Work Text:
Charles is sixteen when he gives up on his dreams.
He has the bile beneath his tongue built up, he has the bite in his teeth, he has the drive and the determination, of course. But money is getting tight, and Enzo is the one to talk to him.
“Maman and Papa are, um, well. They are thinking about the karting costs.” He says, of course, he says it in French, but the sentiment remains. “They think they can only support one of you, with Papa...”
Charles wonders how old Lorenzo was when he gave up on his dream for Charles. He wonders if Hervé sat Lorenzo down, the son that is not his own, the child of his wife, and said something like “look, Lorenzo…” But he will never know. He feels too ill to ask.
Charles wants to win, and he knows he can, but he is in the same class as Max Verstappen, who has been sweeping records. Charles wants the world championship, he wants the rush of red, blood in his head and a horse on his suit, pledging its best effort into his chest. He might never get there. Max will sweep more, he will have to wait for a car that is better than Max’s, if he gets to Formula One at all.
But there is Arthur. And Charles wishes he was just a little more selfish, a little worse, because he is so close to saying, “Me, pick me, I will do it.” And he’s sure that maybe he would, he would be what Ferrari wants, he would be their golden boy. But there is Arthur, and Charles is just not bad enough to tell them he is their best shot of a world champion and an F1 driver.
“Arthur.” He says. There is bile under his tongue, acidic in his mouth. He swallows it down, ignores his aching fangs. They demand blood. They demand a victory. They will remain hungry. “Tell them to- to support Arthur.”
“Charles,” Enzo says, “Are you sure?”
He cannot answer out loud. He just nods, glances at the ornamental trophies in his room. They have served their purpose. He wonders if he will ever serve his, but Maman and Papa will have it easier, now.
Papa is sick. Papa is very sick, and Charles will make it easier on him.
“Just, don’t let them ask me about it.” He says. He has made the right choice, he is the good son, he is the good brother whose metal achievements will rust. He is the good son who does not fly too close to the flaming sun, but Icarus was warned of the rushing tides, too. Charles feels himself plunge towards the depths.
Lorenzo takes him to a concert a week later, to get him out of the house. Enzo has money since he set up his business, he has a business degree too. Enzo has the same rotting assortment of accomplishments, the same rotten taste in his mouth about the loss of a hobby that once felt like an organ. So they go to a concert where Princess Stéphanie is performing, and they sing along and Charles puts away his karting dreams for the night.
He and Enzo keep going to concerts. It is one of the only drugs that takes Charles’s mind off of resenting Arthur as much as he loves Arthur, and it is nice, to spend the time with Enzo. For Christmas, Lorenzo calls, and he is sung We Wish You A Merry Christmas in a lullaby akin to a cat’s yowl. Lorenzo then says, in French, a series of words that reshape Charles’s life.
“So, I don’t know if you would be interested at all, but, for your gift this year, I was thinking, I could get you a year’s worth of singing lessons. Alternatively, we have some other ideas, there’s a laser tag place? And-”
“I think I- I think I’d like that, Enzo. The first idea.”
Singing lessons are hard, but they are nice, and Charles goes to school even though he used to skip most Fridays to go to some karting competition or another, and he doodles lyric ideas and musical scores in the margins. He knows he is getting better, and Lorenzo and he keep going to concerts. Charles has picked up a job part-time as a waiter in Monaco, with a little suit, and Lorenzo always stops anyone from being rude or joking in any way about it.
Lorenzo, of course, knows the ache of I should be in Formula Renault now, or whatever cruel thoughts crop up beneath the surface. Charles is falling in love with singing, and his work means he has money, now, and it means he is saving. He either buys tickets for concerts that he and Enzo want to see or he puts it away, because Papa is not getting healthier. Charles does not want any of them to be at risk, and he knows Monaco is expensive.
His YouTube account is something that kind of just happens. At first, he posts a cover of Bruno Mars, which gets a few likes and like one comment that isn’t from Enzo.
Èmmie: This is good! Looking forward to more of your stuff lol
It is one more thing that shapes the rest of his life.
Then, it’s 2014 and he watches his godfather hurtle into a barrier in a Formula 1 race and thinks, fuck. Seb comes third, and Charles feels sick anyway. Sebastian Vettel, his hero, stands on a podium as Jules, his godfather, is rushed to hospital.
Jules isn’t okay. He is in a coma for a long time, and Charles and Lorenzo cry over it together many times while Arthur only seems to be more daring in response. It is 2015 by the time Jules passes.
Charles wonders, sometimes, if the goblet he handed Arthur was a poisoned chalice. It doesn’t seem to matter as Arthur’s karting trophies begin to make shelves creak, and, with Jules having waxed poetically about Arthur’s talent now that the other two are grown up, Arthur gets sponsorships easily. He smiles gratefully and laughs at the right times, and Charles still thinks he could’ve done it better, and he still knows he could’ve done it sooner.
