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One thing about Max is that he hates overstaying. Especially when he thinks there are other places he should be and things he’d rather be doing, like testing sessions, training camps, or anything race-related.
Except today, he finds himself overstaying in France a week after their race in Val d’Argenton, exactly where he doesn’t want to be.
He is a racer. He should be racing, participating in other national races as he waits for La Conca.
And he is definitely not a dancer. He should not be dancing, or doing anything remotely close of the sort. He doesn’t care about how much their trainers call this as a movement-conditioning class to improve coordination and flexibility between race weekends. He’ll call it for what it really is—which is dancing.
And that’s how he finds himself in this ordeal today, having to beg their instructor to give him an exemption or, at the very least, an alternative.
At one point, their instructor finally snaps. “I’m sorry, Verstappen, but I’m too busy to deal with this.” He hurriedly ushers Max aside so he can focus on untangling the speaker’s wire. “I can’t give you an alternative. This session is included in your fees after all. But I can give you a reason on why it’s part of the program.”
“Why?”
“Because the drivers who take it seriously tend to move better. Is that not what you want? Better balance, control, spatial awareness.” And as if he had spoken the magic words, he adds, “You don’t have to enjoy it, you just have to be good at it.”
Max is frowning—still averse to the concept, but at least the argument has merit. There’s just a tiny little problem.
“She’s not here,” Max says.
“Who?”
“The girl you partnered me with.” To prove a point, he jabs at the empty box from the opposite of his name in the attendance sheet, clearly missing a signature.
“Find a partner then,” the instructor decides, casting him a glance. Final. “Guessing by the attendance, there’s quite a few who’re still unpaired. If you can find one, quickly join the others. We’ll begin shortly.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you can sit this one out. But I’ll have you know, I would have to note that you declined the training session.”
“Declined?”
“Oui. Couldn’t handle it.”
Max’s brows furrow, clearly offended at the thought of his namesake potentially getting tainted. “I can handle it.”
The instructor springs to his feet and dusts himself off. “Excellent. Then we’re done talking.” He pats Max on the shoulder before striding away toward the center of the hall.
Max groans. Left with no other choice, he scans the room to look for a potential prospect (or in this case, a victim). He spots a few familiar faces. Some are already shuffling awkwardly around the hall, while the others seem to have quietly acquiesced to not participating at all.
Then, he looks over to the group of people crowding one corner of the room. And that’s when Max sees him—the bane of his existence, the person stuck in his head from the past few days, in the flesh.
Thick eyelashes.
Wide eyes.
Green to some but hazel to Max. No, he absolutely did not spend a ridiculous amount of time staring at them whenever they are at arm’s length to know.
The boy’s fringe frames his eyes and he makes a habit of swiping his hair back just enough to see. He does it a couple of times because he’s seemingly allergic to a haircut.
It’s ridiculous.
But maybe Max is ridiculous too, because he finds himself hypnotized.
He tries not to think about it, and thankfully, his brain helps by conjuring fragments of his previous race last weekend to make him remember. They replay and override his system over and over again: the checkered flag—the puddle—the disqualification—the psycho.
And then, it struck him.
This boy is dangerous.
No matter how pretty he bats his eyelashes or how innocent he stares. Max knows he shouldn’t.
He shouldn’t, a voice in his head whispers like a mantra to convince himself.
And yet, he finds himself gravitating to his curiosity, shouting back, I should.
Trouble’s just around the corner (literally), but Max knows it’s his one-way ticket of not looking like a sore loser who got stood up in dance class. From here on out, it becomes painfully apparent to Max that he needs a partner.
Preferably someone who understands him.
Preferably someone who can push him out of spite.
Preferably his karting rival, Charles Leclerc.
Is it the most logical answer? No. Is it the most practical? Yes, if his ego doesn’t allow him to sit this one out—which as established earlier, it doesn’t.
Just to cross-check, Max borrows the attendance sheet once again and scans for the attendees of today’s session. His eyes browse past different surnames until he reaches the letter L.
Leclerc. Signed.
Beside his name is a box with a blank space similar to Max’s. Evidently, it leads to one assumption: his partner is absent.
And better yet, he’s free.
