Chapter Text
The screech of tires against asphalt was a sound etched into Charles Leclerc’s DNA. Sitting on the edge of a plastic barrier at the local karting track, far removed from the blinding luxury of Monte Carlo's harbor, Charles held a stopwatch with steady fingers, though his eyes reflected the exhaustion of a long day working as a nursery school teacher. He had a smudge of blue finger-paint on the collar of his shirt and his brown hair was a bit disheveled, but his focus was entirely locked on the number 16 kart cutting through the final corner.
"And... cross!" Charles murmured, stopping the timer. A smile of pure pride lit up his face. "Down two-tenths."
The kart rolled into the pit lane with a level of maturity that was startling for the driver behind the wheel. The engine cut out, and Oscar, barely eleven years old, calmly removed his helmet, pushing back his sweaty hair. He had a serious, analytical gaze that completely defined him.
"The rear-left tire is losing grip on the exit of turn three, Papa," Oscar said, stepping out of the kart while stretching his arms. "I think the understeer is costing us time. We should adjust the pressure if we want to improve the pace tomorrow."
Charles let out a soft laugh, stepping closer to wipe the sweat from the boy's forehead with a clean towel.
"First of all, good afternoon, my little engineer," Charles teased gently, planting a kiss on the crown of Oscar’s head despite the boy's typical pre-teen groans. "Second of all, you’re right. The compound is on its last legs, but we’ll have to stretch it a bit further this month. Your salary as an official factory driver hasn't kicked in yet, and a nursery school teacher's budget has its limits."
"I know, Papa. It's okay. We did a good job today anyway," Oscar replied with a small, lopsided smile, showing that despite his serious demeanor, he deeply appreciated his father's titanic efforts.
"Brum, brum, fiummmm! Watch out, red flag!"
A few meters away, perched on an old truck tire, was the youngest member of the household. Oliver, at just four years old, was an inexhaustible whirlwind of energy. He was wearing an official Mercedes team cap that was so big it covered half his ears, and his small hands were frantically waving a teddy bear dressed in a tiny, custom-embroidered Silver Arrows t-shirt. Oliver was crashing the teddy bear into a little blue toy car.
"Ollie, careful with that tire, you're going to fall!" Charles warned, walking over to scoop him up into his arms. Oliver giggled, burying his face against his father's shoulder.
"Papa, Lewis the bear beat Oscar's car! Mercedes is faster!" the toddler squealed, waving the plushie in the air.
"In your dreams, Ollie. Max Verstappen would eat them alive into turn one," Oscar shot back, packing away his racing gloves with a teasing smirk.
Charles sighed affectionately, carrying Oliver on one hip while using his free hand to help Oscar push the kart toward their modest trailer. Seeing them smile made every extra hour at the nursery, every saved penny, and every sleepless night entirely worth it.
The drive back to their small apartment in a residential neighborhood of Monaco was filled with the usual backseat debates between the two brothers. While Charles prepared a simple dinner of pasta in the kitchen, the living room transformed into a full-blown Formula 1 pundit panel.
"I'm telling you, Red Bull has better aerodynamics, Oliver! Max doesn't need anyone's help, he's the best," Oscar was saying from the table, reviewing some telemetry sheets Charles had printed out for him.
"No! George and Lewis are the fastest! Mercedes, Mercedes!" Oliver shouted, bouncing on the sofa while making his Mercedes-clad teddy bear take massive leaps.
"Alright, my two champions, turn the volume down," Charles intervened, stepping out of the kitchen with steaming plates of pasta. "No yelling in this house, especially over teams that aren't paying our bills."
"But Papa, tell Ollie that Red Bull is going to win the championship."
"No, Mercedes!" the little one insisted, marching over to the table without letting go of his bear.
Charles sat down between them, smiling warmly. "And what about Uncle Pierre? I thought Alpine was our favorite team."
The two boys exchanged a brief glance, falling silent for a second before Oscar cleared his throat with immense maturity.
"Look, we love Uncle Pierre... but the Alpine doesn't have the pace this year, Papa. Let's be realistic."
"Yeah, Uncle Pierre's car is a tractor," Oliver repeated, parroting exactly what he had undoubtedly heard his older brother say before.
Charles pressed a hand to his chest, faking offense. "Don't let Pierre hear you say that, or he won't bring you any more t-shirts."
As the boys ate, Charles caught a glimpse of the stacked bills on the kitchen counter. Life hadn't been easy. When Oliver was just a baby, the boys' father had simply packed his bags and vanished, terrified by the responsibility and financial weight of a family. He left no notes, no money, and never took an ounce of responsibility. Charles had been left entirely alone, heartbroken, with two young children depending solely on him.