Charles is seventeen when Max Verstappen is announced as a Formula 1 driver for Toro Rosso. This is a boy that Charles once forced into a puddle in a particularly notable race, a boy who Charles competed with and won against and lost against. This is a boy 16 days older than Charles, whose dad was a driver so never struggled for money or passion or talent or advice. The shadow of Jos Verstappen looms large over Max, but Max has never really seemed to seek the light in any place other than on track.
Max will do well. Charles knows it.
He’s ashamed of it, but Charles buys his first and only piece of non-Ferrari merch. He buries it under his mountains of red, only growing now Arthur is in the Ferrari Academy. The number 33 still seems to glow at the edges of Charles’s mind.
If it cannot be Seb and it cannot be Kimi, then Charles hopes Max gets pretty high up the table.
Max signs for Red Bull aged 18, and he wins his debut grand prix for them. The Spanish crowds chant for him, and then Seb and Kimi are on the podium and even though Seb is third (Charles seethes), Seb is obviously happy for Max.
The selfish and unevolved part of Charles’s brain says that could have been me, and the kinder part is glad that it is Max.
Charles has accrued a bit of a following on YouTube, now, and he’s covered most of the Top 100 for the last year. He has 10k subscribers, which is enough for him to earn a few hundred per year. It isn’t enough to sustain his life, but it sustains his dreams well enough.
His dad supports him, saves here and there to get him a nice microphone. It’s not the investments of his karting career, but Papa has not worked in a while, now, and a lot of his free time is telling Arthur to brake later. Charles wonders, sometimes, how they can lose Jules and all still ask of Arthur to be more daring, but they ask it anyway.
Arthur wins the Formula 4 championship. Charles pretends he does not feel sick.
Charles gigs in a pub in France, sings a couple songs, the pop songs of the day. He usually sings English songs and wonders why it is that English seems like a language he uses exclusively for his dreams. He wonders why he still has an Italian Duolingo streak going now that he will never be a Ferrari boy. He spends a lot of time on this wondering.
He sings, some ballad from Billy Joel, and he gets it. The piano does sound like a carnival, the microphone does smell like a beer, and it’s not him they’ve been coming to see, but he forgets about life for a while. It’s a crowd, heaving, some drunk Brits singing along, and he rides the adrenaline until he stops for breath.
The bar likes him. The drunkards toss him some money, and it is… a decent amount, frankly. He uploads a video to YouTube and it performs pretty well. He grinds away at the music business until it gives, until there is enough space for him to squeeze in.
He posts his first original song when he is 19. It’s the early part of 2017, and Max wins twice more - Malaysia and Mexico. Arthur has struggled into F3, and is having a decent campaign in a midfield team - they’re hoping for another year with a decent team before hopefully F2, even if an ideal world would see Arthur in F2 next year.
His song blows up in the way of the early internet - he gets 10,000 new followers, doubling what he has. A record label reaches out, and Hervé looks over the contract, as does Lorenzo. They tweak it, send back changes. The record label drops out, and Charles is angry at first before Lorenzo sits him down.
“Charles, the clauses we objected to were- we just asked that you have first rights to buy your music and final say in scheduling, and it kind of concerns me that they rejected these.” Lorenzo says, and he’s so measured about it that Charles bites back the creature inside of him, swallows the bile, and says, “Yeah, that makes sense.”
Arthur signs another F3 contract, this time with a team that might actually win it.
They (he and Enzo) go to see Taylor Swift on the Reputation Tour in 2018, a London show, and it might be the moment that Charles knows. Charles has been putting one foot in front of the other for so long without knowing what he is climbing towards, and now he knows.
He is at the foot of a mountain, and Taylor Swift is at the peak, and he can just imagine the view from the top.
He hasn’t had that for music before. The last time he thought like this… he had a trail of trophies, a rival and a go-kart.
His second song is better than his first. He publishes Rusted Things on Spotify, and he posts on an up-and-coming TikTok as surely as he does on YouTube.
So you give up on your dreams, and hope these feathers don’t rust / You give up these things and hope you don’t combust.
He’s sure some of it is cringe, but he does it anyway. One foot in front of the other until you reach the mountaintop. It worked in karting, for a time. It will work in the music industry.
It’s after this song that Arthur confronts him.
“You said you didn’t mind!” Arthur accuses, fresh off of a win in F3 that has all but secured the championship.
“Oui,” Charles agrees, because he does not like fighting in English, it is the language of lyrics and paddocks and politics he has left behind. He is too flowery in English. French is for things he means, the language of his childhood used for things that must be expressed with the weight of a language that is your own.
“What is this?” And Arthur is refusing the language, holding up his phone, open to a video that takes Charles only a few frames to realise is his own, Rusty Things.
“Arthur, I- I am your brother. Your older brother.” He says, and the French flows to his brain but in translating it to English he must think about his words, which, he now realises, is likely safer for this conversation.
There is broken glass on this floor. He will tread with caution.
“I mind losing my karting. I do not mind having given it to you.” He says.
“I didn’t ask-”
“If you had asked I never would have done it.” Charles says, “and it is bad! It was a bad situation but we don’t mind!”
