Work Text:
It’s lights out and away we go—
—only for Max to be denied of the chance to take off. To overtake. To be part of the chaos barreling into Turn 1.
To race.
“Just bring it home, please, Max.”
GP said. Calm and collected, almost like he was asking an unruly child to sit down.
But Max hadn’t been disobedient. In fact, he’d been taking it quite well for the past few races.
He didn’t need to be told twice. As the rest of the grid zoomed off, Max had to drive his limping car around the circuit until he finished the first lap and returned to the pit. His Red Bull suffered a power-unit failure, they said—but all Max could think of is ticking another box on the list of issues they’ve had so far this season.
Hard luck, as they say.
In the paddock, he was asked whether he’d stay to watch the race and stick around until debriefing. He declined. The fact he lives a mere 500 meters away from the circuit is a dead giveaway. It’s practical. A DNF is nothing to be proud of. Staying any longer wouldn’t miraculously solve his car issue and earn him a spot in the race.
So, he packed his things and rode a trip back home—to the comfort of his apartment where he’s granted peace with no engine roars and interviews. He slipped out of his team kit and headed straight to the bathroom to ran a cold bath.
From here, the rest of his evening is all planned out: practice in the sim, cuddle with his cats, and post pictures of this disastrous race weekend despite being against it.
The plan is by no means half-baked, but inevitably, it’s not full-proof neither.
It started showing cracks the moment he left the television open to make a cup of coffee, and returned to the sight of a red car going straight to the wall—shy of just a few laps left of the race. Accompanied it is a sound of something breaking. Maybe it was glass. Maybe it was an organ. A heart.
Max winced.
He watched the figure of white race suit emerge from the car and retreat back to the horrors of his garage. He didn’t take off his helmet. He remained muted digitally in Max’s screen, and yet with all things left unsaid, Max knows his mind is screaming. Because Max would be. They are all skin and bones after all, cut from the same wood.
Max stayed rooted to his spot until Kimi crossed the checkered flag and snatched P1, followed by another red car—though Max would admit it wasn’t as familiar as the first—Lewis, and then a strong finish from his own teammate, Isack, staking his claim on P3.
After the cooldown lap, Max grabbed his phone and sends a text to Kimi. Lewis doesn’t need his pleasantries, and while he doesn’t have Isack’s number, he made a mental note to say his congrats in person next week.
There’s a lot to unpack post-race, as so many things went wrong that it’s difficult to list them all in detail. Between mechanical failures, penalties, crashes, a red flag, and even the tarmac breaking up, it was chaos.
It’s the Grand Prix where everything that normally never happens happened at once.
He barely started and retired on Lap 1. Gasly dropped from the podium after serving two separate 5-second penalties. Russell’s pit lane speeding penalty was upgraded to a drive-through penalty. Hulkenberg tagged Sainz at the hairpin.
The amount of penalties served was comical at this point.
And yet, Max knows, none even compares to the feeling of one certain driver.
All week long, the people had been rehearsing the commentary of his win on the 2024th Monaco Grand Prix. They had been preparing themselves to hear Monaco’s national anthem on the podium again. They had been putting up banners of his name all over Monte-Carlo.
And he—Charles—because he deserves to be named—had been loved, not only expected. Always have, always will.
He may not be the winner by title, but he will be remembered for something he achieved even before stepping back onto his home soil—a celebrated hero. The sole person the crowd favors to look up to at the highest step of the podium—the person who should be in the highest step of the podium. Towering and proud with his home country’s flag draped over him.
Monaco is his, after all.
It will never be Kimi’s. It will never be Max’s. It will not belong to any other driver who merely has a bed and a couch in the country.
The race may decide the winner, but the people have long chosen their hero. He bears a name. It will never change.
Max shook his head. Guilt finally began settling in the pit of his stomach, brought on mostly by the remnants of his last message to Kimi: Congratulations on your 5th consecutive win. You deserve it.
It hasn’t even been five minutes since then.
Kimi will then have to answer post-race interviews, attend the podium ceremony, and do FIA media duties. He will be busy. Answering Max’s message is the least of his priorities. He will be bathed in rose water, hugged, and showered in praise.
He will widen the gap in the championship title, and he will remain unreachable.
Not long after, a graphic is born. The victors of Monaco—pinned at the top-most of F1’s Instagram page. They will remain there, smiling, even after the admin posts other drivers who barely made it, and worse—who almost made it.
Max belonged in that category, and so did the others. And yet, one stood out far more devastating than the rest.
Nobody wanted to see another home race end like this, the caption read. Embedded is a 10-second clip of the replay earlier that Max could no longer finish. A car fighting for position until it swerved directly to the wall. Too smooth that one may think it’s intentional. Max knew otherwise—a driver with his caliber doesn’t make mistakes like that.
