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Chapter Text

Ashes and Asphalt

Chapter 0 — Ashes and Asphalt

The air was thick with the sharp tang of fuel and hot rubber, the kind of smell that settled deep in your lungs and lingered for hours. Even years later, Charles would remember this track — not for the wins, but for the way the late sunlight bled gold across the asphalt, stretching their shadows until they looked older than they were. Back then, they were just boys, helmets too big for their faces, egos even bigger.

The kart engines idled in the pit lane, their growl vibrating through Charles’s ribs. He sat forward in his seat, chin tilted toward the track, eyes locked on the final corner. His gloves were already warm with sweat. He’d been leading most of the race, holding his line, hitting every apex like his life depended on it.

But behind him, he could feel Max. Always Max.

The faint whine of the Dutch boy’s engine was different — sharper, hungrier, like it cut through the air instead of fighting it. Charles didn’t have to look to know how close he was; he could feel the pressure in his spine, the shadow over his shoulder. It wasn’t fear. Not exactly. More like… inevitability.

Two laps left.

Charles tightened his grip. The next corner came too fast, but he held his ground, tires kissing the inside kerb. Max didn’t back off. He never did.

By the penultimate lap, the rhythm between them was brutal: brake, turn, accelerate, defend. Charles could almost hear his own heartbeat over the roar in his ears. The track was narrow here, bordered by old metal barriers that had seen better days. Overtaking was possible, but not without risk — and Max had always been the kind of risk that forced you to choose between pride and survival.

He chose pride.

On the final straight before the last corner, Max moved. Charles saw the flicker in his peripheral vision — the flash of the other kart’s nose diving toward the inside line — and he reacted before thinking, steering to shut the door. But Max was already committed.

The impact was small in sound but brutal in sensation. The karts clashed, wheels grazing, and in an instant Charles’s kart jolted sideways, skidding across the track and into the gravel runoff. A spray of pebbles rattled against the underside as the engine coughed and stalled.

By the time he wrestled the kart to a stop, Max was already gone, disappearing around the corner in a blur of blue and orange.

Charles ripped his helmet off before the kart had even cooled, his cheeks burning hotter than the late-summer air. He didn’t care about the race being over — not yet. He cared about the look on Max’s face when he found him.

And he did find him, less than two minutes later, at the end of parc fermé. Max was climbing out of his kart, undoing the strap of his helmet with the careless ease of someone who had already decided the outcome was worth it.

“What the hell was that?” Charles’s voice cracked like a whip, the French edge in his accent sharper than usual.

Max didn’t even look at him. “It’s called racing,” he said flatly, tossing his gloves into the seat.

“You hit me.”

“You closed the door.”

“You could’ve lifted.”

“You could’ve left space.”

The words bounced between them, each sharper than the last, until Charles stepped forward, closing the gap between them entirely. They were almost the same height back then, just inches apart, but the space felt suffocating.

“Say it wasn’t on purpose,” Charles demanded, green eyes locked on him.

Max finally looked at him, and the corner of his mouth curved — not in apology, but in something that looked dangerously like satisfaction. “I wanted to win.”

The anger in Charles’s chest flared white-hot. He didn’t remember deciding to shove him, but the motion came fast — hands flat against Max’s chest, forcing him back a step. Max recovered instantly, his hand shooting out to grab Charles by the suit.

The scuffle that followed was messy, graceless, all flailing limbs and gritted teeth. Mechanics rushed in, voices raised, hands pulling them apart. Someone yelled in Dutch, someone else in French, and the whole thing dissolved into the chaos of a paddock that had seen too many young drivers learn the hard way that talent didn’t always mean control.

In the end, they were dragged to opposite sides of the tent. Charles sat on a folding chair, helmet at his feet, chest still heaving. Across the way, Max leaned against a wall, arms folded, gaze fixed anywhere but on him.

Neither of them said another word.

But the silence wasn’t truce — it was the kind that settled like a fault line, invisible until the day it cracked open again.

Years later, Charles would realize that this was the day the line was drawn. Not between rivals on track, but between the version of Max he could have called a friend… and the one he couldn’t stop wanting to beat.

The award ceremony was held in the cracked courtyard beside the paddock — three faded podium blocks set against a sun-bleached sponsor banner. The loudspeakers squealed every time the announcer spoke, and the air still shimmered with heat rising from the track.

Charles stood just off to the side, his race suit half-zipped, undershirt clinging to his back with sweat. He wasn’t meant to be here; drivers who didn’t finish weren’t expected to line up for the photographs. But his coach had insisted — “It’s good sportsmanship.”

Sportsmanship tasted like dust in his mouth.

Max was already up there, a winner’s cap pushed low over his forehead, hands loose at his sides like the trophy in front of him was just another piece of furniture. His posture was relaxed, but Charles could see the faint rise of his chest, the twitch in his jaw.

The second-place driver climbed onto his block. Cameras clicked. Applause scattered like loose gravel.

Max glanced toward him, just once. The look wasn’t smug — it was unreadable, which was somehow worse. Charles held his gaze for half a second before looking away.

When it was over, the crowd broke apart into small knots of people — families, mechanics, team managers. Charles kept to the edge, picking at the seam of his glove, trying not to listen. But voices carried easily here.

“…aggressive move,” someone said behind him, laughing. “That’s Max for you. He goes for the gap. Always has.”

“He could’ve taken them both out.”

“Didn’t, though. That’s racing.”

Charles turned the words over in his head until they felt like pebbles in his shoe. Always has. Didn’t, though. That’s racing.

He spotted Max a few meters away, leaning against the barrier with a water bottle dangling from his fingers. Two older men stood with him — his father and his mechanic, Charles guessed — and they were laughing about something. Max’s voice cut through:

“…he left the line open. If you want to win, you don’t leave the line open.”

The others chuckled. Charles felt heat climb up the back of his neck.

He told himself to walk away, to cool off before he said something he couldn’t take back. But his feet didn’t move. He stood there, half-hidden behind a stack of tires, listening to the easy confidence in Max’s tone. It wasn’t even malicious. That was the worst part — Max wasn’t boasting about wrecking him. He was simply… sure of himself.

Later, when the paddock started to empty, Charles found himself on the far side of the tent, packing his gear in silence. The low hum of conversation had faded, replaced by the rattle of metal carts and the occasional clang of a dropped tool. He could hear Max somewhere nearby — not speaking now, just the sound of zippers, Velcro, and the dull thud of gear being shoved into a bag.

When Charles glanced up, Max was there, across the narrow aisle. No one else was around. The golden light from the open side of the tent caught the edge of his hair, turning it almost copper.

For a second, neither of them moved.

Charles’s first instinct was to break the silence with something cutting — to call him reckless, arrogant, dangerous. Instead, what slipped out was quieter than he intended.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

Max paused, hand on the strap of his helmet bag. “Do what?”

“You know what.”

A faint shrug. “If I didn’t, someone else would have. This isn’t a place for holding back.”

It wasn’t the answer Charles wanted. But it wasn’t a lie, either.

He looked away first, busying himself with folding his gloves. “You’re going to make a lot of enemies racing like that.”

Max’s reply was immediate, almost too soft to catch. “Maybe I already have.”

By the time Charles looked up again, Max was gone, the flap of the tent swaying behind him.

That night, lying in bed, Charles stared at the ceiling long after the noises of the paddock faded into the quiet of the small town. The day replayed in pieces — the roar of engines, the jolt of impact, the heat of Max’s shoulder when they shoved each other. He told himself it was the adrenaline. The anger. The competition.

But even then, there was something else threaded through it.

Something he wouldn’t name for years.

Chapter Text

Chapter 1 — Lights Out

March 2022. The season opener in Bahrain. The paddock buzzed with the familiar noise of a year about to begin — wheel guns cracking in the garages, team radios chattering in clipped voices, the faint smell of fresh asphalt mixing with desert heat.

Charles adjusted the cuffs of his Ferrari race suit as he stepped out of the motorhome. He’d been here countless times, yet the first race of the year always carried its own weight. The slate was clean. Every point mattered. Every lap counted. And every rival was watching.

Especially one.

Across the lane, the Red Bull garage was a hive of activity, and at the centre of it — naturally — was Max Verstappen. The reigning world champion stood with a mechanic, arms crossed, cap pulled low against the glare. Even from here, Charles could make out the faint smirk that seemed permanently fixed on his face, like he knew something everyone else didn’t.

Charles didn’t stare. He told himself he didn’t. But his gaze lingered long enough for Max’s to flick up and catch it. For a brief, charged moment, neither looked away.

“You going to keep glaring at him or are you coming?” Carlos’s voice cut through, pulling Charles back. His teammate was already halfway toward the garage, carrying a bottle of water and that unbothered confidence he wore like a second skin.

“Wasn’t glaring,” Charles muttered.

“Sure.” Carlos grinned without slowing down. “Come on, briefing’s in five.”

The Ferrari garage was a carefully controlled chaos — engineers moving in precise patterns, tools clinking, laptops open with streams of live data. Charles found his seat at the briefing table, nodding to his race engineer as he pulled a printed sheet closer. Strategy notes, tyre allocations, track temperature projections. Bahrain was always tricky, the evening races punishing on tyres.

They were mid-way through fuel load discussion when the door opened and Max stepped in. He wasn’t part of this meeting — wrong team, wrong garage — but there he was, water bottle in hand, leaning casually against the wall as though he’d been invited.

“Wrong room,” Charles said without looking up from his notes.

“Just seeing how the other half works,” Max replied easily. “Don’t worry, I won’t steal your secrets.”

“Wouldn’t help you anyway.”

A few engineers exchanged quick glances, but no one interrupted. Max stayed for another two minutes before pushing off the wall and heading out without a word.

Later, in the first free practice, the rivalry came alive. Charles had been on a push lap, tyres warm, every corner flowing smoothly — until Turn 4. Max appeared in his mirrors, closing fast. The Red Bull slipped into his slipstream, and for a heartbeat Charles thought Max would back off.

He didn’t.

The Dutchman dived down the inside, late on the brakes, forcing Charles to open the steering and run slightly wide to avoid contact. It wasn’t dangerous enough for the stewards to care, but it was enough to send Charles’s lap into the bin.

“Red Bull is pushing unnecessarily,” Charles’s voice came through the radio, flat but tight with annoyance.

“Copy,” his engineer replied. “Let’s just get the gap, recharge, then go again.”

Max was already gone, carving through the next corner without a backward glance.

When they crossed paths again in parc fermé, Charles didn’t bother with pleasantries.

“You couldn’t wait half a lap?” he asked, pulling his gloves off one finger at a time.

Max shrugged. “You were in the way.”

“It was practice.”

“And?” A faint, infuriating smile tugged at the corner of Max’s mouth. “You’re not the only one preparing for a race.”

Charles’s jaw tightened. “One day, you’re going to push too far.”

Max stepped past him, voice low enough only Charles could hear. “If I haven’t already, you’re not trying hard enough.”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving Charles standing in the heat, fingers curled tightly around his gloves.

The afternoon heat in Bahrain was oppressive, the kind that made every step feel slower. Free practice had ended hours ago, and the paddock had shifted from high-intensity to something looser. Drivers were scattered between the motorhomes, some reviewing data, others hunting down snacks or hiding in air-conditioned hospitality units.

Charles found himself walking with Carlos toward the main hospitality area. Their helmets and suits were long put away, replaced with team polos and sunglasses. The briefings were done for the day. Now came the quieter part — or as quiet as the paddock ever got.

They passed George talking animatedly with Alex outside the Williams motorhome. A few meters ahead, Pierre and Yuki were making a scene over a coffee machine that clearly wasn’t cooperating. Pierre spotted them and waved them over.

“Ferrari!” Pierre grinned, holding up an empty cup as though it were a trophy. “Do either of you know how to make this thing work?”

“No,” Carlos said immediately. “And if you break it, I’ll pretend I’ve never met you.”

Yuki rolled his eyes and shoved Pierre aside to press a sequence of buttons. The machine whirred, sputtered, and then began filling the cup with a slow stream of espresso. “See? Not that hard,” Yuki said.

“You’ve just doomed us all to hearing him talk about coffee for the next hour,” Charles muttered under his breath.

“What was that, Leclerc?” Pierre teased, though his grin made it clear he’d heard. Charles only shook his head, smiling faintly despite himself.

Later, he settled into one of the shaded tables outside Ferrari’s hospitality with Carlos, Lando, and Alex. Lando had appeared with an iced drink that was more whipped cream than coffee, already halfway gone by the time he sat down.

“So,” Lando said, kicking one foot up onto the empty chair beside him, “first impressions of the season?”

“Too hot,” Carlos replied immediately.

“Track’s decent, though,” Alex offered. “Grippy in the right places.”

“Unless Verstappen’s in your mirrors,” Charles muttered before he could stop himself. The others caught the edge in his tone, though no one commented — not yet.

Instead, Lando smirked. “Sounds like a personal problem.”

Charles shot him a flat look, but it lacked real venom. They all knew this was just how it was. Some rivalries cooled over the off-season. His and Max’s didn’t.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Pulling it out, he saw a new message in a group chat titled Grid Idiots, one Pierre had created back in 2020 when half of them spent their evenings streaming on Twitch instead of sleeping like normal athletes.

Pierre: Verstappen nearly ran over Yuki in the paddock today. 🏃‍♂️💨

Yuki: I was WALKING. HE COULD SEE ME.

George: To be fair, you are very small.

Yuki: I will end you.

Carlos: @Charles you gonna let him talk to Yuki like that?

Charles: Yuki doesn’t need me defending him.

Yuki: Thank you, Charles.

George: Wait, is this because Max cut you off in FP1?

Charles: I’m not answering that.

Pierre: So yes.

Charles locked his phone before they could drag him further into it. He wasn’t about to start that conversation in writing where Pierre could screenshot it for future blackmail.

As the sun began to set, casting a deep orange glow over the paddock, the atmosphere shifted again. The heat softened, the air cooled slightly, and people began to gather in small groups. Music drifted faintly from somewhere down the lane — probably McLaren’s hospitality, judging by the muffled bass and occasional shouts of laughter.

Charles lingered with Carlos near the edge of the main walkway, talking quietly about tyre choices for qualifying. It was calm — until Max appeared from around the corner, phone in hand, and nearly walked straight into him.

They both stopped sharply. For a second, neither moved.

“Watch where you’re going,” Charles said.

Max looked up from his phone, brow raised. “You stopped in the middle of the walkway.”

“I was talking to someone.”

“You can do that and move your feet at the same time. I promise it’s possible.” Max’s tone was flat, but the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth suggested he was enjoying this more than he should.

“Maybe focus on walking straight instead of divebombing people,” Charles shot back.

“Maybe don’t park yourself where people are trying to get through.” Max stepped past him, brushing close enough that Charles caught a faint whiff of whatever soap or cologne he used — something sharp and clean. It annoyed him more than it should have.

Carlos gave him a look as Max disappeared into the crowd. “You two are exhausting.”

Charles didn’t answer.

Charles found Pierre later that afternoon near the paddock exit, leaning against a railing with sunglasses perched on his head. The AlphaTauri driver looked up from his phone and broke into an easy grin.

“Leclerc,” Pierre greeted. “You looked like you were about to kill someone in FP1. Should I be worried?”

Charles rolled his eyes but stepped beside him, resting an elbow on the railing. “He cut across me. No warning.”

“Encore?” Pierre asked, slipping into French without missing a beat. Again?

“Bien sûr.” Of course. Charles kept his voice low. There was a comfort in speaking French here — fewer ears, fewer chances of being quoted in the press. “Il fait exprès.” He’s doing it on purpose.

Pierre smirked knowingly. “Tu es sûr que ce n’est pas juste toi qui le prends mal?” Are you sure it’s not just you taking it the wrong way?

Charles shot him a look. “Je sais ce que je vois.” I know what I see.

“D’accord, mais…” Pierre’s tone turned teasing. “Tu passes beaucoup de temps à le regarder pour quelqu’un qui dit le détester.” You spend a lot of time looking at him for someone who says they hate him.

Charles straightened, turning his gaze toward the track. “Arrête.” Stop.

Pierre only laughed, the sound low and warm. “Fine, fine. Just saying.” He switched back to English. “Anyway, you’re joining us for dinner tonight, right? Yuki will cry if you skip.”

“Will he cry or just yell?” Charles asked, but there was a faint smile on his face now.

“Both,” Pierre said without hesitation. “We’re meeting in the city after sunset. No excuses.”

Charles hesitated. He didn’t mind spending time with the others, but dinners tended to turn into hours of stories, laughter, and subtle jabs that he sometimes wasn’t in the mood for after a day like this.

Still, Pierre’s expectant look was hard to refuse. “Alright,” Charles agreed. “I’ll be there.”

“Good.” Pierre’s grin widened. “And maybe you’ll be in a better mood by then.”

Charles shook his head, but as they walked back toward the motorhomes, the weight in his chest felt slightly lighter.

The sun had dipped below the horizon by the time Charles made his way through the streets of Manama. The city’s glow replaced the fading daylight, a mixture of warm streetlamps, neon signs, and the golden light spilling from shopfronts. The air was still warm but carried a softer edge now, threaded with the smell of spices from nearby restaurants.

The place Pierre had picked wasn’t flashy — a low-lit spot tucked into a quieter street, with an open terrace where the tables were already half-filled by familiar faces. Charles spotted them immediately: Pierre waving one arm like he was flagging down a plane, Yuki leaning over the menu as though it were race strategy, Carlos and Lando already bickering about something trivial, and George, Alex, and Daniel laughing over drinks at the far end.

Charles weaved his way through the tables, dropping into the seat Pierre had saved next to him.

“You’re late,” Pierre said in English before leaning closer and switching to French. “Tu t’es perdu ou quoi?” You get lost or what?

“Trafic.” Traffic. Charles reached for the water jug in the centre of the table. “Et… j’ai hésité à venir.” And… I hesitated to come.

“Comme toujours.” As always. Pierre smirked, but there was no edge to it. “Et pourtant tu es là.” And yet you’re here.

Charles poured himself a glass, ignoring the way Pierre’s grin said he’d already won whatever unspoken argument they were having.

The menus were large and slightly confusing, filled with dishes Charles couldn’t quite translate in his head. Across from him, Carlos and Lando were locked in a passionate debate about whether a burger counted as “safe” before a race weekend. Yuki had given up on trying to follow their logic and was instead interrogating George about his offseason training routine.

Daniel leaned over from the far end to call, “Charles, you’re too quiet. What’s going on in that head of yours?”

“Race lines,” Charles said dryly. “Always.”

“Bullshit,” Lando said without looking up from his menu. “He’s probably thinking about Verstappen.”

That earned him a chorus of “ooh”s from around the table. Charles only raised an eyebrow and took a sip of his water.

“Ils sont insupportables.” They’re unbearable, he muttered in French to Pierre, who laughed into his drink.

The food arrived in waves — steaming platters of grilled meats, bowls of fragrant rice, small dishes of dips and flatbreads. Conversation overlapped from every direction. Pierre kept stealing pieces from Charles’s plate when he thought he wasn’t looking; Yuki caught him in the act and loudly called him out, earning a round of laughter.

It was… comfortable, in its own way. For all the tension of the day, the table felt removed from the paddock. Here, no one was wearing team colours or carrying data printouts. Here, they were just people — loud, occasionally obnoxious people, but familiar.

And then Max arrived.

He appeared without fanfare, dressed simply, baseball cap pulled low, sunglasses tucked into the collar of his shirt. He didn’t come alone — Kelly followed a step behind, smiling politely as Pierre stood to greet them. There was a brief shuffle of chairs and greetings, the table expanding to make space. Charles found his shoulders tightening before he could stop himself.

Max ended up on the opposite side of the table, diagonally from Charles. Close enough to catch fragments of his voice over the noise, far enough to avoid direct conversation — for now.

Kelly fit easily into the chatter, answering questions about her flight, making polite small talk with George and Alex. Max, on the other hand, seemed content to eat and listen, occasionally making a dry comment that drew laughter from those nearest to him. Charles didn’t look at him much. Didn’t need to. He was aware of him anyway — like the way you could feel someone watching you even when your back was turned.

Pierre leaned closer, switching to French again. “Tu vas survivre ou tu veux qu’on parte plus tôt?” You gonna survive or do you want us to leave early?

“Je vais bien.” I’m fine.

“Pas l’air.” Doesn’t look like it.

Charles speared a piece of grilled chicken with more force than necessary. “Il n’a rien fait.” He hasn’t done anything.

Pierre’s smile was knowing. “Pas encore.” Not yet.

The evening stretched on, full of noise and clinking glasses. At some point, Yuki stood to argue with Daniel about something neither of them seemed to fully understand, and Lando tried to film it for Instagram before Carlos swatted the phone out of his hand. It was all harmless, ridiculous, and loud enough that Charles almost didn’t notice when Max excused himself and stepped away toward the terrace railing.

Almost.

It wasn’t intentional — or at least that’s what Charles told himself — when he also stood a few minutes later to get some air. The night breeze was a relief after the heat of the day, carrying with it the distant sound of traffic and faint music from another street over.

Max glanced over when he joined him at the railing. “Following me now?”

“Just needed air,” Charles replied evenly.

Max leaned an elbow against the railing, eyes flicking briefly toward the restaurant before returning to him. “You looked tense in FP1.”

“You cut across me.”

“You were slow.”

Charles’s mouth twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Maybe in FP2, I’ll return the favour.”

“You could try.” Max’s voice was low, not confrontational but far from friendly. “Wouldn’t end well for you.”

“We’ll see.”

They stood there for another beat, the quiet between them taut enough to snap, before Max pushed off the railing and walked back inside without another word. Charles stayed a moment longer, letting the night air cool the heat creeping up his neck.

When he finally rejoined the table, Pierre shot him a questioning look but didn’t ask. Not here, not with the others around. Instead, he just passed him a plate of dessert and said in French, “Tu devrais goûter ça.” You should try this.

Charles took it, letting the conversation around him wash over the tight knot still lodged in his chest. Tomorrow would be qualifying. Another day, another chance to prove himself.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2 — Desert Heat

Charles hadn’t slept as well as he’d wanted. The night after the dinner had been restless — a few too many thoughts circling in his head, most of them beginning and ending with Max Verstappen. Even now, as he sat at the small table in the hotel breakfast area, the faint echo of their exchange at the railing replayed in his mind.

“Tu es ailleurs.” You’re somewhere else. Pierre’s voice broke through his thoughts, the words accompanied by the clink of a coffee cup on the table. He slid into the seat across from Charles, still in sunglasses despite being indoors.

“Je réfléchis.” I’m thinking. Charles pushed the last bite of toast around his plate without really eating it.

“À Verstappen?” Pierre didn’t bother softening the question.

Charles glanced toward the far end of the room, where most of the others were gathered — Carlos animatedly explaining something to Lando with big gestures, Yuki already halfway through his second plate, George pretending not to eavesdrop. Max wasn’t here; neither was Kelly. “Peut-être.” Maybe.

Pierre smirked. “Tu sais qu’il sait que tu es encore en colère?” You know he knows you’re still mad?

“Je ne suis pas en colère.” I’m not mad.

“Bien sûr.” Of course. Pierre sipped his coffee like he’d just won a point in a game Charles hadn’t agreed to play.

Qualifying day in Bahrain was different. The paddock always felt charged on Saturdays, the casual chatter replaced by sharper focus. Even the air seemed to buzz a little more. Charles arrived at the circuit just after ten, the sunlight already strong enough to cast hard shadows across the concrete.

The Ferrari garage was alive with movement — engineers hunched over laptops, mechanics working on the cars with quiet precision. Charles greeted a few crew members before heading to the drivers’ room to drop off his bag. On his way back, he nearly collided with Pierre in the corridor.

“Lunch later?” Pierre asked in French, leaning casually against the wall.

“Oui, mais vite.” Yes, but quick. “Je veux revoir les données.” I want to review the data.

“Travailleur acharné.” Hard worker. Pierre grinned, then added in English, “Try not to run over Max before quali.”

Charles gave him a flat look. “Tempting.”

By midday, the main paddock area had turned into a stream of team personnel, media, and guests. Charles was making his way toward the Ferrari motorhome when he heard a familiar voice behind him.

“Careful, Leclerc.”

He turned to see Max approaching, helmet bag slung casually over one shoulder, a faint half-smile on his face. “Wouldn’t want you tripping before qualifying.”

Charles raised an eyebrow. “Concerned for me, Verstappen?”

“Concerned for the race.” Max’s tone was light, but the look in his eyes wasn’t. “Wouldn’t be the same if you weren’t there to chase me.”

“Chase you?” Charles took a step closer, lowering his voice just enough that the nearby photographers couldn’t pick it up. “That’s assuming you’re ahead.”

Max’s smile sharpened. “We’ll see.” He brushed past him, the faint scent of fuel and warm asphalt trailing in his wake.

Charles stayed where he was for a beat longer, jaw set, before continuing toward the garage. He didn’t need to turn around to know Max hadn’t looked back.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of briefings, track walks, and light media duties. By the time Charles found Pierre again for lunch, the sun was high and the paddock was humming with that particular mix of anticipation and nerves only qualifying day could bring.

They took their plates to a quieter corner outside, away from the main flow of people. The food was nothing special — grilled chicken, rice, some salad — but it was enough to keep them going until the evening.

“Tu vas le battre aujourd’hui.” You’re going to beat him today. Pierre didn’t phrase it as a question.

Charles chewed thoughtfully. “J’ai l’intention.” I intend to.

“Et si…” Pierre’s voice dropped, his gaze flicking briefly toward the Red Bull garage across the lane. “Et si ce n’est pas seulement sur la piste?” And if it’s not just on track?

Charles gave him a look. “Tu penses trop.” You think too much.

By late afternoon, the paddock had transformed. Guests were ushered toward viewing areas, media crews jostled for position, and team personnel moved with sharper intent. The low growl of engines warming up echoed through the garages, vibrating faintly underfoot. Qualifying in Bahrain was hours away, but already the circuit felt alive.

Charles sat in the Ferrari drivers’ room, helmet resting on the table beside him, visor cracked open to let the warm air escape. Carlos was on the other side, scrolling through sector time sheets on a tablet, muttering to himself in Spanish. An engineer stepped in to go over track temperature data, handing Charles a printout with the latest readings. The sun would still be up for Q1, but by Q3 the track would cool rapidly under the lights — a detail that could make or break a lap.

“Prêt?” Pierre’s voice came from the doorway. Ready? He wasn’t supposed to be here — AlphaTauri’s prep room was on the other side of the paddock — but he stepped in anyway, a grin tugging at his mouth.

“Toujours.” Always. Charles adjusted the fit of his gloves, flexing his fingers inside them.

Pierre leaned casually against the wall. “J’ai parié avec Yuki que tu serais devant Max.” I bet Yuki you’ll be ahead of Max.

“Et si je perds?” And if I lose?

“Then I owe him dinner in Monaco. But I’m not worried.” Pierre’s grin widened before he pushed off the wall and headed back toward his own garage.

Q1 was clean. Both Ferraris through, both Red Bulls as well. Charles kept his focus narrow — apexes, throttle application, braking points — tuning out the noise of the crowd and the commentators crackling faintly through the radio feed.

Q2 raised the stakes. On his second push lap, Charles found himself coming up fast behind Max through the final sector. The Dutchman was finishing his own lap, but his positioning through the last corner forced Charles to adjust his entry, losing him two-tenths in the process.

“That Red Bull is holding us up,” Charles said into the radio, voice flat but clipped.

“Copy, Charles. We’ll adjust the gap,” came the calm reply. But when he pulled back into the garage, his engineer’s jaw was tight. “He knew you were there,” he said quietly while the crew swapped tyres.

Charles only nodded. He already knew.

Q3 was where it counted. Under the floodlights, the track glittered like black glass, every painted line crisp and sharp under the glare. Charles rolled out for his final run with one goal: put the Ferrari ahead of the Red Bull.

His first two sectors were strong — purple in sector one, just off in sector two. But as he approached Turn 4, a flash of blue and yellow filled his mirrors. Max was there again, and this time he didn’t wait. The Red Bull slipped closer, hugging the racing line so tight that Charles had no choice but to commit to an alternate entry, shaving his apex just enough to feel it in the steering.

“Let him go, Charles. Reset, we’ll get one more lap,” came the instruction through his radio.

He lifted, breathing hard, letting Max surge past. The roar of the crowd told him the lap had been good — for Max, at least.

Charles’s final run was near perfect. The Ferrari danced through each corner, tyres biting into the tarmac, engine singing down the straights. When he crossed the line, the timing screen lit up: P2. Max had P1 by just under a tenth.

The parc fermé atmosphere after qualifying was a mix of celebration and frustration. Red Bull mechanics congratulated each other, the Ferrari crew clapped Carlos on the back for securing P3. Charles climbed out of the car, pulling his gloves off slowly, deliberately. His face gave nothing away as the cameras tracked his movements.

Max approached from the other side, helmet still in hand. “Close one,” he said, voice carrying just enough to be picked up by a nearby mic.

“Not close enough,” Charles replied evenly.