“We?”
“Me and Enzo.”
“Lorenzo? It is always you and Lorenzo now, and- and he is not even our brother!” Arthur says. It seems silly for Arthur to be the one with green eyes and green heart, and Charles reaches for anger. He understands it too well, though, so he falls to sympathy instead.
“Of course he is our brother, Art.” Charles says, “Papa loves him, Maman is his mother, of course he is ours. He gave up his karting for me, I gave it up for you, it is a chain! I hope one day you find someone worth giving it up for, I hope one day you understand what growing up looks like! All of the Formula drivers, they get to the top and they stagnate, and that is natural, and when they are done driving, they learn to grow up again!”
“It’s not Neverland-”
“Of course it is! It’s a dream that takes little boys and it makes them promises and they leave it behind one day! But I hope it takes you a long time, to grow up. I- Art, I love you.”
“I love you too.” Arthur says, because that is the pattern, a call and a response.
“You know I love you as much as I love Lorenzo, and I like you that much too. It’s just that, well, me and you shared karting, and then me and Enzo shared giving that up.”
“I know. And- and you know I appreciate it, right?” Arthur says, and his voice cracks up in a way that is unfamiliar to Charles. Arthur does not cry. It is not in his repertoire, not really. He is the littlest, and Charles and Enzo usually tried not to make him cry, and then the karting kind of numbed them all to emotion. Emotion means slides and emotion means snaps and emotion means not catching the kart. So Charles hugs Arthur and pretends his own eyes are not watering, now.
He wonders if the years without karting have softened him, have made him more prone to these tears.
Arthur comes with them to the next concert they attend. It’s a Tuesday to not clash with anything and Enzo says he is getting too old for this shit but he has booked the next one for a Wednesday by the time they have left. It’s some other pop singer, and it is nice. Losing yourself in a crowd is always more fun than losing yourself in headphones, a phone or laptop blinking back at you. A concert introduces a crowd surging with you.
Arthur rocks out. It’s been a while since they went to live music together, to be fair, one more thing that fell to the wayside when money got tight. Lorenzo has been paying for Charles’s dreams for longer than Charles can possibly acknowledge.
Charles hugs him extra tight that night, until Lorenzo lets out an “oof, côtes, côtes, côtes” that has Charles laughing.
The next one is Phoebe Bridgers, which they emerge from with tear tracks on their faces and a group promise never to talk about it.
2017 also brings the death of Hervé Leclerc.
Charles is done talking about it. They are all done talking about it. Everyone always wants to talk about it and it fucking sucks, it sucks, it is awful, it is terrible. Charles is hollow, is that what they want to hear? No, they want to hear, it is sad but we are moving on, we are getting our life together, we are not going to be defined by it.
They are defined by it. Monaco is small, they get glances in the streets from locals while the billionaires ignore the sewer rats that keep the entire fucking country going. Charles is not feeling particularly benevolent.
2018 brings luck for Arthur, who wins the F3 championship.
He signs to F2. They tell their father’s gravestone on picnic blankets like he’s still going to respond, like he can still pat Arthur’s shoulder and say, well done, son. The stone does not move. The world does not reshape.
Horribly, Papa’s death also means Charles gets brand new material. He’s done grief, but dead dads seem to sell better.
It’s pathetic. It’s upsetting. It makes Charles wants to take a torch to his childhood home and use it as a pyre, throw all the witches responsible for the fucked up world on top of the flames and laugh as their skin chars. But he doesn’t say that, he doesn’t do that. He just writes.
He does not publish criticism of the fans. There are more, now, he’s getting to 30,000 or so and he has a new record label contract.
Lorenzo says he can sign this one after some communication with the label. He signs on, for an advance of 50k, which is really fucking decent to Charles.
He has a lot of material and a lot of emotion and a lot of anger, so he writes an album of fire. Lorenzo has argued for him to have a pretty decent amount of artistic liberty, so he titles the album dedications and lets the album cover be a burning pile of letters.
The label tells him that the lead single should be For Papa, which turns an elegy into anger. Charles hates his father for dying, a little bit, and the label calls it daring, but it’s the least daring song on the album.
For Jules is the one that receives the acclaim, though. The Formula 1 fans flock to it, the way they do because Jules was theirs, too, a little bit. It makes Charles sick. Everything makes Charles sick - not the jealous bile that hates him for turning against himself. This is the illness of a teenager being against the world, even though he is freshly twenty now.
For Jules means that Daniel Ricciardo reaches out.
Daniel Ricciardo☑️| @danielricciardo3
Hi, Charles. It’s Daniel Ricciardo (well my management are sending this but I drafted the message :)). I heard your song (for jules) and I just wanted to say a lot really.
I knew Jules. I talked to him quite a bit, for whatever reason. We were both young and growing up in F1 and it’s a pretty scary place, I guess.
He talked about you a lot, is what I guess I wanted to say. He said you were fast a ridiculous amount, talented a bit more, and most of all kind. He mentioned what you did to your brother, and I think it is a sacrifice that only other fast people can really understand, and, I don’t know. And then Max talks about you too (seriously, free me) and it feels like a lot of factors made me think… yeah, let’s reach out.