So, with his head held high and his heart lodged in his throat, Max lets his feet take him to the other side of the hall like a man possessed.
Charles Leclerc is watching the others with a bored expression from the sidelines, leaning on the wall with his arms crossed. When his eyes meet Max’s, his reaction is instantaneous—recognition, then disinterest.
“What?” he asks, leveling Max with a look.
“My partner didn’t come,” Max cuts to the chase. There’s no point softening the blow anyway.
Charles blinks. Slow and processing.
“Okay…and? That sounds like a you problem.” He drawls the syllables, whether due to a thick accent or his lack of english, Max doesn’t know. Charles glances past him, back to the people with unworking limbs gathered on the center of the hall.
To him, this conversation is done, but Max won’t give up that easily. If anything, he’ll make it Charles’ problem too. He shifts on his right a little, clouding just enough view for him to meet Charles’ piercing gaze again.
“You don’t have a partner,” Max notes, trying a different approach.
“So? Qu'est-ce que ça a à voir avec moi?” Charles says—or asks, incredulous. Max has no idea what’s he saying. “I cope by watching. You should too.”
“It’s a waste of time.”
“And you think talking to me isn’t?” Charles frowns. “Again, not my problem.”
“It stops being a problem if you take it.” There. He said it.
“What..?” Now, he has Charles’ undivided attention. The boy looks visibly shell-shocked, his bright eyes have now gone a fraction wider as if Max has just offended him and his ancestors.
It took a few seconds for Charles to finally process what was said, settling on a humorless laugh first. He asks carefully, “You want me to what…replace her?”
Why not? Max thinks. What roles are they even pushing?
“I don’t care what you call it,” he answers. He can hear the knobs on Charles’ head churn like it’s judgement day, and Max feels physically convulsed to defend his request further. “Look, I’m not standing around doing nothing for an hour. You’re already here, and you’re also wasting time.”
A pause.
Charles opens his mouth and closes.
Then, “Non.”
Well, at least Max has now finally learned something in French.
“’Kay, then. I’ll just stay here and watch you.” Because of course he can—and because of course he will, out of spite.
Charles can only watch as Max takes a deliberate step forward. Up close, it’s almost impossible not to notice the details of the boy’s face, and so with supreme effort, Max drags his eyes to the crease of Charles’ forehead instead.
In a space filled with resonating footsteps and faint music, Max swears he heard Charles’ breath hitch amidst it all. The boy did not move the slightest, daring if he does, he might as well admit resignation. So, as small as his voice wills, Charles whispers, “Am I really that interesting to you?”
Max almost said yes.
Almost.
“No, but at least both of us aren’t getting what we want.”
Clearly, for someone who looks like he’s fishing for compliments, the answer doesn’t satiate Charles at all. “And what do you think is what I want?”
“I don’t know,” Max shrugs. Then, deciding for the most obvious of it all: “Me not being in your business.”
“Oui, I don’t want you in my business, and that’s why the answer is still no, Verstappen.”
“Why?” Max is on the verge of resigning. Physically, and mentally. He’s close to admitting that this in fact is a dumb idea and they should just shake hands in agreement to forget this all ever happened. But even so, a part of him still wants to persist.
With pinched brows, Charles doesn’t even try to hide his scowl. “Why would I? You’re not even asking me properly.”
That doesn’t answer anything. But Max knows by now—asking Charles is never easy. In fact, even after only meeting him for a few consecutive weeks, Max is already convinced anything concerning Charles is never easy. “And how would you suggest I ask properly?”
“Asking for their hand? I don’t know. People do that.”
Max gives him a questioning look. “Like in the movies? That’s weird.”
Now, it’s Charles’ turn to feel embarrassed, ultimately turning three shades redder. The crease on his forehead deepens to match the red on his ears. “Then don’t,” Charles grits, not even bothered to hide his sulking. “I’m not asking you anyway. Arrête de me déranger. Find another partner.”
As Charles turns to leave and find a better view, Max raises his arms in mock surrender. “Would you really accept if I did?” He tries not to wince.
Charles pauses. “How would I know? You haven’t tried.”
Running a hand through his hair, Max barely restrains the temptation of pulling at his scalp. “You’re so difficult.”