Max tilted his head, the faintest smirk at the edge of his mouth. “You’ll have to try harder tomorrow.”

“Or you’ll have to defend better,” Charles shot back without missing a beat.

For a moment, neither moved. The noise of the paddock seemed to dim, the space between them sharp enough to cut. Then Max’s smirk deepened and he turned away, walking toward the media pen with Kelly stepping up beside him.

In the cool-down room before the podium ceremony, the tension was still there, quieter but no less present. The monitors replayed the top laps, the commentary filling the silence between questions from the floor manager. Carlos chatted with one of the engineers, but Charles stayed focused on the screen, watching Max’s pole lap in real time.

“Could’ve been yours,” came a voice from just behind him. Not Max’s — Pierre’s. He’d slipped in during the chaos, leaning casually against the doorway. “Demain, tu le prends.” Tomorrow, you take it.

Charles didn’t take his eyes off the replay. “Demain.” Tomorrow.

The media pen after qualifying was a wall of lights and microphones. Charles moved through it with the same careful composure he used on the grid before a start. He smiled where he needed to, kept his answers concise, and steered them back toward the car’s performance whenever questions strayed.

“That final lap in Q3 looked strong,” one reporter said. “Do you think you could have beaten Verstappen if—”

“If I had put everything together, yes,” Charles interrupted, tone polite but firm. “It’s always about execution in qualifying. Max did a very good lap, so credit to him. But the race is tomorrow.”

Another voice chimed in from his left. “It looked like you were close on track in Q2. Was there any issue with traffic?”

Charles’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “We were both on flying laps. It happens.” His smile was the kind that closed the subject, and the reporter shifted to asking about tyre strategy.

By the time he stepped away from the cameras, the sun had dipped lower, casting long shadows across the paddock. The Red Bull motorhome loomed just across the lane, its entrance a steady stream of team members, media, and VIP guests. Max was still inside, doing his own rounds of interviews.

“Alors?” Pierre appeared beside him as if he’d been waiting. So?

Charles glanced over. “Pas assez rapide.” Not fast enough.

They began walking toward the quieter end of the paddock, away from the noise. Pierre’s sunglasses hung from the collar of his shirt now, and his expression was more serious than usual. “Je t’ai vu lever le pied en Q2.” I saw you lift in Q2.

“Il m’a bloqué à la sortie du dernier virage.” He blocked me at the exit of the last corner.

Pierre gave a short nod. “Tu crois qu’il l’a fait exprès?” You think he did it on purpose?

Charles’s mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Qu’est-ce que tu crois?” What do you think?

They both knew the answer. Pierre let out a quiet laugh through his nose. “Il te cherche.” He’s provoking you.

“Alors il va me trouver.” Then he’s going to find me.

They reached a quieter stretch behind the hospitality buildings, the hum of the main paddock fading. Pierre leaned back against a wall, folding his arms. “Tu sais, tu pourrais aussi juste… l’ignorer.” You know, you could also just… ignore him.

Charles shook his head. “Tu sais bien que non.” You know I can’t.

“Parce que tu veux gagner?” Because you want to win?

“Parce que c’est lui.” Because it’s him.

There was a pause, the weight of the words settling between them. Pierre studied him for a moment longer, then sighed. “Fais juste attention. On n’est pas en karting, là.” Just be careful. This isn’t karting anymore.

Charles didn’t answer, his gaze fixed on some point in the distance.

Footsteps approached from the main path, quick and deliberate. Max rounded the corner, sunglasses in hand now, his eyes immediately flicking from Pierre to Charles. “Private conversation?” he asked, his tone unreadable.

“Something like that,” Pierre said easily in English, pushing off the wall. “I’ll leave you to it.” With a look at Charles that said don’t start a war here, he slipped away toward the AlphaTauri side.

Max stopped a few paces away, the evening light catching the faint sheen of sweat at his hairline. “You’re still thinking about Q2,” he said, not a question.

Charles met his gaze without flinching. “I don’t need to think about it. I know what happened.”

Max’s mouth twitched — not quite a smirk, but close. “Then you should know I’ll do it again if it means I’m ahead.”

“Then you should know I won’t lift next time.”

For a moment, neither looked away. Then Max gave a single nod, as if that settled something, and walked past him without another word.

Charles stayed there a beat longer, the heat of the day finally giving way to the cooler desert night, his pulse still higher than it should have been.

The night air in Bahrain was cooler now, carrying a salty tang from somewhere beyond the city lights. After qualifying, most of the drivers had scattered — some to team debriefs, others to quiet dinners — but Daniel had decided a group drink at the rooftop bar above their hotel was “morale-boosting.”

Charles wasn’t sure whose morale needed boosting, but Pierre had dragged him along anyway, promising it would be “entertaining if nothing else.”

The bar was open-air, a ring of tables set around a wide view of the skyline. Strings of warm lights swayed overhead in the breeze. Charles spotted familiar faces quickly: Daniel leaning back in his chair, grinning at something Lando had just said; Alex and George sharing a plate of appetisers; Carlos arguing over drink orders with the waiter; Yuki sitting cross-legged on his chair, already halfway through a tall glass of something bright red.

And, of course, Max — seated next to Daniel, bottle in hand, his attention fixed on whatever story the Australian was telling. Daniel’s animated hand gestures nearly knocked Max’s drink over twice, but the Dutchman didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he looked… relaxed.

Pierre steered Charles toward an open chair across from Carlos. “You sit here. I’ll get us drinks.”

Charles dropped into the seat, eyes flicking toward Max despite himself. Daniel caught the glance and raised his voice just enough to carry. “Oi, Leclerc, come over here, mate. I was just telling Max about—”

“I’m fine here,” Charles cut in, already sensing where that would go.

Max’s smirk was faint but there. “Guess he doesn’t want to sit too close, Daniel. Can’t say I blame him.”

“Why’s that?” Daniel asked, clearly playing dumb.

“Because he knows I’d be faster to the bar,” Max replied, leaning back in his chair.

Charles didn’t miss a beat. “Or because I’d rather not listen to you talk about yourself all night.”

It landed harder than he expected — a few of the others glanced between them. Max’s smile thinned. “Careful, Charles. That attitude might cost you on track.”

“Or maybe it’ll help me,” Charles shot back, voice cooler now.

Daniel stepped in before it could escalate, clapping Max on the shoulder. “Alright, alright, let’s not turn this into a press conference. Save the trash talk for tomorrow.”

The conversation eventually shifted to other topics — travel plans, streaming setups, and George’s ridiculous idea to start a Twitch cooking series. But the undercurrent between Max and Charles stayed, humming just beneath the laughter and clinking glasses.

Halfway through the night, Daniel pulled out his phone. “Right, I’ve had it. We’re making a proper group chat so everyone stops missing plans. No more ‘I didn’t know we were going out tonight.’”

“Good luck keeping that organised,” Lando muttered.

Daniel grinned. “Watch me.” His thumbs moved quickly, then his voice went mock-dramatic. “Daniel Ricciardo added Charles Leclerc to the group ‘Grid Idiots’.”

Alex leaned over to peek at his screen. “Who else is in it?”

“Everyone,” Daniel said, tapping away. “Daniel Ricciardo added Max Verstappen to the group ‘Grid Idiots’.”

Max, without looking up from his phone: “Do I get a choice in this?”

“Absolutely not,” Daniel said cheerfully. “Now say hi.”

Within minutes, Charles’s phone lit up with notifications. The chat was already a mess:

Lando: finally, a gc with everyone in it

Carlos: we had one before, you muted it

Lando: that’s because george wouldn’t stop sending gym selfies

George: my body is art

Yuki: no one asked to see that art at 2am

Daniel: focus people, this is for plans

Max: plans to beat Ferrari tomorrow?

Charles: better than plans to block in quali

Max: you were slow, that’s not blocking

Pierre: here we go

George: should we take bets on how fast this goes to hell

Lando: already has mate

The back-and-forth kept going, a mix of teasing, subtle digs, and outright sarcasm. Daniel tried to reel them in twice before giving up entirely, letting the chat descend into chaos.

By the time they left the bar, the group chat had over a hundred unread messages, half of them Charles and Max trading increasingly pointed remarks. Charles shoved his phone in his pocket, jaw tight, as he followed Pierre out to the street.

“Ça commence à être évident.” It’s starting to get obvious, Pierre murmured.

Charles didn’t answer. He didn’t need to — the truth of it hung there between them all the way back to the hotel.

The morning of race day in Bahrain had a weight to it — not heavy exactly, but charged, like the air before a storm. From his hotel balcony, Charles could see the faint shimmer of the desert heat beginning to rise even this early. He stood there for a moment longer, coffee cup in hand, before heading back inside to get ready.

His routine was the same: light breakfast, a quick stretch, headphones in during the short car ride to the circuit. But there was an itch under his skin today — the leftover edge from last night’s rooftop bar, from the group chat that hadn’t shut up even after midnight.

The Ferrari motorhome was already buzzing by the time he arrived. Engineers huddled over laptops, mechanics rolling tyres into position, PR staff making last-minute adjustments to his schedule. Carlos waved him over as soon as he spotted him.

“Morning,” Carlos said, handing him a small paper cup. “Double espresso. You’ll need it.”

“For the race or for dealing with Max?” Charles asked dryly, accepting the coffee.

“Both,” Carlos said without hesitation. “The group chat is already chaos again.”

Charles pulled out his phone, thumb swiping over the lock screen. Sure enough, Grid Idiots was lit up with over fifty unread messages since he’d woken up. He scrolled back just enough to see the tone of it:

Lando: who’s bringing snacks to the drivers’ parade

Yuki: just eat breakfast like a normal person

Max: some of us don’t have time for three-course meals before 9am

Charles: or maybe you’re just bad at time management

Max: says the guy who’s always late to debrief

Pierre: lads, not even 10am yet

Daniel: don’t stop them, this is my entertainment

Charles locked his phone with a little more force than necessary. “It’s like he’s trying to get under my skin before we even get on track.”

Carlos shrugged. “Maybe he is. Don’t let him.”

By late morning, the paddock was alive. Media personnel moved between motorhomes, fans pressed against the fences with flags and cameras, the faint rumble of support series cars running on track filling the background. Charles was heading toward the drivers’ parade lineup when Daniel intercepted him, sunglasses on and an easy grin in place.

“Morning, mate. Sleep well?” Daniel asked, falling into step beside him.

“Fine,” Charles said, then glanced sideways. “What do you want?”

“Nothing. Just making sure you haven’t murdered Max yet.” Daniel’s grin widened. “Would be a shame to miss the race.”

Charles gave him a flat look, but Daniel only laughed. “You know, if you two actually stopped with the verbal jabs for five minutes, you might notice you have more in common than you think.”

“Or maybe we’d just fight about something else,” Charles replied.

The drivers’ parade was a blur — waves to the crowd, a few casual interviews, the occasional jab from Lando about Ferrari’s pace. Max was seated two spots down from Charles in the classic car they’d been loaded into, and while they didn’t speak directly, Charles caught the sideways glances, the almost-smirks.

Back in the paddock, they finally crossed paths again in the narrow space between the garages. Max was still in his parade overalls, helmet bag slung casually over one shoulder.

“Try not to choke on the start,” Max said as they passed each other, voice low enough that only Charles could hear it.

Charles didn’t slow. “Try not to hit anyone in Turn 1.”

Max actually laughed at that — a short, sharp sound — before disappearing into the Red Bull garage.

Inside the Ferrari garage, the energy was sharper now. Final checks were underway, mechanics moving with quick precision, the scent of hot brakes and fuel starting to thicken in the air. Charles changed into his race suit, zipped it up, and took a seat with his race engineer to go over strategy one last time.

His phone buzzed again on the table beside him. Another notification from Grid Idiots:

George: ok so whoever finishes behind Yuki today has to buy dinner for the whole group next weekend

Yuki: whoever finishes behind me should just retire

Max: Charles is gonna be broke after today

Charles: you’re talking a lot for someone who’s gonna see my rear wing all race

Daniel: this is exactly what I signed up for

Carlos leaned over to glance at the screen, chuckling. “You two really can’t help yourselves.”

“No,” Charles said, slipping the phone back into his bag. “We can’t.”

The call for the grid came over the radio, and Charles made his way out into the sunlight. The noise of the crowd swelled as the cars were rolled into position, cameras flashing, reporters weaving between team members. The heat rising from the tarmac hit him like a wave, the smell of rubber already in the air.

He passed the Red Bull pit box on his way to the front of the grid. Max was there, leaning against the cockpit of his car, talking with his engineer. As Charles went by, Max looked up, and for a fraction of a second their eyes met — the same unspoken challenge as yesterday, as last night, as this morning.

Charles didn’t break the stare until he reached his own car.

Helmet on, belts tightened, the world narrowed to the sound of his own breathing and the thrum of the engine idling beneath him. Whatever happened next, he knew one thing: it wasn’t just about the race anymore.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3 – White Heat

Charles woke to the sound of his alarm blaring far too cheerfully for the morning after a race. The hotel curtains were still drawn, letting only a thin line of sunlight spill through and cut across the bed. His body felt heavy—not the kind of tired that came from lack of sleep, but the deep, slow exhaustion that racing always left behind. Muscles ached in places he didn’t know could ache, and every movement reminded him of the strain from yesterday’s laps.

He reached out to silence the alarm, the cool surface of his phone screen almost soothing against his warm hand. The lock screen still had unread notifications from the Grid Idiots group chat. Even without opening them, he knew there’d be memes, snark, and the occasional thinly veiled jab. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with it yet.

For a moment, he just lay there, staring at the ceiling and letting the events of the Bahrain race replay in his mind like some unwanted highlight reel. Every turn, every second he’d spent defending, every glance in his mirrors that landed on a certain dark blue car—it was all still there, etched in his head. And so was the image of Max’s grin in parc fermé, wide and easy, like the whole thing had been just another Sunday drive. It made Charles’ jaw tighten without him meaning to.

The hotel room was quiet except for the hum of the air conditioning. It was too quiet. Usually, on mornings like this, there would be noise from the hallway—someone knocking on the wrong door, laughter from drivers who hadn’t slept yet, staff moving luggage. Today, it felt like the world outside was holding its breath.

His phone buzzed again. Another message in the group chat. This time curiosity got the better of him, and he grabbed it from the bedside table, squinting against the screen’s brightness. The chat had blown up overnight. Someone—probably Lando—had changed the group name to “Grid Idiots” again, and the message history was chaos.

Lando: good morning idiots 🌞

Daniel: speak for yourself, I’m a genius

George: says the man who thought Bahrain was in the UAE

Daniel: it’s all desert, same thing

Yuki: …

Pierre: 😒

Charles scrolled a little further, until he saw it—the inevitable back-and-forth between himself and Max from late last night. The conversation hadn’t exactly been explosive, but the tension was there, simmering under short replies and pointed remarks. It was the kind of thing that looked casual to an outsider but felt like a continuation of the race itself.

Max: clean driving yesterday

Charles: you cut it close more than once

Max: that’s racing

Carlos: 🙄

Daniel: boys please, save it for Netflix

He didn’t reply then, and he wasn’t going to reply now. It was too early for that kind of energy.

Dragging himself out of bed, Charles padded over to the coffee machine by the window and started it up. The bitter smell filled the room, grounding him in something that wasn’t the lingering adrenaline of yesterday. Outside, Bahrain stretched out in muted morning light—buildings the color of sand, palm trees swaying gently, and the faint shimmer of heat already beginning to rise. It would be another hot day.

By the time he sat down with his coffee, his phone lit up again—this time with a message from Pierre.

Pierre: Morning. Want to get breakfast?

Charles smirked. Pierre always knew when to appear, almost like he could sense when Charles was about to start brooding. It wasn’t even nine yet, but Pierre was already dressed and waiting in the lobby when Charles came down, sunglasses perched on his head and a mischievous grin in place.

“Tu as bien dormi?” Pierre asked as they walked out onto the street, switching to French immediately. It was habit—their language was both a shield and a comfort, one the rest of the grid couldn’t easily pry into.

“Pas vraiment.” Charles shrugged, hands in his pockets. “J’ai encore la course en tête.”

“Normal.” Pierre gave him a knowing look. “Mais tu as bien roulé.” You drove well. He said it like a fact, not a compliment, and that somehow made it feel more solid.

They found a small café not far from the hotel, tucked between two low beige buildings. It was quiet, the kind of place that didn’t care who they were, and that was exactly what Charles needed. They ordered, sat down by the window, and let the conversation drift between French and English as they talked about everything but the race.

Halfway through breakfast, Pierre’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen and rolled his eyes. “Group chat is alive again,” he said, sliding the phone across the table so Charles could see.

Lando: who’s still in Bahrain tonight?

Carlos: me, Charles, Pierre

Daniel: me & max

George: I’m leaving at 3pm

Max: not like anyone asked george

George: 🙃

Alex: chill

Charles snorted into his coffee. “At least they’re consistent.”

“You going to reply?” Pierre asked, eyebrow raised.

“Not yet.” He leaned back in his chair, watching a car pass slowly down the street. “Let them keep themselves entertained for a bit.”

Their food arrived, and the conversation turned to lighter topics—plans for the next race, mutual friends, and gossip from the paddock that probably shouldn’t have been public knowledge. It was easy in that moment, the kind of morning that smoothed the edges of yesterday’s frustrations. But Charles knew it wouldn’t last. The season had just started, and every morning like this was a calm before the next storm.

By the time they’d finished breakfast, the sun was high enough to turn the café’s front windows into mirrors. Pierre paid for his coffee with a lazy wave of his card, and the two of them stepped back into the street, sunglasses on, hands in pockets. The air outside had already taken on the dry weight of midday, the kind of heat that clung to your clothes even if you weren’t moving.

They strolled back toward the hotel, talking idly about flights and the next race weekend. The grid’s schedule was relentless—one track blurred into the next, airports and hotels blending together until you barely knew which city you were in. But for now, they still had a few hours to kill in Bahrain before the exodus began.

In the lobby, Carlos was leaning against the reception desk, tapping through something on his phone. He looked up as they approached. “Finally,” he said. “I was about to send a search party.”

“We were getting breakfast,” Pierre replied, shrugging out of his jacket.

“Without me?” Carlos asked, mock-offended. “I see how it is.”

Charles smirked. “You were still asleep when we left.”

“Not the point,” Carlos said, but he was grinning. “Anyway, everyone’s in the lounge. Lando’s got some idea for killing time before flights.”

The “lounge” was really just a large seating area near the bar, but the drivers had a way of turning any space into their own. George and Alex were deep into a game of chess on one table, Yuki sat cross-legged on an armchair scrolling through his phone, and Lando was in the middle of explaining something with far too much enthusiasm to Daniel and Max.

It was impossible not to notice the way Max and Daniel fell into easy conversation, laughter coming naturally in between Lando’s overcomplicated instructions for whatever game he was proposing. Daniel’s voice carried across the room—big, warm, and open—and Max matched him beat for beat, smiling in a way that looked almost careless.

Charles looked away before he could think too much about it. He pulled out his phone, intending to check his flight details, but the Instagram feed opened automatically. Near the top was a post from Kelly: a short video of her and Max sitting on a rooftop, the night sky behind them, the sound of muffled laughter in the background. The caption was simple—“celebrating in style”—with a little trophy emoji. Max was leaning toward her in the clip, saying something the camera didn’t catch, and Kelly was smiling like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Charles’s thumb hovered over the screen for a second longer than necessary before he scrolled past. It was nothing. Just a post. Not worth thinking about. And yet, it sat there in the back of his mind, a small, uninvited guest that refused to leave.

“You’re quiet,” Carlos said from beside him, noticing his distraction. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

“Nothing,” Charles said quickly, tucking the phone back into his pocket.

Carlos tilted his head. “Come on. Why do you actually hate him?”

Charles blinked at him. “What?”

“You know who I mean. Verstappen. Every time we’re in the same room, it’s like you two are one bad word away from a fistfight. What’s the real reason?”

Charles shrugged, the motion deliberately casual. “Because we’ve always been like this. I hate him and he hates me. It’s as simple as that.”

“Doesn’t sound simple,” Carlos said with a knowing smile, but he didn’t press. “Alright, suit yourself. But if we get thrown out of an airport lounge one day because of you two, I’m not helping you explain it to Fred.”

Before Charles could respond, Lando’s voice cut through the room. “Alright! Game time. Everyone in.”

The drivers shuffled over reluctantly, some more interested than others. Whatever Lando had in mind, Charles knew it would either be harmless fun or an elaborate setup for chaos. Given this group, both outcomes were equally likely.

Lando had somehow acquired a whiteboard from somewhere in the hotel. No one wanted to know how. It was wheeled into the lounge like some kind of sacred object, and he stood in front of it with the posture of a lecturer about to reveal the meaning of life.

“Alright,” he began, uncapping a marker with a flourish. “This game is called ‘Rapid Recall’. It’s part memory, part speed, part… okay, mostly chaos. The rules are simple—”

“They’re never simple,” George muttered from his seat.

“—you’ll get a category,” Lando continued, ignoring him, “and you have ten seconds to name something in that category. If you repeat something someone else has said, or if you can’t answer in time, you’re out. Last person standing wins.”

Daniel raised his hand like they were in school. “Do we get lifelines?”

“No lifelines,” Lando said. “But… if you survive more than three rounds, you can pick someone else to swap places with you if you’re about to lose.”

Max leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “And what’s the point of this?”

“The point,” Lando said slowly, “is fun. And—” he looked around the group, a smirk forming—“the loser has to go to the airport wearing whatever the winner chooses from the hotel gift shop.”

There were groans, laughter, and at least one very dramatic sigh from Pierre. “I’m not wearing something with a camel on it,” he warned.

“Too late,” Alex said. “That’s clearly going to be the thing.”

They gathered in a loose circle, the whiteboard propped against a couch. Lando scribbled the first category: F1 Circuits. It started easy—names flew around the circle without hesitation. Suzuka. Silverstone. Monza. Bahrain. By the second rotation, it got harder. Someone threw out Istanbul Park. Daniel, grinning, added Adelaide. Yuki muttered something under his breath that half the group had to lean in to catch.

On the third round, Carlos hesitated a second too long, and Max immediately pointed. “Out.”

“What?!” Carlos threw his hands up. “That was nine seconds, not ten.”

“I was counting,” Max said smugly.

“You were counting in your head,” Carlos argued.

“Still counts,” Max replied, and Lando backed him up with a shrug.

New category: Motorsport Champions. The tension started to build as the pace increased. Charles was fine through the first few names—Senna, Lauda, Prost—but had to think hard by the time it came back around. He pulled a name from the back of his mind just in time. Pierre was not so lucky, blurting out a repeat of Schumacher and earning an exaggerated “OUT” from Lando.

The third category—Countries Without an F1 Race—was where the chaos really began. Answers veered wildly from Mongolia to Greenland, and at least twice the group argued over whether someone’s choice counted. Yuki was eliminated after trying to argue that “Hawaii” was a separate country, which set off a full minute of laughter.

It came down to the last few—Max, George, and Daniel—each visibly determined not to lose. The category was Car Parts. George rattled off “differential,” Daniel came up with “driveshaft,” and Max—without hesitation—said “diffuser.”

“OUT,” George said instantly. “Too close to mine.”

“Not the same thing,” Max argued.

“Close enough,” Lando ruled, grinning. “Airport gift shop awaits.”

Max groaned, leaning back in defeat while Daniel threw an arm around him in mock sympathy. “Don’t worry, mate. I’ll help pick something tasteful. Maybe a nice novelty t-shirt with a camel and some palm trees.”

Charles smirked from across the circle. “Make sure it’s at least two sizes too big.”

“I’ll remember that when you lose next time,” Max shot back, though the edge in his voice was more competitive than angry.

The group dissolved into easy chatter as Lando started packing away the whiteboard. Someone put on music, and soon the lounge felt like a mix between a school common room and a low-key afterparty. Charles leaned against the arm of a couch, watching Daniel and Max laughing over some ridiculous hat they’d found online that they swore they were going to buy before the flight. It was loud, messy, and familiar in a way that made the morning slip by without him noticing.

The lounge began to thin out as drivers peeled off for phone calls, last-minute packing, or just a moment of quiet before the inevitable airport chaos. Carlos had wandered off to find coffee, Pierre and Yuki were half-dozing in armchairs, and Lando was arguing with the hotel staff over whether he could keep the whiteboard for “team-building purposes.”

Charles stayed where he was, one foot propped on the edge of the low table, watching Daniel and Max scroll through their phones. Every so often, Daniel would nudge Max and hold up an image—mostly shirts or hats from the gift shop’s online catalog, each worse than the last. Max’s laughter came quick and easy, head tipped back in that way that made him look almost boyish. It was annoying how unbothered he seemed.

Eventually, Daniel got up to grab water, leaving Max leaning back on the couch. For a moment, the noise in the lounge dipped, and Charles caught Max glancing at him. It wasn’t the usual sharp look—this one was smaller, unreadable, but it lingered long enough for Charles to notice.

“What?” Charles asked, brows lifting.

Max shrugged once, slow. “Nothing.”

It didn’t sound like nothing. There was a tightness in the word, a little extra weight, and before Charles could decide whether to push, Max spoke again. “You’ve got something to say about everything I do lately, huh?”

Charles frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Max leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “The shirt comment earlier. The way you keep looking like I’ve done something wrong just by existing in the same room. It’s—” He stopped, shaking his head like he’d already said too much. “Forget it.”

Charles blinked. “I was joking.”

“Sure,” Max said, and there was something in his tone that was half-dismissive, half-skeptical. “Just… maybe don’t act like I’m some idiot you’ve got to keep in check all the time.”

Before Charles could answer, Daniel came back with a bottle of water and dropped into the seat next to Max, throwing an arm across the back of the couch like nothing had happened. The conversation shifted immediately—Daniel had found some ridiculous hat in the lobby shop and was insisting Max try it on before boarding. Max played along, the edge in his voice smoothed over, but the look he’d given Charles stuck like a splinter.

Carlos reappeared with coffee for everyone, distributing cups without ceremony. “Airport in an hour,” he announced. “We’re leaving as a group so nobody gets lost.”

“You say that like we’re children,” George said from across the room, though his tone was more amused than defensive.

“Have you met us?” Carlos shot back, which earned a chorus of agreement from half the room.

Phones came out again as everyone started checking flight times and gate numbers. The Grid Idiots chat was alive with new messages, most of them jokes about Max’s upcoming outfit. Charles scrolled through them without commenting, until a new notification popped up—an Instagram story from Kelly. Another rooftop shot, this time with a champagne glass in her hand and Max leaning in frame, laughing at something just out of view.

It was stupid to care. He didn’t care. He kept scrolling.

“You in for the airport bet, Charles?” Lando’s voice cut through from across the lounge. “Loser has to carry everyone’s snacks through security.”

Charles looked up. “We already have a loser.”

“This is round two,” Lando explained, grinning. “Max can’t lose twice. It’s a rule.”

“That’s not a rule,” Max muttered without looking up from his phone, but there was a flicker of a smirk there. “And you’re all scared to go up against me anyway.”

“In your dreams,” Daniel said, already taking a seat at the table Lando was setting up for whatever challenge he’d thought up this time.

The game was some Frankenstein mix of trivia and reflexes, with a scoring system so convoluted even Lando had to check his own notes halfway through explaining it. George was the first to complain, Pierre the first to accuse someone of cheating, and Yuki the first to actually cheat. The noise rose quickly—shouts, groans, bursts of laughter—and somewhere in the middle of it, Charles realized Max was watching him again, expression unreadable.

When the game ended, Yuki lost by a narrow margin and accepted his fate with a theatrical groan. “Fine. I’ll be your pack mule at the airport. But only for snacks.”

Everyone laughed, the tension dissolving a little, but Charles still felt the weight of Max’s earlier words sitting in the back of his mind, unresolved.

The airport was buzzing in that strangely tired way only midday flights could be. Travelers shuffled past in uneven streams, voices low, the smell of coffee and reheated food lingering in the air. The group had staked out a section of plastic chairs near the gate, their backpacks piled in a corner like an improvised barricade. Boarding hadn’t started yet, and the announcement boards were moving at a pace designed to test everyone’s patience.

Yuki sat cross-legged on one of the chairs, his backpack at his feet like a guarded treasure chest. Every so often, he’d unzip it just enough to pull out a bag of chips, take a few, and then zip it closed again. The first time someone reached for a snack, he pulled the bag out of reach without even looking up from his phone.

“They’re our snacks,” Lando pointed out, leaning over from the next seat.

“They’re in my bag,” Yuki replied flatly, shoving another chip into his mouth.

“So, you’re holding them hostage?” George asked.

Yuki shrugged. “Maybe.”

“This is why we can’t have nice things,” Pierre muttered, though there was no heat in it.

Max, slouched two seats away, smirked. “You should’ve known better than to trust him with food.”

Charles, seated diagonally from him, raised an eyebrow. “And you wouldn’t have done the same?”

Max tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “No. I know how to share.”

“Do you?” Charles asked, a little sharper than he intended.

Daniel glanced between them like he was watching a tennis match, then shook his head with a grin. “Boys, if you start throwing peanuts at each other, I’m not stepping in.”

