Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Their story starts on a race track, but he cannot remember the name or the town.

He was only eleven years old, and Charles was a year younger than him. Karting was supposed to be a hobby, but a switch flipped that year, and suddenly it wasn’t just for fun anymore. In France, they were amongst the best in junior karting, good enough to compete internationally.

Then they met him, aloof and blue-eyed, more in sync with his motor than with the other boys. He was the Dutch and Belgian Minimax karting champion. He was the same age as Charles and twice as insane.

“Who is he?” Charles had asked, envy and amazement shining in equal parts in his wide-eyed gaze.

The day after, he calls up Pierre. “His name is Max. His dad competed in Formula 1.”

“He’s really good,” admitted Pierre, already thinking about all the ways they needed to step up their game. “He seems a bit crazy though.”

Charles’s voice crackled through the phone as he laughed, but when he sobered, his voice was nothing but determined. “I’m going to beat him,” he vowed.

Although it was only the beginning for them, Pierre wished he could have seen that it was also the beginning of the end.

He and Charles grew closer as they climbed through the categories one after the other. They clicked naturally and with Pierre being a year older, there was enough of a gap that they were never quite head-to-head at the same time.

Looking back, Pierre could hardly believe those years, at the unbelievably talented kids nipping at his heels. In the karting world, Max was setting unprecedented records that would remain standing a decade later, while only Charles could hold him back on a good day.

Max seemed like he was on a different level compared to the rest of them, but Pierre always thought there was something so broken about him.

The kid never had time for anyone else, never spared a second look at his competitors, except in rare moments when he would glare or throw a callous comment towards Charles. He wasn’t just a kid trying to do his best; he was building a legend, and people started to take notice.

Charles wasn’t exactly an obstacle to him, but he was something that Max couldn’t quite shake off.

When change comes after a few years of quiet success, it comes all too rapidly. There was Jules’s accident, and Charles… well, stopped being the same Charles. He always transformed when the helmet went on, where he turned from paddock sweetheart into focused competitor, but even that was different now.

Max had moved on, but now there was a new broken kid on track. When Charles started to win, he didn’t stop.

Pierre sometimes wondered where Charles would be if Jules didn’t have his fateful crash at Suzuka, if the painful years that followed never happened. No doubt he would have become a successful driver anyway; he would have made his way to Formula 1 in the end.

Maybe not much would have changed.

Or maybe he would have learned to be content, satisfied with less - never feeling the hunger to claw for every last inch or to push for every last tenth on the clock.

The other drivers are gathered in a circle to honour Jules before the race in Hungary. Max is there too, a little out of place on Pierre’s flatscreen TV - the teenage sensation amongst the elite of men.

He was envious, Pierre had to admit; he was only human. Max was already living the dream that the rest of them were still fighting to reach.

He was never sure how Charles felt about it, seeing his childhood rival a few steps above yet a whole world away. But then again, Charles was too busy building his own legend by now, and there was no one left to hold him back.

They weren’t kids anymore, and other things changed too.

Sometimes when they watched a race together, Pierre would steal a glimpse at Charles, and his heart would thump so loudly in his chest that he worried the other boy might hear it. They had always been close friends, but sometimes… Pierre thought that there was something more, a deeper untapped feeling.

He could almost swear that Charles felt it too; it was in the way his handsome face would light up when he caught Pierre’s eyes, lips curling into a gentle smile like he had seen some kind of treasure.

Then a moment later, Charles would break the illusion, glancing back towards the TV screen. Perhaps he was watching Max in the Toro Rosso, or simply just enjoying the race. Charles had a way of being present, but also not present; he would shift from an open book to an unreadable enigma within seconds.

Despite his discipline behind the wheel, Charles was far less principled with his personal life.

He had a tendency to give his love freely, diving head first into his relationships, and Pierre was always swept along for each journey of infatuation, adoration, and ultimate disintegration. Charles is gorgeous and kind, but he’s also driven and unyielding; it’s hard to find someone who understands or tolerates that.

Pierre gets to hear about every single one of them, even meets more than a few of them, because “you’re my best friend,” Charles would tell him. Mostly girlfriends, although there were a few guys as well, but that’s more complicated so it’s mostly a string of young and beautiful women.

In the end, Pierre is the soft shoulder to cry on, the whispered reassurances - the constant in Charles Leclerc’s tempestuous existence.

I’m the one who understands you, he wants to tell Charles. You should be with me.

But there’s still time, plenty of time, so he waits patiently.

After another heartbreak, Charles is back in his arms and he’s stroking the impossibly soft brown hair.

Charles is the one who brings it up. The words are muffled by soft sniffling, and the nearly imperceptible shake of his shoulders touches the most raw surface of Pierre’s heart. He hates seeing Charles hurt.

“Do you think we would be good together?”

Pierre presses a soft kiss to his hair. “Yes, I do,” he says, because he believes it.

“I think... maybe one day, we will be.” Charles looks up at him with those shining green eyes, and just like every other time, his traitorous heart skips a beat.

Later, much later, he would wonder if that was the right moment, if he should have seized it. But it didn’t seem right at the time, with Charles’s tear-streaked face and voice filled with sadness.

Maybe that was his problem. He was a romantic, always waiting for the perfect moment, when such a thing didn’t exist.

It takes a few days, sometimes a few weeks, but then Charles will be back to his usual vibrant self. He will smile again, dimples on full display, and the sight will light up the whole room and take his breath away.

“You’re the best person, calamar,” Charles might say, or in his more flirtatious moments, he might press a light teasing kiss to the Frenchman’s lips. If he did, Charles would then pull away with a peal of giggles and winks, and his hug would linger a little longer than proper.

Pierre didn’t mind, even if he secretly counted every single brush of those lips. He never pushed either. He is willing to wait for Charles.

In his heart, he was already there, and it didn’t matter if Charles took a little longer to get there.

He makes it into the big leagues, and so does Charles. No one is surprised. He ends up joining the Red Bull family, while Charles is picked up by the indomitable Ferrari machine. To put it more candidly, both of them were jumping head first into a pit of vipers.

“Watch your back,” Carlos had told him on his very first race weekend. Pierre nearly scoffed at that, even more so when he jumped from Toro Rosso into the second Red Bull seat scarcely a year later.

He realizes now that the Spaniard wasn’t mocking him; Carlos was trying to be kind.

(A price must be paid to live out a dream.)

Even when it’s all over, a few years later, Pierre thinks to himself: I would have paid the same price to do it all over again.

To his astonishment, Charles is still single four races into the season, and he’s starting to believe the Monégasque is serious about his solemn vow to put his driving above all else. His own rapid promotion to the senior Red Bull team paralleled Charles’s ascension to Scuderia Ferrari. They were no longer rookies fighting for scraps in the midfield, vying for attention from the bigger teams.

Charles for all of his gifts must now contend with a four-time World Champion, while Pierre has to shoulder comparisons to Max Verstappen.

The pressure and expectations are staggering, nearly suffocating, leaving them no room for error. And while he struggles to stay afloat, Charles has never looked more at home.

The discourse is no longer about Max Verstappen, the chosen one. To talk about Max now requires a mention of Charles in the same breath. It was always them - Max and Charles, Charles and Max - the two greatest talents of their generation. Who would become World Champion first?

Charles would laugh about it, calling the articles nonsense, but there was something in his casual smirk that seemed to relish the commentary.

Sometimes it would irritate Pierre, the way Charles was able to float and thrive, so carelessly reassured by his own talent and strength of character.

But then he remembers Charles’s half-hearted confession from a few years ago, and he isn’t really surprised. He can still recall it so clearly - Charles with his head in his hand, misery and intoxication colouring his voice, empty champagne bottle in the other after bringing home the victory for Prema. His father’s body was barely cold, and there was still a funeral to hold, but Charles had a promise to keep.

“You’re supposed to drown in pain.” When Charles wiped his eyes a little too roughly, Pierre reached over to gently grasp his hands. “I just swim.”

It now reminds Pierre of someone else - his own teammate, who is also a mystery wrapped in a puzzle. But while Charles is all charm and kindness, well-schooled in PR and manners, he cannot quite say the same about Max - all bluntness and brutal honesty.