“Deal with it.”
Max assesses the situation while looking utterly frustrated, embarrassed, and infuriated all the same time—a feat he deems only this boy can pull off.
If given the chance, Max would readily choose to divebomb in trackside mud instead of having to go through whatever this is. Unfortunately for him, this is not Val d’Argenton, and the certain someone he prefers to share said mud is here glowering at him.
Fine.
Max finally obliges. His ears heat up as he begrudgingly stretches his hand to his unsuspecting rival. “I will deal with it.”
Yet, even after all this, Charles doesn’t budge. He stares at his palm as if it bared fangs and is one second away from biting him.
“What’s next?” Max edges on, playing with fire. “Want me to go bend on one knee?”
Charles tilts his head. “Can you?”
“What do you mean, can you?”
“Oh, okay. You can’t.”
“I didn’t say I can’t.”
People should know that he is no quitter, and he certainly won’t admit defeat even when he’s on his knees and at someone’s mercy. He holds his reigns as he crouches down, never once breaking eye contact. Never really submitting.
“You’re really desperate, huh?”
Max glowers. “Determined.” Because that’s what his father taught him. It’s ingrained to his skull—that he can achieve anything with the right perseverance. Even this.
“Same thing. But I’d have to admit,” Charles gives a boyish grin—trying hard to look menacing despite his stature and yet Max would argue he’s everything but. “I like you better like this.”
Max stares at him, unimpressed. “It’s fair, you can have me looking like this,” he says. “I get to have you looking at my back when we’re on track anyway.”
In record time, Max watches Charles’ confident guise crumble as a sour frown settles back on his pretty face.
Max doesn’t make it any easier as well. But if Charles thinks he can get away with being petty, then two can play that game.
He’s beginning to think he has finally binned his chances for a dance partner when Charles surprisingly accepts his hand. The next thing Max knows, he’s being yanked upright. Through gritted teeth, Charles spits, “You’d better watch your back then. It’s where surprises come from.”
Max snickers. He brings the unfamiliar warmth to his lips, daring to bridge the gap and breathing a silent oath. “Believe me, I know it best.”
Charles all but stares at the gesture, wide-eyed and mouth ajar, completely taken-aback. Max, on the other hand, can’t even fight the grin that’s beginning to crack on his face. He thinks he’s definitely won a different battle when he tugs Charles and is met with pliancy—a first on this disastrous day.
Max expertly maneuvers them in a sea of bodies until he spots a convenient space with a clear view in front. Once the instructor sees them, he immediately does a double take. Max only raises a brow at his questioning gaze, as if to say, I did as you told.
Amused, the instructor sends them a nod in acknowledgement. “Lead and follow,” he says to no one in particular. It doesn’t matter though, Max and Charles feel singled out already.
“Don’t fight your partner, move with them in sync.” This time, the instructor’s eyes land on them as he takes position with his own partner.
“I’ll lead,” Charles says, pulling Max’s hand.
“After forcing me to do all that? No way, I will.”
“It’s you who forced me here in the first place.”
“I thought you’re well aware of the role you’re filling in?” Max grabs hold of both Charles’ hands before a word of protest can leave his mouth, careful in his manner of not further riling up his partner.
“This goes here,” Max instructs, laying Charles’ left hand to rest on his shoulder. “And here goes there.” He murmurs, voice still as soft of a trusted adult’s to his badly-behaved child as he tentatively places his hand on Charles’ back near his right shoulder blade. Though the touch is faint, Charles still stiffens from the contact.
Max doesn’t think about it.
“Alright. Let’s start,” a voice echoes once again, commanding everyone’s attention. It’s only then did Max allow himself to breathe and look at Charles properly.
And maybe, he shouldn’t have.
He was already aware of their proximity beforehand—of their breaths mingling and their skin touching, but seeing the hardness of Charles’ pupils and the redness of the apple of his cheeks is not something he had mentally prepared for.
The situation they’re in was better off as an idea—as a figment of his imagination, because only then is he able to act like everything’s normal. As if holding a mere acquaintance—and a rival at that, is something he does in a normal Tuesday.
There’s a drastic difference of pretending and being aware. Being aware makes everything real.