“I would,” Carlos said from behind them, “but only to film it.”

The conversation moved on, but the brief exchange left a hum of tension in the air. Charles tried to focus on his phone, scrolling aimlessly through his feed. Every now and then, a headline about the Bahrain race popped up—photos of podium celebrations, slow-motion clips of overtakes—and he scrolled past them quickly. He didn’t want to think about it anymore. Not here, not now.

Across from him, Max and Daniel were talking in low voices, occasionally breaking into laughter. It wasn’t unusual—they’d always been close—but for some reason, it grated more than usual today. Max’s laugh carried across the rows of seats, and Charles could feel his jaw tighten without meaning to.

“Flight’s delayed,” Alex announced, looking up from his phone. “Half an hour, at least.”

Groans rippled through the group. Lando flopped sideways in his chair dramatically, Yuki muttered something under his breath in Japanese, and Pierre immediately started looking for an outlet to charge his phone.

“Guess we’ve got more time to kill,” Daniel said, stretching his legs out until they nearly bumped into Max’s.

“Great,” Max muttered, leaning back with his arms crossed.

“We could play another game,” Lando suggested. His tone was too eager, and the groans came even faster this time.

“No,” George said immediately. “Absolutely not. I still don’t understand the last one.”

“That’s because you overthink,” Lando shot back.

“That’s because you make rules up as you go,” George countered.

While they bickered, Yuki stealthily unzipped his bag again, pulling out a chocolate bar. Pierre caught him mid-bite and pointed accusingly. “At least pass it around.”

Yuki chewed slowly, swallowed, and said, “No,” before tucking the bar back into his bag and zipping it up with finality.

Max laughed under his breath, and Charles glanced up in time to catch it. It wasn’t malicious, but it still made something in him bristle. “You find that funny?” he asked.

Max shrugged. “It’s just Yuki being Yuki. Not everything’s that deep.”

“I didn’t say it was,” Charles replied, his tone tighter than he’d meant.

Daniel gave Max a subtle nudge, murmuring something Charles couldn’t hear. Max leaned back again, gaze fixed on the departure board like the conversation hadn’t happened.

The minutes stretched. A couple of them wandered off for coffee, George found a newspaper and pretended to read it, and Lando discovered a vending machine he insisted was “the best thing in the terminal.” Charles stayed where he was, half-listening to the ebb and flow of conversation around him. Every so often, he caught himself glancing at Max without meaning to, only to look away just as quickly.

When the boarding announcement finally came over the speakers, the group stirred like they’d been given a second wind. Bags were grabbed, jackets pulled on, and Yuki slung his backpack over his shoulder with a look that said he was still not sharing. They filed into the boarding line together, still talking over one another, their voices a strange mix of camaraderie and competition.

Charles ended up just ahead of Max in the line. He could feel the other’s presence behind him, close enough to catch the sound of his breathing over the general airport noise. Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to—the space between them was already crowded with enough unspoken words to fill the flight.

As they moved forward toward the gate, Charles told himself that whatever was between them was just part of the job. Rivals. That was all. He didn’t notice the way his shoulders tensed until they stepped onto the jet bridge, the hum of the engines growing louder. The season was only just beginning, and already, he could feel the next storm on the horizon.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4 — Fault Lines

The city was different from Bahrain, but the heat still clung to him like it had been folded into the air. The car slowed to a stop in front of the hotel, the engine’s hum fading under the sharper sounds of traffic just beyond the awning.

Charles stepped out before the driver could circle around. One hand on the handle of his suitcase, sunglasses pushed low enough to hide most of his expression. The light was already strong, bouncing off pale concrete and making the pavement waver.

The revolving doors caught his reflection in brief, segmented flashes. Shoulders squared. Jaw tight. The faint imprint of headset pads still in his hair from the flight.

Inside, the lobby was all smooth stone and quiet air conditioning. The kind of calm that felt curated, as though the outside didn’t exist here at all. A citrus-clean scent lingered, almost convincing in its attempt to erase the dust and heat waiting beyond the glass.

He approached the reception desk, the sound of suitcase wheels soft on polished tile. The receptionist smiled with the practiced warmth of someone who had done this a hundred times, sliding the keycard across the counter. “Welcome, Mr. Leclerc.”

He took it without slowing, already thinking ahead to the paddock. The number on the card didn’t matter; he would only see the room for a handful of hours between commitments.

The lift doors closed on an empty space. Chrome panels reflected him back in fragmented lines, cutting his shape into narrow, uneven pieces. It was the kind of mirror that made you feel less like a whole person and more like a collection of sharp edges.

The ride felt longer than it was, each floor lighting up with a steady rhythm. His focus slid between the muted glow of the buttons and the faint pull in his shoulders — a tightness he hadn’t been able to shake since Bahrain.

The door to his room opened on the first try, the air inside cool enough to feel almost unfamiliar after the heat outside.

The room was neutral, the kind of space that belonged to no one until it was left behind again. A bed made with exact corners. A single bottle of water resting on a coaster, placed with deliberate precision. Curtains drawn halfway, letting a strip of sunlight cut across the carpet.

He set the suitcase by the wardrobe, unzipping only far enough to pull out what he needed — a clean shirt, his phone charger. No reason to unpack more than that.

The mattress gave slightly under his weight when he sat. It was quiet here, but the silence felt temporary, as if it already knew how quickly the weekend would fill it with noise.

His phone buzzed once in his palm.

Tu arrives quand? When are you getting here? Pierre.

Hôtel d’abord. Paddock après. Hotel first. Paddock after.

Ne commence pas une guerre aujourd’hui. Don’t start a war today.

Je ne commence jamais. I never start.

The shirt was softer than the one he’d worn on the flight, cooler against skin that still felt marked by recycled airplane air. He pushed his hair back with both hands, letting it fall into place without checking the mirror.

The window framed a sliver of the city, pale rooftops under a sun that burned with no concern for the time of day. Somewhere in the distance, the faint blur of the circuit fences shimmered against the horizon.

The Grid Idiots chat was already moving faster than he could read.

Lando: alive but barely functioning

George: Define “functioning.”

Yuki: hotel ramen mid. don’t bother.

Carlos: Who’s eating before team dinner? Sacrilege.

Pierre: Charles is 100% reading this without replying.

He typed something, deleted it. Tried again. Left only a blue check mark behind.

The drive to the paddock was quick, but the route wound through a mix of wide boulevards and narrow turns. Scooters threaded between cars with the casual confidence of people who trusted the rules to bend for them.

Charles leaned back in the seat for a moment, the glass cool against the side of his head. He sat up straighter when the first flash of the circuit came into view — steel fences, bright banners, and the faint buzz that only existed on race weekends.

The paddock had its own weather. The heat came from more than the sun; it lived in the air, laced with the scent of fuel and the constant undercurrent of engines somewhere nearby. Voices carried, mixing with the scrape of equipment wheels over concrete and the click of camera shutters.

He kept his pace steady, expression set to something that wasn’t unfriendly but gave away nothing. Ferrari hospitality was a short walk away, just past a coffee cart and a cluster of fans pressed against the glass barrier.

“Tu as l’air moins fatigué qu’à Bahreïn.” You look less tired than Bahrain. Pierre appeared suddenly in front of him, hands in his pockets.

“Vol plus court.” Shorter flight.

“Try not to—” Pierre’s eyes flicked over Charles’ shoulder, catching on the blue of a Red Bull shirt down the lane, along with the orange of a Mclaren shirt. “—start anything today.”

Charles raised an eyebrow. “With who?”

Pierre didn’t answer. Just smirked like he already knew and turned toward the AlphaTauri garage.

Pierre’s gaze didn’t linger long enough to be obvious, but Charles caught the shift. The faintest curve of a smirk, his eyes sliding past Charles’ shoulder before returning.

Charles didn’t have to turn around to know. The sound of a familiar laugh carried over the noise of the paddock — lower, sharper at the edges. He glanced anyway.

Max was there, Red Bull polo catching the light. Next to him, Daniel in bright orange, sunglasses pushing his hair back. They moved through the crowd like they belonged everywhere they went, a half-step ahead of Yuki, who was balancing two coffee cups in one hand.

“Evénement familial.” Family event. Pierre said it like an afterthought, but the timing was deliberate. “Red Bull thing. Max, Daniel, Yuki, me. Morning wasted.”

Charles let the words pass without reply. His gaze tracked them for a second longer before turning back toward Ferrari hospitality.

Pierre only raised a brow. “Pas aujourd’hui.” Not today.

“On verra.” We’ll see.

The corridor outside the drivers’ room was narrow, walls lined with framed photographs from past seasons. The air smelled faintly of oil and fresh paint — a reminder that everything here had been built for speed, not comfort.

Charles rounded a corner at the same moment Max came from the other side. There was no space for either of them to pass without slowing, but neither moved first.

Max’s eyes flicked over him once, sharp and assessing. “Heard Ferrari’s bringing new strategy notes after Bahrain. Going to overthink this one too?”

Charles’ jaw tightened. “Better than driving without thinking at all.”

“Thinking doesn’t help if you’re still behind.” Max’s tone was light, but the words landed with weight.

Charles hesitated to reply back at him, he sighed and choose to ignore him for now. Their shoulders brushed as they passed. Neither looked back.

The room was quiet when Charles entered. A few engineers bent over laptops, Carlos scrolling through something on his phone. The hum of the air conditioning was steady, almost loud in the stillness.

He sat down, opening the data sheet waiting on the table. Numbers were easier than people. Easier than the memory of Max’s voice cutting through the noise of the paddock.

His phone buzzed again.

Pierre: You already started, didn’t you?

Charles: He started.

Pierre: Talent. Pure talent.

Charles: He’s impossible.

Pierre: Or you just make him worse.

Charles left the chat before he could decide whether to agree or not.

The next morning carried the weight of a race weekend without the actual race. Practice days were lighter in theory, but the air in the paddock already felt charged. The early sunlight caught on the polished floor panels, casting thin lines of glare that made everyone squint as they walked between hospitality units.

Charles arrived earlier than necessary, the familiar hum of preparation pulling him in. Crew members rolled out tire sets still marked with chalk. Engineers leaned over tablets, trading short sentences and longer glances toward the track. The smell of warm asphalt mixed with the faint tang of fuel.

By mid-morning, the first practice session was underway. Charles tightened his grip on the wheel, eyes scanning the track ahead as his engineer’s voice crackled in his ear. Sector one was clean, sector two tight but controlled — and then the line into sector three broke apart.

A Red Bull ahead, slower through the apex than it should have been. Max.

Charles adjusted too late, the corner compromised before he could fix it. Two-tenths gone. His knuckles whitened under the gloves.

“That Red Bull’s holding us up,” he said into the radio, voice flat but edged.

Silence for a beat, then: “Understood. Box this lap.”

When he pulled into the garage, the helmet stayed on longer than usual. A quick replay on the monitor confirmed it — Max taking the apex a fraction wide, forcing him to brake harder than planned. Small enough to be brushed off. Large enough to feel deliberate.

He pulled the helmet off, setting it down with care that felt too precise to be natural. Carlos glanced over but said nothing.

It didn’t take long to find him. Max was already out of his car, helmet in hand, talking to a Red Bull mechanic. Daniel was a few feet away, half-listening while sipping from a bottle of water.

Charles walked over before he could think better of it. “You brake-tested me into that corner.”

Max turned, expression unreadable. “Or maybe you just misjudged your entry.”

“Funny. I’ve taken that corner a hundred times. Never lost two-tenths for no reason.”

“Maybe the reason is you.” The faintest smirk. “Always looking for someone else to blame.”

“Always giving someone else a reason.”

Their voices weren’t raised, but the tone carried. A few mechanics glanced over, then looked away again in that practiced way people did when they didn’t want to be caught watching.

Daniel stepped in, tone deliberately light. “You two need a referee or a cage?”

Max didn’t look at him. “No cage. He’ll just blame the bars.”

Charles’ mouth twitched into something too sharp to be a smile. “And you’ll just hide behind them.”

Silence for a second too long. Then Max turned away, helmet back in his hands.

By the time Charles walked back toward Ferrari hospitality, Pierre was waiting near the door, coffee in hand and one brow already raised.

“Qu’est-ce que tu as encore fait?” What did you do this time?

“Rien. Il a commencé.” Nothing. He started it.

“Bien sûr.” Of course. Pierre’s smirk deepened. “You’re going to burn through all your energy before the race.”

“Better now than during it.”

“Or both,” Pierre said, holding the door open. “Knowing you.”

The notifications started before Charles even made it back to the hotel. The little preview banners lit up his lock screen in quick succession, each one pulling him deeper into the inevitable.

Lando: quali was spicy today

George: understatment of the year

Carlos: I’ve seen fewer sparks in welding class

Max: tell your teammate to stop blocking if he can’t handle clean air

Charles scrolled, thumb steady. He typed without thinking.

Charles: tell your teammate to stop braking in corners that don’t need it

Max: maybe you’d know the difference if you didn’t spend half your career spinning out

The replies came faster now. The rest of the chat either watching or adding fuel.

Pierre: annnd we’re off

Daniel: *grabs popcorn*

Charles: better to spin than to be a crash magnet

Max: better to crash than to be irrelevant half the season

It should have stopped there. But Charles didn’t back down.

Charles: at least my dad didn’t need to scream at me to get me to the top

The chat went still for three seconds. Then—

Max: at least mine was there to see it

Charles’ jaw locked. He could almost feel the words hanging in the air between them, even through a screen. Pierre’s name popped up with a private message before the chat could move again.

Pierre: you two need to cool it

But it was too late.

They ran into each other less than an hour later. Outside the Red Bull garage, in that narrow strip where team personnel passed between buildings. Max was coming one way, Charles the other, neither slowing.

“You want to say it again?” Max’s voice was low but sharp enough to cut through the noise of nearby mechanics.

“Which part?” Charles stopped just close enough that the space between them felt like a fuse waiting for flame. “The truth about your driving, or about your father?”

Max’s hand came up in a shove to the chest before Charles could finish the breath. Charles caught himself, stepped forward again, and shoved back harder.

Someone said their names — Carlos, maybe — but it didn’t matter. Max’s fist connected first, a quick hook to the side that clipped Charles’ mouth. Charles swung back, catching Max across the bridge of the nose. The sharp crack was followed by a curse in Dutch.

It ended as fast as it started. Daniel was between them, Pierre on Charles’ side, voices raised in more languages than one. Max’s nose was bleeding, Charles’ lip split, both of them still breathing like they were ready for another round.

“You’re pathetic,” Max said, wiping the blood with the back of his hand.

“And you’re predictable.” Charles spat to the side, the taste of iron sharp on his tongue.

They were pulled apart completely then, each dragged toward their own side of the paddock. The noise of the garages rushed back in, but the echo of it — the thud of impact, the snap of words — didn’t fade.

The hotel room was quiet in the way only expensive rooms could be — thick walls, heavy curtains drawn tight against the city lights outside. Charles sat on the edge of the bed, towel pressed to his lip, the faint sting of disinfectant still lingering where the team medic had cleaned it. The fabric came away stained with a thin smear of red that had already turned rusty at the edges.

He exhaled slowly, shoulders heavy. The adrenaline had burned out hours ago, but the echo of it remained — in the throb along his mouth, in the tight ache in his chest, in the memory of the sound when his fist connected with Max’s face. The crack of impact replayed louder than it had been in the moment, filling the silence now.

His phone buzzed against the nightstand. He reached for it without much thought, thumb swiping across the screen. Twitter, Instagram, TikTok — all variations of the same story. Blurry footage from a phone in the paddock, someone’s caption in all caps: “DID MAX AND CHARLES JUST FIGHT???” Another angle from a guest wristband account: muffled shouts, the half-second of Max’s fist making contact, Daniel’s voice cutting in after.

Charles locked the phone quickly, tossing it back onto the table. He didn’t want to watch. He didn’t want to know how many people had already slowed the clips down, added edits, counted the frames between insult and impact. He didn’t want to see the headlines waiting for the morning.

But the words wouldn’t leave him. At least mine was there to see it.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers laced together. The room smelled faintly of clean linen and the citrus soap from the bathroom. Too clean for how he felt. The taste of iron was still sharp on his tongue, a reminder every time he swallowed.

What had he expected? That throwing J*s Verstappen’s shadow in Max’s face wouldn’t get a reaction? That it would just hang in the air between them, another dart thrown in a hallway, another bruise layered on top of the others? Maybe some part of him had wanted it — the release, the line crossed so that there would be no pretending anymore. No thin veneer of rivalry. Just open hostility.

But it hadn’t felt like victory. Not when Max’s fist landed first, not when the blood ran down his chin, not when he saw Daniel’s eyes wide with disappointment instead of amusement.

The phone buzzed again. This time, he let it sit. Then it buzzed a third time, and he gave in.

Pierre: You alive?

Charles: Obviously.

Pierre: Good. Yuki says if you die he wants your watch collection.

Charles: Tell him it wouldn’t fit.

Pierre: Then your car. He says he’ll take the car.

Charles huffed a laugh despite himself. The cut pulled, reminding him it wasn’t healed yet. He leaned back against the headboard, letting the phone rest on his chest.

Another message came through, slower this time.

Pierre: You shouldn’t have gone for his dad.

Charles stared at the words for a long time. The screen dimmed, brightened again under his touch, but he didn’t answer.

Pierre added one more line.

Pierre: He’s going to come back twice as hard tomorrow.

The phone stayed in Charles’ hand, screen glowing against his skin. He set it down eventually, face down, and turned the light off. The room sank into darkness, but the words stayed lit in his head — Max’s, Pierre’s, his own. The kind that didn’t fade when the screen went black.

The morning came with the kind of heaviness that no amount of coffee could dilute. Charles woke to the pale rectangle of light bleeding in past the curtains, the city already stirring beneath him. His lip was tender, swollen against the edge of the pillow. He probed it with his tongue and tasted only the faint metallic echo of the night before. The bruises, visible and invisible, had settled in.

He dressed mechanically — the black polo, sunglasses, cap pulled low. The routine was armor, each layer a small reminder that presentation mattered. Even when the foundation beneath it was cracked, no one outside could be allowed to see. By the time he left the hotel room, the mask felt intact, even if the fracture lines beneath it were pulsing like fault lines before an earthquake.

The paddock was already alive by mid-morning, a tide of bodies moving with purpose: engineers carrying laptops, mechanics wheeling parts, media staff with headsets and determined strides. Charles slipped through the current, nodding where necessary, ignoring where possible. He wanted only to make it to the Ferrari motorhome, to sit through the debriefs, to lose himself in data and strategy sheets where emotion had no foothold.

The strategy meeting dragged longer than it needed to. Fuel loads, tire degradation models, sector-by-sector analyses of Bahrain compared to this circuit — all of it delivered in the clipped, neutral tones of engineers who had long ago learned to speak in numbers rather than words. Charles followed, annotated, nodded. He absorbed what mattered and left the rest floating in the sterile air of the meeting room.

When it ended, he gathered his notes, stood, and allowed the tight professionalism to slip fractionally. It was a relief to move alone through the corridor, heading toward the exit for a breath of real air. That was when he saw them.

Kelly’s hand was looped effortlessly through Max’s arm. The two of them moved down the corridor with the kind of ease Charles found unbearable — unhurried, unbothered, a small island of private intimacy in the middle of the public paddock. Max leaned slightly toward her as she said something he couldn’t hear, and he laughed. Not the tight, sardonic laugh he saved for press conferences, but the genuine one Charles remembered from karting paddocks years ago, before it had been turned against him like another weapon.

It hit harder than it should have. Jealousy wasn’t the word he allowed himself — too obvious, too telling. But there was a sour twist low in his stomach, a burn beneath his ribs that made it difficult to look away. It was irritation, he told himself. Nothing more. Irritation at Max’s ability to move through life with so little friction, to gather victories both on and off track like they belonged to him by natural right.

Charles slowed his steps deliberately, but not enough to let them pass without acknowledgment. Max saw him first. The laughter dimmed but didn’t vanish, replaced by the sharpness Charles recognized too well.

“Try not to crash into me this weekend,” Max said, voice casual but pitched to carry. “One nosebleed was enough.”

Charles stopped fully now, the corridor narrowing between them. “I wasn’t the one bleeding by the end of it.” His tone was even, but his jaw tightened with every word. “Maybe learn to keep your guard up.”

Kelly shifted slightly, as though the atmosphere had changed temperature. Max’s mouth curved, but it wasn’t amusement — it was something closer to challenge. “Funny. I thought Ferrari drivers preferred excuses after the fact, not before.”

“And I thought Red Bull drivers preferred blaming teammates until someone else took the fall.” Charles’ gaze flicked deliberately to Kelly, just for a fraction of a second, enough to sting if Max noticed.

The reaction was immediate — the faint stiffening of Max’s shoulders, the sharp glint in his eyes. He didn’t step forward, but the silence between them thickened. Kelly’s hand tightened on his arm, a tether to keep him moving.

“Enjoy your strategy meetings,” Max said finally, each word precise and edged. “It’s the only place you’ll ever be ahead of me.”

He moved past without another glance, Kelly guiding him with a subtle pull. The air that filled the corridor after their departure felt thin, as though something essential had been drawn out of it and taken along.

Charles stood still for a beat longer, forcing his breath to even out. The anger was a live thing inside him now, coiled and restless. He hated how easily Max could get under his skin, how a handful of words could undo hours of careful composure. He hated more that he couldn’t stop replaying the way Kelly had looked at Max, the softness in her eyes, the ease of belonging written into her every gesture.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He ignored it at first, then pulled it out, grateful for the distraction.

Pierre: Where are you?

Charles: Paddock. Just finished.

Pierre: Yuki’s already asking for food. Meet us in town?

Charles typed slower this time, his fingers heavier than they should have been.

Charles: Give me an hour.

Pierre: Fine. Don’t brood. He’s not worth it.

Charles didn’t answer that last one. He slipped the phone back into his pocket and started walking again, each step a small act of defiance against the impulse to turn around, to go after Max, to escalate what was already impossible to contain. The tension was an ember still glowing, tucked into the folds of his thoughts, waiting for the right gust of wind to ignite again.

By the time he reached the outer gates of the paddock, the city stretched before him like another circuit, alive with motion, indifferent to the battles being waged inside the narrow corridors of Formula 1. He breathed it in, the heat, the noise, the smell of fuel and street vendors mixing in the air. For a moment, he let it anchor him. Then he hailed a car, headed back toward the hotel to trade one kind of noise for another — the voices of Pierre and Yuki, loud and familiar, waiting to pull him back into something lighter.

The desert heat of Saudi Arabia shimmered differently on qualifying days. The circuit was alive, the air threaded with nerves sharp enough to taste. Charles walked the paddock with his cap pulled low, sunglasses fixed, headphones humming white noise into his ears. He tried to build the wall he always built — numbers, data, precision — but it was cracked already, hairline fractures from everything that had carried over from Bahrain.

Max’s shadow was always there. A laugh at the wrong time, a comment angled just enough to draw blood. Charles told himself he would ignore it today. Stay clean, stay fast.

Q1 passed clean. Both Ferraris, both Red Bulls, no surprises. The garage was a hive of motion — gloves swapped, fuel topped, engineers muttering clipped updates in headsets. Charles sat in his chair, breathing steadily, eyes fixed on the timing screens. Max’s name hovered close. Too close.

Q2 raised the stakes. Charles pushed harder, finding a rhythm in the second lap. But it was Q3 where it unraveled.

They were both on cool-down laps, the engines humming lower, cars threading through the circuit like animals at rest. Charles expected Max to move aside — it was etiquette, the unwritten code everyone knew. Instead, Max weaved deliberately across the track, his car swinging from line to line as though bored, casual.

Charles tightened his grip on the wheel. “He’s playing games.” His voice was flat into the radio.

“Copy, just focus, we’ll reset the gap,” came the reply, calm, professional.

But it wasn’t about the gap. It was about the message. Every time Charles inched closer, Max drifted across again, forcing him to lift, forcing him to brake where no braking was needed. It wasn’t illegal. It wasn’t punishable. It was worse than that — it was deliberate humiliation. A reminder of who dictated pace, even when the lap didn’t matter.

Charles felt the anger crawl under his skin, hot and precise. He wanted to push, to dart around, to make a point. Instead he bit down hard, jaw locked until his teeth ached. He finished the lap slower than planned, rhythm broken. Max peeled away toward the pits, casual as if nothing had happened.

When Charles pulled into the garage, the walls felt too close. The headset was tugged off his head, the data screen thrust in front of him, but none of it mattered. Max had already made his point.

And then Max walked by — helmet under one arm, sweat dark at his collar, a smirk like he’d just won something Charles couldn’t see.

“Having trouble keeping up on the slow laps too?” Max said lightly, but his eyes stayed sharp.

Charles’ reply left before he thought. “You drive like a coward who needs to remind himself he’s in control.”

Max stopped. The smirk flattened into something colder. “Better a coward than someone who cracks every time pressure shows up.”

“Pressure?” Charles laughed once, hollow. “You think you know pressure? Try growing up with a whole country waiting for you to win, and then choking in front of them year after year.”

There was a shift in the room. Engineers looked down, suddenly fascinated with their screens. Nobody interrupted. Nobody wanted to.

Max tilted his head. “At least your people still expect something. Mine already know better.”

Charles’ throat tightened. He thought of his father, of Monaco, of headlines that never stopped reminding him of failures. The words burned out before he could stop them. “Your father trained you with a fist, and you still can’t tell the difference between fear and respect.”

The silence hit harder than the words. Max’s face flickered — something raw, brief, before it sharpened into anger again.

“And you,” Max said, stepping forward just enough to close the space between them, “you hide behind excuses and call it tragedy. You don’t lose because of bad luck. You lose because you’re weak.”

Charles’ hand curled into a fist at his side. He could taste blood already, though he hadn’t moved. His pulse was too loud, his breath too shallow. He wanted to swing, to end the words with something louder, something final.

Pierre’s voice broke the moment. “Suffit. Enough.” He was suddenly there, hand on Charles’ shoulder, gaze sharp on both of them. Yuki hovered just behind him, wide-eyed. “Not here. Not like this.”

Charles didn’t answer. Max didn’t either. They stood locked in that small space, the air stretched so thin it could tear. Then Max stepped back first, tossing the helmet from one hand to the other like it weighed nothing.

“See you tomorrow,” he said, tone flat, almost bored. But his eyes didn’t let go.

Charles sat back down heavily, blood roaring in his ears. The garage noise returned — keyboards, drills, voices — but it all sounded distant. The only thing close was the echo of Max’s words. You lose because you’re weak.

He pressed a hand to his mouth, feeling the tremor there. It wasn’t fear. It was fury. And it would not fade.

The hotel room was silent when he returned. Too silent. He tossed his bag down, stripped off his shirt, let the shower run hot enough to burn, but none of it cut through the noise in his head. The water steamed the mirror, blurred his reflection, but he could still see the set of his jaw, the taut line of his mouth.

He tried distraction. Laptop open, movie queued, volume up. Ten minutes in, he realized he hadn’t followed a single line of dialogue. He tried the book by his bedside, but the words floated, meaningless. He tried pacing. He tried silence. Nothing worked. The garage still lived behind his eyelids.

Finally, he ended up with his phone in hand, thumb flicking mindlessly across Instagram. Stories blurred past — Carlos posting dinner, Lando tagging George, some sponsor announcement from Yuki. None of it stuck until his feed refreshed and Max’s face appeared.

A photo dump. Max, Checo, and Daniel sitting around a low table cluttered with food and bottles, all of them grinning like the world had never once pressed too hard. Another slide — Max leaning back, Daniel throwing an arm around his shoulders, Checo mid-laugh. Then one of Max alone, staring deadpan at the camera while Daniel pointed at him like he’d just made a joke. Casual. Carefree. Untouched.

Charles stared at the screen longer than he wanted. His chest felt tight, his jaw locked again. He told himself it was nothing. Just a post. Just another night. But it pressed down harder than any headline. Max could walk out of the garage, spit venom across the air, and then smile like it never happened. Meanwhile, Charles was here, burning in silence, every distraction falling short.

He tossed the phone onto the bed, but his eyes kept going back to it. To the photos. To Max. He hated that it didn’t fade. He hated that it lingered. He hated that no matter how he turned it, Max was still there, filling the space he wanted clear.

“Je ne peux pas le sortir de ma tête.” I can’t get him out of my head. The words slipped aloud, low, bitter, as if admitting them gave him control.

But it didn’t. The anger only sharpened, redder, clearer. The disappointment curled into rage. He lay back against the sheets, fists still tight, and stared at the ceiling until his vision blurred. Sleep would not come. Not like this.

By the time he closed his eyes, the only thing left was the same sentence, over and over, pulsing like a heartbeat: I can’t get him out of my head.

The notification came just as Charles was turning the phone facedown again. He thought about ignoring it, but the vibration rolled across the nightstand like it was daring him. He unlocked the screen.

Grid Idiots was alive.

