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March 2030. Thursday.
On race weeks, the paddock falls into its natural habitat. The race engineers circle the garage for alterations, celebrities flock the area to fake an interest on Formula 1 for the cameras, fans scurry to catch a glimpse of their favorite drivers, and the media pen hell-bent on chasing people for content.
Today though, is not your typical media day.
Not when you have Max Verstappen, a multi-World Champion who’s known not only for dominating the tracks but also for having RedBull Team kits as the entirety of his closet—arriving today clad in a strikingly different team color. His shirt is spotless without the usual sponsor logos on display, but his name itself is big enough of an insignia to carry the team he represents.
Even though it’s been roughly three months since the announcement that broke the internet, it’s still a pretty hard sight to digest.
Max, however, remains unfazed. Today is another thursday for him, oblivious to the fact that everyone in near proximity has been losing their minds. He walks the way he drives, quick and without a care for the world. Confident and undeterred, like everything around him are obstacles and everything ahead of him is competition.
Still, it’s fascinating to see the stark difference of people trying to match his pace when Charles Leclerc finds it easy. Almost like it’s second nature.
Charles Leclerc doesn’t announce himself. He steps into the place and unknowingly commands attention—a presence befitting something regal, someone bearing the nickname Prince of Monaco. The 2027 F1 World Champion and the man who ended the long-drought of Ferrari’s Constructor’s Championship. Il Predestinato.
It should look wrong, and yet somehow, it feels undeniably right when Charles finds his place next to Max. This time, it’s not on the usual podiums and cooldown rooms they always share, but in the simple act of striding through the paddock, wearing the same team shirts.
Someone might pass out. In fact, maybe somewhere, someone already did.
Max’s hand dip onto Charles’ back, lightly grazing his shoulder blades before squeezing twice. It’s their thing, almost like a subconscious gesture. It has been for years. But now, it’s more than enough to punctuate today’s reality like a seal on a crest.
This is not a hallucination.
Max Verstappen and Charles Leclerc are on the same team.
People watch them exchange pleasantries and wade through the crowd with Max’s hand hovered on the small of Charles’ back. Only this time, their moment is not passed around like a sacred relic and not gushed about due to its subtlety.
Max ducks over to Charles’ side a little and grins. “You’re a changed man over the break.”
“Changed how?”
Max shrugs. “I didn’t take you for someone who’d match me on purpose.”
“Oh, please.” Behind his usual Ray-Ban sunglasses, Charles’ expression gives itself away. There’s a subtle dip of his features, dimples and smile surfacing as he whispers, giddy, into Max’s ear, “I can say the same to you.”
Somewhere along the way, Charles gets roped into a casual interview.
What started as entertaining a quick interview ended up having to barrel his way through endless of questions from two other reporters as well. As charismatic and diplomatic as he is, Charles doesn’t deflect the attention. He handles them pretty well, though it doesn’t make it any less unwarranted.
“Hi Max.”
Max, who has now come to a stop after trying to slow his steps to wait for Charles, looks toward the source of the voice.
“Yes?”
The reporter sends him an apprehensive smile, looking somewhat surprised she was acknowledged. “How is your winter break?”
“Yeah, it was good. A bit too short.” The answer comes frank and immediate, very Max. “Maybe we should make it three months, so I can say something different than just spending time with family and being on the sim.”
“I think a lot of drivers would agree with you on that one. Now coming this weekend, what are your expectations for the race?”
“I can’t really say we’re up there—new car, and all. There’s lots of things to adapt and work on. We’ll have to test it out first and see where we are.”
She nods in agreement. “And today, how are you feeling?”
“Excited,” Max admits. “I mean, I always am, but I’m mostly excited for how this season will play out with me,” He pauses, gives a nod to his teammate’s direction, “and Charles.”
The lady agrees, tracing Max’s gaze as it fleets toward Charles briefly. “It’s going to be intriguing for sure. But, what are your thoughts on people thinking that you and your teammate, Charles, will never make it work, considering your very similar, aggressive driving style?”
Well, it’s quite expected. Naturally, two menaces in a single team, let alone in a same car means a borne disaster. But Max does not seem to care.