“trouillard.”
Max looks up.
Charles must have moved without his prior knowledge—Max guesses, judging how they’re now hunched off-position in the center of the group. Awkward and stiff, sticking like a sore eye from a mile away.
“What?” Max may have his fair share of French words, but it’s nowhere near conversational. After all, he has only been adapting to the language when he’s competing in France.
“Nothing.” Charles replies, refusing to look at Max anymore. He glides another step while dragging him. “Just that you’re too slow.”
Max squints. That’s not what he had just said alright. But Charles is once again done talking and back to moving, and so brushing it off, Max finally reclaims control just in time to flex his arm and twirl Charles. “Well, I’m sorry to keep you waiting. Should I offer my thanks since you’ve been helpful?”
“No need.” Charles smiles, or at least, attempts to. Whatever that was, it comes off more as a grimace. Max is unsure whether Charles doesn’t know how to smile or is simply not good at smiling at Max (he’d rather it was the former). Charles moves again on cue, now more in sync after Max nudges him to the right direction. “I just stepped up because clearly you’re an awful dance partner.”
“Okay, sure,” Max fares. “But I’m the better driver.”
He expects a snicker or a glare, but what he didn’t expect is a sharp throb on his feet that makes him jolt. Thankfully, he’s able to stand his ground before they can topple over and draw unnecessary attention.
“Did you just—?!”
Charles’ lips stretch to a knowing smirk. “Oops. It was an incident.”
“It was intentional!”
“Was not.”
“You’re crazy.” And yet all the while, Max still doesn’t let go. Rather, he grips Charles’ back tighter, to which the latter retaliated by digging his nails on Max’s shoulder just as hard.
“Mind the noise,” their instructor interrupts, clearing his throat. He eyes them intently through the small gap of bodies.
“He stepped on me,” Max defends. “On purpose.”
“I did not,” is what Charles says in retribution. As if lying isn’t enough, he accompanies it with an innocent bat of his eyelashes that Max now finds infuriating. The audacity.
“You literally just said!—”
“Are you done interrupting the class?”
Max and Charles straighten up in unison at that, finally coming to their senses after noticing the unwanted attention.
“Would you two behave or should we reschedule your partner routine next week? I’ve got no problems with—”
“—sorry, no, we’re finishing it now.”
“—oui. Nous sommes désolés.”
Max looks at Charles again. “Did you agree?”
“Yes.” Charles shrugs, as if it’s the most obvious thing ever (it’s not). “Said that my partner is clumsy.”
“How am I the clumsy one?”
Their instructor sighs, looking more exasperated on having to deal with this than the accumulated stress he had gone through from conducting numerous sessions today. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Would it be your best interest if I had someone switch partners with you?” The instructor addresses them, and more so specifically—Max, who’s keen on pushing this partnership in the first place.
Now, all eyes are on him. Some are eager to see Max finally cave in, others are dreading that he might actually say yes and they would have to deal with either of them.
Meanwhile, Charles is staring at the ground absent-mindedly, feigning nonchalance. When he dares to move and detach himself in favor of Max, the latter squeezes his shoulder blade unintentionally.
“No.”
Not a single soul in the room may have expected that.
And frankly, Max is quite surprised as well at his patience, self-restraint, and his bulging curiosity to see through this until the end. As far as his work ethic goes, if he started it, he’s going to finish it. If he can learn it, he’ll excel on it. It doesn’t matter if it’s dominating the tracks or holding Charles.
He’ll do it. And he’ll do good at it.
It has always been like that since the start.
Now, Charles is looking again with his mouth slightly open. Max still can’t have a read on what it means. What he can do, on the other hand, is pray that this is a nudge to the right direction. That Charles is okay with this.
A resonating clap cuts through the atmosphere. “Très bien. No backing out now. This is your last chance.” The instructor says, retreating to his previous post in front while the crowd of eyes follow suit.
Show’s over.
“From the top,” they were instructed, and the class commences again.
The instructor repeats the first basic steps—the ones they missed out earlier, and Charles and Max attempt to recreate the movements with all the grace of a pair of wooden planks.
They step.
And pause.
And shift.
And Charles twirls. Then repeat.