Lando: who’s awake lol

George: it’s past midnight mate

Lando: didn’t answer my question

Daniel: 👋 present. insomniacs unite

Pierre: same. flight jetlag. yuki is snoring but i’m awake

Yuki: stop lying i just woke up cause you’re typing too loud

Charles almost smiled. Almost. Then the next notification appeared.

Max: awake. unlike some people i don’t need 10 hours of beauty sleep to function

Carlos: 🙄

Charles hesitated. He knew better than to wade in when Max was already sharpening his tone. But his thumb moved before his brain did.

Charles: i thought you needed 10 hours of excuses after quali

He hovered, watching the typing bubble pulse. Once. Twice. Too long. Then it landed.

Max: better excuses than blaming the car every weekend

Charles: better that than using the car to block people when you’re threatened

Max: threatened? by you? please. i’d have to actually see you in my mirrors for that

Pierre: okay children calm down

Lando: 👀

George: here we go again

Daniel: mate it’s past midnight. argue about apexes tomorrow

Charles felt his pulse tick higher. He started typing again. Deleted it. Rewrote it. Deleted it. Finally sent it before he could stop himself.

Charles: no. he thinks i’m behind cause i can’t keep up. truth is, he can’t stand when anyone’s faster

Max: faster? you’re the king of one-lap pace, charles. shame races are longer than one lap

Charles: at least i know how to race without shoving people off track

Max: oh please. remind me who locked up in bahrain and nearly ruined their teammate’s race?

Carlos: don’t drag me into this. keep me out of your lovers’ quarrel

Lando: LMFAO carlos no

Pierre: focus. both of you. this isn’t the place

His jaw was tight now, his teeth grinding. The words kept spilling anyway.

Charles: it’s always the place with him. max doesn’t know how to talk unless he’s tearing someone down

Max: says the guy who smiles for the cameras and then sulks when things don’t go his way

Charles: better than being a hypocrite. you pretend you don’t care, but the second someone challenges you, you lose your mind

Max: i don’t lose my mind. i just don’t tolerate mediocrity

Charles: then why are you still talking to me?

Lando: oh my god. stop flirting in riddles

George: lando not helping

Daniel: sending memes until this cools off

Daniel: [image attachment: shrek holding a steering wheel]

Yuki: wtf is that

But the memes didn’t stop the edge from cutting deeper.

Charles: you’re so obsessed with control you’d rather ruin a lap than admit someone’s faster

Max: you’re so obsessed with being the hero that you can’t stand being second

Charles: at least i don’t need people to carry me. slipstreams. setups. daniel babysitting you like it’s karting all over again

Daniel: oi leave me out of this i’m innocent

Max: don’t talk about things you don’t understand. at least i didn’t need a family tragedy to make people take me seriously

The words hit like glass shattering. Too sharp. Too far. The group froze. Notifications stopped in their tracks. The silence stretched long enough to hurt.

George: mate that’s low

Pierre: delete that

Carlos: max wtf

Lando: …

Daniel: not cool. seriously.

Charles’s chest burned. His thumbs moved before his head could catch them.

Charles: you want me out? say it. cause i’m not going to sit in a chat with someone who thinks kicking people where it hurts is a personality trait

Max: then leave

Lando: no one’s leaving this gc stop being dramatic

Daniel: seriously. if one of you bails this whole thing dies. not letting it happen

Yuki: yeah. you can both be idiots here like the rest of us

Pierre: this isn’t a battlefield. sleep. both of you. now.

Carlos: agreed. grow up before i mute the pair of you

Charles stared at the phone until the words blurred. He put it down face-first against the sheets, but the echo of Max’s message stayed sharp in his chest, carved like it wasn’t going anywhere.

Too sharp. Too far.

Charles’s stomach twisted. The words replayed in his head until they were louder than the silence on the screen. He read them once, twice, three times, like maybe the letters would rearrange if he stared long enough. They didn’t.

His thumb hovered over the screen. Options: “More.” “Leave group.” It sat there like a dare. The idea of cutting out, of walking away before Max could twist the knife again — it burned at the edges of his chest. He wanted to. God, he wanted to.

But then the typing bubble blinked back to life.

Max: guess it’s easier to quit than fight back. figures.

Charles’s jaw snapped tight. He could feel his pulse in his teeth. Leaving wasn’t an option now. Not after that.

Charles: funny. coming from someone who’s been running from his dad his whole life.

The silence after that was heavier than before. He’d crossed something, and he knew it. But his hands were shaking too much to regret it. Not yet.

Pierre: stop. both of you. now.

Carlos: delete it before it sticks.

Lando: jesus christ this isn’t funny anymore

George: yeah. too personal.

Max’s reply came slower this time. Calculated. Measured like it had been carved out of stone.

Max: at least i don’t hide behind smiles and fake interviews. at least people know who i am.

Charles: yeah. an asshole with a trophy cabinet. congrats.

His hand hovered again over “Leave group.” The button felt radioactive. If he tapped it, it would all end. The messages. The fight. The constant weight of Max at his heels, in his head, everywhere. It would be gone with one press.

And yet—

Daniel: stop this. i’m serious. both of you. it’s not worth it.

Pierre: daniel’s right. this isn’t banter anymore.

Yuki: it was never banter. it’s bloodsport.

Charles stared at that word. Bloodsport. It fit. Too well. The GC wasn’t a group chat anymore — it was a ring, ropes pulled tight, fists up. And neither of them would drop their guard first.

Lando: i swear if one of you leaves i’ll add you back myself

Carlos: seconded. no one’s leaving.

George: not like this. not over this.

His thumb shook as he set the phone down. Face-first. Away from him. But even in the dark of the hotel room, he could feel the echo of the words like bruises forming beneath skin. They weren’t going anywhere. Neither was he.

Too sharp. Too far. And nowhere near finished.

The morning came heavy. Charles woke to sunlight breaking through the thin hotel curtains, a heat that felt too early, too direct. His phone sat facedown on the nightstand, silent now, but the memory of the night before thrummed like static under his skin. He didn’t check it. He couldn’t. Not yet.

He moved through the motions — shower, kit bag, a quick coffee he barely tasted — but every reflection, every pause, brought back the same words. The things he had said. The things Max had thrown back harder. Too sharp. Too far. Still echoing.

By the time he stepped out of the hotel lobby, the shuttle waiting, his jaw was already set in that too-tight way Pierre always teased him about. No music in his ears this morning. No distraction. Just the steady hum of engines as the cars outside cut across the city toward the circuit.

The paddock in Jeddah always carried a different kind of tension. The air was thicker here, pressed between sea and concrete, the narrow walls of the circuit rising like glass and steel. Crowds clustered near the gates, cameras already flashing though it was hours before lights out. Charles pulled his cap lower, let the Ferrari backpack weigh heavier against his shoulders, and kept walking.

He could feel eyes on him even before the first reporter called his name. Questions hung in the air — about Bahrain, about strategy, about rivalry — but he didn’t stop. Not today. Not when he could still feel last night’s fight written across his ribs like bruises no one else could see.

Inside, the Ferrari motorhome was a shield of red and white, familiar faces greeting him with nods and clipped updates. Engineers already buried in data. Carlos at the table, reviewing notes with his usual calm focus. Charles sat, opened his laptop, and tried to anchor himself in numbers, in telemetry, in things that were solid and unarguable.

But then he heard it. That voice. Too familiar, too sharp even when it was casual. Max. Somewhere down the corridor, greeting someone, laughing at something Daniel had said. It cut straight through the hum of strategy talk. Like static across a radio. Charles didn’t even need to see him. He felt it, the shift in air, the invisible line pulled taut again.

He shut his laptop harder than necessary. Carlos gave him a glance but didn’t comment. The engineers kept talking. And Charles sat there, every nerve ending wired for the sound of footsteps that might turn into confrontation. The race hadn’t started yet. But already, it felt like war.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5 — Razor’s Edge

The door swung open without warning. The corridor noise leaked in with it — voices, laughter, the shuffle of footsteps. And then Max was there. Not in front of Charles, but close enough that the air shifted when he passed.

“Leclerc,” Max said lightly, like it was just a name, like it wasn’t a blade. Daniel trailed after him, still grinning at some half-finished joke.

Charles didn’t answer. He kept his eyes on the telemetry sheet in front of him, the lines of numbers blurred into nothing. But Max slowed just enough in the doorway to glance inside. The smirk was brief, practiced, sharp. Then he kept walking, Daniel’s laugh echoing down the hall.

“Il fait exprès.” He’s doing it on purpose. Charles muttered the words low, mostly to himself. But Carlos heard them.

“Don’t let him,” Carlos said without looking up from the data tablet. “That’s exactly what he wants.”

Charles closed the laptop. The numbers wouldn’t save him this morning. Not when his pulse was already trying to lap itself. He stood, pushing the chair back too hard against the wall, and excused himself under his breath. He needed air, even if the Jeddah heat offered none.

The paddock was alive now. Media swarmed the walkways, crew members darted between motorhomes, the scent of fuel and rubber already staining the air. Charles moved through it with his cap low, his headphones around his neck but silent. Focus was supposed to live here, in the steps between motorhome and garage. But focus today was fragile, slipping every time he caught sight of blue and orange in the corner of his vision.

Pierre intercepted him near the Ferrari garage, phone in hand, grin too sharp. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Pas un fantôme.” Not a ghost. Charles’s tone was flat, clipped.

“Then maybe worse.” Pierre matched his stride for a few steps, lowering his voice. “Arrête de le laisser vivre dans ta tête. Stop letting him live in your head.”

Charles didn’t answer. He didn’t need to — Pierre already knew. The silence said enough.

By the time the drivers gathered for the pre-race routine, the sun had dropped behind the buildings, shadows stretching long across the track. The air was heavy, humming with floodlights and noise. Fans pressed against the fences, flags waving, cameras capturing every handshake and glance. Charles pulled his cap lower again, shoulders squared.

Max was two cars down the grid. Helmet tucked under his arm, posture loose, as if this wasn’t the razor’s edge. He laughed at something Daniel said. Checo gestured animatedly beside them. Charles forced his gaze away, forced it back to the Ferrari crew, to the engineers making final checks.

“Focus,” his race engineer reminded him through the comms. Just one word, clipped and professional. But it landed heavy. Focus. Like it was that easy.

Engines roared to life along the grid, one after another, the sound shaking the air itself. The formation lap began — a line of color and speed rolling into the neon night. Charles guided the Ferrari through the first corners, tires weaving, brakes glowing. The city blurred past, walls too close, every shadow a threat.

In his mirrors, a flash of blue. Too familiar. Too close. Max was there, weaving his car with the same precision, the same intent. Neither of them had said a word yet, but already the race was a conversation. Already it was an argument waiting to be written in carbon fiber and speed.

They lined back up on the grid. The lights above flickered, then steadied. The world narrowed — to the cockpit, to the wheel beneath his hands, to the five red lights climbing above the track.

The lights went out and the night swallowed everything in a single, overwhelming sound. Engines rose like a chorus, a metal animal waking, and the field detonated into motion. Charles felt the Ferrari surge under him — a clean, violent thrust that shoved his spine into the seat — and for a breath it was only the car and the track and the pure, mechanical music of speed.

Turn One arrived like truth. Carbon screamed against carbon as twenty cars fought for the single line, but Charles threaded his way through with the narrow focus of someone cutting a path by torchlight. He defended into the first apex, felt the car bite, felt the wheel translate intent into grip, and kept the Ferrari exactly where it needed to be. Yet the blue pulse in his mirror was there, constant: Max, making the distance like a heartbeat.

Lap after lap the city thinned into a tunnel of light. The walls drew closer, neon washed across the bodywork, and the race reduced to syllables — brake, turn, throttle; brake, turn, throttle. But there was another rhythm overlaid on top of that: the metronome of Max behind him, a sound in his periphery that dictated when to push and when to parry. The two of them were a duet, violent and precise.

He could feel more than see Max’s moves. The Red Bull skimmed the kerb differently; it breathed at different revs; it pressed into corners with a slightly more impatient line. Charles answered by shifting his balance, by leaning his weight through the steering wheel, by trusting the Ferrari to do what physics promised it would do if he asked it politely enough and then forced it anyway.

“Right on you, Leclerc. Don’t let him get a run.”

It came calm through the radio, businesslike. A reminder he didn’t need but wanted anyway, a cord back to the team while the rest of the world stretched thin.

Race Engineer → Charles: Right on you. Don’t let him get a run. Manage temp.

Charles → Engineer: Copy. Holding line. He’s trying the high exit again.

Lap nine — the first real exchange. Max tried the high exit through the long right-hander, flung the Red Bull wide and used the kerb to close the angle on the following straight. Charles felt the slipstream hit like a wall of cold air and saw the DRS marker flicker open on his dash. He had the speed to challenge back; he had the balance to take the risk.

They reached the straight side by side, wing to wing, the world reduced to exhaust and the scream of air past helmets. Charles eased the steering a hair, nudged the Ferrari to the RB’s tail, and when the line opened he punched the throttle. The car leapt. He felt the Red Bull attempt to close under him, felt the rubber brush at a tone that made his teeth hurt, and then — a hair’s breadth from contact — Charles threaded past, nose ahead by a sliver, breathless and perfect.

Lap fifteen, and the duel had shed the rest of the field. Carlos sat a handful of seconds back, a patient watchman, while Charles and Max wrote a new language on the asphalt. Each corner was a paragraph; each straight a sentence. Max was faster from mid-corner sometimes, Charles was better on edge; the trade-offs folded into decisions that had to be made in the space between thought and reflex.

“Gap behind sixteen seconds. You’re doing well.”

“Copy — gap stable.”

Race Engineer → Charles: Gap behind is 16. He’s still close. Temperatures okay.

Charles → Engineer: Temperatures in check. I’ll keep pressure on.

On Lap nineteen, Max did something that smelled like contempt. He rode the outside wall through the long sweep, taking the extreme line and daring the Ferrari to follow him beyond the edge. Sparks flew where the RB kissed the barrier; the crowd inhaled in a single, collective gasp. Most drivers would not attempt that — the margin for error was a sliver. Max made it look inevitable.

Charles didn’t mirror him at first. He waited one apex longer, watched the line, then committed. The Ferrari spluttered against the kerb and the world tilted for a half second. He could have backed out and bled position; instead he kept the throttle true, threaded the car through the seam that opened when the Red Bull drifted fractionally wide, and slid ahead on the exit. It was small, surgical — like taking a throat with a needle.

Tire degradation became a chorus in every update. Front-left picking up; rear shifting into a heat zone. The engineer’s voice shifted into a steady metronome, timing and cadence layered over the human chaos.

Race Engineer → Charles: Front-left heating. Be mindful of long turns. Max is pushing rear harder — he’ll fall off late if you keep him in traffic.

Charles → Engineer: Understood. I’ll feed him the long corners; he’ll overwork the rear.

Lap twenty-four — contact. Not brutal, but the kind that sparks a collective intake. The Red Bull brushed the Ferrari’s left-rear through a tight sequence, carbon tapping carbon with a sound like someone snapping a twig. The Ferrari felt the jolt through the seat and Charles felt something like a bell ring in his bones; he steadied, breath loud in his ears. Max flashed a glance across the air between them and there was no apology in it.

They traded words without speaking. Movement became insult. Brakes, a flick. Counter-steer, a pull. Each lap rewrote an argument they had begun years ago. Karting memories, old slights, the long ledger of bruises — all pressed into the contact of steel on steel.

“He touched you, huh?”

“Yeah. Light. He’s playing the margins.”

Engineer → Charles: He grazed you. Stay clear. Keep it clean. We can’t afford damage.

Charles → Engineer: Copy. I’ll keep it tidy — for now.

Lap thirty-two offered the cruelest poetry: DRS zones, a knife-edge crosswind, and a straight that seemed to stretch into a tunnel of flame. Max used the tow to his advantage and slipped ahead by the slimmest measure. The commentators stuttered into giddy disbelief. The crowd rose and fell like weather.

Charles felt the sting of being ahead evaporate into the vacuum of the RB’s wake. He read the slight dip in Max’s steering, the half-degree that meant the Dutchman had chosen the outside for the entry, the inside on return. It was audacious. It was exact.

But Charles had rhythm carved into his muscles. He rode the Ferrari like a second heartbeat, feeling the margin in the shoulders, in the soles of his boots, in the friction on the right-hand foot. When the lights at the end of the straight came, he took his run, DRS opening like a blade, and threaded the RB again on the approach to Turn One — brake hard, turn later, let the car pivot on the curb. The Ferrari hugged the line and the Red Bull had to yield space, the gap resolved in a surge of speed and song.

Race Engineer → Charles: Great move. He’s aggressive on the exit. Keep the pressure. Temperature okay?

Charles → Engineer: Copy. Temperatures holding. He can’t sustain this forever.

Every exchange left a mark. By Lap thirty-eight, both cars wore the night like bruises. Paint marred, rubber flayed. Their tires sang in a tone that made Charles’s molars ache. He tasted metal when he swallowed, a tang of iron and adrenaline. Yet his vision narrowed not in panic but in focus: the next corner, the exact point to brake, the seam to slip through.

Max launched one desperate feint on Lap forty-four, swinging wide and trying to pin Charles against the wall to the inside. The RB’s line was a gamble — he carried more speed than safety allowed. Charles smelled the risk and met it with cold logic. He altered entry, delayed his turn-in by a breath, let the Red Bull’s momentum fling it outward, and then took the instant that opened. The Ferrari shot through, nose clear, and the crowd lost whatever air it had left.

“You’re the only one keeping his tempo,” his engineer said on the radio, as if that simple phrase could tie a ribbon around what they had been doing for forty-odd laps. “You’re managing him.”

Race Engineer → Charles: You’re the only one keeping his tempo. He’s tiring. Keep it measured.

Charles → Engineer: I’m with him. No mistakes.

Lap forty-seven — the final push. The grid was a blur in the stands. The city around them a hum. The duel had become a long, terrible poem, and now they arrived at the last stanza. Max threw everything at Charles; late braking, daring lines, pushes that bent the edges of the rules. Twice they came within a whisper of the wall, sparks like prayers. Twice they emerged, both men staring straight ahead, hands pale on wheels.

Charles felt the Ferrari as if it were his own heartbeat pushed outside his chest: loud, vital, precarious. He fought every instinct to overdrive. He measured, breathed, met each attack with a counter-smile he kept inside his head like a private victory. When the final straight opened and DRS slotted, Charles took the tow, tucked in, and put the boot down with a shove that felt like defiance.

The final laps arrived like a held breath. The duel had thinned the field into a smear; only red and blue occupied Charles’s world. He and Max traded momentum like currency, each lap an accounting of risk and nerve. Every engineer’s call, every temperature readout, threaded through the cockpit as background static. The only signal worth listening to was the Red Bull a whisper behind him, patient and hungry.

Lap forty-eight, the penultimate circuit: Max tucked in closer than before, riding the Ferrari’s wake with surgeon’s patience. Charles felt the air change — the littlest shift in pressure that told him the Dutchman was lining something up. He tightened his grip and fed the car weight through the entry, trying to seal options, to make the line unassailable.

Race Engineer → Charles: Two to go. He’s rights on you. Hold the line, manage temps.

Charles → Engineer: Copy. I know where he wants to be — not giving anything.

Max used the tow on the back straight that followed, exploiting the slither of vacuum like a knife. Charles felt the Ferrari lift fractionally as the RB licked past, then sat inches off his rear wing. It was a set-up as old as slipstreams: draw the prey, then strike where the seam opens. Charles anticipated a dive into Turn 1; instead Max lingered, patient, letting the DRS breathe and the straight lengthen the moment of their togetherness.

On the last lap the world thinned to two lines of light. The DRS zone bloomed and Max slid into it with a low, eager sound. He stayed out of Charles’s mirrors, only half-visible, a suggestion of motion. Charles refused the panic; he had room, he had pace, he had the rhythm that had kept him with Max for forty-eight laps. But Max had been saving something — the quiet kind of calculation that leaves no trace until it is done.

They entered the final sequence side by side. Charles held the inside line, the safer geometry through the opening corner. He could see Max’s wheels in the corner of his vision — a fraction wider, the Dutchman carrying an angle that pried at the seam between courage and consequence. Max committed a hair later than anyone expected: throttle on, a slither over the kerb, and then a violent, perfectly judged cut back for the apex that left the Ferrari only a whisper of space to turn.

Charles scrubbed speed to keep the line, the rear protesting as heat and load met. For a breath, it looked as if he’d hold — as if the months of grudges, the nights of replaying insults, would finally be answered in a narrow, hard window of asphalt. Then Max did the thing Charles had feared more than a dive: he took the outside, then, with a geometry that should have been impossible, threaded the inside on the exit. The Red Bull surfaced ahead just as the straight opened, the RB’s nose a fraction in front of the Ferrari’s. The timing lights blinked. Inches decided everything.

Race Engineer → Charles: He’s through! He’s ahead into the final straight — push, push, push!

Charles → Engineer: Copy, full push. He’s made a move.

Charles slammed the throttle, the Ferrari lunging like a beast rabid with the need to reclaim. The dash was a strobe of numbers; his heart a drum. He saw the finish line markers flare; Max’s rear wing was there, a pale line. The gap closed like a seam being stitched faster and faster. For a moment, victory hung in the breath between them — a coin flipped and spinning in a single light.

They crossed the line with scarcely a car’s nose between them. Max’s blue cut ahead by the slenderest of margins. The timing screens implacably reflected what the crowd already knew — Verstappen, P1; Leclerc, P2. The roar that followed was a river split in two: celebration and frustration, applause and a sound like someone being read their sentence.

Charles’s exhale was a dry thing, half-defeat, half-acknowledgement. He had been matched and then outmuscled at the final moment; the duel had given him everything and taken the last breath away. He rolled into the cool-down area with hands that trembled not only from exertion but from a furious, brittle disappointment. The Ferrari’s engine wound down to a tired whisper. He killed the ignition and sat a second longer in the quiet, feeling the residue of the fight vibrate through him.

Race Engineer → Charles: Incredible drive. P2. Medical to check contact, but you’re cleared on team radio.

Charles → Engineer: Copy. Big effort. Thanks team.

He unbuckled slowly, the motion mechanical. His suit smelled of heat and rubber, his gloves still warm. Around him the team moved with professional relief, hands slapping shoulders, quick smiles that tried to fold consolation into praise. But the shape of the result remained sharp in the center of his chest — pride in having matched Max’s tempo across nearly the whole race, frustration at the final, decisive move that cost him the win.

He stepped from the cockpit into cool air that felt suddenly too bright. Cameras flashed, and faces blurred into a smear of congratulation and curiosity. Max’s victory was made official in the pit monitors and in the flood of messages that already began to pulse through the paddock. Charles let the noise come for a moment; he let the team’s hands on his back be a small salve. Then, because the thing inside him would not settle, he walked away to find a space where he could be alone with the heat in his ribs.

The cool-down room smelled of burnt rubber and antiseptic. A medic came over with the practiced concern of someone who knew how to be calm in chaos and checked his lip and his jaw the way one checks a watch for a hairline crack. Charles let them fuss and scribble on a clipboard; he felt the adrenaline drop out of his limbs and leave a hollow that applause wouldn’t fill. The team clapped backs and offered quick smiles, but his eyes kept drifting to the timing screens where Max's name still blinked above his. Close enough to touch, far enough to choke on.

Podium protocol was mechanical. Walk the corridor, shake the hands, climb the steps. The anthem blared, flags lifted into the floodlights, champagne corks snapped like firecrackers. Charles kept his face still, professional, but the edges of his mouth ached with the effort. He let the spray of champagne hit his fire suit, sticky and cold, while Max grinned two steps higher. Cameras caught everything—the clap of hands, the half-smiles, the way Charles’s jaw clicked tight when Max glanced his way for half a second too long.

When the anthem ended, Charles raised the trophy, but it felt less like victory and more like proof of how close he had been. His fingers curled around the metal with a pressure that left small crescents in his palm. Every photograph would show him smiling, but he knew, deep down, that the smile never reached his eyes.

Back in the garage, the noise was thick—engineers high-fiving, crew shouting congratulations, the sweet hum of Ferrari red burning through fatigue. Carlos nudged him, grinning. “Bon boulot. Good job. He didn’t make it easy.”

“He never does.” Charles’s voice was flat, but Carlos didn’t push. The relief on his teammate’s face was enough to make Charles swallow whatever else sat sharp on his tongue.

He sat for a while, visor still resting on the top of his helmet, the noise of the garage muffled around him. The moment his phone buzzed in his pocket, he knew who it would be before he looked. Messages already flying.

Grid Idiots

Lando: podium boys 😏

Pierre: don’t pretend you’re not screaming inside. Being nonchalant is the complete opposite of how you act 😭.

George: that last lap was mad. absolutely insane.

Yuki: my heart stopped three times

Daniel: same. charles almost sent me into cardiac arrest and I wasn’t even in the car 🥀🥀

Carlos: relax, it’s over. second place is still good.

Lando: but max first 😭

Charles locked the phone before he typed anything. He couldn’t— not while the air still smelled of fuel and loss. Not when he knew Max would see every word.

Elsewhere in the paddock, the Red Bull motorhome roared with energy. Max sat with a water bottle in hand, cheeks still flushed from champagne, hair damp. Daniel slouched beside him, feet kicked up on a chair, and Checo leaned forward, elbows on his knees, shaking his head with a grin.

“Man,” Daniel said, voice thick with amusement. “That was close. Thought he had you.”

Max’s expression flickered, grin twitching into something harder. “He didn’t. He never does.”

Checo raised an eyebrow. “He nearly did.”

“Nearly doesn’t count.” Max’s tone sharpened. He twisted the bottle cap off and slammed it back on with too much force. “He always drives like he has something to prove. Like he’s… desperate.”

Daniel’s smile faded a fraction. “Desperate or determined? There’s a difference.”

Max didn’t answer right away. His jaw flexed, and his eyes dropped to the floor. “He doesn’t get it. Racing isn’t about theatrics, it’s not about playing hero. It’s about winning. And he can’t stand that I’m better at it.”

Checo leaned back, lips pressed in thought. “Or maybe he can’t stand that you remind him every time.”

Max’s laugh was sharp, humorless. “Good. Let him hate it. Hate me. Doesn’t change the result.”

Daniel exchanged a glance with Checo but let it drop. He’d seen Max in this state before—wired, defensive, still carrying the race in his veins. It was the kind of fire that burned hot enough to win championships and set bridges ablaze all at once.

Charles finally escaped the debrief an hour later, body heavy with exhaustion. He returned to his hotel room with a paper bag of food he didn’t remember ordering. He set it on the desk untouched, stripped down to shorts, and collapsed onto the bed. For a moment he stared at the ceiling, counting the lines in the plaster like they might hold answers.

He tried the TV. News recaps, flashing lights, highlights replayed with commentators yelling over each move. “Leclerc dives— Verstappen holds— neck and neck— Verstappen wins by inches.” He muted it after twenty seconds.

The phone buzzed again. Instagram this time. He opened it before he thought better.

Max’s face again. A carousel of podium shots, champagne mid-spray, the trophy high above his head. Caption: Team effort. Incredible race. P1 in Jeddah. Eyes forward.

Charles scrolled through the comments—fans screaming, rival fans arguing, headlines already screenshot and shared. His own tag filled with photos of the same moment: him beside Max, close but not close enough. Always second. Always chasing.

He set the phone down hard enough to make it bounce against the sheets. His chest ached with something sharper than fatigue. He told himself it was frustration, anger, resolve. Anything but what it really was: the way Max lived rent-free in every quiet space he had left.

Pierre’s message arrived just before midnight.

Pierre: you drove like hell today. ignore the noise. you’ll get him next time.

Charles: maybe. doesn’t feel like it.

Pierre: stop sulking. drink water. sleep.

Charles: easy for you to say.

Pierre: easy cause i’m right 🙈

Charles let out something halfway between a laugh and a sigh. He tossed the phone aside, turned onto his side, and let the darkness settle in. The race was over. The points were written. But the war—no, that was only just beginning.

Chapter Text

Interlude — Eruption

The paddock smells of fuel and hot rubber long before the engines even start. It seeps into clothes, into hair, until it feels like the air itself is heavy with speed. Boys run through the maze of tents and toolboxes, helmets tucked under arms that look too thin for the weight of them, shouting in languages that twist together like the smoke rising from the track. The noise is constant — engines tested, mechanics yelling, wheels clattering against asphalt — but under it all there’s a rhythm, a heartbeat. Charles feels it against his chest like something waiting to break free.

He is fifteen, and the gloves on his hands already cling with sweat. His kart is lined up under the weak shade of a canopy, paint scuffed, numbers faded, stickers peeling at the edges. Not new. Not gleaming. But his. His father worked on it himself, tightening bolts, checking fuel, fingers marked with oil that doesn’t wash out. Charles’s hands shake sometimes when he straps in, but his father’s never do. He doesn’t say much — just a clap on the shoulder, just a look that means go.

Max passes through the paddock like it belongs to him. He is sixteen, taller, sharper, already moving like the next step has been promised. His suit looks cleaner, newer, though streaked with the same grime everyone collects. His father walks with him, not behind. They don’t linger. They don’t stop to talk. Max is always moving forward, head high, like he doesn’t even need to see the people he leaves behind. And people notice. They always notice. Mechanics glance his way, other drivers shift when he walks by. The air bends for him. Charles hates that he sees it. Hates that it feels real.