“I don’t really see it like that. Charles and I are two very hard racers, yes, but that doesn’t mean we can’t work together. At the end of the day, winning and scoring points for the team is what really matters. One thing’s for sure, though. We’ll push the car to the limits.”
“Will that also involve pushing someone off the track?”
Max smirks cheekily as he eyes one particular driver on the side. “I think someone could answer that better.”
The pair are barely settling in when they are briskly escorted to the garage corner for an arranged interview with the team. Media day, after all, leaves them exposed to far more heedless attention. It’s lighthearted, they’ve been told beforehand, somewhere along the lines of getting to know each other.
Max perhaps has a teeny tiny idea of what this is really about, but he’s good at playing the game.
“Max and Charles,” the reporter addresses them with a practiced smile as soon as the cameras roll. They nod and smile on cue, courteous. “Now this is the teammate pairing that no one expects, but secretly wanted. How are you adjusting so far?”
“At the moment, I think it’s more about learning the car. We’ve raced each other for a long time, so there’s already understanding there.”
“Do you share the same sentiment, Max?”
Max hums. “Well, it’s just like Charles said. Having teammates who understand each other surely helps for the team. Other than that, it’s barely the start of the season so we’ll see how it goes.”
The reporter nods. “What was your initial reaction of the news?”
“Well, I’ve only heard that I will be driving alongside someone familiar..” Charles trails off a little, sneaking a glance at Max who’s already looking. “They never said that familiar, though.”
Max holds his gaze. “Thought it was a joke at first, but yeah, I’m surprised about our union as well.”
Charles’ tongue does not find the pace to speak his thoughts, so the reporter does so for him. Chuckling, she repeats, “union?”
“Max.” Charles is the first to break eye contact as he plants a palm to his face, mustering just enough courage to try and laugh it off. “You’re making it seem like a marriage!”
Max ignores him completely. “Thought I was the biggest fan but look who’s following me wherever I go.” There’s a lilt to his tone, almost accusatory as he teases. Even Charles can’t deny the fact.
“Yes, you two seem very inseparable—from fierce karting competitors and now teammates. Fans have even given you a name,” she pauses. The corners of Max’s lips stretch wide, urging her to continue. They already know where this is headed. “Are you familiar with… Lestappen?”
Did they hear that right?
“….Lestappen?”
“Oh, is that what we’re called?” Max asks, then, without waiting for a reply, turns to Charles. “Are you aware of that?”
“Somewhat.” Charles chuckles, rubbing a hand to his neck to cover the impending red on his skin that grows. “It’s everywhere. I’ve seen things.”
“What things?” Max urges on. As if unaware.
“I don’t know, it’s just—people like to imagine things!”
“You should send me a link.”
Charles practically melts in his seat as he secretly pleads the ground to swallow him whole. Why did he even say that, Charles stresses. “There’s no link! Forget about it.”
“And here I am, invested.”
Charles squints his eyes. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Is that true, Max?”
“Well, I’m not quite sure what exactly Charles has been reading..” The insinuation of it all deepens the heat on Charles’ face. Now, he looks Ferrari red. “But yeah, I’ve seen a little. Some of it is quite creative.”
“Max.”
“The fans talk about your chemistry a lot,” the reporter agrees. She looks a lot more entertained at the exchange, in contrast to Charles who’s two seconds away from bolting and excusing himself from this humiliation ritual. The worst part of it all, Charles thinks, is his own teammate conspiring with the media against him. He doesn’t even try hiding his amusement through it all.
Charles clears his throat and immediately regrets the attention it puts him. “We’re just very good friends who respect each other a lot.”
Max shrugs. “I don’t really care what the children thinks,” he says, voice dropping an octave lower to match his grin. “I leave the creativity to them.”
Charles has never whipped his head around so fast, and that’s saying something—especially for an F1 driver with a neck trained to withstand impact. He pins Max with a look that says are you seriously indulging this?
Meanwhile, Max still has a grin plastered on his face like a madman attempting a guinness world record of who could terrorize their teammate the best. The answer is yes—he is indulging this.
“So you wouldn’t deny the chemistry?”
“It’s working on-track. We’ve had a few good battles.”