Fortunately, Charles wasn't completely isolated. His mother and brothers always lent a hand when his nursery school schedule collapsed, and Pierre Gasly—his best friend since the days when Charles himself used to race karts and dream of Formula 1—had become the family’s anchor. Pierre was the fun uncle, the unconditional support system, and the constant reminder that motorsport was still a part of their lives, even if it was just through a screen.
Just as Charles was setting his own plate down, the apartment doorbell rang in a very specific, rhythmic pattern.
"It's Uncle Pierre!" Oliver squealed, sliding out of his chair in a flash, still clutching his Mercedes bear.
Charles opened the door, and sure enough, Pierre Gasly walked in, wearing a massive grin. He was just in time.
"Look at that, perfect timing! Smells incredible in here," Pierre proclaimed, immediately catching Oliver as the toddler threw himself at his legs, followed by a more mature but equally enthusiastic handshake-hug from Oscar.
"You're just in time for pasta, Pierre. Sit down, there's plenty," Charles said, his smile genuine as the tiredness briefly lifted from his shoulders.
As soon as Pierre took a seat, the boys bombarded him.
"Uncle Pierre! How was the Chinese Grand Prix?!" Oscar asked, his eyes wide with excitement. "The track looks so wide, and it was the first Sprint weekend of the year! How hard was it to find the setup with only one practice session?"
"Oh, mate, Shanghai was wild," Pierre laughed, taking a forkful of pasta. "With the Sprint format, the pressure was insane from Friday. The track surface was tricky and had very little grip, but racing there again after so many years was great. The fans made so much noise."
"Did you beat the Mercedes?" Oliver chimed in, holding his teddy bear up to Pierre's face.
Pierre chuckled, bopping the bear's nose. "Not this time, Ollie. Hamilton and Russell were a bit too quick for us in the main race. But we're working on it, I promise."
After an hour of non-stop racing talk, laughter, and a lengthy negotiation to get Oliver to bed (since he flatly refused to take off his Mercedes cap for sleep), the apartment finally settled into a quiet hum.
Charles and Pierre remained in the kitchen, splitting a leftover beer. Pierre looked at his friend, noticing the subtle dark circles under his green eyes.
"I saw Oscar's times on the track today, Charles. The kid is a natural. He's got your hands for the wheel."
"He's good," Charles admitted, a nostalgic smile touching his lips. "But keeping him in karting is getting harder every month, Pierre. Tires, entry fees, fuel... Sometimes I'm terrified I won't be able to give them the future they deserve. And now Oliver wants to start in the baby-kart category too."
"You work too hard, Charlie. You pour everything into the nursery, the kids, the karts... When was the last time you did something for yourself? Or took a real vacation?"
Charles shrugged, looking down at his bottle. "Our life is fine, Pierre. We live in Monaco. At least we get to see the cars rush past from my mom's balcony during the Grand Prix, even if it's from a distance with binoculars. The kids are happy enough with that."
Pierre smiled secretively, a spark of mischief in his eyes. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a thick, elegant white envelope, sliding it across the kitchen table until it tapped against Charles's fingers.
"What's this?" Charles asked, furrowing his brow.
"Open it."
Charles peeled back the envelope carefully and slid out the contents. The first things he saw were plane tickets bound for Orlando, Florida, followed by golden passes for the Disney World parks. But what made his breath catch completely were the plastic credentials resting at the bottom. Three VIP Alpine passes with the word "PADDOCK" printed in large, holographic letters.
"Pierre... I can't accept this," Charles stammered, his heart doing a violent flip in his chest. "This costs a fortune."
"The flights and Disney are on me—a gift for my favorite nephews and my best friend," Pierre said, placing a firm, reassuring hand on Charles's shoulder. "And the paddock passes came straight from the team. We're going to the Miami Grand Prix, Charles."
Charles froze, his eyes locked on the credentials in his hands. His mind suddenly flooded with images: Oscar meeting the engineers he studied so meticulously, Oliver getting to see the real cars up close, and himself... stepping back onto a race circuit, but this time, into the very beating heart of global motorsport.
They had always been distant spectators, settling for the echo of engines bouncing off the buildings of Monaco or watching the broadcast on a small TV screen. Now, finally, he was going to fulfill his children's wildest dreams. They were going to be right there. In the paddock, touching the magic firsthand.
A thick knot of emotion tightened in Charles's throat, and a shaky, breathless smile began to form on his lips, completely unaware that this trip to Miami was about to change their lives forever.