The sun climbs higher. The finals line up. Charles lowers himself into the seat, the kart vibrating faintly even before the engine fires. He tugs the strap of his gloves tighter, jaw locked, visor down. The smell of petrol is thick enough to sting, the heat radiating off the tarmac sharp enough to burn. His chest pounds so hard it feels like it’s trying to escape the suit.

Max is three karts ahead. Perfect posture, still as stone, visor reflective. He looks like calm made human, as if nothing could rattle him. Charles grips the wheel harder. The ache in his palms is better than the weight pressing down inside his ribs. He thinks of Pierre’s words yesterday — il est trop rapide. He’s too fast. He thinks of proving him wrong. He thinks of how badly he needs to.

The lights count down. Red. Red. Red. Off.

The grid erupts.

The engines scream alive. Karts jolt forward, tires clawing at the track. Charles launches clean, holding the inside into the first corner. His ribs rattle against the seat as he clips the curb, but he holds it. He climbs one position almost immediately, feels the rush of air past his visor. The world narrows to throttle and brake, corner and straight, push and hold. Every nerve sings.

Max is ahead, already cutting lines too precise to follow, every corner like it belongs only to him. Charles can see him, bright helmet, small frame hunched forward, the kart moving as if the track bends to him. The gap isn’t impossible. But it feels like it. Max’s ease makes it worse — like he isn’t even trying. Like victory just comes.

Charles pushes harder. Brake later. Exit sharper. The tires shriek protest. His ribs slam into the side of the seat with every turn. His body feels like it’s tearing at the seams, but he doesn’t back off. He can’t. Every meter matters. Every tenth of a second. He chases the shape of Max’s kart through the heat shimmer ahead.

Halfway through, Charles dives. Too sharp. Too hungry. But it sticks. He slips past one more rival, climbing another place. The roar inside his helmet is louder than the engine, a pulse of triumph in his chest. He breathes once, harsh, and pushes harder. The sweat in his gloves slicks his grip, his arms ache, his whole body burns, but the hunger drives him faster.

Still, Max is ahead. Unshaken. Charles thinks he’s closing the gap — half a second, maybe less — but every time he pushes, Max stretches it back again. Like elastic. Like mocking. As if he knows Charles is there and decides how close he’s allowed to be. It makes Charles grind his teeth until his jaw feels like it might crack. He risks a corner too wide. The kart jerks, rattles. He saves it. Barely. The thought of losing more ground makes bile rise hot in his throat.

He can’t stop thinking: why does Max make it look so easy? Why does it never show, the strain, the sweat, the fight? Why does Charles always feel like he’s breaking his body apart just to stay close?

The chequered flag waves. Max crosses first. Charles second. The difference isn’t huge. But it’s enough. Always enough.

The engine dies down and Charles’s body slumps against the seat, exhaustion hitting like a wave. His arms ache from holding the wheel. His ribs scream from every bump. He wants to scream too. But when he climbs out, the cameras are already pointing, and he knows how to stand straight. He knows how to swallow it down.

The podium waits. Max climbs it first, jaw set but eyes calm, like it’s routine. Charles steps onto the second box, silver in his hands, heavier than it should be. The anthem plays. Cameras flash. Max lifts the trophy with one hand, not even straining. His father claps a heavy hand on his shoulder. Pride. Certain. Sharp as a blade.

Charles claps too, because he has to. He forces a smile, because that’s what they expect. Inside, it twists. Every clap feels like striking his own chest. Every cheer for Max feels like silence for him. His jaw aches with the weight of pretending.

Afterward, near the tents, the air is thick with the stink of petrol and sweat. Charles has stripped to his undershirt, gloves dangling from his hand, face blotched with heat. He moves slower, shoulders hunched, carrying silver like a burden. Pierre had tried to smile at him earlier, tried to say c’était bien — it was good — but Charles had turned away before the words could stick.

Max is walking the other way, helmet still in hand, his suit unzipped down to the waist. His father matches his stride, a hand clapping his shoulder as they talk low in Dutch. Max looks calm, steady, as if the race was nothing more than routine. Like finishing first was simply the natural order of things. Charles hates that even in silence he can read it: the confidence, the ease, the inevitability.

They draw closer, and Max finally looks at him. Not long. Just a glance sharp enough to cut. Then he speaks, voice flat but carrying. “Good race. But you push too much. Makes it easy.”

Charles stiffens. “Better than not pushing enough.” His accent drags the words heavier, slower, and he hates how clumsy they sound next to Max’s sharp tongue.

Max doesn’t stop walking. Just tilts his head, the faintest curl at his mouth. “Doesn’t matter. First is first. Second…” He shrugs, not even looking back now. “Second is just second.”

The words land like a blow. Simple. Cruel because of it. Charles feels them cut straight through, sharper than any corner, heavier than any kart. He wants to answer. Wants to burn him back. But nothing comes. Nothing good enough. Max is already gone, his father’s voice folding into the crowd, their figures dissolving into the noise of the paddock.

Charles stays behind. He stares at the ground, at the dust swirling in the late sun, at the dark streaks his tires left before the race. His fists tighten around the gloves until the seams bite into his skin. His chest feels hollow and too full at once. It isn’t fair, he thinks. It isn’t fair how Max makes it look like breathing while Charles feels like drowning. It isn’t fair how much he gives, how much it costs him, and still ends up with silver in his hands.

He tells himself it’s fuel. That one day it will be different. That second won’t always mean second. But when he lies down that night, ribs sore, arms aching, the words loop in his head until they blur with sleep: second is just second. They burn longer than the race. They don’t fade.

Chapter Text

Hello everyone! As you guys may know, I've been updating this fic without a schedule— my question is to you all if you have a preferred update schedule or not. Comment 3 days you'd like to read a new chapter, it can be any day of the week!:) Ill try to make a schedule based on your comments, so please comment under this chapter. (The comments that I receive after one week will not count.)

Chapter Text

Interlude — Sparks on the Red Bull Ring

The air in Spielberg is thinner, clearer. Mountains cut the sky into jagged shapes, and the circuit sits nestled like a wound carved into green. The fans arrive early, draped in orange, voices carrying across the paddock in a chant that feels endless. For Max, it is home in a way no Dutch city could match — the stands are his, the roar is his. Even before he puts on the helmet, the place vibrates with his name.

He walks the paddock with Daniel at his side, their laughter lighter than it has been all season. Still, Max’s jaw is tight, his hands twitching with the memory of the last races. He remembers France. He remembers the Ferrari, red like a flare, and the boy inside it. Charles Leclerc, who once had been just another face in karting, now chasing him wheel to wheel again. The name sticks. The grin that hides something sharper sticks. Neutral, yes — but too familiar to ignore.

Austria feels like a chance to reset. But it also feels like something waiting to break open.

Qualifying had not gone the way he wanted. The Ferrari sat ahead. Charles sat ahead. Again. Max had smiled at the reporters, thrown out clipped answers, but inside there was the same knot — not fear, not doubt, just something that felt too much like déjà vu. The same name. The same helmet in the mirror. The same rhythm he thought he’d already left behind in karting.

Jos had said it the night before: you know how to beat him. You’ve always known. Max didn’t argue. He only nodded, let the words sit like a commandment. But it burned that his father needed to say it at all. It meant everyone could see it — the story beginning again. Leclerc, Verstappen. Verstappen, Leclerc. Two boys who had outgrown karts but not each other.

Race day drummed in his blood. The Red Bull Ring hummed alive with color, with smoke, with flares lit in the stands until the air smelled like firework ash. Max strapped in, visor down, and the world narrowed to what it always was: lights, reflex, the first corner. But today, even before the start, he thought of the red car. Not Hamilton. Not Vettel. Just Charles. Always Charles.

The start was a disaster. Wheels spun, the car bogged down, and suddenly the field swallowed him. His radio filled with clipped instructions, frustration bleeding through the engineer’s voice. Max didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He already felt the fury at the back of his teeth. Each overtake became a cut — McLarens, Mercedes, anyone in his way. The car was alive in his hands, twitching, snarling, and he fed it more each lap.

And then, with laps running low, he saw it: the Ferrari ahead. The number sixteen. The same boy, the same rival, dressed now in red armor instead of blue. For a moment, it was like nothing had changed. Karting circuits. Dust in his throat. Silver cups instead of trophies that mattered. Max leaned forward, every nerve wired to one thought: him.

The laps collapsed into instinct. Max reeled Charles in corner by corner, the Red Bull biting the asphalt harder with every turn. The radio shouted data, delta times, fuel settings — all noise. The only thing real was the Ferrari, the way it moved, the way Charles defended like he’d been born for it. Clean but sharp. Relentless.

“We’re faster,” the engineer pressed.

Race Engineer → Max: You’re quicker. You can get him.

Max → Engineer: Leave it to me.

The crowd was a wall of orange fire when he went for it — the first attempt, then another, Charles holding him off with lines so precise it felt rehearsed. Max felt the heat build behind his visor, breath loud in his ears. Each lap slipped away. Each defense cut deeper. Neutral, he reminded himself. They were neutral. But it didn’t feel like it. It felt like every karting race he had ever lost replaying at once.

Two laps to go. The corner was there, open, daring. Max braked late, shoved the nose of the Red Bull inside, and the Ferrari didn’t yield. Metal kissed metal. Charles was forced wide, bouncing off the curb, the red car staggering for grip. Max powered through, engine screaming, the lead his at last.

Race Engineer → Max: That’s it. You’re through. Keep it clean now.

Max → Engineer: He left me no choice.

The stands erupted. Orange smoke poured down like storm clouds breaking. But behind him, Max knew the story had changed. Charles was still there, still chasing, still burning bright enough to blind him in mirrors. This was not an ending. It was the spark catching flame.

After the race, cameras swarmed. Reporters pushed microphones close, questions about the move, about the contact, about Charles. Max smiled, sharp and unrepentant. “It’s racing,” he said, again and again. “Hard racing.” But when he walked back through the paddock, helmet under his arm, the noise of the crowd behind him, he couldn’t shake it. The feeling. The same one he had felt years ago. That boy. That face. Always there, always pulling something sharp out of him.

Neutral was gone now. What they had in karting — the cuts, the bruises, the words that never faded — had woken up again. Max knew it as clearly as he knew the curve of the Red Bull Ring. This was not finished. Not today. Not ever.

Chapter Text

Interlude — Between Silence and Noise

The days after Austria moved slower than the race had. Max had returned to his mother’s house in Belgium, a quiet suburb where the streets bent gently around low brick homes and hedges trimmed too neat. The place smelled like old wood and coffee, and it was the one corner of his life that didn’t carry the hum of circuits. No cameras. No mechanics. Just the creak of stairs and the clatter of cutlery against plates.

His mother welcomed him with a softness he always noticed but never commented on. Dinner simmered on the stove, her voice light as she asked about travel, about the next races, about whether he was eating enough. Max gave clipped answers, half-smiles. He liked it here, even if he never said that either. The quiet was disarming. It left him too much space to think.

Jos arrived a little later, the sound of his car door slamming carrying through the walls like a warning bell. Max’s shoulders tightened without him meaning to. His father stepped in, kissed his mother’s cheek, clapped Max on the back with a hand that was just a little too firm. Familiar. Always familiar.

At the table, conversation stayed light at first. Max’s mother asked Jos about work, about his other children, about the endless logistics of racing life. Max answered questions about Austria in shorthand: the car was strong, strategy was clean, the move was fair. Jos nodded, offered the occasional grunt of approval, like a man tallying a scorecard in his head. For a while, it felt almost easy. Almost.

It shifted when the plates were half-empty. Jos leaned back, fork still in hand, and asked in that voice that was casual but not. “So. The Ferrari. That boy. You’re thinking too much about him.”

Max blinked once, slow. He knew who Jos meant. He didn’t even need the name. “I’m not,” he said.

“You are,” Jos pressed. “I can see it. You get hung up on these things. Don’t let people on the grid get under your skin. Off track, it doesn’t matter.” He jabbed his fork toward Max like he was underlining the point. “You let it matter too much, it eats at you.”

Max cut into the last of his potatoes just to have something to do with his hands. “I beat him.”

“Yes. And that should be the end of it.” Jos’s mouth curved, but it wasn’t really a smile. “You don’t need to think about what he says, or what he thinks about you. That’s wasted energy.”

Max nodded, but the words settled heavy. Wasted energy. He knew the script by now — ignore distractions, don’t give anything away, be the harder stone. His father had taught him that long before the Red Bull garage, before karting trophies even. It was a lesson pressed into him until it lived in his bones.

Forty minutes later, the wine was lower, the food gone cold. Jos started talking again. This time, the tone had shifted — sharper, disguised under the thin edge of a joke. “You get that fiery when it’s about him. You should save it for Hamilton or Vettel. They’re the ones with real weight. This Ferrari kid? Just another boy. Don’t waste yourself chasing him everywhere.”

Max didn’t laugh. He tried to smile, but it felt like stone. “It’s not like that.”

“You sound defensive.” Jos chuckled, like it was a harmless thing. “Careful, Max. People will start to think you care about him.”

The air pressed heavier against Max’s chest. He kept his eyes on the rim of his glass, on the reflection of the kitchen light. The silence stretched a little too long before he muttered, “I don’t.”

His father only hummed, unconvinced. The moment passed, but not for Max. For him it stuck, sharp-edged. His mother tried to change the subject — travel plans, her garden — but Max only half-heard. Jos’s words were already turning over in his head. People will think you care. As if that were the worst thing a man could do.

He had learned long ago not to show too much. Emotions were for after the helmet came off, and even then only in small doses. Jos had drilled that into him: keep it tight, keep it hidden, never let anyone use it against you. The paddock wasn’t a place for softness. The world wasn’t either. And yet—

Max knew things about himself he didn’t say out loud. He had known for years. That he liked girls, yes. But that sometimes, he liked the sharp lines of someone’s jaw, the way another boy’s voice could cut through the noise in a way that lingered. It was easier to bury that part, to let it sleep under everything else. Nobody needed to know. Nobody could know. Not in this world. Not with sponsors, contracts, headlines waiting to twist anything into a weapon.

He pictured the fallout. His career dismantled in whispers and comments. Being fired, pushed out, reduced to a headline and a punchline in one breath. Humiliation that would not fade. It wasn’t fear of who he was — it was fear of what the world would do with it. And what his father would say. Jos would call it weakness. A liability. Maybe worse.

The dinner dragged to a polite end. His mother stacked plates, smiled gently, kissed his cheek as if to say she understood what words couldn’t touch. Jos clapped his shoulder again on the way out, told him to keep his head clear, to stay focused on winning. The door shut, and Max felt the echo of silence fill the house again.

He sat there for a while, staring at the half-empty glass, jaw tight. The words repeated in his head like a rhythm he couldn’t unhear: don’t let it matter. don’t let people think you care. don’t show too much.

He thought of the Ferrari again. Of Charles’s face in Austria, helmet off, jaw set in that same impossible way he remembered from karts. He told himself it didn’t matter. That he didn’t care. But the tightness in his chest told him otherwise. And he hated how much he felt it. Hated how much it lingered even here, far from the track.

Chapter Text

Interlude — Undertow

The restaurant by the harbor was loud with glass and laughter, the kind of summer-night ease Monaco made look effortless. Charles had only agreed to come because his friends insisted, promising it would be quiet, casual, nothing overwhelming. He’d nodded, smiled, said yes, though he felt more like saying no. The air still carried the weight of the season, the echoes of questions and comparisons he hadn’t asked for, and he wanted silence more than he wanted company.

And then he saw them. Before they saw him. Max and Kelly, stepping through the crowd with the kind of unthinking closeness that looked rehearsed from repetition. Her hand brushed his arm as they stopped to greet someone, his laugh carrying across the terrace, drink in hand, smiling like the whole evening belonged to him. It was nothing out of the ordinary. Just a night out, just a date. But to Charles, the scene sharpened like glass.

He froze for a second too long, eyes catching Max’s before he could look away. The space between them held for a beat, taut, and then broke when Kelly leaned in to whisper something. Max’s attention shifted. The moment dissolved. Charles swallowed the heat that climbed his chest, turned back toward his friends, and let the evening drag him forward even as his thoughts stayed behind. Dinner passed in fragments he didn’t register, food without taste, laughter without meaning. Every time he glanced up, the blue of Red Bull merch, the curl of a smile that wasn’t for him, lingered at the edge of his vision. Too easy, he thought. It was always too easy for him.

The next day, he drove home to his family. It was tradition — summer break was for returning, for grounding himself in the familiarity of voices that didn’t measure him against lap times. The apartment smelled of garlic and tomatoes, music spilling faintly from the kitchen where his mother stirred a pot, humming under her breath. Arthur and Lorenzo were already at the table, arguing about something trivial with the kind of affection only brothers could spin into mockery. For a while, Charles let the sound wash over him, the rhythm of home easing the edges of his chest.

Dinner was loud, easy, full of stories that spilled over one another. Arthur animatedly described his last race weekend, hands slicing the air like he was still carving corners on track. Charles listened, smiled when he was supposed to, but his gaze kept wandering. His mother noticed. She always noticed.

“Tu es ailleurs.” You’re elsewhere. The words came soft, careful, as she placed bread on the table. Charles shook his head, too quick, reaching for water. “Je t’écoute.” I’m listening, he said. But the glance she gave him was knowing, a reminder that he’d never been able to hide much from her.

Lorenzo teased Arthur about a late-braking move gone wrong. Arthur rolled his eyes, shot back a retort, and the conversation spun outward again, but Charles stayed quiet. His fork moved, his plate emptied, but his mind felt heavy. He thought of the harbor the night before. Of the laugh that carried. Of how he hated that it lingered. His mother’s eyes flicked toward him once more, but she didn’t push. Not yet.

Later, after dishes were cleared and Lorenzo had gone to make a phone call, Arthur caught Charles on the balcony. The summer air was thick with salt and heat, the sound of scooters echoing faintly from the street below. Arthur leaned against the railing, arms crossed, and gave him the kind of look only a younger brother could — curious but sharp, unwilling to let silence sit too long.

“You’ve been quiet,” Arthur said. “Quieter than usual, I mean.”

Charles offered a small shrug, eyes on the horizon. “Just tired.”

Arthur tilted his head, not convinced. “Tired doesn’t look like that.” He gestured lightly toward him, meaning the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders sat too high. “You’re carrying something. You want to talk about it?”

Charles hesitated. The words swelled, crowded, but naming them felt like opening a door he wasn’t ready for. He settled on fragments. “It’s… complicated.”

Arthur waited. He was good at that — not pushing, just being there until the silence bent enough to give. Charles inhaled, exhaled, tried again. “Sometimes I feel like I’m running, always running, but not toward something. Away from it. Away from… I don’t know. Pressure. Expectations. Myself maybe.” His voice dropped lower. “It doesn’t matter how fast I go, it’s still there.”

Arthur didn’t flinch, didn’t laugh. He just nodded slowly. “That sounds exhausting.”

“It is,” Charles admitted, the words heavier now that they were spoken aloud. He leaned his forearms on the railing, staring at the streetlights below. “And then I see—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. The image of last night flickered behind his eyes. He shook his head. “Forget it.”

Arthur didn’t press, but his expression softened. “You don’t always have to hold it in, you know.”

Charles almost smiled, but it was tired at the edges. “It’s easier that way.”

“Maybe,” Arthur said. “But easier doesn’t always mean better.”

The words sat between them, quiet but true. Charles let the silence stretch, the weight of it almost comforting now that it was shared. When they went back inside, the air felt different. Not lighter, but less lonely.

By the time night fell, sleep was impossible. Charles lay in his room, the ceiling too white, the sheets too heavy, thoughts too loud. Every attempt to quiet his mind failed, each memory playing louder — the terrace, the laugh, the way his chest had clenched without permission. He gave up, pulled on a jacket, and grabbed his keys. The city was still awake when he stepped outside, the kind of restless energy Monaco always carried in its bones.

The car hummed to life under his hands, and the road opened. Empty, almost. Streetlights flashing like metronomes as he pressed harder on the accelerator. The engine sang back, steady, sure, drowning out the static in his chest. He took the corners tighter, sharper, letting precision anchor him where nothing else could. Here, he wasn’t dissecting feelings, wasn’t battling expectations. Here, there was only motion. Control. Release.

The coastline blurred to his left, cliffs to his right, and for once, the world felt quiet. He rolled the windows down and let the salt air fill the car, the rush of speed a balm against the noise. It wasn’t peace exactly. But it was close. Close enough.

He drove until the horizon paled, until the first hint of dawn bled across the water. Finally, he pulled over at an overlook, the city below still scattered with lights like constellations. He shut off the engine, let the silence expand. Rested his forehead against the wheel and breathed in the stillness. Alone, but not suffocating. For the first time in days, his chest loosened, just slightly.

He stayed like that for a long time. Long enough to know the feeling wouldn’t last, but also long enough to know he needed it. The world would start again soon, pulling him back into its rhythm, its questions, its weight. But for now, he had this. The hum of the cooling engine. The salt in the air. The road still waiting, as it always would.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6 — Interference

The sim center in Melbourne wasn’t glamorous. It had none of the polish of the paddock, none of the curated chaos of media pens or hospitality lounges. The walls were painted in an uninspired gray, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly above rows of racing rigs that sat waiting like soldiers. The air smelled faintly of plastic, disinfectant, and something metallic that never quite faded no matter how often the carpets were vacuumed. The room had no personality. No life. And for Charles, that was the point. It was neutral ground. A place where he could disappear into the rhythm of the wheel without anyone asking him to explain himself.

He came quietly, cap pulled low enough that the receptionist only lifted her eyebrows in recognition before nodding him through. They knew better than to linger. He muttered a polite greeting, but his pace never slowed as he crossed the room to the rig reserved under his name. A corner station, out of the way. Just how he had asked. The headset sat neatly coiled on the seat, the pedals angled just slightly wrong until he shifted them into place with his foot. He dropped his backpack with a dull thud against the carpet, unzipping it in one practiced motion. Gloves out first. He ran his fingers across the fabric, familiar grooves worn smooth where his grip pressed hardest. They were soft now from years of use, but it was a comfort more than a flaw.

Sliding into the rig always felt like muscle memory. He lowered himself slowly, letting the seat adjust beneath his weight, straps brushing against his shoulders. The pedals pressed back when he tested them, stiff but fair. He adjusted the headset, the faint static crackling in his ears until the system hummed alive. The monitors blinked, the glow momentarily harsh against his eyes before they settled into clarity. Albert Park unfolded across the screens in sharp pixels — wide turns, tree-lined straights, barriers that came closer than instinct liked. A circuit he knew well enough to trace in his sleep, and yet one that always demanded respect.

For a long moment, Charles didn’t start. He just sat there, hands on the wheel, eyes half-closed. Letting the silence of the room wrap around him. The faint buzz of an air conditioner, the muffled tapping of a keyboard somewhere behind the counter, the rustle of pages as someone at the desk flipped through forms. Background noise that made the space feel alive without pulling focus. Exactly the balance he needed. He inhaled slowly, exhaled slower. Then, at last, he pressed the pedal, and the car jolted forward into motion.

The first lap was untidy. His braking came too sharp, the wheel twitched too much under his hands, as if his body hadn’t yet agreed to the illusion. He muttered under his breath, flexed his fingers inside the gloves, and reset. The second lap was smoother, lines sharper, his head beginning to settle into the rhythm. By the third, the rest of the world blurred away until there was only asphalt and timing splits and the faint tremor in his arms. Corners flowed into one another, straights turned into preparation for the next curve. It wasn’t real racing, not even close, but it was the closest thing he could have outside the circuit. His body believed it enough to send his heart climbing, enough to trick him into calm.

Lap after lap stacked onto itself, his breathing syncing with the rhythm of acceleration and braking. The circuit became a mantra, every apex a word, every exit a syllable. He leaned into it, chasing a precision that left no space for stray thoughts. No Bahrain. No Jeddah. No headlines. And most importantly—no Max. He told himself this was why he had come. To lose himself in something simple, something controllable. Not to think about rivalries or insults or that sharp edge of static that came with one voice in particular.

But his body didn’t always listen. On the seventh lap, as he brushed the curb just slightly too hard, he thought of Turn 1 in Bahrain, the jolt of impact against his palm. He shook it off, pressed harder, refused to give it oxygen. The eighth lap brought back the echo of laughter in Jeddah’s paddock corridor, unbidden and sharp. He cursed quietly, jaw tightening, and slammed down the straight harder than he should have. Focus. He needed focus. He repeated the word like a prayer until the rhythm drowned everything else out again.

Minutes passed. Maybe more than minutes. He didn’t know. Didn’t care. Sweat gathered along his temples, the headset warm against his skin. His pulse steadied into the kind of beat that only came when the world narrowed to lines on asphalt. His shoulders loosened, his grip on the wheel softened until it was instinct rather than force. He forgot, for a while, that the walls around him weren’t barriers, that the track beneath him wasn’t real. He forgot enough to let his chest finally unclench.

When he eased off into a cool-down lap, Charles leaned back into the seat and shut his eyes. His gloves pressed faintly against his knees, his breathing heavy but controlled. The ache in his hands was the good kind—the kind that came with focus, with precision. For the first time in days, his thoughts weren’t spiraling. He almost smiled. Almost.

But then he caught himself. The quiet that followed wasn’t peace. It was only a pause. He knew that when he stepped out of this rig, when he left this little box of silence, the world would come rushing back: reporters, headlines, messages that lingered like bruises. He sighed, long and heavy, before reaching for his water bottle. The plastic crackled faintly in his grip, and the sound pulled him back into the present.

He wasn’t ready to stop yet. Not when he knew what waited outside. He pressed the wheel again, let the car roll forward, and decided he would lose himself for another stretch. He told himself this was all he needed, all he wanted. Just laps. Just asphalt. Just himself. Nothing else.

The rig whispered with the hum of the cooling fans. Charles sat forward, shoulders tense but eyes locked onto the monitor as Albert Park unspooled again, its turns familiar but still sharp enough to demand respect. He had been running for nearly forty minutes, the laps melting into one another, steady and efficient. Time worked differently here. It thinned, stretched, became something he could ignore. That was the beauty of it. Racing, even simulated, had a way of erasing the clock.

It was in one of those erased minutes that he noticed movement in the corner of his vision. A shift of light near the far row of rigs. Another figure settling into a seat. The headset lifted, the screen flickering alive. He didn’t need to stare to know who it was. The posture gave it away—the quick, precise adjustment of straps, the exact angle of the wheel shift, the kind of unconscious efficiency that came from years of doing the same thing. Verstappen.

Charles’s hands tightened briefly on the wheel, but he didn’t look directly. Not yet. The room was quiet enough that he could hear the faint click of pedals, the same hum of fans he felt vibrating through his own rig. He told himself it didn’t matter. This was neutral ground, and Max had as much right to it as he did. They weren’t here to fight. They weren’t here to talk. Just drive. That should have been simple. It wasn’t.

He kept his eyes forward, but after twenty-eight minutes—he counted in laps, not time—he let himself glance sideways. Just once. Max sat two rows over, cap pulled low, completely immersed in his own circuit. He wasn’t looking at Charles. He wasn’t even aware of him. That should have been reassuring. Somehow, it wasn’t.

Charles flicked his gaze back to the monitor before the moment could stretch too long. He pressed harder into the next corner, carried more speed into the chicane. Focus. This was his space. He wasn’t going to share it with ghosts or with rivals, even if they were only meters away. He dropped his lap time by a tenth. A small victory. Not enough to erase the awareness of the other presence in the room, but enough to steady him again.

By the time he lifted for another cooldown lap, his throat was dry, his shirt clinging faintly to his back. He tugged the headset off and leaned back, exhaling into the hum of the room. A faint buzz still clung to his arms, the residual energy of concentration refusing to let go. He rubbed at his face with the edge of his glove, then let his hand drop limply to his knee. He could stop now. Call it done. But the thought of silence waiting in his hotel room, empty and heavy, pressed harder than the ache in his fingers. He wasn’t ready to go back.

The idea came suddenly, almost without him deciding it. Twitch. A stream. He hadn’t done one in months, not properly. The thought made him smile before he could stop himself. He remembered the way his 2020 streams had been—chaotic, ridiculous, filled with jokes that lived too long in group chats afterwards. He remembered Lando spamming his chat mid-race, Max popping in once every four months just to leave a sarcastic comment, the flood of fans who would clip everything no matter how small. It had been exhausting, but in a way that felt alive. He missed that sometimes. The chaos. The noise. The reminder that racing wasn’t always about silence and tension. It could be fun, too.

He pulled his phone from his backpack, hesitated, and then shrugged to himself. Why not. No plan, no announcement. Just start. He typed in his login, adjusted the rig camera into position, and pressed “Go Live.” The screen blinked, the counter hovered at zero for barely two seconds, and then it shot up—hundreds, thousands, the numbers climbing fast. His chat immediately turned unreadable, a blur of emotes and greetings and inside jokes he hadn’t thought about in years. His chest loosened. He smiled, real this time, and leaned toward the mic.