He isn’t sure if Max would swim in pain, or knock it in its teeth.

Max also had an irritating way of talking about Charles. It reminds Pierre too much of their karting days. He should stay out of it; he has enough worries of his own. Except he can’t because this is Charles, his best friend and something more, that the Dutchman was throwing dirt on - and besides, Max had no idea what he was talking about.

Sometimes, he thinks Max enjoys playing into this storyline as much as Charles does. The childhood competitors turned into fierce rivals battling for supremacy to the delight of their devoted fans.

Even in their debriefs, Max couldn’t let it go, like when he argued with their engineers to keep a specific setup to “get us two-tenths quicker than Leclerc.” It didn’t matter that the setup was unstable, more risky than Christian wanted, or nearly impossible for Pierre to manage.

“This isn’t worth it,” Pierre told him after a tumultuous free practice session. There was no logic to risk safe points to gain a few tenths that might result in binning the car into the wall.

“It’s worth it to beat him,” retorted Max stubbornly.

“Are you jealous because everyone loves him more?” he asked, irritated.

Max scoffed, full of disdain. “I know you think he’s perfect, like everyone else does, but he isn’t. He smiles and says a few nice words, and the world just falls at his feet. That’s not the real him.”

He argues with Max, because Max is wrong and knows nothing about the real Charles. Not the way Pierre does. He mentions it to Charles too, asks the younger man not to get caught up in useless rivalry. There was no need to stoop to Max’s level.

In response, Charles gives him a half-hug, calling him “gallant” and the dimpled smile erases any doubt in his mind.

“I don’t care about what Max thinks,” says Charles with a dismissive shrug, and Pierre finds that he doesn’t either.

Eight races into the season and Charles still has not pulled Pierre aside to wax poetic about a new girlfriend or boyfriend, and Pierre is starting to wonder whether this is where all the stars are aligning for him.

All weekend, he thinks about asking Charles out on a date. Not just one of their friendly dinners, where they were sometimes joined by other friends or Charles’s brothers, but a proper date so they can move past the dancing around they have been doing for years.

He has it all planned, has a restaurant picked and everything, but his home Grand Prix ends up turning into a completely shit weekend. First he qualifies five grid positions behind his teammate (Charles qualifies on the same row as Max, which is just… great). Then the race is even more of a disaster; he brings home a single measly point in tenth place, while Max just misses the podium courtesy of Charles.

He is grateful that Charles goes straight to his hotel room to find him after his own podium celebrations, and he accepts the consoling hug without hesitation. He lingers a little longer than usual in the Monégasque’s arms, and it does take the slightest edge off his disappointment - Charles always has that effect on him.

He wants to ask him then and there, but again - the moment didn’t feel right. He wants to ask him in triumph and joy, not in defeat and disappointment. Next time, he promised.

He knew that sooner or later the tension between Charles and Max would spill over. Like a battle between ice and fire, they take their turns: one searing the ice into melting, then the other freezing the flames in their tracks. This thing between the two of them - it was wicked and poetic, and Pierre wished he could bury it all.

Somehow Pierre always forgets that while he has known Charles for most of his life, Max did as well.

(But Max didn’t know Charles, not really.)

A long time ago, Max Verstappen would have said he didn’t believe in rivals. As children, none of them could match him in karting, not even Charles, who was the closest. Rivals had to be worthy of the challenge.

Max hardly spared a glance at the Monégasque during the latter’s rookie season with Sauber. It was Pierre who was there, heaping reassurance and praise that Charles didn’t really need. Max didn't care back then, not when the younger man was still beneath his notice.

Everything is different now. Charles has become the rising prodigy - the darling and favourite son, the only one that can stop Max.

“They just eat up his words like a bunch of idiots.”

Sniping at Charles has become an ongoing pastime for Max, and it’s like he doesn’t notice (or maybe he doesn’t care about) Pierre’s dark glares in his direction.

He doesn’t stop defending Charles either. It’s not because Charles isn’t capable of standing up for himself, but he can’t let Max talk about him like that - like Charles was some imperfect human, helplessly flawed like the rest of them.

“Why do you hate him so much?” he once asked Max.

The Dutchman was genuinely surprised by his question. His eyes widened in confusion. “I don’t hate him,” he finally said. “He is the only one who is like me. But it bothers me that people think he’s some sweet angel. He really isn’t. He is not the perfect person you think he is. The only thing that is number one to Charles Leclerc is Charles Leclerc.” He sounded so confident in his assessment that it was borderline insulting; there was a heated edge in his words that always seems to be reserved for Charles. “If he had to run one of us over to win, he would, even if it was you. I would do the same.”

“You’re wrong.” You’re projecting. That’s you, not him .

Max shook his head. “The difference between him and me is that I don’t pretend to be a good guy.”

The sheer arrogance bothers Pierre. Only Max, who saw a few glimpses of Charles over years, who finally deigned Charles to be worthy of his notice after the younger man’s meteoritic rise to stardom, only this cocky and presumptuous man could have the audacity to paint such a blatantly false picture.

So Pierre is proud, properly proud, when his best friend is just done being the nice, sweet guy. His own tension with Max is at an all time high even before his teammate makes contact with Charles’s Ferrari with three laps to go in Austria.

He’s never seen Charles so visibly furious, enraged. The Monégasque doesn’t even wait until the reporters are gone. He pulls Pierre aside in parc fermé. His eyes are filled with hurt and fury; at the same time, he looks so vibrant and beautiful, so alive.

He tucks Charles’s shaking head into the crook of his neck, and he feels a sigh of unhappiness vibrating against his skin.

“I really hate him, sometimes,” Charles murmurs wistfully, his words half-muffled in Pierre’s shoulder. “It’s wrong, but I really hate him right now.” 

Pierre holds him a little tighter. He makes up his mind. He is going to wait a few hours, let Charles process his disappointment and anger, and then before they leave Austria, he will finally ask him out on that date.

He’s getting ready to leave his motorhome to look for Charles when he hears their voices, hushed and angry.

His motorhome is right next to Max’s. He quietly steps outside, slides his own door shut before peering around the corner to investigate the source of the commotion.

It’s Charles.

Pierre stands frozen in his spot, knowing that if he steps any closer, he will draw the attention of both men, who appear to be in some heated battle of words.

Charles’s back is facing him, while Max is standing in the doorway to his own motorhome taking in the umbrage. At one point, Max interrupts the Monégasque and although Pierre can’t hear what he’s saying, he can still perceive the sneering tone. Clearly Charles does too, because he steps into Max’s space and his hand pushes against the Dutchman’s chest.

It wasn’t a hard shove, but it was an outburst that Pierre had never seen before from Charles. He never lost his temper like that.

It was enough for Max to step out of his doorway, step around Charles and crowd the younger man rather aggressively against the wall of his motorhome.

With this change in position, Pierre can now see Charles’s face. There was anger, frustration, but something else too. His eyes are almost goading Max into a physical fight.

Then Charles says something. Something that really riles up the other man. Because Max suddenly grabs a fistful of Charles’s shirt and pushes him not so gently into the wall.

Pierre takes half a step forward, furious, ready to defend his friend because Max is now way out of line. But he freezes when he realizes that Max isn’t moving to strike the younger man.

There is that look again, something unmentionable, that flickers across Charles’s face in the second before Max draws him in for a hard kiss.

The kiss looks brutal from where he stands; Max practically devours the other man, eager and controlling, and there’s nothing gentle or romantic about it. After a few seconds, Pierre thinks perhaps Charles has come to his senses because he suddenly pushes the Red Bull driver away from him.

Max’s confident posture falters for a moment, as Charles glares at him. Even in the dusk lighting, Pierre can see how raw and red his lips are.

A moment later, his breath is snatched away from him again, because this time it’s Charles who makes the move. His lithe frame lunges forward, capturing Max’s face between both of his hands; only his rival’s cat-like reflexes prevent them from tumbling onto the asphalt.