I have nothing to give you except the little piece of Jules that I knew, and I guess you probably got a lot of that already from people who could do it before me. Your songs are good, in my non-professional opinion, they’ve genuinely been added to my playlist, for what it’s worth.
Max seriously keeps talking about you. If you want to brush up on your karting and then race him at some shitty track I will actually personally fund it just to shut the guy up.
Sorry I didn’t reach out sooner. Sorry I’m reaching out now.
charles leclerc | @charlesleclerc97
Hi, Daniel (and management??)
Glad you liked the song? Sorry Max is a chronic talker, I see not much has changed since he was sixteen 😂
Thank you. Your memories of Jules do mean something, and quite a lot if I’m willing to be honest. And for having my song on your playlist, I guess. And congratulations on winning in Monaco, I was watching it, and it was a good race of course.
I know what losing Jules did to me. I am not exactly going to say your priority should have been on texting his godson, his world was big and I know that, most of all now.
Daniel Ricciardo☑️| @danielricciardo3
Okay I stole my password from management and told them not to look here or they’re fired and they know I’m full of shit but they won’t look.
I can tell you everything I knew about Jules. There will always be a ticket to the paddock set aside for you in my hospitality, so, whenever you want. Or Lorenzo, I guess? (Would offer Arthur, but I think it would cause a diplomatic incident for a Ferrari Academy boy to be here 😂). Can pay for your flights too, I really have enough money for my lifetime.
Jules’s world was big and there were lots of people that loved him, but your place in it… did not seem small, from my perspective. He was always bigging you and Arthur up. Losing him sucked, but I know he would have wanted me to check in on you guys, and I’m sorry that I didn’t anyway, and please just let that one sit because you deserve to hear it without, like, minimising it.
charles leclerc | @charlesleclerc97
Thank you, Daniel. I do not want to go to the paddock yet but I would like to hear about him, whenever you have time.
They meet in a coffee shop, as most things happen. Daniel’s breath smells like the caramel syrup he has had pumped into a latte when he leans in too close, and they start speaking about Jules, of course.
“He was one of my best friends,” Daniel says, “and I mean, I know Lorenzo was probably, closer, but… we were two people that understood what Formula meant and what it took, too.”
So they talk about Daniel and they talk about Charles, and Daniel asks, “So, got anyone waiting at home?”
“No, not exactly.” Charles replies, and things happen like dominos until Daniel has Charles against the wall. Daniel is kissing Charles and Charles realises he is kissing Daniel as well. Daniel extracts a promise for a second coffee sometime, and Charles is agreeing before he even thinks about it.
So… turns out he might like men.
Charles releases his second album in 2019, and while dedications had him in a grand total of 4 pubs, small clubs and tiny venues in France, the 2019 one reflects the fame he garnered from dedications. The road is harsh, to be honest, but he’s performing in actual concert venues now. A not-insignificant number of the attendees wear merch from Formula, and a part of Charles, the part that has been rotting since he was sixteen, hates it. Wants to scream. He is a performer first and foremost, though.
His second album is titled Sixteen. It’s his birth date, and it is also his old racing number, and the age when he gave everything up. It is an album of loss, and it is where he put Rusted Things, remixed and reworked to function in this album.
It’s nice, to return to his roots. It’s also an album where he tried to put Gilded Streets, but the label vetoed for being way too anti-capitalist in messaging. Thanks to Lorenzo, this situation is accounted for in his contract and, now that they have rejected it, it is his his his in a way that makes the covetous thing within him laugh. He did write Monaco as a sister track which almost does the opposite - the light to Gilded Streets’ shadowy underworld, and he does not like Monaco as much without the undercurrent, but it remains on the album.
The album is really the summary of Charles Leclerc, to be honest. It’s nice.
It’s nice, when he shouts out “Sing it!” and the crowd sings back, their torches constellations in the dark of a venue. It’s nice, in a way, that his pain is reflected in them. He is remarkable because he is holding the microphone, not because he is holding his pain.
It’s nice when Daniel is in the wings and kisses him afterwards, too. It’s nice, the other things that Daniel does to him.
2019 also sees Arthur enter F2. He’s, again, in a midfield team and he is, once more, having to climb. It is fine, he is doing very well, of course, they have all put a lot of work into Arthur’s dreams, and they all understand it enough to not behave like total morons when Arthur talks about what his race was like it. They watch every race. It tears Charles up, just a little, makes ragged these intestines, shreds these organs the smallest bit.
2019 also sees the death of Anthoine Hubert. Charles raced with Anthoine, once upon a time. He knew him, knew Anthoine’s laugh, knew Anthoine’s smile.
It feels like whenever his gut goes green, whenever he feels this creature, it takes someone else as a reminder. The chalice is poisoned. The sport is dangerous. Nothing is ever as good as it seems.