“Yes,” Charles nods. Finally something he can agree on. “I think that’s what matters the most. The performance, the—”
“—and off-track is fine,” Max cuts him.
Charles stares at him incredulously.
“What, is it not?” Max raises a brow, smug as ever. “We’ve been together for so long after all. This is only making it public.”
Charles makes a strangled noise akin to an animal on the verge of dying. His cheeks flushed and his eyes everywhere but Max. “Oh my god.”
The reporter laughs as she lightly asks Max about what does he mean by making it public—to which of course, he doesn’t bother elaborating further. Charles gets the short end of the stick and suffers.
“Please stop.” He practically pleads.
“Charles,” the reporter muses. “You seem a bit flustered—”
“—I’m not flustered! I just—it’s a strange question!”
“You are a bit.” Max points out and Charles gladly elbows his side.
“Okay, I won’t keep you two for long,” the reporter says, and Charles prays to see the light at the end of the tunnel a little faster.
“What makes your partnership work so well?”
Easy. This time, it’s Charles’ turn to smile. “We push each other.”
“Oh yeah, definitely,” Max aggressively nods. Then, gesturing at Charles, he teases, “the pushing is more on his side, though.”
March 2030. Sunday.
The crowd swells, loud and proud as the lineup of the grid comes into view. The grandstands already seemed to be having a competition on who can shout their driver’s name the loudest, but listening to the animalistic screams of Lestappen may have sealed the championship title.
Charles hangs his head low, shy and slightly embarrassed. Yes, he absolutely did not hear them. So does Max, who’s now having a field day watching Charles’ reaction as the scene unfold. Typically, it’s easy to ignore. Today in particular? Charles finds that close to impossible.
At this rate, anything’s a distraction for him, but he finds confiding in his best friend’s company the best option. Pierre initially laughs at his discomfort, but as understanding as he is, immediately makes room for Charles so he can chide in with whatever conversation he’s having with Franco.
It only works for a while, though, because Max is suddenly nudging his side, far too amused on what he spots in the crowd to let Charles off the hook.
“You’re making it worse, mate.” Charles allows himself to laugh, still, as he rakes his eyes on a poster displaying the infamous picture of him in a banana costume and a heavily edited picture of Max beside him. Eating the said banana. They really aren’t going to let that one die, are they?
Max shrugs, indifferent, but the mirth in his eyes says otherwise. “I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re indulging them.”
“Them,” Max echoes. “What, your fans?”
“They’re yours too, you know.”
“Like shared custody?” Max muses in feign innocence, and Charles could only groan and throw his head at the implication.
“Yeah, sure.”
“But it technically isn’t custody when we’re together, no?”
He needs Max to stop talking. Now.
But Charles knows it’s all for naught when his traitorous lips already tug in reflex.
The fans are right. Maybe he really is just a full-blown Maxplaining enjoyer, and not even closeted at that. Whether it’s their usual post-race debriefs or not, he finds himself listening—like he’s meant to hear anything that Max has to say, the technicalities and dumbassery alike.
“You’re really enjoying this.”
“You think so?” Max’s grin grows shamelessly wide. He makes a point further by gesturing at the hand that’s now clutching at the sleeve of his shirt. “I could have sworn you’re liking it way more.”
Instinctively, Charles lets go, but not without delivering a light slap on the blonde’s arm. “There’s nothing wrong with this!”
“Yeah.” Max finally laughs, far too delinquent. “But it’s enough for the children.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
Max for sure is well-aware of the bit. Charles is not committed, yet—but he knows. He’s seen the ancient texts. The tweets, hashtags, and the analysis of every micro-interaction they share. And god, even the video edits. Maxplaining and Leclerifying. Dragon and Phoenix. Whatever they are.
The lore is hilarious.
And it’s what Charles tries to convince himself as he robotically turns back to Pierre. Heat rushes to his ears as he tries (fails) to drown the noise of Max’s giggles, focusing solely on the fans’ howls. He raises his hand and waves.
And waits.
Until the announcement of the parade takes pity of him, and they were finally ushered to their respective team cars.
Max circles the car skeptically.
His first thought was, it looks like a toy car. Something a toddler can use to play and practice driving.