This time Charles is the one pushing, consuming Max with a searing kiss that is anything but hesitant. Max doesn’t pull away, cradling one hand across his lower back while the other one cards through Charles’s messy brown locks. The gesture is strangely protective and far too intimate.

When they finally break apart, both of them are slightly breathless. They stare at each other wordlessly, half in disbelief as the seconds stretch on.

Then a coy smile plays on Charles’s lips, and his green eyes are shining brightly even from where Pierre is standing. The fire from anger hasn’t completely abated, but a wild desire is blazing in equal fervour.

The way Max’s hand tightens possessively against the other man’s back does not escape his notice either. The Red Bull driver whispers something against Charles’s ear, who gives the slightest nod in response, and a moment later, the Dutchman grasps the younger man’s hand and pulls him into the motorhome.

The door shuts quietly behind them, and Pierre finally remembers to breathe.

Night has long fallen before Pierre hears the door to Max’s motorhome open again through his half open window.

Charles emerges first with his hair mussed up, clothes clearly rumpled, and just the peek of a bruise partially hidden by his collar. The sight leaves nothing to the imagination about what he and Max had been doing.

He sees the Dutchman catch Charles by the wrist, stopping his departure; again, there is such a possessive undertone in the motion. Pierre is closer to them now than he had been when he was outside his motorhome earlier. This time, he can hear their voices.

The Ferrari driver holds his ground, not allowing Max to draw him in, which seems to entice Max into squeezing his wrist a little tighter.

“You’re not forgiven, Verstappen.”

“Who says I need your forgiveness?” comes Max’s acerbic reply, but he still doesn’t let go; perhaps he is trying to leave a bruise (another one). “I did nothing wrong. It was racing, or can’t you handle that?”

Charles pushes back lightly against his grasp, but the gesture is empty; he isn’t even trying to break free anymore. “You are such a fucking asshole sometimes.”

His back is facing Pierre again - his face hidden, making it impossible to ascertain whether there was any venom to the words. Pierre has a full view of Max, however, and the way the blond man’s face softens surprises him, and even stranger is the way Charles’s posture relaxes in response.

This time when Max draws him in, Charles doesn’t fight him. For a few seconds, they practically melt into each other’s arms. The embrace is gentle and affectionate, a far cry from their passionate kissing hours earlier.

When they reluctantly pull apart, Max is the first one to speak. “I want to see you again.”

Of course the Dutchman would be so forthcoming, so blunt, so... Max .

He doesn’t wait for a response from Charles before leaning in again. Charles’s eyes flutter shut as he allows Max to place light chaste kisses to his jaw, his forehead, and finally on the tip of his nose. It must tickle a bit, because a soft giggle escapes Charles, which only makes Max smile and place another kiss in the same spot.

He must have done it on purpose, just to hear that sweet sound again, and Charles doesn’t disappoint. He scrunches his nose - it’s adorable, and Max’s grin widens in return.

Something ugly claws at Pierre’s chest. He wants to stop looking, but he can’t.

Finally, an eternity later - or so it seems - Charles pulls away and turns to leave, but not before Pierre catches a glimpse of his vibrant green eyes.

There’s a lightness in Charles's steps as he departs, and he throws one last glance at Max to call out a final promise: “À la prochaine, Max Verstappen.”

See you next time.

He leaves two men behind, gazing in the direction of his retreat well after he disappears out of sight.

Charles doesn’t really keep anything from him. Maybe it’s wishful thinking or denial, but he almost hopes that Charles won’t bring up his Red Bull teammate. Maybe it’s because Charles shares all of his past relationship woes with Pierre, so if he refuses to talk about Max, then it’s not actually a relationship.

They were at the airport waiting for their respective flights, when Charles’s phone vibrated and the screen lit up with a Whatsapp alert:

Message from “Max Emilian 🔥”.

Charles had been mid-sentence describing some funny dad moment with Seb but cuts himself off once he sees the notification. Pierre sees his eyes growing wide with mirth before letting out a soft snort that wouldn’t have sounded attractive coming from anyone else.

After a beat, he turns his phone towards Pierre. It’s a screenshot of some meme - quite funny but Pierre couldn’t bring himself to laugh. He’s been around Charles long enough to see all sorts of contacts pop up as alerts on the younger man’s phone. It was always “Pierre Gasly” and “Lando Norris” and “Sebastian Vettel” - no nicknames and no emojis because his friend was a bit of a neat freak about his contacts.

Charles is still snickering when he puts his phone away.

“So… you and Max?” he asks finally.

Charles gives him a slightly embarrassed grin, and if he wasn’t staring, he would have missed the brief flash of excitement that lit across the Monégasque’s face.

“Don’t make fun of me!” But Charles’s lingering smile undermined the defensive words. “I may have gone to confront him after the race, which - yes, you told me not to do. But I was so mad and I was pretty much ready to punch him, and well… one thing led to another, and he might not be the worst person in the world.”

He puts it so simply, so casually, that Pierre almost believes that this was just some random hookup, a one-time thing.

“Max of all people!” He tries but fails to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

Charles misinterprets his disappointment for disapproval. “He’s really not that bad, and we’re just having a bit of fun,” he adds playfully. “I’ve been single for months, and he’s hot - really hot -”

“Oh please don’t tell me details -”

“Don’t be a prude.” He laughs, shooting Pierre an impish pout. “On the plus side, he’s around every race weekend, his flat is twenty minutes away from mine. Also I don’t think he’s going to sell me to the tabloids.”

“On the downside?”

Charles tilts his head thoughtfully. “Well, he’s still an ass - ” He snorts again, but he’s still smiling. “Guess I can’t win them all, Pear.”

“I don’t see how this isn’t going to end up exploding spectacularly.” Pierre wants him to open his eyes so badly. “This is Max that we’re talking about…”

That alone should be enough, except Charles’s expression is frustratingly quizzical.

“He will end up hurting you.”

To his dismay, he earns a soft giggle as a response.

“He’s already tried to run me off the track, so I think I know what he’s capable of.” Charles adopts a mischievous look, and then adds with a laugh, “Maybe that’s the key. Need to start with a huge fight, begin at rock bottom... et voilà! Low bar set for everything after that.”

Charles is far too flippant, and Pierre already knows it is futile to try to dissuade him.

Here we go again .

He resigns himself to playing the waiting game once more, because without a doubt, in a few weeks or months (weeks, if he had to guess), he will again be the comforting shoulder to cry on, the gentle arms soothing the other man when the relationship inevitably crumbles.

At least he can take comfort in the fact that Max and Charles will always have more reasons to fall apart than stay together.

“I’m here for you, no matter what.”

There are a thousand other things he would rather say, but he can’t find the right words.

It doesn’t get easier.

It only hurts more.

Germany is an absolute disaster. He is forced to retire after colliding with Alex. The Red Bull is an absolute nightmare to drive, and he has never worked with such a finicky piece of machinery. No matter how much he changes his setup or tries to match his teammate’s, the car remains barely drivable. The hushed whispers around the garage can no longer be missed, even if the team thinks they are being discreet around him. It doesn’t help that Max, ever the golden boy, ends up winning the race.

Charles had his own troubles as well, also failing to finish the race in the slippery conditions.

Pierre thought perhaps they could commiserate together, but he is forced to attend a semi-mandatory team dinner to celebrate Max’s victory.

Strangely, Max was enjoying the dinner about as little as he was, constantly checking his phone, excusing himself to make calls, and then before dessert can even be served, politely but firmly pleads exhaustion and asks to be excused.

Pierre has the grace to bid a proper farewell to Christian before making the same excuses and departing in a cab a few minutes after Max disappeared.

As he gets off the elevator of their team hotel, he sees Max walking twenty metres ahead in the corridor leading to their rooms. But his teammate isn’t alone.

Charles is sitting on the ground in front of the door to Max’s room, an oversized hoodie drawn over his hair but it was unmistakably him. His eyes are tracking Max, a little eager and a little sullen, and he hasn’t noticed Pierre getting off the elevator. The Dutchman stops in front of him and pulls him to his feet in a smooth motion; he wraps his arms around Charles and exhales a small contented sigh. The younger man sinks so naturally into his embrace, almost like it was practiced, eyelids fluttering shut; his discontented expression softens.