Charles holds Daniel closer. In the nights between sex and the real world, Charles affixes himself to Daniel’s side like glue and he doesn’t let go or take it for granted. Each breath becomes much more precious.
2020 is when things bloom.
Charles takes a year off of the albums, signs a new deal with a new, bigger record label. He gets Lorenzo to look over it and hires a lawyer for the first time, and the sign-on bonus is bigger, of course. His fans follow him, dogs at his heels, and he is getting to become a household name.
The pandemic hits. COVID hits in waves, actually, times where they believe everything will be fine and times they believe everything they know will change and has already changed irreparably and unmistakeably.
He and Daniel try to keep their thing up. It’s not feasible to isolate together and, Charles thinks, the idea seems to make both of their teeth ache. It’s too much, too close, too Daniel for the Charles and too Charles for the Daniel. They like each other best when they are fleeting, in the breaths between their career, and, well…
“This isn’t going to work, is it?” Daniel asks.
“No.” Charles says, “No, but… you were what I needed when I needed you.”
“I love you, Charles.” Daniel says. “I’m sorry we can’t do this in person.”
“Yeah. I love you too, Daniel.” Charles says.
“This is it?”
“This is it. Break up.”
“Do me a favour? Don’t write about me on this album, but the next one would be cool. Let it cool down a bit first, but then… you make masterpieces, Charles.”
“Thank you, Daniel.” Charles says. “We can stay friends, yes?”
“I don’t think I could stop if I tried.” Daniel says, which might just summarise their relationship perfectly.
COVID is a time in which Charles thinks any album he writes will be fundamentally dated, ridiculous and melodramatic, not to mention sad. He is alone, in an apartment that has become a bit of a cage, but he is an artist.
Of course he writes an album.
He voice notes himself on Whatsapp at first, and then usually videos himself with his guitar and then he sends them to his label and they say if it is shit. He first writes Dream World, mostly in an empty bath tub because he likes to change his perspective, write in new places to get something new, to change the schematics of his brain, but there’s nowhere really that he can go.
“I think I’m living in a dream world, and the cars have all ground to a halt. The mechanisms are decaying, the humans are slowly leaving. I think I’m living in a dream world, where nothing really happens, and everything goes wrong, and everyone is dying and, everyone stays home.”
He’s melodramatic. The label like it, they think it will speak to the masses, and they think they need to strike while the iron is hot.
They have given him a very brief rundown on, essentially, pressing the on button in the recording studio, and he sings.
They release it as a single, without an album planned. Critics call it a sociopathic move. Charles hopes they are wrong, but he has no one he can ask for a hug to say it will all be okay, so he sits. His nails become chewed down to the flesh, and he misses Daniel a bit. Daniel would have said something. He would have made Charles laugh, at least.
The weeks prove the label right. Charles gets his first number 1 hit.
When Charles admits he is going to call the album Neverland, because he thought it would stress them out unless they fell in love with it first, the label does in fact stress out. They talk to the lawyers and the lawyers talk to the label and eventually everyone folds, and the album cover is Charles flying through the air. It sucks to create, actually, because they actually make him fly, which is very uncomfortable and he is trying to look comfortable when harnesses are digging in just about everywhere, but the album is Neverland and it’s worth it, in the end.
His personal pièce de résistance is Never Growing Up! which fits beautifully with the album theme and is, objectively, a critique of fame, but he certainly wrote it about Formula.
“I’m never growing out of this, immature jealousy, and I’m never getting better at, brotherhood or friendliness. I think I’m stuck this age, sixteen and twenty-two. I’m never getting past this year, never changing, never opting out.”
The lockdown ends for summer, and they all get back together, ignore the consequences and pretend that the last half a year wasn’t, like, the loneliest thing they had ever done.
Charles gets recognised for the first time. It’s weird. He takes a picture and it is weird, to have gone home in February a nobody and emerged in July a somebody.
He keeps getting recognised. Arthur does not, despite the fact he is well on his way to winning F2.
And then, in December, Arthur does win the Formula 2 and signs a contract with Haas. Seb had a pretty shocking season, salvaged only by Carlos Sainz performing even more dismally. The Ferrari team boss gets fired, which seems fair enough, actually. Lewis gains his seventh championship.
Arthur is paired with Mick Schumacher, which is a terrifying legacy for Arthur to be against, scarier only for Mick.
In 2021, Charles attends a Formula 1 race outside of Monaco for the first time in years. He goes to Emilia-Romagna and pretends he does not hate the circus of F1 as Twitter seemingly explodes.
@gonewiththegrid: why do they even invite celebs who know nothing about racing?
→ @cl97truther: are you stupid? gen q. im concerned for u girl
@charlesleclercupdates: HES AT THE GRAND PRIX!
@verstappenupdate: Max is talking to a celebrity… seemingly voluntarily?
Bumping into Max Verstappen is a coincidence. He is in the paddock, so is Max.
“Charles!” Max says, and, well, Charles was not expecting that. Of course Daniel mentioned Max mentioned Charles but he kind of thought that was just being polite.
