Chapter Text
The season always started in the same chaotic way.
Bright lights. Cameras. A shoulder to shoulder lineup of twenty two drivers who all were pretending they didn't want to kill each other last season.
The departmental grid photoshoot was a mess as usual. Directors screamed out instructions on all sides of the photographer.
"Closer together!"
"Look here!"
"Max- Max, over here!"
Pilots scrambled into line, suits straightened up, helmets adjusted. Somebody was laughing somewhere to the left.
But Charles Leclerc hardly had notice of any of it. His gaze was rigidly forward, his set of jaws, and his face was so painfully neutral as he waited for the next pose.
Years of media experience had taught him to be extremely good at pretending some people don't exist. Unfortunately, one of them had just came up next to him.
"Charles."
The voice of Max Verstappen was low and nearly timid. Charles didn't turn. The cameras flashed again.
"Little bit closer together!" one of the photographers phoned.
Charles stepped to the leftward half a step. Away from Max. Max sighed, but kept his expression neutral. But then came his voice, almost quieter this time.
"Can we talk for a minute?"
Charles finally looked at him. It wasn't a warm look. It wasn't even angry. Just cold. Professional. Max was just another driver on the grid.
"About what?" Charles asked.
Max opened his mouth.
Then hesitated.
The truth was.. there were too many things. Three years' worth of things.
Before Max could even reply, another voice joined the group. A softer but guarded voice.
"Charles, mon ami."
Pierre Gasly appeared next to Charles as though he had been called by instinct. He smiled softly at his friend, and patted Charles at the back.
"Have you seen what they have done the Alpine suits this year?" Pierre said loudly. "They are getting worse every season, I tell you."
Charles almost let out a soft small. Almost.
"Tragic," Charles agreed dryly.
Max received a momentary look from Pierre. Not hostile. Only protective.
"Max," Pierre added politely.
Max nodded once.
"Pierre."
Another presence came into the picture a moment later.
"Careful, Pierre," said Sergio Perez as he went to stand next Max. "You can't insult the suits too much, they will make you put them on permanently."
Pierre scoffed. "That sounds like a threat."
Checo laughed, after which he glanced at Max momentarily. A quick check-in. Max looked away first before walking away, Checo followed soon after.
Across the room, Charles was now quietly laughing at something Pierre had said.
Max looked over after hearing the soft familiar laugh. He sighed a little bit. Of course Charles was happier now that he wasn't around him. He felt the familiar pang of guilt in his chest. Checo noticed. Of course he did.
"You could've chosen a better moment to try be his friend Max," Checo said softly.
Max huffed quietly. "I wasn't--"
"You were," Checo replied with a sad smile.
Charles looked back over at last. For just a second. Their eyes met. It was for a moment less than a heartbeat. And Charles again turned away.
The photographers summoned them to another formation.
The season was not yet started. And already it was all so complicated.
--
Thursday afternoon in Melbourne. Media day. Microphones and cameras and too many questions.
Charles came to the small stage for the press conference of FIA and paused half a second. Max was already there. Of course he was. Max hated being late. He was sitting in the middle chair with his elbows idly on the table and turning a pen between the fingers. Sergio Perez, on one side of the table, was sitting and resting as usual. The remaining vacant seat was on the other side of Max.
Pierre appeared before Charles turned his head. Pierre drew a little nearer. "You need me make a scene that you don't have to go up there?"
Charles huffed quietly. "Tempting."
Pierre smiled softly. "I could trip over something. Maybe start a small fire."
Charles almost smiled.
"Charles, get up there please," the media co-ordinator called.
Charles walked to the stage. He took the empty chair. He didn't look at Max, Max didn't look at him. Not immediately anyway.
But Charles knew Max could read him like a book, it was still instinctive. He had to remain neutral.
Questions started normally. Track conditions. Weekend expectations. Thoughts on the new season.
Smoothly, calm and confident Max replied. Charles did the same. Both professional. Both careful. Both distant.
One of the journalists then raised their hand. "Max, since the regulation amendments and all the test results, would you say the challenge this year will be drivers such as Charles again?
The room became somewhat quiet. Max finally turned his head to look at Charles. Charles was already staring ahead. Max sighed softly before glancing back to the journalist.
"Each year is a different," Max said. "But Charles is always fast."
Simple. Neutral. But it yet sent a pang of hurt through Charles' chest.
The following question passed rather swiftly, but the tension was stayed.
Hours later, the conference was finally over, the drivers stood. Charles started to exit.
"Charles."
Max's voice again. Closer this time. Charles stopped. Slowly. He turned about to look at him. There it was again, the professional look.
"Yes?"
Max hesitated. It seemed possible that he would say something real. Something honest.
Then Checo appeared on the shoulder of Max.
"Max," he said casually. "They are asking us to be interviewed outside."
The interruption was gentle. Intentional.
Max exhaled quietly. "Right."
Pierre was already crossing the room towards Charles.
"Come on," Pierre threw an arm around Charles' shoulder; making a lean toward the exit. "Ferrari media. They're already hunting you."
Charles didn't resist.
Pierre turned sideways at him once they had left the room. "You okay?"
Charles maintained a neutral facial expression. "Why wouldn't I be?"