“You didn’t have to ditch your dinner,” mumbles Charles as he reluctantly pulls away, allowing Max to reach for his keycard to swipe open the door.

“You sounded upset,” replies Max, as if that somehow explained everything, as if that’s all it took for him to abandon his own victory dinner.

The Monégasque slips through the open doorway, but not before pressing a quick kiss to the other man’s cheek. Even from twenty metres away, Pierre can see the small blush on his teammate’s face as he follows Charles into the room.

Spa is usually one of his favourite tracks, but he can barely concentrate from the moment he steps off the plane. He needs every ounce of focus, because the Toro Rosso that is suddenly forced upon him feels entirely foreign. He is still reeling from disappointment and anger.

So when the news of Anthoine echoes across the paddock, it becomes all too unbearable. He feels the last pillars of his sanity crumbling, and in that moment, Pierre hates this sport - this obsession that has dominated his life for over a decade, the constant competition that robbed him of friendship and normalcy, the endless battles against self doubt. He resents the relentless Red Bull machine and everyone that kept it rolling mercilessly - Christian, Helmut Marko, Max - the whole lot of them.

He misses his friend so much. The boy in the orange helmet who shared his dream when the other kids just laughed. Back then, it was him, Charles, Esteban, and Anthoine chasing the dream together in the French karting championships.

His fists clench so tightly that he draws blood, tearing his own skin viciously beneath his nails. Otherwise, he might scream. Because Anthoine deserves so much more than a moment of silence.

But he stands there quietly with everyone else. He can sense the sadness permeating through each one of them, but he feels anger more than sadness.

The dream isn’t worth it, he wants to rage.

Dreams are so dangerous. They take away so much from you .

He glances at Charles, whose silhouette is blurry because Pierre has tears in his own eyes (but he doesn’t let them fall). Charles is staring at the ground, his green eyes solemn but also far away, like he was lost in his own thoughts. Pierre wonders if he’s thinking about his father, or maybe remembering Jules.

He wants to reach out to Charles, tell them that he understands.

When the moment of silence ends, he sees Max stepping past his team to walk alongside Charles for a few seconds. Max lets his hand brush against Charles’s, and he whispers something - probably no more than a word or two, and then he’s gone. The entirety of it was brief, so quick that it didn’t draw anyone’s attention except Pierre’s.

After Max disappears into the crowd, Charles looks up and meets his gaze, and the green eyes are dry and determined - like he had found some serenity that Pierre could not reach.

Charles wins. He dedicates it to Anthoine.

His eyes are no longer dry, because this is too much even for him. This is his first victory, but this is about something else. Even the pictures are almost perfect: the childhood-friend-turned-Ferrari-prodigy embracing his late friend’s grieving mother, dedicating his maiden win to the boy who grew up with him.

Somehow even this - another tragedy - becomes part of the mythos of Charles Leclerc. The race needed a winner to fit the story, and it was never going to be Pierre. He wasn’t meant to be the hero the bards would write songs about.

That has always been Charles, will always be Charles.

Pierre should hate him for that, if he wasn’t so in love with Charles. If he hadn’t already written Charles as the hero in his own story.

This time Charles comes to him for the embrace, not Max. Because this is their shared grief, and this moment belongs to them. With Charles in his arms, Pierre lets himself fantasize that they would always be like this - first to each other. No one else can come between them.

Then the illusion falters when Charles pulls away.

He’s seen that look on Charles’s face before: the steely resilience every time the world tries to strike a crippling blow. Charles has learned to win, not to grieve.

Other people drown in that kind of pain. I feel like I’m drowning, Pierre wants to scream.

In Charles’s world, nothing is permanent and no one stays forever; perhaps only winning can fill the crater-sized hole in his heart.

“I just swim,” Charles once said.

And just like that, Pierre steps back into the crowd, just another supporting character in this play. He watches as Charles lifts the trophy and points to the sky in tribute.

Max is standing a few metres away. His blue eyes, cold as usual in their expression, do not betray much of his thoughts but there is a peculiar intensity in the way he stares at the man at the top step of the podium.

Pierre can almost believe that this isn’t some kind of callous game, some notch on the Dutchman’s belt, that maybe Charles isn’t some special trophy or lofty conquest that he means to parade around before discarding.

But he still didn’t like the expression in Max’s face. It was as if for the first time in his life, Max Verstappen found someone he considered his equal - someone who can challenge his single-minded destiny to become the greatest of their generation, perhaps of all time.

This isn’t a romance, Pierre realizes; this is a battlefield.

Charles still has the same dimpled smile, bright eyes, and shy laugh - even when thousands of Tifosi are screaming his name, calling him Il Predestinato. Charles Leclerc at Monza is something out of a dream - glorious and unstoppable.

Even so, Pierre worries about him. He sees how quickly the thrill of victory fades, how Charles is always chasing the next one, wholly unable to stay still long enough to savour his own triumphs.

Max is part of the problem; there is no peace in their dance. It’s just Charles and Max, circling each other, daring the other to become better, never resting to cherish or appreciate.

There’s almost a palpable anger vibrating off his former teammate at the conclusion of Monza. Pierre can see it in Max’s lingering, intense gazes - always fixed on Charles. Maybe Pierre’s imagination is overactive, but he would describe it as a sentiment closer to malice than love.

He wants to warn Charles, but he can’t find the right words.

(Sometimes he verbalizes it anyway, but Charles would smile, amused, and shake his head lightly.)

His accusations sound ridiculous even to his own ears. He has nothing but intuition to support his concerns, and Charles has always been strangely defensive on the topic of Max.

Sometimes Pierre wakes up startled in the middle of the night, half expecting a phone call from Charles, heartbroken and in need of his comfort. He wants Charles to wake up, and he keeps waiting for the phone call that never comes.

In Singapore, he sees something that makes his blood run cold.

They still keep a few traditions between them. Passing the football back and forth after free practice, trying to keep it up in the air, was a longstanding game of theirs.

The evening humidity is a little too stifling, and sweat is dripping down his neck before long. Pierre has to pause their little game to whip off his soaked t-shirt, and Charles mimics his actions by tossing his own shirt onto the ground.

He has obviously seen the Monégasque shirtless before, but it’s not the toned body that catches his eye this time. Dark, fingerprint-shaped bruises coloured one side of Charles’s hips; another small bruise was on his collarbone, darker and partly healed, followed by even more fingerprints and fresh scratches along the younger man’s lower ribs. The blemishes were glaring and ugly against the otherwise flawless pale skin.

When Charles passes him the ball, he makes no motion to receive it. The ball bounces past him and hits a metal cart with a resounding echo.

“What’s wrong?” Charles sounds puzzled.

There’s a soft whistle of cicadas in the background, but Pierre hears nothing but the fury pounding in his own eardrum.

“Did he hurt you?”

The question clearly catches Charles completely by surprise, and it is almost comical the way his eyes suddenly widen in disbelief. After an uncomfortably long pause, Charles nearly doubles over as his shoulders shake with a peal of laughter.

“What - Pierre, of course not!” He can barely get the words out between giggles.

After a few seconds, once he notices that Pierre isn’t laughing or even smiling, Charles sobers slightly. “Oh, you’re so sweet,” he sighs.

He leans forward and presses a flighty kiss to Pierre’s cheek, still giggling to himself.

“Charles...” Pierre scans his torso and face carefully, looking for any other blemishes, before settling on a pair of mirthful green eyes gazing back at his own.

“Pear...” echoes Charles with an angelic smile. “You know that Max would never hurt me.”

Pierre thinks about Monza, about the way Max had stared at Charles. Suddenly, he feels cold despite the sweltering Singaporean heat.

“You show up covered in bruises, so what am I supposed to think?”

“I’m not covered in them,” rebuts Charles, rolling his eyes. “I don’t think you want to hear the details of how they happened,” he continues slyly, “but I assure you that there wasn’t any pain, only pleas-”

“Okay - that’s quite enough!” Pierre is already regretting having started this conversation, because he definitely didn’t need the visual commentary. “Forget I asked, and please spare me the details.”