The comments criticize. They are even more unforgiving than the driver himself. As if said driver isn’t holed up somewhere in his apartment—in the same building as Max’s—already tearing himself apart. As if it isn’t punishment enough.
Max gnawed his lip. Thinking. Debating.
He found remedy in opening his contacts again and scrolling deeper until his thumb hovers on a certain name.
He mustered just enough strength to press the conversation before he can hesitate. He braced subconsciously, as if the man on the profile will bare his soul and spill his guts. Max thinks he doesn’t need to, anyway. He already did.
Surprisingly, their last talk was about Paddle, dating almost six months ago during the course of winter break. Charles had invited Max—or at least, was courteous enough to extend the invitation to him after primarily bringing up Carlos, Pierre, and Lando. It was their thing. Max was an outsider who occasionally tags along for leisure. He wasn’t quite surprised the message had gone unnoticed until now.
In the space of the blank bar, he begins to type.
Hey, mate.
Sorry I didn’t see your invite.
Are you still up for it right now?
Wrong. Who would be up to play right after crashing at their home race? And who in their right mind would even ask that?— Max, apparently.
The message should be timely and relevant, so he probably needs to mention the race. A mutual interest. A fresh wound.
He cleared his draft and begins again.
I saw your race. It was pretty bad, I know you’re probably frustrated. I think I can say the same after having to drag my sorry excuse of a car for one lap.
But it’s a good thing you finally learned to tell them off. You need to do it more often.
Max eagerly pressed backspace. Too direct, too accusatory.
There’s absolutely no need to bring his own circumstance into this. This is about Charles. The focus must remain on him.
Maybe he’ll settle for something simpler.
Hey, mate.
Do you want to talk?
What an idiot. He’s not his therapist, nor an ex reaching out for closure. And yet somehow, Max managed to make it look like he’s both.
Unbelievable.
He types again.
Hey, mate.
What happened there?
I watched the onboard. At first I thought it was the tarmac. Then I wasn’t so sure. You just seemed to lose it all at once.
Could’ve been the surface. Could’ve been the brakes. Hard to tell from the footage.
Either way, that’s a rotten way for the weekend to end.
Too analytical. He may even pass off as Charles’ race engineer.
Charles wouldn’t want a post-race debrief written in text. He has dealt with this in the garage. He doesn’t need to deal with it again at home.
Max massaged his temples.
He’s taking a ridiculous amount of time curating the best message to send to his colleague when he’d just been tossing words around carelessly to the press.
But this is different, his mind argued. This is Charles.
The next draft lasted three lines.
Then five.
Until Max lost count of how many times he ended up staring at an empty chat.
Until Max began blaming not the words, but the fact he tried making Charles feel better. As if that were possible.
They both know it’s not.
If their roles were reversed, he too wouldn’t want a lecture. He too wouldn’t want reassurance. Truth be told, he wouldn’t even want someone dissecting the corner he crashed.
What he would want, rather, is simple. Something that Charles would want too.
He wants someone to notice—not the crash, nor the mistake everyone else will spend the week replaying.
Just him.
The driver who showed up every weekend and kept pushing, whether he’s in a competitive car or a tin can. The one who let the weight of expectation burden his shoulders and still climbed on the car anyway. The one who is more than a single corner, a single race, a single bad day.
Max exhaled a long breath and finally finds the right words to say.
Hey mate.
Tough race.
I know it doesn’t feel like it now, but it isn’t your worst day. Don’t spend too much time beating yourself up over it. One weekend doesn’t change who you are.
Max is convinced. Charles should be too.
As certain as the sunrise after a sunset. The Sun of Maranello—as they refer to him devotedly, unconditionally—Charles will rise again. No matter what place he finishes. No matter what step in the podium he stands. No matter how much time it takes.
That’s what they always do. It’s the thirst that gets them there.
Remember, Max continues.
You are the sun. You will rise again.
No need to reply. Just wanted to check in. If you want to talk, I’m one floor away. If you’re doing okay, we can pretend this message never happened.
He didn’t say anything further. He only stared at the draft, deliberately rereading it over and over again as if he’s signing a contract extension.
Then, with his heart racing, he finally pressed send and shoved his phone deep in his pocket.
Now, he’s back to his initial plan.
He sat in the cockpit and turned on the sim. Selecting the car, track, and weather condition similar to the race earlier. It’s easy to drown his thoughts like this—treated with speed and adrenaline. Numbing him temporarily.
In the dead of the night, a notification sprung on the banner of his phone. The name stood out amid the dim expanse of his bedroom. Bold and bright, as if crying out for help.
Charles Leclerc (1)
Hi. Thanks, mate.
Max was pacing to the door when Charles began typing again.
I know it’s late, but does the offer still stand?