Pierre gave him a look. "Because you look like you want to punch somebody."
Charles scoffed softly. "I always look like that."
Pierre laughed.
Checo and Max then came out of the conference room a few moments later behind them. Checo waited until they had gone out of hearing.
"You're really bad at this."
Max frowned. "Bad at what?"
"Acting like you don't care."
Max turned his head over the paddock. Charles and Pierre went into the Ferrari motorhome in the distance. Max watched a moment too long. Checo noticed. Again.
--
Saturday came with its Melbourne anarchy. Warm air. Packed grandstands. The far off banging of engines roaring past Albert park.
There was a different type of tension that was always associated with qualifying. A single error and all the weekend would be ruined. The first Q1 practise times were coming up and Charles sat in his Ferrari looking at the timing screens.
The Red Bull of Max Verstappen. Charles had to turn his head away.
He concentrated rather on the low-key conversation of the engineers around him, the whir of machinery, the faraway chatter on the radio. Anything but the track. Anything but Max.
Then screen turned yellow. There was a general murmuring in the garage. Before Charles could restrain himself he looked up. The replay was practically instant. Max was in shot out of the corner. His car seemed to be salvageable a second. Then it wasn't. The Red Bull crashed against the barrier. The reverberation was faintly heard through the broadcast sound.
Charles' stomach dropped. He leant forward as he instinctively stared at the screen at the dust settling around the car.
Nothing happened a moment. Then Max climbed out.
Charles sat back slowly. The voice of his engineer came from next to his car.
"He's okay."
Charles muttered, "I can see that."
He didn't take his eyes off the screen when it was replayed again. And again. Max qualified twentieth.
Later the news went round the paddock that he had been taken to the medical centre to have precautionary checks.
Charles listened to it as he removed his gloves at the end of his last Q3 run. Fourth. Behind George, Kimi and Isack. A strong position. What Ferrari would want him to turn into a podium.
Pierre was leaning against the wall that was nearby, his arms crossed, his alpine suit hanging loosely at his waist.
"You heard?" Pierre asked.
Charles nodded once. "He's fine."
Pierre looked at him a bit. Charles avoided his eyes.
"I didn't ask," Pierre said genially.
Charles took a bottle of water and put it on the table. "Good."
--
Sunday was hotter.
The grid was vibrating with noise, colour and mechanics scrurried about the cars.
Charles was standing next to the Ferrari, with his helmet in his arm, and his engineer reciting last-minute strategy briefs to him.
The car of Max was close to the back part of the grid across the grid. Charles didn't look. Not once. He couldn't.
The lights went out. The race unfolded quickly.
Charles had a clean start, and was in the fray at the fore again. He had to fight George wheel to wheel in the first lap ten laps. Whenever they crossed the line it was met with a roar of the crowd. But strategy decided things. A somewhat late pit stop demoted Charles to third. He strained to cut again the gap, but the positions were maintained. Charles crossed the line in the 3rd position when the chequered flag dropped.
A podium. Solid. Strong. Still not quite enough.
As he finished the cooldown lap, his engineer broke through the radio once more. "Good drive, Charles. That's P3."
"And Max..?" Charles didn't know why he asked, he didn't even intend to ask.
"Verstappen finished sixth. Strong recovery."
Charles clenched his grip to the steering wheel. "Copy."
The official cooldown room (and not the one to display post race) was silent.
George was on one couch flicking through the highlights of the races on the TV screen whereas Charles was tying his suit around his waist.
A few seconds later the door opened. Max stepped inside. Sixth place from twentieth. His race suit was half unbuttoned, sweat still dripping on his hair. For a moment nobody spoke.
George glanced up briefly. "Nice recovery," he said.
Max shrugged lightly. "Could've been worse."
Charles maintained eye contact with the screen. The focus was changed to the first laps. Then to Charles and George fight to win the race.
Max stood and stared at the video. "You were aggressive," he said after some time.
Charles at last glanced at him. "It's racing."
Max looked rather than needed to look a second longer. "Yeah, it was good racing though."
George cleared his throat, sensing the tension. "Right! Well, I am going to go and take off this hot suit."
He jumped to his feet and fled out of the room. The door shut behind him. Silence settled.
Max was leaning against the wall, with his arms crossed. "Good race," he said.
Charles looked back at the TV. "Thanks, you too."
Another pause.
Max hesitated. "About earlier this week-"
The door opened again. Lewis stuck his head inside.
"Charles, Ferrari needs us."
Charles started moving towards Lewis immediately. He didn't turn back and look at Max.
Lewis hesitated another half a second in the doorway. His eyes met Max's briefly. Then he walked along with Charles along the corridor.
Max remained alone in the cooldown room. Checo showed his face in the door a moment later.
"Well, there you are!" Checo said lightly.
Max sighed. "I tried."
Checo nodded. "Yeah, I know."
He stood still and stared at the hallway where Charles had gone.
"This will probably take longer than one race weekend to fix mate." Checo said with a soft smile towards Max.
Max looked at the door, just hoping Charles would come back. Hoping Charles would at least hear him out, but instead, he just sighed, his head dropping between his shoulders for a fraction of a second. He glanced over at Checo, smiling back weakly.
"I know."