The younger man is still chuckling as he runs past Pierre to pick up their errant football. “I mean it, calamar. You are very sweet, you overprotective twit!”

He pulls a sassy face at Charles. He feels part-relieved, part-unsettled.

He is relieved by Charles’s earnest, unguarded confusion, the way he seemed genuinely surprised by Pierre’s accusations. Whatever this mess of a relationship Charles had with Max, at least it wasn’t that level of toxic.

He is still unsettled by the sight of all those bruises. Whatever pleasure Max took in Charles, it always seemed like more than Max deserved. Max had no right to mark him like that, to hold him that tightly - to inflict imperfections on Charles and make him look anything less than flawless and untouched.

He is even more disturbed by Charles’s unshakeable belief that Max would never hurt him.

Red Bull’s media events are long, tedious, and mandatory.

He’s sitting in hair and makeup with Daniil, Alex, and Max. They take turns tossing casual jibes at each other, trying to make the time pass more quickly.

It’s his turn to get dolled up, which really just amounts to him being the hot seat for heckling. Alex is teasing him about his delicate features, and he just kind of lets it slip: “Don’t be dumb, Alex. We all know the pretty boy on the grid is Charles.”

The words are out of his mouth before he has given them a second thought.

“Pierre, your crush is showing!” Alex cackles, nudging Daniil with his elbow. But it’s Max who looks up from his phone, frowning at his words.

The frown shifts into mild irritation, but then Max looks away and goes back to typing something on his phone.

Max’s reaction - or rather, lack thereof - irks him. Pierre cannot understand how someone who claimed to be Charles’s lover could be so unaffected by the thought of Charles being the object of someone else’s affection.

Does Max not care? Does he not burn for Charles?

He doesn’t get to pursue this line of thought, as they are promptly interrupted by the shrill sound of Max’s ringtone. Max sits up rather abruptly, in the blink of an eye looking more alert than he has the entire day. His cold facade seems to soften a little, even before he taps to accept the call.

Pierre wonders whether the caller is Max’s sister or mother, but Max answers the call in English rather than Dutch.

Alex and Daniil are already gossiping about something else, shuffling away to leave Max to his phone call. Pierre, trapped in his makeup chair, is close enough that he can’t quite tune it out.

“Sorry, in the middle of something, schat,” he hears Max murmur. “I did get the earlier flight home. I’ll text you details when I’m done.”

The person on the other end seems to be speaking, causing Max to fall silent for a few seconds.

“No, no, don’t pick me up. I'm arriving at the ass crack of dawn. I’ll grab a taxi -” Max is interrupted again, and he tuts, exasperated, but his lips quirk into a slight smile. “Yeah okay, fine. Fine.” It sounds like the Red Bull driver knew he was not going to win this battle. “Did you remember to water the plants, babe?”

There’s a crackle of indignation through the phone followed by Max snickering. Pierre is struck by how Max suddenly looks so much younger. “I’m not buying you another monstera if this one dies -” then a beat later, “oh fuck you, I know it’s a snake plant.”

The person on the other end continues to ramble for a while, but the smile on Max’s face doesn’t waver. Pierre catches a few incomprehensible exchanges - something about waffles, tuning a piano, and more wilting plants.

This goes on for maybe ten minutes, before the filming crew comes to retrieve them. Max nods in acknowledgement, but he looks more than a little disappointed.

“Time to go, schatje.”

Then, following an indiscernible response from the other end, the corners of Max’s eyes crinkle. “Tu me manques aussi.”

His French is far from perfect, but the phrase sounds well-used despite his Dutch accent.

When he hangs up, he notices Pierre staring back at him, and the soft expression disappears almost instantly behind a mask of indifference.

“Are you happy for me?”

The rays of sunshine dance across Charles’s eyelashes, and he has never looked more angelic and sinful all at once. Pierre has to push away the overwhelming urge to kiss him.

How can I be?

But the words die in his throat.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he says instead.

“You won’t,” Charles promises, and Pierre wants to believe him.

On the track, Max and Charles battle like quarrelling lovers. Every overtake, every defense is calculated to cut deeply, to wound at the very heart.

That look in Max’s eyes - the one where he stares at Charles with such an intensity that sends a shiver down Pierre’s spine - that never goes away.

Before, Pierre thought it may have been jealousy or malice, but there wasn’t really a single word to describe it.

It was a look that seemed to say: I could burn this place down, raze the world to ashes, until all that’s left is you and me, and that would be enough.

He doesn’t blame Max, not really.

If he could have Charles for one night, he would never let him go either.

Maybe he isn’t the one who is losing; Max is also playing a losing game.

You can’t open yourself to Charles and try to exist in his charmed life without becoming irrevocably enamoured.

When Max let Charles walk into his motorhome, when he let Charles slip into his existence, Max didn’t know it then but the battle was already lost.

Pierre thinks about his ill-fated French Grand Prix in his more self-flagellating moments. What if he had pushed aside his disappointment and asked Charles back then?

If he hadn’t waited, like he had all these years. If he hadn’t wasted the opportunity.

Then Austria happened, and it was too late.

It was like a bad metaphor that reflects their driving. Everyone else, cautious and calculated, while Max Verstappen pushes through like a blazing comet without a care for consequences. He wants Charles, and he gets to have Charles.

It’s the opportunity cost that torments Pierre; he can never know the answer.

He sees the desperation in Alex Albon, because he knows the feeling too, the sinking despair. He also sees the weariness in Sebastian Vettel.

There is a price to pay for passing too closely to the sun; the view is breathtaking but the flames will consume you.

Eventually, they are all reduced to ashes.

They are all helpless in this narrative. This is someone else’s story, and they just have front seats.

The season ends, and with the competitive thrill and busy schedule falling away to the more relaxed pace of the winter break, Pierre wonders whether the cracks will now start to show. Without racing as a buffer between them, he has to ask how much did Charles and Max really have in common.

He flies out to visit his best friend just before Christmas. He hasn’t visited Charles’s flat in a few months, but he has no trouble finding his way there. He is greeted warmly with a hug. Max is noticeably absent.

He takes a look around the place while Charles bustles away in the kitchen. While the Monégasque hasn’t exactly redecorated, Pierre notices so many little changes that the apartment seems strangely foreign.

The #essereFerrari plaque still sits above the chrome refrigerator, but next to it is a slightly lopsided Red Bull plush. On the kitchen counter sits a small blackboard, with a plant watering schedule carefully outlined in chalk. The plants in question are carefully arranged in sun-accessible areas of the apartment, each one labelled with a bright name tag ranging from “Christian” to “Mattia” to “angry Helmut Marko” and “Daddy Seb.”

A vase of orange tulips sits proudly on the living room coffee table, clashing slightly with the red Ferrari cap lying beside it. And carelessly strewn on the back of the L-shaped couch is a grey and blue Red Bull sweater - Pierre has the exact same one, discarded somewhere in the back of his closet.

There are other changes too. At the front door, there are sneakers that don’t belong to Charles. The car keys of an Aston Martin hang next to Charles’s keys to his beloved 488 Pista Spider. He also recognizes the silver laptop charging on the side table; he used to have an identical one down to the ugly sticker declaring “Property of Aston Martin Red Bull Racing.”

None of this should surprise him, but it still hurts like a fresh wound.

The laptop, the errant sweater, the car keys - all of those items could belong to him. Worse, they do also belong to him. It’s like seeing pieces of his own life strewn all over this apartment, but at closer glance, it was all wrong. The sweater has a small #33 embroidery on the sleeve; the keys are for a different Aston Martin model than the one gifted to him. It’s like looking at a dark, twisted mirror universe.

Max may not be physically present, but he is everywhere in this apartment.

Somehow, he always believed that in the end, he would be the one to call this place home. But that dream is edging further and further away from him every day.

Quarantine zoom meetings become tedious pretty quickly. Whenever Helmut Marko speaks for more than thirty seconds, Pierre just wants to stick a hot poker in his own eyeball. He has nearly completely zoned out by the time each of the Red Bull and AlphaTauri drivers are asked in turn about their simulator training.