For a brief moment, Max doubts if it could even drive. How they manage to pull off even smaller cars from the previous years to humiliate their drivers further is beyond him. Infuriating, yes, but marketable? It ticks the box. And really, what more can the FIA and the fans ask for?
By next year, Max might as well drive a scooter.
He doesn’t want to entertain the idea. “This is ridiculous,” he says to the camera, visibly unimpressed.
Still, he hops in and stakes claim on the driver’s seat upon seeing Charles arrive.
The Monégasque looks a little lost as he takes in the sight, and rightfully so. “Where should I sit?”
One onlooking marshal nearby is just quick enough to point the non-existent gap beside Max.
Max laughs, sharing the sentiment of Charles’ disbelief. “I suggest inside, if you’re not planning to run a marathon for the parade.”
Charles all but stares at the cramped space quizzically, half-amused and half-confused. Assessing, like there’s a strategy on how he could fit inside when Max’s already sprawled like he’d only willingly accommodate Charles’s left leg.
Comically, Charles tests the theory.
et voilà.
It feels just as he expects it—a tight fit with nothing between them left barely untouched. Their knees are bent awkwardly and their shoulders brushing. As Charles struggles to get comfortable, his attempt to reclaim a few inches of their shared space inevitably results to his arm invading Max’s thigh.
Max doesn’t comment on it. He only settles his hands on the steering wheel that feels almost more decorative than functional.
“You have to win this now, mate. Or I won’t forgive you,” Charles says. It’s an empty threat, but one is smart enough to not underestimate Charles’ capability of unhinged pettiness. Max knows by now, remembers it like the back of his hand. He’s the direct receiver of said pettiness after all.
Maybe Charles would risk the first race of the season just so he could share a double DNF with Max. Maybe he’d unfollow him on Instagram again on the ride back home. Who knows.
At best, he doesn’t want to relive Charles’ wrath last 2019 Austria where it took an embarrassing amount of coaxing for him to act civil around Max again. He’s proud of his progress for the past decade, so he doesn’t want to mess this up.
Max gives a lazy grin. After an eternity later, he says, “Someone’s eager.”
He tests the pedal like he’s expecting resistance, and stifles a laugh when the car moves just barely an inch. Max may as well dig his own grave and mentally prepare himself for an Instagram block.
A huff. “Very,” Charles emphasizes. “Might I remind you that me and Lewis have won every race parade with these mini cars. The embarrassment of losing now is like being handed a 10-grid penalty after securing pole.”
Max snorts.
Yes, it is that serious for Charles.
“Then you must be very glad I’m your driver,” Max says, smiling sickeningly sweet. “Your record won’t be broken.”
“My life is in your hands then.” Ever so dramatic.
“We’re winning this.” Max answers with finality, looking the slightest offended that Charles of all people may even think otherwise.
He never backs down from a challenge.
Charles knows. He understands it best because it’s Max.
After assessing all teams, a marshal finally steps forward. While the others are busy chitchatting and interacting with the media pen, Max and Charles are anticipating the signal like beasts waiting to pounce on a prey. Like they’re plotting a masterclass showcase on ethical wheel-to-wheel racing with toddler cars.
And they are.
The marshal lifts a hand, holds, and drops it.
Max presses the pedal and Charles shouts “Go!” simultaneously.
Only this time, there’s no rocket launch, fast surges, or engine roar. Instead, the only thing you could make out is Charles’ hysterical laughter as the car rolls. Slowly.
“My god.” Charles is still riding on his high as the car finally manages to reach turn 1. “I can’t believe I’m saying this but, I just might take up your offer earlier and go for a run.”
“Or you can push this car to victory.” It’s a plausible alternative, Max thinks. “Either works for me.”
“Tempting.” Charles nods like he’s dutifully considering. “Very tempting.”
“Well, this really is a sight to see,” a voice calls.
They both turn their heads in sync to find George and Kimi hot on their rear, aiming for an overtake.
“Woah, no punctures today please.” Charles watches the gap from the black and blue car close in dangerously and instinctively lunges his foot forward for an imaginary gas pedal. “You can’t take us out, you gotta let people witness history!”