At one point, Charles almost breaks Max’s wrist in the process, but Max lets it slide. He’s lenient this time around. Maybe if he can gaslight himself into thinking that nothing is difficult enough to fuss and complain about, it will help him get this over with more quickly.
Now, he has lost count of how many times they did the first few sets of sequences.
And yet, Max still leads too aggressively and Charles corrects too sharply. As if they’re both simultaneously participating and trying to win two different races. In sync, yes, but not on the same page. They bump shoulders. They take up space. Their shoes touch. They’re both waiting for a casualty to happen.
Except miraculously, it didn’t, even until the music changes.
“Alright. That was a warm-up, of course,” the instructor says amid the sound of pairs breathing heavily. He twists the speaker’s knob to change tracks, granting Charles and Max just enough clemency to untangle themselves from each other and avoid contact before the next song starts.
“Let’s try a different approach.”
The beat is heavier and the tempo is agonizingly slow, something entirely different from Max and Charles’ field of expertise. They’ve always known fast, adrenaline-inducing—not anticipation. When they rejoin hands and meet halfway, it feels akin to an eternity before the next beat drops.
Max resets his grip first, placing back his left hand over Charles’ back.
Charles steps in a second later, expression carefully blank as he fits his hand on Max’s shoulder. Max feels the tension once again—coiled and alert, like Charles is bracing for an impact instead of a dance.
“Relax,” the instructor reminds the class. Neither of them listens.
Apparently, this session’s main purpose is to help relieve muscle tension, which explains the adequate amount of stretching involved.
Max has it memorized by now, deeming it necessary in order to follow the steps accurately and efficiently. He doesn’t even look up when the instructor orders, “forward.” He instantly takes position, steps forward, and stretches their joined hands on the side.
It makes him look better with his job.
When the instructor says, “backward,” Max steps away from Charles and brings their hands in front. Charles follows wordlessly.
Now, judging from the pattern, the next step is supposedly a ‘forward.’ Ahead of everyone else, Max moves immediately.
To their surprise, the steps during the bridge of the song is slightly different from those in chorus, opting a twirl instead. Charles, having to listen patiently from the instructor instead of his partner, reacts to Max half a beat later.
Too late.
Charles gasps, “Wait—”
The rhythm breaks as soon as Charles’ shoe catches against Max’s, the slight mis-step inevidently had him thrown off-balance. His weight shifts backward wrong, his body reclining at the spur of the moment.
Max reacts before thinking.
Acting on pure reflex, the hand on Charles’ back dip downward to grasp his waist and support his weight. Max’s other arm pulls instinctively closer to prevent the fall.
The recovery was smooth—if both of them can just ignore how close they were. Way too close. Max once again has an eyeful of hazel eyes and thick lashes, looking dangerously close to popping out of Charles’ sockets.
For one suspended second, neither of them breathes properly.
“Bien joué!” A voice shouts in glee, followed by a distant clapping of hand. “Now that’s how I want you to handle mishaps. With finesse.”
The spell breaks after the realization of their compromising position. Charles squirms on his hold. Max takes the cue by slightly letting go, just enough to drag his hand back to where they’re supposed to be.
Neither acknowledges whatever just happened. Instead, Max points out, “You’re ticklish,” just because it’s better than silence.
Charles avoids eye contact as he catches his breath. “And you talk a lot,” he says, voice coming out unusually hoarse.
“It’s about time you warm up to each other,” the instructor comments, deliberately slowing down the pace to wait for the two to collect their bearings.
Max extends his right hand once again, to which Charles now accepts with ease. “Let’s just get this over with.”
“Then hurry up and start moving.”
The next exercise begins shortly before they can dwell on it. The instructor counts them in, “five, six, seven, eight—”
And this time, both of them listens without missing a beat.
When the hand on Charles’ back shifts a fraction before a turn, Charles reciprocates.
To his eyes, Max is becoming predictable—like seeing a corner before reaching it. Like recognizing a rival’s move before they attack.
Across from him, Max reaches the same conclusion. The only difference is that he likes to be vocal. Blunt. “I was right,” he states.
Charles mutters under his breath, focus elsewhere, “About what.”