“Max, hey.” Charles says, suddenly very aware of his clothes. Arthur has put a Haas cap on him, but otherwise he is in a button-up (half unbuttoned) and slacks with trainers, which seems silly. Then again, Max is wearing a team shirt and skinny jeans, so he isn’t exactly going to be judging.
There is a Toro Rosso shirt somewhere in Charles’s cupboard. He tries not to think about it.
“Mate, oh my God, please tell me you are getting in a car and driving, please, I cannot handle these morons any more.” Max says. The inflection on morons is as harsh as it is endearing, the husked aspect of Max’s voice that Charles has been hearing on team radios for years, now.
“Nah, just here to support Arthur.” Charles says.
“Okay, counterpoint, to support me.”
There is a Toro Rosso shirt somewhere on Charles’s mind, and it is years out of date at this point.
“I’ll clap if you win.” Charles offers, and Max grins.
“I will win, then.”
Max does win.
Charles does clap.
After the race, Charles watches Max’s interview. Arthur will be a while yet in the debrief, and Charles is in no rush.
“So we will open questions to the floor, please state your name and outlet.” The guy who manages the conference says.
“Hi, Tress with Sky News… Question for Max - you were spotted having a conversation with pop star Charles Leclerc, do we have ourselves a fan?” Charles jolts a little at his name, waking from the sleepy aspect of listening to people drone.
“He’s a singer?” Max says, which is objectively quite funny. “Good for him.”
“Why were you talking to him?”
“Mate, thank God we have all of these racing related questions.” Max says dryly. “I remember talent, and Charles was talented.”
Max says Charles, with the harsh ch. It’s nice, that this has not changed since they were teens.
@kzworld: A throwback photo! Max Verstappen on the podium with Charles Leclerc and Jordan Lennox.
→ @maisymoo: Hang on
→ @dareeeen: Pardon
@ArthurLeclerc☑️: yall didnt know my brother karted? lmao
→ @LorenzoLeclerc: as if u could be in our family and not 😭
Arthur and Charles find themselves in some club or another, because it was of course Arthur’s second ever race, and that matters.
They find themselves in a club swarmed with Red Bull uniforms because the universe has a sense of humour. Max, in the middle, is downing shots as he laughs and laughs, and the mechanics are matching him shot for shot.
Charles and Arthur quickly decide that they are not drunk enough for this, and Charles buys them three shots each.
Max looks happy. He wrings himself out of the rag of Red Bull employees to get another drink, and Charles doubts Max has bought many of the drinks he’s consumed tonight. He is their pride and joy. He stumbles towards the bar, and then turns to face Charles.
“Told you!” He says, “I said I would win, yes?”
“He did?” Arthur asks.
“Yes.” Charles agrees.
“You are so sober, you are so- okay! Let’s fix that! A drink for the gentleman please- both of them actually. It is a night to celebrate!” Max declares to the bartender. “Charles, Charles, Charles, I miss racing you.”
“Yeah, Max, buddy, let’s-”
“No, like, everyone else is so boring.”
“Yep.” Charles agrees, making eye contact with several drivers that have filtered into the club over the duration of the night.
“Like, no risk, at all, it is- the barriers are soft and cozy now, they are- well, not fine to hit, but-”
“Max, let’s not- can we get you- there’s gonna be a diplomatic incident.” Charles says, and Arthur raises an eyebrow, takes the gin and tonic Max has apparently ordered him, and slinks off, leaving Charles with Max.
Max is not a clingy drunk, but he seeks proximity, right next to Charles.
“You sing?” Max asks. “The press say you sing.”
“Yeah, I sing.”
“You do not drive?”
“Nah.”
“Why not? You were much better than Arthur-”
“Mate.”
“You say mate like- like you are trying to stop me.”
“I am.” Charles says, which he thinks is a kind way of excusing whatever thing claws at his chest and begs to get out.
“Why? It is the truth?”
“The truth is not always what we want to hear, Max, and- fuck, who knows? I can live with this.”
“Can you?” Max asks. “I couldn’t.”
Charles plays another gig and he loses himself in the crowd, sways and dances and feels them until he numbs himself to the loss of karting. He is back in the paddock for the Monaco Grand Prix, and he feels more okay to smile sweetly for the cameras.
Can you? I couldn’t.
It plays in his mind now, because, really, can Charles ever be okay with the life he gave up? Now, he has the fame, he is fulfilling one dream, but he knows that it is his second choice. There’s a song in there somewhere. There’s a song in most things if you look at it from the right angle.
He does not cross paths with Max until a red flag means the guy is rushing to the garage. He spots Charles somehow, from a long way down the pitlane. He points and gestures his hands together, as if to applaud.
“Win first!” Charles calls, and Max shrugs and winks as he heads into the Red Bull garage to argue with his team a bit. The red flag eventually ends and Max gets back out there. Carlos Sainz has achieved his first pole position for Ferrari, but the Ferrari is no match for the race pace of the Red Bull in Max Verstappen’s hands.