The car abruptly jerks to the left as Max went for a hard swerve to block an opening. It earns a frustrated groan from the other car because of course, nothing is trivial for Max, even a race parade. He’d like to win it all.
“Oh, man.” Charles laughs. He applauds the move, more so because he thinks he would’ve done the same. “You’re getting a penalty for that.”
Max raises a brow. “I hope they bring the instigator in the stewards room as well.”
“I’ll show you a drive worth getting penalized.” Charles instantaneously makes a grabby hand, prepared to take the wheel at the slightest inconvenience his teammate voices out. “Let’s switch.”
Max laughs, clearly endeared but not enough to be swayed. He grabs hold of Charles’ flinging arm with his free hand and briefly settles them back on his lap. “I can’t show off when my passenger insists on being distracting.”
“Yeah, well.” In Charles’ defense, that’s not entirely his problem. “I was told I’m better off as a driver.”
“I’m sure there’s a first for everything, Charles.”
The car is agonizingly slow on the entirety of the parade, but time doesn’t quite work as it used to when you’re racing on pure adrenaline, chaos and bliss.
At one point, Charles attempts to grab hold of the steering wheel when he teasingly deems they’re starting to lose the lead.
This time, Max caves. Like he always does for Charles. Subconsciously. Eventually.
He lets Charles’ hand take rein and slides his own to the side for support. Granted, Charles immediately maneuvers the car with vigor and abruptly cuts corners to regain their position. The car almost tilts, and Max mentally notes to commend Charles later for making this parade more thrilling than driving cars at 350 kph.
Max is now holding on for dear life, but he doesn’t seem to mind at all—not when all he can hear is Charles’ laughter echoing in his ear as they secure P1.
Unfortunately, their winning streak is short-lived, their luck seemed to have ran out after fighting tooth and nail in the driver’s parade.
And now, they would just have to deal being branded as the most-anticipated teammate pairing of the season with the most disappointing first race performance together. Truly for the history books.
After an awful start with acceleration issues, almost everything else went downhill from there: the pit lane mishap, the one-stop strategy, and the weak race pace in general. To make things worst is their position loss—from P4 and P5 to P7 and P8, for Charles and him, respectively.
As the cars trail the parc fermé, Max’s only post-race goal is to get this over with quickly.
He turns off the engine, unbuckles his harness, and removes the steering wheel. An attending crew member made just in time to take the out-stretched wheel he’s about to place on the cockpit rim. Then, like clockwork, he dismounts the car and lets himself be directed towards the FIA officials for the weigh-in.
He’s momentarily stopped in his tracks when a hand comes into his view, paired with a subconscious wink. Max could only let out a soft chuckle before pulling his teammate in and bridging the gap between them.
“Hard luck, mate,” Charles murmurs before letting go. He takes off his balaclava, and Max’s eyes unknowingly follow the trail of lines imprinted on his flushed skin.
He snaps his head to the cars nearby in due time, to where it’s a lot less interesting. “No grip on the hards.”
Charles nods. “Yeah, among other things.” Because it’s true. They’ve made all mistakes in one go.
“We pushed them way too early. First stint was fine but then we stayed out too long and by the time we boxed, they were practically gone.”
“I was hoping it would stabilize.”
“No, not with that degradation.” Max shakes his head, stretching his hands to gesture aimlessly at the air. As if to prove a point. “You could feel it already, like five laps before the stop, it was just sliding everywhere.”
Charles just looks at him intently, his gaze not even slipping as he watches Max ramble his thoughts out mindlessly. He hums when Max makes a point and nods at almost everything.
Max notices it too.
He finds himself reciprocating. Well. With Charles, he thinks it’s impossible not to.
Their brief post-race debrief is cut short to make way for the standard procedures. Soon, Max and Charles find themselves with their respective team engineers and mechanics, reviewing race strategy and issues.
“We’ll regroup later.”
Max gives a curt nod, already wanting an out. As his performance engineer lingers, Max thinks there’s still things left unsaid.
His engineer shakes his head as if figuring out his dilemma, then with a sigh, settles a hand on the base of Max’s shoulder. “Good race, still, champ.”
Max offers a tight smile. The man’s out before he can give another word. Then, he excuses himself from the remaining of his team and lets his feet make a beeline to the other side of the garage with a familiar number.