“Bonsoir. Good evening.” His voice came quieter at first, but the flood of hearts and messages pulled him further out. “I… didn’t plan this, but I thought I would drive a little. Just for fun. I hope you don’t mind.”

The chat didn’t mind. It screamed back with every possible affirmation, the screen a kaleidoscope of noise. He laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “You are still the same. Too much energy. It’s almost like 2020 again, no?”

The nostalgia hit sharper than expected. He remembered long nights of streaming when the world outside had been locked in silence, the rush of voices filling the void. He remembered the lightness of it—the way the grid had joined in, turning boredom into spectacle. It felt far away now, but sitting here, headset on, chat alive, it was almost like slipping back into that old rhythm. Almost.

He settled into another lap, talking idly as he drove. He answered a few questions—what he thought of the circuit, how many laps he had done today, whether he would stream more often. He joked about being “a part-time streamer, full-time Ferrari driver.” His accent thickened slightly as he relaxed, English weaving in and out of French depending on the question. The chat loved it, spamming flags and hearts and clips. For once, he didn’t mind. It felt light. Easy. Manageable.

What he didn’t know—what he couldn’t know—was that on another screen, not too far away, Max was watching. His phone buzzed with the notification like it had in 2020, and without thinking, he had clicked. No comment in the chat this time. No sarcastic emote. Just silence, watching. He knew Charles couldn’t see him. That was fine. The stream moved too quickly for anyone to notice one quiet name in a sea of thousands. Still, he stayed. Watching the corners, the way Charles leaned into the wheel even on a simulator, the half-smile when the chat said something that made him laugh. He didn’t move to close it.

Charles, unaware, carried on. He leaned back after another lap, running a hand through his hair. The chat begged him to do “something chaotic” like 2020, but he only smiled faintly. “Maybe later. I think I am too calm today. No chaos, just laps.” He let the wheel spin lazily in his hands. “But… maybe we can make it interesting. You decide what car, what track. I will try.”

The chat exploded. Suggestions flew past faster than he could read, names of circuits scrolling in waves. He squinted, tried to catch one, then laughed when another wave immediately buried it. “Okay, okay, I cannot read this. You will kill me before I even drive.” He shook his head again, grin soft but real. It wasn’t the chaotic energy of 2020, not exactly, but it was enough. Enough to remind him that racing didn’t always have to be heavy. Enough to remind him that he could still enjoy the noise.

Behind him, the faint whir of another rig came alive again. He didn’t look this time. He didn’t need to. Max was just a presence, somewhere in the background, driving his own laps. Charles pressed on, eyes locked forward, the corners rolling out ahead of him. The world narrowed to the screen, to the voices scrolling past, to the steady pulse of something lighter. For once, he let himself breathe into it.

The stream counter had leveled out, still climbing but now in steadier waves. Tens of thousands were watching, the chat a blur that Charles could only half-follow. He let it wash past him, not trying to catch every word, only riding the current of it. It felt strange to be here again, surrounded by voices he couldn’t see but could almost feel, like a crowd pressed close around his rig.

“Okay, I will try…” He leaned closer to the screen, squinting as if that would slow the flood. “Silverstone? Spa? Suzuka? You all cannot agree.” He laughed under his breath, sharp but genuine, and shook his head. “I think Spa wins. Yes? Always Spa.”

The wheel turned beneath his hands, and he settled back into the seat, posture tightening as the virtual track appeared. He adjusted the pedals, flexed his fingers, and launched into the first lap. The corners were familiar, etched into his muscles after years of real and simulated laps. Still, it felt different when an audience watched. More alive. More like 2020 again, when every lap had been shared and dissected in real time.

“Bon. First lap is warm-up,” he said, half to himself, half to the chat. “Do not judge me too much.” The flood of laughing emotes said otherwise, but he smiled anyway, lips tugging in quiet amusement. He braked a little earlier than necessary, feeling the rhythm come back, then pushed harder on the straights. “Voilà. That is better.”

Chat spammed encouragement, teasing him about his braking points, about whether he could handle Eau Rouge without lifting. He rolled his eyes and grinned. “Of course I can. Do you not trust me?” His voice lilted, half challenging, half playful. He took the corner flat, the car twitching but holding. “See? No problem.” He let out a small laugh, almost surprised at himself. “Still works.”

The lap times dropped steadily. He wasn’t chasing perfection tonight, but the competitive instinct never fully left. His focus narrowed on the racing line, the shifting gears, the split-second adjustments. Around him, the chat kept screaming, but it became background noise, not distraction. He was driving, and for a moment that was enough.

When he crossed the line again, shaving a few tenths, the chat lit up with celebratory spam. He leaned back, pulling his headset off one ear. “Yes, yes, thank you, thank you,” he said, mock-formal, giving a small bow to the camera. The grin lingered, unforced. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed this—sharing the small victories, the laughter, the pointless challenges. It felt easier than the weight he carried in the paddock, easier than the silence of hotel rooms. Here, he could just be a driver on a screen again.

Behind his stream, in a quiet corner of the same building, another screen showed the same broadcast. Max sat hunched over his phone, headphones in, his own sim paused. He wasn’t laughing, but his mouth tugged faintly at the edges as Charles joked with the chat. He remembered 2020, too. He remembered the chaos of it—the endless noise, the inside jokes that spiraled across group chats for weeks. He remembered typing a comment once and watching Charles laugh at it, that sharp sound cutting through static. He hadn’t planned on staying this long now, but he didn’t close the stream either. He watched, silent, letting the noise fill a space he wouldn’t name.

Charles switched circuits after another twenty minutes, taking requests at random. Monza, then Singapore, then back to Silverstone when the chat demanded it. Each time, the flood of suggestions grew faster, more impossible to follow, but he didn’t mind. He let them choose, let the chaos decide for him. It wasn’t about winning or losing here. It was about the rhythm, the noise, the reminder that racing could still be joy.

“Singapore at night, yes?” he said, adjusting the settings. The track lit up in neon, the car reflecting it back. “This one is tricky. So if I crash, do not laugh.” The chat promised nothing. He smiled anyway, shaking his head. “Okay, I trust you. Maybe.”

The first lap was messy, sharp turns catching him off guard, braking points too early or too late. He swore under his breath in French, then laughed when the chat spammed the same words back at him in broken accents. “You all are terrible,” he said, trying not to grin. “But it is fine. Next lap will be better.”

It was. He found the rhythm, the smooth flow between corners, the balance between precision and risk. The car glided cleaner, the lap time dropping. He leaned forward, focus tightening, forgetting for a moment that he was being watched. Forgetting the cameras, the chat, even the week ahead. Just the track, the wheel, the hum of the sim beneath him.

When he finally crossed the line, shaving nearly a second off his messy first lap, the chat exploded in praise. He leaned back, pulling his headset off both ears this time, and laughed out loud. “Okay, okay, you are satisfied now? I think I am finished for tonight. My hands are tired.” He flexed his fingers, shaking them out dramatically for the camera. “I am not built for marathon streams. Just small ones.”

He lingered anyway, reading a few more messages, answering a few lighter questions. Someone asked about his favorite track food, someone else begged for him to sing again like in 2020. He laughed, shaking his head. “No, no, no. That is finished. Never again. I cannot survive the clips if I do that.” The chat begged louder, but he waved it off, still smiling. “Next time, maybe. But not today.”

His eyes flicked over the counter one last time, still impossibly high, still climbing. The thought struck him quietly—so many people, all watching, all waiting for him to say something. It should have felt heavy. Instead, it felt like noise he could lean into. A distraction. A reminder that he wasn’t alone, even if the silence of his hotel room would wait for him after.

“Okay,” he said finally, leaning close to the mic. “Thank you for watching. Really. I didn’t expect this many of you. Maybe I will do it again soon. But for tonight, it is enough.” He gave a small wave to the camera, smiled once more, and clicked “End Stream.” The chat disappeared, the counter dropped to zero, the screen went dark. The sudden silence pressed close, but his chest still felt lighter than it had that morning. He exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair.

The rig hummed quietly, the only sound left in the room. He closed his eyes for a moment, let his head tip back, and allowed himself the smallest thought: that this had been good. Not perfect, not permanent, but good. For now, that was enough.

The streets of Monaco were quieter than usual. The summer air had cooled just enough to make walking pleasant, the faint sea breeze carrying salt and the muted hum of traffic from the port. Charles slipped his phone out of his pocket, screen lighting up with a flood of notifications. Mentions, reposts, clips. His name trended again, not for a headline or a rumor this time, but for the thing he had almost forgotten he used to do. Streaming.

He smiled faintly, thumbing through the first few clips. Someone had already uploaded his messy first lap at Singapore, zoomed in on the lock-up with dramatic music overlaid. The caption read: “P1 in our hearts.” He shook his head, lips twitching despite himself. The next clip was Eau Rouge, the chat screaming in all caps as he went flat through. He could hear his own laugh layered under it, sharper and lighter than he expected. He paused on that one a little longer.

It felt strange, seeing himself like this — not answering press, not talking setups or lap times, not weighed down by expectations. Just him, playing a game, laughing into a mic. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the simplicity of it until now.

The next clip was already ridiculous: someone had edited his “Do not laugh if I crash” moment into a montage of past accidents, both real and sim. The chat spam had been synced perfectly to the crashes, filling the screen with “L”s and emojis. He stopped walking, leaning against a lamppost, and laughed properly this time. It startled a couple passing by, but he didn’t care. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, the heaviness wasn’t the first thing pressing against his chest.

By the time he reached his building, his phone buzzed again, but this time it wasn’t fans. It was the notification banner he recognized immediately — Grid Idiots. He kicked his shoes off by the door, dropped his bag on the counter, and opened the chat.

Lando: bro those clips💀😭

Carlos: EL PRÍNCIPE IS BACK ON TWITCH 👑

Pierre: finally. I was tired of watching Lando’s streams

Lando: HEY

Yuki: singapore crash moment top tier

George: 50k people watching you lock up into T7. how does it feel

Charles groaned, dropping onto the couch. He typed with one hand, the other rubbing his face.

Charles: feels like I need new friends

Pierre: feels like you need better racecraft

Lando: feels like content to me 😎

The chat kept rolling, screenshots and clips being thrown around like confetti. Someone posted the Eau Rouge clip, and the chat immediately spammed emotes again, this time mocking him directly.

Carlos: “of course I can” — famous last words

Daniel: ngl that was clean tho. respect

Lando: charles streams once in 2 years and still gets more viewers than me. unfair

Yuki: because you suck

Charles snorted, unable to stop the grin. He typed back quickly.

Charles: don’t worry Lando you are still streamer #1 in our hearts ❤️

Pierre: lies detected

Lando: FAKE

George: 🧢🧢🧢

Another clip appeared in the chat — this one the Singapore lock-up again, but slowed down with dramatic music. Someone had clearly taken the liberty of editing it in less than two hours. Charles shook his head, laughing quietly. His friends were merciless, but it was good-natured. Easier to take than the sharp edges of other conversations they’d had lately.

As the chat spiraled into chaos, he leaned back against the couch, legs stretched out, phone balanced on his chest. It was ridiculous, but it was exactly what he needed. Not strategy talks, not rivalries, not the endless weight of competition. Just this. Just noise and laughter and a reminder that it wasn’t all serious, all the time.

He typed one last message before tossing the phone aside.

Charles: if you all keep bullying me I won’t stream again until 2030

Pierre: so next week then

Lando: bet

The chat exploded again, but Charles didn’t check. He let the phone buzz against the cushion while he stared at the ceiling, a small smile still tugging at his mouth. It had been a good night. Light, easy. For once, he didn’t feel like he was carrying the weight of it alone. For once, he let himself just be part of the noise.

The phone kept buzzing long after he’d turned his head away from it. A stream of new messages, more clips, endless jokes — all of it tumbling forward like a current he’d stopped trying to swim against. Charles stretched his arms overhead, the cushions soft under his back, and closed his eyes for a moment. His body felt heavy in the right way, like the laughter had finally worn him out more than the tension ever could. He wasn’t used to ending a night like this. Not anymore.

The vibrations slowed, then stilled. The silence in its wake wasn’t sharp — it didn’t cut into him the way it usually did. It was comfortable, almost warm. He reached for the phone again, not to dive back into the group chat chaos, but just to check the time. That’s when he saw it: a single new notification. Instagram DM. From Alex.

“Nice to see you laugh again.”

It wasn’t long. It wasn’t heavy. But it landed differently than the thousand jokes he’d read tonight. Charles blinked at the words, thumb hovering like he wasn’t sure whether to answer. It wasn’t about Max, or Ferrari, or Bahrain. It wasn’t about racing at all. It was just a friend, someone outside the noise, saying something simple. Something true.

A smile tugged at his mouth, smaller this time, quieter, but steadier. He typed back before he could hesitate.

“Merci. It felt good.”

Alex sent back nothing more than a thumbs-up. Conversation over, but the echo stayed. Nice to see you laugh again. It wasn’t a reminder of what had been missing — it was proof of what was still there. Proof that people noticed, that he wasn’t invisible when he let himself breathe. For once, he didn’t feel like someone was waiting to twist his words into something else. He felt... seen.

He set the phone down and reached for the laptop instead. The fan whirred to life, screen filling with notifications as clips of his stream spread faster than he could scroll. Some had already hit Twitter — him slamming the desk after a spin, him trying to cook in 2020 and setting off the smoke alarm, fans stitching old clips with tonight’s chaos. He laughed again, out loud this time, the sound surprising even him in the quiet of the room.

One clip in particular caught his attention: his mic cutting out mid-sentence tonight, his hands flying everywhere while the chat spammed technical difficulties. He replayed it three times, shaking his head each time harder. “Mon dieu...” he muttered, dragging his hand down his face. Embarrassing, yes. But good. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d let himself be the punchline without caring.

The thought crept in before he could stop it: Alex was right. He was laughing again. And it felt better than he had expected. It wasn’t some miracle fix, but it softened things. It gave him space. Even when Max’s voice still clung to the edges of his mind, even when Bahrain lingered, it wasn’t all sharpness. Tonight, he had found something lighter, something that reminded him the world wasn’t just war and asphalt. Sometimes it was just noise, and laughter, and people who wanted to see him smile.

He leaned back again, letting the laptop slide shut. The glow from the screen cut out, leaving only the dim bedside lamp. The silence returned, but it wasn’t the kind that gnawed. It was steady. His chest didn’t feel as tight. The day had been long, and the season longer still, but for once, he wasn’t ending it with his shoulders locked against some invisible weight.

His thoughts drifted further than he expected — not to Max, not to strategy meetings, but to the way it had felt in 2020 when streaming was second nature, when the chaos filled the evenings they couldn’t race. He remembered Carlos yelling at him mid-game, Pierre laughing so hard he’d fallen out of frame, Lando crashing into a wall just to make everyone else laugh harder. He remembered how fans had clung to those moments, how they’d clung to each other. He smiled again, softer this time. It was strange, but he’d missed it. Not the fame, not the spotlight — just the mess of voices that felt like something alive, something his own.

The clock blinked 1:42 a.m. Too late, really. He knew the team would want him sharp tomorrow. But for the first time in weeks, he didn’t mind being tired. His body felt used in the right way — not drained, but worn down by laughter instead of tension. He reached over, placed the phone face down once more, and let his head sink into the pillow.

The last thought that lingered wasn’t about what Max had said, or what he’d left unsaid. It wasn’t about lap times or strategies or standings. It was about Alex’s words. Nice to see you laugh again. He repeated them silently, letting them settle, letting them prove something he hadn’t even realized he’d been waiting for. He was lighter. Not fixed, not unscarred — but lighter. And for tonight, that was enough.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7 — The Gap

The days after Melbourne blurred together. The flight back, the recovery, the endless sponsor calls — all of it weighed heavier than usual. Seventh place had never felt so sharp. Not a disaster, but enough to slice away at the high that had carried him through Bahrain and Jeddah. Enough to make the silence around him feel thicker, like it carried judgment of its own.

And there was silence. Max hadn’t been near him since the checkered flag dropped in Australia. Not in person, not online, not even in the half-bitter, half-chaotic threads of the group chat. A week without crossing paths, a week without jabs or barbed words, and it should have been a relief. Should have. But the absence left a strange hollow in its place. Something like missing a fight, like reaching for tension only to find empty air.

Charles caught himself thinking about it late at night. In hotel rooms, in the quiet minutes before media duties, in the space between phone calls. He would tell himself it was nothing — that he was simply too used to the noise of Verstappen, that quiet felt foreign without the constant clash. But it lingered. That itch of something unfinished, something waiting to snap back. And when it didn’t, the quiet twisted into unease.

It was past midnight when he gave in. His laptop sat open on the desk, telemetry graphs waiting for review, but his hands were on his phone instead. Mindless scrolling at first — Ferrari updates, fan pages, the same sponsor reels. He told himself it was just a way to unwind. But then his thumb hovered over the search bar, and without really deciding, he typed the name anyway.

Max Verstappen.

The results bloomed instantly. Headlines. Photos. Clips. He didn’t even know what he was looking for. Confirmation that Max had vanished into the same silence Charles had felt? Proof that he was somewhere, anywhere, filling the gap with something Charles couldn’t touch? His thumb scrolled before he had the chance to ask himself.

The first images were predictable — Melbourne podium celebrations, news of Red Bull’s consistency. Then came the candids. Max on a terrace with a drink in hand. Max stepping out of a car, expression unreadable. And then the edits. Dozens of them. Compilations stitched together by fans with dramatic soundtracks, all claiming to capture something essential. Something permanent.

Charles should have stopped there. He told himself to stop. But the next swipe brought a video that froze him where he sat.

A slow-motion montage. Max and Kelly. Their arrival in Melbourne, side by side. A glimpse of them walking through the paddock, her hand brushing his arm. A photo of them laughing at something unseen, Max leaning in close, her head tilted toward him. The caption: “Perfect together.”

Charles watched it once. Then again. The music was soft, sweeping, shameless in its romanticism. It painted Max like someone untouchable, steady, adored — the kind of presence that didn’t falter even when the world pressed in. It painted them like inevitability. And it hit him harder than it should have, sharper than he let himself admit.

His chest tightened. He clicked away, back to the search bar, back to safer headlines, but the images burned behind his eyes anyway. He had been searching for Max’s presence, some echo of the rivalry he couldn’t shake, and instead he found this. Something that pressed at all the wrong places, that left him off balance in ways he didn’t want to name.

He tossed the phone onto the bed, too hard, the case skidding across the sheets. For a moment he sat frozen, jaw tight, eyes fixed on nothing. He hated that it mattered. Hated that it lingered. Hated that silence had turned into jealousy, uninvited and relentless.

Somewhere, Max was living untouched. And Charles was here, in another hotel room, staring at a ceiling that had no answers.

He lay back against the mattress, the phone still facedown at the far end of the bed. It didn’t matter that he’d shoved it away; the images clung to him like they’d been carved under his skin. Max smiling. Kelly leaning in. The ease of it, the kind of comfort that looked effortless. That was what unsettled him most. The effortlessness.

Charles knew what it was like to smile for the cameras. To laugh on cue. To wear the ease even when it was absent. But the clip hadn’t felt like that. It hadn’t been staged, hadn’t been for anyone but whoever had caught it from a distance. Which meant it was real. Or at least real enough to pass as truth.

He hated that it made him compare. Not openly, not consciously, but in the sharp way the mind worked when it didn’t ask permission. He thought of the last week: the hotel rooms, the silence, the way his chest had felt hollow even in company. He thought of how the quiet had pressed heavier without Max around, and how he hadn’t wanted to name it. And then he thought of that video again, and how Max had looked untouched by any of it. Like Charles’s absence meant nothing. Like nothing had been hollow at all.

He told himself it was about rivalry. That was the easy shield, the narrative that would hold if he ever said it aloud. Rivals needed to be sharp. Rivals needed to want the upper hand even off-track. Rivals could resent the ease with which the other carried himself. That excuse almost worked. Almost. But it didn’t explain why his jaw tightened every time he pictured Kelly’s hand brushing Max’s arm. It didn’t explain why it stung to see Max framed as someone complete without the noise they made together.

“C’est ridicule.” Ridiculous. He said it into the empty room, voice flat. But the word didn’t hold weight. Not enough to drown the other thoughts circling faster and faster.

Because he remembered Bahrain. He remembered Jeddah. The look in Max’s eyes in the garage, the way their voices had sharpened against each other, the way it had felt alive, like the air was electric only because they were both in it. That was real too. Not staged, not caught from the sidelines, but lived. And Charles had walked away from those moments burning. Angry, yes. Exhausted, yes. But alive. Like he’d been part of something that mattered.

And now — now he had silence, and Max had something else. Someone else.

The jealousy wasn’t about her, not really. He knew that. He wasn’t comparing himself to Kelly in any rational way. It was about what she represented. Stability. Presence. A piece of Max’s life that seemed untouched by the chaos of the track. Charles couldn’t picture himself being that — not with his own world constantly splintering under expectation, under headlines, under the grief he still carried in quieter corners.

But she could. She did. And that thought slid under his skin in ways he didn’t want to acknowledge.

He sat up, dragged the phone back into his hands. The screen lit his face in the dark, too sharp against the hollow beneath his eyes. His thumb hovered over the search bar again, stupidly, like refreshing the name would give him something different this time. Another clip. Another angle. Something to disprove what he had already seen. Something to suggest that maybe Max wasn’t as untouched as he looked.

But every scroll only made it worse. More photos. More edits. More proof that the world wanted to see Max and Kelly as perfect. Charles’s chest knotted tighter. He didn’t even know what he wanted to find anymore. Proof that Max missed the noise too? Proof that Charles’s absence had left some kind of mark? He didn’t find either. Just the same glossy certainty, the same effortlessness.

He shut the app and tossed the phone aside again, harder this time, so it slid off the bed and hit the floor with a dull thud. He buried his face in his hands, dragging them down over his mouth, pressing against the pressure building in his chest. It wasn’t rational. He knew it wasn’t. But rationality had no place here. Not when the silence made him restless, not when every distraction collapsed under the weight of what lingered in his head.

Max lived like nothing touched him. Max lived like Charles wasn’t even part of the frame unless it was on the track. And Charles hated how much space that left in his own mind. Space filled with images, with edits, with the echo of arguments that had made him feel more alive than this silence ever could.

He lay back again, staring at the ceiling. The city hummed faintly outside the window, but inside it was too still. Too empty. And no matter how many times he closed his eyes, the video replayed anyway. Max smiling. Kelly leaning in. Effortless. Untouchable. Out of reach.

The phone stayed where it had fallen, half-shadowed on the floor. Charles stared at it from the bed, the screen still lit, a faint glow against the carpet. He didn’t move at first. Just watched the timer count down toward inactivity. The light dulled, dimmed, vanished. Darkness reclaimed the room.

But the silence pressed harder now, and after a few minutes he leaned forward, dragging the phone back into his hand. The screen blinked awake at his touch, harsh against his tired eyes. Notifications cluttered the lock screen — mostly sponsor updates, a few group chats, nothing urgent. He swiped through them quickly, looking without really seeing, until he found himself back in messages.

He scrolled down, aimless, through threads with Pierre, with Arthur, with Carlos. Then, like gravity, his thumb stopped on the one he knew he shouldn’t open: Grid Idiots.

Lando: mate did you see the first lap replay yet 😭😭😭

George: he defended like his life depended on it lol

Pierre: to be fair, charles did look decent until that stint

Yuki: “decent” = 7th place 🤡

Charles: thank you yuki, very kind

Daniel: stop bullying him or i’m switching to the golf gc

Charles read the lines again, even though he remembered them word for word. The banter had been easy that night, a kind of shield after the race. They’d kept it light. Not serious. But now, in the silence of his room, even the lightness felt heavier. Like he was on the outside of it, rereading jokes he couldn’t quite feel anymore.

He scrolled further, until he reached the point where Max had chimed in after the race. Just a few clipped remarks. Nothing sharp, nothing cruel, but enough to twist. Enough to remind Charles that Max never missed an opportunity to jab at his result, even wrapped in casual words. He stared at the lines until they blurred, then closed the chat.

His thumb hovered. Not over the jokes, not over the endless scroll of messages. But over the top corner, where the member list sat. One tap and the names appeared — familiar numbers, some saved with emojis, some not. And there, halfway down, the unsaved contact. Just digits. Just Max’s number.

Charles clicked it before he could talk himself out of it. The screen filled with the empty thread, a blank expanse waiting to be broken. No messages between them here. Nothing private. Everything had always been through the group, through the noise of others. This was different. This was clean, untouched.

He stared at it, thumb resting on the keyboard without pressing. The cursor blinked back at him. Waiting.

What would he even say? That was the part that rooted him in place. He could type something sharp — a taunt, a jab, something to bait Max into responding. That was easy. But the thought of starting it like that made his chest tighten. Because it wouldn’t be about the jab. It would be about the reply. About pulling Max’s attention back toward him, even just for a moment.

He thought about the race again. About the moves they’d made, the inches between them, the way it had felt like no one else on track mattered. He thought about Jeddah. About Bahrain. About how alive it had felt to fight with him, to hear his voice over the radio, to know that he was the only one who could keep up. That was what he wanted again. Not the silence. Not the effortless smiles with Kelly. The fire. The noise. The proof that he mattered.

But how do you ask for that? How do you text someone just to say I can’t stop thinking about the way you look at me when we fight?

You don’t. You can’t.

Charles set the phone down beside him, screen still open on the empty thread. He dragged both hands over his face, pressing against his temples, trying to will the thoughts away. The cursor kept blinking in the corner of his vision, a heartbeat in pixels. Mocking. Daring.

He picked it up again. Typed three words. Deleted them. Typed two more. Deleted them again. He repeated the cycle until his chest hurt, until the silence felt unbearable. It wasn’t that he didn’t know what he wanted to say. It was that he knew too well, and none of it could ever be written. Not without breaking something that couldn’t be mended.

The minutes stretched. Twenty. Thirty. He kept staring, kept fighting with himself. Every time his thumb hovered over send, he saw Kelly in that clip again. He saw the smile. The ease. And the words turned to ash in his mouth.

In the end, he didn’t send anything. He just sat there, staring at the unsent text, until the screen dimmed and went black again. He didn’t move to wake it this time. He let the silence settle, heavy, suffocating, until sleep finally came.

The morning sun in Monaco was sharp, bouncing off the glass balconies and pale stone streets. Charles woke with his phone still on the nightstand, screen dark, thread with Max untouched. He didn’t open it again. He slipped it into his pocket and told himself today would be different. Light. Easy. Something that didn’t feel like war.

By late morning, he was standing at the padel courts near the harbor. The salt air carried across the open space, mingling with the slap of balls against rackets and the sound of sneakers skidding on the floor. Pierre was already there, stretching theatrically like he was about to run a marathon. Alex leaned against the net, sunglasses on, racket dangling loosely from his hand. George, of course, was in full warm-up mode, bouncing on his heels like he was prepping for qualifying instead of a casual game.

“Enfin. About time you showed up,” Pierre called as Charles walked up, racket bag slung over his shoulder.

Charles rolled his eyes. “You told me eleven. It’s eleven.”

“George was here at ten-thirty,” Alex said, smirking.

George straightened defensively. “Being prepared is not a crime.”

“No,” Pierre grinned, “but looking like you’re about to give a TED Talk on padel strategy might be.”

Charles laughed quietly, the sound easing something in his chest. It felt good to hear their voices, to stand in the bright air instead of the dim hush of his apartment. He gripped the racket tighter, reminding himself that this — friends, sport, noise — was better than the silence of last night.

The first game started easy. Charles paired with Pierre, leaving Alex and George on the other side. Pierre, of course, insisted on being “team captain,” shouting commentary after every point. Alex played with deceptive laziness, dropping impossible shots right past Pierre’s reach. George, competitive as ever, took it all too seriously, muttering about angles and positioning like he was analyzing a telemetry sheet.

Charles let himself get lost in the rhythm. The slam of the ball, the shuffle of feet, the brief bursts of laughter when someone messed up. He smiled more than he expected to. Pierre’s constant trash talk was ridiculous, but it made it harder to think about the weight he’d carried to bed.

Between games, they collapsed onto the benches at the edge of the court. Bottles of water cracked open, sweat running down temples. Pierre immediately leaned back, arms spread. “See? This is why I’m an athlete. Pure natural talent.”

“Natural talent at missing shots?” Alex asked, deadpan.

George snorted. “If we had points for dramatics, Pierre would be world champion.”

Charles chuckled, wiping sweat from his forehead with the edge of his shirt. “I think you’re confusing him with Lando.”

Pierre gasped in mock offense. “Betrayed by my own teammate. Unbelievable.”

The others laughed, and for a moment, Charles almost forgot the hollow space inside him. Almost. But when he reached for his phone to check the time, his eyes flickered — just for a second — toward the unsent thread he hadn’t dared delete. He locked the screen again before the temptation grew teeth.