“About asking you to be my partner.”
At that, Charles looks up. He realizes that Max has been staring at him since who knows when. “How?”
Without batting an eye, without an ounce of hesitation—Max answers simply, “Because we work well. You anticipate me. How I move, how you’ll counter it. Like we’re in a track and not in a hall. Like both of us should be leading.”
Charles is confused. He’s always been thinking like Max after all. “Isn’t that how it’s supposed to be?”
The corner of Max’s lips stretch—barely, but enough for Charles to notice. “Yes.”
Charles nods and doesn’t further comment on it. He decidedly looks in the opposite direction to prepare for the next sequence, and yet, distractingly, he feels Max’s gaze remain fixed on the side of his head. He curses under his breath.
“What?”
Charles huffs. “Arrête de me regarder.”
A beat.
“Thanks.”
“Huh?”
“I don’t know French,” Max smiles coyly. “I can only guess it’s a compliment.”
Charles’ brows furrow. “I said stop staring at me, idiot. It’s distracting.”
That earns him a shrug from Max, who at the same time, twirls him over his head. “I can see that.”
The instructor makes them repeat the sequence. “Again,” he says, barely waiting for the others to get it right.
And so they did.
Max counts in his head: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight—
Then repeat again.
And again.
Around them, some pairs stumble. Others, still needed corrections.
Meanwhile Max and Charles, somehow stopped receiving any. Not because they’re perfect (they’re far from it), but because they compensate immediately when the other falls short. The moment one misses the timing, the other catches it. Without delay, without hesitation.
And so Max wouldn’t deny, though he won’t admit out loud—they complement each other very well.
There’s something oddly poetic about watching two people who can’t stand each other’s guts move together so naturally—fitting like a glove. Like puzzle pieces meant to complete each other.
Somehow, what had once felt like an endless five-minute song now pass by too quickly for the two.
And by the time the routine finally ends, both are breathing harder than they should be. Touch lingering longer than they should be.
The room applauds.
“Now that—” their instructor regards, gesturing a hand toward them. “—is partnership. And a masterclass at that. Good work, everyone.”
Max and Charles instinctively lets go. Too sudden. Too early to miss the warmth.
Suddenly, everything is moving fast. Pairs begin to separate, a clear indication that the session is over. Charles isn’t looking at him anymore. Instead, he turns his back and heads for the corner where he’d been hunched before Max approached him. Without uttering another word, Max also takes a step back and walks to the opposite direction.
He doesn’t look back.
As the session ends, their instructor briefly reminds them about the papers to sign, the fees, and the reserved sessions for the next circuit. Their partners have already been pre-assigned—they were told, but they can also opt to choose their own if they prefer. Max listens with half an ear, counting down the seconds until he can finally leave.
“Hey.”
The day doesn’t get any faster. But at least, for the moment, he can occupy himself with something else. He recognizes the voice immediately, especially considering he has been in his vicinity a mere ten minutes ago.
Max looks to his right, already expecting Charles—and yet he sees first a can of Red Bull being offered to him.
“For you.”
Max accepts diligently. “A gift?” He asks before he can stop himself. Because that’s how he sees it.
“A drink,” Charles corrects. “Because you look like you need it.”
Is he even allowed to drink this? Max shakes his head at the afterthought because obviously, it doesn’t matter. It’s from Charles, and that’s enough.
He traces a finger on the lid, inspecting it. “It’s open.”
“Well, I didn’t like the taste. But if you don’t like it, you can just give it—”
“Merci.”
Charles’ eyes widen. “What did you say?”
Max only reaches for his bag and hangs it over his shoulder. His left hand grasps on the strap while the other holds Charles’ parting gift. “Same time next week?”
Charles blinks.
The question seems to surprise Max more than Charles. But it’s a little too late to take it back now.
“You still need me,” Charles says.
A statement. A realization.
Max smiles, easy and warranted. Something he can give in return. “See you next week, Charles.”
Then he’s out.
Sipping from the can on his hand, he hears a faint, “à bientôt, Max Verstappen.”
The door shuts with a click.
And suddenly, Max doesn’t know for what reason his heart is thrumming fast anymore. Was it the Red Bull…or something entirely else?