The team has just finished debriefing when a figure slips inside the garage. The visitor earns himself a few fleeting glances as the rest of the team flock the hospitality, except, well, the sole purpose of his visit.
Charles, still distracted from the telemetry on the screen, only noticed when a hand kneads his nape lightly.
“Hey mate.” Charles finally takes off his headset to greet Max properly with a handshake. Max takes his hand with ease.
“You guys finish quick.”
“Well…with a race like that I doubt there’s more to talk about,” Max says with a laugh that came out like a grimace. It prompts Charles to study him for a brief moment.
“What do you want to talk about then?”
The question sounds polite, but there’s an underlying accusation behind it that Max understands. It’s simple, direct. If Max sought him, Max has something to talk about.
That, they both know of.
“Anything.”
“Alright.” Charles nods. “Want to sit?”
“I was going to anyway,” Max says with a chuckle, already pulling over a swivel chair nearby.
“Of course you were.” Charles, seemingly having forgotten to shed some layers earlier, only remembers to unzip his race suit now that he’s profusely sweating even in the hospitality. It unknowingly draws the attention of his spectator, who says with quiet confession: “I thought you’d only look good in red.”
Charles blinks.
The words register only after a few seconds. It sounds like playful banter, something Max would usually go for, and yet Charles seems momentarily thrown off balance at how easily Max can compliment him outside his race craft.
“I look good in everything, mate,” Charles replies with a chuckle. It sounds like an afterthought—what Max said—but it still brings a smile to Charles’ face.
Max hums. “Well, I think the blue now helped quite a lot, actually.” He laughs, cheeky and proud. Because of course, their race suit is purple.
“My god.” Charles’ eyes crinkle in amusement. “You’re not in RedBull anymore, Max.”
“Just as you’re not in Ferrari.”
“I know.” Charles says, a little quietly. A little too fast. And a little too real. “You make it awfully hard not to notice.”
“Just by being here with you?” Max asks, still smiling wide as if they don’t have two dysfunctional cars parked on their garage. As if there’s only them in the world.
And maybe just at this moment, they are.
“Yeah.”
Max hums.
Charles appreciates the sentiment of not saying anything more; everything is already answered by a mere word, after all. But still, as if fraying at the edges of something fragile, there are other things he wants to know.
And so, “do you regret it?”
Max lifts a brow. “Regret what?”
“Signing for another team,” Charles says, and then tentatively, in a much more hushed tone, “thought you really would’ve retired back then.”
“I don’t regret things. I think you know that by now.”
Yes, Charles knows. But this—this is different. “You like winning.” Charles looks at him in the eyes. “You’re not winning here, Max.”
His own words ring in his ears.
Max is stunned by the admission, like a bullet was fired and he narrowly misses it. It is, after all, a silent truth.
Max tears his gaze from Charles and settles it on the graphs of the telemetry in front. As the crowd gathers beneath the podium to bask in attention and celebrate, the two with the most history are hunched in a quiet corner of their garage, reflecting on their life choices. Charles watches Max from the side, the soft light of the screen illuminating his figure—his jaw sharp and his eyes still shimmering with hunger, though a little subdued.
For a moment, Charles thinks they’ll leave it at that, and he’s perfectly fine saving this for another time. But then Max sighs, a slight smile tethered to the corner of his lips. “I like winning, but I’ve done enough of it to know it’s not everything,” he says, looking awfully young as he bares his soul. “I realized a while ago that it’s not really all about winning. Sometimes, it’s about the in-betweens.”
Charles perks up on that. “You mean the mid-field?”
Max laughs, raw and loud. A voice on the back of Charles’ head wants to bottle the sound. “Yes,” Max replies, still grinning from ear-to-ear. “And you?”
Charles thinks of the circuits he had conquered, the people who have been there with him—past and present. It was always only for one goal that he made it. Inside, he was truly, deeply grateful. “I finally got what I dreamed of. I’ve won the championship in red for Jules, for papa, for Ferrari…for myself.”
“Yes, you did.”
“But I didn’t want that to be the only version of me. I also wanted something different, something that feels like only mine again. And I want to have fun doing so.”