The second game went longer, sweatier, louder. Pierre finally landed a winning shot, throwing his racket into the air like he’d just secured pole position. Alex groaned, George muttered about replaying the point, and Charles found himself laughing harder than he had in weeks. It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t heavy. It was just sound, spilling out before he could stop it.

“See?” Pierre beamed, pointing at him. “That’s what I like to hear. Not your serious Ferrari face. The other one.”

Charles shook his head, still smiling. “Don’t get used to it.”

But even as he said it, he realized he meant the opposite. He wanted to get used to it. He wanted more days like this — lighter, easier, further away from the way last night had felt. For now, he could pretend it was enough. For now, the court and his friends were the only things that mattered.

After two hours of play and too much shouting from Pierre, they finally called it. Shirts damp, hair sticking, lungs burning with the good kind of exhaustion. “Food,” Alex declared, tugging his shirt off his back as they walked toward the marina. “If we don’t eat, George is going to collapse halfway to the car.”

George frowned. “I’m fine.”

“You’re pale.” Pierre grinned. “More than usual, even.”

Charles followed them down the shaded walkway, listening to the clatter of boats against the dock, the gulls circling above. He walked a little slower, letting the breeze cool the sweat on his skin. The tension in his shoulders was easing, but the hollow hadn’t disappeared entirely. It lurked, quieter, waiting.

They ended up in a small café facing the harbor, ordering too much food and sitting outside under white umbrellas. Alex talked about Lily’s latest tennis match, Pierre teased George about his hair routine, and George gave as good as he got, turning it into a mock debate about shampoo brands. The conversation was nonsense, but Charles found himself smiling anyway, leaning back in his chair as the sunlight hit the water in blinding shards.

“This is good,” Pierre said suddenly, gesturing at them with a forkful of pasta. “We don’t do this enough. Not interviews. Not sponsor events. Just this.”

“Because you always try to make it into an event,” Alex said dryly. “You’d brand it if you could.”

Pierre shrugged, unapologetic. “Maybe. But it would sell.”

Charles shook his head, a quiet laugh escaping. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re too serious,” Pierre shot back, though his tone was light. “Relax, mon frère. We’re not on track. Nobody’s watching.”

Charles hesitated, then nodded. He let the words sink in. Nobody was watching. For once, he could breathe without cameras in his face, without every move turned into analysis. For once, he wasn’t Charles Leclerc, Ferrari driver, rival, headline. He was just Charles, sitting with friends, letting the afternoon slip by.

After lunch, they wandered along the harbor, the smell of salt and diesel mixing with roasted chestnuts from a nearby stall. George and Alex got caught up arguing about whether padel or tennis demanded more strategy, while Pierre interrupted with increasingly absurd metaphors about “life being like a racket.” Charles listened, half-smiling, half-lost in thought. It wasn’t sadness exactly, just a distance — a sense that his body was here, but part of him was still elsewhere.

He caught himself glancing at his phone again. The dark screen reflected his face, unreadable. He didn’t unlock it. Not yet. Not here. Instead, he slid it back into his pocket and forced himself to match Pierre’s pace as they headed toward the parking lot. The afternoon was light, easy. He told himself that was enough.

The late afternoon air clung heavy in the parking lot, warm asphalt still holding the sun. They drifted slowly toward their cars, no one in a rush to leave just yet. Bags were tossed into trunks, doors hung open, and the easy chatter of lunch stretched on. Pierre’s phone buzzed again, and this time he didn’t bother hiding the quick flicker of a smile as he glanced down.

George caught it immediately. “There it is again,” he said, pointing like he’d just spotted rare wildlife. “That look. You’ve been grinning at that screen all day.”

Pierre angled the phone out of sight and gave him a flat look. “Arrête. It’s nothing.”

“Nothing doesn’t make you look like that,” Alex cut in, leaning against his car with his arms crossed. “Go on. Who is it?”

Charles slid his sunglasses back on, half-smiling as he watched Pierre fumble. “You’re being defensive. Which means they’re right.”

“Mon dieu, you’re all obsessed.” Pierre shoved his phone into his pocket, but the faint flush at the edges of his ears gave him away. “It’s just someone I’ve been talking to. That’s all.”

George whistled low. “Just someone, huh? And how long have you been talking to ‘just someone’?”

Pierre hesitated, then shrugged like it was nothing. “A few weeks.”

Alex grinned. “And already you’re smiling like that? Yeah, that’s not nothing.”

Pierre shook his head, but the smile tugged anyway, betraying him. “They’re… funny. Easy to talk to. Not like you three.”

“Ouch,” George said, pressing a hand to his chest. “Wounded.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Pierre insisted, though softer now. “I just like talking to them. They make things lighter. Simple. When I need it.”

For a moment, the group fell quiet, the laughter fading into something gentler. Charles watched him closely — Pierre never let much slip unless it mattered. There was something in his voice that rang different, unarmored.

“So when do we meet them?” Alex broke the pause, his grin back in full force. “Because I’m already planning the interrogation.”

“Jamais. Never,” Pierre said firmly, though his smirk betrayed him. “Not yet.”

George leaned back against his car with a knowing look. “Protective already. He’s done for.”

Charles only smiled faintly, slipping his keys from his pocket. There was a strange comfort in it — seeing Pierre caught off guard by something good. For once, the world didn’t feel like pressure and sharp edges. Sometimes, it could be this instead: a little warmth, spilling over in places no one expected.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8 — Shadows full of Blue Hues

The drive from Bologna airport to Imola was shorter than Charles remembered. Maybe because he spent the entire ride staring out the window, eyes tracing the blur of rolling hills and tiled roofs, not really seeing them. The driver said something about the weather, the tifosi, how the weekend would be loud and full of red, but Charles only nodded faintly. His mind wasn’t here yet, not fully. It was still halfway between Jeddah and Melbourne, stuck somewhere in the unresolved silence he hadn’t been able to shake.

When the car pulled into the hotel courtyard, cameras already waited by the entrance. He felt the prickle of their lenses before the door even opened. He tugged his cap low, lifted the strap of his Ferrari backpack higher on his shoulder, and forced his steps into that steady, neutral rhythm he’d perfected over years: don’t rush, don’t falter, don’t give them anything. The lobby swallowed him up, and the silence felt like a reprieve, though it never lasted long. Not here. Not on a weekend like this.

The room they gave him overlooked a side street, not the main square. For once, no fans pressed up against the windows. He dropped his bag by the bed, kicked off his shoes, and stood for a moment with his hands on the back of the desk chair, staring at nothing in particular. Normally he’d unpack, line things up, make the room feel like his. This time he didn’t. He let the bag sit, half-zipped, as if refusing to commit to being here.

The laptop waited, telemetry and emails just a password away. His phone buzzed once, twice — media reminders, Ferrari schedules. He ignored both. Instead, he sat down on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, and just breathed. Imola had always carried a strange weight. The track was history carved into tarmac, every corner steeped in echoes too loud to ignore. For Ferrari, it was even heavier. A home race, even if not officially. The tifosi turned it into something more than sport — expectation, worship, judgment all tangled together. Every step here felt amplified.

But that wasn’t the only weight pressing on him tonight. It was the silence that came when the shouting stopped. Australia had left him raw — a good start to the season fading into seventh, a slide down the order he couldn’t entirely explain. The numbers said one thing, but his chest said another. He had felt close, too close, like every move had rubbed against something sharper, something personal. And then it was gone, and he was left with nothing but the aftertaste of being less than what he wanted to be.

He lay back across the bed without meaning to, staring at the ceiling. The room was quiet except for the hum of the air conditioning. His phone lit again on the nightstand. This time, he reached for it, thumb unlocking the screen before his brain caught up. The group chat sat near the top, a string of unread messages from the past day. Memes, jokes, Carlos arguing with Lando about some clip. He didn’t scroll too far. The laughter felt too far away from where he was. He set it back down.

For a while he let the silence settle again, but his mind didn’t still. It circled. Around numbers, around strategy, around the same invisible name it always found even when he tried to look elsewhere. He hated that. He hated that it had become reflex. He turned over, pressing his face into the pillow, but the thoughts followed anyway. The image of him — casual, careless, never carrying the weight the same way. At least not where anyone could see.

Charles sat up sharply, like the movement could shake it off. He pushed himself to his feet, walked to the desk, opened the window just enough to let the noise of the street filter in. Voices, scooters, the clink of cutlery from a trattoria below. It was real, grounding. He leaned on the frame, breathing it in, and for a moment it worked. For a moment he felt anchored in something that wasn’t rivalry or silence or weight.

Then the phone buzzed again. A reminder: media at 10:00, track walk at 14:00. His shoulders tightened. Tomorrow the noise would return, the questions, the expectations. Tonight was his only buffer. He shut the window, pulled the curtains, and sat back on the bed with the phone balanced in his hand. He didn’t open anything else. Just stared at the lock screen until it dimmed, and the room fell into half-darkness again.

Sleep didn’t come easily. It rarely did on nights like this. His body was tired, but his mind kept replaying corners he hadn’t yet driven, battles that hadn’t yet happened. He knew what Imola could demand, how narrow the margins were. And he knew who would be there, demanding them. He turned onto his side, eyes shut against the glow of standby lights, and told himself to rest. Tomorrow, the real noise would begin.

The room was dark when he opened his eyes again. For a second Charles thought it was morning, but the alarm clock on the bedside table glowed 04:27 in sharp red digits. Too early. Too wrong. He shifted, turned over, tried to sink back into the sheets, but the restlessness in his chest only tightened. Sleep had left him, cleanly, cruelly, without a trace of return.

He sat up slowly, legs swinging over the edge of the mattress, elbows braced on his knees. The air was still, heavy with the hum of the air conditioning. He pressed a hand to the back of his neck, felt the tension wound there like wire, and exhaled through his nose. He knew this pattern too well — the nights when his mind refused to switch off, when it spun and spun until the weight of it felt like another kind of exhaustion.

His phone lay on the nightstand, dark screen, silent. He stared at it longer than he should have, debating. Then he reached for it anyway. The brightness stung his eyes when the screen lit, but he didn’t lower it. He unlocked it, thumb hovering for a moment without intent, before muscle memory pulled him to the chat list.

Grid Idiots sat near the top, muted for the night. He scrolled past it. Stopped on the unsaved number he knew too well. The one he had clicked on before, without ever sending anything. Tonight his thumb pressed harder, opening the empty thread. An empty space. A void. A risk staring back at him.

It was stupid. Too early. Too reckless. But maybe that was the point. Maybe he wanted to be reckless, just this once. To cut through the silence with something sharp enough to make him feel less alone in it. He typed without letting himself think too much:

Charles → Max: awake?

The word sat there, thin, fragile. He watched the screen like it might answer him back. It didn’t. Of course it didn’t. He locked the phone, set it down, picked it up again within seconds. The digits on the clock ticked to 04:31. He could almost hear the silence mocking him.

Another message formed before he could stop it:

Charles → Max: didn’t think so. forget it.

He hit send. This time he leaned back against the headboard, phone still in his hand, waiting. The dots never appeared. The chat stayed blank, unread. It should have been a relief. It wasn’t. It pressed down heavier instead, like he had thrown a stone into a well too deep to hear the echo.

For a long time he sat there in the dim glow of the clock, staring at the screen that didn’t light again. Then, finally, he set the phone facedown, pulled the blanket back over himself, and closed his eyes. Rest didn’t come. But he told himself that morning would. And maybe morning would make him forget this, too.

Morning came without rest. Charles had managed only fragments of sleep after sending the messages, drifting in and out until the alarm dragged him fully awake. He went through the motions — shower, breakfast, the shuttle to the circuit — but the weight of the phone in his pocket felt heavier than anything else he carried. He hadn’t checked. He didn’t want to. Not yet.

The press conference room was already packed when he walked in. Flashbulbs cracked like static, chairs scraped, the hum of reporters filled the air. Charles sat where the placard told him to, Ferrari red bright against the table. Beside him, Carlos adjusted his microphone; further down, the Red Bull duo. Charles didn’t need to look to know Max was there, but his chest still tightened when he did. The blue hues taking over, posture relaxed, phone in hand beneath the table like none of this mattered.

The first questions were routine. Strategy, tire management, the disappointment of Australia. He answered carefully, practiced cadence. We had the pace but not the execution. We’re reviewing everything. The team is working hard to make sure it doesn’t happen again. His mouth moved, but his focus blurred. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Max glancing down, thumbs moving quickly across his phone screen. Expression flat. Unclear. Then the device disappeared into his pocket.

Charles looked away, back to the reporter, finishing his sentence with a steadiness he didn’t feel. But when his own phone buzzed against his thigh a moment later, the line of thought broke. Too timed. Too deliberate. He didn’t dare pull it out here, not with cameras trained on every movement, but his pulse gave him away — faster, sharper, like the vibration had run straight into his blood.

He kept his eyes forward, voice even, but his thoughts burned. It’s him. It has to be him.

Another question came. This time about Bahrain, about whether Ferrari were already falling behind in the championship fight. He leaned forward, microphone close, answering with the same patience he always wore. But midway through, he glanced sideways again. Max had looked up from his lap, eyes fixed on him now, unreadable. Not hostile. Not amused. Just watching. The moment stretched. Charles forced himself to look away first, back at the reporter, words continuing like nothing had happened.

“We are not giving up,” he said firmly, maybe sharper than intended. “It is still early in the season.”

The journalists scribbled, satisfied. The press officer moved to the next hand raised. But Charles felt the stare on him even as he straightened in his chair, even as he spoke. The phone in his pocket buzzed again. He didn’t check. Not yet. He couldn’t. Not here.

The rest of the press conference blurred into routine. Questions about set-ups, tire degradation, whether Ferrari’s upgrades could bridge the gap to Red Bull. Charles answered each one with steady professionalism, but every so often his gaze slipped sideways. Max never once touched the microphone with both hands, lounging back as if the whole session were a chore. But whenever Charles spoke, Max’s eyes flicked up. Brief, unreadable. It made Charles’s pulse hitch every time, like waiting for an impact that didn’t come.

His phone buzzed again once during Carlos’s turn to speak. Sharp against his thigh, quick enough that no one else seemed to notice. Charles forced his expression neutral, but his hand twitched against the table, fingers drumming once before he caught himself. He didn’t move to silence it. Didn’t dare. Cameras were everywhere. He swallowed hard and pressed his palms flat instead, answering the next question with a voice steadier than he felt.

The walk through the paddock afterward was worse. Ferrari staff moved around him with papers and headsets, but Charles couldn’t shake the sense of being followed, shadowed. He glanced over his shoulder once and caught sight of the Red Bull group a few meters back — Max among them, head tilted toward Checo, but gaze flicking forward, briefly, in Charles’s direction. The heat climbed up his neck despite the shade of the awnings overhead. He turned back quickly, stride tightening, as if speed could outrun the look.

By the time media duties were done, his shoulders ached with the tension of keeping himself composed. Every laugh forced, every smile measured. He could feel it in his body — the stiffness in his jaw, the way he cracked his knuckles one by one while waiting for Carlos to finish with an interview. And through it all, the phone stayed heavy in his pocket, a presence just as insistent as the man who wouldn’t leave his periphery.

Later, when the paddock had thinned and the sun dipped low, Charles finally made it back to the hotel. The door shut behind him with a weight that almost knocked the breath from his chest. Silence. His bag hit the chair, his cap the table. He sat on the edge of the bed and finally pulled the phone free.

Two notifications. Same chat thread. He knew before unlocking it. His thumb hovered over the screen, chest tight, like the simple act of looking might redraw every line between them. For a long moment he just stared, until the display dimmed and went black. His reflection blinked back at him, faint in the glass. Jaw clenched. Shoulders taut. Still unable to move.

Finally, with a sharp exhale, he tapped the screen awake again. This time, he opened it.

The screen lit, harsh in the dim hotel room. Charles unlocked it before he could stop himself, thumb moving faster than the hesitation in his chest. The notification banner pulled him straight into the chat window. Just one name at the top. Unsaved, unmarked — just numbers. But he knew.

Max: You looked like you wanted to say something in the press room. But didn’t. Typical.

Charles’s breath caught. Simple words, but sharp, stripped down to the bone. He read it twice, then a third time, trying to hear the tone behind it. Mocking? Curious? Both? He let the phone rest on his knee, fingers flexing as if the letters themselves were baiting him into a fight.

Max: You play safe with words the same way you play safe on track. Never show more than you have to.

This one made Charles shift, back pressing against the headboard. The muscles at the base of his neck tightened, a slow coil of irritation that mixed with something else he didn’t want to name. His thumb hovered over the keyboard, letters forming in his head — a defense, an attack, anything — but he didn’t type. Not yet.

The typing bubbles appeared. Stopped. Appeared again. Vanished. The seconds stretched, and Charles felt his pulse climb, absurdly aware of the silence in the room. Then another message landed.

Max: You think I don’t notice? You looked pissed. Figure out what you actually want before you glare holes through me. You don’t hide it well, Leclerc.

The breath left him in a rush, heavy and uneven. Heat crept up his chest, his throat. He had told himself this was about racing — all of it. Rivalry, pace, points. But Max’s words cut closer, threading into places Charles didn’t want touched. He stared at the screen until the letters blurred.

Max: Maybe one day you’ll actually say it. Instead of hoping I figure it out.

His jaw tightened so hard it hurt. The phone slipped from his hand and landed beside him on the sheets, screen still glowing. He didn’t look away. Couldn’t. His chest felt too tight, his whole body wound like wire. He wanted to throw it, to laugh, to answer, to do anything but sit frozen. Instead he stared, and the silence pressed heavier with every second the screen stayed lit.

Finally, the phone dimmed. Darkness crept back into the room, broken only by the faint hum of traffic outside. Charles leaned forward, elbows on his knees, pressing his palms hard against his face. The words repeated anyway, carved deep: Typical. Safe. You don’t hide it well. Maybe one day.

He lay back eventually, phone still beside him, screen black now. His chest rose and fell too fast for someone lying still. He didn’t reply. Not tonight. But his hand kept brushing against the phone, like he couldn’t leave the distance alone.

The phone sat where he had left it on the nightstand. Silent. Innocent, if you didn’t know better. Charles stared at it like it might blink first. He hadn’t slept more than a handful of broken minutes, every attempt cut through by the memory of that message, the weight of words that refused to dissolve. His body was heavy with exhaustion, but his chest still hummed like a live wire. He dragged himself upright, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the floorboards until his vision blurred. The air in the hotel room felt too thin. Or maybe it was just him, running out of space inside himself.

He reached for the phone before he could talk himself out of it. The screen flared too bright against the dim morning light. Max’s name wasn’t saved — just the number, sharp and impersonal, still there like an open door he hadn’t dared step through. The last message glared back at him. You looked pissed. Figure out what you actually want before you glare holes through me. Charles’s jaw clenched. His throat felt dry. He hated how quickly it sank claws into him, how easily Max could still press.

His thumb hovered over the keyboard. Delete. Reply. Ignore. Every option tasted wrong. He closed his eyes, forced himself to breathe once, twice. And then the words slipped out anyway, faster than thought.

Charles: I’m not mad. Don’t know why you think you can read my face better than I can. Maybe focus on your own instead of mine.

He hit send before hesitation could strangle him. The phone felt heavier in his hand immediately, like he’d just thrown a stone into water and now had to watch the ripples spread. The screen went still. No reply. No typing dots. Nothing. He stared until the silence felt unbearable, then dropped the phone face-down on the bed. A bitter laugh escaped him — short, sharp, the kind that made his chest hurt more instead of less.

He sat there too long, elbows braced on his knees, fingers pressed hard against his temples. Why had he done that? Why did it matter so much what Max saw in him — or thought he saw? The whole thing felt childish, stupid, but the knot in his stomach refused to loosen. He imagined Max waking up to the message, smirking, or worse — ignoring it completely. Both possibilities twisted the same knife.

The shower was scalding, water beating at his skin until it almost felt like punishment. It didn’t wash the tension away. He dressed too quickly, pulling the Ferrari hoodie over his head like armor, then sat back on the edge of the bed. The phone was still there, black screen reflecting the ceiling. He picked it up, checked it once more. Nothing. No reply. His chest tightened again.

Coffee downstairs tasted like cardboard. He scrolled aimlessly through his emails, through messages from engineers, through strategy notes already waiting for his attention. Every vibration of the phone made his pulse kick — only for it to be something ordinary, something work-related. Pierre had sent a photo of his breakfast, captioned better than hotel food, fight me. Carlos had dropped a reminder about a meeting time. Yuki had spammed a sticker of a cat wearing sunglasses. It was normal noise. Easy. Harmless. But Max’s silence made it all ring hollow.

By the time the shuttle pulled up to take him to the circuit, Charles was chewing the inside of his cheek raw. He slid into the seat, let the hum of the engine fill the quiet, but his mind kept circling the same loop. He pictured Max in his own hotel, phone buzzing on a nightstand, unread or ignored. He pictured him reading it and laughing, turning the words over in that cutting way he had. Every version stung.

He tried distraction. Headphones in, music up — but the lyrics blurred, meaningless against the noise inside his head. He switched to strategy notes, forcing himself to stare at the data, the numbers, the clean math of racing lines and tire degradation. It helped for maybe five minutes, until his phone vibrated again. Not Max. The knot in his chest coiled tighter.

When the shuttle stopped outside the circuit gates, cameras already waited. The click and flash cut across the morning air like static. Charles pulled his cap lower, adjusted his bag on his shoulder, and stepped out. The noise of the paddock swallowed him whole — voices, footsteps, equipment being wheeled into place. It should have grounded him. Instead, the silence from one unsaved number kept gnawing at the back of his mind.

His phone buzzed once as he crossed into the Ferrari motorhome. He didn’t check it right away — couldn’t, not with team members greeting him, engineers waiting with printouts, strategy already being spoken around him. But when he sat down at his desk, laptop opening automatically to data sheets, he slid a hand into his pocket and pulled the phone free.

Still nothing. Just another team notification. He set the phone face-down on the table again and shut the laptop a little harder than necessary. Every movement felt too loud, too sharp. The day hadn’t even started, and already the tension pressed at his ribs like a bruise.

By the time the pad walk began, Charles had managed to pull the Ferrari cap low again, letting his expression sharpen into something professional. To anyone watching, he looked the same as ever — composed, focused, walking the track with his engineers and Carlos at his side. But inside, the silence still gnawed. Every step across the asphalt only reminded him of the text sitting unread in another hotel room. Or read, and ignored. He didn’t know which was worse.

The Ferrari briefing room was a box of white walls and sharp light, the kind of space where focus was meant to come easily. But today, for Charles, it felt suffocating. The long oval table was cluttered with water bottles, telemetry printouts, and screens flickering through sector times. Every click of a laptop, every shift of a chair seemed louder than it should be. He sat forward with a notebook open, pen balanced between his fingers, posture too straight. Discipline, control. The appearance of calm. Inside, his chest buzzed with static.

Checo, one of the strategy heads, stood at the front, laser pointer tapping against a projected track map. “Imola’s layout doesn’t forgive. Sector 2 especially — if we misjudge tyre delta there, we’ll be sitting ducks for the Red Bulls. They’re strongest on corner exit, particularly Turn 14. We’ll need clean launches.”

Charles scribbled a line across his page. Not words, just a line. His eyes tracked the map, but his head throbbed with something heavier. Every time Red Bull was mentioned, he felt it like a bruise pressed too hard. Bahrain. Jeddah. Australia. The shadow of Max never left the conversation, not even here between walls painted in Ferrari red.

Carlos leaned back, arms folded across his chest. His voice was calm, steady. “The safety car probability is high. We can’t ignore that. Two deployments in the last four years here. We box at the wrong time, we’re finished.”

Charles forced his voice into the room. “Then we don’t commit to the hard unless we’re boxed in. We lose too much time warming it, especially in cooler temps.” It came out flat, too sharp at the edges. One of the engineers shot him a quick glance, but said nothing.

Another strategist tapped a key, graphs shifting on the screen. “Medium degradation is sharper than expected. If Red Bull pushes on the soft, they’ll be in our pit window by lap fifteen. They’ll make us choose.”

Choose. Always forced to choose. Cover Max or hold position. React or risk. Charles bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste iron. The pen in his hand dug into the page. “If we’re strong off the line, we force them to make the choice. That’s our leverage.” His words came too quick, too defensive. As if the meeting itself were an argument he couldn’t afford to lose.

Silence pressed for a moment. Papers shuffled, clicks echoed. The air was heavy with data, but Charles couldn’t shake the static under his skin. His thoughts replayed every mistake, every pit call that hadn’t landed, every flash of Red Bull’s rear wing pulling away down a straight. It was supposed to be clinical, analytical. Instead it felt personal. Always personal.

Carlos spoke again, more measured. “And if we’re behind? If we’re stuck?” His eyes flicked briefly to Charles — not unkind, but pointed. Charles knew what he meant without it being said. Seventh in Australia. Strategy calls made under pressure that hadn’t worked. The reminder sat heavy in his chest.

“Then we make sure it doesn’t happen,” Charles said, sharper than he intended. He tried to soften it with a quick add: “We can’t afford another compromised stint.” But the words already sat there like iron. He felt Carlos studying him, weighing the tension in his tone. He looked back down at his page, drew another meaningless line.

The discussion moved on. Fuel loads. Out-laps. DRS zones. Every detail was combed through with the precision of a surgeon. Charles forced himself to write bullet points, to nod when appropriate, to look engaged. But his concentration was fractured. His jaw stayed tight, shoulders locked. Each mention of Red Bull twisted deeper. He knew the team could sense it — that edge in his responses, the way his pen tapped against the paper too fast. No one called him on it, but the silence after he spoke was its own kind of mirror.

By the time the meeting wound down, his notebook was filled with more scratches than words. The engineers began packing their laptops, voices low and brisk as they recapped responsibilities. Carlos gave a measured comment about execution, calm as ever, and pushed his chair back. Charles closed his notebook a little too hard, the sound sharper than it should have been in the confined room. No one reacted. But he knew they noticed.

He stood, sliding the pen into his pocket, his movements precise, controlled. He didn’t let his eyes drift to the window where the circuit loomed beyond, didn’t let his thoughts wander back to the Red Bull garage he couldn’t see but still felt. Instead, he nodded to the strategists, thanked them in a voice that came out lower than usual, and left the room with his pulse still racing.

The meeting had given him everything he needed: tyre data, lap strategies, options on paper. And yet he walked out carrying none of it. Only the static, only the weight, only the sense that no amount of planning could mute the ghost of the car in his mirrors — blue and red, always too close, always too fast.

The hallway outside the strategy room was quieter, but not enough. The buzz of the paddock carried even here — footsteps echoing on polished concrete, bursts of laughter from some PR team rushing past, the distant whir of equipment being wheeled toward the garages. Charles closed the door behind him and felt the sound shift, muffled but not gone. He exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw still tight, notebook heavy in his hand as though it held more than data. As though it carried every unspoken weight of the meeting.

He adjusted the strap of his backpack and started down the corridor. For a few steps, his mind replayed the strategy points — tyre windows, pit deltas — but the numbers dissolved quickly. What stuck instead was the silence after his sharper comments, the glances traded between engineers, Carlos’s steady voice contrasting his own. He tried to shake it off, but it clung. Too raw. Too visible.

Halfway down the hall, he slowed without meaning to. A familiar silhouette leaned against the wall near the corner, half-hidden by a line of cabinets. Arms folded, posture loose in a way that wasn’t casual at all. Max. Talking quietly with one of the Red Bull engineers, voice low but punctuated with the occasional short laugh. The sound cut through the hallway’s drone like a blade.

Charles’s steps faltered before he forced them steady again. He told himself not to look. Told himself to keep moving. But his eyes flicked anyway — a fraction too long, a fraction too obvious. Max glanced up mid-conversation, as though he had felt the weight of it before seeing it. Their gazes caught, sharp and unsmiling. Not long enough for words. Just long enough to sting.

Charles turned his head quickly, pace sharpening, the strap of his bag digging into his shoulder as if to anchor him forward. He didn’t check if Max kept looking. He didn’t want to know. The silence in his chest was loud enough already, filled with everything unsaid in strategy rooms and garages and message threads that never should have gone that far.

His phone buzzed against his thigh. Once. Twice. He stopped near a column, pulling it free, grateful for the distraction. The screen lit up with a calendar reminder — Drivers’ Dinner, 19:30. A block of text bright in the dim corridor. He swiped it away, thumb hovering longer than necessary, as though there might be something else waiting beneath it.

There wasn’t. No missed calls. No new messages from the team. The group chat had been quiet since the afternoon, save for a stray meme from Lando he hadn’t bothered opening. No messages from Max. Charles stared at the screen a moment longer than he meant to, the reflection of the lights above catching across the glass. He clicked the side button, let it go black again, and shoved it back into his pocket.

The dinner reminder sat heavy in his mind now, not because of the event itself but because of the hours in between. Hours to fill, hours to think, hours where silence might grow too loud again. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, drew in another slow breath, and kept walking, footsteps echoing sharp against the floor. Behind him, somewhere, laughter broke out again. He didn’t turn to see whose it was.

