machine inside your boat. Could you imagine that?"

And now there was this. Max’s laughter, his voice, his steady presence.

He wasn't a guest anymore. He was home.

When Charles finally walked in, both Max and Luca looked up, beaming. “Papa!” Luca shrieked, making Max flinch as his hands flew to his ears.

Charles’s smile felt like it was splitting his face.

Later that evening, with Luca tucked into bed, Max and Charles lingered in the kitchen.

The day’s chaos had settled around them like a soft blanket. Max was wiping down the countertops, a meticulous habit Charles had learned to appreciate, while Charles dried the last of the dishes. The silence was comfortable, punctuated only by the clink of ceramic and the low hum of the refrigerator.

“You have a mess on your shirt,” Max said, without looking up.Charles glanced down at a small smear of chocolate ice cream, a leftover from Luca’s post-dinner treat. He tried to wipe it with a dish towel, but just smeared it more.

Max laughed, a soft, warm sound, and reached for a clean cloth, wetting it. He stepped closer, and Charles instinctively stood still. Max’s hand was warm and steady as he carefully wiped the stain away, his gaze focused on the task.Max finished, tossing the cloth into the sink.

The quiet intimacy of the moment lingered.

He leaned against the counter beside Charles, their shoulders just barely touching.“I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said the other night,” Max began, his voice low. “About… about my life being a performance. It’s hard to un-see it once you’ve noticed it, isn’t it?”

Charles nodded, his gaze on the city lights twinkling outside the window. “It is. I spent so long performing, too. Being the strong single father. I was playing a role for a long time, trying to convince everyone, and myself, that I was okay.”

" But you are okay... aren't you?" Max said, his voice soft but worried.

“Now, yes,” Charles replied. “Because now I don’t have to pretend. Not here.” He looked at Max, a profound earnestness in his eyes. “Here, with you I can just… be.”

Max met his gaze, a flicker of something new in his own eye, raw and unguarded. “That’s what this is for me, too. A place where I can just… be. Not Max Verstappen, the champion. Just Max. It’s terrifying, and it’s wonderful.” 

They finished cleaning in a comfortable silence, their movements fluid and practiced, like two parts of a single machine.

The quiet domesticity was a stark contrast to the worlds they had just discussed, a clear line drawn between what was and what could be.

Once everything was put away, they moved to the balcony, the same one where Charles had found his own peace so many times.

The city stretched below, a thousand shimmering lights against the dark expanse of the water. The air was warm, and the sound of the day had settled into a quiet, contented hum. Max’s hand brushed against Charles’s, then their fingers threaded together.

"I didn’t realize how much quieter my life was before you,” Max said, his voice a low rumble.Charles’s hand was resting on Max’s thigh.

He turned to look at him, amused. “Is that a good thing? Or are you finally going to tell me you cant keep up with us?”

Max shoved him lightly, chuckling. His thumb stroking the back of Charles’s hand. “It’s the best thing. I’m starting to think my life was a bit… empty.” He paused, looking at Charles with an expression that was both serious and vulnerable. “And I didn’t even know it."

Charles turned to him, studying the way the city’s glow softened his features, made his blue, blue eyes glitter like the ocean. “It doesn’t feel simple to me,” he said. “It feels like everything.”

“I didn’t think I could want something this much,” Max admitted quietly. “And I didn’t think I’d get this.”

Charles leaned forward, closing the small space between them. It was a soft, gentle kiss, one that carried the promise of all the quiet nights they would spend together, all the homework sessions and shared laughter. It was the kind of kiss that said this was their new normal, and it was perfect.

When they pulled apart, Charles rested his forehead against Max’s, breathing him in.“This is home,” Charles whispered.

Max’s hand squeezed his. “It always will be.”

Later, they made their way back inside, the cool air of the apartment a welcome change. They moved with a shared stillness, a silent agreement not to break the fragile peace of the moment. In the dark hallway, they paused outside Luca’s bedroom, the faint, soft sound of his breathing a comforting, rhythmic murmur.

Max reached out and gently pushed the door open a crack. The moonlight spilled in, illuminating Luca’s small, still figure, his new Lego spaceship glowing on the nightstand beside him.

Max leaned against the doorframe, a faint, fond smile on his lips. “I’m really glad he’s a deep sleeper. I could watch him be this comfortable and soft and happy all my life.” he whispered, his voice so low it was almost just a breath.

Charles nodded, watching his son sleep. A single tear, unbidden, slipped from his eye and trailed down his cheek. He didn’t bother to wipe it away. He looked at Max, at the way the moonlight caught the tired lines around his eyes, at the quiet strength in his stance.

This man, so accustomed to the roar of engines and the flash of cameras, found his peace in the dark, silent space of their hallway, watching a child sleep.

Max saw the tear and, without a word, reached out and brushed his thumb over Charles’s cheek, catching the moisture. The touch was as gentle as a caress.

“You have us,” Charles whispered, the words a raw, simple truth. “You have us. You don’t have to be alone anymore.”

Max’s expression, so often guarded, broke into a look of profound relief. He leaned forward and kissed Charles again, a kiss that was a promise, a confession, a prayer.

It was a kiss that said, I know. And thank you.

They went to bed and lay in the dark, the city lights a faint glow against the window. The silence between them was no longer a space to be filled, but a comfortable blanket they shared.

Max’s arm was a warm, heavy weight across Charles’s waist, and Charles felt the steady rhythm of his breathing against his back. It was a quiet intimacy that transcended words, a powerful confirmation of their new reality.Charles closed his eyes, his heart full.

He had found home in a man who had been searching for it his entire life.

And Max had found his in a small, cozy apartment with a sleeping boy and a man who had finally opened his heart. 

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