“You think being with me is fun?” It’s a tease.
“I think exploring the mid-field with you is fun, yes.” It’s the truth.
They both share a laugh.
Leave tomorrow for the problems of today. For now, they’re just Max and Charles—stripped of pretense and composure. Not titans of motorsports, not multi-World Champions.
“How long are you planning to continue?” Charles finds himself asking.
“Until the contract ends,” Max answers, not wasting a second. He casts a glance to Charles as if to anticipate a protest, but finds Charles nodding automatically instead.
“Final?” Just to be sure, Charles tells himself.
As if Max would pull the biggest uno-reverse card yet again and give his fans a second collective heart attack.
Max chuckles. “I’m sure this time.”
“Oh, you better be.”
“Should I be offended my teammate wants to get rid of me so soon?”
“I think it’s you who’s getting rid of me, Max,” Charles laughs, his words tasting like a shot of vodka—quick with its jab. But, just this instance, Charles allows himself to admit, “to what it’s worth, I’ll miss fighting with you.”
“You’re not very easy to get rid of,” Max murmurs, not only because of course he can, but also because he does speak from experience. Charles would’ve elbowed him for the second time this week if Max didn’t have an F1 driver’s reaction time to dodge. Max laughs. “But yeah, on a serious note—it’s true. It’s something to miss. We have the best battles on track after all.”
Charles nods wordlessly again, having found no intelligible remark to say when his heart is stuck in his throat.
And Charles thinks, they really must be, if the race commentators say so.
If the fans think so.
If Max believes so.
Max takes a sharp inhale, long and heavy. Charles purses his lips and counts the passing seconds as Max finally breaks the silence. “But you don’t have to miss it.”
Charles raises a brow, urging him on.
“I think we’ll race each other for the rest of our lives.”
And yes, Charles knows.
He’s known for a long time—it’s been written in the stars, but the future is still inevitable. How would they continue doing so when Max is here, orchestrating his retirement plan?
Unless.
“Oh,” Charles squeaks, realization finally dawning on his face. His dimpled smile instantaneous as he asks, “You want to quit racing… to race?”
It’s weird when you put it like that. Max seems to think so as well, judging by how he immediately throws his head back as a laugh racks through him yet again. “That’s right.”
“You’re obsessed.”
“I think that’s well-established, Charles.”
“Le mans?”
Max nods. “Yup, endurance racing.” A true racing connoisseur, he is. “Always wanted to try different things.”
“Not a surprise. I’ve been interested myself.”
“Good. Saves me the time of convincing you.”
“You seem confident.” Well, when was Max ever not?
“I am.” And there’s no hint of a lie in there, because they know why. “You have a habit of following me wherever I go, Charles.”
“It’s cause you’re everywhere.”
Max shrugs. “I’m just always at the right place at the right time.”
A smile shies just at the corner of Charles’ mouth. Though he won’t admit out loud, he clings to that belief as well, of them racing together for the rest of the lives.
A sense of normalcy.
And better yet—a prophecy.
They have never known racing without each other after all.
Max sneaks a hand to Charles’ shoulder, carefree and easy. The touch lingers. “Don’t make me wait ‘till I’m grey and old.”
Charles subconsciously leans, snaking an arm to pat Max’s back. “Of course,” he says. “You don’t have quite much fun without me after all.”
To that, Max raises a brow. “Surely you don’t think having fun means pushing me to a puddle, right?”
“Oh come on.” Charles, feeling confident enough, finally pushes his limits: “I think the children would look forward to that.”
“Do you solemnly swear?”
“Yes, we’ll be racing forever.” Without an ounce of doubt, Charles thinks.
What do they say again?
“‘Till death do us apart.”
They laugh again, harmonious and in sync as they’ve always been—drunk in the possibility of tomorrow with each other’s company.
They’re not wrong.
Like two peas of the same pod. Two sides of the same coin. Whatever they want to call it. It’s Max and Charles. Charles and Max. It’s been like this in the past—the karting days, the previous Formula 3 races, the present Formula 1 championships, and now the future.
Fighting the same battles for who knows how long only to end up fighting alongside each other for years to come.
Only now, a greater force (or chaos) to be reckoned with.