Max is the last to speak. He’s wearing a headset and sitting at a wooden desk in front of a blank wall; there are no photos, no trophies, no helmets visible in the background. The decor is painfully, almost carefully, barren - a stark contrast to Max himself, who looked oddly relaxed and content despite the chaos and isolation of their current predicament.

Pierre can hear the longing in his voice - they all want to get back to racing - but there is also an unusual note of serenity, a word he wouldn’t normally use to describe Max Verstappen.

Max is mid-sentence when something off screen catches his attention. He shakes his head a little, gestures to his headset, and a little bemused smile slips across his lips.

“Sorry, one moment,” he interjects with an apologetic groan. He takes off his headset and pushes a button on his keyboard, muting the audio.

The video feed is still on, and Max is speaking to a person off screen. His lips stop moving after a few seconds, and his expression then cycles through a procession from curiosity to amusement to such an unadulterated look of affection that it leaves Pierre with no doubt as to the identity of the off screen individual.

The whole interaction couldn’t have lasted more than twenty seconds before Max turns his audio back on - just a moment prematurely.

“- back in twenty, mon amour.”

Pierre knows the voice too well, and it sinks in like a dagger to his side.

Max doesn’t seem to notice his miscue, nor does anyone else in the call, as he turns back to the camera with his full attention. “Yeah, so as I was saying…”

When the season starts again, Pierre realizes how he got it all wrong.

It wasn’t the off-track stuff that would drive a wedge between them. Charles and Max were racers at their heart - driving was their true love, winning was their deepest desire - and only the race track could pull them in different directions.

Most people would be happy to pull off the feats that Charles did with Ferrari’s latest disaster. Without mincing words, Pierre would describe Ferrari’s 2020 car as an absolute shitbox. But Charles was not most people.

It didn’t matter if he dragged that car into unexpected podiums or points finishes that it didn’t deserve. It didn’t matter if the critics lauded him for being in a whole different league compared to his four-time World Champion teammate.

If Pierre didn’t know Charles so well, he might be fooled by the polite smiles, the diplomatic language, the ever sweet disposition.

He knows Charles well enough to spot the barely contained anger, the teetering self-restraint, the boiling tension threatening to burst through the skin.

He sees it every time that Charles watches Max celebrate on the podium with the Mercedes drivers - without him. There’s a strangely disquieting air about Charles that grows with every race. He always pushed hard, but now he was pushing too far.

Pierre is starting to think that it won’t be Max who ends up breaking everything; maybe Charles will be the spark of their self-destruction.

“I should be up there.”

Charles’s eyes are a little unfocused, and Pierre isn’t sure if that’s from the alcohol or the disappointment.

“I should be fighting him for the win every week.”

“You will again,” reassures Pierre. His words are practically reflexive (dutiful).

Charles shakes off his platitudes. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. I’m meant for better than this.”

The statement is tinged with such a sense of entitlement that Pierre wants to shake him, berate him for the thoughtlessness. How can he bemoan a single finish outside of the top ten when Pierre couldn’t even finish the race due to his gearbox issue?

For a brief moment, the perfectly sculpted persona of Charles Leclerc wavers, and Pierre is forced to see something else in its place. Because this is the real Charles: self-concerned, mercurial, and single-minded in his goal.

“He is not the perfect person you think he is.”

“The difference between him and me is that I don’t pretend to be a good guy.”

Perhaps Max always knew the real Charles.

Max knew, and he chose to be with Charles anyway.

Pierre doesn’t get to stew in these thoughts for very long, because he is pulled back by a gentle squeeze on his bicep. “Hey…” He looks up, and Charles is staring back at him, his expression soft and apologetic. “I’m sorry about your race, calamar.”

It shouldn’t be that easy, because Charles was always heedless with his words - throwing out apologies as casually as he did anything else, knowing that asking for forgiveness was easier than asking for permission.

But Pierre wants to believe in his sincerity. Against his rational mind, he allows the apology to calm his warring heart, maybe so he can hold onto his illusions about Charles a little longer. He can pretend that the apparition is the real Charles, the sweet boy from karting who was unflinchingly kind and guileless.

The official Formula 1 website publishes a little puff piece about Charles. There’s nothing new or insightful about it, but there’s a brief quote from the man himself.

I'm made like that. I wake up and I think about winning. When I drive the car it doesn't matter what circuit I'm on, or what occasion it is, I think about winning. I go to bed and I'm still thinking about winning. It's an obsession.

On his more cynical days, he wonders whether some part of Charles is grateful to Jules - not just for being his godfather or his mentor - but for dying as well. For becoming the first in a series of tragedies that made Charles something more than what he would have become if he had remained cocooned, sheltered, unhurt. 

It’s a horrible thought, and Pierre berates himself for even thinking it.

The fight has been brewing for a while, until it finally boils over in Spain.

He is drinking with Charles in the latter’s hotel room at the end of the weekend when there’s an insistent knock on the door. When Pierre answers, he is greeted by a stormy looking Max Verstappen, who steps past him with barely contained fury.

Charles is lying on his belly, half-finished glass of wine in one hand, and barely spares a glance at Max.

The Dutchman glares down at him, shoulders tightly strung and a slight twitch in his jaw. After a slow breath, he turns to Pierre. “I need a word with him.”

The tension in the air is palpable, and Pierre nods. “I’ll step out -”

“No need,” objects Charles, finally looking up and shooting daggers at the Red Bull driver. “You’re here by invitation. I can’t say the same for him. If anyone should leave, it’s him.”

A look of hurt flashes across Max’s face, and Pierre nearly feels a little sorry for him, but the hurt quickly transforms into a cold glare, which Max has always worn so well.

“So this is how you want to play this?” Max taunts with a small sneer. “Fine, we can do this in front of him then.” He stalks towards the foot of the bed, staring down at the Monégasque who would still not meet his eyes.

“I’ve put up with a lot of your bullshit lately, and I’m not sure what is going through that crazy brain of yours, between your mood swings and ignoring me, and frankly I’m fed up. I’m fucking sick of this, Charles.” His eyes are bright and tired. “But today - wow, today - you’ve completely lost your fucking mind -”

“Don’t you dare -” Charles finally sits up angrily.

“ - of all the idiotic things you’ve done,” Max continues, ignoring him, “this one is probably the worst and definitely the most stupid! Really, Charles? Driving without a fucking seatbelt! Are you fucking insane? For two laps!” He throws his arms in the air. “Tell me - do you have some kind of death wish?”

Enraged, Charles draws himself to his feet so that he is standing toe to toe with the Dutchman. “Don’t! Don’t you DARE tell me what to do!” He slams the glass of wine on the table, paying no attention when the contents splash all over. “You have no right, Max, so don’t stand there, high and mighty -”

“No, don’t YOU dare, Charles,” spits Max, taking half a step forward so that their noses are nearly touching. “What if something happened? You could have died! That would have been a nice fucking way to honour your father, Jules, and Anthoine.” His fists are clenched so tightly that he’s shaking.

The only response he gets is a mutinous glower from Charles, followed by stubborn silence.

When it becomes obvious that Charles has no plans to yield, Max deflates a little, looking exhausted. “I just can’t do this anymore,” he says with a resigned sigh.

To his bewilderment, Charles responds with a wild laugh, but there’s no humour in it. “That’s what this is about,” he mocks, “isn’t it?”

Max frowns at that, a mixture of hurt and confusion in his expression.

“The fact that you’re fighting Lewis for wins,” continues Charles, his last chain of self-restraint thrown to the wind, “while I’m struggling to bring the car home. It was different before when we were fighting each other for wins every weekend!”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Max gapes at him, utterly stunned.

“Don’t pretend, I’m not stupid!” snaps the Monégasque. “You only wanted to be with me when I started beating you, when you thought I was worthy of your attention. You never cared when I drove for Sauber, or when I was losing to you in karting all those years.” He laughs bitterly. “So why should you care now?”

Max is taken aback by his outburst. “You’re wrong,” is the first thing he blurts out when he regains his voice. “I can’t believe you think that.”

“I don’t blame you,” continues Charles with a faux air of indifference that is so counterfeit that Pierre wants to rip it off of him. “Isn’t that why we’re all here, to win?”