The hotel room was too quiet again. Charles sat on the edge of the bed, towel still looped around his shoulders, hair damp from the shower. The city outside pressed faint neon against the curtains, faint sounds of traffic drifting up like a rhythm he didn’t want to follow. He stared at the half-unpacked suitcase near the wall, the neat stack of shirts folded too precisely. His hand hovered longer than necessary before he picked one — plain, clean, neutral. Safe. The kind of shirt that wouldn’t say anything when he didn’t feel like saying much at all.

He dressed slowly, checking the mirror only in glances, never fully. His own reflection carried too much. The mark of fatigue beneath his eyes. The tightness in his jaw he hadn’t managed to loosen all day. A ghost of the earlier tension still written across his posture. He tugged the fabric into place, straightened the collar, and let out a long, quiet breath. The reminder notification from earlier still sat sharp in his memory — dinner at nineteen-thirty. It felt less like a social obligation and more like a gauntlet waiting to be walked.

His phone buzzed again on the nightstand. This time just a weather update, half-pointless: Showers likely tomorrow, 40% chance during afternoon sessions. He dismissed it with a flick of his thumb. He didn’t check for anything else. He didn’t let himself. The silence of the lock screen felt safer than what might or might not be there.

By the time he stepped out of the hotel lobby, the air had cooled, carrying the weight of evening with it. Streetlamps glowed along the narrow sidewalks, shadows stretching long across the pavement. The car waiting for him wasn’t a team shuttle, not tonight. Just a quiet sedan arranged for the drivers’ dinner, anonymous enough to slip through the side streets without attracting cameras. He slid into the back seat and pulled the door shut, the muffled thud cutting him off from the outside noise.

The city blurred past in streaks of light. Restaurants spilling music out onto terraces, clusters of fans still lingering near hotels with signs tucked under their arms, street vendors closing stalls. Charles leaned against the window, forehead resting briefly against the cool glass. He didn’t know why he felt the knot in his stomach tightening. It wasn’t a race. It wasn’t strategy. It was dinner. But the thought of the room — of voices clashing, of inevitable eyes meeting across a table — made his pulse quicken anyway.

The car slowed near the venue. A low-lit restaurant tucked between taller facades, warm light spilling onto the pavement where a few familiar silhouettes already lingered. Charles adjusted his cap, fingers pulling the brim lower, then paused. It wasn’t the paddock. It wasn’t the garage. He forced himself to straighten it again, jaw tightening as the driver opened his door.

The sound hit him first — laughter carried out into the night, overlapping conversations, the sharp clink of glasses through an open door. He stepped onto the pavement, smoothed the crease in his shirt, and let the evening air fill his lungs. For a moment he stood still, staring at the doorway framed in gold light, voices rising and falling inside like waves against a shore.

He walked forward. The door pulled open ahead of him, someone holding it just long enough for him to step into the warmth of the room. The hum of conversation grew louder. The dinner had begun, and the table waited.

The restaurant’s interior was warmer than expected, low golden lights strung across the ceiling, the smell of grilled food and wine hanging in the air. The long table was already crowded, jackets draped on the backs of chairs, drivers leaned close in their own clusters. The atmosphere hummed with easy conversation — George gesturing animatedly with a fork, Lando laughing at something Pierre had just said, Checo already halfway through a story about travel delays.

Charles slipped in quietly, nodding at a couple of greetings, settling into a chair near Pierre and Alex. His shoulders eased, just slightly, at the familiar rhythm of their voices. Banter rolled down the table — half jokes, half complaints, all the noise that came when too many of them were in the same place without helmets on. It was lighter than he expected. Almost normal.

Pierre nudged him, tilting his head toward George who was in the middle of miming a conversation with Toto. Charles let out a laugh, genuine for a moment, and shook his head. Alex tapped his glass against Charles’s lightly, a wordless “cheers” before diving into some complaint about flight connections. The table stretched long, too many voices blending together, but here in this corner it almost felt easy.

But then he looked up. Across the table, Max. Not staring, not even directly engaged with him — just there, presence heavy, expression unreadable in the low light. The chatter kept going around them, but Charles felt it anyway. The shift. The silent reminder. He forced his eyes back to Pierre, nodded at something Alex was saying, and told himself not to look again. Not yet.

The waiter moved along the table, dropping plates with efficient clatter. Cutlery scraped, wine poured, the rhythm of a dinner that should have been simple. But Charles could feel it pressing in at the edges. Every time Max’s laugh cut through the noise, sharp and certain. Every time someone leaned toward him, shoulder brushing, voices dropping low around whatever story he was telling. It was like static in the background, always there, always cutting through no matter how hard he tried to focus on the people nearest to him.

He picked at his food. Nodded when Pierre elbowed him with another joke. But he couldn’t shake it. That presence across the table. The weight of it, even when Max wasn’t looking at him.

“You’re quiet,” Pierre murmured, leaning in slightly so the others wouldn’t hear.

Charles forced a small smile. “Just tired.”

Pierre gave him a look — the kind that wasn’t convinced, but wasn’t going to push. Not here. Not now. Instead, he leaned back again, dragging George into some new tangent about simulator set-ups. Charles let himself fade into the background, chewing slowly, glass of water in hand like a shield.

He told himself not to look up again. Not to risk it. But it was like gravity — inevitable. His gaze flicked across the table, and there it was. Max’s eyes, sharp even in the soft light, catching his for just a second too long.

Charles’s stomach tightened. He looked away quickly, jaw set, forcing himself to listen to Alex’s story about a lost suitcase. But his chest buzzed, hot and uncomfortable, like he’d been caught in something he hadn’t even done.

The conversations around him blurred. Somewhere down the table, Lando and Daniel were in hysterics over something Checo said. George was still explaining his point, hands slicing the air with the precision of someone who took strategy too seriously even off track. Pierre was chiming in every so often, tossing in jokes that kept the rhythm light. It should have been enough to drown everything else out.

But then came the laugh again. Max’s laugh. Too sharp. Too easy. Charles’s hand tightened around his fork without meaning to, the metal pressing into his fingers. He didn’t even notice until Pierre nudged him again, whispering, “You’re about to snap that thing in half.”

He let go, exhaling slowly. “Sorry.”

Pierre studied him for a moment, then went back to his food. But the glance lingered, the concern obvious even if he didn’t say it. Charles forced another bite, chewed slowly, and stared at his plate like it could anchor him.

And then Max spoke his name. Casual, like it was nothing, like it wasn’t a blade slipped into the air. “Charles.”

Heads turned down the table, curious. Charles looked up despite himself, meeting Max’s gaze across the stretch of plates and glasses. Max leaned back in his chair, wine glass in hand, the picture of ease. His tone was light, but there was an edge in it. “How’s seventh place treating you?”

The table shifted. A few laughs, nervous and sharp, others waiting to see if it was a joke or something heavier. Charles froze for a fraction of a second, then let his mouth curve into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Better than finishing second and still looking angry on the podium.”

That got a louder laugh, rippling down the table. Even Daniel grinned into his drink. Max’s expression didn’t flicker, but his eyes sharpened, the weight of them fixed on Charles. The air stretched tight for a beat, until Pierre cut in with some ridiculous comment about simulator bugs, pulling the focus away. The noise returned. But the string between them stayed taut.

Charles’s appetite vanished. He pushed food around his plate, nodded when spoken to, laughed at the right times. But the whole table blurred into background noise. His chest was tight, his pulse a steady hammer. Every time he looked up, Max was there. Sometimes speaking to Checo, sometimes leaning toward Daniel, sometimes just watching the table with that sharp, unreadable look. But always there. Always pressing against the edges of Charles’s composure.

By the time dessert was brought out, his jaw ached from how hard he’d been clenching it. His glass was nearly empty, though he barely remembered drinking. Pierre was still talking, Alex adding in quick quips, George halfway through another story. But Charles’s mind wasn’t in the room anymore. It was fixed on the weight across the table. On the string stretched too tight, ready to snap.

He didn’t even realize how tense his shoulders had become until the dinner started winding down, drivers leaning back in their chairs, conversations slowing. The waiter poured another round of drinks, the air softening as laughter turned quieter. But Charles couldn’t relax. Not when Max still hadn’t looked away. Not when every muscle in his body felt like it was bracing for impact.

“Charles,” Pierre said softly, pulling him back. “You okay?”

Charles blinked, nodded quickly. “Yeah. Just—tired.”

But even he could hear the edge in his voice. And when he looked up again, Max was still watching.

The plates shifted, dessert arriving in small bursts of sweetness — tiramisu squares, scoops of gelato, neat slices of tart that vanished faster than the waiters could set them down. The table hummed again, voices rising in overlapping threads, too many stories running at once to follow them all. Charles found himself listening more than speaking, letting the tide carry around him.

“You should have seen Lando in the simulator yesterday,” George was saying down the table, laughter already edging his voice. “Ten minutes in, he rage-quit because the brakes weren’t ‘authentic enough.’”

Lando threw a napkin across the table. “They weren’t! You can’t expect me to take it seriously if it doesn’t even feel like the car.”

“You play Mario Kart like it’s the World Championship,” Pierre chimed in, grinning. “Don’t talk to us about realism.”

The table erupted, forks tapping against plates, laughter spilling loud enough to make the waiters smile as they passed. Even Charles laughed, shaking his head as Lando sputtered in mock defense. For a moment, it felt easy again — the kind of chaos that didn’t demand anything from him, the kind that let him sink back into the noise and just exist as part of the group.

Alex leaned toward him, voice lower so it wouldn’t get swallowed by the rest. “Do you miss streaming?”

Charles blinked, caught off guard, then let a small smile slip. “Sometimes. It was… chaotic. But fun.”

“Chaotic’s an understatement,” Pierre added, overhearing as he reached for his glass. “The chat moved faster than Yuki in a supermarket when they’re about to close.”

Charles laughed at the mental image, shoulders loosening without meaning to. “It was nice, though. Different. Lighter than this,” he gestured vaguely, meaning the endless seriousness of the sport, the interviews, the weight. “People didn’t care if you were perfect. They just wanted to see you… be.”

“You should do it again,” Alex said. “I’d watch.”

“I’d bully,” Pierre corrected with a grin. “But with love.”

Charles shook his head, but the warmth lingered, spreading in his chest. It was ridiculous how something so small could still matter, how even the thought of streaming again could tug at some lighter part of him he hadn’t realized he’d been missing.

Down the table, Checo launched into a story about a flight mix-up — how he’d ended up in a row surrounded by fans who recognized him only after he fell asleep, mouth open, head against the window. Daniel added his own embellishments, miming the way Checo must have looked, complete with exaggerated snoring sounds that had half the table doubled over.

Charles leaned an elbow on the table, chin resting briefly in his hand as the laughter spilled around him. He smiled, quiet, letting it wash over him. It was lighter here. Easier. For a moment, he could almost forget the weight pressing at the edges. Almost.

Because even in the lightness, his eyes betrayed him. They flicked across the table, quick, unthinking. And there he was again. Max. Not speaking this time, not even leaning into the chaos. Just sitting back, expression unreadable, wine glass turning slowly between his fingers. The noise rolled on around him, but Charles felt that steady gravity again — the presence that pulled whether he wanted it or not.

He looked away quickly, forcing himself back into Pierre’s commentary, into Alex’s laughter, into the easy noise of everyone else. He told himself it was nothing. Just another dinner. Just another night. And yet, even with the chaos pressing warm and loud around him, he could still feel it — the line stretched tight across the table, quiet, invisible, unbreakable.

The laughter at the table stretched long enough to feel safe. Checo’s story, Daniel’s mimicry, Pierre’s jokes — it all layered together like static that warmed the air. For a while, it was easy to believe this was all it was. Dinner, noise, friends. No hidden edges beneath the surface.

But then the static thinned. Stories tapered off into pockets of conversation. Glasses refilled. Forks dragged through the last traces of dessert. The table didn’t go silent, not exactly, but the volume dipped low enough that every glance mattered more, every pause felt louder.

Charles felt it before he looked. That pull. That weight. His eyes moved anyway, unbidden. Max, across the table, gaze not wandering like the others but fixed — steady, direct. It wasn’t the casual glance of someone lost in thought. It was aimed, deliberate, like he’d been waiting for Charles to look up.

The air shifted, sharp as a wire. Charles held the look for a second too long, trying to decide whether it was challenge or curiosity, mockery or something else entirely. His throat felt dry. He forced himself to reach for his glass, but it didn’t break the line. Even drinking, he could still feel it. That stare. Hot enough that it might as well have been a hand pressed flat against his chest.

He set the glass down harder than necessary. Pierre leaned close, starting a quiet comment about tomorrow’s track walk, but Charles barely heard him. His attention was pulled tight in a direction he didn’t want it to be. Across the table, Max had tilted his head slightly, as if amused by the effort it took Charles not to look back.

The noise around them blurred, softened. Lando laughed at something George said. Yuki threw a sarcastic jab at Alex. None of it reached. All Charles could register was the stretch of distance across the table, the heat of it, the weight of being seen.

Max finally shifted — slow, casual, taking a sip of his drink as if he hadn’t been staring at all. But it didn’t ease the pressure. If anything, it deepened it. Because Charles could feel his pulse quicken, could feel the itch in his skin, the restless energy that made him want to push back, say something, do anything to break the tension threading tight between them.

But he didn’t. He just shifted slightly in his chair, jaw set, eyes fixed on the plate in front of him like it was more interesting than it was. And he hated that it wasn’t. He hated that he wanted to look again, that he wanted to see if Max was still watching, if that invisible wire was still drawn taut across the table.

And when he did glance back — quick, sharp, pretending it was nothing — Max was waiting. Still watching. Still steady. This time, though, there was the faintest curl at the corner of his mouth, not a smile but something sharper, something Charles couldn’t name without giving it too much power.

The noise of the table roared back in, sudden, like someone had lifted a dam. Pierre clapped him on the back, dragging him into a new story. Charles let himself laugh, let the mask slip back into place. But his skin still buzzed with the stare across the table, with the pull he couldn’t shake.

It wasn’t rivalry. Not exactly. Not only. It was something else, heavier, harder to pin down. And Charles hated that he felt it most in the moments when nothing was being said at all.

The table had not gone quiet — not completely — but the laughter was thinner now, the stories shorter, the edges softened by the late hour. Someone clinked a spoon against glass. A fork scraped faintly across ceramic. It was ordinary background noise, but to Charles it all felt muffled, as though the air itself was holding its breath.

He hadn’t looked again. He told himself he wouldn’t. Yet the awareness was still there, steady as a pulse. He could feel it brushing against him, the same way one feels a draft without seeing the window open. It made every movement deliberate, made his hands feel clumsy when he folded his napkin, made his shoulders too tight when he leaned back in his chair.

Max hadn’t said a word. Not to him. Not to anyone near him. Just small nods when Checo spoke, the occasional glance at his drink, the flick of a hand when Daniel muttered something under his breath. But silence didn’t erase the tension; it sharpened it. It made every stillness into a statement.

Charles adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, only to realize his hand was trembling faintly. He clenched it into a fist beneath the table, pressing his knuckles against his thigh until the twitch subsided. He hated that his body betrayed him like this, hated that he couldn’t simply laugh the way Pierre was laughing, or sprawl lazily like Lando had half-slid out of his chair.

When he did dare another glance across the table, it wasn’t calculated. It slipped. His eyes rose in an unguarded second, and Max was already there, gaze steady, unwavering. Not cold. Not mocking. Just fixed. As if he were studying Charles, cataloguing him, pinning him down without touching.

Charles looked away fast enough to feel foolish. The clatter of a dropped fork somewhere down the table covered the sound of his exhale, but not the heat prickling across his skin. He sipped his water, swallowed hard, and forced his eyes to stay on the rim of the glass as if the transparency of it were suddenly worth his full attention.

The silence stretched between them, invisible but thick. Every so often Charles would shift — adjust his chair, rub the back of his neck, glance briefly at his watch — all small motions meant to look natural. None of them felt natural. Each one carried the weight of an audience he hadn’t asked for.

Pierre leaned sideways again, whispering something half-distracted about the schedule for tomorrow’s track walk. Charles nodded, too quickly, the words barely registering. He caught only the end — “…you’ll be fine, mate” — and realized belatedly that Pierre was trying to reassure him about something Charles hadn’t even heard. He mumbled back something vague, an agreement, though his voice sounded distant even to himself.

Across the table, Max tilted his head slightly. He hadn’t moved in minutes. He hadn’t looked away either. And when Charles felt that stare settle once more, heavier now, it pressed into the silence between words, into the gap between breaths. It wasn’t something anyone else at the table could see. It was just theirs. Isolated. Invisible. A silence built only for two.

Charles gripped the edge of the table beneath his palm, knuckles pale with tension. The conversation around him blurred again, voices dropping into an indistinct hum. He felt like he was sitting too close to a fire, close enough for the heat to bite but not close enough to burn. Not yet. Not unless he leaned in further.

And he knew he would. Sooner or later. That was the worst of it. The silence didn’t just linger; it promised. It promised a break, a crack, a moment where neither of them would pretend any longer.

The dinner stretched on, voices weaving around him like smoke. Lando was in the middle of a story about the first time he streamed, Daniel kept interrupting with corrections, and Checo’s laugh rolled across the table like it had no edge. Charles sat there, smiling in the right places, nodding when someone pulled him in, but his focus drifted again and again. He could feel it — the weight of Max’s presence across the table. Not in words, not in gestures, but in the silence that seemed to stretch between them like a pulled wire.

When the bottle passed around again, Charles let his hand linger too long on the glass just to steady himself. The noise was getting tight, close. He pushed back his chair quietly, enough to murmur, “Excusez-moi,” and slip out of the circle of laughter and clinking cutlery. Nobody paid him much attention. Nobody except Max, whose gaze followed him to the edge of the room. Charles didn’t look back, but he felt it like a mark between his shoulder blades.

The restroom was quieter, just the low hum of ventilation and the faint echo of water dripping somewhere behind the tiles. Charles braced his palms against the sink, bowing his head. His reflection looked strained, too taut at the jaw, shadows under the eyes deeper than they should’ve been. He let out a breath and reached into his pocket, pulling his phone free almost without thinking.

The screen lit up — no new notifications. No new messages. His thumb hovered. He could’ve left it there. Could’ve pocketed the phone again, gone back to the table, slipped into the noise until the night folded over. But the silence between them had grown sharp enough to cut, and Charles had never been good at leaving things untouched when they dug at him like this.

He opened the chat. No name saved. Just the number sitting there like a dare. He stared at it until the screen dimmed, then tapped it awake again. His pulse felt too loud in his ears. His fingers moved before he could stop them.

Charles → Max: why are you still watching me

The words sat there, glowing against the dark screen. He nearly deleted them. Nearly tossed the phone back into his pocket like it hadn’t happened. But something in him clenched, stubborn and hot. He hit send.

The message ticked away into the void, delivered but unread. Charles’ throat tightened. He set the phone down on the sink for a moment, flexing his hands like he’d just committed to something reckless. Maybe he had. Maybe this was a mistake. But the silence between them had become unbearable, and now it was out there — his question, stripped bare, daring an answer.

He stayed there a few minutes longer, staring at the mirror as if it might give him something back. Nothing came. The phone stayed stubbornly still on the porcelain. No buzz. No reply. Just the echo of his own words mocking him in the quiet.

Finally, he pocketed it again and ran a hand through his hair, forcing himself to return. The laughter reached him before the door opened, easy and careless. He slipped back into the room, back into his seat, back into the noise. Pierre threw him a casual grin, Lando was still in the middle of something ridiculous. Charles smiled faintly, trying to fit the edges of himself back into the table’s rhythm.

But across the table, Max hadn’t moved. He sat with an elbow propped, fingers idly tracing the condensation on his glass, expression unreadable in the dim light. For one fraction of a second, his eyes lifted and locked on Charles. No smirk, no frown. Just a look — heavy, steady, something Charles couldn’t place. Then Max blinked away, turning back to Checo’s words as if nothing had shifted.

Charles swallowed hard. The message still hung between them, unseen or ignored, and he didn’t know which was worse. He reached for his drink with steady hands that didn’t feel steady at all. The night went on, voices weaving around him again. But the wire between them was tighter than ever, humming, waiting.

Charles tried to focus on the chatter again. Pierre was recounting something about a karting event years ago, Daniel kept laughing too loud at his own jokes, and Lando had already pulled his phone out to show a meme. The table bent with sound, bright and careless. But Charles could feel it — that coil pulling tighter across the room.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught it: the shift of Max leaning back, shoulders angled just so, his hand slipping beneath the table. The faint glow of a phone screen lit his face in the dimness. No one else noticed. Charles did. Every nerve bristled at the sight, like the air had thickened only for him.

The buzz came against his thigh a heartbeat later. He knew before he looked. His phone trembled in his palm when he slid it free, angling it under the tablecloth. The screen blinked awake with a new message.

Max → Charles: maybe i’m watching because you make it obvious

Charles froze. His chest felt too tight, fingers stiff around the device. He read it again, slower this time, the words pressing harder the longer they sat on the screen. A provocation, a confession, a challenge — he couldn’t tell. He only knew it burned hotter than he expected.

Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his eyes. Max was already looking at him. Not across the room in some vague glance — looking at him, directly, unwavering. The kind of look that pinned you in place. His expression was almost lazy, chin tilted in one hand, but his eyes were sharp. He knew exactly what he had sent.

Charles’ breath caught. He held Max’s stare a second too long before the noise of the table forced him to blink away. Pierre clapped him on the shoulder, dragging him back into a joke he hadn’t heard, and Charles let out a laugh that came too late, too brittle.

But his pulse was still loud in his ears, his phone still warm in his hand. The message lingered on the screen, burning into his vision. Maybe I’m watching because you make it obvious. He shoved the phone back into his pocket, forcing his grip around the glass instead, but his eyes kept flicking across the table when he thought no one would notice.

And every time, Max was there. Not smiling. Not frowning. Just watching. As if daring him to answer, or maybe daring him to admit something he couldn’t yet name.

Charles let the noise of the table swallow a few more minutes, his glass rolling between his palms, his laughter too thin at the wrong moments. The phone in his pocket felt heavier with each second, like it was dragging the air around him down. He couldn’t shake the words. He couldn’t shake the look.

When the conversation tilted toward another story — Alex mispronouncing an Italian dish, Daniel trying to imitate him — Charles leaned back in his chair. The table was alive with noise. No one was watching him. At least, no one except Max.

His hand slipped beneath the tablecloth, thumb unlocking the screen, the message still there like a brand. His fingers hovered, hesitated. Boldness felt reckless, but silence felt worse. He typed slow, erasing the first words, then trying again until it landed somewhere between defense and demand.

Charles → Max: obvious how?

He stared at the words longer than he should have, the cursor blinking like it was mocking him. Then he hit send. The phone felt hot against his thigh again as he shoved it back into his pocket. He forced his face into neutrality, nodding along as George threw in another joke about Lando’s disastrous golf swing.

And yet, the air shifted almost immediately. He knew when Max had read it, because the corner of his mouth moved — not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for Charles to catch. A curl, a flicker, gone as quickly as it came. The silence between them was suddenly loud again, like a thread drawn tight beneath the table, ready to snap.

Charles reached for his glass too quickly, nearly knocking it. His laugh came late when Pierre made a dig about Ferrari’s espresso machine. Everything else at the table felt too far away, like he was sitting in two places at once: here with the noise, and there under the weight of a message he wasn’t sure he wanted answered.

His phone buzzed once against his leg. He didn’t move. Not yet. Not with Max still watching from across the table.

The phone in Max’s pocket buzzed once. Charles saw it — the smallest shift in his posture, the faintest brush of his hand near the fabric of his jacket. But then nothing. No glance, no movement, no tell. Max didn’t even blink toward the tablecloth. He left it there. Ignored.

Charles’s pulse kicked. His own phone felt heavier now, the message sitting unanswered like a stone at the bottom of water. He forced himself to look away, back at the circle of faces. The others hadn’t noticed. Why would they? The conversation was loud, spiraling into stories about long-haul flights and jetlag disasters.

Pierre leaned across to tease George about falling asleep in a simulator once, hands flying to act it out. Yuki laughed so hard his glass nearly tipped. Even Carlos cracked a small smile, quiet but present. Charles tried to follow, tried to laugh at the right beats, but every time the table shook with noise, he caught himself flicking his gaze back to Max.

Max was impossible to read. He listened when spoken to, nodded at the right points, but the air around him felt set apart — cool, controlled, untouchable. Whatever had buzzed in his pocket was left there, as if it had never mattered at all. As if Charles’s words had been nothing but static.

Minutes stacked like bricks. Five, then ten. The meal thinned into small bites left on plates, napkins folded back onto laps. Waiters swept in, collecting dishes with practiced quiet. The table shifted toward softer conversation, the weight of the evening pressing down with its lateness.

Charles shifted in his chair. His legs ached from sitting too long, his chest tighter than it should have been. He wanted to check his phone again, wanted to see that message thread even though he knew it hadn’t changed. He didn’t. Not here. Not with Max sitting there across from him, pretending nothing had happened.

By the last quarter-hour, the table was winding down. People spoke slower, laughter fading into tired grins. Someone yawned — Alex, probably. Daniel excused himself for an early call. Even the waiters seemed to move quieter, sensing the night was almost over. Charles glanced at the clock on the wall: past eleven. The dinner was all but done.

And still, Max hadn’t checked his phone. Not once. Charles could feel the tension of it, sharp as glass. It sat between them, invisible to everyone else, but suffocatingly present to him. Fifteen minutes stretched, a slow burn under the weight of words left unanswered.

By the time the chairs scraped back and people began standing, Charles felt as if he’d run another two hours of practice. The dinner had been nothing extraordinary — stories, laughter, the occasional clink of glasses — but to him, it was exhausting. A quiet battle fought under the tablecloth and across stolen glances. And one side had never even acknowledged the field.

He pushed back his chair, thanked the hosts with the rest of them, and followed the group out into the night air. The city was damp, the lights from passing cars stretching across the pavement. The drivers peeled off into their own shuttles, half-asleep already. Pierre clapped him on the shoulder before disappearing into the darkness with Yuki. Carlos gave him a short nod. One by one, the voices around him thinned until it was just Charles, his steps echoing too clearly in the quiet.

His phone was still heavy in his pocket. He hadn’t checked it. Couldn’t. Not with Max sitting right there the whole time, ignoring it with deliberate calm. But now, with the silence of the hotel corridor stretching out in front of him, he pulled it free.

The screen lit up, cold and stark. No new messages. The thread sat exactly where he’d left it — his own words still there, unanswered, like they’d never reached their mark. Charles stared until the glow dimmed and the wallpaper blinked back at him, mocking in its stillness. For a second, he almost convinced himself he’d imagined the buzz earlier, that Max had never felt it, never even known.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket, jaw tight, and forced himself into the elevator. The doors slid shut with a soft thud, sealing him in with his own reflection in the mirror: shoulders stiff, expression unreadable, a man carrying something no one else could see.

The ride up felt endless. When the doors opened again, he walked the length of the hallway like his body was on autopilot. Key card. Door click. The faint scent of hotel linen greeting him again. He dropped the jacket onto the chair and sat down on the edge of the bed, phone already in his hand once more.

Still nothing. No reply. Not even a sign it had been read. The silence on the screen was worse than words. At least words could be fought with, pushed back against. Silence just swallowed him whole.

Charles lay back, phone still resting on his chest. He stared at the ceiling, the faint hum of the city beyond the glass filling the room. He told himself it didn’t matter. That he didn’t care. That Max’s choice to ignore him was just another game, another tactic. But the longer he stared, the heavier it pressed. The truth was simpler, quieter, harder to swallow: it mattered because it came from him. Because silence, when it was Max’s, felt like being erased.

And sleep, when it finally came, felt shallow and fragile, like it might splinter with the smallest vibration of a phone that refused to buzz again.

Chapter Text

Hello everyone! I won't be able to upload any chapters this week because something personal happened. I won't go into full detail, but I hope you guys understand my situation as it is right now. I'll continue writing on Friday. A (maybe short) chapter can be expected later in the next few days after Friday.

About the upload schedule: I'll try my best to fit in a permanent schedule, but I might change it if it's not to my liking.

Update days: (Sunday/Monday?), Wednesday, Friday

I've read every comment and thank you, everyone, for the amount of support you all have been giving me throughout the past few weeks. 🫶

Some disclaimers about some (future) chapters:
- The race results in the fic aren't the same as the real ones
- Some scenes will be rated as explicit/mature-> think of fights, consuming alcohol, strong language, sexual scenes, abuse, etc
- Those topics will be announced before those scenes start
- You might need to skip some parts of the fic if you aren't comfortable with any of these disclaimers/warnings
- Everything I've writing in this fic is fully fictional
- Enjoy the next few chapters:)

Chapter Text

Hello everyone! I sadly have to announce another delay to the next chapter publication. I hope the situation in my personal life will be quickly resolved so I can upload. Once again, I apologize to everyone who has been waiting for a new chapter. As of the current chapter I'm working on, it has taken me some time to find motivation and come up with some ideas for the plot. It's now for almost 60% done. Please keep waiting patiently for my next upload, whether it could be an update or an A/N. Take care everyone :).