Max wrestles it to a win in Monaco after Ferrari butcher Sainz’s strategy. Charles thinks, at least that is not me. Max wins and Charles claps.
Can you? I couldn’t.
@madmax: charles leclerc team 33’s gl charm
Charles plays concerts for another while, and so it is about a month until he goes to another race. He has a break scheduled in and so he is flying in for most of the Sundays in the break, but getting home as quickly as possible to remember the comfort of his own sheets. He walks into the paddock in France, accompanied by a social media manager for Haas and also Red Bull, for no apparent reason. When the video eventually crosses his feed, of course, it becomes apparent. The video is just him walking in and giving them a confused smile, but the caption…
@RedBullRacing: Max in skinny jeans + Charles in the paddock? IN THE BAG.
It is ridiculous. Max is not even superstitious, so it is especially ridiculous.
Max wins. Charles claps, but he is annoyed about it. He will come next race, and Max will not win it and the curse of luck will be broken, of course.
Max has the nerve to win Styria, and Charles stays a week in Austria for the next Grand Prix as well, which Max will definitely not win because 3 in a row would be silly, frankly.
max: hey, you still in austria
charles: yep
max: fifa?
charles: dont tell arthur
max: as if
They play FIFA, both tucked up on the double bed in Max’s hotel room. Being Red Bull’s golden boy affords them very few perks aside from the parties and apparently storage for Max’s PlayStation in the flights.
“Austria is nice, I mean, a nice one to win.” Max says with a small smile as he annihilates Charles quite thoroughly.
“Must be.” Charles says. He can feel the tension of his eyebrows, just forcing his focus to the screen. Max’s question echoes in his mind. Can he hack it? Can he live with what he has lost? Where would he be, if he had kept going? Would he have been one of those discarded, cigarette butts of ex-karters that now litter the streets? Or where Arthur is, in a team that isn’t even fighting for points regardless of the calibre of its drivers?
Or would he be in Max’s shoes instead? Fighting Lewis Hamilton for a championship?
Charles misses karting. Charles misses finding out what is possible for a human, what is possible for him.
Right now, what is possible is apparently Max winning 7-1 at virtual football. There is no excuse, really, so Charles begins cheating by elbowing Max at crucial moments.
Max still wins 8-2.
The second Austrian Grand Prix has the nerve to go Max’s way as well. Charles is clapping with hate on his mind, to be honest.
“Question for Max. Charles Leclerc has attended every race that you have won, this season. Do you think he’s a lucky charm?” A reporter asks.
“I do not believe in luck. I win because I drive fast, I mean, back when we were karting Charles was at most of the races I did not win.”
“That’s because he was miles ahead sometimes.” Alex Albon laughs.
“Yes, like I say, he did not bring me luck.” Max says, and he smiles a beat later.
Charles has promised Daniel a song about him, and Charles doesn’t realise until Hyacinth is mostly drafted that he has written an entire album about Daniel. It’s funny, given his ex-boyfriend was a year and a half that was fundamentally inconsequential, really, but the album is one that makes sense gradually.
laurel boy is the single, the label insists, and Charles does not fight very hard. He would pick Indigo, but that is not their interest really. laurel boy is more honest, a better promise of what the rest of the album is.
“If I said that I like champions, he would get his trophies out. If I said I liked it sweet, he was sugar, if I wanted coffee he was mocha, he was everything I needed but, just not what I wanted. Laurel boy, you let me rest on your upper thighs, let me find safety in your watchful eyes. Laurel boy, il mio campione, let me find safe harbour here, surrounded by your gold.”
It goes number one. Charles is glad he didn’t fight, he is glad he has the label at least.
“Max! Starting off with some non-racing questions-”
“My favourite.”
“How are the cats?”
“Both good! Yes, Sassy is, um, tearing my curtains up, but that is okay, I will buy more for her.”
“Leclerc released his song, laurel boy. You guys have been spotted a couple times interacting, so, we have to ask, do you have opinions?”
“I have not listened. I do not really do music.”
Charles does not attend Belgium, so Max wins his first race of the 2021 season without Charles there to applaud.
@33teammv: war is over the good luck charm is unnecessary
→ @LH44life: wow ur goat managed 1 lap without his boyfriend there. huzzah.
@ilewisonherham: fucking ridiculous that that’s gonna count towards the points.
He does attend the Dutch Grand Prix like a fool. The stands bleed orange, and Arthur has another race for 0 points. The Haas garage is starting to get antsy, evidently, as more and more pass with no reward. When he is asked, Charles bravely does not say something silly like, “Fire everyone involved. Literally everyone except the drivers.” He thinks it wouldn’t be diplomatic.
But the Dutch lion crosses the line, and the Dutch stands roar for him. He has earned their loyalty today alone.
Daniel bumps into Charles in the paddock, dressed in McLaren orange. “Saw the new song.”
“You like it?” Charles asks.
“Yeah.” Daniel says, “I think it’s generous.”
“I thought it came across too harsh, I have another one I wanted-”
“I’m not exactly a world champion, Charles.” Daniel says, “Not yet. Not quite a laurel boy.”