The other man doesn’t have an answer for him, and it only seems to confirm Charles’s vicious suspicions. Pierre can see that Charles is already building his barriers, ready to shield himself from the inevitable hurt that Max is about to throw in his face.

Time tries to slow down, each second stretching into much more, valiantly pushing to delay the end of this journey. A thousand battles seem to be fought in those few seconds, and neither of them are ready for the war to end.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Max says finally, turning away from the younger man. The anguish in his voice is so raw, and Pierre wonders how it’s possible that Charles cannot hear it.

After another beat, it seems like the fight has gone out of him completely, and Max takes a few steps towards the door.

“You’re right,” he repeats hoarsely. “I love winning.” He pauses to glance at Charles one more time. “But not as much as I love you.”

There’s a sharp inhale of breath, and when Pierre glances at Charles, the younger man is frozen and for a second - his expression is so blank that the Frenchman wonders whether he heard Max’s words at all.

“What -” Charles sounds so completely shattered that Pierre’s chest aches for him, as if there isn’t some traitorous part of him that wished for this moment. “I…”

Max shakes his head. “I’ve said everything I wanted to say.” He brushes past Pierre to let himself out, unable to stay in the room for a moment longer.

When the door clicks shut, the harsh sound seems to jolt Charles out of his stupor.

When his eyes snap to meet Pierre’s, his expression is no longer stunned or angry. It’s like something has transformed, some revelation has occurred. For a brief moment, it is impossible to say whether this is the beginning or the ending of something, as Charles stands at the precipice, ready to leap in either direction.

Then it happens - that flicker of change, that glint of gold in the green eyes: renewed determination coloured by a burst of hope.

It takes a few more seconds before Charles makes up his mind, but then he does, and he marches boldly to the door. He pauses to wrap Pierre in a tight hug, surprising the other man.

“He doesn’t get to say that to me and just walk away,” he murmurs, his breath warm against Pierre’s neck. The suffocating cloud of desperation and indifference has vanished, almost like it was never there.

When Charles pulls back, Pierre can see the fire and courage so clearly in the beautiful face, but none of it was for him. He feels a pang of envy as he wonders whether anyone will ever think about him so passionately.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

Charles pulls the door open. “I will be.” And then he’s gone, gliding through the hallway no doubt in pursuit of one particular man.

The door clicks shut for a second time, leaving Pierre alone in the room with a jumble of heavy, confused thoughts.

He is jolted awake by sudden turbulence.

Pierre shifts a little, trying to get comfortable again. The hum of the airplane engine is hypnotic, but he’s distracted by the voices coming from across the aisle.

Through his eyelashes, he can see Daniel Ricciardo fast asleep and curled into a fluffy pillow two rows ahead, while Max and Charles sit facing each other across the aisle from him, engaged in quiet conversation.

“What are you thinking about?” whispers Charles.

“All the ways you’re going to make it up to me when we get home.” There is a smirk in Max’s voice.

Charles makes an indignant noise, sniffing disdainfully. “You’re the worst,” he protests, but the giggle gives him away. “Besides, I’m already exhausted from ‘making it up to you’ all of last night.” Both of them laugh a little at that.

There’s a rustle of fabric as Max reaches towards Charles, who takes his hand without hesitation.

“I’m still mad at you about the seatbelt.”

Even with his eyes mostly closed, Pierre can see how Charles flinches at those words, how he crumbles a little but doesn’t let go of Max’s hand. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m so sorry.”

“I know you are. I’m not trying to make you feel bad. I just...” Max sighs and looks away, unable to hide his frustration. “Give me time.”

Charles nods, and he brings their joined hands to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to Max’s palm. In response, Max brushes his fingers against Charles’s face, nuzzling the soft skin gently under the pad of his thumb.

“You know… everyone thinks you’re so damn gorgeous.”

The coy smirk Charles gives him in return is half hidden by the way he leans into the caressing hand. “And you don’t agree?”

The fondness returns in Max’s half-hitched laugh. “You look like a fucking dream, babe, but if I’m honest, it’s also the least impressive thing about you.”

Charles retaliates with a sharp nibble of Max’s thumb, which is still resting against his cheek. This draws a whining hiss from the older man, although he doesn’t pull his hand away. “Demon.”

“Tell me what you like the most about me.”

“At this very moment? Not much, you vicious psycho.”

“Max Emilian!”

The Red Bull driver chuckles softly at his antics. “Everyone thinks you’re so angelic, so self-critical, some treasured puppy we need to coddle.” His voice drips with mocking sweetness.

“Of course, have you seen me?” If his eyes weren’t half closed, Pierre would roll his eyes at Charles’s shameless flirtation.

“They’re so wrong,” continues Max with an appraising tilt of his head. “You’re the strongest person I know. Every fucking obstacle that should break you just makes you better. That’s my favourite thing about you. No one can stop you, except maybe me. So I can’t wait until Ferrari gets their shit together, because if I’m winning, I want to be winning against you.”

Of course, only Max could simultaneously utter a threat and a declaration of love in the same breath. And only Charles would see it that way.

“Max…” His voice hitches mid-word, and he captures the other man’s hand in both of his own. “What you said in the hotel, about how you feel about winning and how you feel about - about me. I do, I mean, I just want you to know - I feel the same way.”

Even despite the shyness and vulnerability in his words, there is no actual hesitation, and Pierre has to wonder how he ever doubted that these two would work things out between themselves.

“I know.”

Max leans forward and presses a light kiss to the tip of Charles’s nose, reminding Pierre of that evening in Austria outside their motorhomes. The way Charles wrinkles his nose adorably and looks away with a blush while Max whispers something indiscernible against his ear makes Pierre feel like he’s intruding on a very intimate ritual.

He is grateful when a warm silence descends over both of them, and Pierre finally allows the gentle rumble of the engine to lure him back to sleep.

He tastes victory in Formula 1 for the first time in Italy, and the feeling of euphoria is almost overwhelming. He gets passed around from team member to team member, showered in hugs and champagne, and he registers more of their elated smiles than their effusive words of praise.

In that moment, he gets it. Understands what it means to win, understands why you never want this feeling to fade. He wants to etch this memory into his mind until the end of his days.

For a flash, he thinks about chasing the next one. It’s almost not the sensation of victory, but the belief that you could do it again, that lingers in the heart.

He is suddenly engulfed again, this time in a blur of Ferrari red and warm laughter. When he pulls away from the embrace, Charles is beaming at him with pride. He grins back until his face hurts. He’s glad to see Charles relatively unhurt after his massive shunt at the restart. They could only exchange a few words and another quick hug before he’s pulled away again by his AlphaTauri press officer.

When he looks back at Charles, he sees the stiffness in his departing steps, slightly uneven and bracing, as if trying to disguise the pain from his earlier crash. Pierre nearly doubles back, despite the quizzical expression on his press officer’s face.

Before he can actually take a step, however, a familiar figure in dark blue is already moving in that direction. Max is nearly ten paces behind the retreating Ferrari driver, but he doesn’t try to close the gap as he trails behind him. They are still in full view of the cameras. Nevertheless, Pierre can see the way the Dutchman’s brow is furrowed with concern and the brisk irritation in his steps, almost fighting himself from running up to Charles.

The elation of his race win is forgotten for a second, as he also feels the illogical desire to chase after Charles.

But he forces the feeling aside. He has a victory to celebrate, a team to congratulate. He’s not like them, forever chasing that next win, never satisfied and never knowing when to stop.

Mortal men know that a day like this might never pass by again; these moments should be cherished.

On a day like today, it hurts a little less to admit that Charles has someone to look after him, and that person is no longer Pierre.

Max texts him on Monday. Congrats on your win.

Pierre wonders if that comes from him or from team orders. Christian always preferred the facade of one happy Red Bull family. Then he chides himself for the uncharitable thought. Max is many things - blunt, rash, unforgiving - but petty isn’t one of them.

Thanks, he sends in reply.

He stares at his phone for an agonizing five minutes before typing another message. How is Charles doing?