“Well, I’m not a driver at all, Daniel, I’ve never won any race.” Charles says shortly.
“I- Charles.”
Can you? I couldn’t.
Daniel has this habit of worming into people’s lives and never really letting them get back to things. He gets into Charles’s hotel and knocks until Charles opens up, and says, “You’ve got a date.”
“Dan, we don’t-”
“Not with me. Come on. I am done with seeing you circle Max and Max talk about you. This isn’t about me.” And Daniel breezes through, pokes through Charles’s suitcase as he throws things onto the bed, “It’s about poor Checo. Poor poor Sergio. Think about that! I have had enough of Charles would have taken that corner less wide and Charles would never have lifted there or braked that early! Charles. Charles. Go and snog that man please. I’m genuinely asking.”
“Daniel, I don’t-”
“Oh my God. I don’t have time for this. Put these clothes on.” Daniel says.
Charles looks down at the pile. He scrunches up his nose, switches the Hawaiian shirt that someone must have snuck into the suitcase for a burgundy one and begins to pull it on instead of his wrinkled sleep shirt.
“Fucking ridiculous.” Charles says, just to prove he still has fight in him.
Max is at a restaurant, looking baffled. Charles sits down across from him, and says, “I think Daniel has been scheming.”
“I think Daniel has been scheming, too.” Max agrees.
“So. You talk about me a lot?”
“You look at me longingly a lot?”
“Call it even?”
“Even.” Max grins.
“Is the food good?”
“I don’t know. But Daniel’s paying, so I’m getting the steak.”
“And a bottle of their finest?”
“Mr Leclerc!” Max says, playing coy. “Yes of course.”
Somewhere, between the steak and 50 year aged scotch on the rocks, they talk. And talk. And talk. While Daniel felt like something fun, like the bit where a rollercoaster is dropping and it feels like your stomach is bottomless and sinking all at once, Max feels like something different. Max feels like being in a car, driving on a motorway, like the radio is off and all you can do is sit and talk. Like Charles could never truly learn everything, but like he wants to, a bit.
“And Alex, I am surprised he did not do better, to be honest, he was a better karter.” Max says.
“Yeah, but then, he had to fight so hard.” Charles says, “I mean, everyone does when they are in your shadow.”
“That’s what everyone- well. I think I am the reason that they are not going to be successful - everyone thought Daniel would be champion, I mean.”
“I didn’t.” Charles says. “I fell in love with him, and I never thought he would be good enough.”
“No?”
“He was driving next to you, and then he didn’t think he could hack it. Maybe if the Mercedes had been shit, but, I think if you put most drivers in a car that’s faster by enough they could be champion. Daniel lets things be shit because he believes if he suffers enough, he will earn it.”
“You disagree?”
“I think bad things happen and they mean everything to you and nothing by any other metric.” Charles says.
They drink their scotch, and then they order a bottle of the nicest wine to go. They take it by the neck and Max says he knows a spot, and they walk together towards a view that Max says will be worth it.
The view is worth it.
On top of a rolling hill, they sit and exchange the bottle, sipping from the rim and letting the wine dip down through their throats. The valley beneath them, visible from the grass, hides trees within its folds right until it meets the sea. It is beautiful.
“So, you like men?” Charles asks.
Max shrugs.
“I like who I like.” He says, “It does not matter what they are.”
“And me?”
“I like you.” Max confirms.
“I like you too.” Charles says.
And then Max is grinning, placing the bottle down, out of reach. “Race you to the bottom,” he says, and begins to roll down the hill, caution to the wind and grass stains ignored.
Charles follows suit, forcing his body to be faster. The weightlessness matters far more than the tinge of illness that comes with rolling down a hill at an age too big and a stomach too full.
He is fifteen and chasing Max. He is twenty-four and chasing Max. Through all of his life, he is nothing except his proximity to Max.
They reach the bottom at the same time, or close enough to it. This means that Charles maintains that he won and Max maintains that he won until they are on top of each other, kissing at the bottom of a huge expanse of slope and grass and the valley and the view.
Charles is kissing Max. Max is kissing Charles. They taste like the same wine that their spit has been mixing in, they taste like each other, they taste like they are one. Charles’s knees ache and he feels a little nauseous, like everything has been mixed up inside of him, but he does not care. He and Max are kissing. It feels like it should rewrite a world.
It is enough to fuel an album. It is enough to fuel two albums, enough to make a discography, enough for the Top 100 to all be Charles-and-Max.
They are rolling down the hill. They are at each other’s heels, at each other’s sides, P1 and P2 and untouchable.
They are each other’s foil. They are made for each other, two halves of humans that haven’t learned to live without each other, yet.
They are rolling down a hill and they are so old and so young, they know everything about each other and nothing about everything.
Charles writes Navy Blue, Wedding White in snatches of time between Max’s kisses, and he brings out the old Toro Rosso tee for the album cover. He has lost karting but he has not lost his rival. He could never really lose Max, not when he has the other’s heart in his own chest.