When he doesn’t get a response for twenty minutes, he thinks that perhaps Max isn’t going to answer at all.

He’s surprised when he looks down again and sees the three dots, indicating that Max is typing a response.

Back pain, but nothing serious. Doctors just cleared him.

Pierre frowns at the message; a little flare of concern twinges in his belly out of habit.

He’s at the hospital?

Mercifully, his response comes a few seconds later. No, we just left the hospital. Scans all clear.

This message is accompanied by an attachment. It’s a photo of Charles in a white hoodie leaning against the passenger window, eyes closed with an errant strand of brown hair tickling his forehead, cheeks lightly flushed from sleep.

^Someone’s tired, lol.

He stares at the photo, wonders whether Max’s phone is filled with these nauseatingly domestic snapshots. He wonders why Max wants to show this to him… this completely different Charles, so unguarded and pure, the Charles that only Max is allowed to see.

Just stop. You won, okay?

He doesn’t send that.

Glad he’s fine, he replies instead.

Pierre doesn’t get a response, nor does he expect one.

Some part of him has known for a while that his Charles, the idealized version in his head that he needs to let go, has been gone for years. If that Charles existed at all, he faded with every crushing tragedy that life thrust upon him.

It wasn’t the loving guidance of Jules Bianchi and Hervé Leclerc nor the longstanding friendship of Anthoine that shaped Charles into this generational talent. Love can nurture a person, but it’s not enough for an origin story. Not nearly enough. Maybe it takes senseless and unbearable loss to create that cornerstone for greatness.

Everyone sees Charles as some prized treasure, to be placed on a pedestal, venerated and coddled. He partly forged that myth himself; there’s something poetic about that illusion - the gentle-hearted, talented Ferrari prince with a tragic backstory.

If Charles is the protagonist of this story, then he needs a contrasting antagonist: the villain and bad boy of Formula 1 - the unabashedly aggressive, equally talented, wholly unapologetic antihero that is the diametric opposite of the golden prince.

Something about Charles’s life has a fairy tale quality, and it’s not that Pierre wants to belittle any of the suffering he endured - because there was plenty of that - but at the same time, no one can look at Charles Leclerc and not think that he bears a charmed existence.

Where can Pierre fit into all of that? He always believed that he would be The One in the end, the person to finally give Charles all the love he deserves. He wouldn’t even resent the supporting role. He could be a protector, bringing safety and peace to Charles’s life.

Except… Charles wanted neither peace nor protection. Pierre understands that now. He wishes he had seen it earlier, and perhaps he wouldn’t have clung onto hope for so long.

Max was always different, bearing no similarities to Charles’s previous flings, able to give Charles what Pierre could not.

Max saw him for all of his faults, faults that Pierre can now admit do exist.

Because Charles isn’t some innocent angel. He doesn’t always fight cleanly. He puts himself above everyone else - yes, even above Pierre - and he will deny it. For the same infractions, he more often than not escapes harsher punishment compared to his fellow drivers because of his pre-established persona. He expects something from the world, as if it owes him payment for his pain, and nothing short of victory is enough.

Charles is a wildfire (or a hurricane, perhaps an earthquake); he leaves devastation in his wake. How could Marcus Ericsson hold a candle next to the sun? Not even Sebastian Vettel could withstand his searing flames, driven out of the team that was his first. Beneath the humble exterior, he was a force of nature that destroyed more than he built.

Then there is Max. How many careers have suffered from merely failing to live up to Max Verstappen? Pierre knows the pain all too well; at least he’s luckier than Alex or Daniil. Max would never apologize for that. He may not be malicious or unkind, but he rarely involved himself in that kind of narrative; he lived and breathed for racing, and everything and everyone else barely registered.

Then it became Max and Charles. Charles and Max. The unstoppable force and the immovable object. Nothing and everything about them made sense.

The beauty isn’t in how they complement or contrast one another. Rather, it’s that complete and unspeakable understanding of each other.

Maybe that’s what love is. To understand a person to their very core.

If Pierre could bear the thought, he would say he was wrong about Max.

Max doesn’t love Charles the way he does.

Max loves him a lot more.

“Does he make you happy?”

Charles blinks at him, cocks his head to contemplate the question. Then a smile lights up his face, bringing out his dimples; it’s like seeing the first light of sunrise, unfailingly beautiful.

“He loves me.” There is such a quiet confidence in his words. “When he’s here, I never want him to leave. When he’s not here, I count every second until he’s back.”

“You love him.” It’s not exactly a question.

Charles hums softly, and he looks down at his own hands. His fingers twitch in his lap, as if he’s itching to hold onto something or someone.

“I think I always have,” he murmurs. “Before I knew I started, I was already in the middle.” Then he laughs and shakes his head a little. “You know, Pear, I always thought it would be you in the end.”

The way the comment is tossed so casually, in amusement, startles Pierre and he fights a second for composure. He takes a moment to mourn his unfulfilled dream, and then when he breathes again - he chooses to let it go.

He needs to let go.

“I’m happy for you, Charlie.”

He doesn’t quite mean it, but it sounded sincere enough, and he thinks he will get there - in time.

New Year’s Eve in Monaco is filled with laughter and loud music. Charles is dancing with Lando, George, and a number of beautiful young women beneath the strobe lights. He’s a little tipsy, but he seems to know exactly what he’s doing. When Charles looks back at their table, he shoots Pierre one of his poorly executed winks before meeting Max’s stony gaze. Charles tilts one of his eyebrows, half solicitous, half challenging, as if goading his lover to make a scene about his wanton behaviour.

Except he isn’t fooling anyone. He has practiced the blank stares and vacant smiles to perfection - those are for the masses; to a less well trained eye, Charles appears to be flirting shamelessly, absorbed in the art of seduction. But he gives himself away every time his green eyes settle on Max, dark and brooding beneath his long eyelashes; he can’t help but gaze so longingly at Max, and his desire is too painfully apparent.

At the end of the song, he flutters back to their table and wraps his arm around Max, who rolls his eyes but leans into the embrace. Charles presses a giggling kiss to his jaw, and Pierre can’t help but notice the way Max tightens his hand on Charles’s waist almost imperceptibly. They pull apart barely a second later, and no one else in the club seems to have noticed.

“Dance with me, mon amour.”

A lesser man would have caved, but Max doesn’t want to disappoint. “Not tonight or ever,” teases Max, bumping him lightly on the nose. “Give it up, schat.”

Charles pouts and grasps his chest in feigned hurt. “You’re hopeless.” He sighs dramatically, wrestling away Max’s beer to take a sip and then wincing at the bitterness. “One more song, and then I want to go to the rooftop before midnight.”

He floats away gracefully to rejoin the dancing crowd, leaving Max alone with Pierre once more. The music is a little too loud for easy conversation, and Max is more preoccupied with following Charles’s every move. If Pierre didn’t know better, he might think that Max is jealous and frustrated, but the tenderness in the Dutchman’s smile quashes such a notion.

Max and Charles are half a room apart from each other, intercepted by a dozen dancing bodies, but with the way they looked at each other, they might as well be the only two people in the entire club.

No one is perfect, certainly not Charles, and putting someone on a pedestal isn’t love - he has learned, painfully. This, on the other hand, is what Pierre imagines soulmates might look like, if such a thing exists.

He takes a sip of his drink. When he puts it down, Max is looking at him, piercing and thoughtful, as if he could somehow read Pierre’s mind. He gives Pierre a knowing look before settling his gaze back on Charles.

“You were right, after all.” His words are for Pierre, but his eyes never leave Charles. “I was wrong. He is perfect.”

Pierre waits for the pain to come, waits for the familiar feeling to settle in his chest. He has come to expect it like an old friend. He has loved Charles for so long, pined after him for years, that he didn’t think he could ever truly be free of him.

He waits… and waits… and it doesn’t come.

He once read somewhere:

How do you know when it's over?

Maybe when you feel more in love with your memories than with the person standing in front of you.

This time, he doesn’t bother to correct Max. He doesn’t tell Max that he's wrong, that he was right the first time, that Charles isn’t perfect at all.

Max wouldn’t believe him anyway.

How far they’ve come.